Location: Planet Valorin, Mid Rim
Time: 30 BBY - 13 BBY
Lyuten first understood what real cold was when the thermometer in the bunker showed minus.
"Lyuten," Kleya called him, a fifteen-year-old girl with the serious eyes of an adult, "the generator is acting up again."
He tore himself away from the worn datapad, where he was recording how the planet was dying, and went to the power unit. The old Valorin generator was working intermittently. Like everything else in their underground shelter.
Since the orbital bombardment, the former scout of the Valorin army had learned to fix machinery, hunt mutated swamp creatures, and prepare edible food from ten-year-old military rations. Skills that were not taught at the Capital University's political science faculty, nor at the Planetary Reconnaissance Academy, nor even in the trenches of the Clone Wars.
"Let's take a look, Kleya."
Lyuten was born into a middle-class family in Valorin's capital, the city of New Valo, nestled among picturesque hills covered by dense Valorian taiga. His father worked as a lead engineer at the "Valor-Tech" factory, one of the largest hyperdrive manufacturers in the sector. His mother taught applied physics at the Technical Institute named after the planet's first colonist. She was the daughter of a high-ranking military officer – the admiral of planetary defense. A fairly successful Valorin family with ordinary dreams of a better future for their children.
Valorin was a special planet, even by the standards of the prosperous Mid Rim. Colonized by people from Corellia about five thousand years ago, it had become one of the most important industrial centers in its sector. The population of 2.1 billion people – exclusively humans – lived in harmony with the planet's harsh but beautiful nature.
Covered by dense coniferous forests, which the locals proudly called the "Valorian taiga," crisscrossed by the purest crystal-clear lakes, and adorned with picturesque mountain ranges, Valorin was famous not only for its natural beauty. The planet was known throughout the galaxy as a center of precision mechanical engineering.
"If you want it to work for a hundred years – buy Valorin," traders said throughout the sector.
Valorin medium-power hyperdrives, navigation systems, and precise ship-building components were valued for their reliability, not their cheapness. Their products were expensive, but they served for decades without breaking down. The planet was the economic and technological center of its sector.
But Valorin's greatest wealth was its people. Valorinians were famous for their fanatical stubbornness, principled nature, and developed sense of justice. They were known as masters of their craft – whether in engineering, medicine, or military affairs.
"A Valorin's word is like the steel of his products," read a local proverb.
The planet's culture emphasized community, family, and given promises. Breaking one's word was worse than death for a Valorin. This created a special atmosphere of trust and reliability that attracted trading partners from all over the galaxy.
Lyuten grew up in this atmosphere of honesty and hard work. His childhood was spent among factory workshops, where his father showed him the intricacies of hyperdrive production, and university laboratories, where his mother explained the laws of physics.
"See this part?" his father would say, showing a complex component of a navigation system. "It took a week to make. Every screw was checked ten times. That's why our ships don't get lost in hyperspace."
"And what happens if you make it faster and cheaper?" little Lyuten would ask.
"Then it won't be Valorin work," his father would answer seriously. "And therefore, not our work."
His mother taught him something else – systemic thinking, the ability to see connections between phenomena.
"Politics, economics, technology – everything is connected," she explained at family dinner. "You can't understand one without understanding the other."
Lyuten was a capable child. At school, he excelled equally in technical and humanitarian subjects. Teachers noted his ability to analyze complex problems and find unexpected solutions.
After graduating with a gold medal, he enrolled in the Capital University's Faculty of Political Science and Interplanetary Relations. The choice surprised his parents – they expected their son to follow a technical path.
"I want to understand how the world works," Lyuten explained. "Not just hyperdrives, not just our planet, but the entire galaxy. I want to become a diplomat, maybe even represent our sector in the Galactic Senate."
A young idealist, he believed in the power of negotiation and compromise, in the idea that reasonable people could always reach an agreement.
At Valorin University, Lyuten quickly established himself as one of the best students. He was particularly interested in the political situation in the Outer Rim, where separatist sentiments were growing.
His second-year term paper, "Economic Prerequisites for Political Instability in Peripheral Systems," received the highest grade and was recommended for publication in the university journal.
"You have an analytical mind," Professor Draven, the head of the department, told him. "You can see patterns where others see chaos."
In his third year, Lyuten received an unexpected offer. A representative from the Planetary Reconnaissance Academy approached him – a prestigious institution that trained specialists for Valorin's security service.
"Lieutenant Kess, Planetary Reconnaissance," the visitor introduced himself, a young officer in impeccable uniform. "We have studied your work. We are interested in your abilities."
"What abilities specifically?"
"System analysis. The ability to gather disparate information and see the overall picture. Forecasting events." Kess took a folder from his briefcase. "This is not espionage in the classic sense. We train analysts and coordinators – specialists in collecting and analyzing open information, experts on the political situation in the sector, people capable of predicting the development of events based on multiple factors."
Lyuten was interested. The work sounded exactly like what attracted him – the opportunity to understand the bigger picture of galactic politics.
"And what specifically is required of me?"
"Transfer to us for the fourth year. Specialized program, access to classified information, practical experience in real departments. After graduation – service in planetary reconnaissance." Lyuten agreed.
The Academy turned out to be a completely different world compared to the university. Here, they studied not theory, but practice. Students worked with real intelligence reports, analyzed actual political processes, and made forecasts that were used by the planet's government.
Lyuten showed outstanding abilities in systemic thinking. He could gather scattered information from news reports, trade reports, diplomatic dispatches, and form an accurate picture of what was happening in the entire sector.
His work method amazed his instructors. Lyuten created complex diagrams of connections between various factors – economic, political, social. He could predict a political crisis by analyzing changes in trade flows, or forecast a military conflict based on diplomatic correspondence.
"You think like a computer, but with human intuition," the major, a strategic analysis instructor, told him. "It's a rare combination."
Lyuten's diploma work, "Analysis of the Prerequisites for Separatist Sentiments in the Outer Rim," became a real sensation in academic circles. The work received the highest grade and was immediately classified – it predicted future events too accurately.
In his work, Lyuten analyzed the economic, political, and social factors that could lead to the mass secession of systems from the Republic. He predicted that the conflict would begin in the coming decade, that it would be large-scale, and that Valorin would inevitably be drawn into it.
"How did you calculate that?" General Morgus, commander of planetary reconnaissance, asked him at the defense.
"The Republic is losing legitimacy in the eyes of the peripheral worlds," Lyuten explained. "Corruption in the Senate, the dominance of corporations, ignoring the needs of the Outer Rim. This creates a revolutionary situation. All it needs is a leader who can unite the discontented."
"And who could become such a leader?"
"Someone from the former republican elite. A person with an impeccable reputation who can give the movement legitimacy."
Years later, Count Dooku announced the creation of the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
After graduating from the Academy, Lyuten was assigned to the analytical department of planetary reconnaissance. His workplace was in a modern building in the center of New Valo, offering a view of the "Valor-Tech" factory complexes and the dense forests of the Valorian taiga beyond the city.
His task was to monitor political processes in neighboring systems, make forecasts for trade relations, and analyze the activities of various political factions. Valorin, despite its position in the Mid Rim, played a significant role in the sector's economy, and the region's political stability directly affected the well-being of Valorinians.
The work was interesting and important. Every morning, Lyuten received news summaries from dozens of planets, trade reports, diplomatic dispatches, and intelligence data. His task was to find significant patterns in this flow of information.
"Look," he showed his supervisor, Major Dreks, "trade flows between Malachor and Onderon have decreased by thirty percent in the last quarter. At the same time, Malachor has increased its arms purchases from Corellia. And yesterday, a Malachor senator sharply criticized the republican tax policy."
"And what does that mean?"
"Malachor is preparing to leave the Republic. They are accumulating weapons and reducing economic ties with loyal systems."
Major Dreks nodded approvingly. Such analysis allowed the Valorin government to prepare in advance for changes in the political situation.
Lyuten quickly established himself as one of the best analysts. His reports were read by the planet's top leadership, and his recommendations were taken into account when making important decisions. By the age of twenty-five, he had achieved the rank of captain and his own department of eight analysts.
But the more Lyuten studied galactic politics, the better he understood Valorin's own problems. The planet's relationship with the Republic had always been complicated. Valorin was too important and rich to be ignored, but not influential enough for its opinion to be seriously considered.
The main problem became corporate espionage. The shipbuilding giant "Quanti-Inc," a former subsidiary of "Corellian Engineering," closely linked to influential Republic senators, had been trying for decades to steal or buy the blueprints for Valorin hyperdrives for a pittance. Their agents bribed engineers, infiltrated factories, and intercepted technical documentation.
"They want our technologies, but they don't want to pay a fair price for them," Lyuten's father complained at family dinner. "And when we file complaints with the Senate, they tell us these are 'matters of free trade.'"
"Free for them," his mother added bitterly. "The Republican Senate always sides with 'Quanti-Inc.' To them, we are provincials who don't understand 'big economic processes.'"
The second problem was taxes. The Republic imposed huge taxes on Valorin, considering it a "rich world," while investing practically nothing in the development of its infrastructure.
"We even built the hyperspace beacon with our own money," his mother exclaimed indignantly. "And we pay taxes as if we were from Coruscant. For what? For the right to be called part of the Republic?"
Lyuten saw these contradictions in his analytical reports. Valorin contributed ten times more to the republican budget than it received back in investments and subsidies. It was a classic colonial model – a rich periphery feeding the center.
The turning point came a year before the Clone Wars. The Valorin cargo ship "Promise," carrying humanitarian aid to the famine-stricken Ryloth system, was mistakenly fired upon and destroyed by the Republican cruiser "Valiant."
Lyuten was appointed to the commission investigating the incident. The analysis showed that the Republican captain, Neris, mistook the unarmed freighter for a smuggler ship and opened fire without warning. No attempts were made to contact the "Promise," no warning shots – just an immediate turbolaser volley.
"It wasn't a navigational error," Lear reported at a closed meeting of the Council of Elders. "It was negligence and disregard for the lives of non-Coruscanti. Captain Neris didn't even try to identify the target."
Forty-two people died, including medics and volunteers. Among them was the daughter of Elder Korvus, a young doctor who was transporting medicine for Twi'lek children.
The Republic's reaction was predictable. Captain Neris received a reprimand and was transferred to another ship. The families of the deceased were paid symbolic compensation—a thousand credits per person. Less than the cost of a single turbolaser charge.
"Forty-two Valorinians," General Erskine, commander of planetary defense, said then, "and they didn't even properly apologize. To them, we are second-class citizens. Our lives are worthless."
When Count Dooku announced the formation of the Confederacy of Independent Systems, Valorin's government faced a difficult choice. The planet was formally part of the Republic, but many Valorinians sympathized with the separatists.
Lear participated in closed meetings of the Council of Elders, where the planet's future was discussed. Opinions were divided. Old conservatives advocated for loyalty to the Republic. Young radicals demanded immediate accession to the CIS. Moderates proposed declaring neutrality.
"Captain Rael," Elder Korvus addressed him, "what is your prognosis for the situation?"
Lear stood up and activated the holo-projector. A three-dimensional map of the sector appeared on the table, color-coded to show the political sympathies of various systems.
"Conflict is inevitable," he said. "The Republic cannot allow the separatists to control the trade routes of the Mid-Rim. The CIS, in turn, needs our industrial base for the production of military equipment. Valorin will find itself at the center of military operations regardless of our choice."
"And what do you propose?"
"I would recommend siding with the Republic; the economic advantage is on their side."
General Erskine nodded: "Thank you, Captain. A very accurate analysis. We will take it into consideration."
When Count Dooku personally arrived on Valorin for negotiations, he offered the planet autonomy, the abolition of oppressive taxes, and protection from corporate interference. The Council of Elders saw the CIS not as an ideology, but as a pragmatic alliance of equal partners.
A week after an open referendum, in which 67% of Valorinians voted for independence, Valorin's government announced its withdrawal from the Republic and its accession to the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
The Republic reacted quickly. A month after the declaration of independence, a whole fleet—twelve star destroyers under the command of a Jedi General—approached the Val system.
The ultimatum was simple: immediate surrender or "forced restoration of lawful order."
Valorin refused.
The war on Valorin became a nightmare for the Republic. These were not ordinary separatist rebellions with poorly armed militias. These were full-scale battles between two high-tech armies.
The Valorinians used their industrial base to its full capacity. "Valor-Tech" factories switched to military production, churning out powerful defensive batteries, grav tanks, and atmospheric fighters.
The planet had no fleet, apart from its police forces. They had been forbidden to create one before the war. The separatists were busy on other fronts and could not help. But the planetary defense seemed to be invincible. Cities turned into fortresses with multi-layered defenses. Elite Valorian infantry was equipped with the best gear in the galaxy.
"We are fighting for our home," General Erskine said in his addresses to the troops. "Droids fight for their programming, clones—for orders. And we—for the freedom of our children. Who, in your opinion, will fight harder?"
The Valorinians rarely used the CIS droid armies, relying on their own soldiers. It was a war of principles against principles, beliefs against beliefs.
When the Republican troops landed on the planet, it became clear that conventional reconnaissance methods were not working. Clones fought with ruthless efficiency, and Jedi led assaults that swept away any defense. New approaches were needed.
General Erskine summoned Lear to his office a week after the start of ground combat.
"Captain, I need your abilities on the front lines."
"Sir, I'm an analyst..."
"You were an analyst. Now you are a scout." Erskine walked over to a map where Republican troop positions were marked with red dots. "I need people who can think outside the box, see the big picture, and coordinate small groups. Your task is to create a network of agents behind the front lines, organize partisan detachments, and establish communication between isolated garrisons."
Lear understood there was no choice. The war was consuming people at an incredible rate, and the command lacked personnel.
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Tomorrow you will go to the northern sector. Colonel Morgan is in command there—an experienced soldier, but he needs an assistant who can see the strategic picture."
Colonel Drex Morgan turned out to be a gray-haired veteran with tired eyes and an iron will. He met Lear without much enthusiasm.
"Another staff officer," he grumbled, not looking up from the map. "I hope you can at least shoot?"
"I studied at the academy, sir."
"The academy is one thing, and war is another." Morgan finally looked up. "We'll see how you do."
Morgan commanded a composite regiment—the remnants of regular units, militiamen, and volunteers. A whole corps of clones under the command of a Jedi General was operating against them. The forces were unequal, but the Valorinians knew the terrain and had the support of the population.
Lear quickly realized that his academic knowledge needed to be adapted to the reality of guerrilla warfare. Instead of analyzing political processes, he studied the routes of Republican patrols. Instead of predicting trade trends, he planned sabotage against enemy communications.
But his greatest talent turned out to be his ability to see the big picture and coordinate the actions of scattered groups. Lear created a communication network between partisan detachments, established an exchange of intelligence, and organized a supply system through sympathetic civilians.
"You have a talent for this," Morgan told him after a successful operation to destroy a Republican ammunition depot. "You think like a true strategist."
"I'm just applying what I learned, sir. Systems analysis, coordination, planning."
"Call it what you want. The main thing is that it works."
The personnel situation became even more difficult. Lear was promoted to Major and given his own sector of responsibility. Twelve partisan groups, totaling about three hundred people, operated under his command. Not an army, but enough to seriously harass the Republicans. Lear saw the futility of these actions, saw that the war was catastrophic for Valorin, but as a soldier, he pushed away thoughts that could undermine his morale.
By the end of the first year of the war, the nature of the conflict had changed. The Republicans, suffering huge losses against the stubborn Valorian defense, resorted to harsher methods. They began targeted orbital bombardments of industrial centers, destroyed infrastructure, and used collective punishment against the civilian population.
Lear saw how the war changed people. His partisans, who had started as idealists fighting for their homeland's freedom, gradually became cruel and cynical. Too many comrades had died, and too many atrocities had been committed by both sides.
Lear himself had changed. An analyst accustomed to desk work learned to kill. First from a distance—coordinating ambushes and sabotage. Then up close—when he had to personally participate in operations.
He killed the first person during a raid on a Republican convoy. A clone sergeant, wounded in an ambush, was trying to call for reinforcements on his comlink. Lear shot him in the head from three meters away. His hands trembled for an hour after the battle.
"You'll get used to it," Sergeant Cole, a veteran of planetary defense, told him. "Everyone gets used to it."
And Lear did get used to it. To killing, to blood, to the fact that any day could be his last. War became his new normal.
But gradually, the methods of fighting became more criminal. Command demanded results at any cost. Orders became increasingly brutal.
First, there were "cleansings"—the destruction of entire villages suspected of collaborating with the Republicans. Then, executions of hostages in response to Republican bombings. Then, the use of chemical weapons against clones.
"They are not people," justified Lieutenant Colonel Kessler, the new sector commander. "They are biological machines. They have no families, no children. Why be lenient with them?"
"And the collaborators?" Lear asked. "Are they not people either?"
"Traitors are worse than enemies," Kessler replied coldly. "They made their choice."
The turning point was an operation in the village of Korrin-Valley in the second year of the war. The Republicans were preparing a major offensive, and command ordered them to disrupt their plans at any cost. One of the targets was a supply base in the village.
Lear received orders to clear the base and await further instructions. Reconnaissance reported ammunition depots, repair workshops, and barracks. A standard military target.
But when his group arrived, the situation turned out to be more complicated.
"Major," reported Lieutenant Kess, "the Republicans evacuated two days ago. The former base buildings house collaborators who were not evacuated in time."
Lear studied the village through binoculars. Indeed, no signs of military presence. Only families who had worked for the Republic. The Republican forces had abandoned them during their retreat.
"How many people?"
"About two hundred. Some are armed for self-defense."
Suddenly, the radio station crackled to life. The radioman raised his hand, drawing attention.
"To all units in the sector," Lieutenant Colonel Kessler's voice came from headquarters. "General Erskine's order: all targets in the operation zone are to be destroyed immediately. Leave no one alive. I repeat—leave no one alive."
The partisans exchanged glances. Lear felt something clench in his chest.
"HQ, this is Lear," he took the radio. "There are no military targets in the village. Only civilians."
"Major Lear, they are supporting the Republic. They made their choice. Execute the order."
"Sir, there might be children..."
"What don't you understand about the word 'ORDER', Lear? The order is final. Report completion in one hour."
Communication was cut. In the ensuing silence, only static in the air and distant voices from the village could be heard—children playing in the yard, someone singing a song.
Everyone looked at Lear.
"Major?" Sergeant Cole asked quietly.
Lear remained silent for a long time, looking at the peaceful village below. He thought about his principles, about the reasons he went to war. About the difference between fighting for freedom and simple murder.
"I cannot give such an order," he finally said.
The radioman cleared his throat awkwardly: "Major, but the order..."
"To hell with the order," Lear took the assault rifle from his shoulder. "This is not war. This is a massacre."
Lieutenant Kess stepped forward: "Sir, with respect, but we all heard the order from HQ..."
"So? Are you ready to kill children?"
Awkward silence. Someone among the partisans looked away, someone clenched their fists.
Half an hour later, the radio station crackled to life again. This time, the voice was icy:
"Major Lear, report on the completion of the mission."
Lieutenant Kess took the radio: "HQ, this is Lieutenant Kess. Major Lear refused to carry out the order."
A long pause. Then: "Major Lear is demoted to sergeant for disobeying a direct order. Captain Kess assumes command. The order remains in effect. Sergeant Lear will personally command the cleanup on-site, since he cannot give orders in an officer's position—it's time to be cured of excessive humanism."
Lear felt his former subordinates looking at him. Some with sympathy, some with incomprehension, some with contempt.
"Lear," Captain Kess addressed him, "as a sergeant, you will personally participate in the operation. Take an assault rifle. Command wants to make sure you understand the realities of war."
"I said I wouldn't participate in this."
"Lear, listen to me. They'll shoot you! Take the rifle!"
Sergeant Cole handed Lear the rifle. He slowly took the weapon, realizing there was no choice.
The attack began at dawn. Buildings caught fire from incendiary grenades, and people ran out in panic. Women grabbed children, men weakly fired back with hunting rifles. They were not soldiers—ordinary people in despair.
Lear walked in the advancing line, holding his rifle ready, but not firing. He hoped that in the general confusion, no one would notice his inaction. Gunfire crackled around him, grenades exploded, people screamed.
"Lear!" Captain Kess shouted. "Check that ship on the outskirts! Make sure no one is there!"
Lear nodded and ran towards the indicated target. It was a small cargo ship—a battered YT-1000 that had clearly crash-landed. The hull was damaged, one wing was burnt, but the ship was still holding on its supports. Behind him, gunfire and screams continued.
Lear climbed the emergency ramp and entered the damaged ship. The cargo hold was empty—only scattered crates and signs of a hasty evacuation. He sat on one of the containers.
Outside, automatic gunfire and screams continued. He felt disgusted by what he saw in the village. Women with children, old people—they all fled in panic, and the partisans methodically shot them.
"Stop!" he cried out quietly, covering his head with his hands. "Stop!"
Lear took out a flask of alcohol and took a large gulp. The alcohol burned his throat but did not dull his revulsion at what was happening.
"Stop! Stop!" he muttered again.
New screams came from the street—someone was being shot right in the square.
"Let's go! They're leaving!" someone shouted.
Then footsteps approached the ship. A voice was heard at the entrance:
"Sergeant, are you in there?"
A young partisan with a soot-stained face entered the ship: "There you are! The captain is looking for you!"
"I hear you! I had to reload," Lear grumbled, pointing to his blaster.
"And we cleared out another basement!" the partisan reported enthusiastically. "There were about fifty of them! Can you imagine?"
"I said I hear you," Lear replied irritably. "Don't yell!"
"Do you have any incendiary grenades left?" the partisan asked. "The captain wants to set the whole street on fire! And your radio is off, by the way!"
The partisan ran out of the ship, leaving Lear alone.
Lear turned on the radio. Captain Kess's stern voice immediately came from it: "They might come to take a closer look at the fire. Anything that moves inside is our target!"
Screams of cleanup were heard again from outside.
Lear moved deeper into the ship when he suddenly heard a quiet sound—something fell in the cargo hold. He froze and started to go back.
As he walked, Captain Kess's voice came from the radio: "South of the canal, we need to clear the entire ridge. I counted three more settlements..."
Lear took out his combat knife and cautiously approached the place where the sound had come from. There he discovered a hidden cache—a concealed compartment for smuggled goods. The lid was ajar.
Clenching the knife in his hand, ready to slit the throat of anyone hiding inside, Lear sharply opened the cache.
There sat a girl about eight years old, who silently looked at him with large, frightened eyes. She didn't scream, didn't cry—she just looked.
Lear froze with the knife in his hand, looking at the child. At that moment, voices came from the radio:
"Sergeant Lear, do you copy?"
"Sergeant Lear, where are you?"
"Where is Sergeant Lear? Has anyone seen him?"
"He's on the ship," someone's voice replied.
Lear realized there was no more time. He wouldn't kill the girl, which meant he had to act right now.
"Lear, are you there?" the voice came from the radio.
Then, more sharply: "These people go into the pit! Sergeant! Answer!"
Lear quickly made a "quiet" gesture to the girl, putting his finger to his lips, put away the knife, and ran to the cockpit. Starting the engines, he lifted the ship into the air.
"What's going on there?" came from the radio. "Who is lifting the ship?"
But Lear had already turned off the communication and headed the ship towards the mountains, away from the village and the war.
Only when they were far from the cleanup site did Lear return to the cargo hold. The girl was still sitting in the cache, but now she wasn't hiding.
"What's your name?" he asked, sitting down next to her.
"Myra," she replied quietly. "And you won't kill me?"
"No. I saved you."
"Why?"
Lear was silent for a long time, looking at the child.
"Because it's disgusting to me."
Only then did he begin to inspect the ship and discover the smuggled goods in other caches—antique trinkets, works of art, rare minerals. Everything that would help them survive in exile.
"Was your father a smuggler?" he asked.
"We used to transport cargo," Myra nodded. "Dad said we helped people get what they needed."
"Your father was a smart man."
"We transported cargo," the girl shrugged. "Different cargo. To where they pay well for it."
Smugglers. Lear chuckled—the girl was from a family of smugglers and already at eight years old understood more about life than many adults.
"Myra, we need to be very careful."
"And where are we going?"
"Far from the war."
The girl nodded and quickly gathered her few belongings. Among them was a real blaster—not a toy, but a combat weapon, scaled down for a child's hand.
"Dad gave it to me," she explained, noticing Lear's surprised look. "He said that in our business, you need to know how to stand up for yourself."
Lear inspected the ship. The YT-1000 was damaged, but not critically. One engine was punctured, the hyperdrive was destroyed, the navigation computer was glitching, but for atmospheric flights, the ship was suitable. It couldn't fly into space, but that wasn't required yet.
The main find was the smuggled cargo in the hidden compartments. Antique trinkets, works of art, rare minerals—everything that Myra's father transported for wealthy clients. On the black market, it was worth a fortune.
"Dad said that if something happened, this cargo would help me survive," Myra said, pointing to the caches. "He taught me how to open them."
Lear lifted the ship into the air again and headed for the mountains, away from the front line. The planet was under a Republican blockade—it was impossible to fly off it. But in the mountains of the Valorian taiga, one could hide.
Myra turned out to be surprisingly resilient for her age. The daughter of a smuggler, she was accustomed to danger and uncertainty. Instead of tears and hysterics, she helped Lear set up their new refuge.
After selling a few antique trinkets at a refugee camp, they walked along a forest path, heading back to their refuge. Lear jingled the credits in his pocket—the first money earned in a long time.
Myra was silent, looking thoughtfully at the road. Finally, she asked: "Am I your daughter now?"
Lear looked at her: "When it's useful."
"I need to think about that."
"We will be whoever we want, but we don't always get to decide," Lear said, stopping. "Now I am Luthen, and you are Kleya. Everything else doesn't matter anymore."
The girl fell silent, frowning.
"I didn't want to upset you," he added more gently.
"I'm not upset," Kleya shook her head. "I'm hungry."
Lear smiled and jingled the credits: "Then let's eat!"
They headed to a small diner on the outskirts of the refugee camp. For the first time in a long time, they had money for real food.
At the table, eating hot soup, the girl asked: "And why Kleya specifically?"
"It means 'glory' in ancient Valorian," Luthen explained. "A fitting name for someone who survived hell."
"And Luthen?"
"I just like the sound of it. Luthen Rael."
"Where did the surname come from?"
"I made it up. And you will have Marki."
"Why Marki?"
"I made that up too."
Kleya nodded with a serious expression: "Luthen Rael and Kleya Marki. Sounds like real names."
"Now they are our real names," Luthen said. "Lear and Myra died in that village. We are different people."
"And are we good people?"
Luthen pondered this question: "We'll see..."
And so they lived for the next few years. Luthen sold trinkets through a network of black market traders, and Kleya helped him with it—a smuggler's daughter knew her way around such matters.
The Clone Wars ended unexpectedly, in just a few months. Count Dooku died, a certain Vader destroyed the separatist nest on Mustafar, the droids shut down, and Palpatine became emperor. But on Valorin, the war continued.
General Erskine refused to recognize the CIS's surrender. He announced the creation of an independent Valorian state and continued resistance against the Empire.
"We didn't fight for droids or for Dooku," he said in his addresses to the people, which Luthen listened to on the HoloNet in his mountain refuge. "We fought for Valorin's freedom. And we will fight to the end."
Part of Luthen's soul resonated with the old commander's calls. But another part understood the utter futility of continuing the war, and there was no one left in the "Center" who could suggest the right path. Only supporters of the radical course and a government that knew they were already dead men walking in any case. They had allowed themselves too much during the war and had said too much to Palpatine.
The Empire sent new troops—no longer clones, but regular soldiers. The war became even more brutal. The Imperials did not mince words with "terrorists" and "separatist criminals."
The resistance lasted for another six years. General Erskine turned the capital into a fortress, and the entire planet into a guerrilla zone. The Empire controlled the major cities, and the Valorinians controlled everything else. The network of underground tunnels, bases, and fortifications across the planet made the guerrilla war endless.
Luthen did not participate in combat operations. His mountain refuge became a quiet haven amidst this madness. Kleya grew up and matured, becoming a smart, lively girl with character.
"Uncle Luthen," she asked one day, when she turned twelve, "why do people fight?"
"Because they can't agree," he replied.
"And did you fight?"
"Yes."
"And did you kill people?"
Luthen was silent for a long time.
"Yes, little one. I did."
"And do you regret it now?"
"I regret many things. But not saving you."
Kleya walked over and hugged him.
"I don't regret you saving me either. Dad always said—family isn't blood, it's choice. I choose you."
The end came suddenly. The Empire was tired of the protracted war and decided to take radical measures. Moff Tarkin, who became famous for his brutal methods of suppressing rebellions, received a carte blanche for the "final solution to the Valorian problem."
Lir learned about the impending operation from the stream of refugees who were moving through the mountains. The Imperial fleet was gathering in the system — four Executor-class Star Destroyers with orbital turbolasers.
"Uncle," said fourteen-year-old Cleya, "maybe we should leave too?"
Lir looked at her. Cleya had grown into a beautiful girl with intelligent eyes. She was already fourteen. She understood more than he would have liked.
"Where to, little one? The planet is blockaded."
"But if they bomb the planet..."
"Then we'll face it here. Together."
He didn't want to run away pointlessly. He remembered the army joke, "Don't run, you'll die tired." Valorin was his homeland, the place where he was born, studied, fell in love, and became a man. If the planet was destined to die, he would die with it.
Besides, they had a bunker. An old mining station that Lir had learned about during his service in reconnaissance. Deep underground, with its own life support systems, food, and water supplies. A place where one could wait out a catastrophe.
The bombardment began on the morning of the third day of the month of Valos. Lir woke up to the sound of sirens in the valley — a final warning for those who could still escape.
At first, there were only bright lines in the stratosphere — the turbolasers of the Imperial Star Destroyers. Then the ground began to shake. Not like an earthquake — rhythmically, in waves, with each impact shaking the continent.
"Uncle," Cleya whispered, "has it started?"
"Yes, little one. Time to go to the bunker."
Lir grabbed the pre-prepared backpacks with the essentials, took Cleya's hand, and ran to the entrance of the underground shelter. They got there just in time.
The firestorm began an hour after the bombardment started.
The Empire wasn't just bombing military targets. They were destroying the planet's ecological system. Turbolasers melted the polar ice caps, burned out the Valorian taiga, and evaporated lakes. A monstrous amount of ash and soot was released into the atmosphere.
Burning forests and cities created a monstrous draft. Superheated air rose in pillars kilometers high. Fire swirled into fire tornadoes. The temperature rose to seventy degrees even in the mountains.
For three days, the Empire burned Valorin. Lir and Cleya sat in the bunker, listening to the world above crumble. The generator worked intermittently, there was little food, and even less water.
"Uncle," Cleya asked on the second day, "are we going to die?"
"I don't know, little one. Maybe."
"I'm not scared," she said. "I'm not scared with you."
On the fourth day, it became quiet.
When they emerged onto the surface, Valorin was dead. Ash covered everything, falling in gray flakes from the dark sky. The temperature dropped to minus forty — the dust in the atmosphere blocked out the sun, creating an artificial winter.
The famous Valorian taiga had turned into a graveyard of charred trunks. The purest lakes were frozen under a layer of ash and soot. The picturesque mountains had turned gray from the ash.
Cleya caught pneumonia. Lir nursed her back to health using medications from the bunker's supplies. She survived, but remained weakened for a long time.
They returned to the bunker and began a new life. Lir hunted animals that had survived in the underground caves and swamps of the valley, grew mushrooms in hydroponic systems, and repaired equipment. Cleya helped him, studying medicine from books in the bunker's library.
For six months, they didn't see a single living person. It seemed they were the last humans on a dead planet.
"Uncle Lir," Cleya called, tearing herself away from repairing the water filter, "I hear a signal on the emergency frequency."
Lir stopped fixing the generator and ran to the radio station. For six months, they hadn't heard a single voice from the outside — only static and sometimes automatic distress signals from long-crashed ships.
But now, a live voice was on the air:
"To all survivors on Valorin. Is anyone alive? I repeat — is anyone alive on this cursed planet?"
The voice was young, male, with a slight Corellian accent. Lir and Cleya exchanged glances. In the six months since the catastrophe, this was the first sign of life from the outside.
Lir grabbed the microphone:
"This is the bunker in the northern mountains. Two survivors. Who are you?"
"Damn it!" the stranger's voice sounded relieved. "I thought no one was left here. I'm Alex. I'm on a cargo run, but I decided to check — in case anyone survived. Can you give me coordinates?"
Lir hesitated for a second. Over the years of war, he had learned not to trust strangers. But what did they have to lose? They were already preparing for death.
"Coordinates 127.34 degrees north latitude, 45.67 degrees east longitude. Landmark — the old mining station in the Crystal Peaks gorge."
"Received. Landing in an hour. Prepare for... well, I don't know what to prepare for on a dead planet."
The connection broke. Cleya looked at Lir with wide eyes:
"Uncle, are they saving us?"
"I don't know, little one. But it looks like we'll find out soon."
An hour later, they heard the familiar sound of engines cutting through the howling wind in the gorge. A YT-1300, Lir identified by the characteristic hum — a reliable ship, a favorite of smugglers and independent traders.
Lir grabbed his blaster and cautiously climbed to the bunker's exit. Through the thick armored glass of the observation window, he saw blurred lights in the gray haze of the ash blizzard. The ship was landing carefully, the pilot was clearly experienced — landing on a dead planet in near-zero visibility required skill.
Two people emerged from the ship. A young man in a worn leather pilot's jacket and a Twi'lek in a work jumpsuit. Both were armed, both moved cautiously, like people accustomed to danger.
"Stop!" Lir shouted, aiming his blaster at them through the bunker's intercom window. "Are you alone?"
The young man didn't lower his weapon, but he didn't aim it at Lir:
"Easy, pal! I'm Alex Corren, this is my partner Verena." He gestured to the Twi'lek. "We were just checking if there were any survivors. Didn't expect to find anyone alive in this hell."
"Alex," the Twi'lek hissed in her language, then switched to Basic, "maybe he's an Imperial?"
"Look at him, Verena," Alex chuckled. "What kind of Imperial is he?"
Lir indeed didn't look his best. Six months in the bunker, meager food, constant cold and stress had taken their toll. A beard, worn clothes, thinness — he looked more like a hermit than a soldier.
"What are you doing here?" Lir asked, not lowering his weapon.
"Looking for salvageable equipment," Alex shrugged. "Valorin hyperdrives are highly valued. I thought maybe something survived in the mountains."
"Nothing survived. Everything burned or froze."
"Too bad." Alex looked at the gray landscape around him. "How did you survive?"
"Lucky. I knew about the old bunker."
"Listen, maybe we should go inside where it's warm?" Alex rubbed his hands. "I have real caf and some food. And your companion," he nodded towards the bunker, where Cleya's shadow was visible, "surely needs vitamins."
Half an hour later, they were sitting in the cramped bunker, sipping hot caf — the first real caf in many years. Cleya looked at the guests with distrust, but a piece of real chocolate that Alex gave her was clearly doing its job.
"So, a former soldier," Alex shook his head, having listened to the short version of their story. "Served in the Valorin army?"
"Reconnaissance. Analyst, to be precise."
"And the girl?"
"Cleya. I found her during... an operation. Her parents died."
Alex nodded with understanding. In his eyes, Lir saw something familiar — the pain of a person who had lost loved ones.
"I understand," Alex took a sip of coffee. "Not as large-scale as here, but the result is the same."
"Corellia." Alex's voice became harsh. "Maybe you remember the terrorist raid by separatists? Don't look at me like that. I'm not blaming you. I need the one who gave that order. And the sides in that war don't matter. It's all one big bantha poodoo."
Verena placed her hand on her partner's shoulder:
"Alex's parents were killed."
"My condolences," Lir said sincerely.
"Likewise."
They finished their caf in silence.
"Listen," Alex said after a pause, "I have a proposition. I'm flying to Nar Shaddaa. You can get documents there if you know the right people. And I do."
"At what price?"
"Come on," Alex waved his hand. "Not everything in the galaxy is done for money. Sometimes people just help each other."
"And in return?" Lir tensed at the mention of the Smuggler's Moon.
Alex looked at Lir intently:
"Maybe you can help me too. We might have common goals."
"Which ones?"
"We'll see," Alex said quietly. "It costs me nothing to help you. What they did to Valorin... " he gestured around the bunker, "is pure evil."
Lir silently stared into the fire of the heater. He thought about the war, about the Valorin taiga, about what remained of his world.
"What do you mean?"
"It's too early for that. I need people with specific skills. Analysts, coordinators, strategists." Alex looked at him significantly. "People who can see the big picture."
"And what will I get out of it?"
"At least money," Alex said simply. "But I think we have a lot in common."
Alex took out his datapad and started typing something:
"So, new documents. What's your name now?"
"Lir Ra'el," Lir said. "And this is Cleya Marki."
"Good names. Where are you from?"
"Coruscant will do?"
"Excellent. Lir Ra'el, citizen of Coruscant, profession..." Alex paused. "Trade analyst. Studies markets, makes forecasts. Cleya Marki, his ward, parents died in a transport accident."
"And biometrics?"
"I have ways to do that. Expensive, but possible." Alex finished typing. "Done. Welcome to your new life."
"We have to go," Alex said, finishing his coffee. "The longer we stay here, the more likely we are to be spotted by Imperial patrols."
"They fly here?" Lir asked, surprised.
"Periodically. They check if any survivors are left. The Empire doesn't like witnesses to its crimes."
Lir and Cleya quickly gathered their few belongings. Everything that remained of their life on Valorin fit into two backpacks.
Lir looked at the gray landscape outside the window — charred tree trunks, frozen lakes, mountains covered in ash.
He knew he would never see his home planet alive again. Valorin had died, and with it, a part of his soul had died.
As the ship lifted into the air and headed towards the edge of the atmosphere, Lir and Cleya looked out the porthole at the receding planet. A gray sphere, shrouded in ash and smoke — that's what remained of beautiful Valorin.
Only the extinguished heater remained in the bunker — a testament to how worlds die.