10 years before the proclamation of the Empire
The father's speeder ascended the air corridor over the industrial district of Corellia with a strained hum. The old "Sokoro" – once an elegant mid-class machine – was now a sorry sight. The blue paint had peeled and faded to a dirty gray hue, a deep scratch from a collision with a cargo platform a month ago gaped on the left side, and the chrome trim was covered in rust. Kairen had been postponing repairs for three months, saving credits. The smell of worn repulsor coils seeped from the ventilation grilles.
Alex pressed himself against the cracked porthole, watching the bustling life of the spaceport below. The roar of taking-off ships mingled with the hum of loading equipment, the shouts of dockworkers, and the wail of sirens. Massive cargo ships landed and took off, leaving behind blue trails of ion engines that slowly dissipated in the dusty atmosphere. Small vessels darted between them – battered ships of independent traders with patched hulls, courier corvettes with peeling paint, private yachts of dubious origin, whose identification marks had been carefully painted over.
The air currents above the spaceport were turbulent and unpredictable. Hot air from the engines created updrafts that tossed light speeders around like toys. Kairen gripped the control stick tightly, maneuvering between the air corridors. Their speeder would sometimes drop into air pockets, and then sharply ascend when it caught a jet stream from a passing transport.
The monotonous voice of a galactic news network announcer came from the speakers of the holo-projector:
"...the economic crisis continues to deepen in the Inner Rim. Sectors of heavy machinery and military production have been particularly affected. Three large shipyards have closed on Corellia, leading to the dismissal of over two hundred thousand workers. Residential property prices have fallen by forty percent in the last six months, yet rental rates have paradoxically increased by twenty percent due to mass migrations..."
Kairen irritably switched the channel. Now, a cloyingly cheerful melody poured from the speakers:
"The lights of Coruscant call me home,
Through stars and mists, I fly to you like an arrow!
In skyscrapers, millions of windows shine for me,
Coruscant, Coruscant – you are in my heart and in my dreams!"
"Stupid song," the father grumbled, but didn't switch it off.
"You'll get used to the noise eventually," he said, maneuvering between two cargo platforms whose massive containers swayed on magnetic suspensions. "It will disturb your sleep for the first few weeks."
Their new home was located on the middle tier of the "Star Haven" residential complex – a dreary gray building, built to a standard design fifty years ago. The apartment windows looked directly onto the launch platforms, and every few minutes the glass would tremble from the roar of engines. The apartment was smaller than the previous one – only three rooms instead of five, thinner walls, and practically no soundproofing. Voices in a dozen languages could be heard from neighboring apartments – Rodian chirping, the guttural sounds of Duro, the melodious speech of Twi'leks.
Dockworkers with calloused hands and tired eyes lived here, technicians in greasy overalls, pilots of small ships with characteristic accident scars, craftsmen who repaired everything – from droids to kitchen automatons. All those who serviced the endless flow of ships through Corellia, but could never afford to travel to the stars themselves.
"Dad, why did we move?" Alex asked, although he partly knew the answer.
His father's face darkened. He parked the speeder on the platform and turned off the engine, which ran idly for a few more seconds before finally falling silent.
"The shipyards are cutting staff," he said, looking at his hands. "Military orders decreased after the peace agreements in the Outer Rim. And civilian ships are now built cheaper at automated stations in Canon and Fondor." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Corellian shipyards can no longer compete. Salaries are too high, equipment is too old, bureaucracy is too much."
"And what happened to your job?"
"I was offered either a demotion to a third-class technician with half the salary, or dismissal with compensation for three months," Kairen's voice held barely concealed bitterness. "Now they think a droid can do the job better and cheaper."
"And the job at the spaceport?"
"Senior technician for merchant ship maintenance," Kairen tried to smile, but it came out sour. "Sounds good, doesn't it? In reality, it means crawling into the holds of smuggler ships and repairing engines that should have been decommissioned ten years ago. Working with captains who skimp on everything, including safety. Turning a blind eye to 'non-standard' modifications that violate half the galactic standards."
Alex understood. His father had worked with the best technologies his whole life, where every part was a masterpiece of engineering, where reliability was more important than cost. Now he had to deal with ships that held together by sheer will, duct tape, and pilot luck.
News came from the holo-projector in the next apartment:
"...cargo transportation in the sector has decreased by thirty percent. Many independent traders cannot afford fuel at the new prices. The Transport Guild is asking the government for subsidies, but the Senate has not yet made any decision..."
The new school greeted them with a shabby facade. The building of Technical Lyceum No. 47 was old, functional, built of gray plasti-concrete without architectural frills. The corridors were wide but gloomy, the lighting bright but cold. Motivational posters with faded slogans about the importance of technical education hung on the walls.
Children of various races and social strata studied in the classrooms. At the next desk sat Kel'tor, the son of a Twi'lek mechanic with blue skin and long lekku adorned with traditional metal rings. His father serviced the climate control systems in residential complexes, and the family lived in a tiny apartment on the lower level. In the corner of the classroom sat Zara, the daughter of a Zabrak engineer with characteristic horn-like growths on her head and traditional tattoos on her face. Her family was wealthier – her father worked for a private company that modernized old ships.
The teachers were also different. Less formal, more practical. Ms. Vellara, who taught technical sciences, was herself once a senior mechanic on YT-class merchant ships. Her hands were covered in scars from working with hot metal and chemical reagents, her left index finger was a prosthesis after an accident with a plasma cutter, and she explained theory with examples from real practice.
"Quantum fluctuations in hyperspace," she said, drawing a diagram on an old holo-board, "are not abstract physics from textbooks. It's what can kill you all if the navigation computer fails in the middle of a jump. I saw a ship that emerged from hyperspace with its bow section turned inside out. The crew... " she paused, "there was no crew left."
Alex quickly realized that the change of environment opened up new opportunities. In the elite school on the upper levels of the city, everyone knew each other from childhood, social ties were established, and any newcomer aroused suspicion. Here, however, new students constantly appeared – children of families who had moved in search of work, refugees from war-torn planets, orphans taken in by distant relatives.
First, he noticed Marcus Vein – a red-haired boy with freckles and a nervous tic – he constantly fiddled with the sleeve of his worn school jacket. Marcus always sat alone in the cafeteria, ate quickly and silently, avoiding other people's gazes. His school uniform was clean, but clearly worn – the jacket was altered from an adult's, the trousers hemmed, the boots polished to a shine, but with traces of numerous repairs.
"Can I sit down?" Alex asked, approaching the table with a tray of synthetic food that smelled of artificial flavorings and had suspiciously bright colors.
Marcus looked up from his meal – a cheap nutritional bar and a glass of vitaminized water – in surprise.
"Of course," he mumbled, clearly unaccustomed to attention from classmates. "You're new, aren't you? Alex, I think?"
"That's right. And you're Marcus, son of Jack Vein from dock number seven?"
The boy's eyes lit up with surprise and joy – apparently, few people were interested in his family.
"How do you know?"
"My father now also works at the spaceport. He said your dad is one of the best foremen – he can unload a 'YT-1300' with his droids faster than anyone else. And without a single damaged container."
It was a small flattery, but it worked. Marcus straightened his shoulders and smiled for the first time during the conversation.
"Dad says droids can't do everything. They work according to a program, but he can tell by the sound if a container is packed incorrectly or if something is wrong with it." The boy's voice became more confident. "He has absolute hearing for cargo."
"Something wrong?"
"Well, you know," Marcus lowered his voice and looked around, "sometimes the documents say one thing, but inside it's completely different. Dad learned to determine this when he worked at Kessel."
And Marcus began to tell. About containers that hummed strangely from within – were they mechanisms or something alive? About crates so heavy that only industrial manipulators could lift them, although according to the documents, they contained synthetic fabric weighing a few kilograms. About ships with darkened portholes and additional armor, whose crews did not leave the vessel during unloading and communicated with dockworkers only through intercoms.
"And recently a ship arrived from Rishi," Marcus lowered his voice, looking around and instinctively checking if anyone was listening to their conversation. "The captain is a green-skinned Twi'lek with long lekku. Naturally beautiful, but badly disfigured. She has a scar across her left cheek, as if she was slashed with a vibro-knife, and on her belt – two heavy blasters in mercenary holsters. Dad says she moves like a former soldier."
Alex pricked up his ears, trying not to show excessive interest.
"And what did she bring?"
"Dad says half the cargo was weapons – he recognized the shape of the crates and the packaging method. Standard containers for blaster rifles, grenades, and possibly heavy weapons. And the other half – some ancient artifacts in special hermetically sealed containers with climate control systems. They were so heavy that even the 'Corellian-5000' industrial crane creaked and worked at its lifting capacity limit."
"Does she fly in often?"
"Once a month, approximately. She always docks at the far docks – numbers forty-seven to fifty-one, where customs control is not very attentive and many inspectors are willing to turn a blind eye to violations for a small 'gratitude.' The ship is called 'Jabba's Luck' – an old 'YT-2400' with non-standard engine modifications and additional armor."
Over the next few weeks, Alex cautiously built a friendship with Marcus. He helped with math and physics homework – the boy had serious problems with exact sciences, but good intuition in practical matters. He shared his lunch when Marcus didn't have enough credits for the cafeteria – which happened quite often. He listened to endless stories about the spaceport, memorizing every detail, every name, every piece of information.
The second was Lina Thorne – a quiet, thoughtful girl with chestnut hair, always neatly tied in a strict ponytail, and serious gray eyes behind old-fashioned glasses. Her school uniform was of good quality, though not new, and her wrist sported expensive chronometers – likely a gift from one of her parents. Her mother worked as a senior archivist in the Central Library of Corellia, through her father she had access to restricted sections and a third-level clearance, where her father worked, and her father was a translator of ancient texts – a rare and well-paid profession, especially in demand by archaeological expeditions and private collectors.
Alex noticed that Lina always read during breaks, and these were not school textbooks, but real books on flimsi – an expensive pleasure in the era of electronic media.
"'History of Hyperspace Routes of the Inner Rim'?" he asked, sitting down next to her in the school library, which resembled a warehouse of old datapads more than a temple of knowledge. "Serious reading for our age."
Lina raised her surprised gray eyes, which showed both intelligence and caution.
"Have you read Jirran Tosik?"
"I've tried," Alex admitted honestly. "But there are many specialized terms that the author doesn't explain. Especially about ancient navigation beacons and forgotten hyperspace routes."
"Mom explains," the girl said shyly, but pride could be heard in her voice. "She works with navigation archives in the restricted section of the library. She says that modern star charts only show a small part of the real routes that were used in the past."
Alex became interested, but tried to maintain an expression of ordinary curiosity.
"How so – a small part?"
"Well," Lina looked around, making sure the old droid librarian model "3PO" was busy sorting datapads and not paying attention to them, "Mom says that the archives contain maps of routes that are no longer officially used. Some lead to worlds that are considered lost or uninhabited. Others – to systems that were classified for military or political reasons."
"Can I see them?"
"They are in the restricted section, you need third-level clearance and special permission from the archive curator. But..." she paused, clearly doubting whether to continue, "sometimes Mom takes me to work on weekends when she needs help with cataloging. If you are really interested in ancient history and navigation, we can go together sometime."
Alex smiled with the most charming and sincere smile he was capable of.
"That would be amazing! I'm seriously interested in ancient history, especially the technological aspects."
The third friend was Tom Reader – a stocky guy with tanned, calloused hands and perpetually dirty fingernails, despite all attempts to wash them. His work clothes always smelled of technical fluids, and his pockets jingled with tools and spare parts. Tom's father was a senior technician for city communications – he serviced power grids, water pipes, communication systems, climate control, all the complex infrastructure that made the multi-million city work as a single organism.
Alex met him during a "chance" encounter at the entrance to the technical tunnels under the school, where Tom was sneaking to smoke stolen light stimulant capsules from his father.
"Hey, what are you doing here?" Tom asked suspiciously, exhaling sweetish smoke. "Strangers aren't allowed here."
"Exploring a new area," Alex answered honestly. "I'm curious about how everything is arranged. I used to study urban infrastructure at my previous place of residence too."
"Ah, I see. Hiding from the parents," Tom took a drag from the capsule and coughed – apparently, he wasn't used to stimulants yet. "They think I'm doing history homework at the library. Want to try?"
"No, thank you. And what's in the tunnels?"
"Lots of stuff. Old machines that still work, but no one remembers what they're for. Abandoned warehouses with old equipment. Entire levels that no one uses after the last upgrade of the city systems. Dad says half the underground city is abandoned and only exists on old blueprints."
"Can you show me?"
Tom shrugged like an experienced explorer.
"Why not? Just don't tell anyone, especially teachers and parents. And if we get caught by a security patrol – you don't know me, and we met by chance."
Thus, Alex gained unofficial access to the underbelly of Corellia. Tom knew safe routes that were not patrolled, the schedule of security patrols, places to hide in case of danger, and – most importantly – where his father kept spare keycards for technical rooms.
The fourth was Sarah Kane – the daughter of the owners of a small but prosperous spare parts store, "At Kane's." A lively, energetic girl with short black hair, cut in a fashionable style, and laughing brown eyes that seemed to see everything and remember every detail. Her parents traded everything – from simple droid components to complex speeder parts and even ship equipment of very dubious origin.
"Are you new to our class?" she asked, approaching Alex after an astronavigation lesson with a characteristic confident gait of a businesswoman. "I'm Sarah. I saw you talking to Marcus and Tom."
"Alex. Nice to meet you."
"Strange company for a newcomer," she remarked with a perceptive smile. "Marcus is a local quiet boy and an outcast, Tom is a hooligan from a working-class family. And you..." she studied him with the keen, appraising gaze of a merchant, "you're not like either of them. Too smart for a hooligan, too sociable for a quiet boy."
"And you look like someone who can get anything and knows the price of any information."
Sarah laughed a clear, sincere laugh.
"My parents have been trading spare parts for twenty years. We have connections all over the galaxy – from Coruscant to the Outer Rim. If you need something special and rare – just ask. Of course, for a reasonable price or a reciprocal favor."
Gradually, the quartet of friends began to spend time together. Alex cautiously proposed creating a "city explorers club" – supposedly to study the history and architecture of Corellia. In reality, it was the perfect cover for their joint excursions to abandoned places and searches for interesting information.
"We can create a detailed map of all interesting places," he explained to his friends in an abandoned warehouse that Tom had found in the industrial district. The room was huge, with high ceilings and rusty beams, and dusty boxes with unknown contents were piled up in the corners. "Old buildings with history, technical tunnels, places where important historical events occurred."
"And why do we need this?" asked practical Tom, turning a strange, unidentifiable part he'd just found in his hands.
"Because this is our city," Alex replied with genuine enthusiasm. "Isn't it interesting to know where we live, what secrets the old walls hold? Besides," he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "sometimes you can find something truly valuable in abandoned places."
Sarah's eyes lit up with commercial interest.
"Do you mean real treasures?"
"Not necessarily treasures," Alex explained. "But old components, rare materials, technical documentation, old equipment – all of it can be worth good money to the right buyers."
This was true, though not the whole truth. Alex really hoped to find something valuable, but he was more interested in equipment, information, and opportunities for further development of his plans.
Time passed, and their friendship grew stronger. Marcus turned out to be an excellent source of information – his stories about the spaceport contained a lot of useful details. Through him, Alex learned about the arrival schedules of suspicious ships, what cargo was considered particularly valuable, and about the rumors and gossip that circulated among the dockworkers during their lunch breaks.
Lina became his window into the world of official information and forgotten knowledge. After a few weeks of cautious rapprochement, she invited him to the library on a weekend when her mother was working in the archives on another cataloging project.
"Just be quiet and don't attract attention," she warned, leading him through the long corridors of the restricted section. "And don't ask too many questions of the security droids."
Alex nodded, but inside he was exultant. All around him were petabytes of priceless information – old star charts with routes that were no longer used, technical specifications of ancient ships and technologies, reports of research expeditions into unknown regions, archives of trade guilds with data on forgotten trade routes. Much of it was classified or simply abandoned, but here, on dusty chip-crystals, lay the keys to the galaxy's secrets.
Tom became his guide to the underworld of Corellia. Together they explored abandoned levels, found old workshops and warehouses, and compiled detailed maps of technical tunnels. Tom knew where it was safe to move and where it was better not to appear even with official passes.
Sarah proved to be a link to the commercial world and the black market. Her parents knew all the major parts dealers in the sector, and their shop was a place where legal and not-so-legal businesses intersected. Through Sarah, Alex learned about rare components that appeared on the market, about the prices of various technologies, and about who was buying and selling what.
"A very strange guy came to us yesterday," she said one day during their next "research expedition." "Judging by his accent, he was from Coruscant, but he was dressed like an independent trader. He was looking for very specific components for ancient droids – specifically, processors from the 'Archive' series and memory units of the 'Keeper' class. Dad said they haven't been produced in a long time."
"And what did he say?"
"That he was willing to pay ten times the market price, plus a bonus for urgency. Dad promised to ask his contacts in other sectors."
Alex remembered this information. Someone was very seriously interested in ancient data storage technologies, and this someone had enough money to pay astronomical sums for rarities.
By the end of the first academic year, Alex had an informal but surprisingly effective information network. Four loyal friends, each with access to their own unique circle of information and opportunities. Marcus brought fresh news from the spaceport and dockworker gossip, Lina – invaluable data from restricted archives, Tom – information about underground finds and city infrastructure, and Sarah – information from the black market and trade circles.
Most importantly, none of them suspected that their sincere friendship with Alex had hidden motives. To them, he was just a smart, interesting, and reliable friend who knew how to listen, was always ready to help, and never betrayed their trust. And the fact that he sometimes asked strange questions was explained by his curiosity and interest in the city's history.