• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Hobbie finally found his voice, though it was gravelly from lost sleep. “Never bet against Wedge,” he said. “The minister gets to stay there until he admits that it was a stupid bet and Wedge doesn’t owe him anything.”

Tomer looked among them, his expression making it clear that he knew they were kidding … and yet there was still a trace of uncertainty to it. “Anyway,” he said, “be ready and at the perator’s palace in an hour, please.”

“… hr, pls,” said the cabinet.

“We’ll be ready,” Wedge said.

When Tomer was gone, Wedge opened the cabinet. Whitecap was still there, but less of him; the back of his head was open, and it was evident that hardware once mounted within him was missing.

“Looks like Hallis did some scavenging,” Tycho said.

“Looks like Hallis—”

Wedge shut the cabinet against further words. “Where is she, anyway? Haven’t seen her recently.”

Tycho shrugged. “Haven’t seen Cheriss either, not since some time last night. I think we’re being abandoned by our retinue.”

Janson moved to the closet of not-yet-claimed Adumari garments. “What to wear, what to wear …”

“Dress uniforms, please,” Wedge said.

The others groaned.

“No, this is an official diplomatic function. From now on, at all such functions, it’s dress uniforms. Issue blasters and vibroblades, but no blastswords. We’re not Adumari, and it’s time to stop legitimizing their bad behavior; we won’t emulate them in any way.” Wedge clapped his hands together. “Let’s go, people.”

“Great,” Hobbie said. “Who brought the old Wedge out of retirement?”

8

The New Republic officers’ dress uniform—designed in committee long ago, implemented months or years before Wedge was even aware of its existence—was not the fashion disaster its wearers made it out to be.

It started with a black sleeveless turtleneck body stocking and boots. Over it went a white jacket, a V-necked garment that fastened at about navel level and below. A broad red band ran along the left hem of the garment, up over the shoulder and at an angle down the back, with a rank designation in gold on the red band above the wearer’s left breast. A gray belt over the jacket completed the outfit.

There were variations to the uniform, with Starfighter Command utilizing black body stockings and Fleet Command preferring gray, for instance. Higher-ranking officers often preferred instead, and were allowed, to wear somewhat costlier and better-kept versions of their day uniforms in formal circumstances.

It was, Wedge thought, the body stocking that most wearers objected to. Flight suits and pilot day uniforms were baggy things festooned with pockets. They were comfortable. The wearer could carry his datapad, plus amusements and weapons for a half squad, in those pockets. The dress uniform body stocking had no pockets, and the jacket had only a couple of small ones—barely large enough for datacards. Too, the body stocking revealed any extra weight its wearer might be carrying, a fact not at all appreciated by image-conscious officers … and pilots were often the most image-conscious of all.

But the uniforms tended to have an effect on their audience. When Wedge and his pilots strode into the Outer Court of the Royal Residence, where they’d had their reception the first night, the crowd assembled there voiced an appreciative “ooh” that was music to Wedge’s ears. He raised a hand to wave jauntily to the crowd, his smile projecting confidence, not betraying the slight queasiness he felt as the court’s miasma of perfumes began to assault him.

“I feel fat,” Hobbie said.

“You’re not fat,” Janson said. “Except—never mind.”

“What?” Hobbie said.

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me. I’ve been working out. I’ve been good. You just can’t work on everything.”

“That’s right,” Janson said. “It’s scarcely noticeable.”

“Where?”

A woman—already tall, her height amplified by the way her brown hair was piled atop her head—moved up beside Wedge. “I found out who that other room belongs to,” she said.

Wedge looked at her, then peered closer. “Hallis?”

She looked exasperated. “Yes,