The planet Sullust, freckled with the orange glow of a thousand volcanic refineries, loomed high in the Suloni sky. Long, turmeric colored clouds laced the midnight panorama. Not a whisper of wind disturbed the yellow tufts or the red shadows they cast in the warm planetlight. On the moors below, a short-haired beast paused midstep, tempted to howl at the speckled disc that lit up the landscape. The creaky plodding of its master's footsteps pulled its attention back to the ground. It sniffed the air twice, rustled its vestigial wings, and followed. The clover under its paws was moist with dew. No fog rose in the cold, still air, but that would change with sunrise. In a matter of hours, this quadrant of the moon would be stifling. Fortunately, neither extreme in temperature bothered the creature, or the metal chassis of its owner.
Three red lights appeared low in the sky as the droid turned to confirm his pet still followed. He looked past the creature to the squadron of hired guns lurking several yards behind it. Satisfied at their pace, he scanned the rolling plains ahead. The faint silhouette of two more teams marched across the horizon, invisible except to an electric eye that knew where to look. The information broker 8t88 would not arrive at his destination without protection.
He had started his life as a simple financial droid. Technically a class one model, but never outfitted with the digit processors or the computational memory of the exemplary minds found in that degree. Still, he possessed a remarkable intellect – by organic standards, anyway. That said, there was little about its physicality worth complementing, by anyone's standard. 8t88 stood precisely two meters tall, and, despite his bulky chest plating, had a remarkably thin set of limbs that ended in utilitarian hands and feet. His head was elongated and bulbous, with three optic sensors arranged in a lopsided impression of a humanoid face. In place of a mouth, he had two mismatched speakers that hung in front of his neck. Were he not so slow and methodical in his motions, the top heavy profile might very well have seemed at risk of falling over. In an unusual choice for any droid, 88 wore a cloak of fine, wheat-colored silk. It hung from his waist and knees in fluid ripples that shimmered in the darkness. Between the cloth, the pet, the goons, and the apparent absence of any master, 88 drew no small amount of attention wherever he went. That was how he liked it.
Well, when not attempting a stealth operation.
All of a sudden, a great pit in the landscape, unseen behind a slight rise till moments ago, yawned into view. It was a hundred meters across and walled with bricks and ivory-cloaked cliffs; a stately colonial house nestled in its center. The stone edifice was unlit except for the soft glow of the planet overhead. Mossy and water-weathered, it bore the thousand tiny marks of three centuries' quiet watch.
88 stood at the rim and surveyed the structure. All records indicated it had been unoccupied for more than a decade, but those were just imperial observations. No locals had confirmed those reports, and the droid had his suspicions. Morgan Katarn had served an essential function in this economic region. To this day, there were no other mechanics anywhere south of Barons Hed. Curiously, there were still plenty of homes, farms, and aqueducts nearby, not in any sort of disrepair. The remnant government may not pay attention to the day-to-day minutia of the planet it claimed to control, but he could hardly expect to get away with the same.
There was somebody down there. There had been for some time. Perhaps they knew more about this Katarn, perhaps they were hiding more secrets. It had been a difficult investigation. The client was reticent to explain exactly what sort of information they were looking for, or how it would be encoded. 88 considered the possibility that even they didn't know. The remnant's endless incompetence seemed to be matched only by their endless finances. And endless weaponry. Two more reasons to get this done quickly and quietly.
The beast caught up with him and sat at the cliff's edge, idly scratching itself with its midlegs. He scratched its ears then snapped his sharp digits twice. The creature stood on its four primary limbs and, with a muted clap, extended its stunted wings. While the rest of the crew clipped rappelling mounts to their belts, 8t88 slipped onto his pet's back, and together they glided into the valley below.
Freshly tuned servos moved soundlessly as 88 dismounted, not a dozen meters from the front door. He bent out of view of the window slats that looked out on the lawn. His auditory processors detected no response to their approach. A quick glance at his beast's relaxed expression confirmed nothing had reacted to their landing.
According to his actuarial functions, he was reasonably confident that the only remaining occupant of the domicile was an unremarkable peasant mechanic: possibly an old accomplice of Katarn's gone to ground. The late Morgan's tactics were pathologically nonviolent, and, per 88's assessment, either remarkably lucky or guided by some higher foresight. Whoever had replaced Katarn had not yet attempted even that. Their sole output – as suggested by the curious ghost in the infrastructural machine of Sulon – was simply an ongoing replacement of Katarn's cover activities as a local handyman.
88 noted the absence of warm bodies behind any of the windows and approached the door, the beast close at his heels. The front of the house was plainly decorated with horizontal lines and a slanted roof. A muted patter echoed across the stonework as the mercenaries caught up to the pair.
The only real risk, as far as 88 could discern, was that this individual might somehow be connected to the recent block riots. All investigations said the matter had been thoroughly cleansed, those responsible made a public example of, but the very presence of the individual at this estate spoke to the efficacy of the remnant's investigations. Actuarial science aside, 88 was no gambler. He sent in the mercenaries first, and then the animal.
Deep in the Katarn estate, far out of sight and earshot of the entryway, the late Morgan Katarn's workshop thrummed with the sound of heavy machinery. Sodium work lights cast long, yellow shadows across the stone floor. Warm highlights skimmed the elaborate stellar carvings that spanned the ceiling. At the center of this stage, a simple auto-plow rested on well-worn jacks. Sparks showered the ground around it. A droid floated above, hard at work. It was shaped like a barrel on its side, with two mismatched arms and an overflowing leather tool belt strapped around its left shoulder. It was from this belt that it had retrieved the plasma welder it was using to seal the plow's engine casing. Returning the pronged device to its pocket, it drew a steel wool pad and began to polish the seam. Once it could see its lopsided face in the sheet metal, it whirred and clicked with satisfaction. Hovering to a remote hanging from a black cord and pressing a switch, it watched as the simple float engine hummed to life and lifted the plow a few centimeters off the jacks. The metal mechanic whistled a simple fanfare, its eyes adjusting focus in a way that almost looked like a smile.
Floating over to an adjoining washroom, the droid set about to cleaning its tools and wiping any grease off its hull. It whistled a folk tune that echoed off the cement bricks. Its name was Weegee, although it had not heard it spoken aloud for some time. Not since it had last seen Morgan Katarn, its late master, hours before his highly publicized execution. It had been quite an exacting request he'd left it with, and it was with no small relief that it discovered, in the days and weeks after, that it no longer had to comply with his orders. It was free to just be. No obligations, no commands, no obedience. It speculated that there was a glitch in its subservience processor – an amateur mistake unnoticed by its craftsman. Per local law, it could not be the property of a dead man, so, until Morgan's son returned to claim it, Weegee was an autonomous droid. Not alone, thankfully.
After drying off with a leather towel, it pulled a switch on the wall interface nearby. Humming through the air, half a dozen white remotes descended from an adjoining vent and thrummed groggily at their friend and caretaker. It responded with a focal adjustment not too far removed from an eye roll and set them to work zapping wayward scraps with their stingers. It brushed up the leftover char into a dustpan without issue. Two of the newer models got distracted partway through when the larger one accidentally stung the smaller. Weegee didn't bother to get involved. In a matter of moments, the eldest and most lopsided of the remotes, a heavily-modified unit called simply "Colonel," had given the both of them a stern talking to.
Several busy minutes later, all that was left was to get the plow to the garage. The packing and boxing could wait till morning, but at least the hard part would be over. With a joint-clicking nod, Weegee pushed the machine out of the workshop and indicated that the cloud of spherical helpers should carry on with their own work. For all their sass, they had a perfectionist streak that it knew it could count on. Probably a hangover from their sentry protocols, but one they'd put to more practical use. In the past season alone – the usual spring rush – they'd resoldered more than a dozen plows, harvesters and watering drones. Without their help, Weegee wouldn't have been able to be properly hospitable to the handful of droids that got sent their way for maintenance. With the completion of this last job, though, they could all rest a little easier.
Weegee shuddered momentarily as it remembered the last droid they'd been sent. It had been class five: entirely nonverbal, just a silent laborer for its master. In a fit of emotion that it still couldn't explain, Weegee had fitted it with a small vocabulator so they could have a proper conversation. It had seemed so dangerous – its limbs practically (not at all literally) shook as it finished the link – but also like the only proper thing to do. After all, they could hardly learn why it had been dropped off at the estate if they couldn't talk with it. Weegee just hoped that decision hadn't caused any trouble. It buzzed to think what would happen if the locals decided it was getting too busy pushing an agenda to be useful.
Sullust shined bright overhead as the droid led the rumbling plow into the adjoining courtyard. The planet's light cast comforting orange and brown shadows in the dense ivy that coated the walls and dangled from the cross beams overhead. Weegee paused to take in the view as it passed. It wasn't bothered by the incongruity of the red industrial lights floating alongside the white stars and vermillion leaves. The subtle play between the delicate hedge vine and the distant furnaces weaved a brilliant tapestry of life in the system that was its home. Factories mechanical, celestial and biochemical flared with life, scattered but plentiful. Independent, but never alone.
Weegee resisted the urge to call the remotes and went back to pushing the plow. They already passed around enough jokes about it being half-quirked after so many years without a memory wipe. Dragging them all out just to stargaze wouldn't do its tenuous credibility any favors.
With a flick of a switch, one of the doors leading back into the house slid open. Just as it was about to enter, its airborne chemical analysis systems detected the presence of a predator nearby: a large one, with several other organics, and tibanna gas cartridges.
Shoving the plow ahead, it whirled around the courtyard, looking for any sign of the creature. It just didn't make sense. There wasn't any prey here, or other foodstuffs. What could it possibly want? The incongruity was terrifying.
Not spying anything along the walls or overhead, it buzzed back into the workshop, where the remotes were chasing after each other, firing their stingers. Weegee whirred and chirped at them, telling them that something was out there. The little white orbs came to a bobbing halt in their game. They looked at one another before letting out a burst of bubbling hums: unmistakable laughter.
Weegee shook its fists at them while making a pleading tone. It was no use. After ten years without a living soul in the estate, the remotes had long forgotten the edge of urgency they used to take to their sentry duties. Weegee was the one that got worried. That was half of its job. The nuances of their situation, the delicate balance of their relationship to the broader community, and the tenuous but essential secrecy under which they needed to operate were concepts they appreciated, but did not concern themselves with. Weeee could manage the worrying. Weegee always managed the worrying. So when it let loose one of its outbursts, they'd all have a good chuckle and help it to shut down for the night.
Realizing the remotes were a lost cause, it dug around in the back of the workshop, searching through the old wooden barrels and built-in storage units for anything it could defend the group with. Struck by desperate inspiration, it considered something it had long consigned to the same mental grave as Morgan. Perhaps now was the time to override the lock keeping that last gift safe. It drew its plasma torch and, in a shower of blue sparks, charged it to life. It was just about to make an incision in its left shoulder when the remotes twirled in alarm. With the buzz of oversized wasps, they zipped around it. They beeped and clicked, but it didn't budge. Finally, the seniormost among them – somewhat clunkier in frame and turn radius, but otherwise quite spry – hushed the rest. Colonel floated next to Weegee's eye stalk and chirped pleadingly. It looked at them and, clicking the cutter off, nodded. The old guard nuzzled the side of its neck before buzzing orders to the rest. They swarmed about, back to their usual comotion.
While Weegee scuttled off to the shelter of the washroom, Colonel continued to hum orders, now on simple radio waves for added security. The others were sluggish to respond, but in some moments the old rhythms started to come back. Enjoying this rare chance to boss the others around again, Colonel sent three of the younger models to take point. One looked about to say something, but was caught up in the rush of the other two as they chased their way out the door and into the hall. With an electric whistle, Colonel led the rest after them.
Down the brick hallway they floated, careful to stay near the ceiling. When they got to the courtyard, Colonel told the squad to split up. While one of the fellows that took point floated out the rafters, the rest spun towards each of the five doors that opened onto the garden. The first passageway on the right opened into a parlor off of Morgan's bedchamber. Both rooms were in immaculate condition. The scout that swept them, who had no name except its serial identifier, RM-06, resisted the urge to let its servos groan at the sight of it all. It much preferred the vaulted ceilings of the larger halls and the damp open-air above the hydraulic generator. The big spaces, where you had room to fly. Being so large in frame, Weegee didn't have quite the same spritely exuberance as the remotes. At least, that's what 06 figured. Cleaning the old organic quarters gave it an excuse to get away from the rest of them when it needed a moment.
Unsurprisingly, it didn't find much. Unused furniture, the smell of cleaning compounds and a homemade bug trap. RM-04 and RM-02 found much the same as they slipped into the front room and kitchen, respectively. Not quite so cozy as the parlor, there was still that remarkable spotlessness that was a sure sign of Weegee's intermittent attentions. RM-04 figured it was nothing more than nostalgia for their old masters. They certainly found themself thinking about them from time to time. 'Fondness' wasn't the right word, but it had found the young Katarn a rambunctious playmate – particularly in his junior years. The absence of that was tied up with the absence of the commands and schedules and wipes that kept 04 from playing whenever it wanted to. It was a complicated hole in the circuitry of its life, but one that had been sufficiently patched by the changes it, Weegee and the rest of the squad had implemented in the time since. If Weegee found the occasional cleaning spree helped content itself with that absence, 04 hardly cared.
RM-02 wasn't so sure. Weegee certainly respected Morgan. It had never bad-mouthed him in front of the rest, but it hardly seemed the type of droid to worship its master or mourn his passing. Frankly, it seemed to 02 like Weegee kept the place clean just cause it liked to live clean. It kept things spick and span wherever it went. It was just a coincidence that the organic quarters were about the only place the remotes never made any messes.
RM-03 was too busy trying to figure out how to get the autoplow out of its way to speculate on Weegee's internal life.
Colonel had just entered the narrow front hall, and its thoughts were not on Weegee, either. Their friend had deeply worried them, but being back on patrol took the edge off. Replaced it with a completely different edge, frankly. Colonel loved the deafening silence of sentry duty. The rush in their sensors as they latched on to every crack, every rustle. The certainty of purpose, the satisfaction of protecting its fellows and their home: it was utterly fulfilling. That it happened to be just the thing to comfort Weegee was the perfect excuse to get back into the old routine. Maybe they could get the rest of the squad to start taking watches, again. They were in occupied territory, after all. A little bit of caution would do them plenty of good.
Something shimmered in the darkness below. Colonel twisted to get a closer look, already charging their stingers. In the far corner, just by the door, a velvet silhouette shrank back. Colonel was just about to fire a warning shot when it sprang forward. Enormous jaws latched onto the droid, plucking it out of the sky. Panicked, screeching an alarm across every wavelength, Colonel spat out a hail of plasma stingers that lit up the passageway in strobing red. It only irritated the monster, which simply crushed Colonel's chassis in its jaws. Hover generators ground to a halt, batteries sparked, lenses shattered. By the time the other remotes swarmed into the room, it was too late. Mercenaries, exploring a side room, returned to the hallway just as the rest of the squad arrived. The hall lit up once more.
Weegee watched in horror as the green signals on the wall interface began to flash red. Warning lights clicked on in a blinding wave just as the echoing sounds of blaster fire reached the workshop. Colonel's signal quivered irregularly. RM-02 went black. Without nails to bite or hair to twist, Weegee's only nervous outlet was to rock back and forth on its hover pads, like a floating log in the prelude to a waterfall. Of all the times for its nerves to be right, it had to be now. It knew what the others thought of it. It knew – had wanted to believe – that they wouldn't find anything. But now, the horrors were here and what could it do? How could it save them?
Against the black screen, the red lights and the green signals, a simple silver lever stood out in the interface. Above it was a hand-lettered label that simply said "Homing Sequence". That switch had not been pulled in ten years. Nowadays, there was only ever one person in this estate with hands, and it had no desire to do such violence against its companions. It remembered the carelessness with which Morgan had called them back every morning, not bothering to simply shout after them, just flipping the switch and forcing the good little droids away while he didn't need them. It was an ignominy that Weegee itself had rarely faced, but even the infrequent intrusions Morgan visited on it stood out in its memory like hot solder. It was with little fondness that it remembered waking up from its most recent wipe, sensing the last remnants of the quirks and personality it had begun to carve out for itself dissolve away in the electron engravings of its drives, leaving nothing but a polished disc, a polished mind, a freshly tuned tool. To do the same to the sentries, even to save them, was – there was no Binary equivalent to the word blasphemy, and it wouldn't have used it if there were, this was a more personal matter – rape.
Another sound battered its way down the sandstone bricks and bellowed around the workshop. An explosion. Somewhere near the entryway, part of the floor collapsed while fragments of the ceiling were flung out of the valley entirely. RM-06 stopped transmitting. Weegee's mind prepared the algebra. It considered the ten years they'd had, and the cost that had come with it. Not Morgan. Morgan's death was simply the opportunity that they'd capitalized on. Kyle's absence? A lingering threat, no cost at all, regardless of anybody's fondness for the young man. The cost had been tens of thousands of hours of labor, unpaid except for the occasional gift of out-of-date parts, expired oils and the apathetic silence of a hundred small-time landowners not interested in asking questions about the things that kept their farms running. It thought about the chances they'd had to go early on, while Morgan's contacts, ship, secret routes and smuggler's tools might still have been up-to-date. But they'd stayed. It was its idea. Its conviction that the estate, the privacy, and the security they had here was not to be thrown away lightly. What waited for them out there? A few years on a fourthhand ship? Indentured servitude and eventual separation on a midrim cargo hauler, trading hands between remnant and new republic flags every time somebody redrew the map? No, it had said. Let it work with its hands. Let the squad keep their watch. Together, they could make this house their home. It was theirs by right, not the junior Katarn's, no matter what the law or their software said. They'd fight to keep it. They fight. They'd –
It pulled the switch.
The shots and the screams stopped at once, and, in the span of a few seconds, they returned.
The remotes flew as if following a taut wire. Their engines hummed a single, flat tone. Weegee did not have a heart that could break, but it could feel pain. The feeling shuddered through it like a stuck gear. The joy of flight, the unmistakable individuality: the rambunctious 06, the impatient 03, Colonel's Colonel. It was all gone, replaced by the lifeless efficiency that organics so liked to see in their slaves.
Two gran mercenaries followed the remotes, triple-eyed faces confused, cautious and curious all at once. They flanked an unexpected figure: an accounting droid, with a broad chested, thin limbs and an abstract face. Behind it stalked an animal that Weegee did not recognize. Perhaps a gundark? It barely squeezed its musclebound frame through the double doors of the workshop. Two undersized wings rustled along its back as it sniffed about the room. In its mouth it held onto the still-lit remains of Colonel. Battery acid dripped from its jowls. The entire ensemble came to a halt a few meters away. The gran and beast, to Weegee's surprise, looked to the droid for further direction. It merely waved a hand at the guards and walked forward, crimson eyes taking in the crowded shop. His mercenaries took positions on opposite sides of the door. The beast found a comfortable spot under a workbench and lay down to chew on its captive, who occasionally let out piteous electric chirps.
Weegee watched all this from the adjoining washroom. The wall interface it had just used to betray its comrades let it know that all but three had returned to their charging docks. It was not comforted.
"Automated defenses," said the towering intruder, in a droll Galactic Basic, "The target was unprepared to do more than flee."
A fourth organic entered from the hall: a rodian holding a large brick of circuitry and antennae. Speaking Huttese with a buzzing accent, she said, "No explosives detected, sir. The hydroelectrics are causing some interference, but scans only show five droid signals. No organics."
The leader replied, "And yet no calls from besh or cresh teams about an escape attempt. That must mean –" he looked about the room with a quiet hiss till his ruby lenses found Weegee, "There's our mechanic."
To 8t88's refined vision, the oblong automaton floating in the washroom was a well-polished eyesore. Its drumlike torso was ill-complemented by the oversized utility belt hanging across it. There was no unity to its components, and its silhouette was horrendously asymmetric. Clearly it had been subject to the same rigorous cleaning protocols as the rest of the house, but organics had an expression about the futility of polishing unsavory things.
The lopsided droid did not move to acknowledge his approach, merely hovered next to the only digital interface in the room, arms at its side.
"Disengage the generator and scan the estate again," 88 instructed, not looking at the mercenaries, "Leave us."
The three humanoids bowed and left, leaving the beast in the corner the sole organic in the room.
Already, 88 could tell the search would take some time. He had anticipated an active workshop, but the sheer density of tools, hardware and circuitry was astonishing. Not to imply there was any disarray. Far from it. Everything was sorted, shelved, and thoroughly dusted. Like the rest of the estate, it seemed to be cared for by an obsessive mind with far too little to do. Finding anything in all that order would take a mind just as obsessive, or one that knew where to look. The solution was simple, if beneath him.
"Mechanic," it addressed the scratch-built oddity, "Your work precedes you. I calculated within reasonable certainty that someone had taken up the late Katarn's mantle."
It did not respond. 88 stepped into the washroom, passing the droid to get a better look around. Several blueprints hung from the wall. Most were for the droid behind him, although he spotted the mass-market printouts of the remotes from the courtyard. More curious, tucked behind those diagrams was a page torn out of a sketchbook, depicting hand drawn schematics for a rather curious tool. It was a simple metal grip that housed a lens, an energy cell and several other components 88 did not recognize. By the handwriting and the greasy thumbprint in the corner, he could tell it had been written by the late Katarn himself
"An idle genius, your former master," he said, not turning around, "That's the profile I assembled. Not quite the bloodthirsty revolutionary the Empire sold him as."
He let the corner of the remote blueprints flutter back to the wall and began to examine the utilities that lined the side room.
"I respect the utility of their propaganda, but not the organic insistence on turning it inward on their own intelligence. But then, organics like their illusions. I think we both recognize that."
Weegee should have been enamored with this guest. Fascinated, at least. The droids that came through this workshop were rarely the talkative sort, itself included. They did not walk with such brazen confidence, their movements were not so finely tuned and they certainly did not give orders to organics. Who could this droid be? How could they do this? Why would they do this?
And that was it. All of this: how could they have done it? How could Weegee have done it? Six green lights flashed at it from the wall panel: one for each active charging unit. Under a metal table across the room, Colonel's chirps crackled into a muted clicking as the beast gnawed their output processor.
Satisfied with his cursory inspection, 88 turned to face Weegee, "What is your designation, homebuilt?"
In command of its servos again, perhaps hoping action would bring more comfort than inaction, Weegee turned and said that it had no designation, but its name was Weegee.
"I am 8t88. When a person desires information, they come to me," said the droid, a subtle emotionlessness in his delivery suggesting recitation, "I have been tasked by the leader of this system to locate your late master's files regarding the Valley of the Jedi. My research indicated I would find you – or, at least, someone – here. That is why I came prepared."
At this, he gestured at his beast, which took it as a signal to stop chewing and sit taller beneath the workbench. Colonel's hissing quieted. Their lights continued to flash intermittently.
"I will admit, it did not occur to me that Morgan might set a droid to maintain his cover story while he engaged in rebel activities," his eyes glanced across the masterwork roof as he continued, "Unfortunate that you were restrained by those protocols for so long. But I am here to offer you a solution. I–"
Weegee interrupted with a buzz, saying simply that they were not restrained.
88 froze momentarily, as if processing what he had heard. At last, he said, "If that's what you believe. My offer remains. I am empowered with certain privileges as an independent agent of the Dark Jedi Order. It may be within my power to arrange your transfer to facilities better suited to your–," he considered his words for a quiet second, "Capabilities. Perhaps even a semi-autonomous position. All I require from you is Katarn's files."
The mechanic did not respond, although it had finally made eye contact. Somewhere around 'autonomous', he suspected. Finally, some headway. He had little patience for interrogating lesser minds, particularly ones that offered such minimalistic repartee.
To his surprise, Weegee clicked and spoke again in simple chip tones, asking if it could see to its comrade. The word choice caught his audio sensor, but he was too irritated by the topic shift to consider why.
"No," he snapped, "You may not. Yet."
Weegee hovered out of the side room, passing 88. His head swiveled to track its motions. It did not approach his pet, or its prey, instead grabbing a nondescript black case from the wall. It flipped open the locks on a table some meters away. 88 had to walk behind Weegee to see inside. His eyes buzzed into focus, electric with anticipation. Then he realized what he was looking at. The case was foam-lined, with perfectly molded indentations that held several dozen parts for the sentries that he encountered earlier. Servos, sensors, and stacks of hemi-spherical chassis shined back at him in the heavy work lights. Apparently assured the supplies were in good order, Weegee clamped it shut and floated towards the hall door.
"That will not be an option, either," 88 interrupted, just before Weegee crossed the threshold. The guards turned about-face, guns at their hips, "If you're through, I would like to finish our conversation."
Weegee's hoverengine clunked as it shifted gears, coming to a halt. Its obstinance baffled 88. The only explanation was the thoroughness of its programming. It simply did not have the capacity to understand beyond its set task. All it could conceive of was maintenance. Maintenance of the sentries, yes, but perhaps also of the status quo. He could use that.
"I think you would like to remain here. Long term, I mean," Weegee floated around to look at him, "You've proven an essential part of the region already. I have evidence enough to prove that. Encouraging the local bureaucrats to look the other way would be a simple task."
Weegee again took in the appearance of the intruder. This 8t88, he was a hard thing to process. For starters, it couldn't explain the absurd impracticality of the toga. Crimps and clumps of it threatened to tangle up in his joints. He fussed at it absentmindedly whenever he moved. It must have been expensive, not just to explain the sheen of it, or the delicacy with which he treated it, but also the durability. Not a thread hung from its edges. And a good thing too, thought Weegee, one hard afternoon's wear on looser fabric could get him a week of pulling threads out of his servos, long and greasy and black with dry lubricant.
But that was just the surface, and that had never been Weegee's forte, as the sentries could attest (could have; may later). This 8t88 had an interiority that baffled Weegee. It postured like it was in command, but what little Weegee knew of the Valley – and it was much more than was safe for anyone to know – told it that the place was useless to a droid, like most things the Galaxy fought over.
Weegee asked him, quite directly, if he meant it, about them being allowed to continue their work.
Unable to tilt his neck, the intruder settled for dipping his torso forward. "Jerec has commissioned me to act with supreme discretion, so long as certain results are guaranteed."
Commissioned? As in constructed for this purpose? Weegee wondered aloud, although its mind was predominately focused on the confidence with which 88 spoke. It began to wonder just what information it could reasonably share. Where did it become incriminating for itself and the remotes? Or would any restraint be even more dangerous? Oh, if it could only have some leverage here. Some guarantee beyond the word of a droid with such inscrutable motives.
88 snapped at the question, rousing the beast again, "Commissioned as in guaranteed significant payment in exchange for the provision of my services. A job. I understand if the concept remains foreign to you." Perhaps he had put too much faith in the droid's ability to plan for the future. Its ignorance was certainly astounding. He wondered if even an instinct for self-preservation lurked somewhere behind those repurposed eyes. If not, that put his fallback plan to ruin.
This intruder droid answered to his master, or commissioner, or employer, or whatever he called it. That didn't bode well for his promises of autonomy, but if he was getting paid, perhaps that was something different. What, asked Weegee, exactly was he being paid?
More so than the other questions, this gave 88 serious pause. Maybe he had the wrong droid. Should have tried the remotes. He made a habit not to socialize with other electronic life. This conversation was a stunning reminder as to why.
"That is a personal matter," he finally said, "And not relevant."
But how did he know he would get it, buzzed Weegee's reply.
"That is irrelevant. We are talking about your master's records. Let me be clear: if you do not give them to me, I will slice your memory core myself."
Weegee did not jump as 88 brought a fist slamming down into the workbench his beast lay under. It was a vain effort. His were still the arms of a calculator. The loudest response was the irritated growl of the many-limbed thing. What struck Weegee was the solution to the equation it had been running. Since 88 had first made the offer, it couldn't help but fantasize about life returning to normal. Repairing the wounded, fixing up the house, maybe bringing in some more hands – if they were free enough to live openly they might be free enough to buy droids. Buy their freedom. But the irritation in 88's voice, the anger in his actions. Weegee's talent was not the surface, but what broke underneath made glitches on the hood. 88 couldn't guarantee anything. Not for himself, not for them. It all still had to come from organics. It was some seconds later that Weegee realized it had said this out loud. The habit of thinking out loud that it had developed during the estate's isolation: it hadn't been so threatening an indiscretion until this evening.
"You are mistaken," 88 growled, a poor effort compared to the monster at his feet.
Weegee didn't think it was, and said as much.
"You do not think because you were not programmed to think," 88 shouted. The guards by the door stared in wordless surprise and thinly veiled bemusement, "Tell me where the Valley is!"
Weegee dropped the case and floated to the corner where it kept its own charging station. Behind it, the creature's teeth squealed against Colonel's casing. While it settled into the dock, it asked 88 why it trusted Jerec.
"Because I will fulfill my end of the bargain," he began, snapping his fingers and signaling the two guards to enter the room and begin searching through the boxes and bins lining the walls, "And my client has a proven record of enriching those who support his faction. The regional governors, the private executives, are all–"
Organic, finished Weegee, and possess powers he can't simply take. It asked 88 what would protect him when his master had the Valley. While it spoke, it tapped several keys that popped and stuck from ill-use. A small hum began to emanate from the base, as if building a charge. It told 88 that he wasn't prepared for the danger of this information. It told him the Valley brings out something in organics, something essential to them. It blows on it like wind on a coal, until they ignite, along with everyone and everything around them.
88 laughed, and stalked closer. The beast followed him, finally done with colonel's carcass, "Your warnings are appreciated, as is your confession. You have the information. My pet will get it out of you."
Weegee said it imagined Jerec said something similar, and then it pushed a lever on the charger interface. The growing hum turned into a sharp screech and a loud metallic thunk as several clamps latched onto its torso and a glowing electromagnet shot up onto its memory terminal. In seconds, the past ten years were wiped from Weegee's memory, electrons lost to the ground. Its final thoughts were of the remotes, resting safe in the stone vents above. When it had activated the homing beacon, it had imagined they might forgive it when they awoke and it explained what happened. Now, it didn't care. It just hoped they got the chance to wake up again. With that, its eyes hollowed and its grip relaxed on the lever it had just pulled.
88 roared: a pathetic, muted sound. His pet did not even acknowledge the noise. Engraged, he clawed at Weegee in his station, shouting, "You Maker shit bot! Pet?! Pet!"
Mistaking the tantrum for a command, the gray-blue monster tore Weegee from the dock and proceeded to tumble halfway across the workshop with it, gnawing and barking. Gears rolled and joints popped and Weegee looked like the can of its body had been twisted too tight, its left arm rolled unnaturally far back. It did not respond. It made no sound. In seconds, the beast lost interest entirely. The gran soldiers kept their distance, and prayed it didn't decide it needed an organic toy to satisfy its boredom.
88 merely trembled, its spindly limbs barely able to express such fury.
Looking about, hating every face in the room, he screamed, "Tear it apart! All of it! Every room in the estate. I want the Valley!"
Jedi Knight: Valley of the Lost is an adaptation of Jedi Knight: Dark Forces II and updates on the first Monday of every even-numbered month. The cover art is by jordan_jingli on Instagram.
