13 years before the proclamation of the Empire
Alex woke up to the sound of falling dishes and his father's sleepy grumbling. The melodious chime of shattered ceramic cut through the morning silence of their humble dwelling like a bell toll announcing the start of a new day. Through the thin walls of their apartment on the forty-third level—high enough not to suffocate from the industrial fumes of the lower tiers, but not high enough to enjoy the clean air of the elite floors—came the usual morning muttering of the kitchen droid K-7PO and his mother's irritated sighs.
The air in the room was permeated with the faint aroma of synthetic kaff, which K-7PO had been unsuccessfully trying to prepare for several days in a row. Outside the window, like giant metal dragonflies, speeders whizzed by, their engines emitting a drawn-out hum that merged into a single symphony of the awakening Corellian metropolis.
"That iron idiot has messed something up again," came the tired voice of Keyron Corren, a second-class technician at the Corellian Shipyards, his eyes holding the reflection of distant stars he helped conquer by building ships for the Republic fleet. "Lyra, why don't we just buy a normal droid? This one is ages old, it's completely lost its mind."
The boy stretched under the thin thermoregulating blanket, yawned, inhaling the morning air, and suddenly frowned. Something in his father's words seemed strange to him, like a dissonance in the familiar melody. "The droid has lost its mind"... but why? After all, droids are smart, they should know what they're doing? Can a machine capable of speaking, joking, and even showing something akin to care, simply "lose its mind"?
"Alex! Breakfast!" his mother called, and her voice carried that special note of morning rush familiar to every resident of the working-class district.
He got out of bed, feeling the coolness of the metal floor under his bare feet, pulled on home clothes made of soft synthetic fabric, and shuffled to the kitchen, passing through a narrow corridor whose walls were adorned with holographic family photos and views of distant worlds they would never visit.
K-7PO stood by the stove, his chrome body gleaming in the rays of the Corellian morning sun filtering through the wide window. The golden light played on the polished metal, creating intricate reflections that danced on the kitchen walls. The droid held a frying pan in its delicate manipulators, from which suspicious gray smoke billowed, smelling of burnt plastoid and something vaguely chemical.
Outside the window, the prolonged hum of a passing cargo speeder could be heard—probably one of those delivering parts to the shipyard where his father worked. The sound gradually faded, dissolving into the general hum of the waking city, where millions of beings began their day in an endless dance of civilization.
"Good morning, little Master Alex," the droid said in its melodious mechanical voice, which seemed to carry notes of sincere regret. "I'm afraid I've encountered some minor difficulties preparing breakfast. My culinary programs appear to require an update."
Keyron shook his head, mentally calculating how much it would cost to fix this malfunction. His face showed the peculiar weariness of a man who pays for everything every day:
"Updates... As if we know where to get them. At the service center, they say, 'Buy a new model, this one is outdated.' And a new one costs half my annual salary."
His father sighed heavily and ran a hand over his face, which bore a familiar expression—a mixture of fatigue and mild annoyance at a world where every breakdown was measured in credits, which were always in short supply.
Lyra Corren, a slender woman with short brown hair and intelligent green eyes, worked as a cargo dispatcher at the spaceport. Her hands, unlike her father's, were well-groomed, but her fingers bore the marks of constant work with holopanels—barely noticeable abrasions from the touchscreens. She turned on the holoprojector, and a shimmering 3D image of a news anchor appeared above the kitchen table—an elegant man in an expensive suit, speaking with that haughty calm characteristic of the inhabitants of the upper levels.
"...another navigation system failure has led to flight delays in the Alderaan sector," the holographic reporter announced, his words accompanied by images of star charts and flashing red dots indicating problem areas. "Republic fleet engineers are working to resolve the issues, but restoration timelines are currently undetermined. Senator Palpatine has expressed concern over the increasing number of technical malfunctions and called for increased oversight of life support systems..."
"Navigation is glitching again," Lyra sighed, taking a sip from her mug of hot kaff, its aroma mingling with the smells of the morning kitchen. "Good thing we live on a planet and aren't floating around in space."
Another speeder whizzed past outside the window, its anti-gravity engines emitting a characteristic high-frequency whistle that residents of the middle levels had learned to ignore, like the heartbeat of their hometown.
Alex sat down at the table, covered with soft synthetic material imitating Corellian nerf hide, and looked at the droid, which was still trying to cook something. A simple but piercing question formed in his young mind: "Why can't the droid find its own malfunctions? If it understands that the programs aren't working, doesn't that mean it can check them?"
Newscasts continued from the holoprojector: "...trade negotiations with the Trade Federation continue despite growing tensions. Federation representatives insist on reducing taxes on trade routes in the Outer Rim..."
"Dad," he said, interrupting the flow of news, "why can't K-7PO fix itself?"
Keyron laughed a short, tired laugh of a man who knew too much about the whims of technology:
"Droids aren't people, son. They only do what they're programmed to do. If a program breaks, they need repairs."
"And who programs them?"
"Well..." his father paused, rubbing his chin with his hand. "The manufacturer, probably. Or special programmers. I don't know, honestly."
Alex frowned, feeling something important forming in his consciousness. But someone writes the programs, right? Ordinary people?
K-7PO finally approached the table, his servos humming softly with each movement as he carried a plate with something that vaguely resembled scrambled eggs but had a suspicious bluish tint and emitted an aroma that could hardly be called appetizing.
"Breakfast is ready," he announced with that mechanical politeness that seemed to hide something more. "Although I cannot guarantee its full compliance with organic creature nutrition standards."
Lyra tried the edge of the bluish mass with her fork and winced as if she had tasted something extremely unpleasant:
"It's salty. And why is it blue?"
"Perhaps there was an error in my sensor color settings," the droid replied imperturbably, but his voice carried notes of what would be called embarrassment in a living being. "Or in the dosage of food additives."
Outside, the low hum of a security patrol speeder could be heard—its siren emitting characteristic two-tone signals that echoed off the walls of neighboring buildings.
"Can you check your settings?" Alex asked, and his childish voice sounded in the morning kitchen like a challenge to the very foundations of their world.
The droid turned its head towards him, its optical sensors focusing on the boy's face. Something akin to surprise flickered in their depths—an emotion that, according to all textbooks, droids shouldn't have.
"I... that is not part of my basic functions, little master."
News continued to pour from the holoprojector: "...Jedi continue to investigate the incident on Naboo. Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn declined to comment on the details of the diplomatic mission..."
"But that's stupid!" Alex suddenly exclaimed, and his voice carried that childish directness that can sometimes cut through complex adult problems like a lightsaber. "If a droid is broken, it needs to be fixed. And to fix it, you need to understand what's broken."
His parents exchanged a look, the kind adults share when a child asks overly complicated questions.
"Son, it's not that simple," his mother said gently, her voice carrying the tenderness with which adults try to shield children from the complexity of the world.
"Why isn't it simple?" Alex asked with genuine surprise, and his astonishment was so pure that even K-7PO turned his head towards him.
Indeed, why? The question hung in the kitchen air, mingling with the aromas of the failed breakfast and the sounds of the waking city. Keyron took a sip of watery kaff, and the grimace on his face was not just from the taste. His son's question struck at the very core of his daily weariness—the weariness of everything having a price, and understanding the workings of things being a privilege that had to be paid for separately. He, a second-class technician, only had access to replacement modules, not schematics. His job was replacement, not analysis. For trying to dig deeper, he could even be fined, citing corporate secrets.
"Children always ask silly questions," Lyra smiled, stroking her son's soft dark hair. "I remember when I was his age, I asked my mom why the stars didn't fall to Earth."
"And that's a good question," Alex said with the seriousness that sometimes surfaces in children's voices. "Why don't they fall?"
"Because they're far away," Keyron replied, sipping from the mug of what K-7PO called coffee. "And anyway, they're not stars, but suns of other planets."
"So why don't they fall?"
The parents exchanged another look. Keyron scratched the back of his head, leaving a small mess in his hair:
"Well... there's... physics. Gravitational fields, orbits... They teach that in school, ask them." He knew, of course, but he was in a hurry for work and didn't have time to explain why orbits exist.
Alex thought: "But if Dad knows, why can't he explain?" Strange. Adults always say something is complicated instead of just explaining it. As if complexity were a wall, not a staircase.
Meanwhile, K-7PO tried to make another batch of kaff. His movements were precise, almost elegant, but a liquid of a suspicious, barely brown, watery color flowed from the kaff machine, and it didn't even have the foam that was more like wash water than a noble drink.
"Kaff is ready," the droid announced with the same mechanical politeness. "Although my analyzers show some deviations from the standard recipe."
Keyron tasted it and grimaced as if he had swallowed something extremely unpleasant:
"This isn't coffee, it's crap!"
"Perhaps there was a mix-up in the reservoirs," K-7PO suggested, and his voice carried a note that could be called guilty. "I will run diagnostics... although no, diagnostic programs are not available for my access level."
A heavy cargo speeder rumbled outside, likely carrying parts for ships under construction. The sound of its engines was deep, bassy, making the windowpanes tremble slightly.
"And who can run them?" Alex asked.
"A certified technician," the droid replied, in a tone bureaucrats use to get rid of people. "Or a user with administrative privileges."
"And how do you get administrative privileges?"
The droid hesitated again, its optical sensors blinking several times:
"That is... a complex question, little master."
Alex noticed that K-7PO clearly knew more than he was saying. There was something... alive about his behavior. He wasn't just following commands; he was thinking, choosing his words, even getting upset when something didn't work out. It was as if something akin to a mind, not just a program, was hidden behind the chrome casing.
New reports continued to come from the holoprojector: "...prices for tibanna gas continue to rise, causing concern among starship manufacturers. Economists warn of a possible crisis in the transport industry..."
"Dad, why are all droids so smart but pretend to be stupid?"
Keyron laughed, but there was a note of uncertainty in his laughter:
"Droids don't pretend, son. They're just machines. Very complex, but machines."
"But K-7PO understands humor. And he gets upset when something doesn't work."
"It's an imitation," Lyra explained, but the same uncertainty sounded in her voice. "The program makes them seem like people so it's easier for us to communicate with them."
Alex looked at the droid. K-7PO stood motionless, but his posture conveyed tension. As if he was listening to the conversation about him and... was offended? His chrome fingers clenched slightly, barely noticeable, but Alex saw it.
"K-7PO, do you understand what we're saying?"
"Of course, little master. I process speech signals and formulate appropriate responses."
"And do you feel anything?"
The droid froze. Its photoelements blinked several times, as if it were processing something much more complex than just information.
"I... perform my functions to the best of my ability," it finally replied.
But that wasn't an answer to the question. And Alex understood that. Silence hung in the air, broken only by the hum of the city outside and the quiet whirring of the holoprojector.
An air taxi floated past the window, its repulsorlifts humming softly, creating the melody of modernity under which the entire Corellian metropolis lived. Alex followed it with his gaze and thought: "And why doesn't anyone ask how they fly? That's interesting!"
"Mom, who invented repulsorlifts?"
"I don't know, dear. They've always been here."
"But someone invented them at some point, right?"
"Probably," Lyra shrugged. "Some ancient engineers. It was a very long time ago."
"And where can I find information on how they work?"
His parents exchanged that look that meant they were amused by the child's serious demeanor and his questions. Keyron smiled:
"Why do you need that, son? Are you planning to become an engineer?"
"And why not?"
"Well, I don't object. The main thing in this job is to strictly follow regulations. Remember Uncle Garrek? He tried to figure out the principles of hyperdrive operation. He almost blew up half the shipyard, which is why he was fired from everywhere. Now he's hanging around somewhere in the Outer Rim, trading parts."
"But he understood something, didn't he?"
"He understood that it's better not to meddle with what you don't understand," Keyron chuckled with the bitterness of a man who himself once dreamed of more. "Modern technology is too complex for human understanding. We can only use it."
Alex frowned. Strange logic. If something is complex, you should study and understand it. It's as simple as two times two equals four. Why do adults think the opposite?
The holoprojector broadcast the latest news: "...the senator called for a peaceful resolution of trade disputes. In his speech, he emphasized the importance of diplomacy in resolving intergalactic conflicts..."
"Alex, you need to get ready for school," his mother said, glancing at the chronometer on the wall.
He nodded and went to his room, then stopped in the doorway and turned back:
"K-7PO, would you like to understand how you are made?"
The droid froze. Its photoelements dimmed, then lit up again, as if it were undergoing an internal struggle.
"I... do not understand the question, little master."
Alex went to get dressed, but his thoughts wouldn't let him rest. Outside the window stretched a beautiful, technological world: gleaming spires of skyscrapers, elegant sky bridges traversed by speeders, holographic advertisements promising a better life.
"Why doesn't anyone want to know how it all works?" the boy thought, pulling on his school uniform.
This question bothered him. It was as if something clicked in his head, and for the first time, he truly thought about the world around him. And the more he thought, the more questions arose. It was as if each answer spawned ten new riddles, and they all formed one great mystery—the mystery of a world that preferred not to reveal its secrets.