Location: Meeting at a neutral station
Time: 5 BBY
Alex leaned back in his chair, rubbing his tired eyes. For three weeks now, he had been studying the accumulated database, trying to find any clue about the location of the Rakatan educational centers. Most of the data was useless—trade routes, dead for twenty-five thousand years, lists of slaves, administrative orders. The archive was huge, but ninety percent of the information was of interest only to historians.
But today, he was lucky. In one of the administrative documents, he stumbled upon a mention of a "Slave Training World"—a planet where captured prisoners were sent for "adaptation to service in the Infinite Empire." The coordinates were given in the old Rakatan measurement system, but the program managed to convert them.
Perhaps it was an empty lead. Perhaps there was nothing left on that planet but ruins. But it was another Rakatan world, and there he might find new data, expand his knowledge base, and get another clue in his search for the real archives.
Alex looked at the schematics of the intelligence network covering the laboratory wall. Hundreds of communication lines, dozens of agents, years of painstaking work to create a reconnaissance web. But now, all of it seemed like a burden to him. He could no longer carry this load. There was a person much more competent in such matters—Luthen. Everyone should do their own job.
Alex activated the secure connection. Luthen responded a few minutes later.
"Alex? Did something happen?"
"No, everything is fine. Luthen, I need to meet with you. I've found a new lead and I'm going to be away for a long time. I need to hand over my affairs to you."
"Understood. Where do we meet?"
"Do you remember the trading station in the Kelada system? The one on the Rimma-Trade-Route?"
"Of course. When?"
"In three days. And Luthen... this might be our last meeting before we go our separate ways."
Silence hung in the air.
"Understood," Luthen finally said. "I'll be there."
The abandoned trading station in the Kelada system greeted Alex with half-dead corridors and flickering lights. It had once been a bustling transit point on one of the galaxy's main trade routes. Now, after the Empire rerouted traffic through its controlled systems, the station was slowly dying in the void of space.
Alex docked at one of the half-empty docks and walked through the corridors to the central atrium. Instead of thousands of merchants, smugglers, and travelers, a few dozen desperate beings now huddled here, trying to survive on the remnants of past prosperity.
Luthen was already waiting for him in one of the few still-functioning cafes, sitting at a table by the panoramic window. He had aged over the years—gray had touched his temples, and a peculiar weariness had appeared in his eyes, the kind that comes to people who have taken on an unbearable burden.
"Alex," Luthen stood up and hugged his friend tightly. "Glad to see you."
"How are things with the creation of the Alliance?" Alex asked, sitting opposite him.
"Slowly but surely," Luthen poured two glasses of Corellian whiskey from a bottle he had brought. "We have contacts with disgruntled fleet officers, with scientists whom the Empire has removed from their work."
"And what about that Empire project I asked you to investigate?"
Luthen's face darkened: "We haven't found out much yet. It's called 'DS-1,' officially some kind of mining station. But the scale of construction suggests it's something much more serious. I've recruited several agents in the Kuat and Maw systems. Let's see what comes of it."
"Mining station?" Alex chuckled skeptically.
"Yes, someone there has a sense of humor. But we haven't been able to get close yet. The project is classified at the highest level."
Alex nodded and took a small crystal chip from his pocket: "Here are all the data from my intelligence network. Access codes, agent personal files, communication schematics. You'll need this more than I will."
Luthen took the chip and looked at it for a long time: "You're handing over the work of many years. These people are irreplaceable."
"Your task is more important. The Alliance must be ready for the moment the Empire begins implementing the 'Restructuring' plan. And agents in the capital won't help me—I'll be looking for answers among dead worlds."
"And what about your business? The shipyard?"
"Loyal sentient beings will remain there. Officially, I'll be on extended business trips."
Luthen nodded and handed Alex another chip: "And these are my contacts in political circles. If you need support or shelter, contact these people."
"How is Klya doing?" Alex asked.
"She's not a child anymore," Luthen's voice held pride. "Smart, determined. I've taught her a lot—trading, politics, and conspiracy. I plan to hand over my affairs to her when the time comes."
"Does she know what we're doing?"
"She does. And she's been helping me with coordination for a long time. She says it's better to risk everything trying to change the system than to live with the knowledge that you could have done something but chose safety."
They exchanged data in silence, understanding the symbolism of this gesture. Years of working together were coming to an end. Now, each would go their own way.
"Alex," Luthen said quietly, "what if we don't make it in time? What if the 'Restructuring' plan starts to be implemented before you find the archives, and I create the Alliance?"
"Then at least we'll try," Alex finished his whiskey. "There are things more important than our lives. More important than our comfort and safety. You know, I have a feeling that I have a mission, a path. As long as I walk this path, my life is right. It doesn't matter where this path leads me. What matters is loyalty to the path... I don't know how to explain it."
Luthen extended his hand: "I understand you. I swear to see this through. At any cost."
Alex shook the offered hand: "I swear. And if one of us doesn't survive, the other will continue for both of us."
They sat in the cafe for another hour, discussing coordination details, communication systems, and contingency plans. But both understood that this was just an attempt to postpone the inevitable farewell.
When they finally stood up to go to their ships, they hugged one last time.
"See you on the other side of history," Luthen said.
"Definitely," Alex replied.
Luthen left, and Alex remained alone in the dying corridors of the station.
***
Instead of going straight to his ship, Alex decided to walk around the station. He needed time to process what was happening, to comprehend the scale of what lay ahead.
The central atrium, which once buzzed with the voices of thousands of beings, now resembled a tomb. Half the shops were closed, their windows covered in dust. The remaining merchants sat behind their counters as if waiting not for customers, but for death.
Alex stopped near one of the closed shops. Through the dusty glass, rows of outdated equipment were visible—computers from a decade ago, communicators that no one bought anymore, spare parts for ships. The owner, an elderly Duros, sat inside, staring hopelessly at his merchandise.
This was degradation in miniature. When the trade flows dried up, the station began to die. First, the large corporations left, then the medium traders, then the small ones. Only those who had nowhere else to go remained—the old, the sick, the losers. And they slowly died out, having no means to move or live a normal life.
Alex walked further, towards the residential sectors. The picture here was even sadder. Entire blocks stood empty, their windows gaping black holes. In those that were still inhabited, mainly elderly beings lived—those who remembered the times of prosperity and could not come to terms with the necessity of leaving.
He peeked into one of the bars in the residential sector. The establishment was called "Galactic Pier" and, judging by the interior, had once been a rather prestigious place. Now, it was almost deserted—only the bartender and a few lonely patrons drowning their sorrows.
Alex ordered a whiskey and sat at a table by the window, through which distant stars were visible. Quiet, melancholic music played—something from old Corellian ballads. The table was sticky from spilled drinks, and the air reeked of cheap tobacco and despair. But he didn't care.
He looked into space and thought about how what was happening here was just a prelude to what awaited most of the galaxy. When the Empire began the active phase of the "Restructuring" plan, a huge number of worlds would find themselves in the same situation as this station.
First, they will cut them off from hyperspace routes. Trade ships will stop arriving. Supplies of modern components will cease. Communication with the rest of the galaxy will be severed.
Then the real nightmare will begin. Many worlds were highly specialized – some produced food, others industrial goods, and still others extracted raw materials. Without trade ties, this specialization will turn into a deadly trap. Industrial worlds will not be able to feed their populations. Agrarian planets will be left without modern equipment and fertilizers. Mining colonies will lose their markets.
The trade chains that bound the galaxy together will collapse. Worlds that have depended on imports for millennia will suddenly find themselves on their own. And most of their inhabitants simply won't know how to live without modern technology.
Alex imagined Nar Shaddaa without food supplies from agrarian worlds. One hundred billion inhabitants, and almost all the food is imported. What will happen when the transport ships stop arriving? How long will it take before famine begins?
And what will happen to worlds dependent on imported medicines? To planets where the local ecosystem has been disrupted by industrial production and maintained only by technology? To colonies on planets with hostile environments, where life was only possible in sealed cities?
This will be the greatest galactic genocide in history. Civilization on the cut-off worlds will collapse not in decades, but in years. Trillions or even quadrillions of sentient beings will die not from war, but from the банальное lack of food, medicine, and energy.
And the most terrible thing is that the elite understood this perfectly. They knew they were condemning eighty percent of the galaxy to death. But they considered it an acceptable price for preserving civilization in the core.
Alex finished his whiskey and ordered another. The same sad music was playing in the bar, and he allowed himself to just sit and think. To think about the scale of the impending catastrophe, about what he had to do, about the price that would have to be paid.
Perhaps somewhere among the dead worlds of the Rakata lay the answers. Technologies that could free the galaxy from millennia of dependence. Knowledge that could give civilization a third path – not to sacrifice eighty percent for twenty, and not to risk everything to preserve the status quo.
But the search will take years. Years of wandering through forgotten systems, studying ruins, deciphering ancient records. And there are no guarantees that he will find what he is looking for.
Meanwhile, Luthen will be creating the Rebel Alliance. Uniting the disgruntled, preparing resistance, planning a rebellion against a system that has existed for thousands of years. Also without guarantees of success.
Two people, two paths, one goal. To save the galaxy from planned genocide.
Alex looked at the other bar patrons. An elderly Corellian in the corner was quietly crying into his glass – perhaps remembering better times. A middle-aged Twi'lek sat at the bar, looking hopelessly into space. A young man of indeterminate race was reading news on a tablet and occasionally shaking his head.
They were all victims of the system. Small, insignificant victims – their lives were broken not because of grand plans to save civilization, but simply because trade flows shifted in another direction. But in a few years, there will be billions and trillions of such victims.
Alex finished his second glass and stood up. It was time to return to the ship. Verena was probably worried, and a long journey to an unknown planet, where the Rakata once trained their slaves, awaited them.
He left a generous tip for the bartender – perhaps it would help him last a little longer. Then he walked through the deserted corridors to the dock where his ship waited.
At the ship, a worried Verena was indeed waiting for him.
"How was the meeting?" she asked.
"As expected," Alex replied, sitting in the pilot's seat. "We've divided our areas of responsibility. Luthen is creating the Rebel Alliance, and we're going in search of the Rakata archives."
"So, we're parting with normal life for a long time."
"I'm afraid so. Verena, you can still change your mind. Stay on Nar Shaddaa, maintain the appearance of normalcy. It will be safer..."
"Alex," she put her hand on his shoulder, "remember what you told me the day we met? That everyone has the right to choose their own destiny?"
"I remember."
"Then let me choose. I want to be with you. I want to help find these archives. I want to contribute."
Alex looked at her – at the one who had been through hell and slavery and retained the ability to compassion. Who was ready to risk everything again for others.
"Alright," he said finally. "But it will be a long and dangerous journey. Years of wandering through dead worlds, no guarantees of success. It's probably hopeless."
"But we'll be together," she smiled. "And we'll know we're doing the right thing."
Alex started the engines, and the ship pulled away from the station. Luthen's ship flashed past the viewport, already heading for hyperspace jump.
Alex looked again at the dying station. In a few years, it might be completely empty. And in a decade, it will turn into space debris. But if the "Restructuring" plan is implemented, then not just one station, but eighty percent of the galaxy will face such a fate.
He entered the coordinates for "Slave Training World" – an ancient planet on the edge of the Unknown Regions, where the keys to saving civilization might be found.
"Ready for the jump?" he asked Verena.
"Ready," she replied, and her voice held the same determination as Luthen's.
The stars turned into lines, and the ship disappeared into hyperspace. Behind them lay years of relatively peaceful life, friends, the familiar world. Ahead lay dead worlds.