Year: 14 BBY
Alex stood under the awning of an abandoned trading post on the 52nd level, watching the flow of people and vehicles in the narrow alley. The rain had been going on for three hours, turning the passages between skyscrapers into slippery traps, and the air into a thick suspension of water vapor and industrial emissions. Neon advertisements reflected in puddles, creating the illusion of a dual world—one overhead, the other underfoot.
The informant appeared exactly on time, materializing from the crowd like a ghost. A lanky Twi'lek with faded blue lekku—he worked as a cleaner in one of the elite entertainment complexes. His unremarkable appearance and position made him virtually invisible to wealthy clients, making him an ideal observer.
"I have something that will interest you," the Twi'lek said quietly, handing over a small holodisk. "A high-ranking Imperial officer. Very high-ranking. What he does... it goes beyond even our standards."
Alex took the disk without looking at it. Experience told him it was better not to know the details beforehand.
"The usual price?"
"Double. Believe me, it's worth it. And be careful—if this comes out, the consequences will be serious not only for him."
The Twi'lek melted back into the crowd as unobtrusively as he had appeared. Alex slipped the disk into his jacket's inner pocket and headed for his speeder.
The drive to the industrial district took twenty minutes through the labyrinth of Nar Shaddaa's transport arteries. His dock was located in one of the old manufacturing blocks where Tibanna gas processing plants once stood. Now these massive structures were divided into dozens of small workshops, warehouses, and repair docks.
Alex ran his palm over the scanner, and the massive gates slowly parted. Dock "Star Anchor"—that's what he called his business—was a spacious room four stories high. In the center, on lifting platforms, stood three ships: a battered VCX-100 freighter, an elegant courier corvette, and a massive transport belonging to a local smuggler.
A dozen repair droids of various models worked on the ships—some welding hull plates, others tuning engines, still others laying fiber optics. Their metallic manipulators moved with surgical precision, and their built-in scanners continuously analyzed the condition of the equipment.
Security droids patrolled the perimeter of the dock—six IG-88 models that Alex acquired through his connections in the criminal underworld. Their red optical sensors scanned every inch of the premises, and their built-in blasters were ready to open fire on any threat. Four more Droidekas stood on standby near the entrance—their lean silhouettes resembling metallic guardians, a reminder of the Clone Wars and the weapons and equipment that flooded the black market from the Separatists.
"Welcome, master," one of the IG-88s rasped. "No unauthorized entry attempts today. Work is being carried out according to schedule."
Alex nodded and walked into his office—a small room on the second level with panoramic windows overlooking the work area. Here he could observe all the processes and handle administrative matters at the same time.
Sitting down at his desk, he inserted the holodisk into the player and activated the recording.
What he saw made him clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. Even for Nar Shaddaa, where human vices reached unimaginable depths, this was monstrous. A high-ranking Imperial officer—judging by his uniform, at least a colonel—was involved in actions that went beyond any moral norms. Alex had seen a lot in his years on the moon city, but this...
He turned off the recording without watching it to the end. The first few minutes were enough to understand: this was not just a corrupt official, but a true monster in human guise.
How could one sink so low? Alex thought, putting the chip in the safe. This bastard surely had parents, teachers, someone raised him. What happens to a person to turn them into such a monster?
Power corrupts—he knew that. But to this extent? Or were they monsters from the start, and their high position simply gave them the opportunity to show their true faces?
Alex mentally added the officer's name to a special list—those whom he would make disappear from the face of the galaxy at the first opportunity. Not for money or political games, but simply because such creatures should not breathe the same air as normal sentient beings.
But for now, these thoughts only soured his mood. He couldn't sit still, pacing nervously around the office. Below, the droids continued their work, but their mechanical hum only amplified the feeling of emptiness.
"I need to switch gears," he realized. "I need a conversation. A normal human conversation."
Alex opened his personal safe and took out a bottle of Corellian whiskey—one of those that Jack Tolcho regularly brought him as additional cargo. Jack was a reliable smuggler who not only fulfilled orders for transporting questionable goods but also delivered small joys of life—quality alcohol, natural kaff, rare delicacies. In a world where most products were synthetic, such trifles were worth a lot.
Taking the bottle, Alex activated his comlink.
"Uncle Garrek? It's Alex. Are you in the workshop now?"
"Of course, boy. Working on an order until late tonight. Did something happen?"
"I just want to talk. Can I come over? I have some good whiskey."
Warm notes sounded in his uncle's voice: "Always happy to see you. Come over!"
Alex gave his final instructions to the droids and headed for the exit. His speeder—a modified Flash Speeder 500—was waiting on his personal parking platform. Alex spent a lot of time and money on its modification: an enhanced repulsorlift engine, an improved stabilization system, an armored hull. On Nar Shaddaa, speed and safety often meant the difference between life and death.
The rain intensified, turning the air into a dense curtain. Alex pulled up his jacket hood and jumped into the speeder's cockpit. The engine came to life with a quiet hum, and the machine smoothly lifted into the air.
Nar Shaddaa's transport system was a three-dimensional labyrinth where traffic flowed not only horizontally but also vertically. Alex joined the stream on the 147th level, moving among hundreds of other speeders, cargo platforms, and passenger shuttles. The air lanes were marked with holographic signs, and automatic traffic control systems monitored adherence to distance and speed limits. Even on Nar Shaddaa, traffic organization was necessary. The Hutts didn't want their palaces to be crashed into.
A vertical transition signal flashed ahead. Alex moved into the right lane and prepared for ascent. The traffic control system issued a command, and the entire stream began to gain altitude synchronously. The speeders rose as a single unit, like a giant elevator of hundreds of machines.
The sensation was unusual—it felt like the whole world was slowly descending while you remained in place. Buildings floated past, their windows turning into glowing dots. Alex saw another stream of traffic moving far below, and even higher—a third level of transport arteries.
The ascent of twenty levels took about five minutes. When the stream leveled out on the 167th level, Alex switched lanes again and set course for his uncle's workshop.
Garrek's workshop was located in one of the old residential blocks, where the middle floors had long been converted for commercial use. Alex turned off the main transport artery onto a narrow side road intended for local traffic.
Familiar building outlines appeared ahead. Alex directed his speeder towards the parking platform, which hovered one level higher. The platform was small—enough for a maximum of a dozen vehicles. Currently, there were four other speeders and one cargo repulsorlift parked here.
Parking, Alex turned off the engine and activated the security system. On Nar Shaddaa, vehicle theft was common, so he didn't skimp on protective systems.
The transition between the platform and the building entrance was a narrow, unroofed metal bridge. The rain immediately poured down on Alex, forcing him to hurry. Drops beat against his hood, ran down his collar, and the wind at this height was particularly piercing.
Puddles squelched underfoot. Alex carefully stepped on the slippery metal plates, holding onto the handrails. One wrong move—and you could fall down to the levels where even security patrols preferred not to appear.
The view from the bridge was both mesmerizing and depressing. Below, as far as the eye could see, stretched the metallic labyrinth of Nar Shaddaa. The lights of windows, neon signs, streams of traffic—all merged into a single picture of a technological anthill. Somewhere far below, hidden by fog and smog, were the lower levels—places where sunlight did not penetrate and where only the most desperate or the most hopeless ruled.
The sky was covered by the lower parts of giant skyscrapers belonging to Hutt clans and large corporations. Cargo platforms shuttled between them, delivering goods and people to the upper districts where the local elite lived.
Alex adjusted his hood, shielding himself from another gust of wind, and hurried to the workshop door. The scanner read his biometric data, and the door quietly opened.
The warmth and dryness of the workshop felt like paradise after the cold rain. Alex shook the drops from his jacket and hung it on a hook by the entrance. The familiar sounds of working equipment, soft lighting, the smell of metal and electronics—all instantly brought him back to his childhood, when he spent whole days here, watching his uncle work.
"Uncle, I want a drink," he announced, showing the bottle of whiskey.
Garrek looked up from a disassembled droid and smiled. Years had left their mark—more gray hair, deeper wrinkles, but his hands were still steady, and his gaze sharp.
"Then come to the lounge. I just finished with this stubborn one."
They went into a small room at the back of the workshop, where there were comfortable chairs, a small table, and a holoprojector. This was Garrek's personal space—a place where he could relax after a day's work.
Uncle took a plate of snacks from the refrigerator—local delicacies he bought at the neighboring cantina. Alex opened the bottle of whiskey and poured the amber liquid into glasses.
"To our meeting," Garrek raised his toast.
"To family," Alex replied.
They drank and sat down in the chairs. The holoprojector showed Imperial news—more fleet victories, optimization of trade routes, speeches by high-ranking officials. Standard propaganda broadcast throughout the galaxy.
"How's business?" the uncle asked, taking a sip from his glass.
"Ships are being repaired, money is flowing. Plenty of clients—smugglers, mercenaries, all sorts of riff-raff. Everyone wants their rust buckets to fly faster and more discreetly."
"And how are you yourself? You look tired."
Alex almost waved it off, but realized his uncle saw everything. Garrek knew him too well to believe his feigned cheerfulness.
"It's been a tough day. Sometimes I wonder if I've chosen the right path."
"Doubt is normal. The main thing is to remember who you really are."
Their conversation was interrupted by a melodic chime—a signal that someone had entered the workshop. Garrek frowned displeasily.
"Damn it, I forgot to close the entrance door."
He got up and went into the main workshop area. Alex heard voices—his uncle talking to a client.
"Sorry to bother you at this hour," said an unfamiliar male voice with a slight Outer Rim accent. "I have a problem with my protocol droid. It needs to be fixed as soon as possible."
Alex finished his whiskey and went out to see the visitor. In the workshop stood a middle-aged man in practical mercenary clothing—a reinforced jacket, comfortable boots, a belt with weapon attachments. His face was tanned and weathered, his hands covered in small scars—the marks of numerous skirmishes. Next to him on the floor stood a 3PO-model protocol droid with a dark casing.
"Good evening," the mercenary said politely, noticing Alex. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"No trouble at all," Garrek replied. "What's the problem with the droid?"
"Someone tried to install military protocols in it, and now it periodically shuts down. Yesterday it froze in the middle of a negotiation with a client—it was very awkward."
"I see. Usually, such repairs take a day or two..."
"I'll pay triple the rate if you can do it today," the mercenary interrupted. "I have an important meeting tomorrow morning, and I need the droid as a translator."
Garrek pondered. Triple payment was a significant incentive, especially at the end of the month.
"Alright, let's try to figure it out right now."
Alex stepped forward:
"Uncle, can I help? We haven't worked together in a while, like in the old days."
"Of course," Garrek said, pleased. "Together, we'll get it done faster."
They moved the droid to the workbench and began the diagnostics. Alex connected the scanner to the access port, and Garrek activated the diagnostic programs.
"So, let's see..." his uncle muttered, studying the readings. "Main systems are fine, but something's wrong with the personality unit."
"Let's try rewriting the basic protocols through the service port," Alex suggested, handing over the necessary tool.
The work completely absorbed him. He and his uncle worked as one – one held the part, the other soldered the contacts, exchanging hypotheses about the causes of the malfunction and ways to fix them. It reminded Alex of his childhood, when he spent hours in the workshop, watching the magic of repairing complex machinery.
"There it is," Alex said, discovering the problem. "A conflict between the etiquette protocols and the military subroutines. They're blocking each other."
"Hmm," Garrek approved. "Let's remove the military modules and restore the factory settings."
An hour later, the droid was ready. They activated it, and its golden optical sensors lit up.
"Thank you, masters," the droid said in its characteristic metallic voice. "All systems are functioning normally."
The mercenary paid, thanked them, and left with the droid. The workshop fell silent again.
"Good work," Garrek said, putting away the tools. "You haven't forgotten anything over the years."
They returned to the lounge and sat down again with glasses of whiskey. The news continued on the holovisor, but the sound was turned down almost to a minimum.
"Do you remember that old droid I fixed when I was a kid?" Alex asked, looking at the corner of the workshop where a familiar astromech droid stood. "R4-K9? Is that him?"
"Of course, I remember. You were so proud that you managed to get him running." Garrek smiled. "Yes, it is. I turn him on periodically for consultations. He has a lot of useful technical information stored in his memory."
Alex stood up and walked over to the droid. Memories flooded back – his first serious repairs, a time when the world still seemed simpler and more understandable.
"R4, activate," he said.
The droid hummed and came to life, its dome turning towards Alex.
"Welcome, Master Alex. It has been a long time since our last meeting."
"Hello, old friend. How are you?"
"All systems are functioning within normal parameters. Thank you for the quality repair. All nodes are still working flawlessly."
His uncle returned with another round of whiskey, and they settled in more comfortably. R4-K9 remained active, occasionally joining the conversation with surprisingly apt comments.
"You know, Uncle," Alex said, taking a sip from his glass, "sometimes I think about the nature of power. Why do people, once they get it, so often turn into monsters?"
"Power doesn't turn people into monsters," Garrek replied thoughtfully. "It just gives them the opportunity to show who they really are."
"If you'll permit me, masters," R4-K9 interjected, "my archives contain numerous examples of power corruption throughout galactic history. Statistically, the probability of abuse increases proportionally to the concentration of authority."
"Wise words," Alex nodded. "But what makes people strive for power in the first place? The desire to help others, or their own ambitions?"
"From my observations," the droid continued, "the motivation can vary greatly. But the system gradually corrupts even the most idealistic individuals."
Garrek shook his head:
"Not all. There were and still are people who maintain their principles despite everything. They're just talked about less – good deeds rarely make the news."
"Perhaps," Alex agreed. "But what about those who have already crossed the line? How do we stop the monsters in power?"
"A difficult question," his uncle admitted. "Sometimes the system can correct itself. Sometimes external forces are needed."
The conversation touched on a painful topic, and Alex felt his morning's gloomy mood returning. The image of the Imperial officer from the recording flashed in his mind, making him clench his fists.
"And what if the system is too rotten?" he asked. "What if the only way to stop evil is to destroy it?"
Garrek looked at his nephew intently. Understanding was evident in his eyes – he knew Alex wasn't talking about philosophical abstractions.
"Revenge is a dangerous path, boy. It's irrational, and anything irrational only brings problems."
"But sometimes it's the only way to restore justice."
"Justice doesn't exist. It's just another illusion."
R4-K9 hummed softly, drawing their attention:
"Master Alex, my archives contain data on numerous cycles of revenge in galactic history. Statistically, they rarely lead to positive results in the long term."
Alex finished his whiskey and pondered. Maybe they were right. Maybe his desire to destroy Palpatine and his ilk was just another delusion he needed to break free from, but he couldn't bring himself to give it up, nor did he want to.
But then what should he do about that officer from the recording? Just let him continue his monstrous actions?
"Uncle, my old toolbox... did you bring it from Corellia?" he suddenly asked, wanting to change the subject.
"Of course. It's in the storage room, on the top shelf. Why do you need it?"
Alex stood up, feeling a sudden surge of curiosity:
"I just remembered something from my childhood."
He headed for the storage room, and R4-K9 followed him with his optical sensors.
"Let's see what you prepared for me back then, old friend," Alex muttered, opening the storage room door.
The box was found quickly – old, worn, with faded stickers of childhood hobbies. Alex opened it and began to rummage through the contents. Old tools, spare parts, a few toy droids... and there it was – a small data crystal, lying at the very bottom under a pile of childhood trinkets.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" his uncle asked, approaching with two glasses of whiskey.
"Perhaps," Alex took his portable reader and inserted the chip. "Remember I copied the data from R4? I was ten years old then, and I never looked at it. I wonder what's in there..."
The reader's screen lit up, showing the file structure. Alex scanned the list and whistled in surprise.
"Uncle... look at this."
Garrek peered over his nephew's shoulder and shook his head:
"There's so much here... Tens of thousands of files. It'll take ages to look through it all..."
Alex connected the reader to his uncle's computer and displayed the data on the large screen. The file structure turned out to be complex and convoluted – folders within folders, archives within archives, encoded data blocks.
"System coordinates, routes through unexplored sectors, technical specifications..." he muttered, opening random files. "R4, what is this data?"
"Apologies, Master Alex, but detailed information about the contents of the archives requires full authorization from the previous owner."
"Can you give me general information?"
"These are the personal files of Captain Jack Kord, an independent explorer and trader. The data was collected over thirty-seven years of active service."
Alex began to lazily browse the files, pouring himself whiskey from time to time. Most of the data was encrypted or required special access codes, but some remained open. Records of trade deals, coordinates of little-known planets, technical schematics for ship modifications.
Garrek watched with him at first, commenting on some technical details, but gradually his interest waned. He finished his glass and got up from his chair.
"I've had enough whiskey for today," his uncle said, stretching. "I have to get up early tomorrow, there's an urgent order. I'm heading home."
"Of course, Uncle. Thanks for the evening."
"You can stay if you want to dig into this data. Just don't forget to lock up the workshop if you go to your place."
Garrek put on his jacket and went out into the rain, leaving Alex alone with the computer and the archives of the mysterious Captain Kord.
Alex continued to browse the files for about another hour, but his enthusiasm gradually faded. Most of the data was inaccessible, and what he could read looked like the usual records of an independent trader. Coordinates of trading stations, prices for various goods, contacts of buyers and suppliers.
"I'm wasting my time," he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Wasting time on some garbage."
But something wouldn't let him simply turn off the computer and leave. His intuition told him that there was something important hidden in this data mass. He just needed to find the right approach.
Alex launched an analytical program – one of those he used for processing intelligence information in his business.
"Systematize the files by data type," he commanded. "Highlight navigation data, technical specifications, personal logs."
The program got to work, scanning thousands of files and sorting them into categories. The process took several minutes, after which an organized structure appeared on the screen.
Alex reviewed the sorting results and stopped at one category – "Navigation Data." There were several hundred files here, most of which contained standard hyper-routes between known systems.
But some stood out from the general mass.
"Hmm..." he muttered, opening one of the files. "Now this is interesting."
A three-dimensional map of an unknown sector of the galaxy appeared on the screen. Star systems were marked with strange symbols, and hyper-routes passed through areas that were marked as unexplored or dangerous on official maps.
Alex opened a few more files. Each contained detailed navigation data about routes to remote corners of the galaxy – places where no official explorer from the Republic or the Empire had ever set foot.
"R4, are these routes verified?" he asked.
"I confirm, Master Alex. Captain Kord personally plotted and tested all indicated routes. Security level – high."
Alex felt his pulse quicken. Secret hyper-routes to unknown systems – this was a gold mine for anyone involved in research or smuggling. Such information was worth a fortune.
He continued to study the files, and the picture became even more interesting. Captain Kord was clearly no ordinary trader. His routes led to ancient ruins, abandoned stations, planets with unique resources.
"Now this is really interesting," Alex muttered, pouring himself more whiskey.
Outside, the rain continued to drum against the glass, and the neon lights of Nar Shaddaa flickered in the darkness. But Alex no longer thought about grim recordings and Imperial monsters. New horizons were opening before him – secret paths to forgotten worlds and ancient secrets.
For the first time in a long time, he felt genuine excitement about the opportunities that had opened up.