Noam
Member
Twitch was looking at star charts. Not suspicious, for a fighter pilot to look at star charts. They were expected to know which planets orbited which stars and what starships followed what paths and where all the gates and wormholes were, so that they could avoid splattering sixty million credits worth of First Order equipment all over the side of an oncoming meteor. Sixty million credits was how much it cost to build and outfit a TIE fighter, produce one life support system and TIE fighter pilot uniform, plus the estimated cost of an R2-A6 astromech and about how much it had cost to train, feed, and house Twitch for what they figured was about twenty years. They had done the morbid math during one very long briefing, and gotten Whistler to check it later. They represented an investment of about two thousand credits more per year than the average infantry trooper, which was good to know, in a way. Twitch didn’t really know how much a credit was worth, having never bought anything in their life, but two thousand was a high number, and they figured that if they cost more money to replace, Command was less likely to consider them replaceable.
This was what they were thinking about while they were looking at star charts. Replaceability. Twitch was a good enough pilot—they knew this because they weren’t dead—but they were far from irreplaceable. And they weren’t all that good, either. TIE fighter pilots died all the time, and someday their luck was going to run out. This wouldn’t have been so bad if they had flown solo, but they flew with Whistler. And when their luck ran out, so would his.
And then—and then nothing. And then the First Order would churn out a steady supply of new astromechs nothing like him, and there would never be another droid like Whistler, and nobody would care. Nobody but Twitch would even know anything was missing.
And that wasn’t right. That was unacceptable, a word they’d previously only heard applied to uniform violations and unclean living areas. It wasn’t quite forbidden but if Twitch had been an officer they would have made it so.
“Okay, how about…” They twisted the dial on the display and brought another planet into focus. Plugged into his socket, Whistler would see whatever they were looking at. “Akiva. Have you ever been there?”
This was what they were thinking about while they were looking at star charts. Replaceability. Twitch was a good enough pilot—they knew this because they weren’t dead—but they were far from irreplaceable. And they weren’t all that good, either. TIE fighter pilots died all the time, and someday their luck was going to run out. This wouldn’t have been so bad if they had flown solo, but they flew with Whistler. And when their luck ran out, so would his.
And then—and then nothing. And then the First Order would churn out a steady supply of new astromechs nothing like him, and there would never be another droid like Whistler, and nobody would care. Nobody but Twitch would even know anything was missing.
And that wasn’t right. That was unacceptable, a word they’d previously only heard applied to uniform violations and unclean living areas. It wasn’t quite forbidden but if Twitch had been an officer they would have made it so.
“Okay, how about…” They twisted the dial on the display and brought another planet into focus. Plugged into his socket, Whistler would see whatever they were looking at. “Akiva. Have you ever been there?”