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“I’ve heard every schoolboy theory ever proposed on that matter.”

“This one comes from Luke Skywalker—”

“Having exhausted the schoolboys, we now turn to the farmboys? How charming.”

“—who has a certain perspective on the matter the rest of us don’t. He thinks it all has to do with corruption, with the seduction of the not-too-unwilling.”

Rogriss gestured for him to keep speaking, but his expression suggested that he’d heard it all before. The bartender brought Rogriss his drink, and Wedge waited until the man departed before continuing.

“Put a man or woman in a situation where the actions he’s obliged to take, such as serving Emperor Palpatine, are a certain path to personal corruption. Fill his ears with words saying that his actions are honorable ones. But surround him with constant reminders of the wrongness of what he’s doing. Our victim will cling to the words but will, at some level, always be aware of the wrongness—he can’t escape it. The symbols, such as the names of ships he commands, won’t let him forget. He’s always aware of his descent, of his slow transference to the dark side. Skywalker thinks the Emperor found this knowing acceptance of corruption, this half-accepting, half-struggling process, particularly delicious.”

Rogriss pointed his finger at Wedge as though it were a loaded blaster. “You Rebels remain so very self-righteous,” he said. “Always speaking of honor, as though you invented the concept. I’ve spent my whole life in honorable conflict. I’ve conquered worlds to bring civilization to them—literacy and medicine and sanitation and discipline. I’ve fought the forces of chaos to keep galactic civilization from flying apart. I’ve had only a few weeks of each year to spend with my own children. I’ve made all these sacrifices … only to be lectured about honor by someone a generation younger than I am. That’s reward for you.”

“You’re not drinking here, alone, anonymous, because you like the company. Or because you like the local brew, I’ll bet. You’re here wrestling with a question of honor, aren’t you?” Wedge was speculating madly, but the fact that honor seemed to be such a sore point with Rogriss made his wild shot more likely to strike home.

“What about you?”

“I was,” Wedge admitted. “I solved it. And you?”

Rogriss drew himself up stiffly. The action, made a little unsteady by the amount of alcohol he’d had to drink, was perhaps not as dignified as he’d hoped. “Where duty is clear, there is no question about honor.”

Wedge laughed. “I wish that were so. Well, I’ll leave you to keep wrestling. Best of luck, Admiral.” he rose and departed.

Out on the street, he went to considerable effort to make sure that no one followed him—that no aide of Rogriss’s meant to do him harm. But he saw no shadows pacing his and could finally relax on his way to his quarters.

7

An hour later, Wedge and Janson were in their flight suits, sitting in a small conference office on the Allegiance, with steaming cups of caf on the table beside them, datapads open, and scrolling data before them. “So my question is,” Janson said, “why me? Why didn’t you bring Tycho up with you? He’s your wingman. And he’s better with records.”

“I need someone to be in charge on the ground when I’m up here. For example, if there’s a diplomatic emergency.”

“I can be in charge on the ground.”

“Oh, that’d be good. You and Hobbie running through the streets of Cartann, leaving destruction in your wake, taking charge when a delicate political disaster strikes. Here’s an example. A noble of Cartann comes to you and says, ‘I know we have no diplomatic relations yet, but I’m here to request asylum in the New Republic.’ What do you say?”

“Is she good-looking?”

“Thanks for making my point.” Wedge gestured at Janson’s datapad. “What have you got on Rogriss?”

Janson sighed and returned his attention to the screen. “Wife dead. Two children surviving. Daughter Asori, twenty-eight, status unknown, which could mean anything. Son Terek, twenty-four, in the Imperial Navy.” He shrugged. “Nothing helpful. You?”

“Maybe.” Wedge shook