Chapter Text
“Well, my little friend, you've got something jammed in here real good. Were you on a cruiser or…”
Luke fell backwards as the piece of metal came free from the astromech droid's neck joint. A hologram flickered into life in front of the little R2 unit.
“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the holographic woman said. “You're my only hope.”
“What's this?” Luke asked.
The R2 unit beeped enigmatically.
“‘What is what?’” the protocol droid exclaimed. “He asked you a question – what is that?”
The smaller droid gave a surprised whistle, as if noticing the hologram for the first time. The hologram, for its part, merely kept repeating itself: “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope. Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.”
The protocol droid translated the R2's sheepish explanation: “Oh, he says it's nothing, sir. Merely a malfunction. Old data. Pay it no mind.”
Luke stared, captivated, as the hologram continued to repeat herself. “Who is she? She's beautiful.”
“I'm afraid I'm not quite sure, sir,” the protocol droid replied. “I think she was a passenger on our last voyage. A person of some importance, sir, I believe. Our captain was attached to…”
“Is there more to this recording?” Luke interrupted. He reached out for the astromech droid's control panel, but it gave a warning screech.
“Behave yourself, Artoo,” the protocol droid scolded. “You're going to get us in trouble. It's all right, you can trust him. He's our new master.”
The droid whistled something, which was dutifully translated: “He says he's the property of Obi-Wan Kenobi, a resident of these parts, and it's a private message for him. Quite frankly, sir, I don't know what he's talking about. Our last master was Captain Antilles, but with what we've been through, this little R2 unit has become a bit eccentric.”
“Obi-Wan Kenobi?” Luke mused. “I wonder if he means old Ben Kenobi.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but do you know what he's talking about?”
“Well, I don't know anyone named ‘Obi-Wan’,” Luke said, “but old Ben lives out beyond the Dune Sea. He's kind of a strange old hermit.”
“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the hologram repeated, “You're my only hope.”
“I wonder who she is,” Luke said. “It sounds like she's in trouble. I'd better play back the whole thing.”
The R2 unit beeped again. The protocol droid translated: “He says the restraining bolt has short circuited his recording system. He suggests that, if you remove the bolt, he may be able to play back the whole thing.”
“Hm?” Luke said, distractedly. “Remove the bolt? Sorry, that's Uncle Owen's call. You may be small, but if you get it in your head to run away from me, I'll never hear the end of it. You really can't play the message otherwise?”
The R2 beeped. “He is quite insistent, sir.”
“Ah well,” Luke said. “Maybe they can do something about it over in Anchorhead.”
“Luke?” His aunt's voice rang out. “Luke! Come to dinner!”
Luke stood up and shook his head at the malfunctioning robot and the still-repeating hologram. “Alright, I'll be right there, Aunt Beru!”
“I'm sorry, sir, but he appears to have picked up a slight flutter,” the protocol droid said.
“Well, see what you can do with him,” Luke said. “I'll be right back.”
The following morning, Luke loaded the protesting R2 into his landspeeder while the protocol droid fretted. At least the hologram had stopped.
“Oh, Artoo,” the protocol droid said. “I really don't know why you're so intent on causing trouble.”
“Well, Uncle Owen wants me to get his memory blanked,” Luke said. “That'll get rid of whatever malfunctions he's picked up along the way.”
The astromech droid screeched as Luke strapped it down.
“Well I think it serves you right,” the protocol droid said. “The way you've been acting lately? A factory reset is kinder than you deserve.”
“What was the name again? C3-something?”
“C-3PO, sir, human-cyborg relations.”
“Well, C-3PO, why don't you stay here and help my uncle ‘relate’ to the vaporators? I think I can handle the little guy.”
“Very good, sir. I shall await your return.”
Luke's glance passed, as it always did, over the Imperial Recruitment Office in the center of Anchorhead. Next year, he was going to enlist, no matter what Uncle Owen said. He'd run away, if he had to.
Today, though, he had other matters to attend to. He unstrapped the squealing astromech and carried it bodily through the dusty streets of the settlement to Tosche Station.
“Hey, Skywalker,” Fixer said when he came inside, nonchalantly chewing a wad of tabac leaf. “You never came for your power converters yesterday.”
“Thanks to this bundle of bolts,” Luke grumbled, manhandling the droid through the door.
“You buying off the Jawas again?” Fixer said. “I told your uncle a dozen times, you get what you pay for with them. What's wrong with it, motivator problems?”
“More like motivation problems,” Luke said. “The mechanics are fine, but he's got some bug in his programming – or maybe just a bug up his ass. I've never seen a droid fight the restraining bolt so hard. Uncle Owen wants his memory wiped.”
“Yeah, factory reset on – what is that, an Industrial Automation R2 unit? Should only take a couple hours.”
“Great,” Luke said. “I'll hang around, I guess. You seen Biggs?”
“You mean Mr Commissioned Officer First Mate Biggs Darklighter of the good ship Rand Ecliptic?” Fixer snorted. “Didn't even stay the night. He got a call from his captain right in the middle of our chance game, telling him to go meet up with a detachment of stormtroopers. He left right before I was about to win my money back off him.”
“Sounds like maybe he did you a favor,” Luke said. “Alright, guess I'll just walk around town a bit. Hit me up when you're done?”
“Yeah, sure,” Fixer said, taking down his toolbox.
“Oh, hey,” Luke said. “The droid has some kind of hologram in its system, a girl...”
Fixer grinned. “Don't worry, kid, I'll back up your porno for you.”
“What? No!” Luke turned bright red. “It came with the droid!”
“Sure it did,” Fixer said. “Must be pretty freaky shit.”
“It's not porn!” Luke insisted. “It's some message. The droid played part of it back for me earlier but said he couldn't access the rest of it because of his restraining bolt.”
“I'll pull all the files I can access,” Fixer said. “But these units are tricky, and from the look of it this one's gotta be thirty years old at least. If it hasn't gotten a reset in a while, that drive is gonna be fragmented to hell. I can't promise I'll get everything off.”
The droid warbled mournfully.
Luke sighed. “Just… do what you can, Fix, okay?”
After a leisurely lunch in the tavern, Luke found himself standing outside the dull grey cube of the Recruitment Office as if he'd gotten there on autopilot. A sudden breeze kicked up a cloud of sand into his face, and he made a noise of irritation as he tried to brush it out of his clothes – but he could already feel it, coarse and rough and irritating, getting everywhere. Another beautiful day in the asshole of the universe.
Biggs was gone, off to pursue adventure on an Imperial frigate – or, if what he'd said the other day about his plan to defect was true, maybe in one of those rebel X-Wings they'd heard about that could dance with a TIE fighter but take a hit like a Bantha. Tank was off on a merchant ship, calling a new planet home every week. She sent vids sometimes, most of them bragging about having a girl in every port on the Kessel Run, but Luke always found himself staring at the background, the different planet outside the window of each new message she sent. Last time was a planet covered in bright green plants – real plants, huge ones with wood stems a hundred feet tall, like something out of a book.
And then there was Luke, the best pilot of the three... but still stuck here, lucky if his uncle let him take a T-16 to clear out a nest of womp rats.
“NOW RECRUITING,” the dingy red banner over the door said. “SEE THE GALAXY!”
Another harvest, Owen had said. Just one more… maybe. There might be one more after that, of course, or possibly two, or fifty. Or maybe the rest of his life staring up at the stars while digging sand out of his underpants. That was what Owen wanted, wasn't it? For the two suns to slowly roast the Skywalker out of him until he could just be Luke Lars, content to scratch out a miserable life as a moisture farmer on a planet the galaxy would rather forget existed?
From down the street, he heard Fixer call out to him. He turned and waved and headed back to pick up his droid.
“You couldn't get any of the hologram?”
“Sorry, kid,” Fixer said. “Couldn't find a trace of it. You gotta understand, the memory systems on these droids…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Luke sighed. For a moment, the hologram had seemed to be a call to some greater destiny beyond the moisture farm… but it's not like Owen would have let him chase it in any case.
“In fact, I couldn't get anything off of it,” Fixer continued. “There was one huge file that had just recently been added, but it was so big it was probably what was messing up the droid's systems, so I figured best to just wipe it along with everything else. As best as I could tell, it was some technical manual or something, nothing interesting.”
“Sure.” Luke wasn't really paying attention; the weight of responsibility had settled back down on him, and the world seemed distant and dull.
“But the droid is working great now,” Fixer added. “It's a real nice little unit, for something you got off the back of a sandcrawler. Old, sure, and rebuilt at least once, but somebody's taken good care of it. Your uncle actually got a good deal for a change.”
“I'll be sure to let him know,” Luke said. “C'mon, little guy. Let's get you back to work.”
The R2 unit chirped obediently and followed Luke out through the door.
It was a long time before he could even process what his senses were telling him. The rising smoke, the acrid scent, the unholy silence… none of it connected until he saw the two charred bodies in the wreckage, and then it all connected, so quickly and so violently that he fell to his knees. If his conscious mind had been working, it would have told him to seek cover, because the Sand People who had done this might still be nearby, but he didn't even check the horizon.
The R2 unit bleeped a query at him. On receiving no response, it trundled off to explore the wreckage.
There were no droids to be found anywhere, though in one of the outbuildings it found a single golden arm that had been removed from some variety of humanoid droid, evidently a homebuilt creation assembled from spare parts. The R2 unit noted this for future reference and continued its investigation.
The creaky old CZ-5 droid behind the counter of the Imperial Recruitment Office in Anchorhead was very familiar with Skywalker, L., a young human from a nearby farm who had applied to the Academy the previous year and, despite scoring in the 98th percentile in his practical flight examination, had ultimately withdrawn his application, citing familial obligations. But this time, as Skywalker, L. slid the papers across the desk, something was different.
“Skywalker, L.,” the droid intoned. “You seek to apply for immediate acceptance to the Starfighter Flight Training Program of the Imperial Academy System. Testing results and letters of recommendation are on file and remain valid. Please confirm that you are of the legally mandated age for your species, that your desire to enroll is made of your own free will, that all facts as stated in your application are correct to the best of your knowledge, and that you swear to loyally serve the Galactic Empire, to defend it from all enemies internal and external, and to faithfully carry all out all orders given to you for the duration of your term of service.”
“Confirmed,” the boy said. The droid found it somewhat odd that there no enthusiasm in his voice… but enthusiasm was not required. It transmitted the application and received a reply a moment later.
“Your application has been accepted by the Arkanis Academy,” the droid said. “You will report to the Imperial Garrison at Mos Eisley Spaceport for further orders.”
“Okay,” the boy said. “Thanks.”
The droid motioned to the R2 unit at his hip. “An appropriate astromech droid will be assigned to you at the Academy. It is unnecessary to supply your own. You may leave that at your family farm.”
“I…” The boy hesitated. “I want to bring it. Please, it's all I have. It's in good condition – you can ask Fixer, over at the Power Station…”
The droid considered for a moment, then sent a message and waited for the reply. “Skywalker, L., you have been granted special dispensation to supply your own R2-series astromech unit. Your droid will be serviced upon arrival by Academy staff and fitted with a new restraining bolt complying with Imperial standards.”
“Thanks,” the boy said.
“Welcome to the Imperial Starfleet, Cadet Skywalker,” the droid said. “Long live the Emperor.”
“Long live the Emperor,” the boy said, and with that he left, his astromech droid following obediently at his heels.