Well. Leaving the planet just like that didn't work out for me. My brazen, painted mug completely forgot about such a mundane thing as documents. On Concord Dawn, I didn't need documents, because Warren and Des handled all issues, and I didn't buy anything "special." The Jedi, apparently, deliberately didn't hurry to let me out. Although… I'm the idiot for not thinking about it. So, as hard as it is to admit, I was a bum.
"Made it this far, huh," I smirked to myself, figuring that even though I have no documents and I'm alone in a big world, I still had something in my hands. Six plates with a denomination of five thousand each, three thirteen-thousand plates, and another ten of a hundred. Total—forty-four thousand. I also exchanged a thousand on Concord Dawn into Mandalorian tergs, which I used to buy spare clothes and household trifles.
If you look at it plainly, it's a very serious sum. As Des told me, the average payout for one job to a Mandalorian mercenary team is five to ten thousand. It can be a sweep, bounty hunting, protection, assassination, or, on the contrary, rescue—many options. The price Mandalorian mercenaries charged was hefty, but justified, because you don't get the title of best for pretty eyes. For comparison, as Warren said, a technician-engineer with higher education, if he gets into a good place—a very good place—will get five thousand credits. Yes, everything depends on the planet you live on, but a salary of three to four thousand can be considered a blurred average.
That's where I, by the way, understood just how bad things are on Mandalore. The average salary is eight thousand tergs, at an exchange rate of one credit to three tergs. That gives two-six hundred. Seems not bad, but for the love of—on a planet where two-thirds of goods are in shortage and prices are three to four times higher than normal. For a moment, I even remembered my old home, when you have to survive on a salary of fifteen thousand rubles.
So the payment of five to ten thousand for a job, even if you're on a team, is a good salary by local standards. Not rarely, people with big money come to Mandalorians for especially complex contracts; others hire them as special-operations units. The Corporate Sector especially loves that theme.
Mandalorians prefer not to get involved with smuggling. Not because "ew," but simply because it's not interesting. Guarding contraband cargo? They can do that, but they won't deliver it themselves—except, perhaps, in the case that someone bought a batch of banned weapons from them and it needs to be transported to the client.
Damn… maybe I should become a smuggler? Well, why not—physically you won't get less than ten thousand per run, and if you think about it, I can chart new routes. I remember Dad's lessons; I just need a bit of practice.
On the other hand, why? Warren and Des invited me. They have pleasant company, and the work suits me. So to speak, my profile, heh. So it's decided—I just need to contact them.
"Look, a Jedi…" I heard passersby whispering. Glancing at a couple of sentients of a species I didn't know, I looked myself over.
"And I should change clothes."
Getting up from the steps of some building, I threw the hood up. First—change. Then I need to buy a communicator; then we'll deal with documents.
Looking left and right, I saw only buildings stretching up and down. Straight ahead there was a barrier, beyond which there was a drop and an "aeroway" where speeders zipped.
"No. Better start with a map."
By the old-grandpa method—asking passersby (in more or less decent Basic, as I continue improving the language!)—I found an electronics store. Data pads, communicators, holoprojectors, computers (small and large), fifth-category droids (vacuum cleaners, mice), and much more greeted me in this small but well-designed shop.
"What would the Jedi gentleman like?" asked an older Twi'lek behind the counter, with a left stump where a full lekku should have been. He looked pleasant, well-groomed and neat… if only he didn't hide, under his smile, the desire to get rid of me as quickly as possible.
"You have electronic device… um, pocket size with unified functions?"
"I do. I have many things. I take it you need a wrist computer?"
"Show me."
The seller walked along the glass cases, opened one of the displays, and showed me a small device. It was a thin little "box" with a lid. In the lower half was a touchscreen with an input keyboard, while the lid had a screen for displaying the image itself. There was also a small simple built-in holoprojector for showing a small 3D image right above the device.
"TK-TK-12. A portable wrist computer that combines many devices, such as a communicator, a tablet, and a data pad. On top it has a remote-connection capability to a droid, and there's also a built-in program for synchronizing the device with another computer directly. For its model it has a good processor and…" he measured me with a look, "…a quality waterproof housing. The downsides are low battery charge and the price."
"How long does the charge last?"
"Ten days; if used actively—seven to eight."
"Price?"
"Five hundred credits."
"Not cheap," I snorted.
"It wasn't made for ordinary people, Jedi gentleman. These models and their like are popular with bounty hunters, pilots, and engineers. If you want, I can offer a cheaper analog." He pulled out something similar, but thicker, and instead of metal-plastic it was just plastic. "Here. Everything the same, but simpler, and only one hundred twenty credits."
"Yeah. I'll take the first one."
"See? Sometimes a seller understands a buyer at half a word," the Twi'lek nodded, closing the cabinet.
"And a mount?"
"Of course. For an additional price. We'll pick something for you now."
So, by trial, they fitted a case to my arm and seated the computer inside it. On top of that, I bought several infochips right away: one with maps of the Coruscant districts I'd been hanging around in (for reference, one district on Coruscant is like all of Kero'Tus on Concord Dawn), another with languages including Mando'a, which I immediately set as the keyboard layout, and another chip containing data on known and popular hyperroutes across the galaxy. Something to read in my spare time.
Though my test attempt to go onto the HoloNet failed. It turned out I needed a comm chip—also known as a subscriber identification module, also known as a "sim card." The seller offered to register it right there, but since I had neither a bank account nor even any documents to attach debts to or pay for the service, I had to give up.
All in all, it cost me five hundred fifty-three credits. Not cheap, but tolerable. The next step was clothing. Thanks to the map, finding a shop—an actually normal shop, not a corner stall—was no problem.
The map led me to an entire shopping center where you could walk around and choose. So I picked out new clothes properly: boots, pants, a shirt, and a sleeveless vest like the one I wore in my youth. And a spare set, of course—how could I not? And a backpack, where I packed what I bought and my things. The Jedi rags went into the nearest trash can.
"What, decided to leave the Order?" the clerk commented.
"They've had it coming. Nothing but psychos."
"M…"
"Anyway, thanks for the things."
"Thank you—come again!"
So. Now documents. Hmm… documents…
Standing at the edge of the street and rubbing my chin thoughtfully, I weighed how to handle them. I could, in theory, go down to the lower levels and look for someone who can forge documents. But that means walking, searching, and in any case a forgery is a forgery—it's better not to register anything serious under it.
Then… why not? Smiling with the corners of my lips, I adjusted my backpack and headed for the nearest police precinct.
No, Coruscant is not my planet. I have to screen hard to avoid hearing the heap of others' emotions. And I won't even talk about the grime and smoke; it feels like, a little more and you won't be able to breathe. And I'm on the middle levels—it's hard to imagine what's happening on the lower ones.
So, here's the police building. At the entrance there was a detector that identified weapons. Hmm… either it doesn't work, or I don't know I've been made, or Force Swords weren't identified as weapons. Judging by the silence—most likely the third.
Wow, there are a lot of people here. Not a crowd, but enough. Going up to the terminal where ticket numbers are taken for service droids, I took one and calmly stood by the wall. Ah, nostalgia… how long ago was that?
While I stood in line, I looked over other "visitors." The crowd was very mixed: a Mon Calamari mom with a child, a drunk Nautolan, a pair of beaten Zabrak, and some human… skinny, with bloodshot eyes. Periodically, detainees were led past us. I laughed when, once again, a cursing cop walked by with a droid, dragging a completely plastered body by the arms. Yeah. I sympathize with local law enforcement. I really do.
Oh! My turn.
"Good afternoon. What happened?" a polite police droid asked from behind armored glass.
"My documents went missing," and I'm not lying! Documents have a physical expiration date too.
"Were they stolen?"
"Unknown."
"When did they go missing?"
"Today."
"Where did they go missing?"
"I don't know."
"Do you have any other identification documents?"
"No."
"Are you registered with the Republic Department?"
"No."
"Do you have relatives ready to confirm your identity?"
"No."
"I have notified an officer. Wait; someone will come down for you. Keep your ticket."
"Thank you."
"All the best. Ticket 651!"
Waiting, though, took quite a while. A full hour and no one hurried to come down, and then from the side door—where detainees are usually dragged in or out—a Zabrak in an officer's uniform came out with a data pad in his hands. Short haircut, a scar on his forehead, a swollen left ear, a slightly puffy face. Special "glasses" with an interface on his nose, a headset on his good ear.
"Who has number 650?"
"Me."
"Come with me."
Following the officer past the holding cell, we went up to the second floor and into an office. Hmm… cramped, but cozy. Cabinets stuffed with paperwork, a desk against the wall, no windows. The air smelled of cigarettes; on the desk among papers and supplies sat an ashtray.
"Sit. So, you say your documents went missing?"
"Yes."
"You lost them, or they were stolen?"
"They just disappeared." Yeah, physically. "And I need new ones."
"So… are you registered anywhere?"
"No."
"Okay… but are you a citizen of the Republic?"
"Well… you could say that."
"How is that to be understood?"
"I don't know…"
"You don't know if you're a citizen of the Republic?"
"Yep."
"…"
"Please don't look at me like that, I'm ashamed…"
"So… from the beginning. What's your name?"
"Shade Aero…"
After writing down all the data I dictated, they photographed me and left me alone, and even put me up in the precinct. The "room" was so-so: plaster in name only, a battered bed, a nightstand held together with tape… yeah.
While checks were going on, I learned the Jedi were searching for some unknown in such-and-such a suit. The holo showed my uniform. The caption said they recorded me as missing, and if someone sees me, report to such-and-such number. Yeah. And that uniform is in my backpack, heh. I'd pay to see the officer's face if he searched my stuff.
But he didn't. It was the third day; I studied the data loaded onto the wrist computer; the police looked for anything about me. And as you might guess, they found nothing at all. At first it amused me, but I didn't want to stay in this den for long, so I went up to the officer and asked to speed the process up. The living conditions are a little shitty…
They measured me with a suspicious look, but five thousand credits placed on the table resolved the matter, and the next day I had clean, legally obtained documents of a respectable Coruscant citizen. I didn't even have to use the Force to influence a decision—this is how far corruption has gone. Yeah.
But in any case, now I could buy a sim and finally access the HoloNet! But first—I needed to contact Warren.
"Su cuy, burc'ya!" (Greetings, friend), I began the message, recording it in Mando'a. "I visited the Jedi Order, found what I wanted—and I am now ready to join your squad. Is your offer still open?"
The reply didn't take long. Not even a minute passed before the communicator vibrated, and when I opened it, Warren's hologram appeared.
"Su cuy, burc'ya," Warren greeted. "I'm glad you accepted our invitation. But we're not home right now. Can you get to Concord Dawn on your own?"
"Yes."
"Then head there. While we're away, go to Clan Hawk; they'll give you a place to stay until we return, and then we'll handle your kit."
"I understand. It's, heh, a little outdated."
"Exactly. We'll arrive as soon as we're free. And again—we're glad you decided. Stay in touch, friend of Mandalore."
"Stay in touch." The holo winked out, and now I needed to find transport to Concord Dawn.
Typing transport companies into the HoloNet, I found the nearest flight to Concord Dawn with six transfers, with the last one being on Mandalore. Well… I'm used to hitching rides.
Adjusting my backpack, I headed… no, not to the spaceport. First I should grab a bite; I booked the seat, and the ship won't be for another five hours. So, dropping into a nearby café, I looked around with interest. Well… the most ordinary café, with a correction for local reality and time. Waiter droids scurried between tables; aliens ate quietly under soft unobtrusive music.
Looking at the menu, I was pleasantly surprised. Prices were more than reasonable. Probably. At least in my understanding, because dishes cost two, three, four credits. The most expensive thing I saw cost ten credits. I don't know if that's expensive or not—I didn't go to cafés much—but it doesn't matter.
Now, after a hearty meal of good old shashlik with a salad and wine, it was time to head to the spaceport.
***
Hmm… I probably got ahead of myself. I've never traveled like this. If I left Coruscant in my own cabin on a proper liner, then on the next ship I had to share a cramped space with three fellow travelers. Bastards. And they charged money as if the whole flight would be in a normal comfortable single cabin. Lies everywhere…
And after the transfer, the new fellow travelers were so-so. Since the transfer was on Alderaan, two guys sat there with their noses up.
"Guys, keep it down—you're not the only ones flying," I grumbled, tearing myself away from the wrist computer.
"Forgot to ask you."
"Shut it."
"Before you get dropped."
"I don't repeat myself." I threw them a short look.
They didn't listen. So I had to go down and explain, clearly, how to behave in a public place. I didn't hit them hard—just choked them a little—but it was enough, and the rest of the flight was quiet and peaceful.
The second transfer was miserable because I had to wait in a spaceport for a flight. Six whole hours! And local police also got a complaint about me.
"Are you Shade Aero?" officers approached, distracting me from reading.
"Sure am. And what do you want, gentlemen?"
"Come with us."
"Oh… to hell with it. As soon as I have real money, I'm buying my own transport," I grumbled, following the police.
Yes, it was those same guys who complained. But I left no marks on them, so there was no evidence. So I filed a counter-complaint for slander and disturbance of public order. The wrist computer recording confirmed it.
Don't look at me like that—you brought it on yourselves, and if that's not enough, I can add more. Want it? No? That's what I thought.
The next flight was nicer than the previous. This time I had my own room again, and at one of the dinners in the common hall, a pretty Togruta decided to sit with me. Gray skin, white markings around the eyes and cheekbones, about twenty by looks. Interest in me in her emotions. She wore a blue evening dress, bracelets on her wrists, a chain around her neck, and shoes. Lovely, in a word.
She noticed me the moment I came aboard, and had been looking over for two days now. Notably, other Togruta who noticed me also paid attention and were surprised. And she decided to come up…
"Hello. Am I bothering you?" she asked me in Togruti. Hmm… interesting that this language changed much less than the Taung language and Basic.
"Greetings. Not at all—have a seat."
Pulling the chair out, she sat opposite me.
"Forgive my curiosity—it's just that seeing someone who looks like you is very unusual. You're a half-breed, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"May I ask how that happened? We have a number of issues with other forms of life, such as humans."
"Well, I don't know. Where I come from, there were even more… unusual mixes," I made a vague gesture through the air. "So I'm still a more or less reasonable example of a half-breed. You could say it's a planetary quirk."
"How interesting. And the planet?"
"Tython."
"I've never heard of it…"
"Not surprising. Hardly anyone knows about it now."
"Even so? Amazing."
"Tell me about it."
"And… may I know your name?"
"Shade."
"Riasha."
"Pleasure to meet you, Riasha. Are you traveling alone?"
"Yes."
"How so?" I feigned surprise. "How can a beautiful girl travel that far—and all by herself?"
"Well… like this," she shrugged shyly, her embarrassment bleeding through. Ah… an emotional addict—it's a sentence.
"What a shame. In that case, may I offer my company, to brighten up your loneliness?"
"I'll gladly accept the help."
"Riasha, have you eaten yet, or not?"
"Not yet."
"Oh! Then we'll start with something to eat."
Waving a droid over, I placed a new order, asking what this lovely lady would like.
"Shade, so what species are you?"
"Are you that curious?"
"Very."
"Togruta and Miraluka."
"Miraluka?" Riasha asked, surprised.
"Yes."
"Amazing. And the language you're speaking… who taught you?"
"My mother. Why?"
"I can hear strange notes in your speech. It's like we're speaking the same language, and yet we're not…"
"That's normal. The settlers left for Tython a very long time ago, so I'm using an outdated dialect."
"That makes sense."
That's how we sat. A good evening, delicious food, music, and pleasant company. As it turned out in conversation, Riasha worked as an inspector for a large company, and she was on her way to check new facilities. I said I was on vacation for now, and that normally I worked as a freelancer—though I didn't specify what kind.
"For some reason, I feel like you're a warrior," the girl said, studying me thoughtfully.
"Why?"
"Well, you're not an electrician," she nodded toward my hand. "And those scars…"
"Let's not, Riasha. It's not something I want to talk about. Better tell me what you like. You don't live on work alone, do you?"
She smiled and, along the way, shared that she loved dancing—and the liner just so happened to have the appropriate area, which she immediately tried to drag me to.
"No-no-no. Not only can I not dance, I also don't want to."
"Oh, come on, Shade. You—and you can't dance? I won't believe it."
"Why?"
"You have very strange manners. Because of my work, I've had the pleasure of speaking with aristocrats—both real and pseudo."
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"Everything. Because you behave like an aristocrat…"
"Pha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…"
"…who doesn't care what the people around him think, or what they'll think of him. Your speech is very well set for a commoner, but you don't have that arrogance."
"Heh-heh-heh-heh. Yeah, no one's ever described me like that before. My time with Hadiya didn't pass without leaving a mark. Or maybe Irbis did his best? Hmm…"
"My lady, I'm a simple creature with almost nothing to do with aristocrats."
"That's exactly it. Almost."
"With one small, specific exception—but that's in the past."
"And still. Are you really going to go back on your words and leave me there alone?"
"Hmm… Fine. You've beaten me in this battle. Let's go."
Going down one deck, we ended up in a dance hall. Visually, it was something halfway between a club, a bar, something upscale with multicolored lights, and… well, I wouldn't call this club music, but it didn't smell like classical either. You could say the owners of this place found a compromise that could satisfy connoisseurs of both sides.
Only I wasn't in a hurry to step onto the dance floor. Instead, I took a step aside and sat down at the bar.
"Something non-alcoholic."
"Togruta, or human?"
"Any."
"At once," the droid reported briskly—its manipulators were more numerous than a squid's tentacles.
Leaning on the counter, I watched the dance floor, where the girl had gone. Standing near the edge so no one blocked my view, she began to dance with confidence. Running her hands along her waist, turning, extending her leg—she looked at me like she was throwing down a challenge, but no. I'm a fossilized indifferent bastard; you don't crack us that easily. And besides, watching from the sidelines is far more pleasant.
So, smiling, I winked back, answering with the same challenge. Like: since you bragged, then show me. And she accepted.
What can I say… the girl really could dance, and it looked beautiful. And it was all decent, without even a hint of vulgarity—this is more my male imagination running wild. Eh… I didn't even notice how I'd finished the ordered cocktail; that's how beautiful it was.
And then she got into it and, abstracting away from me, simply gave herself to the pleasant music. In that moment, I caught a feeling of déjà vu. Vessira also loved dancing, and whenever there was a chance, she dragged me onto the floor. Because of her position, Hadiya could dance too; official receptions between clans implied that as well.
The memories of the girls pricked my heart. Riasha reacted to my suddenly sad expression.
"Did something happen?" the Togruta asked, concerned. "You didn't like it?"
"What are you talking about, Riasha—no. You're прекрасна. And you move beautifully. I just remembered something from the past."
"M…" She pressed her lips sympathetically and ran the tips of her fingers along the scars on my arm. And there wasn't any subtext to it—she really treated me with compassion.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to walk the corridors and look at the stars."
At her nod, we left the hall and went out to the outer corridors, where there was a panoramic window on space.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes. I've spent a lot of time in transit, and it turned out the stars began to affect me in a soothing way."
After we stood in silence for a while, Riasha spoke:
"You weren't raised in our traditions, were you?"
"What are you getting at?"
"There are other Togruta on the ship."
"So?"
"We are very social creatures. And while everyone keeps close to each other, you sit apart."
"You're right. As for traditions—I don't know them very well. Even though I consider Togruta my direct kin… yeah, it shows on me, but I don't know them well. Tell me—what is our homeworld called?"
"The planet is called Shili."
"Is it beautiful?"
"Very."
So, for the duration of this flight, I found myself new company. And even if we only talked for a few days, it could be compared to the best vacation. Since Togruta culture has no place for "casual" sex—same as Mandalorians, and many others—nothing happened between us, although, to confess, my libido did make itself known. After all, the girl really was stunning.
On the other hand, the past tormented me, so despite certain carnal desires, it was for the best that nothing happened. We parted by exchanging contacts.
"Riasha, so what's the company you work for?" I asked at the end.
"Well… legal. I'm a private lawyer, Shade."
"Oh!"
"And you?"
"Mercenary."
"A mercenary?!"
"Yeah. But a noble one!" I was measured with a skeptical look. "Come on—how can a charming man like me be a bad guy?" I spread my hands, presenting myself.
"Oh," the girl rolled her eyes. "Fine, then. We'll take your word for it."
"Glad to have met you, Riasha. Your company has given me the best impressions I've had in a long time."
"Likewise, Shade."
Giving the girl a light bow, I left the ship. My stop and transfer—while she flew on. Eh… who would've thought? Such a job, and such an open nature… at least toward me, I didn't notice anything selfish or unpleasant. She, like me, enjoyed the company of a pleasant and unusual interlocutor.
I boarded the next transport without ever leaving my own daydreams. I didn't care about anything, because it felt good. I only came out of that state on the way to Mandalore, where my final transfer awaited.
And here, to be honest, I truly got lost the moment I stepped off the ship. Mandalore killed me. Just outright. I barely made it down the ramp, and I already took a moral coup de grâce to the head, because what was going on here was a complete goddamn disaster.
Sensing trouble from the general emotional background, I approached one of the officers to ask a few questions. Alas, I couldn't do without the Force, because: "Mandalore's affairs are none of an outsider's concern." No, man, you're right—but I want to know what the hell is happening.
As it turned out, people were not far from hunger. There were barely enough foodstuffs. Goods were scarce too; some shops in the spaceport were closed altogether. Crime had also multiplied on Mandalore, and some syndicates, under the pretext of "help," were opening their cartels. I almost grabbed my head as I listened to the soldier.
"Yeah… the pacifists got their hands on power… No, how—HOW could they bring an entire planet to this??? Good thing they're not selling their own into slavery… Or are they already selling them, but not the pacifists—the cartels? Damn…"
But now I understood why it smelled like civil war. Even pacifists have a cup of patience, and when it fills up, they too will take up arms.
So I left the planet deep in thought. The gears were already turning in my head, and I was weighing what all this could spill into. So far it didn't look good, but if it still hasn't blown, then the boiling point hasn't been crossed. I'd need to talk to Warren about it and find out what they think.
Meanwhile, on Concord Dawn, Clan Hawk accepted me without any problems when I showed up. They wouldn't even take money. Now all that's left is to wait for Warren and his boys to return.
***
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