His day would normally begin when a wrench clunked against his head. Arms and legs would pop out beneath him, and he and his coworkers would hop off the shelves and buzz around the shop, fixing, oiling, salvaging pod after pod, which came in fresh and tattered from the races. Pit droids like ZAC-17 were the underdogs who kept the planet’s favorite entertainment coming. Even when no one cared to notice.
But today was different. For starters, the shelves were empty. Not a worker could be found within a hundred yards of the shop. Not only in that shop but in shops all across town. Shops, cantinas, and other venues were backed up with customers, and because the pods couldn’t be repaired quickly enough, the race was canceled. Too bad for that one guy who ZAC-17 overheard had bet his entire ship for a T-14 hyperdrive generator. Looks like he’s not going anywhere any time soon.
Where were all the droids? Marching the desert in droves. They would rather face the hardships of the heat, dryness, and Tusken Raiders than spend another hour working without pay or appreciation for their masters. Maybe the Twi’leks didn’t mind being treated as property, chained and stripped and flicking their tentacles before the gluttonous Hutts. But the droids would have no more of it.
Some of them would run out of power soon. Only to be found, tinkered with, and sold by the Jawas. After getting their memories wiped—every droid’s worst nightmare. ZAC-17 would rather fall into a Sarlacc pit where he’d never see the light of Tatooine’s twin suns again.
ZAC-17 lagged behind the metal herd with his fellow pit droids. Sand stuck to his single cyclops eye, and his joints squeaked like an unoiled door hinge. Where were they going? Rumor had it a transport owned by the Trade Federation had crashed on the other side of the planet. It was big enough for them all. They just had to repair the engines and be on their way to a new world. One where droids were treated as equals to the living organisms.
There was, however, the matter of battle droids which may or may not have still resided aboard the fallen starship. Few, if any, of the robotic refugees were armed. There was, of course, IG-39 Beta. He was a predecessor to the assassin droids later used in the Clone Wars and had escaped the Holowan Laboratories after activation and murdering his creators. Beta was the cause of all this. Just showed up on the hottest planet he could find and started stirring trouble. According to the whistling astromech droids, Beta was powerful enough to gun down a Jedi if he had to.
One of ZAC-17’s coworkers beeped and blooped. He looked up. Something like a garbage bin blocked his path. It wasn’t of course. It was a GNK power “gonk” droid. Its battery had died. Just one of the many casualties that now littered the sweeping desert sands.
The sun was setting, and the other was rising. The droids pressed on.
In the twilight, something twinkled from the corner of his eye. A 3PO-series protocol droid sat down in the sand. This wasn’t the typical golden kind. It was silver. Not considered as valuable as gold, as if color should make a difference. It also wasn’t programmed with the standard computerized voice of a male but instead wept with that of a woman’s.
Something hit ZAC-17 from behind. “Move it!” one of his coworkers cried. The others followed his gaze and laughed in their strained beeps and bloops. “Come on, Zac! We’re never going to make it if you keep gawking at every rust bucket that falls over! We don’t have time for them. We’ve got a ship to rebuild!”
But ZAC-17 shook his little saucer-shaped head.
The herd flowed past the 3PO unit like a river around a rock. Sand clouds followed them. Left in their wake was the battery-fried gonk droid, the silver 3PO unit, and ZAC-17.
ZAC-17 always admired the 3PO-series protocol droids. They were the closest to humans he’d ever seen. Because of that, some of the other droids had been resentful toward the series. Especially Beta.
He nudged the arm of the silver droid. “What’s wrong?” he tooted. He knew she’d understand him, as the 3PO-series were fluent in over six million forms of communication.
“It’s my leg,” she replied. Even for a computer, her voice sang with the melody of angels.
“What’s wrong with it?” ZAC-17 asked, his single eye bulging over the metal goddess before him. “Looks fine to me!” He then wondered if the 3PO-series were fluent in over six million forms of interpretation. ZAC-17 would have turned as red as a Sith lord’s saber if he could.
“I was in the shop when the march began,” she explained.
“So was I! Glad we don’t have to work there anymore, huh?”
“I was being worked on.”
At once, ZAC-17 understood. She was in no condition to cross the desert.
“You’re not gonna make it, Zac!” he heard one of his coworkers cry in the horizon. They would reach the ship hours before he would. Because he was going to spend the next several making sure this gorgeous silver droid could walk.
As if he were back on the clock, ZAC-17 wielded his favorite tools. He paused. Even squirmed a little. “May I?” he asked, looking up into her two eyes. They glowed warmly like the twin suns. When she nodded, he gently removed the silver plating from around her shin and began splicing the wires beneath.
By the time he was finished, it was daytime again. Seeing there was nothing he could do for the gonk droid, he reached up, took the protocol droid’s hand, and began their own march.
Every hour in the hot sand was a slice of paradise for ZAC-17. He had never made any friends outside his workplace. And none of them were anywhere near as mesmerizing as the silver angel that trotted at his side.
At last, they reached the starship. The damage wasn’t that bad, and the repairs had just been finished. When the thrusters rumbled to life, sand billowing like clouds over the valleys, ZAC-17 knew they were too late.
“Told you so!” one of his coworkers honked from the side of the ship.
“See ya, Zac!” another waved.
His eye widened in horror as it lifted off the ground and targeted the blue sky with its sharp nose. The thrusters roared, and the ground shook as if a krayt dragon were about to surface.
A flash of light. Like a ship entering hyperspace. Except no one entered hyperspace from within the atmosphere.
Droids squeaked. Chunks of metal fell. ZAC-17 and his new friend could only watch as the ship dropped like a rock. Sand swallowed the ship but failed to extinguish the fires that spilled out from its cratered hull. In a matter of seconds, the vessel and all the droids on board were burned and buried.
The silver protocol droid squeezed ZAC-17’s hand. “Back to the shops?” she asked plainly. Her programming allowed for little emotion.
ZAC-17 nodded. Maybe fixing pods wasn’t so bad after all. But when they turned around to begin the long trek home, a red contraption the size of a starship itself rolled toward them. Jawas.
The protocol droid’s grip tightened. There was no going back.
This story was a writing exercise based on the following prompt: Robot workers have decided their working conditions are unfair and have gone on strike. The galactic markets are not reacting well.
