So, they let me go in peace—if you can call it that. Yoda didn't put me on any list of dangerous criminals; I even deliberately walked past some patrolling clones a couple of times just to test it out—nothing, zero reaction.
However, the question of a plan for my next moves truly loomed over me like the Sword of Damocles. First and foremost, I lacked information. To be honest, I'm not exactly a *Star Wars* lore expert—sure, I played a couple of games, watched the movies back in the day, caught a few of the TV series, but that's about it. I never really dove into it "headfirst." Taales's memories were another matter entirely, but even that data was already outdated... For the most part, anyway.
As for the fundamentals, though, I got lucky; practically nothing in the galaxy had changed. Vague memories of piloting starships helped me handle a modern starship models with almost no hiccups, and other technology didn't give me any trouble either. Thousands of years had passed since the days of *SWTOR*, yet technological development seemed to have completely ground to a halt. Could this be some invisible "threshold"—a point beyond which further progress in this galaxy is simply impossible? Did they reach a technological zenith and just "freeze" there? That sounds a bit dubious.
And if that's not the case, then what is the root cause of it all? A lack of war and competition, as the Sith claim? I suppose that's partly true, but it's merely a symptom. Stagnation becomes inevitable when massive corporations finally swallow up all their competitors, merging with one another; at that very moment, progress suddenly freezes. Why invest in new research when you already have a proven strategy that generates profit?
Alright, enough philosophizing. Let the people competent in such matters worry about technological advancement; my main priority right now is to create the conditions for them to do so later on. For the moment, I need to tear myself away from these rambling musings on "high concepts" and try to come up with an actual plan of action. Alas, the previous plan—as is so often the case—had gone completely to the wolfs, and so now I had to come up with something on the fly. And to think how perfectly everything had been going! If Kalerie hadn't told the Council about me, I could have used him to glean the necessary intel; but since he *did* tell them, one of the Masters was bound to come rushing in to "have a word" with me—and he'd surely drag the kid along for identification purposes. From there, it would have been simple enough to turn the boy to my side. All I'd need were the right words; after all, it doesn't take a genius to cast doubt on a few of the Jedis dogmas.
I'm certain I would have pulled it off, too—provided that accursed youngster had shown up with *any* Jedi from the Council, save for that damn Yoda. Although, if it hadn't been Windu, I would have had to play on the Master's sense of self-importance—something I wasn't at all keen on doing. After all, that was precisely how—among other methods—Palpy had "corrupted" Anakin, and I remembered all too well what he eventually turned into. I want nothing to do with guys like that. Oh well; this universe is supposedly small, so maybe I'll still cross paths with some lost Jedi or a wayward Padawan somewhere down the line.
As for the idea regarding the archaeologist—that wasn't just idle chatter. Perhaps it's the influence of Earth's mass media, but I still firmly believe that any competent team needs a guy who can serve as the group's designated "brain." After millennia of use, the local HoloNet has turned into such a cesspool that our own Internet pales in comparison. In theory, you can find literally *anything* on it; however, rather than wasting a ton of time sifting through it all yourself, it's far simpler to hire an "Online Assistant" to dig up the information for you. I have no idea who's actually on the other end handling these requests—sentients or droids—but either way, the service was well worth the few hundred credits a month it cost. At the very least, while we're flying somewhere, I'll set about remedying my ignorance—learning more about the changes that have taken place and about the culture of the DDG itself.
In the meantime, I've submitted an interesting data request; let's see how this firm handles processing such unconventional information. They promised to deliver the results within about ten hours. I had to shell out once again to cover an extra day's rental for a parking berth for my new ship.
By the way, it's officially designated a "Deep-X Long-Range Research Vessel"—or, more precisely, a specific modification of it—though everyone just calls it the DPX anyway. It's a fine vessel, boasting a Class 2 hyperdrive and an incredibly comfortable interior to boot. To be honest, when I finally signed the contract to purchase it—thereby ridding myself of that old transport ship I'd "borrowed" from Bane—my joy knew no bounds. I immediately christened it the *Aurora*, just for the symbolism of it. Sure, it doesn't exactly come equipped with massive cannons capable of shelling the Senate building, but it's not about the size; it's about the name itself—and what it stands for.
And although I did have to dip into my own pocket to purchase it—and the ship itself was far from new—it still felt so cozy that, without a second thought, I moved out of my hotel and took up residence there. Especially since it was designed to accommodate a crew of six sentient beings. Perhaps a bout of mounting paranoia played a role in this—I won't deny it—but the captain's cabin I now occupied felt immeasurably more pleasant than the cramped little room I had been renting before. I could even go so far as to call this place my home, even if everything about it looked incredibly alien to the eyes of a twenty-first-century human.
Incidentally, Gertis Tios turned out to be a remarkably guileless and pleasant fellow; so, feeling partly responsible for the transport ship that Kem had destroyed, I decided to take him on board as my captain. Especially since the old man had sincerely promised to work for me—and I sensed no deceit in his words.
Oh, and speaking of which: I can now sense emotions far more clearly—though I'm not entirely sure what to credit for that. It's likely just a matter of getting used to things, though my attempts at a sort of meditative practice must have played a part as well.
The old man—an Azumel, as I learned from him—also took it upon himself to look after Grana, teaching him his trade while Kem and I formed the "strike team." I was incredibly grateful to him for that; the last thing I wanted was to be saddled with a kid.
And so, nearly twenty-four hours later, I finally received a notification that the search was complete. The results were positive, which pleased me greatly. In short, I had tasked my Assistant with analyzing the situation across the planets of the Outer Rim to identify the most dilapidated, backwater world imaginable—but with a specific caveat: it couldn't be a lawless free-for-all; it also had to possess a population of reasonably decent size. To be honest—given my initial desire to forge a force capable of shaking the very foundations of the Republic (or even the Empire, should things drag on and my efforts go spectacularly awry)—two things were required right from the start: at least a handful of loyal comrades, and a base of operations. These would serve as the bedrock upon which all my future plans could be built. And one more thing... Engaging in a direct confrontation with either the Republic or the CIS is simply not an option for me—at least, not yet. Instead, I intend to maintain the pretense that I am personally uninvolved in the unfolding events, while secretly doing everything in my power to aid the Republic. Of course, my assistance will be directed toward the ordinary citizens; later—when the time is right—I will reveal to them exactly what I *really* think of the Republic. And let them just *try* to disagree with me then—after everything they've been through, their own people would curse them for it.
In fact, the inhabitants of certain worlds here—typically those situated far from the galactic core—live lives of such relative comfort that the peasants of the ill-fated Russian Empire couldn't have even *dreamed* of such luxury. If I play my cards right—and, more importantly, position myself correctly—this whole scheme should work out perfectly.
I need to form clandestine cells on suitable planets, staffed by people personally loyal to me, and proceed with the utmost caution. I must never lose sight of this galaxy's ultimate puppeteer—even if, in the movies, some of his "brilliant" machinations turned out to be nothing more than contrived plot devices designed to force a specific outcome (such as the episode involving Dooku's death). Who knows just how intelligent the *real* Sidious actually is? Better to overestimate him than the other way around.
For now, however, I need to find a world where conditions are as abysmal as humanly—or alienly—possible, and then make my grand entrance, clad entirely in "white"... or perhaps "black," depending on the local mythology. I will establish a nascent cult, rescuing a small band of hapless fools from the hellhole into which fate has cast them. It's a plan as reliable as a Swiss watch. In any case—even though in my previous life I engaged in active left-wing political work, such as giving lectures, campaigning, and the like—the knowledge I "brought" with me still has a tendency to fade. Moreover, a portion of it was lost during the "transfer" itself, so I needed to organize everything and commit it to writing somewhere. Recording it in book form would also make it easier to pass on to my followers.
And yes, I won't be a hypocrite to myself; I'll just say it straight. At the outset, I genuinely intend to establish a full-blown cult. In the past, I wouldn't have even entertained such a thought, but now... I see that it is the simplest path, and I feel that I will succeed far more easily if I proceed in precisely this manner. Perhaps the Force itself is "whispering" something to me? Interesting.
Of course, I admit that cultists are probably not the best "raw material" for proselytizing followers; many people will view them with skepticism due to their excessive zeal—much the way I myself used to view the likes of "Jehovah's Witnesses." However, when it comes to devoted sentient beings, I couldn't hope to find a more motivated bunch. The next step, then, is to give them the books I intend to write to study, run them through a bit of training, select the best candidates, and—presto—the job is done. I'll dispatch them immediately to a dozen or so planets, while I fly off to set up the next cult.
And as quickly became clear from the briefing sent to me by the Consultant, the destination for my first visit was a world named Riflor. To be honest, I hadn't even known of its existence until today, as it had never once "flashed across the screen" anywhere. The race inhabiting that planet—the Advozi—was, however, somewhat more well-known; upon seeing their image in the provided materials, I felt a vague sense of recognition—as if I'd seen something similar before—though I couldn't be entirely certain it wasn't just a glitch in my consciousness, still reeling from the rigors of interstellar transport.
I was even provided with a brief dossier on this world, from which it became clear that this unfortunate little planet—situated in the Mid Rim—suffered from intense tectonic activity. Frankly, the description could have ended right there. The locals are renowned for their technical ingenuity, a trait that enables them to survive in conditions that, at first glance, appear utterly inhospitable to life. Furthermore, the pursuit of personal enrichment has always held a special significance for them—a mindset driven by the constant destruction of property caused by the frequent earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that plague their world.
Based on the information at hand, I was already able to construct a rough outline of my plan of action. Alas, scaring the locals off by blowing up a gas pipeline certainly wouldn't work here. Although they weren't exactly spoiled for choice when it came to Sith Lords vying for influence over their minds, they still shouldn't be underestimated. At the very least, the dossier on the Advoze race contained not a single word about them being superstitious; clearly, a different approach was required—one I decided to figure out once we were on the ground and I'd had a chance to survey the situation personally. So, without putting it off any longer, I gave the signal to launch to our new captain. The old man was so childishly delighted to be back at the helm of a starship that I seriously began to doubt whether this guileless sentient being had ever actually been a smuggler in his life.
And so, while we were traveling through hyperspace, I decided to—as the Force adepts call it—meditate, in an attempt to understand just what exactly I was striving for. To engage in a bit of soul-searching, as we'd put it. I was prompted to do this by a particular observation: while my old dream from my previous life—of equality, brotherhood, and all the rest—was certainly alluring, I now sensed something else stirring within me. My character had changed. And that made me a little uneasy.
Whereas before I had pursued this path primarily out of a desire to help others—out of altruism, to be perfectly honest—now I was doing it all for myself. Or at least, in part, for the sake of my own selfish desire to leave a mark on galactic history—to change it, to make it better... At that moment, I paused; calming my mind even further, I finally unearthed—deep within myself—those very same "pure" desires: to help others and to build a new world for them, a place where everyone would have a place and a purpose. Yes, I had definitely changed; yet my old aspirations hadn't vanished entirely—they had simply been overlaid by new experiences and new perspectives. It seems this "merger" is going to haunt my character for the rest of my days; and with every passing moment, it looks like I'll be uncovering ever-deeper layers of how my personality has changed—damn it...
Well, what can I say? Having identified the source of my anxiety, I spent the remainder of the flight in a much calmer state of meditation, and for a fleeting second, I actually managed to feel... *something*. I was nearly overwhelmed by an urge to immediately rush out and slaughter anyone who crossed my path—but I quickly reined it in. That was a first for me. In the past, I'd felt the exhilaration of battle, but never this mindless fury—a rage that crashed over my unprepared mind like a tsunami.
It wasn't until a couple of hours later—after a session of standard meditation aimed at calming myself down—that I finally realized what I had just encountered: something that could genuinely be called the "Dark Side," as opposed to the mere parlor tricks I'd been dabbling in up until now. I have to admit, I hadn't expected anything like that.
Until you've faced something of this magnitude, the whole distinction between Jedi and Sith might seem like utter nonsense to you; but now, I have a much better grasp of what's actually going on. It seems the difference lies in how close you're willing to get to that precipice. The Jedi wall themselves off from it completely, while the Sith—conversely—walk right along the very edge. But damn it, that accursed *thing* nearly "consumed" me! Just like that—out of nowhere! I was just thinking about random nonsense, and then—*bam!*
Clearly, I hadn't gotten enough rest lately—at least not mentally. I had spent all that time constantly on edge, expecting first Ked, then the entire Jedi Council to show up en masse just to take me out personally. But here, aboard my own ship, I finally let go of that metaphorical "coiled spring" and relaxed a little too much... I still have so much left to learn, if only I could find a teacher. Maybe I should track down Darth Maul... Nah, I'm just joking—it's the nerves talking... Or maybe not. In any case, we had finally arrived, so I hurried to the bridge—just in time to gaze upon the planetary sphere known as Riflor, pockmarked here and there with smoking volcanoes. The time had come to put an end to this aimless dithering and get down to business.
XXXX
The spaceport greeted me with a low hum and the echoing sound of Kem's and my footsteps. It turned out to be eerily empty here; the cavernous hall—designed to handle the ceaseless flow of hundreds of sentient beings—looked half-abandoned. Some of the lights had simply gone out, and the multitude of holographic guide-lines, meant to direct arriving travelers along their designated routes, now looked utterly absurd.
The hall terminated in a row of six doorways. Five of them were sealed tight—in places even barricaded with crates—while beside the sole open one on the right stood a silver protocol droid in a deactivated state, along with a member of the local populace seated behind a small service window. The latter had just paused his reading of a datapad to stare at me in astonishment.
Just as I drew close enough to finally speak, the ground beneath my feet gave a sudden jolt that lasted a couple of seconds. I nearly lost my balance from the unexpected shock—a mishap that elicited a faint smirk from the creature seated across from me. The Advozjec—as the dominant local species was known—then began to speak. His voice was slightly lower in pitch than I had imagined—even taking his bulky frame into account—as if someone had run his audio through a program and dialed the pitch down a couple of tones:
"Greetings, guest of Riflor. For the coming year, tectonic activity is expected to be particularly intense. I suggest you insure your ship—unless, of course, you wish to find yourself stranded on our 'hospitable' world for a couple of extra years. There's an insurance agency booth just down the corridor," he mumbled, without even bothering to ask for my identification papers.
Incidentally, upon my arrival on Coruscant, I'd been forced to obtain a "passport"—the hell of it—identifying me as a citizen of the Republic. Back at the spaceport, the local security officers had practically pulled the "Elder Scrolls" routine on me—stopping me dead in my tracks with that classic line of theirs (slightly rephrased, perhaps, but the gist was the same): "You go no further until you've got your papers." Yeah. Papers. When I saw it, I nearly burst out laughing right there on the spot. A paper passport! With a blue cover, for crying out loud. Then again, I suppose I should have expected something of the sort. In any case, now both Kem and I could legally visit other planets—and, generally speaking, just enjoy life. All it took was paying off a few officials, and they whipped up all the necessary documents for us in no time. Gotta love democracy...—such were the thoughts running through my mind as I stepped out of the spaceport, only to immediately choke on the dry, scorching air.
The streets greeted us with that same familiar gloom and hopelessness—*Advozseks* wandered here and there on their various errands, paying no mind to the human and *Dashade* who were so alien to this environment; yet, that was not what immediately put me on edge. Rather, it was the ubiquitous graffiti and holographic billboards broadcasting pro-Separatist propaganda—a far too obvious hint that this little corner of the galaxy was likely already "claimed" and being actively groomed by the Neimoidian bankers. Then again, come to think of it, they are probably "grooming" just about every halfway suitable planet out there where things have gone to hell, so flying anywhere else wouldn't make much sense anyway. Of course, I'd prefer not to blow my cover prematurely, but I certainly don't intend to retreat without a fight, either. We'll just see who comes out on top.
Upon reaching the local equivalent of a bar—having first dispatched Kem on an important errand—I strolled leisurely inside and took a seat in a far corner, ordering something "cold." They served me some sort of local swill, complete with ice cubes at the bottom, and even a bar snack to go with it. I took a sip; it tasted incredibly bitter, while the snack—by contrast—was sickeningly sweet. The combination created a jarring clash, yet a mere moment later, the two flavors blended together, suddenly achieving a sense of "wholeness" that astonished me to the very core. I have no idea whether I'll manage to pull off whatever I came here to do on this little planet or not, but one thing is certain: I'm definitely taking a couple of crates of this miraculous stuff with me when I leave.
And so, doing my best not to get too heavily intoxicated, I sat there and listened in on the local drinkers. In any world, drunken sentients are the best source of information. And Riflor was no exception. When I finally heard the magic words from the absolutely plastered Advozjek—followed by something else entirely, something even *I* hadn't expected to hear—there was still a third of my drink left in the glass. So, feigning the role of an out-of-towner who'd had a bit too much—someone for whom the local swill had gone straight to the head—I staggered toward the door, triggering a ripple of whispers and snickers among the local drinkers. No matter; let them laugh. They'd have their chuckle and forget all about it—it wasn't exactly an uncommon sight.
Once outside, I ducked into an inconspicuous alleyway where I met up with Kem. Judging by his face—which looked even more hideous than usual—he'd been waiting there for quite a while and wasn't exactly thrilled about spending so much time stewing in this sweltering heat. I immediately relieved him of the item I'd sent him to fetch; his "special assignment" had been to dash over to the nearest second-hand shop and pick up some inconspicuous local threads for me.
Fortunately, humans and Advozjek didn't differ all that much in terms of physique—and since this planet was home to a multitude of other races as well—one could find an outfit to suit any taste or budget. As I realized the moment I laid eyes on the clothes, Kem had come up a bit short on the "taste" front; as for the "budget" front—well, *I* was the one running a bit thin there. In the end, I donned a simple, light-violet tunic with an unusual pattern running along the hems. Clad in this peculiar getup—and after doing a little "work" on my face to make my hair look a bit more disheveled and smearing my cheeks with local clay to simulate wiping away sweat with dirty hands—I set off for the meeting place of the local "rebels," a location I'd managed to glean from the drunkard's drunken rambling. Yes—just like that. I myself didn't expect that he would suddenly start whispering about it—so loudly that the entire cantina could hear—to his friend at the next table.
What was my plan? Ha—simple, really. Nothing can go wrong if you haven't actually planned anything in the first place. I'd spent far too long racking my brains over this while traveling through hyperspace, so I ultimately decided to just test the waters first—to go there, see for myself what exactly they were cooking up, and *then* figure out a strategy... or simply act on the fly, depending on the situation. Everything hinged on the level of local support for the separatist cause; however, since I couldn't recall any battles taking place here—at least not according to "canon"—I figured one of two things must be true: either my memory was full of holes and fighting *had* occurred here after all (and hey, I'm not a computer—I can't remember *everything*), or the locals simply couldn't care less about the separatists. Lending further weight to the latter theory was the fact that, despite the sheer volume of propaganda, the droid army still didn't control every single corner of the place.
And so—with practically zero preparation, and with only Kem left "in reserve" as a backup—I headed straight into the very den of treachery itself...
T/N: LET ME KNOW IF THERE IS ANY MISTAKES