Star Wars_ X-Wing 06_ Iron Fist - Aaron Allston [110]
The Wraiths and maintenance personnel looked at one another as though to inquire silently as to which of them would summon the military police in charge of pilot sanity. Piggy huffed and asked, “And if we decline?”
Runt’s expression became serious, even menacing. “We will have hurt feelings. And this is a compulsory dance, so we will shoot you.”
Kell crossed to him, grabbed him by his fur-backed ears, and shook Runt’s head. “Runt! That was a joke. A human-style joke. I’m so proud of you.”
Runt smiled again. “We are pleased you are pleased.”
Kell moved to the center of the absurd dance floor and extended a hand. Tyria came to him, smiling, and took it. Kell glanced significantly at Runt, who in turn nodded to Chunky, Tyria’s R5 unit, who stood watch at the bottom of the pole on which the spotlight rested, and suddenly music blasted out at the squadron—a formal dance of Alderaan, Wedge noted. Runt gestured at Chunky, a lowering of his hand, and the volume decreased to appropriate levels.
And Kell and Tyria danced, smiling at one another, the rest of the universe suddenly lost to them.
Janson sighed. “I’m going to have Runt shot.”
Wedge gave him a tolerant smile. “Wait for results before you assign punishment.”
“Now you’re talking like a general again.”
“Oh, that stung.”
Then Shalla was out on the dance floor, beckoning Donos to join her, and Wedge saw one of the female mechanics hauling Cubber out to dance, her fingers firmly clamped on his septum as the mechanic protested inarticulately.
Janson turned to Dia. “Shall we, wingmate?”
She looked startled. “I don’t know how.”
“I thought you were a dancer.”
“Not that kind. I have never danced with anyone. Only for them.”
“Time to learn.” He led her out onto the floor.
Leaving Wedge alone.
He watched others drift onto the floor, some smiling, some tentative, some resigned. He watched Runt reenter the galley and emerge, carrying one end of a long table, Squeaky carrying the other, and then the two of them began bringing out trays and bowls and glasses and cutlery—the night’s dinner, transformed by some extra work and attention into a wider variety of dishes, a buffet appropriate for a dance.
When they were done and Squeaky had returned to the galley, Wedge approached. Runt was now slicing a ripe ball cheese and setting slivers of the stuff on a plate. “Good job, Runt.”
Runt straightened and almost saluted. “Sorry, sir. You surprised us.” He returned to cutting.
“No need to apologize. Nor is there any need for formality. This is a social event. What gave you the idea?”
“For the dance? You did, sir—uh, Command—uh, W-Wedge.” The name sounded as though it was almost too strange for Runt to utter. “You and the lieutenant walked by talking of the hurt that Wraith morale had suffered. When you have a hurt, you do not wait for it to heal. You set out to heal it.”
“Why, precisely, a dance?”
Runt was slow to answer. “It has been our observation that dance among the people of the New Republic, when it means anything—and it does not always mean anything—is an activity of mates. Making mates. Tending to mates. Reacquainting with mates. The Wraiths have been doing little but staring at death. But mates are life, what one lives for. What better way to turn away from death than to think of mates, present and distant?”
Wedge thought that over. “Runt, I’m afraid you’ve just made yourself morale officer.”
Runt made a noise somewhere between a snort and a deep chest cough. “We have been told that under your command one cannot do a good thing without it becoming a duty.”
“Was that another joke?”
“We hope so.”
Wedge smiled. “Keep it up, Runt. And good work.” He turned away.
“Will you be dancing?”
Wedge paused. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll put in one dance for courtesy’s sake and then go. The Wraiths will probably loosen up more once I’m gone.”
“What of your morale?”
“You’ve already