Mara's death and the closure of the laboratory forced Alex to reconsider his strategy. But before thinking about the future, he couldn't shake the memories of that terrible day.
Mara... He still saw her face before his eyes in those last moments—in a strange euphoria, in madness. The neurointerface, which was supposed to help her in her research, had turned into a murder weapon. Alex had witnessed firsthand how, in a matter of minutes, the girl's personality had been literally rewritten.
"The Masters," she had whispered then, looking at him with unseeing eyes. "They have always been here. We only thought we were free."
And then she threw herself out the window.
Alex shuddered, pushing away the memories. The Masters... Who were they?
The most frightening thing was how quickly and drastically Mara had changed. It was as if someone had taken her consciousness and rewritten it, like a program in a droid. What if the original creators of the neurointerface had intended it precisely as a tool of control? What if this entire technology was a trap, laid for millennia?
These thoughts tormented him, but contemplating ancient conspiracies was a luxury he couldn't afford. It became clear that within the university walls, due to restrictions, his options were limited in the near future—too much control, too much bureaucracy. He needed to find alternative sources of information and funding. He needed money now. He understood that he had to stop relying on his father or uncle. He had to learn to earn money himself. And not the meager crumbs that corporations paid. For his goals, he needed a ship, and it was very expensive.
An opportunity presented itself unexpectedly. His friend Kyle mentioned that his father was looking for a competent engineer to work at the family business during the holidays.
"Nothing complicated," he explained. "Repairing and tuning equipment. Father says a good engineer is worth their weight in gold now—the war has created a huge demand for repair services."
Alex was interested, but not in Kyle's job. If the war was indeed creating a demand for technical services, then it opened up new possibilities. Especially in the port areas, where there was always plenty of work repairing ships. Besides, he already had connections and a small reputation there.
On the weekend, he went to the docks of Coronet City—a vast complex of landing pads, repair hangars, and warehouses, where the life of a galactic trade center seethed. The war had indeed changed the atmosphere—more military ships, increased security, but also more opportunities for those who knew how to work with their hands.
Even as he approached the docks, Alex noticed changes. The usual flow of merchant ships was interspersed with battered civilian ships, packed to the brim with people. Refugees. Their numbers were growing every day. Families with children, the elderly, the young—all carried the same expression of loss and exhaustion in their eyes.
Near one of the landing pads, Alex saw a group of people setting up an improvised camp. Their ship—an old Consul-class transport—was smoking from its engine compartment. Clearly an emergency landing.
"Excuse me," he addressed an elderly man who was trying to comfort a crying child. "Do you need help with your ship?"
The man looked up. His face was gaunt, and his eyes held that peculiar weariness that comes not from physical labor but from experienced horror.
"Thank you, son, but the ship can't be repaired anymore. And we have nowhere to fly," he sighed heavily. "We are from Christophsis. Or rather, we were from Christophsis."
"What's happening there?" Alex asked cautiously.
"War," the man replied curtly. "But not like they show it on the news. They talk about heroic battles, about the fight for freedom. But in reality..." He fell silent, looking somewhere into the distance. "They kill everyone indiscriminately. Droids, clones – they don't distinguish between civilians. They simply don't notice us, or rather, they don't take our lives into account."
The child in his arms sobbed, and the man mechanically stroked his head.
"I saw entire blocks being demolished to advance the front a little. Residential buildings, schools, hospitals – it didn't matter. The main thing was tactical advantage." His voice trembled. "My daughter worked in a kindergarten. They said the area was safe, that the fighting was far away. And then the fighters arrived and... there's no kindergarten anymore. And no daughter either."
Alex felt a lump in his throat and something tighten in his chest. The abstract "war" they talked about at the university suddenly took on a human face.
"Entire planets in ruins," the refugee continued. "For droids or clones, we are not people. We are obstacles to be removed, or resources to be used. And then politicians will talk about 'necessary sacrifices' and the 'price of freedom'."
"And the authorities are doing nothing?"
The man laughed bitterly. "Authorities? They were the first to evacuate as soon as things got hot. They left us to sort it out ourselves. It's good that there were people who helped us with a ship. Otherwise, we would have been left waiting for 'liberation' from someone."
Alex wanted to say something, but no words came. What could you say to a person who lost their daughter in a senseless slaughter?
"Take care of yourself, son," the refugee said, noticing his confusion. "And remember – when war begins, the first casualty is truth. What you are told in the news, and what is actually happening – are two different things."
This conversation haunted Alex all day. He understood that war is always a tragedy, but seeing its consequences up close was a completely different experience. These people were not soldiers or politicians. They were simply living their lives until someone else's decisions destroyed their world.
***
Jeren Cole, on whom he had counted heavily, had no work at the moment, but he recommended Alex to an acquaintance who, according to Jeren, was a "particularly free trader." To meet this new potential employer, he arrived at one of the hangars where he was listened to attentively.
Jack Tolcho was a middle-aged Corellian, the owner of a small cargo ship, the "Lucky Trader." His ship was in the hangar with its panels open – clearly in need of serious repair. Jack himself gave the impression of a man who had seen a lot in his life. His hands were covered in scars from working with technology, and his eyes held that special experience that only comes with years of working in space.
"KTU student?" Jack repeated, studying Alex. "And you want to earn some extra money? What can you do?"
"Electronics, power systems, navigation equipment, droids... I understand a bit about hyperdrives," Alex listed. "I have good theoretical knowledge, but little practical experience, but I learn quickly." Alex decided to be modest.
"Theory..." Jack chuckled. "Well, let's see how your theory handles reality. See this panel? The hyperdrive is glitching – sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Three masters have looked at it, and no one can find the problem. They say the whole unit needs to be replaced, and that's about fifty thousand credits."
Alex approached the ship and carefully studied the system diagram. At KTU, they taught hyperdrive theory – how they work, the principles behind them, and potential malfunctions. But it was dry theory, far from real practice.
However, Alex had an advantage he hadn't told anyone about. For several years, he had noticed that he could sometimes "feel" malfunctions in crystals. It was like intuition, but clearer and more directed.
Furthermore, his experience with ancient programs, although it ended tragically with Mara, had given him an understanding of how complex programs are structured at a deep level and how to reach the core. He now knew that he had to be extremely careful, but the basic skills remained.
Alex climbed inside the technical compartment and closed his eyes, allowing his unusual intuition to explore the system. He felt the flow of energy through the crystalline matrices, sensed the places where this flow was disrupted or distorted.
"The problem isn't in the main units," he said, emerging from the compartment. "And it's not in the software. It's in one of the auxiliary modules – the field stabilizer. It periodically loses calibration."
"Show me," Jack demanded.
Alex pointed to a small module deep within the system: "Here. The resonant frequency is disrupted due to a micro-crack in the crystal. It's not visible, but it affects the field stability. You either need to replace the module or recalibrate the system for new parameters."
Jack carefully examined the indicated module: "Hmm, indeed. Other technicians didn't even look in this direction. Can you recalibrate it?"
"I think so. But it will take all day," Alex replied, mentally calculating the workload.
"Do it. If you succeed, I'll pay you well."
Alex worked until evening, meticulously adjusting the system. His research into the history of hyperdrive evolution had been very helpful – he understood not only what to do, but also why it worked. Modern engineers often worked by templates, without delving into the underlying principles. But studying ancient technologies had given Alex a more fundamental understanding.
The crystalline matrices in hyperdrives worked on the same principles as the crystals in droids, only in a simplified form. Understanding this allowed him to find solutions inaccessible to ordinary technicians.
"Incredible," Jack said when the diagnostics showed a green light on all parameters. "Kid, you really know your stuff. Where did a student like you get such skills?"
"I read a lot," Alex replied modestly. "And I like to understand how things really work."
" \"Really work\" – those are important words," Jack nodded. "Most people are content with a superficial understanding. But you dig deeper. That's good."
He pulled out a credit chip and handed it to Alex: "Here's five thousand. Honestly earned."
Alex took the chip, feeling satisfied with a job well done. But Jack didn't seem to be stopping there.
"Listen, do you want to work more? I have a couple of runs next week. I need a technician on board – you never know what might happen on the way."
Alex hesitated. On one hand, classes were starting soon after the summer holidays. On the other hand, it opened up new opportunities, and after talking to the refugee, he understood that a university education might not be enough to understand the real world.
"What kind of runs?"
"Regular trade," Jack shrugged. "We take goods where they are needed, buy what's cheap here. Nothing special."
Something in Jack's tone suggested to Alex that "regular trade" might not be entirely regular. But that's precisely what attracted him. After Mara's death, he needed new experiences, sources of information, new opportunities. Anything to distract him from his depressive mood. She hadn't been particularly close to him, but he had interacted with her. It was strange to realize she was no longer there.
"Alright. When do we leave?"
"The day after tomorrow morning. Don't be late – schedules are sacred in space."
The first run turned out to be truly ordinary – delivering medication to Selonia. But Alex noticed that Jack chose routes very carefully, avoiding certain systems and stations. And that among the "medications" were containers with very strange markings.
During the flight, Jack turned out to be unexpectedly talkative. He spoke about his trading philosophy, and Alex understood that behind the outward simplicity lay a deeply thought-out system of views.
"You see, kid," Jack said, piloting the ship, "most people think smuggling is just breaking the law for profit. But it's not. It's a philosophy of freedom."
"What do you mean?"
"This is what I mean. Imagine: there's planet A, where medicines are produced. And there's planet B, where people need these medicines. It's logical that the medicines should go from A to B, right?"
"Logical."
"But then the politicians appear. They say: 'Let's introduce a tax on medicines.' Then the military: 'Let's declare medicines a strategic material.' Then the bureaucrats: 'Let's introduce trade licensing.' And what happens? Medicines are still produced on planet A, and sick people on planet B still need them. But now there's a wall of rules, taxes, and permits between them."
Alex nodded, understanding the logic.
"And what do you do?"
"This is what you do," Jack turned to him. "You can accept it and say: 'What can you do, those are the rules.' Then people on planet B will die, but at least everything will be 'by the law.' Or you can say: 'To hell with your rules, people are more important than paper.' And transport the medicines, despite the prohibitions." He paused, as if confessing, "And make a profit from it."
"But laws exist for a reason, don't they?"
"Some do. The law against murder makes sense. But most modern laws exist not to protect people, but to protect someone's interests. Look at this war – who benefits from it? Military corporations, arms manufacturers, politicians who profit from patriotic sentiments. And who loses? Ordinary people who are killed, and their families."
Alex remembered the refugee from Christophsis and his words about demolished blocks.
"And smuggling helps solve this problem?"
"Smuggling is a way to bypass artificial restrictions," Jack explained. "When the system works correctly, smugglers are not needed. But when the system breaks down due to war, bureaucracy, and corruption, we become the lubricant in the mechanism. We ensure what economists call 'market efficiency'."
"Sounds noble," Alex remarked. "But you do make a profit, don't you?"
Jack laughed. "Of course I do! I'm not a charity organization. But the point is, profit is an indicator that you are doing something useful for people. If my services were not needed by anyone, no one would pay me."
"And the risk?"
"Risk is the price of freedom," Jack replied seriously. "Freedom to do what you believe is right, not what officials allow. Every smuggler is a small rebel against a system that tries to control every aspect of life."
Alex pondered these words. At university, they were taught respect for law and order. But what to do when the law becomes an instrument of oppression?
"Jack, what if the system is right, and you are wrong?"
"Good question," Jack nodded. "But here's a simple test: who benefits from the restrictions? If restrictions protect the weak from the strong – they are right. If restrictions protect the strong from the weak – they are wrong. Most modern trade restrictions protect large corporations from competition, not consumers from low-quality goods."
"For example?"
"For example, licensing of medicine trade. Officially, it's for 'consumer safety.' But what can those stupid bureaucrats check? They only know how to take kickbacks. In practice, it's all about large pharmaceutical corporations controlling prices. Small producers can't afford expensive licenses, so they leave the market. Competition decreases, prices rise."
"And you help these small producers?"
"Sometimes. And sometimes I just bypass artificially inflated prices. You see, kid, real smuggling isn't about transporting drugs or weapons. It's about restoring natural economic ties where politics and corruption have broken them."
This philosophy was new to Alex, but it had an internal logic. At university, they were taught that order and stability are the highest values. But what to do when order becomes a prison?
"Jack," he asked during the flight, "what are we actually transporting?"
Jack looked at him intently. "What do you think?"
"I think it's not just medicine. And that some cargo might be... not entirely legal."
"Smart kid. And what, problems with that?"
Alex considered the question. Formally, smuggling was a crime. But in wartime, many goods were artificially restricted or heavily taxed. Sometimes "illegal" trade was the only way to deliver needed items where they were truly required.
"Depends on what and why," he replied. "If it's about helping people..."
"That's exactly what it's about," Jack nodded. "You see, kid, war creates a lot of stupid rules. Medicines that save lives suddenly become 'strategic materials.' Ship parts are subject to embargo. Food is subject to a 'war tax.' And people suffer."
"And you help bypass these restrictions?"
"I help goods get where they are needed. For a reasonable fee, of course. But my profit is a trifle compared to what my clients save on taxes and duties."
"And if you get caught?"
"Then I'll be called a criminal," Jack shrugged. "But history will show who was right. Remember how textbooks talk about smugglers from the Old Republic era? Those who violated the trade restrictions of the Sith? Now they are called heroes of freedom."
Alex nodded. The logic was understandable, and it didn't contradict his own principles. If the system is unfair, then breaking its rules can be a moral duty.
On Selonia, they were met by a representative of the local hospital – an elderly Selonian who gratefully accepted the shipment of medicines.
"Thank you, Captain Tolcho," he said in broken Basic. "Without these medicines, many patients would not have survived."
"And what about official deliveries?" Alex inquired.
"Bureaucracy," the Selonian replied bitterly. "Permits, licenses, inspections are needed. By the time everything is processed, people will die. But Captain Tolcho brings what is needed, when it is needed."
"And cheaper!" Jack exclaimed enthusiastically, raising a finger. "Without taxes and intermediary markups."
On the way back, they carried a cargo of "antiques" – as Jack called ancient art objects that he bought from private collectors and archaeologists. Officially, it was legal, but Alex suspected that not all items had a proper origin.
"Jack," he asked, examining one of the artifacts – a metal plate with incomprehensible symbols – "where did you get this?"
"Experience," Jack replied. "Plus, I have contacts among archaeologists. They tell me what's valuable and what's a fake. In this business, reputation is everything. Sell a fake once, and clients will turn away from you."
"And who are the buyers?"
"Various. Collectors, museums, research institutes. If there's demand, there's supply. Many scientists are willing to pay good money for the opportunity to study authentic artifacts, not copies in museum display cases."
Alex carefully examined the goods. Some of them were clearly authentic – he recognized stylistic features he had studied in KTU archives. He was particularly interested in a small crystalline plate with symbols resembling Rakatan writing.
"And where did this crystal come from?"
"From Dantooine," Jack replied. "Archaeologists found it in old ruins, but they don't have permission to export it. And I have a buyer on Coruscant – a private collector who loves history very much!"
"Can I take a closer look?"
"Of course. Just be careful – it's fragile and expensive."
Alex took the crystal in his hands and immediately felt a familiar faint vibration. The device reacted to touch. This worried him, but his senses told him everything was fine. Memories of Mara painfully pricked his chest, but he suppressed them. He carefully ran his finger over the surface, and the symbols glowed faintly.
"Interesting," Jack muttered. "It didn't do that before."
"Perhaps it needs contact with living tissue to activate," Alex suggested, trying to hide his excitement. "Biometric security of ancient civilizations."
"You know a lot about these antiquities for a student," Jack observed.
"I'm interested in the history of technology," Alex replied. "It's related to my specialization. Modern technologies are often based on ancient principles, we just don't always understand it."
Jack nodded, but Alex noticed that he started watching him more closely. This was not surprising – the ability to activate ancient artifacts was rare.
During the third run, an incident occurred that showed that working with smugglers involved not only moral dilemmas but also very real dangers.
They were transporting a cargo of ship parts to the Duro system when, upon exiting hyperspace, they were intercepted by a Republic fleet patrol.
"Lucky Trader, stop for inspection," demanded the commander of the patrol ship.
"Trouble," Jack said grimly. "We don't have permits for half of this cargo."
"And what happens if we get caught?"
"In the best case – confiscation of cargo and a fine. In the worst – prison for smuggling during wartime. And wartime, as you know, involves expedited legal proceedings."
Alex quickly considered the situation. The patrol ship was faster than their vessel; they couldn't escape. Fighting was also foolish – they had no weapons. Only a bluff remained.
"Jack, do you have documents for the medical equipment?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Repack some of the parts as medical equipment. Say you're bringing humanitarian aid for Duro hospitals."
"And if they check?"
"Most of the parts can indeed be used in medical equipment. Generators, processors, power modules – all of these are found in both ships and hospital equipment. The main thing is to present the information correctly."
Jack looked at Alex assessingly.
"And if they check?"
"Act! If you suggest it, do it!"
Alex quickly applied medical markings to the suspicious containers as the Republic ship approached for docking. When the inspection team boarded, they were met with "humanitarian aid" with corresponding documents.
"Medical equipment for Duro hospitals," Jack explained to the officer. "The war has created a great shortage. We are working with the charity organization 'Doctors Without Borders'."
Jack shook hands with the approaching officer. Alex noticed that he had a chip in his hand.
The inspector – a young lieutenant with a tired face – checked the documents and a few containers. He "didn't notice" that the "medical" generators looked suspiciously like ship components.
"Everything is in order," he finally said. "You're doing a good job, Captain. Humanitarian aid is especially important at such a time. Have a good flight."
When the patrol left, Jack sighed with relief. "Not a bad idea, kid. But I helped too. Did you notice?"
"Yes, I noticed," Alex shrugged.
"This is your first lesson. You did well to suggest it, but you always need to 'grease the wheels,' especially in our business." Jack looked at him thoughtfully. "And the ability to think outside the box is also important. Most people only see obvious solutions. In short, we're both great!" Jack laughed.
After this incident, Jack's attitude towards Alex changed noticeably. He began to trust him more, share operational details, and consult him on technical matters. Alex understood that he had passed a kind of test.
"Listen," Jack said one day as they were unloading another shipment, "do you want to work permanently? After you finish institute, of course. A good engineer with brains is worth a lot in our business."
"I'll think about it," Alex replied. "But for now, I want to finish my education."
"That's right," Jack nodded. "Education never hurts. But remember – the offer still stands. There aren't many like you."
By the end of the semester, Alex had earned about twenty thousand credits – good money for a student. But the most important thing wasn't the money, but the contacts and experience. He met a network of smugglers, traders, and independent operators who worked in the gray zone of the galactic economy.
These people knew things that weren't taught in university lecture halls. They saw the real galaxy – not an idealized picture from textbooks, but a complex system where official rules often diverged from reality.
"You see, kid," Jack explained to him during one of the runs, "this whole war is a game for big boys. Corporations, politicians, the military – they divide markets and spheres of influence. And ordinary people suffer from their decisions."
"And you help bypass these decisions?"
"I help the system work as it should," Jack replied. "Goods get where they are needed. People get what they need. Everyone is happy, except the bureaucrats and those who profit from artificial scarcity."
"And what if you get caught?"
"There's always a risk," Jack shrugged. "But the alternative is worse – to let the system strangle itself with beautiful rules. Do you know what economic death is? It's when everything is done 'by the rules,' but nothing works."
Alex understood Jack's logic. In wartime, many sensible decisions became impossible due to bureaucratic restrictions. Smugglers performed an important function – they provided flexibility to the system, preventing it from becoming ossified.
But he also understood that this was a temporary solution. The real problem was deeper – in the very structure of galactic civilization, which was becoming increasingly rigid and bureaucratic.
Summer was drawing to a close, but Alex continued to work with Jack in his free time. The money was useful, but the knowledge and contacts were even more so. Information circulated in the gray sector of the economy that was unavailable from official sources.
It was from Jack that he learned about the existence of an informal network of archaeologists and collectors who traded ancient artifacts. Many of them were willing to share information for a reasonable fee or reciprocal services.
"If you're really interested in antiquities," Jack said, "I can introduce you to a couple of interesting people. They know more about old civilizations than any university professor."
"Why more?"
"Because they work with real artifacts, not museum copies. And because they don't have to twist facts to fit official history. Academic science often ignores inconvenient findings."
This was exactly what Alex needed. Access to genuine artifacts and people who weren't afraid to ask uncomfortable questions. After Mara's death and her words about the "masters," he understood that official history might be hiding important truths.
"Deal," he said. "Introduce me."
Thus began a new phase of his research. The university provided the theoretical foundation and access to archives. Working with smugglers offered practical skills and connections in the informal sector. Together, these opened up opportunities unavailable to any ordinary student.
"A double life," Alex thought, returning to the dormitory after another run. "But there's no other way. The truth rarely lies on the surface, especially when someone is interested in hiding it."