THANIUM, A LONG TIME AGO...
"This cannot be correct, overseer! It is... blasphemy! How could we fill such an order?!"
The grey-haired human found that he could not look the droidwright in the face, even as he answered. In truth, he liked the situation little better than his subordinates did; he crossed his arms, his head dipped in shame as he replied.
"Daedalus, I don't care for this... agreement any more than you do. You are a skilled engineer, your work should not be wasted on these... these slugs. But we must all make sacrifices for the good of the Empire, especially in these times."
The grey-haired overseer turned, looking up at an overhead conveyor belt. From it dangled the empty torso shells of Guardian-class war-robots, the cast kiirium still glowing faintly with the heat of the forge. Similar conveyors bore other components; arm, leg and head segments moved by, on their way to be fitted with the internal mechanisms that would give the fearsome war machines the aspect of life.
The overseer gave a mental prayer to the gods of the Tionese, and to the god made flesh he had served, before continuing.
"Our Daritha is gone. Without his guidance, the war was doomed to failure, and already the Empire stands on the brink, even under the rule of the Poliumverate. The treaty buys us breathing room; we will bribe these contemptible aliens, and they will leave us be. Until the empire can regroup, rebuild, and reach out to seize what is ours."
He turned back to the droidwright.
"The Hutts demand our weapons. We shall give them their fill. They cannot build more. One day, I know, the people of Tion will build droid armies to eclipse anything we can make today, armies that will sweep across the face of the Galaxy..."
He turned, watching as workers further down the line put the finishing touches on a gleaming war machine. It flexed its limbs in a self-test, then was guided by a technician holding a remote to a long wooden crate, which it was guided into. The overseer shook his head in distaste.
"Fear not, friend. The Hutts are collectors; these machines will languish in an armory for a millennium, maybe more, and never fire a shot. When the day comes, our descendants may find them yet unused, and return them to their rightful allegiance."
He stood, facing the droid, fist over heart in a salute as the lid was sealed on the crate. The serial designation X3R was branded onto the lid.
"For the name of Xim shall outlive time..."
The grey-haired human found that he could not look the droidwright in the face, even as he answered. In truth, he liked the situation little better than his subordinates did; he crossed his arms, his head dipped in shame as he replied.
"Daedalus, I don't care for this... agreement any more than you do. You are a skilled engineer, your work should not be wasted on these... these slugs. But we must all make sacrifices for the good of the Empire, especially in these times."
The grey-haired overseer turned, looking up at an overhead conveyor belt. From it dangled the empty torso shells of Guardian-class war-robots, the cast kiirium still glowing faintly with the heat of the forge. Similar conveyors bore other components; arm, leg and head segments moved by, on their way to be fitted with the internal mechanisms that would give the fearsome war machines the aspect of life.
The overseer gave a mental prayer to the gods of the Tionese, and to the god made flesh he had served, before continuing.
"Our Daritha is gone. Without his guidance, the war was doomed to failure, and already the Empire stands on the brink, even under the rule of the Poliumverate. The treaty buys us breathing room; we will bribe these contemptible aliens, and they will leave us be. Until the empire can regroup, rebuild, and reach out to seize what is ours."
He turned back to the droidwright.
"The Hutts demand our weapons. We shall give them their fill. They cannot build more. One day, I know, the people of Tion will build droid armies to eclipse anything we can make today, armies that will sweep across the face of the Galaxy..."
He turned, watching as workers further down the line put the finishing touches on a gleaming war machine. It flexed its limbs in a self-test, then was guided by a technician holding a remote to a long wooden crate, which it was guided into. The overseer shook his head in distaste.
"Fear not, friend. The Hutts are collectors; these machines will languish in an armory for a millennium, maybe more, and never fire a shot. When the day comes, our descendants may find them yet unused, and return them to their rightful allegiance."
He stood, facing the droid, fist over heart in a salute as the lid was sealed on the crate. The serial designation X3R was branded onto the lid.
"For the name of Xim shall outlive time..."
ORD RADAMA, THE PRESENT DAY.
X3R's gaze swept the streets of Livien Magnus, the huge war droid's heavy footfalls cracking some of the lesser paving stones as he strode along. The machine was slow, but assured in his progress; in the skies above, thunder rumbled, and a cold wind caused the heavy synthmesh cloak the droid wore to flap and billow.
Motion. Sudden and rapid; X3R's cranial turret swiveled to track an object. With a blur of motion, the droid's arm shot up, intercepting something from the air. The machine's huge, metallic hand closed around it, and he brought it up to his field of vision, regarding it silently.
More motion. The head swiveled rapidly once more, and the adolescent Devlikk tugging on his cloak took an involuntary step back. The droid's inscrutable gaze took in the much smaller creature...
With a whine of ancient servos, X3R brought the object back down, and extended it to the frightened sentient. There was brief hesitation, then the alien reached out and took the object - a ball - before running away, turning back to utter a nervous "thank you!" before disappearing.
The droid continued on his way.
Further down the street, X3R made an abrupt turn, ducking under the entrance arch of a flight of stairs, leading down to the basement of a grey, dingy building. Flickering neo-neon and holographic signs lit the stairwell, which ended in a small, circular room, a plastoid box attached to the wall beside a reinforced door. As the droid entered the room, there was a whine from the box, and a blue light flashed, accompanied by a high pitched alarm. X3R turned to examine the box, then placed his hand atop it. There was a brief sound, and the alarm abruptly cut off, X3R withdrawing his hand to reveal a smoking pinhole.
A slot on the door opened, and a pair of eyes looked out.
"We don't serve droids here!"
X3R regarded the pair of eyes, then reached into his cloak. He withdrew a datapad, looking incongruously small in his huge hand, and regarded something on it before speaking.
"I am told this is a place where a security professional might find those wishing to hire such."
The pair of eyes narrowed.
"Mercenary, eh? Well, you're still a droid! I sell drinks to keep this place open, you can't sit for free."
X3R regarded the datapad once more.
"You serve mineral oils for various silicone-based species, correct? These are compatible with my lubrication system. And, if necessary, I am content to stand."
The pair of eyes regarded X3R for a moment, before they rolled, and the slot closed. There was a clunk, and the door slid open, revealing a dark, smokey tapcafe. The huge droid drew stares as he walked into the room, paused to scan his cranial turret over his surroundings, and then strode to the bar, where he towered over the other patrons. Silently, he pointed to a bottle, which was retrieved and presented to him; he took it, handed over a handful of credit chips, and then retreated to a corner. As he tipped the bottle to one of his lubrication points, he watched as various others in the room shot him nervous glances, muttering as they did so.
He wondered if any of them would try to make something of his presence. He hoped not; there would be a great deal of mess if they did, and in X3R's experience, that sort of thing tended to get one banned from most tapcafes, whatever the reputation of such establishments in the Outer Rim. He had, of course, come looking for work, and had been told that this was the place to find it.
He did wonder how proactive he might have to be about it, however.
Motion. Sudden and rapid; X3R's cranial turret swiveled to track an object. With a blur of motion, the droid's arm shot up, intercepting something from the air. The machine's huge, metallic hand closed around it, and he brought it up to his field of vision, regarding it silently.
More motion. The head swiveled rapidly once more, and the adolescent Devlikk tugging on his cloak took an involuntary step back. The droid's inscrutable gaze took in the much smaller creature...
With a whine of ancient servos, X3R brought the object back down, and extended it to the frightened sentient. There was brief hesitation, then the alien reached out and took the object - a ball - before running away, turning back to utter a nervous "thank you!" before disappearing.
The droid continued on his way.
Further down the street, X3R made an abrupt turn, ducking under the entrance arch of a flight of stairs, leading down to the basement of a grey, dingy building. Flickering neo-neon and holographic signs lit the stairwell, which ended in a small, circular room, a plastoid box attached to the wall beside a reinforced door. As the droid entered the room, there was a whine from the box, and a blue light flashed, accompanied by a high pitched alarm. X3R turned to examine the box, then placed his hand atop it. There was a brief sound, and the alarm abruptly cut off, X3R withdrawing his hand to reveal a smoking pinhole.
A slot on the door opened, and a pair of eyes looked out.
"We don't serve droids here!"
X3R regarded the pair of eyes, then reached into his cloak. He withdrew a datapad, looking incongruously small in his huge hand, and regarded something on it before speaking.
"I am told this is a place where a security professional might find those wishing to hire such."
The pair of eyes narrowed.
"Mercenary, eh? Well, you're still a droid! I sell drinks to keep this place open, you can't sit for free."
X3R regarded the datapad once more.
"You serve mineral oils for various silicone-based species, correct? These are compatible with my lubrication system. And, if necessary, I am content to stand."
The pair of eyes regarded X3R for a moment, before they rolled, and the slot closed. There was a clunk, and the door slid open, revealing a dark, smokey tapcafe. The huge droid drew stares as he walked into the room, paused to scan his cranial turret over his surroundings, and then strode to the bar, where he towered over the other patrons. Silently, he pointed to a bottle, which was retrieved and presented to him; he took it, handed over a handful of credit chips, and then retreated to a corner. As he tipped the bottle to one of his lubrication points, he watched as various others in the room shot him nervous glances, muttering as they did so.
He wondered if any of them would try to make something of his presence. He hoped not; there would be a great deal of mess if they did, and in X3R's experience, that sort of thing tended to get one banned from most tapcafes, whatever the reputation of such establishments in the Outer Rim. He had, of course, come looking for work, and had been told that this was the place to find it.
He did wonder how proactive he might have to be about it, however.
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