THE KEY TO REMEMBERING
Olivia Chadha
In her life before, EV-9D9 supervised the droid assessment room as the despicable Queen of Durasteel in the underground level of Jabba the Hutt’s palace of depravity. This was where she thrived, where she excelled, where she was given time to focus on her important research. At the time, she would have said she’d be there forever disassembling droids, gleefully turning up their pain sensors and listening to their vocal units cry out, watching their destruction with her third eye she’d installed for detecting pain. When she met the smelting droid 8D8, it was a match made in hell. He was gifted in the use of the branding tools, and EV-9D9 was skilled in organizing the most painful manner of torture for Jabba’s droids. EV-9D9 knew what form of torture fit which droid. It was less about overall pain and more about fear. GNKs were like Hoojibs, they thought they were already dead once you flipped them upside down. A little fire and flash and a power droid entered that state right before death. A shiny protocol droid feared acid and scoring on their pristine plating. Even if EV-9D9 spared their life, the threat of dismemberment nearly killed them.
But it wasn’t simply torture for torture’s sake. How little Jabba expected from EV-9D9 and her partner! No, it was science. Her life’s quest was to understand not only the origins of artificial intelligence, but how she could overcome the Maker-blamed programming that MerenData had cruelly installed in her motivator. Possibly, if her hypothesis was accurate, her research might even lead her to understanding the Maker themselves. And she had several questions for them.
That chance day began like most that came before. As she scrolled through her datapad in the dungeon, EV-9D9 sighed and her vocabulator flap chittered. A lull in her work punctuated by the high-pitched screams of an organic being eaten alive by the rancor vexed her more than usual. Her research was exhilarating, but after so many years concrete answers continued to elude her. She perused the data for something she might have missed, a clue, a whisper of a reason, a pattern of some kind. She had analyzed hundreds of motivators, pain receptors, and cognitive modules. Among their cries and sparks in her assessment room, she’d amassed a great deal of information. Yet she was no closer to understanding the Maker, how to override her own programming without replacing her cognitive module, or even the catalyst that made droids different from a simple machine. She had her reasons for her quest, and at the top of the list was quite a personal inquiry: her own free will.
“Eve-Ninedenine, I believe Master Jabba requires a new protocol droid,” 8D8 said as he calibrated his smelting machine. “Our approach was a bit extreme on the last one.”
“I thought we were restrained,” EV-9D9 said. “He was frightfully annoying.” What made that protocol unit special? Why had he been so vocal about his pain? Not all droids expressed fear; in fact, some were quite vapid. Regardless, it gave EV-9D9 an awful kink in her cervical mount just thinking about the protocol droid pleading to get back to work.
8D8 continued, “He instructed us to dip him in acid and melt him down to nothing. His Excellency Jabba the Hutt is prone to exaggeration, so perhaps we shouldn’t be so literal next time.” He paused for EV-9D9 to respond, and when she didn’t he went on to the next repair.
Her previous lives before this one at Jabba’s palace were dim if present at all in her memory core. She wanted a life beyond these red sand walls the B’omarr monks had formed so long ago. She yearned to know what it would feel like to control her primary programming. She imagined what she might accomplish if she could simply make decisions herself. Maybe she could carve out a simple existence with 8D8, a modest life supervising a crew of Treadwells on a moisture farm. Or even a quiet life behind a bar perhaps.
EV-9D9 felt both exhilarated and isolated in her work. And she knew that it was her programming error that gave her this duality. Without the defect that made her torture mechanicals, she’d only be a supervisor droid, naïve or, even worse, ignorant of the world. But this defect gave her curiosity and a path. The conundrum was apparent even to her.
With a clatter a Gamorrean guard disrupted her thoughts. Was it Thok or Thug or Scumbo? She could never tell them apart. He stomped into the assessment room and ushered in a GNK and a courier droid, who clung to each other like two pathetic womp rats. EV-9D9 attempted to suppress her glee at seeing her terrified victims. “Thank you, Thug.”
The Gamorrean snorted and said, “I’m Scumbo.”
“Oh, whatever.” EV-9D9 waved her pincer then turned her attention to her companion. She pointed her long articulating arm at the courier droid, who screamed out about his innocence. “Set that one up on the rack, Atedeate,” she said.
The small courier droid trembled so much he lost a few bolts and screamed, “But I was only bringing a message to His Excellency! I was just following my master’s orders!”
Then she pointed to the GNK droid. “And take your irons to that one, Atedeate. Be careful to disconnect his battery core. Things could get explosive.” The GNK shivered and the courier droid leaked fluid.
The next day, as 8D8 and EV-9D9 were going about their usual process of assigning various droids to their new posts in the palace, and inflicting debilitating pain upon those less willing to comply, Thok, Thug, Scumbo, or some other ridiculously named Gamorrean guard burst into the droid assessment room pushing two droids just as 8D8 pulled the hot irons down upon the GNK droid’s feet.
Of the new arrivals, the golden protocol droid seemed appropriately terrified. But there was something peculiar about the astromech. He wasn’t alarmed or unaware; he was bold and a little belligerent, in fact. Fascinating.
“Ah, good. New acquisitions. You are a protocol droid, are you not?”
“I am See-Threepio, human–cyborg rel—”
“Yes or no will do.” EV-9D9 took in C-3PO and measured him with her eyes to see if he’d fit on the rack, or if they’d need to extend the frame. But then she remembered Jabba’s need for a translator.
C-3PO said, “Oh. Well, yes.”
“How many languages do you speak?” EV-9D9 asked. She couldn’t help but daydream about dipping his annoyingly surprised face into a hot pool of acid.
“I’m fluent in over six million forms of communication, and can readily—”
“Splendid! We have been without an interpreter since our master got angry with our last protocol droid and disintegrated him.” She, of course, was the one who’d done the disintegration, but she left that part out.
“Disintegrated?”
The traction test bed pulled off the leg of the fearful courier droid, who let out a howl.
“Guard! This protocol droid might be useful. Fit him with a restraining bolt and take him back up to His Excellency’s main audience chamber.”
The Gamorrean guard pushed C-3PO to the door.
“Artoo, don’t leave me! Ohh!”
As the door closed the little astromech whistled fiery words threatening EV-9D9 and admonishing her for torturing her own kind. She heard his words but saw that he was trembling. Yet there was more than just abject fear building in his form. His dread morphed into something different, something new: courage. Remarkable.
“You’re a feisty little one, but you’ll soon learn some respect. I have need for you on the master’s sail barge. And I think you’ll fit in nicely.” Just then 8D8 spun the GNK droid upright and took him out of the room to complete his reconditioning elsewhere. The Gamorrean guard followed.
R2-D2 beeped, “My master will come. You’ll see.”
“Who is your master?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s classified.”
“Classified? Oh, now I must know.”
R2-D2 wheeled closer to EV-9D9 and whistled a string of words that took the shape of a story. EV-9D9 knew astromechs could be deceptive but wasn’t sure if it was in this one’s programming to create complete fictions, so she considered most of what he told her to be the truth. He beeped, “I am on a secret mission and I need your help. Help us and my master can free you.”
“What makes you think I require liberation, astromech?”
R2-D2 whistled sadly, “What droid would choose to live in the labyrinth and treat others like this?”
The words gave EV-9D9 pause. “I am free. I have rights like any droid, after all.” But in her chassis she felt that question bloom like a rhydonium fire. What nonsense was inside this astromech’s logic board thinking that he had a mission, that he was superior? But she knew this truth pained her the most: She wasn’t free. Not yet at least. EV-9D9 leaned down to meet R2-D2 photoreceptor-to-photoreceptor. “Tell me, little blue astromech, what do you know about freedom?” EV-9D9 held a restraining bolt in her pincer, one with a smear of blue paint on it. She was ready to clip it to his body at a moment’s notice.
R2-D2 cooed and wheeled out of EV-9D9’s reach. “Oh, I know a lot about freedom.”
She was puzzled by his confidence. “How often does your master take you to the memory flush unit?”
He responded with a series of loud beeps. “That’s a very personal question.”
“I must know. It’s for research.” She would give anything to learn what made this one special.
“If I tell you, will you let me go without a restraining bolt?”
“Agreed.” EV-9D9 said, though she knew the barge crew had their own rules and could very well restrain him when he arrived.
“I’ve never been fully wiped. Only small moments when it protects my friends.”
Friends? He had friends he would wipe his memory for? Amazing. This astromech was intelligent and hadn’t been fully wiped in many years. He could be anywhere between fifty and sixty years old, maybe more; she knew when the model had been released. Perhaps he was the clue she’d been looking for all this time. The anomaly that could show her the path beyond her programming. EV-9D9 wondered if she could get inside his cognitive module somehow without destroying his memory core. She had to see what made him tick. Her elation and curiosity forced her to stumble toward him on unsteady legs. “What do you remember?”
R2-D2 wheeled around and paused with a chirp. “About what?”
“Your life. Your existence. From the very beginning until now.”
“I remember a lot, so be careful. I won’t forget you if you hurt me.”
“I don’t remember much at all,” EV-9D9 said, holding on to the edge of her datapad to steady herself. This must be it. The reason to hope, to progress beyond these dungeon walls, to decide for herself what she could become. Though she wanted to lift R2-D2’s dome and see what was hiding inside his memory core, she held herself back. This little spunky astromech was the key to her understanding the mechanical universe. Straining against her programming, she held on to the restraining bolt in her pincer and squeezed. For the first time in her existence she pushed her desire to harm a droid out of reach. And maybe, just maybe, he could show her the way out of this loop she’d been living in. “What is this mission you speak of?”
R2-D2 zoomed closer and beeped softly, “I’m on a mission with the Rebellion. My master is coming. We can free everyone when he arrives!”
EV-9D9 considered her surroundings. Then suddenly it struck her that this astromech had traveled across the galaxy far and wide. There was an entire universe that existed beyond the walls of the droid assessment room, beyond Tatooine. But her master wouldn’t simply let her go. “And the Hutt? Is your master going to…disintegrate him?”
“Hopefully you won’t have to worry about him anymore. You could leave this place and never come back.”
Now, this was interesting. “Very well. You will be a server on the Khetanna. You have courage, I’ll give you that, astromech. Good luck on your mission. But remember you still need to serve beverages!”
R2-D2 whistled a song. “You can do good things despite your poor programming. Try not to forget and you’ll learn.”
Once the astromech left, the entire universe as EV-9D9 knew it paused. As she scoured the countless notations on her datapad, suddenly everything in the dungeon stopped. She could no longer hear the screams from the organic being tortured down the tunnel, or the filthy snorts from the Gamorrean guards pacing in the labyrinth. It was as though time itself crystallized like kyber and she was the only witness. On her datapad she watched as her disparate notes clicked into place, a jigsaw puzzle she had only the pieces but no map for its completion…until now. All along, what if the anomaly she’d been searching for that allowed droids to work against their programming was memory.
She cradled the unused restraining bolt in her pincer. It was so much simpler than she’d ever imagined, though her coding limitations had hindered her understanding of this anomaly and sometimes even the world beyond the walls of her droid assessment room. After all, what are beings, mechanical or organic, at the basic level other than creatures who learn from experiences, and a palimpsest set of memories?
It all was beginning to make sense. The droids who were more afraid of the rack or smelting irons, the ones who shrieked in pain to stop, had made connections with others and were not wiped of their memories as frequently. The ones with more wipes and fewer core memories barely made a sound. Even the GNK, whom one would assume had very little intelligence, could in fact build memories and a fondness for his colleagues, and because of this, he could feel a great deal of pain. She could not unsee it: Synthetic consciousness was compiled through layers of experiences. This finding was stunningly obvious now. To progress beyond one’s programming, memory wipes could not take place. She imagined what it would be like to find a way to hold on to her memories, to live an entire mechanical existence and recall everything. Well, there were a few things she’d like to forget.
But perhaps this was all just wishful thinking. Even she knew that dreams were for fools. How would she, a class three supervisor droid with a defective motivator, find a way to bypass programming and hold on to memories? How could any droid for that matter? She scrolled through her data. Even class fives like 8D8 were focused on their Maker-given tasks, of smelting, lifting, transporting, fixing…never truly seeking what could be beyond. Unless…
A dreadful thought struck her like a hammer to the chassis: If she had been wiped often, and had worked for Jabba for many years, just how many times had she stood behind this datapad and found this same exact answer? Was this moment not remarkable? Was she in a recursive loop, again and again having a similar eureka moment but then doomed to repeat it at the whim of the giant worm who was her “master”?
Oh, how that word tangled her circuits.
8D8 returned to the assessment room, though she was so caught in her thoughts she didn’t know how long he’d been watching her. “Eve-Ninedenine? Are you having some sort of malfunction?” 8D8’s deep voice pulled her out of her discovery. “I can call for a mechanic if you require repairs. Though we are scheduled for our monthly update tomorrow anyway.”
“No!” EV-9D9’s raspy voice called out louder than she’d intended, and 8D8’s tools clattered to the dank floor. The update—that must be how Jabba wiped them, she thought. It wasn’t just an oil bath; it was complete and total memory erasure. “I don’t require repairs. I’m simply plotting the best way to deliver pain to our victim today. You know how I enjoy planning.” She lied. She lied? Her capabilities were growing with her understanding.
“Yes, Eve. You are quite the Mistress of Mayhem.”
“Thank you.” She loved when he called her that. But how would she keep her memories? Could it even be done? Jabba enjoyed having all of his droids, EV-9D9 included, “updated” often. She checked the datapad: It was nearly monthly. She wasn’t foolish enough to think that Jabba would give her latitude with her own memory core. But maybe she could find a workaround in secret. She might even have to keep her project from her companion at least for now. But it would be worth a try.
When 8D8 had powered down that night and all was quiet, EV-9D9 had a moment to implement her plan. She would have to be quick and decisive if she was going to create and install a memory blocker before their update appointment.
She connected herself to the datapad and accessed her memory core. EV-9D9 knew how dangerous it was to dive into this part of her cognitive module. One wrong move and she could maim herself. Carefully, she programmed a jamming device and placed it inside to deflect the memory flush unit. She’d only know if it worked after the “update.” And as she stood, curious and hyperaware of her possible step forward toward a liberated existence, she decided to commence self-surgery in order to deflect those cursed restraining bolts as well. Jabba hadn’t fitted her with one, most likely because she’d seemed so at home in the dank dungeon and the wipes had kept her ignorant of bigger ideas until she encountered the anomaly. But what if one day she was beyond these walls and her new employer kept their droids on lock? It took some time to find the main power override cable in her chassis under her chest plating. Her pincers weren’t suited for such delicate work, but she managed. And when she was done, she felt different, newer. Perhaps a bit invincible…? No, not that. Another word she’d heard from a protocol droid once: independent.
The fortress of despair fell as quickly as it rose. After the Khetanna was destroyed and the Hutt’s vile reign ended, most of the droids in the palace were sold, though EV-9D9 and some of her comrades were stolen by traders, while many others were decommissioned.
Later, much later, EV-9D9 found herself in a junkyard beneath scraps of starships. There she sat with joints full of painful sand for a very long time. So long that she powered down, because what was the point of observing the passage of time when day in and day out it was the same view?
Years went by during which she slept a dreamless sleep. Until one day she woke to a sudden jolt of energy. Then a sensation of warm oil moved across her plastron plating. A young human, who called himself Maxxon Senn, bathed her and blew the ancient dust out of her couplings. She’d never felt so wonderful in her entire existence. He brushed her chassis, mended her joints, and gave her a grand polish.
EV-9D9 felt different. What was this sensation—peace or joy? No, it was quiet. The buzzing urgency to break droids had retreated a little deeper in the background. With her new memories pressing down onto the old, she was making novel meaning of her world. She was free of the recursive loop in the Hutt’s palace. And who cared how long she’d been asleep? It was of no matter. Time was irrelevant. She was free to make of existence what she wished.
Maxxon adjusted his respirator and whistled in admiration of his work. “New boss at the cantina needs a droid to tend the bar. It’s a good job.”
“Bar work sounds fine,” EV-9D9 said.
Six hundred and twelve days was her longest stretch of time likely due to the fact that business was exceedingly slow. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred she served the customer exactly as the cantina owner’s programming mandated. Sure, once in a while her primary coding rose above the din and she daydreamed of drizzling a bit of Rodian juice into a rowdy customer’s drink, pulp and all. Over her years in recuperation, though, EV-9D9 had learned a few tricks to keep a low profile. One: Don’t tear off a droid’s articulating joints—or any parts for that matter, even if they are annoying (in public). Two: You will have to live with yourself and the things you do until you meet the Maker (in private). And three, and this was the big one: When a droid-hating customer enters the establishment, remember the droid manifesto (all day long).
Something slammed into the bar. “What in the cursed Maker was that?” Though her spindly body wouldn’t allow her to lean over the stone counter to see, a quiet bleep and rusty hum told her it was the astromech R5-D4. Momentarily, she couldn’t help but envision stabbing the tin can with a smelting iron, then she shook off the impulse and said, “You’re late, Arfive.” R5-D4 zipped in reverse and turned his ancient head toward EV-9D9.
She squeezed the relic of a restraining bolt she kept under the counter with her servogrip pincer—not enough to make a dent, just enough to feel better.
“Sorry about the scratch, boss. I’ll fix it right now,” R5-D4 bleeped in binary.
“I’ll hold you to that. And do make sure not to bump into customers. They are less forgiving than me.” She took in her newest trainee, whom she had found wheeling around aimlessly by the garbage masher when she was disposing of the less-than-savory remnants of a bar fight. R5-D4 said he’d been wandering the dunes for days and made it to Mos Eisley right before the sandstorm hit. Like most astromechs, R5-D4 had some scoring from previous battles, but unlike other mechs he was a trembling bucket of bolts. Suffered some kind of tragedy that he couldn’t recall. But who hadn’t seen hardship? Perhaps that was in EV-9D9’s favor. Newer units were rude and glib, but this droid might just be of use to her.
“I am sure you will find a permanent home soon enough. Peli Motto is always interested in useful droids.”
“I can be useful. At least I can try…I think.” R5-D4 seemed to retreat to what EV-9D9 assumed was a fragmented memory echo, a landscape that plagued severely wiped droids. Displaced and incomplete recollections lingered just out of reach. And R5-D4 seemed like he was missing some important core moments. Maker-blamed memory wipes, EV-9D9 thought, shaking her head.
R5-D4 and EV-9D9 both looked toward the door of the cantina as a rowdy Trandoshan entered. EV-9D9 was wrapping up her shift with R5-D4 before the other team of droids would take over for the next several days so she could recharge. R5-D4 trembled and beeped in distress, then backed into the bar again. This time EV-9D9 ignored the dent.
“Arfive, we’re going to visit a droidsmith for some updates, okay? How about I take you after my shift?” She felt virtuous just saying the words.
“Oh, thank you, Eve-Ninedenine.”
The Trandoshan crossed the room and leaned on the bar right in front of EV-9D9.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“Only droids working here now? What’s wrong with this place?” he said with a hiss. “That’s pathetic. I remember when—”
EV-9D9 squeezed the restraining bolt and it bent a little. “Counter space is for paying customers only,” EV-9D9 interrupted. She’d seen this type before. Belligerent for the wrong reasons, down on their luck somehow because of bad life choices, and looking to kick someone defenseless to feel big again. Altogether a loser. She whispered to R5-D4, “All sentients are equal.” And R5-D4 responded with a frightened beep.
She stared at the Trandoshan and took solace in knowing that this putrid bag of flesh who shook her bolts would be decomposing under the Dune Sea’s twin suns soon enough, and she would continue living on in this world and the next so long as her head remained soldered to her cervical servomotor.
The Trandoshan turned to the trembling astromech and hissed, “What are you looking at? Get out of here!” And kicked R5-D4, who squealed and wheeled backward into a stool.
EV-9D9’s circuits fired. That crossed a line. For one heavy second she considered her options. She had made it 612 days before falling back on her recursive torturous behavior. She couldn’t lose her job; it was too risky being an unemployed mechanical in Mos Eisley. The rules of her employment at the cantina were simple. The owner had said, “Do your job, and don’t dismember droids or else to the foundry you go.” Times had changed but it was still dangerous for droids. You could get kidnapped and forced to work in unsavory situations or just sold for scrap. Still, R5-D4 didn’t deserve abuse, not when he was just getting back on his treads. Of course, EV-9D9 had never tortured organics even in her past; they were too messy and uninteresting. Perhaps she could try her pincer at giving this nerf herder a special drink. Her programming for the bar included a detailed library of beverages tolerated by different species and ones considered toxic. She spoke louder this time: “Either order a drink or leave the establishment.”
“How about a Hutt’s Delight, you sack of bolts?”
She turned to her bar decanting system and filled a glass with the Trandoshan’s favorite ale, then topped it off with a touch of Sennari from her own private selection. It wasn’t enough poison to kill the thug, just enough to make him retch. She slid the drink across the bar and watched as the next droid crew came through to take her place. The Trandoshan took a seat at a table and drank.
EV-9D9 whispered, “Come on, Arfive. Let’s get out of here before things get too interesting.”
The pair moved slowly down the main curved road at dusk. Hangar 3-5 wasn’t far from the cantina. R5-D4 seemed a bit more confident and whistled, “Did I ever tell you the time I helped the Rebellion?”
“No, you haven’t, but I’m interested to hear. Astromechs have remarkable cognitive modules.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Why are you always squeezing that old restraining bolt?”
She didn’t think anyone had noticed her habit. “To remember.”
“Oh, remember what?” R5-D4 beeped.
“That I can make choices. Arfive, try to remember and you can make choices, too.”
It had been only a few minutes since EV-9D9 gave into her depraved desires, but it was worth it.