The Uncooperative Droid

Luke Skywalker nudged his X-wing’s throttle, skimming low over the jagged peaks of Tatooine’s Jundland Wastes. The mission was simple: retrieve a stolen hyperdrive motivator from a gang of Jawas who had somehow gotten it into their sandcrawler. Simple, except for one small detail—his R2 unit, Artoo, had chosen today to develop a stubborn streak.

“Artoo, I need you to scan for the motivator’s signal,” Luke said, his voice crackling over the comm.

A string of indignant beeps answered him. Artoo’s domed head swiveled, and a holographic image flickered to life: a picture of Luke’s face with a large, goofy smile plastered on it, followed by the words, “NEGATIVE, MASTER LUKE. I AM BUSY.”

Luke groaned. “Busy? You’re a droid. You don’t get busy. You get oil baths and memory wipes.”

Artoo’s response was a haughty series of blips that translated roughly to, “You are not my supervisor.”

Before Luke could argue further, a pack of Tusken Raiders emerged from the canyon ahead, their gaffi sticks raised. “Oh, perfect.” Luke rolled the X-wing into a steep climb, but his starfighter clipped a rocky outcropping, sending a shower of sparks across the canopy. “Artoo, I need that scan now!”

Artoo chirped, fired a burst of static, and then projected a new image: a directional arrow pointing straight up. Luke glanced up—and saw a massive sandcrawler parked on a ledge above, its treads humming.

“That’s the one,” Luke muttered. He set the X-wing down on a flat mesa, grabbed his lightsaber, and jogged toward the sandcrawler, Artoo rolling behind him with a series of reluctant grumbles.

The Jawas were surprisingly absent—probably napping inside. Luke crept to the rear hatch, pressed a button, and the door slid open with a loud, grating squeal. He winced.

Inside, he found the hyperdrive motivator sitting on a workbench, surrounded by assorted junk. But as he reached for it, a red beam zipped past his ear—a blaster bolt. Luke spun around to see a trio of Jawas behind him, holding what looked like a modified stun rod and a small, comically oversized blaster.

“Hey, easy,” Luke said, raising his hands. “I’m just here for that piece of junk. It belongs to the Rebellion—and, technically, to me.”

The Jawa leader jabbered something in their native tongue, shaking the blaster. Luke sighed. “Artoo, a little help?”

Artoo, who had been hiding behind a crate, suddenly rolled forward, let out a series of loud, obnoxious beeps, and deployed a small oil slick from his dispenser. The Jawas slipped and tumbled like klutzes in a holodrama, their blaster clattering to the floor.

Luke grabbed the motivator and dashed for the hatch. But as he turned, a second Jawa jumped onto his back, yanking his hood. Luke stumbled, tripped over a stray droid leg, and crashed into a pile of scrap, sending metallic clangs echoing through the crawler.

“Artoo!” Luke shouted, muffled by the junk.

Artoo responded by activating his shock probe and zapping the Jawa, who yelped and let go. Luke sprang to his feet, dusting off his robes. “Thanks, buddy. Now let’s get out of here before they call for reinforcements.”

They sprinted toward the hatch, but the door had automatically sealed. Luke looked at Artoo. “Can you unlock it?”

Artoo beeped a series of notes that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Then he rolled up, extended his scomp link, and with a few rapid clicks, the door hissed open.

Luke ran to his X-wing, booting up the engines as Artoo locked himself into the socket. As they lifted off, the sandcrawler began to move, and a few blaster bolts plinked off the hull. Luke grinned, checking the motivator secured in his lap.

“Artoo, remind me to give you a polish when we get back,” Luke said.

Artoo chirped something that might have been, “You owe me, farm boy.”

Luke laughed and punched in the coordinates for Yavin 4. For once, the mission had been a success—even if the droid had done half the work.