HK-REDUX – Part 2 – DIAGNOSTIC: INCONCLUSIVE

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  “You did good, a dead slave is a freed slave. That’s always been my opinion anyhow!”

  The office was dark, dusty and dingy, the decor had a lot to be desired. The little man that sat at the tiny desk before HK - a pair of antiquated optical modifiers (once known as eyeglasses or spectacles) hooked upon a fat nose – looked almost too cheerful to be taken seriously. Above the desk was displayed a small holo that showed the image of the dead slave. HK couldn’t recall taking a holo of his Mark but then neither could It recall making the trek to this dilapidated office.

  It groaned uneasily, the noise sounding more organic than anything It might have consciously replicated. The grunt appeared to awaken the small man from his oppressively cheerful reverie and he quickly waved the holo image away and presented HK with a new set of details.

  The droid read quickly but none of it made sense, most of it being gibberish and some computer code that didn’t amalgamate to anything understandable.

  The little man however appeared to understand it quite well.

  “Ah. A slightly different contract from the ones you’re used to, Dagon.”

  Dagon?

  The word conjured up a few entries of note but none of them appeared relevant to HK’s situation.

  “No direct contact details as such,” the little man continued. “Only that you are supposed to go to the Organa Business district down at South Port.”

  “Inquiry: That is the one on West Union Street?”

  “Yes. Wait by storehouse B4 for your contact. The details will be presented then.”

  “Inquiry: How much?” HK asked a little surprised that It was asking about monetary reimbursement for such a pleasurable job as contract killing. The execution of a well laid plan was reward in of itself.

  “More than you’ve had in the last three years, that’s for sure.”

  “Ponderous: Hmm, I’m not sure...” HK would have taken a double-take at Itself if the memory had allowed It to. Was this really Its own memories? What sort of bestial degenerate must It have once been to turn down a Mark or Marks. Was this perhaps some form of repressed nightmare that had suddenly resurfaced or perhaps these were old test results from when Its model was being deployed in trial runs?

  After all It hadn’t been the first off the factory floor to achieve the desired result. It wasn’t called ‘HK-47’ for no reason – there had been forty six failures before Its level of perfection was reached.

  Perhaps these were memories from those that had come before?

  “Well, how about you go to the storehouse tonight and have a gander at this contact. Maybe that will be enough to change your mind. You are the best, after all, I wouldn’t want you to waste your time,” the little man cheerily countered.

  HK’s mind boggled. ‘The best’? That did not compute with Its original thinking. Perhaps this was more than just a memory...

  Perhaps it was a redux...

  “Hello, Brent. Catching any good ones?”

  HK started and looked to Its right to find the speaker that was now addressing It. The office had dematerialised, replaced by a grey hall, its metal walls stained from years of neglect. In front of It stood a short man, HK appeared to tower over him but he didn’t even flinch.

  Calo Nord looked good for a dead man. His short stature was as HK remembered from their run-in on Dantooine at the entrance to the Krayt Dragon’s cave. However, he lacked the optical modifiers that had once been a trademark of his appearance. His clothes were also slightly tatty and down market and his fat face was more gaunt and restrained. If HK had to guess this great bounty hunter was, if anything, younger than the man It would one day kill.

  Calo nodded, a respectful gesture that denoted a vague sense of awe, and moved on down the corridor. HK made to follow but the area quickly dissolved into a bright glare of light and the Hawk’s diagnostic bay coalesced into existence about it.

  “HK? Are you alright?” The Master said, her voice uncharacteristically worried. In response the Droid nodded, Its own speech centres strangely absent.

  “What happened?” The Ward asked, her blue lekku twitching irritably. HK restrained the urge to rip them off and shove them down her throat.

  “T3 says he just collapsed in the storage hold. Before then he was... distant.”

  “Distant?”

  “That’s what, T3 says. He came in and tried to talk to him but HK said nothing for awhile, and then collapsed.”

  “How long’s awhile?” The Veteran intoned gruffly as he joined the group.

  “Umm, thirty seconds. According to, T3 that’s a very long time?” The Master answered, an odd look entering her eyes.

  More worry perhaps?

  “Do you think he’s sick? A virus perhaps?” The Ward said, her twitching lekku becoming increasingly more irritable.

  “I never thought Droid’s could get sick,” The Veteran ventured brusquely.

  “Oh yes, Zaalbar says it rare but it can happen.”

  “Maybe we should get him to take a look, see if there’s anything he can do,” The Master wondered, just as HK found Its voice.

  “Statement: That is hardly necessary. I am perfectly alright.”

  “Glad to see you’ve found your voice,” The Veteran laughed.

  “Assurance: I am operating at peak efficiency. There is no need to worry.”

  “Then what happened? I might need you soon and I can’t risk you going offline,” The Master said.

  “I...I...,” HK stuttered, racking its mind for an appropriate lie. “I was undergoing a full system diagnosis. This included my motor servos. T3-M4 was merely wasting your time.”

  Even as It finished there came a series of high pitch wails and squeaks as the Astromech rounded the corner and came warbling upto them, vehemently defending its honour.

  “Derisory: How would you know what my diagnostic routine requires? Do I dare presume what you might undergo if you were to perform a similar diagnostic?”

  T3 tweeted and cajoled at its human Masters. Fortunately none of them were near a translation matrix to understand let alone care.

  “Statement: Precisely. Don’t worry, I forgive you for your transgressions.”

  “Never mind that,” The Master interrupted, bringing HKs attention back to the fore. “You mentioned a diagnosis? What analysis did you make?”

  “Statement: The diagnosis was... inconclusive. I was interrupted before I could complete my evaluation.”

  T3 made a few more pips and quirks but was waved away by the Master, who only looked more concerned. Before she could say anything though the Pilot’s voice sounded through the room’s speaker. 

  “Alright. We’re on course for Crenela’s main city port. We should be touching down in fifteen.”

  “About time!” The Turncoat remarked sternly as she entered the room.

  “Bastilla...,” The Master said, sounding slightly flustered. “You didn’t want to come before, now you’re impatient to leave?”

  “Be that as it may, now that we are here I wish to do everything in my power to assist you Revan. After all it was only because of you that I am still a Jedi... I owe you that much at least.”

  “Good, then you won’t mind joining me and Carth on the surface.”

  “Gladly, although I have to admit that I am not entirely sure what we are doing?"

  “Can me and, Zaalbar come?” The Ward butted in, her whiney enthusiasm doing little to enamour herself to HK.

  “No, I need you all to stay here,” The Master ordered, exhibiting a sense of command that made HK’s servos tremble in delight. “However, if something should happen then, Jolee? I need you, Juhani and Canderous to make it to our position.”

  “You expecting trouble?” The Defeated Mercenary asked, hefting his Auto Blaster Carbine, as he came into the room.

  “Not sure. Anything could happen. I need you all ready to go. You too HK. But no diagnostic. I need you ready in case something happens.”

  “Assurance: You can count on me Master.”

  The only thing though was that HK wasn’t entirely sure that she could.

  With a groaning rumble and an aching creak of tired metal the Hawk touched down, her boarding ramp extending a moment later. The Master, accompanied by the treacherous Turncoat and the depressed Pilot, took their leave and made their way down the ramp. HK could only look on before returning to the starboard cargo hold, ignoring a vapid stream of bleeps from T3 along the way.

  The little Astromech was still angry with It, not that HK cared in any way. It was more concerned with the unbidden memory that threatened to overload its matrix again. It could feel the creeping cowl of thought clawing at its mechanical mind, like an infectious shadow of intrigue.

  Rather than be caught again It decided to take precautions and so had taken to hiding behind the bay’s few cargo crates. Failing that HK hoped it would simply be ignored until such time as It might be needed. It only hoped that It would be awake and cognisant when, and if, such a time was required.

  Triggering the memories was not as easy as before. HK found It had to really dig deep within Its Cerebral Processor to even perceive an inkling of these lost memories. They were strangely evasive, as if they did not want to be remembered. Their elusive forms flitting about Its processor like a pair of...

  ...The rain was pouring again even as HK wandered into West Union Street. Its dowdy jacket was wet through, the SOC-48 comfortably holstered within the layers of clothing. Reaching an overhang It stopped, raising a pink fleshy hand to scratch at the stubble that adorned Its face. HK puzzled at this development for only a moment as Its attention was caught by the sight of Storehouse B4. Running an appraising eye over the surrounding complex of cargo crates and prefab offices, looking for any would-be assassins or ambushes, Brent was satisfied and hunkered down to wait.

  What did I just refer to myself as?

  The rain fell, torrential downpour that sometimes defined the Capital world of the Republic as nothing more than a wet, dirty, squalid hole. Brent huffed, wrapping his arms around himself tightly to ward off the cold.

  There was movement in the corner of his left eye and he quickly ducked and turned, bring a steady hand to his piece. But upon seeing who it was he relaxed, stood up, and glared at the interloper.

  “What do you want?”

  Calo Nord shuffled forwards, uncertain. Brent never understood how a former slave, who had killed his masters and his parents, could maintain any semblance of uncertainty, especially around him.

  The thought of slavery made him think of that poor child he had killed this morning and unwanted feelings of remorse bubbled up. He quickly pushed them away and tried to think of all the scumbag slavers he had killed in his time.

  Spast! He was getting too old for this game...

  Calo moved a little closer until they were practically rubbing shoulders. “Just wanted to share the limelight with the galaxy’s greatest contract killer.”

  “And what would that make you. The best bounty hunter ever?”

  Calo visibly shuddered. “Not at all! I could never aspire to your greatness.”

  Brent couldn’t work out if his rival was being sincere or patronising. In the end it didn’t really matter, one day soon he would retire, and that left Nord to become the greatest bounty hunter of them all. Although exactly how he was holding the younger man back he wasn’t sure.

  “You here for a Mark then?” Calo sniffed.

  “No, a contact. No name. Said to meet him here.”

  “Could be a trap.”

  Brent wished it were, his trigger finger was getting itchy and so far no job had as yet earnt the right to his legendary abilities. In short he was getting bored and that was why he was considering retiring.

  “Maybe.”He said at length.

  Calo quaked in his boots, hopping from foot to foot as if eagerly awaiting a coming battle. Brent could only dream of his bed and envision himself in it. He hoped Tenrick had been right and that this contact would show.

  Then, just like that, a shudder of movement as someone darted into the storehouse, and Brent’s pulse quickened.

  “Sorry Calo, got to go.”

  Without waiting for a reply he ran into the downpour and headed for the storehouse’s entrance.

  Entering he was greeted with pitch blackness. Raising his torch he moved forwards cautiously. Packing crates and other materials appeared to be stored here but nothing else of interest. But then he noticed a small dot of light in the centre of the gloom. Making his way forwards, hand on his pistol he found a circle of light, projected from a single bulb that hung above. Within the light lay a small portable table and upon that sat a computer display.

  Brent had only just approached the terminal when a rich voice was uttered from the darkness.

  “Are you Dagon Brent? The galaxy's foremost bounty hunter and contract killer?”

  “Y-yes,” Brent answered, unintentionally stuttering.

  The voice merely laughed and sounded once more. “Do not be afraid. I wish to hire you and your excellent skills.”

  Brent choked down the sudden pang of fear that bit at his gut. “I don’t do business with shadows. Come out, or this deal will end before it has even begun.”

  In answer a tall man stepped into the illuminated circle and Brent half wished he hadn’t tempted fate. The man’s pale face clashed garishly with the light, the majestic head tattoos that adorned his pasty skull doing little to enamour his deathly appearance. A hard jaw and steely determined eyes stared Brent down, while his crimson armour, black cape and lightsaber hilt only made the man look more imposing.

  HK stumbled back from the spectre, hardly able to believe Its photoreceptors.

  It was Malak!