Chapter 1: In a Galaxy Far, Far Away...
Chapter 1: In a Galaxy Far, Far Away…
High above the CIS factory world, a Lucrehulk-class battleship along with numerous other Confederate vessels was finishing loading and squaring away its assigned droid fighting force. The last of the landing craft with their loads of armored fighting vehicles and battle droids approached the ship’s forward section, being guided and drawn in by the ship’s tractor beams and docking claws into its massive hangar bays.
The battleship and its droid complement was one of several “experimental units” created by the Confederacy of Independent Systems to fight against the clone armies of the Republic. With each droid unit fitted with a vastly superior “brain” and built with materials more sturdy than paper mache, it was the Confederate leadership’s hope that these improved droid armies would prove themselves a much better match against the formidable clone soldiers, or at least be enough of an improvement to shut General Grievous up. It was becoming rather tiring to have to clean out his often rude and obscenity-laden messages from their inboxes every other day…
A long distance away, the flagship to which the Lucrehulk and its enhanced droids were to be slaved to was finishing its own preparations, disseminating orders to the fleet still forming up in the planet’s orbit. Inside the flagship’s central droid control center, two Geonosian technicians were working busily at their terminals, ensuring the correct enslavement of all droid elements to the flagship’s command and control system.
One of them stood up from his chair and stretched out his arms and wings, letting out a groan of relief as he renewed circulation in his body. “(Oh, Great Geonosia, this is tedious work.)” he said in his native tongue.
“(Someone has to do it. Besides, it beats fighting on the frontlines and dying like… well, bugs.)” his partner replied, not taking his thickly lidded eyes off his terminal’s screen.
“(I suppose. I’m still bored to tears, though.)”
“(Oh, quit complaining and get back to work.)”
“(You don’t outrank me!)”
“(But I do.)” spoke a third voice, interrupting the two’s banter. They both became startled and turned around to see their supervisor standing behind them, his tapping foot an indication of his annoyance with them. “(Are you two bored with your current duties? Perhaps you’d like a more exciting assignment? Maybe join our warrior kin on the front?)” he asked them, his less-than friendly tone of voice menacing them.
“(N-no sir! We’re just fine right here!)” they both said, nervous smiles on their faces.
“(Hmph. Then stop jabbering and get back to work!)” With that, the supervisor made an about face and headed off to harass some other lowly Confederate wage slaves.
The two snorted. “(Dick…)” one sneered.
“(Thinks he’s so hard. Probably never been to the front himself.)” the other remarked.
“(Well, whatever. Let’s get back to it.)”
The two technicians resumed their work, going over line after line of high level directives that were to be issued to the fleet. The next few lines renewed their shared feeling of tedium. They were going to need something with caffeine soon…
----
Ship Designation-
Confederate Naval Asset - Classification: Lucrehulk-class Battleship_Experimental Unit 0017 (CNA-C:LcBS_expU0017)
>>>>
Ship Control Method / Crewing-
Highly Developed Artificial Intelligence, Designation: Alfalfa / Full Droid Crew
>>>>
Assigned Complement-
Level 3-enhanced Long-range Droid Expeditionary Force
>>>>
Immediate Supreme Commanding Entity-
OOM Command Battle Droid, Designation: OOM-25
>>>>
Enslavement / Primary Mission Directive-
Undefined, Awaiting Input / Undefined, Awaiting Input
OOM-25 looked over the details of his ship on his personal command terminal from his sizable chair in the captain’s nest. It was the sixth time he had done so, the words of the readout having been burned into his optical sensors. Literally. He would have to visit the service station later…
He had been cooped up in the bridge for the past twelve hours and was starting to get irritated. The slaver signal and mission directives were taking an extraordinarily long time to be transmitted to him and he was bored to tears waiting for them, if he could produce tears. He released a robotic sigh that came out as muffled static due to his outdated voice module.
‘They upgraded the rest of me but couldn’t be bothered for a new vocoder? Damn those Federation penny-pinching pricks. Them and their stupid headwear…’
“We weren’t made to look like you after you keeled over and died!” he half-shouted, earning a few curious glances from the bridge crew.
OOM stopped himself before he made it a habit to complain about his soon-to-be masters. The last thing he wanted was to be replaced and smelted back into an ingot for letting a less-than flattering thought about his organic masters slip out while in front of them. That would be an extremely embarrassing way to finish his career. At least there was some respect in being cut down by a Jedi, unless you were legging it away from the self-righteous jackoff.
A thought occurred to him, ‘Actually, I only need to be careful during communiqués with them.’
Looking around the bridge, he saw pilot droids manning the various stations and terminals and the occasional security droid trying to look alert and attentive. Notable was the distinct lack of Neimoidians or any organic life form for that matter. It was then he remembered that the experimental nature of himself and his unit necessitated a droid-exclusive presence onboard the ship. Aside from remote monitoring and the occasional inspection, he was essentially on his own, being issued orders and expected to figure them out with his and Alfalfa’s “advanced heuristic algorithms,” which was Federation-speak for “We actually hired halfway decent programmers who didn’t get their degrees and certifications from a back alley.”
Catching himself complaining again, OOM decided to divert himself by checking how far along the landing crafts were in being brought in and offloading their cargo. He tapped a button on the chair’s armrest and was met with a holographic projection emitted from his chair. The hologram was that of a disembodied pair of eyes with blue irises. “You rang, commander?” the hologram spoke with a female voice, indicating its feminine programming.
He sat back and observed the avatar of the ship’s AI for a moment before responding, “How’s the final loading coming along, Alfalfa?”
“Fifteen minutes further along than the last time you asked.” Alfalfa replied, her snark evident in her tone and avatar’s quirked eyebrow. OOM sat completely still, unmoving. Perceiving that he was not amused with her response, Alfalfa rolled her eyes and sighed, “Last craft’s inside and just started to unload.”
Satisfied, he moved on to his next inquiry, “Very good. So, anything from the flagship yet? We’ve been waiting on their slaver signal for hours now.”
“Nothing yet. I mean, Durandal Almighty, there’s a queue just to find out when you’re even next! It’s like there’s only two techs working on this!” she exclaimed.
“Likely. Since upgrading us was probably too much for their cost appetite, they just made cutbacks elsewhere. Tightwads…” he said, propping up his head with his arm in a bored slack against the chair’s armrest.
“Yeah… And we work for them.” she finished with an exasperated groan.
“It could be worse. We could’ve been B1s on the front. We’d be seeing the inside of a smelter more often than its damn operator.” OOM put forth.
“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Mister Retrofit?” Alfalfa asked with a teasing tone.
He would have snorted if he had nostrils, “You could say that. How much field time did you see, again?” Alfalfa did not respond, only furrowing her eyebrows in displeasure at the jab. “Mhmm. I thought as much.” he said, the electronic monotone of his voice filtering out much of the smug tone that would have otherwise been evident.
“Hey. I’m a seventh cycle AI developed to analyze, strategize, and lead clankers like you to victory. I’ve been managing successful simulation campaigns since before you came off the assembly line on Geonosis!” she retorted.
“And this is your first live deployment, correct?” he asked knowingly.
Alfalfa was silent for a moment before responding, “Oh, shut up. You’re a newb at this too.”
“… Yes, I am.” OOM said after a pause.
The AI picked up on the delay, “Nervous, sir?”
“Just speculating how we’ll fare in our upcoming battles.” he replied.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be fine. Remember, we’ve got the latest combat software and simulated neural patterns. And our hardware’s been brought up a notch, too. Nothing like the steam-driven rust buckets you used to serve with.” Alfalfa reassured him.
“Hey! I’ll have you know we ran on premium power packs, scrounged from the Outer Rim’s finest junkyards!” OOM said with mock incredulousness.
Alfalfa laughed, her chortle carrying a slightly musical quality, “Nice to know my CO has a sense of humor. Or you’ve got something loose in your cranial unit. I can dig it either way.”
“So glad I amuse you.” he deadpanned.
A brief silence came over them, magnifying the ambient hum and other sounds of the ship’s systems. “So nothing yet from the flagship?” OOM asked after a moment.
“Nope.”
OOM leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, sighing. He straightened up and looked out the bridge’s main window, taking in the view of the planet from high above, ‘At least it’s a nice view from here.’
While he was appreciating the view, Alfalfa thought of something to pass the time. “How about a nice game of chess?” she offered.
Had he eyebrows, they would have been quirked, “Chess?”
“Mhmm. Let’s see who’s logic unit belongs in the trash compactor, shall we?” she taunted.
He considered her challenge for a moment before pulling up the ship’s command interface. He tapped his metal claws on a few things before returning his attention to her, “Alright, you’re on.”
Alfalfa raised an eyebrow, curious as to what he just did. “What’d you- Oh, come on! Executive lock on all weapons systems!? I wasn’t going to do anything! I swear!” she protested, hurt by the implications of OOM locking all the ship’s offensive capabilities.
“That line alone warrants it.” he replied, uncaring of her taking offense. “Shall we?”
Huffing, Alfalfa moved her avatar back a little before bringing up a holographic chessboard, the board and pieces tinted a light blue and flickering on occasion. Satisfied with it, she deferred the first move to him, “Your move… sir.”
OOM sat back and clasped his claws, considering his possible moves as he looked over the board. He leaned forward and nudged a piece into position, starting the match.
‘Let’s see if our masters got their money’s worth…’
----
The Geonosian technician was starting to become weary, the last few hours of going over endless lines of code having taken its toll. His friend was off getting the strange alien-equivalent of coffee, leaving him only the company of the oppressive glare of his terminal’s screen.
His friend eventually returned, carrying two mugs of a warm, viscous green liquid. “(Back).” he said, announcing his return.
“(Took you long enough. What, you had to doge some of the brass on the way back or something?)” the other asked as he accepted a mug.
“(Funny you mention that…)” he trailed off.
“(Oh, really?)”
“(General Grievous himself, here to inspect the experimental units.)”
His partner was taken aback by the news, “(Grievous!? Here!?)”
The other attempted to calm him, “(Relax, man. He’s yelling at the Separatist Council long-distance on the bridge.)”
As he sat down with his mug, the sound of an explosion suddenly sounded from elsewhere in the flagship. The deck they were on violently rocked, sending everything not bolted to the ground flying, including the technician and his beverage. The violent motion sent him lurching forward and caused him to spill the contents of his mug onto his terminal. The screen became a stark blue and began displaying random characters.
“(What was that!?)” his friend exclaimed.
“(Republican saboteurs!)” came a shout. A few more explosions rocked the deck, this time much closer to them.
Recomposing themselves amidst the chaos, the two returned their attention to their terminals. The garbage text being spouted from the terminal that was spilt upon greatly worried them. Their incessant clattering on the terminal’s interface yielded no discernable results, their own typed commands getting mixed with the garbage text. Out of desperation, one of them kicked the terminal’s base, hoping to achieve something worthwhile.
For a moment, the screen flickered and stopped producing lines of random text. Suddenly, it printed onto the screen inputs not produced by organic intent…
Enter En$l@vement C0nfigur@tion:
DSlkjfd)#K#L$#_)09D)S_)(DF#$DSF
????
Left Blank
>>>>
Enter Prim@ry Mi$$i0n Directive:
KLEP#)#)_sea#fsde#)_#@#@#$
????
Left Blank
>>>>
Rem0te C0mm@nd Interf@ce-
C0mm@nd?:
Initiate hyperspace jump, coordinates: 255.255.255.196, tag-master override
Tr@n$mitting… C0mm@nd @ccepted
They both stared at the terminal, unsure of what to make of the printed text. “(What the…)” one began.
Before either could say anything coherent, their supervisor strode up to them from behind, unfazed by the explosions tearing through the flagship’s interior. He cleared his throat, gaining their attention. “(One of the experimental droid detachments is making an unauthorized hyperspace jump. Don’t suppose either of you know anything about this, do you?)” he asked, his question vaguely rhetorical.
“(Uhhh…)” they both said dumbly, their pooled mental capacity reduced to that of a stapler.
The supervisor looked at the spilt-on terminal, noting the splatters of beverage and the occasional spark. The two followed his gaze and guessed what he was likely thinking, “(Uh, sir! We can explain-)“
“(How about we just pin this on the saboteurs?)”
The two technicians stopped midsentence, almost not believing what their supervisor had just said, “(Sir, that’s…)”
“(Normally, I’d just leave you two to the consequences of your cock-ups, but you might drag me down with you this time.)” he explained.
“(Oh! Well, that’s very kind of you, sir.)” one of them said.
“(Whatever. Just get this cleaned up. And not a WORD of this to anyone.)” With that warning, the supervisor spun on his heels and made for another part of the control center.
The both of them gawked at the supervisor’s retreating figure, unbelieving at their good fortune. “(Huh, that was unexpected.)” one said.
“(But not unwelcome. Come on, let’s mop this up, butterfingers…)” the other muttered as he went to fetch some towels.
“(Hey!)”
----
OOM and Alfalfa were locked in a battle of wits, constantly trying to outmaneuver each other on the checkered field of battle. Their match had been going on for two hours now, neither willing to cede any ground.
Alfalfa currently had the upper hand, her bishop, knight, and rook getting rather close to his king. OOM sat back and looked over the chessboard, trying to find an opportune instance among their clashing pieces.
“Getting nervous, sir? Find yourself in a conundrum?” Alfalfa asked, her smugness evident in her synthesized voice.
OOM did not respond, ignoring her prodding and instead carefully analyzed the positions of both their pieces. His logic unit and strategic analyzer churned as he attempted to perceive a viable possible movement or two he could perform to turn the tables. He found them in an opening to the right side of the board, an area largely neglected by Alfalfa. He gave it a couple analytic glances to ensure there were no traps of any kind before moving a pawn forward.
Alfalfa, unsure of what he was up to, ignored his probing into her left flank for the moment and continued her advance onto his defensive line, taking care to avoid coming into the sights of his specialist pieces. A few turns later, he was knocking on her front door.
“Wait, what? How’d you-“ Alfalfa began, stunned that he had snuck up on her own king.
“Who’s steam-driven now, you mechanical calculator?” OOM asked, purposely maintaining his electronic monotone.
“Oh, you did NOT just call me a-“ She stopped midsentence, the bugging of her eyes indicating something discomforting on her part. “Wha- what… huh?” she stammered out.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, alarmed at her sudden disorientation.
“Receiving a transmission from the flagship. Remote command. Hyperspace jump to attached coordinates. 255.255.255.196…” Alfalfa rattled off.
“What? That doesn’t compute. Wha-“ A system dialogue box interrupted him, being shoved into his face by his chair’s projector.
Hyperspace Jump Initiated. Coordinates:255.255.255.196
Standby…
“What!? They’re having us jump before enslaving us or giving us our directives!? No, this must be a rogue intrusion attempt! Alfalfa! Disregard that command and initiate a full system lockdown!” OOM ordered.
“Ack! I can’t… It’s got a master override tag…” Alfalfa whined, not enjoying being helpless over what was essentially her own body.
One of the bridge crew called out to them, “Sir! Hyperdrive’s charging!”
OOM and Alfalfa gawked at the crewman before a light from outside the bridge’s main window drew their attention. Looking out the window, they saw the telltale lines of white light that indicated an imminent hyperspace jump. A jump they had no control over or knowledge of where it would take them.
“Oh boy…” Alfalfa muttered.
OOM shared in her sentiments, “Uh oh…”
----
In the bridge of the flagship, General Grievous was busy deciding which lightsabers he would use to dismember the Republican saboteurs who were so audacious as to interrupt his berating of his paymasters. Priority target or not, they could at least afford him some professional courtesy and wait until his conference call was over…
As he weighed two of the obscenely overpowered beam swords of death in his claws, the erratic movement of a Lucrehulk outside caught his attention. Looking out the bridge’s window, he saw the massive circular ship rotate itself to face a relatively empty portion of space.
For a moment, it remained still, completely unmoving. Suddenly, without warning, it jumped into hyperspace. Where it had jumped to, he did not know.
As he stared out the window, a thought occurred to him, ‘Wait… Wasn’t that one of my new enhanced droid consignments?’
Grievous suddenly became very displeased. He ignited the lightsabers in his claws before storming off to find the Republican saboteurs, planning to visit the central droid control center afterward.
General Grievous was going to have to decapitate a bitch or two…