• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The towmaster on Bloodprice’s last patrol had allowed two disconnects. Along with the gondola crew, he had spent the last half of the patrol in the brig, awaiting the return to Prakith and a court-martial on a charge of treasonable incompetence.

So it was with great relief that his replacement announced, “The array turned cleanly and deployment is nominal.”

“Very well,” said Dogot. “Lieutenant Sojis, you are master of the bridge. I will be in my quarters, working on crew reviews. Inform Yeoman Cligot that she is to report to me there immediately.”

“Yes, Captain.”

When the portal closed after Lando and Artoo, Lobot watched, fascinated, as the smoke thinned and disappeared, the scar faded and vanished.

Even the tiny white bits of soot smudging the outside of his faceplate seemed to evaporate. He watched on his suit monitor as the temperature plummeted thirty degrees, to the slightly chilly norm for the vagabond.

“Pardon me, Master Lobot—”

“Yes, Threepio, what is it?” Lobot said automatically, still distracted.

“I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me—do droids meet the conditions of the test?”

Lobot’s head snapped around. “What did you say?”

“The test of intelligence,” Threepio repeated. “Am I sentient, like you, or simply another work of great ingenuity, like this ship?”

Taken aback, Lobot looked away from the droid’s waiting face as he groped for an answer. “Ah—Threepio, you know, most droids are built to have self-aware artificial intelligence. Especially third-degree droids like yourself.”

“But that must be something different than sentience,” Threepio said. “Otherwise, the Senate of the New Republic would not consist solely of organics, served by droids.”

“It is different,” Lobot said, as gently as he could. “Artificial intelligence is programming. Wipe a droid’s memory and it disappears. Replace it with different programming and a translator becomes a tutor, or a med droid becomes a chem droid.”

“I understand, sir,” said Threepio; he was quiet for a long moment. “Then can you tell me how it feels to be sentient? How is it different from what I feel?”

“I’m not sure that I can say,” Lobot replied slowly.

“Perhaps it is a thing that you just know, because you are an organic and not a machine? Perhaps if I were sentient, I would not need to ask you these questions. I would know who I was.”

Lobot said nothing for a time. “What do you think, Threepio?” he asked at last.

“I do not know, Master Lobot,” the droid said. “But I have noticed that when someone speaks of memory wipes, I am seized by an inexplicable panic.”

“I don’t find that inexplicable,” said Lobot.

“Really, sir?”

“Self-preservation is an elementary part of self-awareness—even artificial self-awareness. It’s the part of us that feels that awareness which matters to us,” Lobot said. “I expect you would give that up”—he pointed at Threepio’s immobile arm—“to keep your programming intact. As I would surrender this”—he pointed through his faceplate at his neural interface—“to preserve my consciousness.”

“I do not recall having this reaction when I was younger, sir,” Threepio said. “Why, I have seen many droids of my acquaintance taken for memory wipes. I felt nothing but gratitude that their masters cared enough for their well-being to schedule proper maintenance.” The droid cocked his head. “My own maintenance record, I’m afraid, is something of a horror. It’s a miracle that I can still function at all.”

Lobot mused on that answer for a while. “Just out of curiosity, Threepio, have you thought about asking other droids what they think about this?”

“Yes, Master Lobot,” Threepio said. “But they seemed not to understand the question. Why, one even had the ill manners to call me a computational defective with deviant specifications. Can you imagine?”

“I know something of such prejudice,” said Lobot, then sighed. “I don’t have any answers for you, Threepio. All I can say is that the questions would seem to be worth revisiting when some time has passed.”

“Thank you,