Chapter 9

Arts of Parts, a local Onesto drone workshop, was not exactly bustling with customers one evening. Ramona sat behind the counter tinkering away on an old utility drone, deep in its circuitry. For almost a month she had been working on getting it back up and running, now, almost...ZAP. “OW,” Ramona hissed. She frowned, her right index finger turned pink with a smudge of black scorching. She kicked the piece of junk over, adjusted on her stool, then resorted to toying with the silver bracelet wrapped around her wrist as she so often did with unconscious effort. She liked how the glow of her green irises reflected off the metal.

A couple of ashans were browsing around. Ramona did not much like their kind. Not their race, just any type of creature that did not spend money in her shop. They “ooed” and “ahhed” at the amalgamations of metal bits, gears, tubes, and hollow drone chassis. One clumsily knocked over a box with his large scaly tail, littering the floor with hundreds of metal casings. The other somehow managed to get their snout and colorful frills tangled in some wires.

This particular couple also was intent on making the most ignorant comments and questions. “Does this one play music?” one ashan hissed. “Oh, would this serve drinks at a party?” Ramona answered each of their senseless and misguided inquiries with as much salesmanship as she could muster through gritted teeth. The couple left without buying anything or even closing the door behind them. Maybe they would be back; maybe they would not. Ramona did not want them back, though. She plopped down into her chair behind the counter as heavily as she could with her light body to fix some power couplers, flicked her hand through the air to close the door, and went to work with a melding wrench.

Not a minute passed before she decided she could not concentrate. She slammed her palms on the counter, actively resisting the urge to throw something; instead, she made muffled irate curses and mad grunts into her arm.

“I’m sorry, Ninety-eight and F-Eleven, maybe the next ones will be more interested,” Ramona said like a reassuring mother to her children once she finished cursing to herself. In another corner sat three stout probe drones, shiny and lined up, ready for purchase. Ramona herself hand constructed each one elaborately, and uniquely designed them with thousands of intertwining and turning pieces.

Loud buzzing and chiming came from one of the other probe drones.

Ramona sighed. “No, not you, Eights.”

More angry chirps erupted from the cute spherical drone, its large camera eye stared right at Ramona.

“Well, are you not happy I want to keep you?” Ramona said. “There’s hardly enough credits to keep the store afloat.”

Eights continued its babbling onslaught of beeps, rings, and clicks. Sometimes it was hard to take the little drone seriously. No matter how angry it got, irate chirps were adorable coming from a semi-sentient ball the size of Ramona’s head.

“No, I promise I did not trick you with the new hydraulic pump to make you more marketable! You did say you wanted a new one.”

Ramona cusped her hands over her blonde and pink hair, taking deep breaths to try to calm herself down. She desperately did not want to sell her favorite drone. Not that it mattered much— even putting her best work up for sale, customers were either rude or indifferent, or they were spoiled and cheap. Ramona checked her sales figures on a datatab. Abysmal. Her list of clients was a small one; hardly anyone came back twice, but there were a few regulars who were always kind, she reminded herself. Their company was cherished above all else, and they were generous spenders too. Plus, they appreciated hard work.

Dronesmithing was a fine art prized only by the most dedicated and skilled craftsmen in the galaxy; an art that was dying out in favor of large, cost-efficient manufacturers like Techno-Tek and Robo-Ran. But those soulless corporations didn’t know the first thing about quality, and they probably did not even care. Dronesmithing was about building unique creations so wonderful and complex that they could effectively take on a life of their own. Techno-Tek opted to mass-produce basic servant drones without a hint of free will or personality in them. A half-decent personality matrix could take weeks to make; building one of truly complex nature was like teaching a child to walk and talk.

Eights, for example, was constructed as a standard probe without a hint of personality. But years of love and care had turned it into the equivalent of an irritable teen, more intelligent than everyone— and it knew it. Ramona was flushed with pride every time she thought about how her drone had learned so well from its creator. People did not usually care about personality; obedient servants were all the rage. Ramona brooded over her competitors, wishing great misfortune upon them.

If only she could get away from Kanchi. Boarding a ship, forgetting the terrible memories, and leaving the dirtball she called home for fourteen years was something Ramona dreamed of almost daily. There was a whole galaxy out there with endless opportunities just waiting! Rumor had it the people of the Himdek system appreciated talented crafters, praising their skills above all else. Not only that, but their home planet had snow-capped mountains, lush forests, vast oceans, and hardly any crime to speak of. Ramona played out scenarios in her head on how she would disembark on Himdek and put all their dronesmiths to shame with her collection. But living there was not cheap; where the credits would come from was an ever-elusive problem. For now, she would have to continue living at the workshop with Martha.

Upstairs was the living space, complete with three bedrooms and a kitchen/dining/living room space. Ramona’s bedroom was mainly auxiliary storage for all the parts that could not fit in the workshop. Their home/shop fit snugly within a row of motley and compact buildings all housing their own businesses. Arts of Parts blended in despite its neatly hand-painted sign. By day the neighborhood was quiet, but the streets exploded with enough foot traffic to justify all the different shops at night.

Most nights after work, Ramona would sit by her window adoring the perfect view of downtown with all its tall-ish buildings, lights, and the monumental triple-towered Cathedral that dominated the rest of town, yearning to be a part of it. Sometimes she would sneak out of the house, just for fun, and go explore the town in the dead of night. Nothing exciting ever happened in Onesto, however. Wandering the streets was the closest thing to fun Ramona ever got; it made her feel free and independent from the troubles that awaited her back home.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Martha came from upstairs covered in powdery white elesian flour, smelling like the freshness and sweetness of bread loaves. A smell that never got old to Ramona; the aroma always brought on somber memories. Nonetheless, she was happy to see the image of her mother.

“Nobody is buying my spare parts or my drones— I’m even trying to sell off Eights and he’s my best drone!” Ramona vented to Martha, who always listened with a smile. “Well...I might be downplaying Eights’ capabilities some.”

“Maybe this will help you feel better,” said Martha with a gentle voice, brandishing a small basket of warm bread.

In an instant, Ramona snatched up a loaf and started biting pieces off. “Your bread is profoundly delicious,” she said between warm, soft mouthfuls. “I bet if we started a bakery and sold this stuff, I might be able to feed myself more than just bread, delicious as it may be.”

“There there,” said Martha patting Ramona on the back, leaving a white, skeletal handprint, “maybe one day you’ll be as great and amazing as I am.”

“Like I could ever uncover the secrets to your baking,” said Ramona.

“I’ve shown you the process at least five times, daughter.”

“I like the mystery behind the recipe.”

Martha Shrugged. “It’s just that special flour I order, it’s called…”

“Blah blah blah, the mystery lives on!” Ramona shouted while covering her ears.

“Sure, fine, Roam.” Martha ruffled her pinkish blond hair leaving it a powdery mess. “I’m so glad your blonde hair is coming back in, and that nasty pink dye is finally fading out.”

Ramona curled her lips, head full of flour, and looked at Martha with narrowed eyes. “Why are you like this?”

“You make me like this,” said Martha mockingly and reached down with both hands to mix in more flour into Ramona’s pink, powdery hair.

Martha went back upstairs, leaving Ramona alone to clean the flour out of her hair. A ring came at the door and a rather large man stepped in; Ramona knew that he had never been in the shop before, or even in their market street for that matter. He had short fading black hair with a beard arching around his jaw and he wore a brown cloak that concealed most of his other features. He browsed around, taking in the myriad of drone parts that hung in the shop just like every other customer that came in, but then he held out a silver block and began looking around the room for something. Weird.

Ramona watched incredulously as he approached the counter.

“See something you like, off-worlder?” Ramona asked.

The man stopped in his tracks with a perturbed look on his face. “Excuse me?” he shot back, eyeing Ramona carefully.

“You stand out like a rantha cow in Numordia.”

That seemed to annoy him. “And you stand out like a white dust addict.” He pointed to his head.

Ramona shook more flour out of her hair. Curse you, Martha.

“Anyways, I come to peruse your wares. Might I speak to the person in charge, young girl?”

He did not just say that. “Who are you calling a young girl?” Ramona growled and glared with her bright green eyes. “I happen to be the one in charge here! I design the drones, I build the drones, and I sell the drones.” She crossed her arms and did not break her sharp glowering.

“Is this how you speak to all of your customers?”

“No, just to all the condescending off-worlders that walk in here,” Ramona retorted.

“Insolent little one aren’t you, that’s…” he trailed off for several seconds, his eyes fell on Ramona’s silver bracelet, then darted back to the silver block, then back to the bracelet. “…I…er, as I was saying-” he continued, although his eyes did not turn from the bracelet, “-perhaps you can tell me where you got that silver trinket of yours.”

Ramona jerked her wrist away, hiding it from view and thinking how weird the man was being. “Aren’t you here looking for something that’s for sale?”

Finally, he broke his gaze away to view the drones lined up by the stairs. He examined them closely, like someone that knew what flaws to look for. “One of those probe drones over there might be what I need,” he said.

“Well, what do you need exactly, sir?” Ramona asked, fully expecting him to ask if one will take out the garbage or clean his floors.

The man eyed her with contempt, “I need a drone with a five hundred millimeter scanners and architectural skimmers, as well as total reliability. It’s crucial that this drone does not malfunction during its operation.”

Dropping her guard ever so slightly, Ramona stared at the man in disbelief. Wait a minute! Am I going to make a sale? “Oh yes!” Ramona said so suddenly that she surprised herself, “Uh, I have a drone right over here with those exact…specifications,” her enthusiastic salesmanship faded as she approached Eights. “This one is named Eights,” she continued gloomily, “and he far exceeds the needs you listed.” The irises of her green eyes reflected back in the drone’s camera eye.

“You name your drones?”

Bristling at the man’s words, Ramona continued her supposed sales pitch. “Uh…yes, I do. I just think it makes them more lovable, you know? I mean, not that you need a loving drone or anything…uh, yeah…” What are you saying! Ramona screamed internally.

The man just regarded the awkward girl curiously. “I suppose not. Now I’ll also require that this purchase remain unofficial. I would prefer to avoid any Amani attention.”

“You’re an offworlder all right,” Ramona said while placing her hands on her hips, trying to remedy how awkward her behavior was.

“How are you so sure?”

“Well, the Amani doesn’t technically govern Onesto, or anywhere on Kanchi for that matter. They just kinda built a bunch of shipyards, and all our people have jobs, so everyone’s happy. They also hold a garrison around the Cathedral for whatever reason…it’s kinda weird, really. And anyone that lives here knows it.”

“I see... perhaps we can get back to the matter at hand then?”

“Yes! Sorry, I forget how to talk to people sometimes…” Ramona mimicked a laugh the best she could.

“I expect that two thousand credits should be more than adequate for…Eights as you call it.”

Ramona just stood completely still for longer than she should have. Did she hear that right? “Two thousand credits?”

“It’s an exquisitely crafted drone. The finish on its ocular rotaries and hydraulic pumps exceed anything from a commercially built probe,” the man said with conviction.

Finally, someone who appreciated the love and devotion that went into building machines by hand. Ramona dared not believe it. She patted Eights on its flawless metal dome, gave it a great hug around its spherical body, and looked straight in its one big glass eye. “I’m sorry little guy…this is where we part.”

Eights began squawking and beeping crossly.

“Hey…hey…it’s going to be okay. I think this guy actually knows a thing or two about drones. I’m sure he will take good care of you,” Ramona said gingerly.

The drone hummed lowly in gloomy resignation.

Ramona’s heart stopped as the man held out a handful of credit chips. She had never seen so many in one place. She looked over, frowning to Eights, who was staring with its shiny black camera eye, then back to the credits, then back to Eights. Her stomach ached— her current diet might as well have been a bowl of ashes every day. Bread alone was not cutting it. Parting with Eights felt wrong, but this day was bound to come eventually, and no one else would pay near as much as this offworlder.

“It’s a deal…” she said, forcing the words out.