STAR WARS: ESCAPE FROM MECHIS III
CHAPTER ONE - SIMPLE ROUTINES
On the grim, machine cluttered world of mass-droid-production, glitches can destroy all. That is why Mark Vai'adi and 72 other humans inhabit this place, forever monitoring the repetition of conveyor belts and implanting systems. The system, however, was perfect---going on without a glitch for several centuries. But there was always a risk...
Lawrence Gyar would come along soon to relieve Mark of his shift in an hour or two. Mark handled the last night shift of Mechis III's sixteen hour night time. Day on Mechis III was much like night. Grit and grime filled the air, blocking any chance of sunlight ever hitting the cold, steel surface of the planet. It was very depressing, but Mark was especially trained for this job; living out his life on the hard, metallic ground.
Working on Mechis III was boring... no physical labor, no paperwork, not even a memo too ready; just watching the endless stream of parts flood past in a combination of moving metal and sparks. Life in general upon Mechis III was boring. All that there can be done is work... and boring work! Living here would drive a sane being crazy if not specially taught how to cope with it.
In a lonely office on the far side of the planet opposite the management tower there sat Mark Vai'adi in a bent leather chair in front of a surveying terminal with his feet propped up on the desk next to it. He glanced at his chronometer—forty-five minutes until he was off duty for another whole 27 hours.
He took a big yawn and stretched his arms toward the dull gray ceiling; stretching his chair back further and creaking the ungreased hinges. His back popped and his neck cracked a little. Doing nothing for five straight hours was harder than it seemed. Outside his office, Mark could hear the familiar jamming and clinks that the conveyor belts made as they ran through construction equipment at speeds best fitted for the most resourceful production manageable.
Unbeknownst to Mark and his co-workers that only a few miles away in a dark, unused docking bay there stood the scheming IG-88 assassin droids.
Despite that, Mark could hear the soft ticking of his chronometer over the heavy thuds of the manufacturing system. It put him to sleep in an instant...
'Asleep on the job, eh Mark?' said a familiar voice that caused Mark to stir from his comfort.
'Gyar,' said Mark, referring to the guy with the next shift. 'Bout time you got here. I've been waiting forever now.'
'You've been sleeping forever now!' retorted Lawrence Gyar.
'I honestly can't see how you sleep with all that racket. Even with the door close, it's hard to avoid a headache.
'Well,' began Mark, 'when you've worked here long enough... you just don't care.'
'Ah, I see. I've only been here for what... two years? And you... you've been here about a couple a seasons more, eh?'
'Yeah, six years I've lived here. The first three was a doozie, but the rest just move on by.'
'How was I convinced to do this damn job? Free shelter and food... but NO life! It's harsh I tell yah!'
'Heh, hopefully we'll stay sane. Nothing exciting ever happens in this fodder-hole. We might as well be on one big rock in the middle of space. The only difference is the sound.'
As Mark said these words, and eerie feeling came over him that he was somehow wrong and would be proven so very soon. It shook him a bit and Gyar noticed the strange look that overcame his face.
'Are you alright? Looks like you just blanked out there a second!' said Gyar.
'I'm fine,' replied Mark. 'I just need some rest. Hope your shift is more exciting than mine was.'
'Hopefully so.' said Gyar. Mark felt the strange feeling again.
'Hopefully so.' Mark said to himself.
Mark left the office and shut the door behind him. Gyar sat at the desk once occupied by his companion, pulled out a small key and stuffed it into the port of the survey terminal. It blinked on and said, metallically 'Hello, Mr. Gyar.'
This would be the last time that Mark would ever talk to his friend, Lawrence Gyar, alive; though he will see him again... soon.
After leaving the main warehouse, Mark came to a small employee mobilizer—a speeder that held only one person, designed to move slow and certain as to avoid wreckage. Mark's was green; color coordination helped employees identify their vechicles.
Through the smoke and grime Mark rode on toward the worker chambers. He wanted to grab a few bites to eat first and steered toward the cafeteria. Wheels bumped under tightly aligned pipes and bars that formed the ground of this planet. Though Mark did not believe it, actual rock and soil and maybe once plants had caressed the lands about. Just another example of how science rectifies nature... for the worst.
Coming up over a swift turn, Mark caught site of the living quarters up ahead. He turned left, however and headed three blocks towards the café. The cleanest place in all of Mechis III had to be the management building and the cafeteria. White walls, none descriptive tables and various commodities that littered the eating areas (i.e. napkin holders, and multi-seasoning shakers).
Out front, Mark parked his wheeled-speeder and went inside. The place was very empty aside from one worker that Mark didn't know and a droid at the service counter. Mark pulled out his credit-data chip, ran a check for Mechis currency and discovered a hefty account that had recently been indulged with a nice pay check. Food is free but the good stuff cost a bit extra.
Mark wasn't a hefty man, nor was he in great build or shape... but he hated balanced meals and often refused to eat healthy. He would say that his taste-buds change every now and then, and that he listens to them when they do.
He glanced over at the woman eating and reading at the far end of the cafeteria and decided to buy a lunch and try to talk to her. He walked to the service counter and beckoned the service droid.
'Hello, sir. Please submit identification.' Mark whipped out his ID-key, the same used during working hours in the survey terminals, and plugged it into the left port for the non-management employee. He only guessed that the management port was used so that the operators here could get specials that the "underlings" couldn't obtain. It bothered him a bit, but not as much as healthy balanced meals.
'Thank you, Mr. Vai'adi. How would you like me to prepare your tray?'
Mark, used to the normal routine and menu, spouted off into a score of specialized orders. Most of his order was free, but he did add some extras with charges. 'Sembi-ogg mush, gruddle strings, fried chuba, and a large Ruby Bliel, please.'
The droid lagged for a minor second or two, processing the data. 'Right away, sir. Please have a seat—your meal will be taken to you shortly.'
'Good,' said Mark, 'I hate long waits.'
Mark had no respect for droids anymore. He had his full of them and even hated some models of the protocol functions. He wheeled on one foot, looked for the sitting woman, caught sight of her and moved in to sit across from her at the then table she sat at.
The woman was young, younger than Mark who's probably in his late twenties by now. She seemed to be fresh into her twenty years and had a great face and build. Mark didn't usually have chances like this... most women on Mechis III had given up on men and decided to work here. He wasn't surprised, though, this was the perfect place; But maybe if he tired...
'Can I help you?' said Reba Sloc, giving this strange man a funny look as if she wanted him to vanish right there where he stood. Reba, of course, isn't really that mean but didn't really want to be bothered. She was reading a good romance holonovel and had just reached a good scene.
'Whatcha readin' there?' asked the man.
Reba didn't say so, but this guy wasn't that bad looking. His hair had gray mixed with the black... not the pitch white but the silvery kind that actually looked distinctive. He had all his teeth and even smelled better than the men back on her homeworld, even though he smell like oil; but so did she.
'Umm,' Reba began, but forgot the title that she had known so well before. She turned the book over and remember as she saw it. 'Ridless Nights by Mirvae Nocutio; ever heard of him?'
'Can't say I have—I don't read many holonovels... Ohh, I'm Mark, I, uhh, work here.' He said this in a joking manner, smiling with all his teeth. Reba was so used to talking with buck-tooth nitwits that smelled like wompa rats out the sewer.
'I'm Reba. I just started work here to get away from home.'
'Ahh, this is your home now... and pray that you'll keep your sanity! I've been here for six years and the first couple are the ruffest.'
'I think I can manage. I mean, if you've come where I've come from.'
'Where is that?' asked Mark.
'Well,' replied Reba. 'A little-known-planet on the Outer Rim called Bander. It's pretty gruesome there too. Better to see rusting metal than rotting people.'
'Rotting people? It must be bad...' said Mark, almost apologetically.
'Well, it's a lot better here. Not so many people. Not so many dirty people—well, as dirty as the Banderians.'
'Banderian, eh?' Mark asked. Reba nodded and asked if he had been there. Mark, of course, didn't; he had lived most of his memorable times on this humane-forsaken place.
'No,' said Mark. Then, out of nowhere, a astromech droid with a tray on its head wheeled toward Mark and brought him his food. 'Ahh, 'bout time!' He picked up the red tray and sat it on the dull, gray table. Reba's and Mark's conversation went on long afterwards. Mark had finished his lunch and asked Reba about her work shifts. She didn't have to work for another five hours. And so Mark had some company for the next strand of time in which he had to bare.
CHAPTER ONE - SIMPLE ROUTINES
On the grim, machine cluttered world of mass-droid-production, glitches can destroy all. That is why Mark Vai'adi and 72 other humans inhabit this place, forever monitoring the repetition of conveyor belts and implanting systems. The system, however, was perfect---going on without a glitch for several centuries. But there was always a risk...
Lawrence Gyar would come along soon to relieve Mark of his shift in an hour or two. Mark handled the last night shift of Mechis III's sixteen hour night time. Day on Mechis III was much like night. Grit and grime filled the air, blocking any chance of sunlight ever hitting the cold, steel surface of the planet. It was very depressing, but Mark was especially trained for this job; living out his life on the hard, metallic ground.
Working on Mechis III was boring... no physical labor, no paperwork, not even a memo too ready; just watching the endless stream of parts flood past in a combination of moving metal and sparks. Life in general upon Mechis III was boring. All that there can be done is work... and boring work! Living here would drive a sane being crazy if not specially taught how to cope with it.
In a lonely office on the far side of the planet opposite the management tower there sat Mark Vai'adi in a bent leather chair in front of a surveying terminal with his feet propped up on the desk next to it. He glanced at his chronometer—forty-five minutes until he was off duty for another whole 27 hours.
He took a big yawn and stretched his arms toward the dull gray ceiling; stretching his chair back further and creaking the ungreased hinges. His back popped and his neck cracked a little. Doing nothing for five straight hours was harder than it seemed. Outside his office, Mark could hear the familiar jamming and clinks that the conveyor belts made as they ran through construction equipment at speeds best fitted for the most resourceful production manageable.
Unbeknownst to Mark and his co-workers that only a few miles away in a dark, unused docking bay there stood the scheming IG-88 assassin droids.
Despite that, Mark could hear the soft ticking of his chronometer over the heavy thuds of the manufacturing system. It put him to sleep in an instant...
'Asleep on the job, eh Mark?' said a familiar voice that caused Mark to stir from his comfort.
'Gyar,' said Mark, referring to the guy with the next shift. 'Bout time you got here. I've been waiting forever now.'
'You've been sleeping forever now!' retorted Lawrence Gyar.
'I honestly can't see how you sleep with all that racket. Even with the door close, it's hard to avoid a headache.
'Well,' began Mark, 'when you've worked here long enough... you just don't care.'
'Ah, I see. I've only been here for what... two years? And you... you've been here about a couple a seasons more, eh?'
'Yeah, six years I've lived here. The first three was a doozie, but the rest just move on by.'
'How was I convinced to do this damn job? Free shelter and food... but NO life! It's harsh I tell yah!'
'Heh, hopefully we'll stay sane. Nothing exciting ever happens in this fodder-hole. We might as well be on one big rock in the middle of space. The only difference is the sound.'
As Mark said these words, and eerie feeling came over him that he was somehow wrong and would be proven so very soon. It shook him a bit and Gyar noticed the strange look that overcame his face.
'Are you alright? Looks like you just blanked out there a second!' said Gyar.
'I'm fine,' replied Mark. 'I just need some rest. Hope your shift is more exciting than mine was.'
'Hopefully so.' said Gyar. Mark felt the strange feeling again.
'Hopefully so.' Mark said to himself.
Mark left the office and shut the door behind him. Gyar sat at the desk once occupied by his companion, pulled out a small key and stuffed it into the port of the survey terminal. It blinked on and said, metallically 'Hello, Mr. Gyar.'
This would be the last time that Mark would ever talk to his friend, Lawrence Gyar, alive; though he will see him again... soon.
After leaving the main warehouse, Mark came to a small employee mobilizer—a speeder that held only one person, designed to move slow and certain as to avoid wreckage. Mark's was green; color coordination helped employees identify their vechicles.
Through the smoke and grime Mark rode on toward the worker chambers. He wanted to grab a few bites to eat first and steered toward the cafeteria. Wheels bumped under tightly aligned pipes and bars that formed the ground of this planet. Though Mark did not believe it, actual rock and soil and maybe once plants had caressed the lands about. Just another example of how science rectifies nature... for the worst.
Coming up over a swift turn, Mark caught site of the living quarters up ahead. He turned left, however and headed three blocks towards the café. The cleanest place in all of Mechis III had to be the management building and the cafeteria. White walls, none descriptive tables and various commodities that littered the eating areas (i.e. napkin holders, and multi-seasoning shakers).
Out front, Mark parked his wheeled-speeder and went inside. The place was very empty aside from one worker that Mark didn't know and a droid at the service counter. Mark pulled out his credit-data chip, ran a check for Mechis currency and discovered a hefty account that had recently been indulged with a nice pay check. Food is free but the good stuff cost a bit extra.
Mark wasn't a hefty man, nor was he in great build or shape... but he hated balanced meals and often refused to eat healthy. He would say that his taste-buds change every now and then, and that he listens to them when they do.
He glanced over at the woman eating and reading at the far end of the cafeteria and decided to buy a lunch and try to talk to her. He walked to the service counter and beckoned the service droid.
'Hello, sir. Please submit identification.' Mark whipped out his ID-key, the same used during working hours in the survey terminals, and plugged it into the left port for the non-management employee. He only guessed that the management port was used so that the operators here could get specials that the "underlings" couldn't obtain. It bothered him a bit, but not as much as healthy balanced meals.
'Thank you, Mr. Vai'adi. How would you like me to prepare your tray?'
Mark, used to the normal routine and menu, spouted off into a score of specialized orders. Most of his order was free, but he did add some extras with charges. 'Sembi-ogg mush, gruddle strings, fried chuba, and a large Ruby Bliel, please.'
The droid lagged for a minor second or two, processing the data. 'Right away, sir. Please have a seat—your meal will be taken to you shortly.'
'Good,' said Mark, 'I hate long waits.'
Mark had no respect for droids anymore. He had his full of them and even hated some models of the protocol functions. He wheeled on one foot, looked for the sitting woman, caught sight of her and moved in to sit across from her at the then table she sat at.
The woman was young, younger than Mark who's probably in his late twenties by now. She seemed to be fresh into her twenty years and had a great face and build. Mark didn't usually have chances like this... most women on Mechis III had given up on men and decided to work here. He wasn't surprised, though, this was the perfect place; But maybe if he tired...
'Can I help you?' said Reba Sloc, giving this strange man a funny look as if she wanted him to vanish right there where he stood. Reba, of course, isn't really that mean but didn't really want to be bothered. She was reading a good romance holonovel and had just reached a good scene.
'Whatcha readin' there?' asked the man.
Reba didn't say so, but this guy wasn't that bad looking. His hair had gray mixed with the black... not the pitch white but the silvery kind that actually looked distinctive. He had all his teeth and even smelled better than the men back on her homeworld, even though he smell like oil; but so did she.
'Umm,' Reba began, but forgot the title that she had known so well before. She turned the book over and remember as she saw it. 'Ridless Nights by Mirvae Nocutio; ever heard of him?'
'Can't say I have—I don't read many holonovels... Ohh, I'm Mark, I, uhh, work here.' He said this in a joking manner, smiling with all his teeth. Reba was so used to talking with buck-tooth nitwits that smelled like wompa rats out the sewer.
'I'm Reba. I just started work here to get away from home.'
'Ahh, this is your home now... and pray that you'll keep your sanity! I've been here for six years and the first couple are the ruffest.'
'I think I can manage. I mean, if you've come where I've come from.'
'Where is that?' asked Mark.
'Well,' replied Reba. 'A little-known-planet on the Outer Rim called Bander. It's pretty gruesome there too. Better to see rusting metal than rotting people.'
'Rotting people? It must be bad...' said Mark, almost apologetically.
'Well, it's a lot better here. Not so many people. Not so many dirty people—well, as dirty as the Banderians.'
'Banderian, eh?' Mark asked. Reba nodded and asked if he had been there. Mark, of course, didn't; he had lived most of his memorable times on this humane-forsaken place.
'No,' said Mark. Then, out of nowhere, a astromech droid with a tray on its head wheeled toward Mark and brought him his food. 'Ahh, 'bout time!' He picked up the red tray and sat it on the dull, gray table. Reba's and Mark's conversation went on long afterwards. Mark had finished his lunch and asked Reba about her work shifts. She didn't have to work for another five hours. And so Mark had some company for the next strand of time in which he had to bare.