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Authors: Aaron Allston
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instructions.”
“You do that,” Wedge said. “But until we get further orders, we do just as we intended to—socialize, play the visiting dignitaries, make good impressions.”
“And keep eyes open in all directions,” Janson said.
Hobbie sighed. “Until now, I thought this was a really sweet deal.”
“The Cartann Minister of Notification, Uliaff ke Unthos.”
For the fortieth or eightieth time that night, Wedge offered the minimal bow and handshake required by the situation, and went to the special effort it took to keep from his face the dismay he’d felt ever since he’d recognized Turr Phennir. He also struggled to keep his nose from wrinkling; the minister’s perfume seemed as sweet and strong as an orchard full of rotting fruit. “And what is the role of the Minister of Notification?”
The white-bearded man before him smiled, evidently delighted. “My role is notification of the families. When a pilot falls in combat, in training, in a duel, my office notifies all appropriate parties. I do not create the letters of notification myself, of course. I set policy. Will this week’s notifications bear a tone more of regret or pride? When siblings fall on the same day, does the family receive a joint notification or separate ones? These sorts of matters are very important …”
Wedge kept his smile fixed on his face, but he couldtell he was hearing a speech, one that had often been replayed. He did what he could to tune the man’s voice out while still seeming to appear interested, but all the while kept some of his attention on the crowd, making sure he knew where Turr Phennir and entourage were at all times.
Then, over the minister’s shoulder, at a table at the outskirts of the crowd, he saw her.
She was seated alone and dressed in the height of Cartann finery. Her dark blue dress, a sheath from neck to ankle, was fitted to her slender form, except where its sleeves flared out in Adumari fashion, and was sprinkled with gems that glinted white like stars against a backdrop of space. Her hair, a dark blond, was piled high on her head, though some strands had worked loose—or, Wedge suspected, had been left loose and artfully arrayed to look like escapees—to frame her face. She did not wear the decorative skullcap so common in this court; instead, into her hair was worked a headdress that looked like blue contrails rising from above her forehead and curving back around behind her head. She held one of the ubiquitous comfans and was gesturing with it as she spoke to someone at a nearby table; her gestures, Wedge saw, included the subtle motions he was beginning to recognize as Cartann hand-codes.
She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty that jolted Wedge—not her beauty that made him feel as though he’d taken a punch in the gut.
He knew her. He knew her name. He knew the planetary system where she’d been born—the same as his, Corellia.
Yet when she glanced at him, when her gaze stopped upon him and then kept moving, there was no hint of recognition in her eyes.
Wedge forced himself to return his attention to the minister. “Would that we had someone with your skillsand dedication in our armed forces,” Wedge said. “I’m sure we have much to learn from your techniques of notification. Could you excuse me a moment? I must speak to my pilots about this.”
The minister nodded, his smile fixed, and turned away, immediately speaking to his own entourage, something about the courtesy and attentiveness of New Republic pilots. Once he was a couple of meters away and still moving, Wedge gestured for his pilots.
They stepped in. So did Cheriss and Tomer.
Wedge looked at the two of them. “Shoo,” he said.
“I thought perhaps you needed some advice,” Tomer said.
“I am here if you need interpretation of some word or action you do not yet understand,” Cheriss said.
“Tell you what,” Wedge said. “From now on, when I gesture with two hands for people to move in, it
“You do that,” Wedge said. “But until we get further orders, we do just as we intended to—socialize, play the visiting dignitaries, make good impressions.”
“And keep eyes open in all directions,” Janson said.
Hobbie sighed. “Until now, I thought this was a really sweet deal.”
“The Cartann Minister of Notification, Uliaff ke Unthos.”
For the fortieth or eightieth time that night, Wedge offered the minimal bow and handshake required by the situation, and went to the special effort it took to keep from his face the dismay he’d felt ever since he’d recognized Turr Phennir. He also struggled to keep his nose from wrinkling; the minister’s perfume seemed as sweet and strong as an orchard full of rotting fruit. “And what is the role of the Minister of Notification?”
The white-bearded man before him smiled, evidently delighted. “My role is notification of the families. When a pilot falls in combat, in training, in a duel, my office notifies all appropriate parties. I do not create the letters of notification myself, of course. I set policy. Will this week’s notifications bear a tone more of regret or pride? When siblings fall on the same day, does the family receive a joint notification or separate ones? These sorts of matters are very important …”
Wedge kept his smile fixed on his face, but he couldtell he was hearing a speech, one that had often been replayed. He did what he could to tune the man’s voice out while still seeming to appear interested, but all the while kept some of his attention on the crowd, making sure he knew where Turr Phennir and entourage were at all times.
Then, over the minister’s shoulder, at a table at the outskirts of the crowd, he saw her.
She was seated alone and dressed in the height of Cartann finery. Her dark blue dress, a sheath from neck to ankle, was fitted to her slender form, except where its sleeves flared out in Adumari fashion, and was sprinkled with gems that glinted white like stars against a backdrop of space. Her hair, a dark blond, was piled high on her head, though some strands had worked loose—or, Wedge suspected, had been left loose and artfully arrayed to look like escapees—to frame her face. She did not wear the decorative skullcap so common in this court; instead, into her hair was worked a headdress that looked like blue contrails rising from above her forehead and curving back around behind her head. She held one of the ubiquitous comfans and was gesturing with it as she spoke to someone at a nearby table; her gestures, Wedge saw, included the subtle motions he was beginning to recognize as Cartann hand-codes.
She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty that jolted Wedge—not her beauty that made him feel as though he’d taken a punch in the gut.
He knew her. He knew her name. He knew the planetary system where she’d been born—the same as his, Corellia.
Yet when she glanced at him, when her gaze stopped upon him and then kept moving, there was no hint of recognition in her eyes.
Wedge forced himself to return his attention to the minister. “Would that we had someone with your skillsand dedication in our armed forces,” Wedge said. “I’m sure we have much to learn from your techniques of notification. Could you excuse me a moment? I must speak to my pilots about this.”
The minister nodded, his smile fixed, and turned away, immediately speaking to his own entourage, something about the courtesy and attentiveness of New Republic pilots. Once he was a couple of meters away and still moving, Wedge gestured for his pilots.
They stepped in. So did Cheriss and Tomer.
Wedge looked at the two of them. “Shoo,” he said.
“I thought perhaps you needed some advice,” Tomer said.
“I am here if you need interpretation of some word or action you do not yet understand,” Cheriss said.
“Tell you what,” Wedge said. “From now on, when I gesture with two hands for people to move in, it
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