From a Certain Point of View (Star Wars) Page 6

  Reirin found the hatch and waited beside it until the sandcrawler slowed to a halt. The second it did, she yanked open the hatch and dropped out, shoving it closed, just as the Jawas entered the hold to pull out their wares once more.

  Heart thudding, Reirin slipped through the tracks and around the crawler. She was a shadow, no more visible to the famers emerging from their homes than a speck of dust. By nightfall, she’d have raided a nearby homestead for transport, and by morning she’d be in Mos Eisley.

  At which point she’d have to give the trader the rock.

  Though—she frowned to herself as she gazed at it—it looks much more like a crystal than a rock.

  She wouldn’t give it up. She couldn’t.

  You won’t have to, a calm voice within her said. You will find a way, when the time comes, to get what you need. You’ve gotten this far, haven’t you?

  With that thought to sustain her, Reirin disappeared into Tatooine’s approaching night, her blood singing at her future clutched in her hands.

  Sand was everywhere—in the little red droid’s treads, in his articulation joints, even deep inside his activating couplers. Dust caked his photoreceptors so badly he could only make out vague shapes. Not that it mattered. The extreme heat inside the sandcrawler, followed by the occasional nighttime snap freeze, had warped his casings badly. Between that and the grinding sand, he could only turn his head a few degrees to look at anything anyway.

  He could still vocalize, still flash his lights, still move his legs. But he’d been a prisoner on this blasted crawler for four years, shopped around by Jawas to every moisture farmer in the territory, and in all that time he’d received little to no maintenance. More than anything in the galaxy, he wanted to be sold. Escape the sandcrawler. Fulfill his programming by serving a new master—someone who would clean his joints once in a while, offer a few drops of lubricant, give him a purpose. But time was running out. He was lonely, and he was dying.

  One evening the little droid was snug in his nest of scrap metal, tucked away into the coolest, darkest corner of the cargo hold, when two Jawas approached. One carried a cylindrical object with a handle. A stunner, no doubt. The Jawas had finally given up on him. They would zap him, rip off any parts that still had value, and toss the rest of him into the furnace to melt for scrap. He gave a sad chirp of resignation, hoping it would be quick.

  To his surprise, the Jawas inspected him instead, nattering at each other. They communicated with scents as much as words, and the droid had never been fitted with olfactory receptors, but he understood enough. Something about a farm. An astromech droid. And clear as a Tatooine day came that wonderful, glorious word: sell.

  The Jawas argued but came to an agreement quickly. One left. The other lifted the cylindrical object toward the droid, who twittered at the Jawa, afraid to hope. The creature said nothing in response. It simply tipped the object, and a cool drop of thick lubricant suddenly coated the droid’s left photoreceptor, blurring everything.

  Carefully, the Jawa used the edge of its sleeve to wipe away sand and grime. Then it placed generous drops of lubricant in his joints, his head swivel, his treads, everything that had been grinding to a slow, awful death by sand these last two years. The red droid let out a whirring sigh. Nothing had ever felt so good. Sure, he could only remember four years back, to the point of his memory wipe, but he was certain that nothing in his entire mysterious existence had been as magnificent as this.

  The Jawa scraped sand out of his tool compartments, wiped down his other photoreceptors, gave him a pat on the head, and left him alone in his nest of scrap. He stared after the creature, his vision a little less scratched and blurry now, and marveled at his fortune. If he understood correctly, a nearby farm had specifically requested an astromech droid, and since the Jawas had gone to the trouble of cleaning him up a little, he had a good chance of finally finding a new master.

  The little droid hunkered into his nest and powered down to save energy. By morning, he would be his brightest, cleanest self.

  —

  Mere hours later, when the scorching heat was giving way to evening coolness, a jolt woke him. He lurched up, the washers and springs and scrap shavings of his nest tumbling off his head. He recognized that clanging sound, and the flurry of Jawa excitement that followed. The sandcrawler’s magnet had suctioned up a new bit of scavenge, which was now being deposited into the cargo hold.

  He swiveled his head for a better look, expecting to see the usual bit of decades-old wreckage. A shape materialized in the darkness. It was small, barely more than a meter tall, with a domed top. A round silver body glinted in the meager light, trimmed with shiny blue. It blurted angrily, threatening the Jawas with death if they didn’t back off right this second.

  The red droid was so happy to hear Binary, the first language of his programming, that it took a moment for the implication to register. Another astromech. In beautiful condition. An elite R2 unit, no less, as superior to his own line as a blaster to an angry fist.

  He would never be sold now. No one would pick him over the newcomer.

  The R2 unit continued to protest as Jawas fitted him with a restraining bolt. The creatures ignored his threats, talking excitedly with one another. This was the second fully functioning droid they’d pulled from the sand today—an unprecedented fortune. Clearly, their luck was changing. Soon, theirs would be the richest clan in the territory.

  When the R2 unit’s restraining bolt was fixed tight, he gave one last indignant bleep, then scooted across the cargo hold to chat with the sandcrawler’s earlier discovery, a golden droid with a grating voice. They seemed to know each other.

  As the little red droid powered down, he wondered what it might be like to have bright lights and a sleek casing and a head swivel that could rotate without pain. To have someone to talk to.

  —

  In the dead of night, he was jolted awake a second time by a mechanical arm prodding his access compartment. He squealed, swinging his body around to dislodge the thing poking him.

  The silver-and-blue droid stood before him, caught in the act of sabotage, his pincer appendage dangling in the air. He whimpered a sad apology.

  The red droid bleated indignation. Sorry for sabotaging me? Or sorry you were caught?

  Yes, the other replied. Then he introduced himself: I’m R2-D2, and I’m on an important mission.

  The red droid stared. Obviously, the excitement of capture and restraint had overrun the R2 unit’s circuits.

  Still, he chose to respond in kind. I’m R5-D4. No mission—that I know of. My memory was wiped four years ago.

  R2-D2 continued as if he hadn’t heard. I must be sold tomorrow. I have to escape this sandcrawler. The fate of the galaxy depends on it.

  What a strange droid. Is that why your pincer was deep in my access compartment? he asked. You were sabotaging your competition?

  Yes. Please, the Rebellion needs your help.

  The word Rebellion triggered something—the phantom of a memory. An imprint on his circuits that no wipe could touch. Or maybe he was simply moved by R2-D2’s sincerity. Whatever it was, he almost believed.

  But the superior programming of R2 units made them capable of deception in certain circumstances; everyone knew that. He couldn’t trust a single word the blue droid said.

  Please, R2-D2 said again.

  The red droid was not capable of deception, so he could only tell R2-D2 the truth: If I don’t escape this sandcrawler and find a new master soon, I will cease to function.

  R2-D2 murmured sympathy, but then he said: I already have a master, and if I don’t find him, the galaxy is doomed.

  Again, that strange tug on his memory banks. Something he couldn’t quite process. A truth that lay just beyond his sensors.

  A couple of Jawas paused what they were doing to glance their way. R2-D2 had lost his chance at stealth.

  I won’t try to hurt you again, R2-D2 said, and with that, he rolled away into the dark recesses of the ho
ld.

  The little red droid didn’t take any chances. He stayed powered up all night, on highest alert.

  —

  Morning came, sending dim, dusty light through seams where doors and panels didn’t quite fit together anymore. The crawler lurched to a stop, and the cargo bay opened to a blinding-hot world. The little red droid quickly adjusted his photoreceptors to compensate.

  The Jawas gathered up a handful of their most presentable droids and herded them down the ramp onto hard-packed dirt. R5-D4 was second in line, the sleeker, more beautiful R2 unit right behind him. The little red droid had a single, slim hope: Maybe this particular farm would be too poor to afford the other droid. Maybe, just maybe, they’d have to settle for him.

  At the bottom of the ramp, a middle-aged human male stood waiting, hands on his hips, eyes permanently squinted from sand and sun. His desert clothes and utility belt were shabby, but clean and well mended. His beard was scant and gray, but neat and trimmed. Surely, a man who took such pains would make a fine master. The red droid was certain of it.

  Behind the farmer lay a homestead. It wasn’t much—an adobe hut, a few holes in the ground, and the tall, spindly towers of several moisture vaporators. Compared with the giant rust bucket he’d been riding for four years, it seemed like heaven.

  Beside him, R2-D2 danced to get the farmer’s attention. R5-D4 stood stoic and still, though his circuits were firing so rapidly that his internal temperature was rising dangerously. His series was known for excitability, for unreliability. He would prove their reputation wrong. He would remain calm, behaving like a perfect droid.

  The farmer strode toward him, robe billowing. A boy followed at his heels, slump-shouldered and sulky. He was barely emerged from the human adolescent stage, slender and tanned, hair blasted blond by Tatooine’s twin suns.

  The older man’s dark eyes zeroed in on his photoreceptors, and with a lift of his chin he said, “Yeah, I’ll take that red one.”

  R5-D4 almost blew his circuits. Had the farmer actually said that? Had R5 really been chosen?

  The farmer continued down the line, dismissing R2-D2 with a wave. “No, not that one.”

  He had chosen him! R5 couldn’t believe his luck. It was all he could do to stay calm, to keep from rocking in place, as the slender boy crouched before him to inspect his joints.

  The farmer was interviewing the golden droid now, but R5-D4 hardly paid attention. After four long years, he finally had a new master. This farmer and boy were going to be so glad they bought him. He would be the best droid they’d ever—

  Beside him, R2-D2 loosed a mournful sigh.

  You’ll find a master, R5-D4 assured him in Binary. Someone will buy you.

  R2-D2 replied, There is no time.

  “Luke,” the farmer called. He indicated R5-D4 and the tall golden droid. “Take these two over to the garage, will you? I want them cleaned up before dinner.”

  “But I was going into Tosche Station to pick up some power converters!”

  “You can waste time with your friends when your chores are done,” the farmer said. “Now come on, get to it.”

  The boy sighed. “All right, come on.” He gestured at the golden droid to follow him toward the farm. “And the red one. Come on.”

  R2-D2 chirruped sadly. The galaxy is doomed, he said.

  R5-D4 hesitated. He had a bad feeling.

  The boy realized the little red droid wasn’t following. “Well, come on, Red. Let’s go!”

  R5 shook himself into action and lurched after the boy. He was going to get cleaned up. By his new master, no less. He’d been waiting for this moment for four years.

  Behind him, R2-D2 danced wildly in place. Help me, R5! he pleaded. You’re my only hope.

  R5-D4 swiveled his head toward R2-D2 just in time to watch a Jawa lift a control box and zap the blue droid. The restraining bolt did its work, and R2-D2 went silent and still.

  The bad feeling intensified.

  The boy and the golden droid continued toward the farm. R5-D4 followed, but he crept along, his movements weighted by uncertainty. His circuits were firing so rapidly now, his internal processors churning and churning, trying to tell him something.

  Understanding hit him like a suction magnet: He believed.

  He believed R2-D2 was on an important mission. He believed the droid was out to save the galaxy. And something inside him—an imprint, a phantom memory, something as old and stubborn as the stars—insisted that he help. Because the cause of the Rebellion was his mission, too.

  He knew what he had to do. For the first time in four years of awareness, he would execute a deception.

  As a mere R5 unit, he shouldn’t have been able to, but in the split second it took to formulate a plan, he discovered no barriers, no limits. He had been altered.

  No time to dwell on it now. He had to do an emergency energy purge, one that would take finesse and concentration. He prepared with care, shutting down unnecessary circuitry, loosening the hinge of his head plate. All that beautiful, precious lubricant the Jawa gave him the night before was circulating through his joints, calming his wires, cooling his circuits. He redirected its flow, collecting it into a mass just behind his photoreceptors. It would take every bit to be convincing.

  Once ready, the little red droid did not hesitate. He diverted power and discharged it all with a single, devastating blow.

  His head plate popped off, showering sparks. Smoke poured out, the superheated lubricant making it as thick and grimy as a storm cloud.

  The boy whirled at the sound. “Uncle Owen!” he called.

  “Yeah?” the farmer said.

  “This Artoo unit has a bad motivator. Look.”

  R5-D4 willed himself to utter stillness. Smoke continued to pour from his head, and a tiny drop of precious lubricant slipped down his casing.

  The farmer turned on the Jawas. “What’re you trying to push on us?” he asked, arms flailing. R2-D2 recovered from his restraining zap and whistled low and clear, trying to get someone’s attention. When that didn’t work, he danced in place, babbling loudly.

  Please notice R2, the red droid pleaded silently.

  It was the tall droid with the annoying voice who came to their rescue. He tapped a golden finger on the boy’s shoulder. “Excuse me, sir, but that Artoo unit is in prime condition. A real bargain.”

  The boy looked at R2-D2 as if seeing him for the first time. “Uncle Owen!” he called.

  “Yeah?”

  “What about that one?” The boy indicated the blue droid.

  One glance was all it took. “What about that blue one?” the farmer asked the Jawas. “We’ll take that one.”

  A Jawa gave R2-D2 a nudge, and the silver droid scooted forward with a cry of victory.

  Another group surrounded R5-D4. “Yeah, take it away,” the boy said, waving smoke out of his face.

  The red droid had damaged himself badly, but he could still function. He powered down everything but his auditory receptors and played dead, allowing the Jawas to lift him and carry him back toward the dark, horrible sandcrawler.

  In low power, surrounded by Jawa bodies, he could barely make out R2-D2’s twittering farewell. Thank you, friend, the little blue droid called to him. You may have saved the galaxy today. I will never forget you.

  —

  R2-D2’s story was confirmed when the Imperial stormtroopers came. The little red droid hunkered down in his nest of scrap, continuing to play dead, while troopers interrogated the Jawas about the two droids they’d just sold.

  Afterward, lasers blasted anything that moved, filling the sandcrawler with screams, turning the air damp and hot. The stormtroopers left the crawler a smoking ruin, littered with bodies.

  When he was certain the Imperials were gone for good, R5-D4 extricated himself from his nest, depressed the ramp control, and rolled into the hot desert sunshine.

  After four years with the Jawas, their trade route was as familiar to him as his own circuitry, and he knew exa
ctly which way to go. One of the moisture farms in the next valley would gladly take a free droid. He would be repaired. Cleaned up. Made useful. Later, if he was lucky, he might even find the Rebellion.

  He would have to hurry, because his damage was critical. But he had no regrets, and he did not look back.

  R5-D4 was barely a mote on the barren, ocher landscape as he rolled toward the horizon, free and full of hope.

  The brain of a krayt dragon occupied only a small portion of its massive skull. The rest of the space, according to Tusken lore, was storage for pure, unadulterated hate, a gift from one of the skybrothers far above.

  A’Koba had thought that just one more foolish tale meant to frighten children and those too feeble to hold a weapon. But facing down the krayt in the box canyon in the Jundland Wastes, the burly young warrior could understand how the legend had gotten started. Four times, the Tusken had plunged the flanged point of his gaderffii into the juvenile dragon’s head; four times, he had missed anything vital, unleashing instead a torrent of teeth-gnashing, foot-stomping rage.

  There was no magic to it, of course; any creature would react similarly to holes being poked in its head. He simply had to keep punching—presuming he could avoid being trampled.

  “Hurry, cousin!” called out another cloth-wrapped warrior. Clinging crazily to the beast’s tail, A’Vor had already lost his weapon in the dust—and his twin brother was somewhere back there, too, having been thrown aside by the mighty krayt. Among Tusken clans, it was said the birth of twins was a poor omen; whoever had come up with that one had definitely met his cousins. It was up to A’Koba to keep his foolish kin alive.

  With a booming war cry, he charged the stomping mammoth, sidestepping its advance only at the last instant. He caught the side of the dragon’s mouth with the traang—the bent end of his weapon—hooking the creature; it bit down instinctively. Such a bite would be enough to finish almost anything the krayt would encounter—