On Saturday, his father unexpectedly suggested:
"Want to go with me to work? I'll show you what Dad does."
Alex was delighted. Maybe he would find answers to his questions at the shipyard? The Corellian Shipyards were famous throughout the galaxy—they built the best cargo ships and fast courier vessels here.
The morning air of the city was filled with the scent of blooming jasmine bushes growing in the gardens of their residential quarter. A light breeze carried the faint whistle of numerous speeders already darting along the skyways. Somewhere in the distance, industrial complexes hummed monotonously, awakening to a new workday.
They got into the family airspeeder—an old but reliable "Socorro-340." Keyron ran his hand over the security scanner, and the machine responded with a soft blue glow on the instrument panel. The cabin filled with the quiet hum of systems awakening from sleep. The autopilot engaged, and the vehicle smoothly lifted above the residential blocks, joining the unhurried morning flow of air traffic.
"Dad, how does the autopilot work?" Alex asked, looking at the instrument panel, where dozens of indicators flickered like stars in a miniature constellation.
"The computer analyzes air currents, monitors other vehicles, and selects the optimal route," his father replied, leaning back in his seat and watching the city slowly drift beneath them. "It's all automatic."
Below, neat middle-class neighborhoods stretched out with their well-kept gardens and gleaming roofs. Ground speeders zipped between buildings, leaving behind barely visible distortions from the hot air currents behind them. Everything around vibrated with the multitude of engines—a symphony of modern civilization.
"And how does the computer do that?"
Keyron pondered, listening to the steady hum of the repulsor engines:
"Well... it has sensors, computational crystals... It's a complex thing. The main thing is that it works."
Fragments of morning news came from the speeder's speakers: "...shares of the Corellian Shipbuilding Corporation rose by three points after signing a contract with the Trade Federation for the supply of two hundred Consul-class cargo ships... Analysts predict further growth in the interplanetary transport sector..." The announcer's voice was cheerful and optimistic, as befits an era of prosperity.
"And if it breaks?"
"We'll take it to service. They'll replace the faulty unit," his father replied, switching channels. Now, light music played—something about "silver stars of Alderaan" and "dances in the moonlight." A popular song that was played on all entertainment channels.
"And what's inside the unit?"
"I don't know, son. And you don't need to know—the main thing is that it's the correct part number."
Alex frowned. Strange. If Dad is a ship technician, why doesn't he know how the things he works with are made?
The Corellian Shipyards were a vast complex of hangars, workshops, and dry docks, spread over many kilometers along the coast. Ships of various sizes stood everywhere—from sleek courier vessels with their streamlined hulls to massive freighters resembling flying fortresses.
The monotonous roar of industrial machinery merged into a single symphony of creation. Automated cranes clanged somewhere, moving multi-ton hull sections. Pneumatic systems hissed. Auto-hammers rang. Conveyors hummed, carrying an endless stream of parts and components. The air vibrated from the power of engines undergoing testing.
At the entrance to the administrative zone, they were stopped by a guard in corporate security uniform—an elderly man with military bearing and attentive eyes.
"Good morning, Master Keyron," he greeted his father. "Proceed to the scanner."
Keyron placed his ID on the reading device, which responded with a melodious signal. Then he passed through the biometric scanner arch—the device enveloped him in invisible rays, checking dozens of parameters in a fraction of a second.
"And how do we register the boy?" the guard inquired.
"My son, I'm showing him the production," Keyron explained.
"Understood. Then a temporary pass," the guard activated a small badge and handed it to Alex. "Wear it in a visible place, son. And don't wander off anywhere without adult supervision."
Workers in blue overalls bustled between ships with tools and spare parts. Their faces were focused, their movements precise and practiced. Many carried datapad, constantly checking technical diagrams and parts lists.
"Impressive?" Keyron smiled, observing his son's expression.
"Yes! And what do you do here?"
"I'm a maintenance technician. When a ship comes in with a malfunction, I determine which parts need to be replaced."
They passed a section where automated lines assembled navigation system components. Robotic manipulators moved with mesmerizing precision, installing microchips and connecting wires. The air here was sterilely clean – filtration systems removed the slightest dust particles that could disrupt the sensitive electronics.
They entered one of the hangars. There stood a medium-sized truck, the "YR-900" – a popular model Alex had seen in advertisements. But this particular unit looked worn. Its hull was covered in traces of space dust and micrometeorites, and one of the wings bore a patch – a mark of emergency repair somewhere deep in the galaxy.
"What's wrong with it?" the boy asked.
"The navigation system is glitching," his father explained, running his hand over the scuffed hull. "The ship can't correctly calculate a hyperspace jump."
A man in a work jumpsuit approached them – tall, with graying hair and shrewd eyes.
"Oh, Keyron brought the heir!" he chuckled, wiping his hands with a rag. "Hello, kid. I'm Nilson, the senior technician of this madhouse."
Somewhere deep in the hangar, a powerful engine roared to life, filling the space with a low, vibrating hum. The automatic ventilation systems immediately activated, pushing air through filters.
"Hello," Alex greeted. "Dad said my Uncle Garrek used to work here and messed up the hyperdrive. Did you know him?"
Nilson's face darkened. Nearby, the sound of welding machines working could be heard.
"Your uncle... yes, I remember. He was a good technician, but he thought safety regulations could be ignored."
From the speakers of the announcement system came:
"Attention, Sector Three personnel. In ten minutes, engine testing will begin on Stand Number Seven. Observe safety precautions."
"And what happened?"
"He decided one day to figure out how a Class-2 hyperdrive works," Nilson recounted, sitting down on a crate of spare parts. "I was still an intern then. So he says, "Here it is, right in front of me, why not take it apart and see?""
Keyron shook his head, listening to the rhythmic clanging of automatic hammers in the neighboring workshop.
"And what did you see?"
"Some crystals, metal grids, wires... Nothing understandable. Garrek tried to remove one part – it lit up! We barely managed to run away. Well, the automation kicked in, an investigation followed, and he was fired..."
At that moment, business news came from the loudspeakers:
"...Techno Union Corporation announced the development of a new line of droids for industrial production. It is expected that automation will reduce production costs by fifteen percent..."
The announcer's voice was interrupted by a commercial jingle:
"CorSec Banking – your loans guaranteed by future profits!"
"And what does the technical documentation say?" Alex asked.
"The documentation says: "Do not disassemble. Replace entire unit if faulty"," Nilson snorted, shouting over the noise of the working mechanisms. "Very informative."
"And who makes these engines?"
"Corellian Engineering Corporation. But they don't know how they work either."
"How can they not know?" Alex wondered.
"Just like that. They have factories that stamp out engines from ancient templates, but the documentation for the factories was lost long ago. The templates work – and that's that. But it's enough for them, they have a wide enough selection."
The air filled with the hiss of pneumatic tools. Nearby, technicians were installing a new turbine, and the sound of working compressors mixed with the quiet conversations of the workers.
Keyron approached the ship's navigation console and activated the diagnostic program. The screen lit up with a cold blue light, and lines of text appeared, most of which glowed an alarming red. The console emitted a barely audible hum – the sound of processors working, analyzing system status.
"Here, look, son. The system shows which blocks are faulty. All I have to do is order a replacement."
"And what do these error codes mean?"
"It doesn't matter. The important thing is the part number. We don't fix parts, we replace them immediately."
Alex looked at the screen. Lines flashed by: "Synchronization Error," "Connection Timeout," "Invalid Parameters." Some words were understandable even to him. A faint smell of heated electronic components hung in the air – the characteristic aroma of working computers.
"Dad, what does 'connection timeout' mean?"
"Don't worry about it, son. It's technical terminology."
"But you're a technician!"
"I'm a parts replacement technician," Keyron chuckled, his voice almost drowned out by the roar of a passing loader. "The real design engineers lived long ago, when this technology was invented."
Alex frowned. "Connection timeout" – it sounded like something couldn't connect. Maybe the problem wasn't with the block itself, but with its inability to communicate with something?
"Can you check the antenna?"
"Why?" Nilson asked, distracted from his datapad where he was reviewing spare parts orders. "The diagnostics show a fault in the navigation block."
"But if the antenna isn't working, the navigation block will also give errors."
The technicians exchanged glances. Keyron scratched his head, and at that moment, an entertainment melody came from the speakers: "...under the twin suns of Tatooine, where the sands sing of love..." – a popular song hummed throughout the Inner Rim.
"It sounds logical... But the manual says: if there's a navigation error, replace the navigation block."
"What if the manual is wrong?"
"Manuals aren't wrong," Nilson said, his voice mixing with the monotonous hum of the cooling system fans. "They were written by the corporation's specialists."
"And specialists can't make mistakes?"
"They can, but we're not specialists to correct them."
Alex looked at his father and Nilson. They were smart people, experienced technicians, but for some reason, they were afraid to think for themselves. As if someone had forbidden them to understand the technology they maintained.
The air filled with the aroma of freshly brewed kaff – someone among the workers was taking a break. Mixed with the smells of metal and grease, it created the special atmosphere of everyday labor.
"Dad, where can I find the old schematics? The ones that explain how everything works?"
"Why do you need that, son?"
"Just curious."
Nilson pondered, listening to the rhythmic thudding of stamping presses in the neighboring workshop.
"There are old blueprints in the archive... But they're useless. Just formulas and calculations that no one understands."
"Can I look?"
"Sure," Nilson shrugged. "Just don't touch anything."
They walked to the far corner of the hangar, where massive cabinets with datapad chips stood. It was quieter here – the thick walls muffled the industrial noise. It smelled of dust and old plastic – the smells of an archive storage. Nilson opened one of the cabinets, and a blast of cool, climate-controlled air wafted out.
"Here, look. Documentation for a Class-5 hyperdrive. An old model that's no longer produced."
Alex took the chip and inserted it into his datapad. The device hummed softly, processing the information. Complex diagrams, formulas, schematics appeared on the screen. Millions of data files.
"There's so much information here!" he exclaimed. "It describes how every part works!"
"Yes, but who will understand it?" Nilson chuckled. "It's about a petabyte of data. Even a crowd of skilled engineers would spend their whole lives deciphering it."
"A petabyte?" Alex didn't know if it was a lot or a little, but it sounded impressive.
"A lot," Nilson clarified.
Alex scrolled through the files. Formulas, graphs, calculations – it all looked complicated, but not impossible. He had been taught math and physics in school. Maybe, if he tried hard enough...
News came from the loudspeakers:
"...The Senate of the Republic has approved a bill to expand trade routes in the Mid Rim. The creation of fifty million new jobs in the transport sector is expected..."
"And who wrote these schematics?"
"Ancient engineers," Keyron replied, watching his son delve into the files. "Those whose names we don't even know."
In one of the files, Alex noticed a signature: "Design Engineer Jango Vesta," but the date had been erased by time.
"But how do we create new models if no one understands the principles?"
"Computers," Nilson explained in one word. "Why should a person strain their brain if a machine can do it faster and more accurately?"
At that moment, somewhere deep in the shipyard, a test stand roared to life. The air filled with the powerful roar of engines, causing the hangar walls to vibrate slightly.
"But if a person doesn't understand, how can they improve anything?"
"Why improve?" Keyron wondered. "It works as is."
Alex looked at the schematics again. So, for all these years, no one had tried to understand or improve the technology?
"Are the new ships better than the old ones?"
"Not particularly," Nilson admitted, shouting over the noise of the working mechanisms. "Maybe a little more reliable. But fundamentally, nothing has changed."
"So many years, and no changes?"
"The corporation believes there's no need to change anything," Keyron shrugged. "The ships fly, the hyperdrives work, people are happy. The product sells."
Alex carefully put the chip back. A strange situation: people used complex things without understanding them or trying to improve them.
They returned to the ship. Keyron ordered a new navigation block through the supply terminal – the device responded with a melodious confirmation signal. The block was to be delivered in a few days. Standard procedure: it broke – replaced.
"Dad, what will happen to the old block?"
"It'll be sent for recycling. They'll extract valuable materials."
"Can't it be repaired?"
"No, it's not economically feasible. It's easier to buy a new one. At least on Corellia."
Alex pondered. Why didn't anyone try to find and fix the malfunction? They just threw it away and bought a new one.
"Dad, can I have an old block? Just to see what's inside?"
Keyron and Nilson exchanged glances.
"Why do you need that, son?"
"Just curious. I won't break anything. I'll just look."
"Alright," his father agreed. "Nilson, give him something safe!"
Nilson brought a small lighting control block – a simple component that was unlikely to be dangerous. A faint smell of plastic and metal emanated from it.
"Here, take it."
Alex took the block and examined it carefully. The casing was sealed, no screws or connectors. As if it was specifically made non-disassemblable.
"And why is it sealed?"
"So users don't mess with it," Keyron explained. "For safety."
"But how do you repair it then?"
"You don't. It breaks – you throw it away, buy a new one."
Alex turned the block in his hands. If something broke inside, why couldn't it be fixed? Someone had assembled it, after all.
"Time to go home," Keyron said. "Mom will worry."
The speeder glided smoothly along the air lane, overtaking slower vehicles. A calm melody played from the speakers – something about "star dreams" and "galactic expanses."
Alex remained silent, contemplating what he had seen. Technicians who didn't understand the devices they maintained. Schematics that no one read. Technologies that no one tried to improve.
"Dad, have people always known so little about technology?"
"I don't know, son. Maybe they knew more before. Now, computers do everything. Technologies are so complex that you could study them your whole life and still not come close to understanding the automatic algorithms. There's no point competing with computers."
"What if the computers break?"
Keyron paused, watching the city lights begin to flicker on in the deepening twilight.
"Then it will be bad. But they don't break. They're too reliable."
Alex looked out the window at the flying cars, spaceships, and glittering city towers. A beautiful, developed world, filled with the sounds of civilization and prosperity.
But why did no one want to understand how it worked?
At home, Alex immediately went to his room and placed the sealed block on his desk. Adults say it's dangerous. But how can one understand the world without studying anything?
Maybe tomorrow he would try to open it. Very carefully.