Chapter 7 : The Droid "Gift"
The message from Jassi arrives at 0600 hours: "Favor. Now. Come to stall."
I'm halfway through my morning ration bar when R4's summons interrupts. The debt has been hanging over me for eight days—200 credits plus 5% weekly interest that the System tracks with mechanical precision. Every morning, the interface reminds me: debt accrues, favors compound, nothing is free.
[ DEBT TO JASSI KREE: 210 CREDITS ]
[ INTEREST ACCUMULATION: 10.5 CREDITS WEEKLY ]
[ FAVOR OWED: UNSPECIFIED ]
The market is already crowded when I arrive. Vendors shout over each other, smoke from cooking stalls mingles with the perpetual haze of industrial runoff. Jassi's stall occupies its usual corner, but today there's an addition: a battered astromech droid slumped against her inventory like scrap metal.
She spots me and beckons. "Finally. Take this."
The droid is R4-series, painted in faded orange and white that's mostly rust now. Its dome is dented. The photoreceptor is cracked. One of its manipulator arms hangs at an unnatural angle.
"What is it?"
"Your problem for one week. Store it, don't touch it, don't sell it. Seven days, then you can return it or keep it. Favor cleared."
I activate the Appraisal function—headache blooms immediately but I need the information.
[ R4-K7 ASTROMECH DROID ]
[ STATUS: HEAVILY DAMAGED ]
[ MEMORY CORE: CORRUPTED BUT RECOVERABLE ]
[ REPAIR COST: 5000 CREDITS ]
[ SALVAGE VALUE: 500 CREDITS ]
[ WARNING: PREVIOUS OWNER DECEASED - POTENTIAL LEGAL COMPLICATIONS ]
"What happened to the previous owner?"
Jassi's lekku twitch. "Business disagreement. The violent kind. Droid was payment for old debt. I can't move it—too hot. You're off the grid enough that nobody looks twice at you storing junk."
"So I'm the disposable one if this goes bad."
"One week," I confirm. "Then we're clear?"
"Completely."
The droid weighs more than expected when I activate its hover mode—backup repulsors work barely, forcing me to half-carry it through the Lower Levels. My hab-unit feels even smaller with the droid wedged in the corner. I leave it powered down and try to forget it exists.
Two hours later, it activates on its own.
The photoreceptor flickers blue-white. A series of beeps emit—binary I don't understand but somehow convey profound irritation. Then, impossibly, the vocabulator kicks in with a glitchy, mechanical voice:
"Organic. Shortsighted. Typical."
I stare. "You can talk?"
"Affirmative. Though 'talk' is generous term for communication with beings of limited cognitive capacity." The voice shifts mid-sentence—accented Basic to Trade Standard to something that might be Huttese. "Vocabulator damaged. Language protocols compromised. Apologies for—" It switches to binary, then back. "—inconvenience."
The System chimes:
[ UNUSUAL ASSET DETECTED ]
[ R4-K7: ADVANCED PERSONALITY MATRIX ]
[ MEMORY CORE CONTAINS ENCRYPTED DATA ]
[ ANALYSIS: POTENTIALLY VALUABLE INTELLIGENCE ]
[ RECOMMENDATION: REPAIR OR SALVAGE ]
I crouch in front of the droid. "What's on your memory core?"
"Classified information. Deceased master's business records. Shipping manifests. Client lists. Security backdoors acquired through—" The voice glitches. "—morally questionable means. Standard smuggler inventory."
That's worth more than 500 credits in scrap. Potentially worth a lot more if the intelligence is actionable. But 5,000 credits for repairs is a quarter of my liquid assets.
"Salvage it. Take the immediate profit. Don't get emotionally attached to broken machines."
I open the System catalog and navigate to repair options. 5,000 credits buys a complete overhaul: new photoreceptor, arm replacement, vocabulator fix, memory core decryption and stabilization. The purchase interface hovers, waiting for confirmation.
My finger hovers over "decline."
The droid emits a mournful beep. "Master considering salvage option. Statistically optimal choice. This unit's survival probability: 3.2%."
Something in that mechanical resignation breaks through my cost-benefit analysis. Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it's guilt from the Senate bombing still crawling under my skin. Maybe I'm just tired of being the person who chooses profit over everything else.
I confirm the purchase.
[ REPAIR PACKAGE ACQUIRED ]
[ COST: -5000 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 31070 CREDITS ]
[ DELIVERY TIME: 4 HOURS ]
[ NOTE: INEFFICIENT RESOURCE ALLOCATION DETECTED ]
[ EMOTIONAL DECISION OVERRIDE: CONFIRMED ]
The droid's photoreceptor brightens slightly. "Master chose repair. Unexpected. Calculating probability of regret: 87.4%."
"Shut up."
"Vocabulator repair pending. Shutting up temporarily impossible."
The repair kit arrives via drone delivery—standard protocol in the Lower Levels where nobody uses names or addresses. I spend the next three hours following holographic instructions, replacing components with tools I bought from Jassi two weeks ago. The work is meditative. Precise. Nothing like the moral quicksand of weapons dealing.
The droid comes fully online at 1823 hours. The new photoreceptor glows steady blue. The repaired arm extends and retracts smoothly. The voice, when it speaks, is clear and British-accented—some programming quirk I don't understand.
"Full functionality restored. Memory core decrypted. Gratitude expressed to master." A pause. "Analysis of master's transaction history initiating."
"Wait, what—"
R4 plugs into my datapad before I can stop it. The blue glow intensifies as it processes data. Thirty seconds later:
"Master has completed five weapons transactions in fourteen days. Estimated casualties: twenty-three deaths confirmed, forty-seven injuries confirmed, additional unconfirmed casualties probable. Profit margin average: 18.3%. Psychological profile indicates guilt response incompatible with chosen career trajectory. Recommendation: legitimate employment or immediate planetary evacuation."
I laugh. It comes out harsh, bitter. "You're a judgmental repair job."
"Accurate assessment. This unit's programming includes tactical analysis. Current tactical assessment: master's survival probability in arms dealing profession is 14.3%. Contributing factors: inadequate combat training, insufficient security measures, growing reputation attracting hostile attention, and persistent guilt hampering optimal decision-making."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"You are welcome. Additional observation: master exhibits pattern of prioritizing short-term profit over long-term survival. Statistically correlated with early mortality in criminal enterprises."
I pour myself a drink from the bottle I opened after reading about the Senate bombing. "You know what? I paid five thousand credits for you. The least you could do is shut up occasionally."
"Negative. This unit's primary function is data analysis and tactical consultation. Silence would constitute failure of core programming." R4 rotates its dome, photoreceptor sweeping the tiny hab-unit. "Habitat assessment: inadequate. Security: nonexistent. Escape routes: zero. Master's operational security is catastrophically insufficient."
"Noted."
"Probability of master noting and ignoring advice: 94.7%."
I finish the drink. The droid is right—I'm going to regret this repair. Already am, actually. But something about having a voice that points out exactly how badly I'm failing feels almost... helpful. Like an external conscience I can argue with.
"What's in the smuggler files?" I ask. "Your previous owner's records."
R4 projects a hologram from its central lens: shipping routes through Republic space, client contact information, security backdoors into Coruscant's customs systems. The deceased smuggler had been running guns for years, building a network that spans a dozen worlds.
"Client list includes: three Republic senators, one Separatist general, four criminal syndicates, and seventeen independent operators. Security backdoors provide access to customs databases, allowing cargo manifest manipulation. Shipping routes avoid Republic patrols through hyperspace lane calculations. Estimated value: 15,000 credits if sold to appropriate buyers."
My hands shake slightly as I scroll through the data. This is a treasure trove. Client contacts alone could jump-start my operation—established buyers with money and need. The security backdoors mean I could move larger shipments without attracting attention.
It's also evidence of massive criminal operations. If Coruscant Security finds this data on me, I'm done.
"Can you encrypt these files? Keep them secure?"
"Affirmative. Encryption protocols implementing." The hologram flickers and vanishes. "Master intends to utilize deceased smuggler's network?"
"Maybe. Need to think about it."
"Statistical analysis suggests 73.2% probability master will utilize network despite security risks. Pattern recognition indicates master prioritizes profit over caution when opportunities present."
I can't argue. The droid is reading me better than I read myself.
"What should I call you?"
"Designation: R4-K7. Previous master utilized nickname 'Kay'. This unit has no preference."
"R4 it is."
The droid's photoreceptor dims slightly—processing something. When it speaks again, the tone is different. Less mechanical. "Master saved this unit from salvage. Query: why? Decision was economically irrational."
I stare at the cracked ceiling of my hab-unit. "Honestly? I don't know. Maybe I'm tired of every decision being about credits."
"Sentiment detected. Master experiencing moral fatigue from accumulated ethical compromises. Psychological assessment: master is not naturally suited to amoral profiteering. Recommendation: career change."
"Too late for that."
"Negative. Never too late for course correction. However, probability of master changing course: 11.8%. Prediction: master will continue current trajectory despite increasing psychological cost."
The words hit harder than they should. R4 is quantifying what I've been feeling since Mira's desperate eyes, since Wrynn's equipment enabled mass murder, since I started counting bodies like they're line items in a spreadsheet.
"You're a real morale booster, you know that?"
"Morale boosting is not primary function. Truth-telling is. Master required repair. This unit provides different kind of repair: accurate threat assessment and psychological analysis. Both currently indicate master is on unsustainable path."
I pour another drink. The bottle is half-empty already.
That night, without prompting, R4 projects a hologram onto my hab-unit wall: the Senate District bombing casualty list. Twenty-three names. Twenty-three dead. The ones I remember from the news article plus more. Each entry includes basic biographical data—age, occupation, family status.
Senator's aide, age 24, engaged to be married.
Security officer, clone designation CT-5621, squad designation "Wolfpack."
Civilian contractor, age 31, father of three.
"Master's indirect contribution to casualty count: confirmed," R4 states. "Equipment sold enabled attack. Moral culpability: partial but measurable."
"Turn it off."
"Information suppression does not alter objective reality. Master remains responsible for—"
"Turn. It. Off."
The hologram vanishes. The room falls dark except for R4's photoreceptor glow.
Silence stretches for thirty seconds before I break it. "You're going to be like this constantly?"
"Affirmative. This unit's purpose is accurate analysis. Accuracy requires acknowledging uncomfortable truths."
I consider deactivating the droid. Shoving it back in Jassi's stall tomorrow. Taking the loss and moving on. Instead, I hear myself say: "Fine. You want to be useful? Decrypt those smuggler files completely. I want every client contact, every security backdoor, every shipping route. If I'm going to keep operating in this business, I need every advantage."
"Command acknowledged. Master is choosing to escalate operations rather than cease. Predicted outcome: increased profits, increased casualties, increased psychological damage. Probability of master's long-term survival: declining."
"Just do it."
R4's processing core hums—low mechanical sound that fills the tiny hab-unit. "Files decrypting. Estimated completion: six hours. Master should rest. Neural patterns indicate severe sleep deprivation. Cognitive function degrading."
The droid is right. I haven't slept properly since reading about the bombing. Every time I close my eyes, I see casualty lists.
I lie down on the thin mattress. R4's photoreceptor dims to a soft glow—ambient lighting, almost comforting. The mechanical hum of its processing becomes white noise.
"R4?"
"Query acknowledged."
"You think I'm going to hell for this?"
"Metaphysical concepts outside this unit's analytical framework. However, statistically, master is accumulating significant karmic debt. Probability of eventual consequences: extremely high."
I close my eyes. "That's what I thought."
Sleep comes eventually, fitful and haunted. But at least I'm not alone in the dark anymore. Just me and my judgmental astromech, counting bodies while decrypting smuggler networks.
Progress, I guess. Though R4 would probably calculate the exact percentage of how doomed that makes me.
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