Read Online Wraith Squadron by Aaron Allston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Aaron Allston
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deserves a good beating.”
Runt looked solemnly at him. “We know. We are sorry. He, my pilot, has earned many such beatings. And transfers from many units. I think soon you will see the last of us.”
Kell was relieved of the need to respond by the arrival of the waiter, which was heralded by a repetitive squeaking. The waiter was a 3PO unit, a protocol droid, but this one was unlike most of the ones Kell had seen: Most were all gold tone or silver, but the waiter was mostly silver with several gold parts, and squeaked with each step. Kell said, “I’ll have—”
“Wait,” the droid said pleasantly but firmly, in the melodious voice all 3PO units seemed to share. “In the absence of a hierarchy of rank among you, I will default to ancient protocols and have the lady’s order first. My lady?”
Tyria smiled. “Lum. A good one.”
Kell said, “I’ll have—”
“Wait,” said the droid in the same tone as before. “You have now annoyed me twice. This means you will order last of all, but I will still take your order correctly. If you annoy me three times, you would do well not to drink what I bring you.” He turned to Piggy. “My lord?”
“A shot of Churban brandy,” said the Gamorrean. “And a bucket of cold water.”
“That sounds good,” said Runt. “The same for us. Me.”
The droid turned back to Kell. Kell waited until he was certain the droid was ready for him before speaking. “Corellian brandy. And a wet napkin. Please.”
The droid bowed and departed. Kell heaved a sigh. “Not my day. Even the waiters around here are tyrants.”
Tyria turned her smile on him. “That’s just Squeaky. You’ll get used to him. He has a good heart. Or whatever serves droids for a heart.”
“Why is an expensive protocol droid slinging drinks in a stony hole in the ground? That doesn’t make sense.”
“He does what he wants. He was manumitted years ago. The Runaway Droid Ride, you remember?”
Kell frowned. “I don’t.”
She leaned in close, the better to be heard. “Among droids, and some pilots, he’s famous. He was on the Tantive IV when Darth Vader captured Princess Leia Organa several years back. The humans aboard ship were killed, but he and the other droids ended up on Kessel. He kept inventories of spice shipments for the penal colony.
“Then, one day, he arranges for a whole bunch of the colony’s servitor droids to visit an Imperial freighter that had landed to pick up a load of spice. They arrive over several standard hours, so as not to make the guards suspicious, but they don’t leave. And then the freighter takes off and escapes.”
“He flew it? I thought droids were forbidden to pilot spacecraft. Deep-down programming inhibitions.”
“They are, except for Vee Ones and a few special cases. He didn’t actually act as pilot. What he did was reprogram the ship’s autopilot to fly them in terrain-following mode a couple of hundred klicks away from the spaceport, out of range of the port’s defensive batteries, then punch up out of the atmosphere and jump out of the system. But what he forgot”—her expression turned merry—“was that due west of the spaceport was a series of canyons and mountain ridges, and his terrain-following program was strictly height-above-ground …”
Kell caught on before the other two pilots did and burstout laughing. “So all those escaping droids went on a wild ride.”
Tyria gestured with her hand as though she were following the path of a frantic oscilloscope wave. “So imagine you’re on this tub of a Corellian bulk freighter, and suddenly you’re all over the map, up and down, ‘Whee!’ ‘Aaah!’ ‘Whee!’ ‘Aaah!’ for more than a hundred klicks …”
Runt and Piggy joined in the laughter. Runt’s was a hyperkinetic wheezing, nearly an animal bray; Piggy’s was a pleasant, deep gruntlike noise, one which his implant was apparently programmed not to translate.
The laughter settled. “Anyway,” Tyria said,
Runt looked solemnly at him. “We know. We are sorry. He, my pilot, has earned many such beatings. And transfers from many units. I think soon you will see the last of us.”
Kell was relieved of the need to respond by the arrival of the waiter, which was heralded by a repetitive squeaking. The waiter was a 3PO unit, a protocol droid, but this one was unlike most of the ones Kell had seen: Most were all gold tone or silver, but the waiter was mostly silver with several gold parts, and squeaked with each step. Kell said, “I’ll have—”
“Wait,” the droid said pleasantly but firmly, in the melodious voice all 3PO units seemed to share. “In the absence of a hierarchy of rank among you, I will default to ancient protocols and have the lady’s order first. My lady?”
Tyria smiled. “Lum. A good one.”
Kell said, “I’ll have—”
“Wait,” said the droid in the same tone as before. “You have now annoyed me twice. This means you will order last of all, but I will still take your order correctly. If you annoy me three times, you would do well not to drink what I bring you.” He turned to Piggy. “My lord?”
“A shot of Churban brandy,” said the Gamorrean. “And a bucket of cold water.”
“That sounds good,” said Runt. “The same for us. Me.”
The droid turned back to Kell. Kell waited until he was certain the droid was ready for him before speaking. “Corellian brandy. And a wet napkin. Please.”
The droid bowed and departed. Kell heaved a sigh. “Not my day. Even the waiters around here are tyrants.”
Tyria turned her smile on him. “That’s just Squeaky. You’ll get used to him. He has a good heart. Or whatever serves droids for a heart.”
“Why is an expensive protocol droid slinging drinks in a stony hole in the ground? That doesn’t make sense.”
“He does what he wants. He was manumitted years ago. The Runaway Droid Ride, you remember?”
Kell frowned. “I don’t.”
She leaned in close, the better to be heard. “Among droids, and some pilots, he’s famous. He was on the Tantive IV when Darth Vader captured Princess Leia Organa several years back. The humans aboard ship were killed, but he and the other droids ended up on Kessel. He kept inventories of spice shipments for the penal colony.
“Then, one day, he arranges for a whole bunch of the colony’s servitor droids to visit an Imperial freighter that had landed to pick up a load of spice. They arrive over several standard hours, so as not to make the guards suspicious, but they don’t leave. And then the freighter takes off and escapes.”
“He flew it? I thought droids were forbidden to pilot spacecraft. Deep-down programming inhibitions.”
“They are, except for Vee Ones and a few special cases. He didn’t actually act as pilot. What he did was reprogram the ship’s autopilot to fly them in terrain-following mode a couple of hundred klicks away from the spaceport, out of range of the port’s defensive batteries, then punch up out of the atmosphere and jump out of the system. But what he forgot”—her expression turned merry—“was that due west of the spaceport was a series of canyons and mountain ridges, and his terrain-following program was strictly height-above-ground …”
Kell caught on before the other two pilots did and burstout laughing. “So all those escaping droids went on a wild ride.”
Tyria gestured with her hand as though she were following the path of a frantic oscilloscope wave. “So imagine you’re on this tub of a Corellian bulk freighter, and suddenly you’re all over the map, up and down, ‘Whee!’ ‘Aaah!’ ‘Whee!’ ‘Aaah!’ for more than a hundred klicks …”
Runt and Piggy joined in the laughter. Runt’s was a hyperkinetic wheezing, nearly an animal bray; Piggy’s was a pleasant, deep gruntlike noise, one which his implant was apparently programmed not to translate.
The laughter settled. “Anyway,” Tyria said,
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