Location: en route to Coruscant
Date: 15 BBY
Another year had passed. The hyperspace outside the viewport shimmered with familiar blue vortices. He leaned back in the pilot's seat of his ship and reached for a cup of cooling caf. The ship had been on autopilot for three hours – there was still an hour and a half left until exiting hyperspace in the Coruscant system.
These regular flights had become routine over the past two years. Once a month, he loaded the cargo hold with antique finds bought on the black market of Nar Shaddaa and surrounding worlds, flew to Coruscant to sell them to collectors and aristocrats, and returned with components for his dock. The scheme worked, although it had become increasingly difficult lately.
Problems began six months ago when Gorgan realized that Alex had taken Verena from Nar Shaddaa. The Hutt decided that the hyperroutes he had received were not worth that slave, they turned out to be too inconvenient. He wanted Verena back, but when he learned that she was no longer on Nar Shaddaa, he became enraged. Alex found all this very strange, but he didn't try to figure out what was going on in the Hutt's head. Perhaps he wanted to enjoy watching Alex suffer with a broken slave. In a way, it turned out that way – the treatment cost Alex a fortune, but Gorgan wanted to see it with his own eyes. When he realized he had lost this entertainment, he began to take revenge.
At first, it was subtle – he raised the tribute for the right to work on the Hutt's territory. Alex was glad he had bought the dock rather than rented it. He was sure that the rent would have been raised for him. Then the Hutt began to pressure suppliers, unofficially forbidding smugglers from selling Alex components at old prices. Then attacks by "independent" raiders on his dock began, which, fortunately, ran into his security droids. In short, Alex was made to experience various unpleasantries.
Alex was already thinking about leaving Nar Shaddaa. But the smuggler's moon was too convenient a place for gathering information and conducting his gray business. Trade routes of half the galaxy intersected here, here you could find out everything about everyone. He was working for the future, slowly building his network of informants. Every conversation in a cantina, every deal, every rumor – everything was stored in his memory, forming a picture of the big game. And there was also the collection of compromising material. Alex couldn't use it properly, but he knew that sooner or later he would find someone who could.
He got up from the pilot's seat and walked to the small galley niche. The caf in the thermos had indeed cooled, and he decided to brew a fresh one. He took a packet of beans from the cupboard – real caf, not the synthetic junk sold on most worlds in the Outer Rim. One of the few luxuries he allowed himself.
While the water heated in a small thermal unit, Alex turned on the audio system. Melodious instrumental music poured from the speakers – something from old Republic-era recordings. He found this collection on one of the abandoned ships and decided to keep it. Music helped pass the long hours in hyperspace when there was nothing to do.
The aroma of freshly brewed caf filled the ship. Alex poured himself a full cup and, grabbing a portable scanner, headed to the cargo hold. Officially – to check the condition of the goods, in reality – just to stretch his legs and kill time.
"The Wanderer" was his home, his real home. The central corridor led from the cockpit through the living quarters to the cargo hold at the stern. To the left were two passenger cabins, to the right – the galley, bathroom, and a small workshop. Everything was compact, functional, without excess.
The cargo hold occupied a good third of the ship. Now it was filled with neatly secured containers of antique finds. Alex turned on the scanner and began the usual check – temperature, humidity, integrity of packaging. Most items were fragile and required careful handling.
This time, the cargo was particularly interesting. A collection of ancient jewelry from Alderaan – works by masters whose names were forgotten even before the founding of the Republic. Several rare sculptures of an unknown alien civilization, found in abandoned temples on fringe worlds. Antique ceremonial weapons – richly decorated swords and daggers that had never known real battle, but were works of art in themselves. And the pearl of the collection – a pre-war research vessel's navigation computer, containing maps of sectors that could be of immense value to the right buyers.
He had been collecting all these items for months through his network of contacts on Nar Shaddaa. Dealers in rarities, treasure hunters, amateur archaeologists – they all knew that Alex Corren paid good money for truly valuable finds. The problem was that selling on Coruscant turned out to be more difficult than buying on Nar Shaddaa.
Coruscant collectors were picky and cautious. They demanded provenance documents, authenticity guarantees, references. And most importantly—they needed constant contact, someone who could show the goods, answer questions, negotiate. Alex, however, showed up once a month for a few days and disappeared back to Nar Shaddaa.
The cargo inspection took half an hour. Everything was in order—containers intact, climate control working properly, no damage. Alex returned to the cockpit just in time—ten minutes remained until exiting hyperspace.
He turned off the music and took his place at the helm. Coruscant always demanded full attention—traffic too intense, too many ships, rules too strict. One mistake could cost him his license, or even his freedom.
The stars compressed into points, and the view of the galactic center opened up before him. Coruscant hung in space like a giant glowing ball, entangled by countless lights of transport streams. Even after dozens of visits, the spectacle still amazed the imagination.
Alex switched on the news wave to catch up on the latest events while waiting for the dispatcher's call. The announcer's voice was cheerful and official:
"...production growth on the industrial worlds of the Inner Rim was zero point zero three percent compared to the last quarter. The Minister of Trade expressed satisfaction with the figures..."
Boring economic statistics. Alex was about to switch to another channel when the announcer's tone changed:
"And now, important news from the Outer Rim. Agents of the Imperial Security Bureau have located and eliminated the traitor Jedi Roan Shryne during an attempted apprehension. The operation took place on the planet Lothal, where the criminal was hiding under a false name."
Alex felt his breath catch. Roan... He remembered the man well—a Jedi with whom he had flown from Corellia to Nar Shaddaa four years ago. It was still unclear to Alex how he had ended up in his container with the computational cluster.
"He was offered to surrender and face the fair trial of the Empire," the announcer continued, "however, the criminal attacked the operatives while trying to escape."
Another voice came on air—harsher, with military inflections:
"This is Agent Kallus, who led the operation. I want to emphasize that we gave the traitor every opportunity to surrender peacefully. But he chose the path of violence and received a corresponding response. There is still much work ahead of us—all traitors will be found and eliminated, no matter how long it takes. Treason has no statute of limitations. Long live the Empire!"
"Long live the Empire!" the announcer echoed.
Alex switched off the news and leaned back in his chair. Conflicting feelings warred in his chest. On one hand—relief. Roan was dead, which meant no one had interrogated him. No one had beaten information out of him about who helped him escape from Corellia right after the Jedi uprising. It would have been very bad if he had been captured alive.
Yes, it was cynical, but life was more important than principles.
On the other hand—pity. Roan was a good person. When Alex gave him a ride from Corellia to Nar Shaddaa three years ago, the Jedi never tried to impose his philosophy on him or lecture him about morality. He just sat in the passenger seat, looked out the viewport, and quietly thanked him for his help. Before disembarking, he said, "If you ever need me—let me know. I owe you one."
Now that debt no longer existed.
"Sorry, Roan," Alex said quietly into the empty cabin. "May the Force be with you, or whatever it is you guys say."
"Transport YT-1300, callsign 'Wanderer'," the dispatcher's voice came, interrupting his thoughts. "State your purpose of visit and cargo."
"Commercial flight," Alex replied into the microphone, forcing himself to focus on the present. "Cargo—art objects and antiques. Declaration submitted in advance."
"Confirmed. Follow corridor seven-seven-alpha to the Istus spaceport. Speed no more than two hundred units."
"Understood. Corridor seven-seven-alpha, Istus spaceport."
Alex activated the navigation computer and merged into the transport stream. Ships of all sizes and types darted around—from small courier vessels to giant cargo barges. Traffic was dense but organized. Imperial patrol corvettes vigilantly monitored compliance with the rules.
The news about Roan's death reminded him of the world he lived in. The Empire was methodically clearing out the remnants of the old order, and anyone who had ever helped the Jedi risked ending up on the "traitors" list. It was good that he was a small fry and hadn't been exposed with that Roan.
The Istus spaceport was located on one of the mid-levels of the city-planet. Not the most prestigious, but not the cheapest either—a golden mean for small traders like Alex. He rented a hangar here on a permanent basis and even acquired a small office in the commercial sector.
The landing went without a hitch. Alex went through standard customs procedures, presented his cargo documents, and received permission to trade. The customs officers already knew him by sight and didn't conduct thorough searches—a reputation as a law-abiding trader had its advantages, especially when one also rewarded customs officers for their responsible service with credits. Thanks to Jack Tolcho for the lesson.
By evening, all formalities were settled. Alex moved the cargo to his small warehouse and returned to his ship. He was just studying the catalog of components he planned to buy for the return trip when there was a knock on the hull. The sound was quiet but insistent.
Alex frowned—he wasn't expecting visitors, and it was already late. He had practically no acquaintances on Coruscant who would come without warning. He quietly got up and took a blaster from the holster hanging on the back of his chair. Years of living on Nar Shaddaa had taught him caution.
"Who's there?" he asked through the loudspeaker.
"Alex, it's me. Verena."
The voice was familiar, but Alex didn't relax. He kept the blaster ready as he opened the hatch.
"Come in," he said, making sure no one was behind her.
Verena climbed the ramp, glancing at how he hid his hand with the blaster behind his back. She looked good—much better than a year ago when he left her on Coruscant. Her blue skin had a healthy hue, her eyes were no longer empty, her movements were confident. She was wearing a simple but high-quality business suit—apparently, Alex's acquaintance's business was going well.
Only when the hatch closed behind her did Alex put the blaster back in its holster.
"Hello, Alex," she said, smiling uncertainly.
"Verena," he nodded, walking into the main compartment. "How are things? How's work?"
"Everything's good. Marvo is pleased, and so are the clients. I quickly figured out the logistics; it turns out that understanding the specifics of a pilot's work really helps in planning routes."
"Glad to hear it. What brought you here? How did you even find out where to find me?"
"Marvo told me. It turns out you've known each other for years, and he knows about your regular visits."
Alex mentally noted that he would need to talk to Marvo about confidentiality. Although Verena was unlikely to pose a threat.
"And what do you need?" he asked directly. He had mentally closed that chapter.
Verena hesitated, clearly choosing her words.
"I want to go back to flying," she finally said. "Marvo's job is good, but... it's not for me. I miss the stars, the ships. Do you have a place for a co-pilot?"
Alex studied her face. Something in her tone suggested that it wasn't just about wanting to fly, and he didn't like it when people beat around the bush with him.
"Yes," he replied cautiously. "But why me specifically? There are plenty of transport companies on Coruscant."
"Because I trust you," she said simply.
Alex decided to speak directly:
"Listen, Verena. I understand, but I need to know—won't your past interfere with the job? I don't want to get into trouble. I feel like you're not telling me everything."
She lowered her eyes, clenching her fists:
"I... I'm not okay, Alex. I have obsessive thoughts. About Gorga. About killing him. When I think about him, about what he did to my family..."
Her voice grew quieter:
"But I won't do anything without your permission. I promise. I won't snap, I won't get you in trouble. It's just... if there's ever an opportunity... " she looked up at him. "Allow me. Please."
Alex was silent, evaluating her words. There was pain in her voice, but also iron resolve. Not the madness of a victim, but the cold hatred of a rational person who knows exactly what she wants.
Alex remained silent, listening carefully. Interesting—their plans coincided. He himself had been thinking about eliminating Gorga for a long time. Not only because the Hutt was a maniac in the literal sense of the word—although that too. He had simply made his life too difficult lately. The slow strangulation of his business continued, and sooner or later, it would end with the death of one of them.
Alex intended to kill Gorga anyway and had been preparing a plan for a long time. It wasn't enough to just eliminate him; he couldn't get caught. If the girl was asking for something he was already planning to do, why not please her?
"I understand you," he finally said. "And yes, if the opportunity arises, I will help ensure that Gorga gets what he deserves. But promise me—don't do anything on your own. It's too dangerous."
Gratitude flashed in her eyes:
"I promise. I just want to fly and... know that justice will eventually prevail."
"Do you have a valid pilot's license?" he asked, shifting the conversation to practical matters.
"Of course. I renewed it six months ago."
"And flight experience after... after that incident?"
"A little. Marvo sometimes asks me to ferry ships. It's scary, but I manage."
Alex stood up and walked around the compartment. Thoughts swarmed in his head. He really needed a pilot. These constant trips to Coruscant took too much time, distracting him from his main business on Nar Shaddaa. And with the plans regarding Gorga, their interests completely coincided.
"Listen," he said, stopping in front of her. "I'm willing to take you on as a pilot. But first, I need to know that I can rely on you. That you won't break down at a critical moment."
"What do you propose?"
"Work with me. Become my co-pilot. I'll teach you everything you need to know about our business. I need not just a pilot, but an assistant who can handle some organizational matters for me. You'll fly to Coruscant instead of me. And as for Gorga... when the time is right, we'll deal with him."
Verena thought for a moment:
"And what kind of work will it be?"
"Antiques trading, transport, sometimes—more specific assignments. Nothing too dangerous, but not entirely legal."
Then he added:
"Five thousand a month plus a percentage of the profit. Plus accommodation on the ship and all expenses."
"That's more than I get from Marvo."
"And much more dangerous. Pirates, customs officers, sometimes bandits try to sneak onto the ship and steal cargo."
Verena stood up and extended her hand to him:
"Deal. When do we start?"
"Right now," Alex replied, shaking her hand. "Tomorrow we have client meetings. You'll see how it's done."
For the first time during the conversation, she smiled genuinely. A spark appeared in her eyes—not of madness, but of cold determination.
"And you'll really help me with Gorga?"
"When the time is right—yes. But remember—no freelancing."
Alex looked at her and no longer saw a broken victim. Perhaps this was true healing—revenge. Closing this chapter.
And he really needed a reliable pilot. Someone he could trust with his ship and his life. And who better suited for this role than a rational being whose life he had already saved and whose revenge plans completely coincided with his own?