Each month we hold a writing contest for our members, by our members. Writers are given parameters, such as a word count and/or a prompt. Entries are judged and discussed blindly. For July, writers had to write a story of fan fiction in 1,200 words or less.
Image AI-generated by Canva
Primary Function
by Chris Vannes
The droid sat motionless on a slab of broken concrete. Rusty rainwater fell in spurts from the trestle bridge above, pinged off the smooth dome of the droid’s skull, drew oxide-stained rivulets down its plasteel shoulder-blades. Water trickled through the droid’s skeletal left arm and collected in the hollows of its sculpted, fingerless right. Puddles gathered around its stubby feet, shimmering faintly in the light of three moons.
The droid did not move. Its pale blue eyes pulsed gently.
Spread out below the bridge, the city-factory filled the entire valley. Work proceeded with clockwork consistency, heedless of rain and darkness: giant mining trucks grumbled down from the hills; load-lifters scurried to and fro; whistling astromech droids dodged between them.
Still the droid didn’t move.
“Hullo,” came a high voice. “Are you broken? Or waiting for something?”
Blue eyes turned on the intruder. The droid’s own voice was like long-unused hinges. “I am sitting.”
The new arrival appeared to be a human child. Though the droid had not much knowledge of such things, the child looked undernourished. And very dirty.
“I can see that,” said the child. “But shouldn’t you be, I dunno, doing something? Like, what’s your primary function?”
Deep within the droid’s torso, there was a sound like gears grinding. “I…don’t know,” it said after a moment.
“Oh.” The child considered this. “I’ve never heard of a droid without a function before. Don’t you know who built you?”
The droid gazed out at the city. The gear noise was its only reply.
The child seemed undeterred. A slender hand traced the letters on the droid’s forehead. “Gee…One…Ell…One. That’s your name?”
“So it seems.”
The child frowned. “G1-L1 is a boring name. I’m calling you Gil. My name is Dalia.”
The droid was silent for a moment. “Where are your”—it paused, searching for the word—“older humans?”
A shadow crossed the child’s face. “My ma died in an accident at the factory, they say. And my da’s probably drunk in some cantina. So I don’t really have a primary function either. We should be friends!”
Without waiting for a reply, the child sat next to the droid and draped its ragged cloak over both their heads. Together they watched the factory, and the rain.
After ten minutes the child stirred. “I’m bored. And really hungry. I don’t suppose providing food could be your function?”
The droid said nothing. The child continued, “Fine. Then I have an idea.”
“Which is?”
The small hand indicated a dark triangle obscuring the stars over the valley. “That’s a Star Destroyer. I heard some of the older street kids talking: the Imperials are recruiting down at the port. We should go. Maybe they have snacks.”
“Recruiting? What would the Empire need from us?” asked the droid.
“Well, I’m going to be a star-pilot,” declared the child confidently. “My reflexes are amazing. And the Empire uses lots of droids. Maybe they will know what you are for. It’s better than sitting in the rain anyway.”
The droid’s eyes pulsed skeptically, but it followed the child down the hill towards the port.
The young Imperial officer narrowed his eyes. “A star-pilot? You have to graduate from the Imperial Academy first, and it’s very selective. Do you even go to school, girl?”
Dalia shuffled her feet and looked down.
“You should try the cantinas. Maybe a garbage scow will take you on as a deckhand,” said the officer dismissively. “And what kind of droid is this supposed to be? It looks like it was assembled from scrap.”
“This is Gil!” flared the child angrily. “He’s very strong. And…and kind!”
“Ha. Tell me, junk droid, are you skilled in protocol?”
“I am fluent in five or six forms of communication. Eight, if you count—”
“So, ‘no.’ Can you repair other droids?”
“Well, every time I try interfacing with one—”
“Spare me. Are you equipped with human or other-species medical devices?”
The droid gazed at its own blunt, fingerless right arm wordlessly.
Just then a stormtrooper approached the officer and bent to whisper in his ear.
Dalia took the droid’s good hand. “Uh oh. Let’s get out of here.”
But as they exited the recruiting office, another squad of stormtroopers approached, blasters at the ready. “You there, halt! This droid matches the description of one that sabotaged the shield-production lines last week.”
The child whirled to face them, every line of her tiny frame tensed. “No! This isn’t the droid you are looking for!” she piped, her high voice suddenly urgent.
The stormtroopers froze in place as if stunned. “Uhh…yeah. This isn’t the droid we were looking for,” said the trooper dully. “Move along, citizens.”
Dalia dragged Gil into the rain without a backward glance.
Some minutes later the droid tugged her to a halt. “What happened back there?”
Dalia shrugged. “When I’m scared, sometimes I can make people do what I want. I wanted them to let you go. Did you really sabotage a factory?”
The droid’s posture slumped. “I just tried talking to the assembly droids. About philosophy, and purpose. They…got depressed and quit working.”
“Oh.”
Five cantinas later, even Dalia seemed discouraged. “Here’s Bay Thirteen. This is our last chance. That lady said the pilot, Tully, is ‘cheap and bad-tempered even for a Drovian.’ So he always needs new crew members.”
They froze at the sound of voices. Within the hangar, a decrepit-looking freighter loomed over an uneasy scene. Six stormtroopers surrounded a squat, blue-skinned creature in filthy overalls. The creature’s rubbery legs and arms ended in dull yellowish talons.
“A Drovian!” whispered Dalia. “That must be Tully.”
One stormtrooper placed a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. “You are hereby under arrest, for violating Imperial statutes against—urk!” he yelped as the stocky alien lifted him bodily from the ground and hurled him away.
“Blast him before he escapes!” The remaining troopers pointed their rifles at the lumbering pilot’s back.
“Stop it! He’s our last chance!” Before the droid could react, the child rushed into the hangar bay. “Leave him alone!”
A laser blast scored the decking beneath the pilot’s clawed feet.
“I said STOP!” screamed Dalia, clenching her fists. The stormtroopers were swept from their feet by an invisible wave, tumbling across the hangar.
For a moment everyone was still.
Then: “The kid’s a Force user! Blast her!”
The sound of heavy weapons was deafening in the enclosed space.
Dalia looked around in amazement. Six stormtroopers lay on the hangar floor, precise holes smoking in their chest plates.
G1-L1 stood motionless, shielding her, watching the shroud fold back over the heavy blaster hidden in his sculpted right forearm. On his own torso, a patch of plasteel had been blasted away to reveal dull chromium armor.
The pilot stumped over and tapped at the blunt arm. “Vintage battle droid parts,” he said admiringly. His voice was gruff and he smelled of rotten seafood. “Impressive. And very illegal.”
Gil’s blue eyes pulsed. “But what if I don’t want ‘battle droid’ to be my primary function?”
Tully shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you two had better come with me regardless.” He sighed wearily and stumped toward his ship. “Welcome to the Rebellion.”
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