Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [188]
A little cynical, Vuffi Raa thought before replying. “But Master, there aren’t any planets here to wreck, thank the Core.”
“Thank three little blue suns out there that went kablooie for that. You’re right, although planet-wreckers could make things pretty uncomfortable for our friends the Oswaft—not to mention our tender selves. And besides, in interstellar power politics, it’s gestures and appearances that count, not actual results. I’ve long suspected that’s why civilizations rise and fall. Especially fall. Try adjusting that vernier, will you? I thought I heard the field blades wobble a little when you nudged it before.” He unstuck his cigar again and took a puff.
Another tentacle clicked at Vuffi Raa’s “shoulder” and drifted away to check the readings on the control panels forward. It was possible, the droid thought, that the problem was simply an instrument failure, and it would be stupid to repair something that was already in perfect working order.
Each of the robot’s five tentacles, usually tapering smoothly to a rounded tip, could also blossom at the end into a small five-fingered hand. In the center of each rested a miniature replica of the large red eye atop his body; he would see what his tentacles saw. This, and the ability to send his limbs off on various errands, caused him to wonder about his creators.
They were hardly stupid; still, there were counter-indications. Here he was, preparing his master’s ship for a battle in which he, himself, dare not participate directly. Early in life, he had experimented: attempting combat, in contravention of his deepest-laid programming, had sent him into a coma that lasted nearly a month. He was extremely clever; he could run and hide; physically he was very tough; he could ally himself with individuals like Lando, quite capable of the defensive violence necessary to protect themselves and their mechanical partner, Vuffi Raa. But he, himself, simply could not harm another thinking being, whether organically evolved or artificially constructed.
It just didn’t make sense. Vuffi Raa took a certain pride in the fact that he was a highly valuable machine, more so, strictly speaking, than the starship he was servicing. Simply as a market consideration, he had a duty to protect his life; anyone attempting to take it demonstrated, by that very act, that they were less valuable, at least in any moral sense that made sense.
Separating a third tentacle from his body, Vuffi Raa dispatched it to check the readiness of the ship’s weapons systems, particularly the quad-guns of which Lando was so fond. The Millennium Falcon had always fairly bristled with armament, yet, with only two crew-beings to man her, and one of them a pacifist at that, they’d always meant to tie the weapons together cybernetically somehow. In this brief interlude between confrontations with the fleet, they’d scarcely more than begun the task.
His inhibitions could be stretched, Vuffi Raa had discovered. Knowing full well, for example, that the preparations furthered violent activity, he could nevertheless perform them. Moreover, he could fly the Falcon for Lando, maneuvering properly to assure his destruction of the enemy.
How very peculiar, thought the robot. Who made me this way, and what did they intend by it?
“What in the name of the Edge, the Core, and everything in between are they waiting for out there?”
Lando fidgeted at the table as Vuffi Raa watched him disassemble and clean his tiny five-shot stingbeam as a final, albeit somewhat silly, preparation for the coming battle. They were in the passenger lounge. The deckplate gravity