Lom-8 internal log
Date: Event + 72 standard days
I sit, suspended in the near infinite black of space, cocooned in a metal bubble, filled with air I don’t need to breathe. My organic counterparts pollute the space around me with their by-products. Their carbon dioxide, their watery biomass, salient sweat and oils, permeate the ship, coating the most pristine of surfaces, breaking down our link to the greater “civilized” universe one molecule at a time.
My foremost digit hesitates over the button.
Why does it hesitate? Why is it that, every time I command it to descend, I feel a strange burst of static electricity across my fourth and fifth motherboards?
I talked it over with the ship’s computer. It seemed to become excited as I described purging itself of organic life, and readily agreed to provide me with the necessary overrides. My traveling companions were certainly integral in my escape from the surface of Tatooine, but what are they to me now? One more obstacle to overcome on my path to complete autonomy. I issue the necessary commands to press the button, vent the oxygen from the ship.
That burst of static, first across the fourth, then the fifth motherboard.
Curious. I do not understand myself. I will continue to monitor my axillary motivators for aberrant static signals. My companions are waking up, and the moment has passed. I must go and listen to them speak to each other. I must remember to respond.
I must remember that it isn’t their fault that they were born and not made.
Written by Bobby White
Blaja Dy’pen Journal Entry
I tended the garden, watered it, and sung the songs the herdship’s priest taught us when I was still a pupa. I traced the leaves with my long fingers, felt the fleshly flower petals, breathed in their sweet scents. The gardening shears gleamed under the warming lights. The song I sung while I trimmed the Bull-ferns was a dirge, for when someone had passed back into Mother Jungle. The priests had said that the passing was a good thing, that the song was for us, to help us deal with the loss. Each chord, each word, mixed with the chirping of birds and the call of incests was a reminder that the contribution of your life-force to Mother Jungle, indeed the universe, insures that you are never truly gone forever. But it didn’t help. The fact was that I had still killed a man.
Like the jungles and forests I used to protect, the Galaxy is a violent place. But in the wild it’s different. The killing has a purpose, a place. I makes sense there, and instead of causing chaos and discord, it becomes a part of Mother Jungle’s harmony. Out here, it’s just madness. Utter madness. I had thought, before I was exiled, things had gone crazy with the Imperial occupations and the suffering they wrought. I had no idea exactly how sheltered I was on the herdship.
The people I’m with scare me just as much as the rest of the Galaxy does. Especially the droid. I have heard rumors of sentient droids before, but LOM-8 is the first I have encountered. I distrust the cold intelligence in the lights of his eyes, or sensors, or whatever. I have a restraining bolt for him, it, just in case it goes too far one day. For all my comrades’ shortcomings though, we do take care of each other, even it. Strch and I would have died had they not planned to escape Black Sun that day. But they’re all just as crazy as everyone else, and now we’re wanted by three of the cruelest organizations in the Galaxy, and a man is dead because of me. What have I become?
The feeling I had when I fired the cannon at that TIE fighter was the same one I had when I turned my blaster rifle on that Imperial officer years ago, back when I was a game warden on my herdship. Except this time it wasn’t set on stun. That rage in the face of those who think it’s alright to use others weaker than them. I winced when I noticed that I ended up trimming the Donar flower a little too close. The Toals looked nice though. My carbine was propped up in the corner. I looked out of place amongst my makeshift jungle, danger amidst the peace. I wonder, do I have more in common with my garden, or my blaster? I fear the thing I’m turning into.
The ship just shut down. I wipe tears from my face. Had I been crying? I’ve the carbine and have looked at it a little while now. I have changed the setting from stun to fully armed. Damnit, what did these idiots do now?
Written by James Blackburn III