12 years before the proclamation of the Empire
The morning light of Corellia's sun pierced through the high windows of the school cafeteria, casting long shadows between the rows of tables, like golden swords slicing through the gloom. Alex Korren sat at his usual spot by the wall, slowly chewing his synthetic breakfast – a tasteless porridge of recycled Mon Calamari seaweed that smelled of the sea and metal at the same time – and observing.
Beyond the high windows of the cafeteria, a breathtaking view of the forty-third level of the Corellian metropolis opened up. Below, like glowing dots in the morning mist, countless speeders darted – from elegant personal transports to massive cargo platforms, their repulsors creating a constant hum, reminiscent of the breath of a sleeping giant. And in the distance, like a city floating in the air, one of the flying quarters drifted slowly – a giant structure the size of a small asteroid, dotted with the lights of residential blocks and shopping centers. Its anti-gravity engines left a shimmering trail in the morning air, and long communication antennas hung from its underside, like the tentacles of a space kraken.
At the next table, Jack Dreyson, son of a small transport business owner—a boy with perpetually messy hair who spoke with a characteristic Correllian accent, stretching his vowels—was fiddling with a toy speeder. A miniature replica of the famous Correllian XP-38 buzzed and twitched, barely lifting off the table surface, emitting sounds more like the gurgle of a dying droid than the melodious hum of real repulsorlifts.
"It's glitching again, you damn piece of junk," Jack grumbled, striking the toy's chassis with his fist so hard that the nearby kids looked over. "Bought it yesterday for fifty credits, and it's already acting worse than an old freighter."
A persistent melody from the school's public address system poured out, the morning broadcast of "Holovision"—a local equivalent of a DIY show where enthusiasts demonstrated their homemade inventions:
"Welcome to the world of technical wonders! Where anyone can become a master, Where old parts find new life, And the impossible becomes simple!"
Alex listened to the conversation, setting down his spoon with the remnants of porridge that left an unpleasant aftertaste and a faint aroma of artificial spices in his mouth. Sitting next to Jack was Mira Thanos, daughter of a shipyard technician—a girl with a sharp chin and attentive gray eyes, who always spoke clearly and to the point, without unnecessary words—and she was twirling a portable holo-game in her hands, a primitive version of the popular "Asteroid Chase." The screen flickered with dim colors, and the control buttons emitted faint clicks when pressed.
"I have the same problem," she complained in her characteristic low voice, with a hint of irritation. "The reaction is so slow you could grow old waiting for the ship to turn. It's like you're controlling a cargo barge, not a fighter."
From the nearby "Star Dust" cafe, located on the first floor of the school complex, came the insistent melody of a popular song that had been playing for three weeks straight:
"Through the stars we fly afar, Correllian wind in our sails, No sadness, no barriers, In our brave hearts!"
The melody was so cloying and repetitive that Alex could already see some students involuntarily humming the chorus, not even noticing it.
Alex finished his bantha juice and stood up, approaching their table with the most innocent look. His movements were unhurried, calculated, as if he had just happened to be nearby.
"May I see it?" he asked in a soft voice, pointing at the speeder.
Jack shrugged and handed over the toy, muttering something unflattering under his breath about the quality of modern goods. Alex took it in his hands, feeling a slight vibration from the chassis—an irregular, intermittent one, indicating a system imbalance. He turned it over and found the access panel to the power cell. Inside, besides the standard battery, was a tiny repulsor unit—a cheap copy of the real systems that lifted speeders, speeder bikes, and even light transports into the air. The crystals inside glowed with a dim reddish light instead of the required blue, and the connecting elements were made of low-grade metal that was already starting to oxidize.
"The problem is with the frequency setting," Alex said, returning the toy and trying to speak casually, as if it were obvious to anyone. "The repulsor is operating at too low a power, and the stabilizers can't compensate for the fluctuations. Besides, the crystals are third-rate; they lose resonance quickly."
Jack stared at him, his mouth slightly open: "How do you know that, kid? Are you some kind of technician?"
"My father works at the shipyards," Alex replied evasively, shrugging. "I hear a lot at dinner."
It was true, but not the whole truth. His father did work at the shipyards, but Alex had learned the principles of repulsor operation himself, by dismantling broken devices and reading technical manuals in the data vault. Most of them were simplified, intended for users rather than technicians, but even they contained useful information if you knew what to look for.
Outside the window, a heavy cargo speeder roared past, its engines emitting a deep, bassy rumble that made the glass tremble. On its side was an advertisement for the new energy drink "Hyperspeed," and the same insistent melody from the cafe blared from its speakers.
"Can you fix it?" Mira asked, handing him her holo-game.
Alex took the device and activated it. A spaceship appeared on the small screen, moving among slowly drifting asteroids. He tried the controls—the ship turned with a noticeable delay, as if it were sailing through thick syrup, and the sound effects were muffled and distorted.
"I can try," he said finally, turning off the game. "But not here. I have tools at home."
And so it began.
In the evening, in his room, Alex laid out his tools on the table and carefully examined both toys.
The speeder turned out to be simpler—all it needed was to replace one of the stabilizing crystals with a more powerful one. Alex had a whole set of such crystals, salvaged from old devices he found in the storage room where all sorts of old junk was kept. Each crystal had its own characteristic hue of luminescence and resonance frequency, and Alex had already learned to determine their quality by their appearance.
The holo-game took longer to fix. The problem lay in the processor—a cheap crystal that couldn't handle processing the control commands. Alex couldn't replace it, but he found a way to optimize its operation by reprogramming some functions through the service menu. The work required patience and precision—one wrong move could turn the game into a useless piece of plastic.
Sounds of dinner preparation drifted from the kitchen—the sizzle of oil in a pan, the melodious hum of K-7PO, and the muffled voices of his parents discussing work matters.
Two days later, he returned the toys to their owners. The speeder now flew smoothly and confidently, its repulsors emitting a melodious hum, and its movements became precise and predictable. The holo-game responded instantly to commands, the sounds became clear, and the graphics—bright and contrasting.
"Incredible!" Jack exclaimed, launching the speeder in a flight around the classroom. The toy described smooth arcs, rising and falling with the grace of a real aircraft. "It flies better than new! What am I saying—better than in the ads!"
Mira was delighted with her game's reaction speed. The spaceship now responded instantly to commands, and the asteroid explosions were accompanied by realistic sound effects. Soon, a crowd of classmates gathered around them, all wanting to try the improved toys.
The "Holovision" program continued to stream from the school's speakers:
"Every part has a soul, Every screw—its own story, The master knows their secrets, And creates their victories!"
"Alex, can you fix my blaster?" asked Cort Selonius, son of a spice merchant, a boy with gentle manners and polite speech characteristic of merchant families. "It shoots, but the sound is kind of weak, not like a real one at all."
"And my pet droid doesn't walk at all," added Lana Antilles from a collateral branch of a famous Correllian family, speaking with that particular aristocratic accent that betrayed her origin. "It just lies there and blinks its eyes, like a dying firefly."
Alex felt the gears in his head start to turn. He saw an opportunity, and it was too attractive to pass up. Around him were dozens of children with broken or malfunctioning toys, and he had the knowledge and skills to fix them.
"Alright," he said, trying to sound businesslike but not too greedy. "But it will take time, and I'll need materials. It won't be free."
"How much?" Cort asked, pulling a small wallet from his pocket.
Alex quickly calculated. A new toy cost fifty to a hundred credits. Repair at an official workshop would cost twenty to thirty, but they often just replaced entire parts, not bothering with actual repairs.
"Fifteen credits for repair, twenty-five for an upgrade," he said after a pause long enough to show he was seriously considering the price.
It was cheaper than an official repair, but more expensive than a simple friendly favor. A golden mean that suited everyone.
"Deal," Cort nodded, and his voice held the satisfaction of someone who had struck a good bargain.
A week later, Alex already had five orders. He had turned his room into a mini-workshop, laying out his tools on the table and organizing the storage of components in old shoeboxes. Each box was labeled and contained a specific type of part—crystals, wires, batteries, microchips. K-7PO initially expressed concern about the mess, but Alex assured the droid that everything was under control.
"Young master," the droid said in its melodious voice, "doesn't it seem to you that your room is starting to resemble a spare parts warehouse?"
"It's organized chaos, K-7PO," Alex replied, calibrating another crystal. "Everything has its place."
The problem arose when his stock of crystals and microchips ran out. Alex realized he needed a supply system. Rummaging through dumpsters for old electronics was inefficient and unpredictable.
The solution came during lunch in the school cafeteria. Alex ordered his usual meal—a synthetic burger with artificial meat that smelled of spices and had the texture of real meat, a portion of fried vegetables, and a glass of fruit juice. The food was quite edible, though it couldn't compare to home cooking.
"I'll have the large combo number three," he told the vendor droid, "with extra sauce."
"It will be ready in three minutes, young sir," the droid replied, its manipulators already beginning to assemble the order with mechanical precision.
Rick Soldano, son of an electronics store owner—a lanky boy with quick movements and lively dark eyes, who spoke in bursts, as if always in a hurry—was complaining about a boring weekend at the next table.
"Rick," Alex said, sitting down next to him with his tray, "want to earn some extra money?"
"Depends on what needs to be done," Rick replied cautiously, taking a bite of his sandwich. "If it's something legal and not too difficult."
"I need components. Crystals, light threads, batteries. Nothing special, just regular spare parts. But regularly."
"From Dad's store?" Rick frowned, chewing more slowly. "He'll notice if something goes missing. He keeps track of every last screw."
"It won't go missing," Alex smiled, taking a sip of juice. "I'll pay full price plus ten percent to you for delivery and convenience."
Rick thought for a moment, his fingers drumming on the table. Ten percent of the turnover was good pocket money for a nine-year-old boy, especially considering there was almost no actual work involved.
"Okay," he finally agreed. "But if there are any problems..."
"There won't be any problems," Alex assured him. "Everything is honest and above board."
The next step was gaining access to more serious tools. Alex knew that Tessa Corrida, daughter of a master mechanic—a girl with strong hands and a direct gaze, who spoke slowly, considering every word—often got bored in her father's workshop after school. He approached her with an offer during the break, when she was sitting alone, reading a technical manual on speeder repair.
"I sometimes need to use good tools," he explained, sitting down next to her. "A soldering iron with temperature control, a frequency calibrator, maybe a diagnostic scanner. An hour or two after school."
"Why?" Tessa asked, not looking up from her book.
"I fix toys for the kids. A small business."
Tessa looked up and studied him intently. She was a practical girl, raised in a family of craftsmen where every tool had its price, and time had its cost.
"And what's in it for me?"
"Five credits for each visit," Alex said. "Plus, if you want, you can help. I'll teach you how to work with electronics."
Tessa closed her book and thought. She was interested in learning about technology, and her father was always too busy to teach her the intricacies of the craft.
"Deal," she said. "But no experiments with dangerous things."
By the end of the month, Alex had a well-oiled system. Rick supplied the components, carefully packing them in small boxes and delivering them directly to the school. Tessa provided access to professional tools and helped with simple operations, quickly grasping the basics of electronics. Alex himself handled diagnostics, repairs, and upgrades, constantly improving his skills.
Tessa's workshop smelled of a strange burning from the welding equipment. The sounds of working tools created a special atmosphere—the quiet hum of the soldering iron, the clicks of the calibrator, the melodious signals of the diagnostic scanner. It was the music of technical creativity, and Alex enjoyed every note.
Orders came in regularly. Alex not only fixed broken toys but also upgraded new ones. His reputation grew, and soon even older students came to him, bringing more complex devices—portable computers, music players, even simple droids.
He kept detailed records in a special file: what exactly he did with each toy, what components he used, how much time he spent. This helped him refine the process and set fair prices. Schematics were interspersed with calculations, and a separate file contained small notes about the clients' personalities.
But most importantly, Alex studied people. He noticed who was willing to pay more for quality, who haggled down to the last credit, who could become a regular client, and who would come only once. He recorded these observations too, creating a kind of database of personalities and preferences of his classmates.
Outside the workshop window, another flying block drifted past, its lights reflecting in the tools, creating a whimsical play of light and shadow. The speeders below looked like glowing dots, and their hum merged into a single symphony of urban life.
Problems began when his activities were noticed by the teachers.
"Alex," Mrs. Dantu, the technology teacher, a middle-aged woman with attentive eyes and a habit of speaking slowly, weighing every word, addressed him after class, "I heard you're repairing toys."
"I sometimes help friends," Alex replied cautiously, gathering his things not too hastily, so as not to betray his anxiety.
"Show me one of those toys."
Alex took a holo-game from his backpack, which he had recently upgraded for one of the younger students. The device looked ordinary on the outside, but the internal changes had drastically improved its performance. Mrs. Dantu turned it on and played for a few minutes, raising her eyebrows in surprise with each quick turn of the virtual ship.
"This is very high-quality work," she said finally, turning off the game. "Too high-quality for a nine-year-old child. Who is helping you?"
"No one," Alex replied. "I just study devices carefully."
"Alex," Mrs. Dantu sat on the edge of the table, and her voice held a note of genuine concern, "what you've done with this game requires a deep understanding of the principles of computational crystals and control systems."
"My father is a technician at the shipyard," he replied. "He explains a lot to me. And I also read a lot of technical books."
"What books exactly?"
Alex named a few beginner's guides that he had indeed read, although they only provided basic knowledge.
Mrs. Dantu nodded.
"Alright. But be careful. Some components can be dangerous if you don't know how to handle them. Crystals can overheat, batteries can explode."
"I understand," Alex nodded. "I always follow safety precautions."
When the teacher left, Alex realized he needed to change his approach. Attracting adult attention was dangerous. They might start asking questions or, worse, forbid him from repairing things, citing safety concerns. And if they found out he was doing business within the school...
At home, Alex pondered the problem for a long time, sitting by the window and watching the evening city. He didn't want to stop his activities—they brought not only money but also valuable experience. But he needed to make them less noticeable.
The solution came unexpectedly while he was listening to the news on the holoradio. The reporter was talking about new tax breaks for small businesses, and Alex realized that the problem wasn't that he was repairing things, but how it looked from the outside.
Instead of openly doing repairs, he could switch to a more subtle system. No direct sales, no advertisements for services. Only "friendly favors" and "mutual assistance."
The next day, Alex announced the new rules to his clients, gathering them during the long break in an empty classroom.
"I'm not taking money for repairs anymore," he said, trying to sound casual. "But if you want to thank me, I won't object. A gift, a treat, or just help with something else."
The kids understood the hint. Now, instead of direct payment, they "gifted" Alex credits, sweets, or provided small services. Formally, it looked like a friendly exchange, not a commercial activity.
Alex also changed his working method. Instead of taking toys home, he repaired them in Tessa's workshop, making it look like a shared hobby rather than a business. He and Tessa spent time after school studying devices and exchanging knowledge, and repairing toys looked like a side effect of their technical experiments.
These changes made his activities practically invisible to adults, but no less effective. Moreover, the new system taught Alex an important lesson: sometimes the best way to achieve a goal is to make sure no one notices you're striving for it.
By the end of the academic year, Alex had accumulated almost five hundred credits and gained a reputation as someone who could solve any technical problem. More importantly, he had built a network of useful contacts and learned to work with people. Rick had become a reliable supplier, Tessa—a loyal partner, and dozens of classmates—satisfied clients, ready to recommend his services to others.
In the evening, counting the earned money in his room, permeated with the smells of technical creativity, Alex reflected on what he had learned during those months.
He realized that people are willing to pay not only for the result but also for convenience. That reputation is more important than quick profit. That sometimes it's better to stay in the shadows than to attract unnecessary attention. And that every person has a price—not necessarily monetary, but always measurable in terms of needs and desires.
But most importantly, he understood that his abilities were truly unusual. What seemed natural to him amazed others. It was both an advantage and a danger, a tool and a trap.
Alex closed the datapad with his notes and put the money in a hiding place. Tomorrow, the holidays began, and he had big plans. His father had promised to take him to the shipyards more often, which meant access to more interesting technology and new learning opportunities.