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Yeah putting it to the test is one way to say it
Great chapter new minions get
Hopefully theses ones don't get themselves killed of early
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The Force of Magic [Star Wars SI]
- Thread starter Boroda Orka
- Start date
Great chapter new minions get
Hopefully theses ones don't get themselves killed of early
Chapter 11
New
Boroda Orka
Making the rounds.
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"Children are the flowers of life. On the graves of Mentors."
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.
I don't like people. And not because I don't know how to cook them, as Ir'rina used to say. I don't mean hatred or contempt by that. I'm simply more comfortable alone most of the time. Teenagers double that dislike, sometimes even triple it. Restless, impulsive, capricious, and quarrelsome. Not all of them, of course, and not out of any malice, but still. But children... I looked at the little red-haired girl, about five years old. Freckles, enormous curious yellow-green eyes, and two funny little braids! Hell, I wasn't taking her along as my apprentice's tagalong! All five were coming as an added bonus to this little darling—that was how adorable she was. Even stern Cordelia was looking at her with an involuntary smile.
And she wasn't afraid of me in the slightest. She looked at me with those clear eyes of hers, and I could read curiosity in them. More than that—I could see delight! I just couldn't figure out why yet: a red-eyed man in a black robe usually wasn't the sort of sight that inspired admiration.
"Are you our new daddy? Why are you glowing like that? Are you sick? Your eyes are all wed!!!"
She would have kept pelting me with questions, adorably mangling her r's, but her sister shushed the girl and pulled her into a hug, looking at me apologetically.
"Sorry, Mr. Siith, Karray is just little," she blurted out, while I fell into thought. For several seconds, I stared silently at the girl. Glowing? But there shouldn't have been any visible effects, and the robe was supposed to suppress any stray emissions. Except it wasn't active, because I'd wanted to fill the reservoirs to the brim first. I'd simply grown used to the artifacts I wore giving off a faint glow in the sorcerous spectrum. Which meant...
"Siith?" But I merely waved Cordelia off and crouched down beside the girl. She was still looking at me with curiosity, while her sister was clearly frightened now.
I couldn't sense any personal mana from the little girl with the braids, but this world washed away the energy generated by one's own core, preventing it from accumulating to any significant level. An aura-diagnostic spell showed me exactly what I would expect from a young, weak sorceress. Seven mana-channel outlets. Seven times fewer than I had. Not a critical limitation, really, even in my own world. And here, where the ocean's magic practically forced its way into your aura to fill it, it mattered even less. Of course, the risk of damaging her core was higher than mine, but proper training and the peculiarities of this world would offset that danger.
"I'm not your new daddy." The main thing was not to smile while looking at this little darling. Everyone was already on edge and had probably imagined all sorts of things about how I was going to start eating the little tyke right then and there, without even bothering with salt. Still, I tried to keep my face relaxed and my gaze and voice friendly. "I'll be your Mentor. Yours, your sister's, and her friends'. That's not the same as a father, of course, Karray, but a Mentor is also a very important person to a spellcaster. I still remember my own Teacher with respect and gratitude, even though many years have passed since my apprenticeship ended."
I patted the girl on the head and winked at her. Her sister—I really needed to learn the teenagers' names, by the way—relaxed a little, though she was still watching me warily. The rest of my future apprentices looked more surprised than anything by the scene unfolding in front of them.
"You're going to teach her too? I thought you were only planning to work with the older ones?" Cordelia, walking beside me toward our transport, was still radiating distrust and suspicion.
"She's the same as me. Those five will become mages, but she'll become a sorceress. Of course, the girl is still too young for serious training, but there are special developmental games and toys that won't be hard to make myself." Once I was settled inside the transport, I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, then let out a deep sigh. "More and more things to do."
"Afraid you won't be able to handle it?" my companion asked with a mocking snort.
"No. It's just depressing. I've been working exclusively on my own projects for quite a long time now, and suddenly I have to rearrange my priorities. It's not really a problem, though. A long life guarantees that sooner or later you'll have time for everything. So I plan to help you, train up a batch of spellcasters, establish decent conditions in this world, and at the same time carry out the research we'll need both for my purposes and for yours. Then, once I have more free time, I'll get back to my own affairs."
"Alto only made a deal with you for supplies of certain things, not for help improving our whole world. And you're being a little too optimistic. 'Establish decent conditions in this world,' hah! That could take decades, if not a century!"
The girl was looking at me as though I were an idiot. I, incidentally, was staring back at her with equal bewilderment.
"Oh, even a blind man can see that your cousin wants nothing but the best for his homeworld. I'm sure that once the Nimbus's needs are taken care of, he'll start thinking bigger. More likely, you're already thinking ahead—perhaps you've even discussed it and made plans." I gave the girl a condescending look. Weather control alone would make life on Jabiim considerably easier. If nothing else, it could provide a stable "window" for trade with the outside world.
The girl pursed her lips. Her expression made it clear I'd guessed right, so I raised the corners of my mouth in the faintest hint of a smile and continued.
"And what's the problem with the timeframe? If it takes a century, then it takes a century. There's a right way to hurry. If setting up a workplace in the mansion could be sped up without sacrificing quality simply by putting in more effort myself, then working with an entire planet is not something to rush. I can wait. It's no great hardship. And afterward, perhaps I'll even be able to recruit one of my apprentices into my own team. I'm used to working alone, of course, but having an assistant who shares my beliefs and ambitions would make life much easier."
Cordelia... was staring at me. There was really no other word for it. Just staring, shock written all over her face. What was with her? Ahhh, wait. I think I got it...
"How old are you, sorcerer?" the girl whispered, sounding almost lost.
Right. Of course. My age.
"Hmm..." How old was I, actually? I began my training at fourteen, said goodbye to my teacher three decades later, and set out on my first journey. Ten years after that came the first war I took part in, followed by my first period of seclusion, which lasted almost a century. Then I was talked into teaching at one of the academies, though I only lasted two decades before another war began, one that dragged on for half a century... Then I met Ir'rina and returned with her to my little "hermit's corner," followed by a hundred happy years of research together, interrupted only by the occasional journey... And after that, two centuries of solitude. Let's round it off a little. "About six hundred by my world's reckoning. Our days are almost the same length. How long is a year here?"
"Three hundred and sixty-eight," the girl replied, staring at me blankly.
"Right. Ours is four hundred... So that makes me... somewhere around six hundred and fifty by your calendar. But that's only approximate. I might've forgotten something or counted wrong, and I never really kept records."
"Holy fucking shit," came the driver's voice from the front seat, followed by an agreeing grunt from the soldier beside him.
"Yeah... Wait! What did you just say, Sergeant?" Cordelia flared with anger. "Just drive, and I don't want to hear either of you talking about this, understood?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry."
"Ahem... Siith, is that a normal lifespan in your world?" the girl asked, calming down just as quickly as she had flared up.
"For some spellcasters, yes. Some people with no connection to magic also find ways to extend their lives. And certain races can be naturally long-lived as well. But normally, the lifespan of our kind—humans—is eighty to a hundred and twenty years. Provided, of course, that a person lives a healthy life, eats properly, and keeps themselves in good physical condition. Rejuvenation rituals, which some mages make their living from, are extremely expensive, but still available to ordinary people, and can extend a life by anywhere from five to fifty years, depending on the ritual itself."
"Mmm... And you'll be able to teach those rituals to your apprentices?"
"Of course. Except for the really dark ones involving mass sacrifices of sentients. Sorry, but I'm not going to unleash anything like that on this world." I sighed sadly, looking out at the rain beyond the transport window. "They'll figure those out for themselves eventually, unfortunately."
"You know those too?" There it was again—that aggression. The girl was practically overflowing with indignation, as though I had just begun performing a grand ritual to summon an Archdemon right before her eyes and had already raised the knife over the first innocent infant.
"Of course I do, Cordelia." I let some irritation creep into my voice as I gave an annoyed shrug. This was starting to wear on me. "I know a great many things, but that doesn't mean I use them, understand? You carry a weapon on your belt, but I don't get angry with you just because you can"—I stressed the word—"start killing innocent people indiscriminately. Knowledge matters. Being able to identify a spell as it is being cast is essential if you want to choose the right protective magic. Idiots who turn up their noses at necromancy, malefic arts, demonology, or the schools of Darkness and Chaos will die the first time they run into an enemy who practices them. Any—let me repeat, any—competent spellcaster who wants to stay alive is obligated to know what threats they may encounter in life. To tell undead from a necroconstruct, a chimera from a creature of Chaos, a true vampire from a raised ghoul. Those squeamish prissies only live long by planting their asses in court positions and pompously preaching about the greatness of the Light. And even that lasts only until their verbal diarrhea insults a powerful malefic."
My speech sent the girl retreating into thought. Some of the concepts were clearly unfamiliar to her, because certain words had been replaced with frankly amusing equivalents—for example, "malefic" came through as "evildoer," which was basically accurate. She had grasped the general meaning, but the general's cousin needed some time to process it.
"Tell me, why do you always assume the worst about me?" I decided to break the silence, looking at the girl questioningly. Pulled from her thoughts, she first stared at me in surprise, then gave a crooked smile.
"It's my job to think the worst of everyone. Alto is our commander. He works out patrol routes, looks after us, leads us into battle, defending our world. He takes enemy fire on his shield and spills their blood with sword and blaster. My job is to make sure our people can fight the creatures who rob us and carry us off into slavery without having to fear that another creature just like them, only disguised as a friend, might start shooting them in the back. So no offense, sorcerer. You yourself told my cousin that we've known you for less than a week. Maybe you're a wonderful red-eyed sentient who wouldn't hurt a fly, but you appeared out of nowhere, tell us incredible things, and for some reason no one understands, you want to shower my world with benefits. Of course I'm looking for a catch."
"Oh... I see. Yes, I've spent quite a lot of time alone... I've gotten badly out of practice with things like this." I let myself smile, making a vague gesture in the air with one hand. "At least now I understand your suspicions. A job is a job. And as for this supposedly inexplicable 'benefiting the world,' I've already explained my reasons. I help you improve conditions back home, and in return, you don't interfere with my research. Everyone wins. My apprentices will be able to consult me when necessary, and I'll be able to order the components and materials I need through Jabiim's official channels. And if I decide to go traveling—and I will—I'll have somewhere to come back to."
"You put rather too much faith in people and their gratitude," the woman—who, as I understood it, headed the Nimbus security service—said, shaking her head disapprovingly.
"Not at all." I gave her a thin smile. "You and your cousin don't strike me as idiots, so in time you'll understand that an experienced, loyal sorcerer is an extremely valuable asset. There aren't many like me even in my own world. Duels, wars, failed experiments—they all take their toll. So a competent spellcaster is welcome anywhere, simply because having one around is profitable."
We rode on in silence after that. Cordelia was clearly thinking about something, while I reflected with mild amusement on the fact that she doubted people's gratitude yet was willing to discuss her secrets in front of two soldiers. Then it occurred to me that they were most likely from her own service, and perhaps among her most trusted people... In that case, it made sense. The hope that they might one day be granted a life-extension ritual could encourage both usefulness and loyalty. In any case, I shook my head. That was her business.
By evening, we had finished settling the children in. They were given three rooms in the mansion. This time, the furniture was ordered from the city: three bunk beds, desks for studying, wardrobes, chairs, and bedside tables. Cordelia, incidentally, had taken care of that while we were still on the road, contacting someone over a horribly crackling radio. Teachers were found to handle the children's standard subjects, but at my insistence, the rest of the curriculum was stretched out by a third. I needed their brains to have enough room left to absorb my own science as well. A physical-training instructor would also be moving in with us permanently. Along with mental exhaustion, an apprentice needed to be worn out physically too—a basic truth for anyone raising young walking disasters. A busy, tired child had less chance of breaking their own neck—or, in our case, blowing off their own head or someone else's—because the urge to go looking for adventure came less often when they were in that state.
For Karray, I made several wooden toys that "glow weally cool," earning myself a hug and a shout that I was "the bestest ever-ever." That was actually kind of nice. The toys themselves changed color and the intensity of their glow whenever they interacted with magic, flickered, and gave off "warmth" or "coolness" within the range of sorcerous perception. I'd make her plenty of other developmental things later, but this would be enough for the first few days. The girl couldn't do anything yet, and these bits of wood would serve as a passive stimulus for her gift.
Because of her, incidentally, I had to remove all the surveillance spells first and then set them up again in disguised form. The very first question she asked after getting out of the transport was, "What's that thing glowing?" That, together with a little finger pointed straight at the surveillance spell above the front doors, forced me to dispel all the observation spells except those. Then, under Cordelia's suspicious gaze and with my face carefully mysterious and unreadable, I told her that Karray herself would explain to me what kind of spells they were once she'd learned enough.
I even took the trouble to go to the kitchen myself and ask Maria whether she could handle feeding the growing crowd. For some reason, the girl turned red and rather haltingly assured me that the workload would increase, of course, but she didn't think it would cause any serious problems. I nodded, asked her for a mug of caf, and decided to assign kitchen duty among the apprentices. Five days in the week, five teenagers—what was that if not a sign from above? Heh-heh. When the kitchen magician objected, I told her that, first, work builds character, and second, learning to cook from a master like her was something they'd have to pay for anywhere else.
The girl really had no reason to be shy: she had both talent and skill. I had always respected true professionals, and cooks with a golden touch were something I rarely came across. Leaving the thoroughly flushed kitchen magician alone and taking Quartermaster with me—he was sprawled across one of the tables like a monument to gluttony—I headed for the workshop. I'd furnished it, sure, but I still needed to lay the proper enchantments on it. If I went without sleep for one day, nothing terrible would happen. But only one, I told myself sternly. Ir'rina had always scolded me when I buried myself in work for several days straight, and she had been right—a proper routine made it possible to work more efficiently. The mind needed proper rest.
"How did it go, Cordelia?" The general looked tired as he sat in his "temporary" office. Every Nimbus base had rooms like this. Stratus tried to visit them all, talk to the soldiers, keep an eye on their training, and take part in patrols, but the duties of command still had to be done.
"I'm fu—... freaking out, Alto. Either he's lying through his teeth, or we've taken in a genuine monster." The girl dropped wearily into an armchair and nodded her thanks to Roger as he set a cup of caf in front of her. "According to him, he's in his seventh century!!!"
"So what?" the general shrugged calmly. "That green stump who's in charge of the Jedi is supposed to be about a thousand years old already, or somewhere around there."
"The point is, he calls himself human. Like you and me. And I doubt he's mistaken about us being the same species—not after healing four humans. Here are the reports." The girl placed three folders on the desk. "I recommend you destroy them after you've read them. Life-extension rituals, Alto. He talked about them as casually as if there were nothing remarkable about it. Our sorcerer has no idea that half the galaxy would kiss his ass for something like that, while the other half would try to kidnap him and force him into their service! And he plans to teach those rituals to the children he's recruited!"
Stratus pulled the folders toward himself and looked questioningly at his cousin. The archaic way the reports had been written—archaic even by Jabiim's standards—surprised him.
"I didn't want the information digitized. Everything's on flimsi, all handwritten. Either lock it in a safe afterward or burn it." The girl took a sip of caf and grimaced slightly. "And we found a cook for him who's far too good. I had no idea Maria could cook that well. No offense, Roger."
The young man merely smiled faintly at that. Making caf really wasn't one of his strong suits, nor was cooking in general. And he had already had a chance to appreciate his fellow soldier's skill. He had even started thinking that he ought to begin courting her before someone else took an interest in that treasure.
Cordelia rubbed her forehead hard. Annoyance, exhaustion, and irritation flickered across her face.
"Tomorrow I'm sending another one of my people over there as the children's physical-training instructor. They can help Sergiy while they're at it. I'm sending the people I trust most, Alto, and they don't exactly grow on trees. And I still need to find teachers who know how to keep their mouths shut... Oh, and the sorcerer was pushing to get those samples sent over. Says he'll start training the children in the next few days and he'll need materials. He also needs some kind of consumables for the weather sorcery."
"The first shipment will be there tomorrow," the general said in a reassuring tone. "You should get some rest, Cordelia."
"Rest... and who's going to do the work? That... what's her name? Hecate? Ah... Fine, I'm off. I'm up to my ass in work..."
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.
I don't like people. And not because I don't know how to cook them, as Ir'rina used to say. I don't mean hatred or contempt by that. I'm simply more comfortable alone most of the time. Teenagers double that dislike, sometimes even triple it. Restless, impulsive, capricious, and quarrelsome. Not all of them, of course, and not out of any malice, but still. But children... I looked at the little red-haired girl, about five years old. Freckles, enormous curious yellow-green eyes, and two funny little braids! Hell, I wasn't taking her along as my apprentice's tagalong! All five were coming as an added bonus to this little darling—that was how adorable she was. Even stern Cordelia was looking at her with an involuntary smile.
And she wasn't afraid of me in the slightest. She looked at me with those clear eyes of hers, and I could read curiosity in them. More than that—I could see delight! I just couldn't figure out why yet: a red-eyed man in a black robe usually wasn't the sort of sight that inspired admiration.
"Are you our new daddy? Why are you glowing like that? Are you sick? Your eyes are all wed!!!"
She would have kept pelting me with questions, adorably mangling her r's, but her sister shushed the girl and pulled her into a hug, looking at me apologetically.
"Sorry, Mr. Siith, Karray is just little," she blurted out, while I fell into thought. For several seconds, I stared silently at the girl. Glowing? But there shouldn't have been any visible effects, and the robe was supposed to suppress any stray emissions. Except it wasn't active, because I'd wanted to fill the reservoirs to the brim first. I'd simply grown used to the artifacts I wore giving off a faint glow in the sorcerous spectrum. Which meant...
"Siith?" But I merely waved Cordelia off and crouched down beside the girl. She was still looking at me with curiosity, while her sister was clearly frightened now.
I couldn't sense any personal mana from the little girl with the braids, but this world washed away the energy generated by one's own core, preventing it from accumulating to any significant level. An aura-diagnostic spell showed me exactly what I would expect from a young, weak sorceress. Seven mana-channel outlets. Seven times fewer than I had. Not a critical limitation, really, even in my own world. And here, where the ocean's magic practically forced its way into your aura to fill it, it mattered even less. Of course, the risk of damaging her core was higher than mine, but proper training and the peculiarities of this world would offset that danger.
"I'm not your new daddy." The main thing was not to smile while looking at this little darling. Everyone was already on edge and had probably imagined all sorts of things about how I was going to start eating the little tyke right then and there, without even bothering with salt. Still, I tried to keep my face relaxed and my gaze and voice friendly. "I'll be your Mentor. Yours, your sister's, and her friends'. That's not the same as a father, of course, Karray, but a Mentor is also a very important person to a spellcaster. I still remember my own Teacher with respect and gratitude, even though many years have passed since my apprenticeship ended."
I patted the girl on the head and winked at her. Her sister—I really needed to learn the teenagers' names, by the way—relaxed a little, though she was still watching me warily. The rest of my future apprentices looked more surprised than anything by the scene unfolding in front of them.
"You're going to teach her too? I thought you were only planning to work with the older ones?" Cordelia, walking beside me toward our transport, was still radiating distrust and suspicion.
"She's the same as me. Those five will become mages, but she'll become a sorceress. Of course, the girl is still too young for serious training, but there are special developmental games and toys that won't be hard to make myself." Once I was settled inside the transport, I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, then let out a deep sigh. "More and more things to do."
"Afraid you won't be able to handle it?" my companion asked with a mocking snort.
"No. It's just depressing. I've been working exclusively on my own projects for quite a long time now, and suddenly I have to rearrange my priorities. It's not really a problem, though. A long life guarantees that sooner or later you'll have time for everything. So I plan to help you, train up a batch of spellcasters, establish decent conditions in this world, and at the same time carry out the research we'll need both for my purposes and for yours. Then, once I have more free time, I'll get back to my own affairs."
"Alto only made a deal with you for supplies of certain things, not for help improving our whole world. And you're being a little too optimistic. 'Establish decent conditions in this world,' hah! That could take decades, if not a century!"
The girl was looking at me as though I were an idiot. I, incidentally, was staring back at her with equal bewilderment.
"Oh, even a blind man can see that your cousin wants nothing but the best for his homeworld. I'm sure that once the Nimbus's needs are taken care of, he'll start thinking bigger. More likely, you're already thinking ahead—perhaps you've even discussed it and made plans." I gave the girl a condescending look. Weather control alone would make life on Jabiim considerably easier. If nothing else, it could provide a stable "window" for trade with the outside world.
The girl pursed her lips. Her expression made it clear I'd guessed right, so I raised the corners of my mouth in the faintest hint of a smile and continued.
"And what's the problem with the timeframe? If it takes a century, then it takes a century. There's a right way to hurry. If setting up a workplace in the mansion could be sped up without sacrificing quality simply by putting in more effort myself, then working with an entire planet is not something to rush. I can wait. It's no great hardship. And afterward, perhaps I'll even be able to recruit one of my apprentices into my own team. I'm used to working alone, of course, but having an assistant who shares my beliefs and ambitions would make life much easier."
Cordelia... was staring at me. There was really no other word for it. Just staring, shock written all over her face. What was with her? Ahhh, wait. I think I got it...
"How old are you, sorcerer?" the girl whispered, sounding almost lost.
Right. Of course. My age.
"Hmm..." How old was I, actually? I began my training at fourteen, said goodbye to my teacher three decades later, and set out on my first journey. Ten years after that came the first war I took part in, followed by my first period of seclusion, which lasted almost a century. Then I was talked into teaching at one of the academies, though I only lasted two decades before another war began, one that dragged on for half a century... Then I met Ir'rina and returned with her to my little "hermit's corner," followed by a hundred happy years of research together, interrupted only by the occasional journey... And after that, two centuries of solitude. Let's round it off a little. "About six hundred by my world's reckoning. Our days are almost the same length. How long is a year here?"
"Three hundred and sixty-eight," the girl replied, staring at me blankly.
"Right. Ours is four hundred... So that makes me... somewhere around six hundred and fifty by your calendar. But that's only approximate. I might've forgotten something or counted wrong, and I never really kept records."
"Holy fucking shit," came the driver's voice from the front seat, followed by an agreeing grunt from the soldier beside him.
"Yeah... Wait! What did you just say, Sergeant?" Cordelia flared with anger. "Just drive, and I don't want to hear either of you talking about this, understood?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry."
"Ahem... Siith, is that a normal lifespan in your world?" the girl asked, calming down just as quickly as she had flared up.
"For some spellcasters, yes. Some people with no connection to magic also find ways to extend their lives. And certain races can be naturally long-lived as well. But normally, the lifespan of our kind—humans—is eighty to a hundred and twenty years. Provided, of course, that a person lives a healthy life, eats properly, and keeps themselves in good physical condition. Rejuvenation rituals, which some mages make their living from, are extremely expensive, but still available to ordinary people, and can extend a life by anywhere from five to fifty years, depending on the ritual itself."
"Mmm... And you'll be able to teach those rituals to your apprentices?"
"Of course. Except for the really dark ones involving mass sacrifices of sentients. Sorry, but I'm not going to unleash anything like that on this world." I sighed sadly, looking out at the rain beyond the transport window. "They'll figure those out for themselves eventually, unfortunately."
"You know those too?" There it was again—that aggression. The girl was practically overflowing with indignation, as though I had just begun performing a grand ritual to summon an Archdemon right before her eyes and had already raised the knife over the first innocent infant.
"Of course I do, Cordelia." I let some irritation creep into my voice as I gave an annoyed shrug. This was starting to wear on me. "I know a great many things, but that doesn't mean I use them, understand? You carry a weapon on your belt, but I don't get angry with you just because you can"—I stressed the word—"start killing innocent people indiscriminately. Knowledge matters. Being able to identify a spell as it is being cast is essential if you want to choose the right protective magic. Idiots who turn up their noses at necromancy, malefic arts, demonology, or the schools of Darkness and Chaos will die the first time they run into an enemy who practices them. Any—let me repeat, any—competent spellcaster who wants to stay alive is obligated to know what threats they may encounter in life. To tell undead from a necroconstruct, a chimera from a creature of Chaos, a true vampire from a raised ghoul. Those squeamish prissies only live long by planting their asses in court positions and pompously preaching about the greatness of the Light. And even that lasts only until their verbal diarrhea insults a powerful malefic."
My speech sent the girl retreating into thought. Some of the concepts were clearly unfamiliar to her, because certain words had been replaced with frankly amusing equivalents—for example, "malefic" came through as "evildoer," which was basically accurate. She had grasped the general meaning, but the general's cousin needed some time to process it.
"Tell me, why do you always assume the worst about me?" I decided to break the silence, looking at the girl questioningly. Pulled from her thoughts, she first stared at me in surprise, then gave a crooked smile.
"It's my job to think the worst of everyone. Alto is our commander. He works out patrol routes, looks after us, leads us into battle, defending our world. He takes enemy fire on his shield and spills their blood with sword and blaster. My job is to make sure our people can fight the creatures who rob us and carry us off into slavery without having to fear that another creature just like them, only disguised as a friend, might start shooting them in the back. So no offense, sorcerer. You yourself told my cousin that we've known you for less than a week. Maybe you're a wonderful red-eyed sentient who wouldn't hurt a fly, but you appeared out of nowhere, tell us incredible things, and for some reason no one understands, you want to shower my world with benefits. Of course I'm looking for a catch."
"Oh... I see. Yes, I've spent quite a lot of time alone... I've gotten badly out of practice with things like this." I let myself smile, making a vague gesture in the air with one hand. "At least now I understand your suspicions. A job is a job. And as for this supposedly inexplicable 'benefiting the world,' I've already explained my reasons. I help you improve conditions back home, and in return, you don't interfere with my research. Everyone wins. My apprentices will be able to consult me when necessary, and I'll be able to order the components and materials I need through Jabiim's official channels. And if I decide to go traveling—and I will—I'll have somewhere to come back to."
"You put rather too much faith in people and their gratitude," the woman—who, as I understood it, headed the Nimbus security service—said, shaking her head disapprovingly.
"Not at all." I gave her a thin smile. "You and your cousin don't strike me as idiots, so in time you'll understand that an experienced, loyal sorcerer is an extremely valuable asset. There aren't many like me even in my own world. Duels, wars, failed experiments—they all take their toll. So a competent spellcaster is welcome anywhere, simply because having one around is profitable."
We rode on in silence after that. Cordelia was clearly thinking about something, while I reflected with mild amusement on the fact that she doubted people's gratitude yet was willing to discuss her secrets in front of two soldiers. Then it occurred to me that they were most likely from her own service, and perhaps among her most trusted people... In that case, it made sense. The hope that they might one day be granted a life-extension ritual could encourage both usefulness and loyalty. In any case, I shook my head. That was her business.
By evening, we had finished settling the children in. They were given three rooms in the mansion. This time, the furniture was ordered from the city: three bunk beds, desks for studying, wardrobes, chairs, and bedside tables. Cordelia, incidentally, had taken care of that while we were still on the road, contacting someone over a horribly crackling radio. Teachers were found to handle the children's standard subjects, but at my insistence, the rest of the curriculum was stretched out by a third. I needed their brains to have enough room left to absorb my own science as well. A physical-training instructor would also be moving in with us permanently. Along with mental exhaustion, an apprentice needed to be worn out physically too—a basic truth for anyone raising young walking disasters. A busy, tired child had less chance of breaking their own neck—or, in our case, blowing off their own head or someone else's—because the urge to go looking for adventure came less often when they were in that state.
For Karray, I made several wooden toys that "glow weally cool," earning myself a hug and a shout that I was "the bestest ever-ever." That was actually kind of nice. The toys themselves changed color and the intensity of their glow whenever they interacted with magic, flickered, and gave off "warmth" or "coolness" within the range of sorcerous perception. I'd make her plenty of other developmental things later, but this would be enough for the first few days. The girl couldn't do anything yet, and these bits of wood would serve as a passive stimulus for her gift.
Because of her, incidentally, I had to remove all the surveillance spells first and then set them up again in disguised form. The very first question she asked after getting out of the transport was, "What's that thing glowing?" That, together with a little finger pointed straight at the surveillance spell above the front doors, forced me to dispel all the observation spells except those. Then, under Cordelia's suspicious gaze and with my face carefully mysterious and unreadable, I told her that Karray herself would explain to me what kind of spells they were once she'd learned enough.
I even took the trouble to go to the kitchen myself and ask Maria whether she could handle feeding the growing crowd. For some reason, the girl turned red and rather haltingly assured me that the workload would increase, of course, but she didn't think it would cause any serious problems. I nodded, asked her for a mug of caf, and decided to assign kitchen duty among the apprentices. Five days in the week, five teenagers—what was that if not a sign from above? Heh-heh. When the kitchen magician objected, I told her that, first, work builds character, and second, learning to cook from a master like her was something they'd have to pay for anywhere else.
The girl really had no reason to be shy: she had both talent and skill. I had always respected true professionals, and cooks with a golden touch were something I rarely came across. Leaving the thoroughly flushed kitchen magician alone and taking Quartermaster with me—he was sprawled across one of the tables like a monument to gluttony—I headed for the workshop. I'd furnished it, sure, but I still needed to lay the proper enchantments on it. If I went without sleep for one day, nothing terrible would happen. But only one, I told myself sternly. Ir'rina had always scolded me when I buried myself in work for several days straight, and she had been right—a proper routine made it possible to work more efficiently. The mind needed proper rest.
"How did it go, Cordelia?" The general looked tired as he sat in his "temporary" office. Every Nimbus base had rooms like this. Stratus tried to visit them all, talk to the soldiers, keep an eye on their training, and take part in patrols, but the duties of command still had to be done.
"I'm fu—... freaking out, Alto. Either he's lying through his teeth, or we've taken in a genuine monster." The girl dropped wearily into an armchair and nodded her thanks to Roger as he set a cup of caf in front of her. "According to him, he's in his seventh century!!!"
"So what?" the general shrugged calmly. "That green stump who's in charge of the Jedi is supposed to be about a thousand years old already, or somewhere around there."
"The point is, he calls himself human. Like you and me. And I doubt he's mistaken about us being the same species—not after healing four humans. Here are the reports." The girl placed three folders on the desk. "I recommend you destroy them after you've read them. Life-extension rituals, Alto. He talked about them as casually as if there were nothing remarkable about it. Our sorcerer has no idea that half the galaxy would kiss his ass for something like that, while the other half would try to kidnap him and force him into their service! And he plans to teach those rituals to the children he's recruited!"
Stratus pulled the folders toward himself and looked questioningly at his cousin. The archaic way the reports had been written—archaic even by Jabiim's standards—surprised him.
"I didn't want the information digitized. Everything's on flimsi, all handwritten. Either lock it in a safe afterward or burn it." The girl took a sip of caf and grimaced slightly. "And we found a cook for him who's far too good. I had no idea Maria could cook that well. No offense, Roger."
The young man merely smiled faintly at that. Making caf really wasn't one of his strong suits, nor was cooking in general. And he had already had a chance to appreciate his fellow soldier's skill. He had even started thinking that he ought to begin courting her before someone else took an interest in that treasure.
Cordelia rubbed her forehead hard. Annoyance, exhaustion, and irritation flickered across her face.
"Tomorrow I'm sending another one of my people over there as the children's physical-training instructor. They can help Sergiy while they're at it. I'm sending the people I trust most, Alto, and they don't exactly grow on trees. And I still need to find teachers who know how to keep their mouths shut... Oh, and the sorcerer was pushing to get those samples sent over. Says he'll start training the children in the next few days and he'll need materials. He also needs some kind of consumables for the weather sorcery."
"The first shipment will be there tomorrow," the general said in a reassuring tone. "You should get some rest, Cordelia."
"Rest... and who's going to do the work? That... what's her name? Hecate? Ah... Fine, I'm off. I'm up to my ass in work..."
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
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readsalot
Experienced.
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Guys In for a shock when he realises the goddess is real XD
Also, I realised that Siith does not need to invite the other gods Into the universe, Hecate can pass on the option to other mages/sorcerers he's training and give them the chance to do it.
And most likely they will if they are bribed enough.
Would add more to the chaos
I'm 50/50 on that
Treangulator
Not too sore, are you?
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Chapter 12
New
Boroda Orka
Making the rounds.
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Hard... So hard... An unbearable torment beyond words: I hate waking up... Especially when I only went to bed three hours ago. And to make matters worse, it wasn't Luritta waking me up, but M-3PO.
"At least I got everything done," I rasped in a voice that barely sounded like my own. Sitting up, I grabbed the mug of caf from the bedside table.
"Master, I would like to point out that such a daily routine is harmful to your health. Humans require seven to nine hours of sleep," my new property chimed in. I merely waved him off as I headed for the bathroom, casting a simple healing spell on myself along the way. A sentient nag of a golem. If someone had told me about such a thing, I wouldn't have believed them.
Before the teenagers started breakfast, I sat down at the table and delighted them with the news about kitchen duty. I saw no enthusiasm on their faces, and the boys even came out with something along the lines of, "We're men; women are supposed to do the cooking." I ignored their words and did full justice to the excellent food. But once everyone had eaten, I asked whether they had enjoyed it. Remarkable unanimity, I snorted to myself as I listened to them sing the praises of our kitchen magician's cooking.
"There are ten of us here already, kids, and there's only one Maria. Cooking for a horde this size is hard work. Now, if you're fine with tasty food turning into slop, then I suppose we can do without kitchen duty..." I gave my future apprentices an ironic look as they started chiming in from all sides that they'd "help, fine, whatever." There we go. That's more like it.
After that, things really got moving. The teachers wouldn't start coming to the house for another few days, so I gathered all five of them in the attic. While giving them an introductory lecture—explaining the possibilities of sorcery, the basics, and the various paths they could pursue—I was also putting together some more advanced toys for Karray.
It was amusing to watch the children sneak glances at the wood flowing from one shape into another. I had added a few extra effects during the enchanting as well, so the little animal figures would flare with webs of runes one moment and multicolored lights the next. Children needed to see the beauty of magic so they wouldn't lose interest during the first couple of months of dull theory and meditation. I even found myself slipping into a kind of peaceful state. It felt as though I had taken a break from constant work—work I loved, but which was difficult and exhausting. Maybe having to put my own projects aside for a while wasn't such a bad thing after all?
"Mr. Siith," one of the boys, Dan, cut in. "You said that spellcasters are divided into mages and sorcerers, and that sorcerers can see magic. And you also said that magic is everywhere—an ocean of it. But Karray only saw your things glowing. Why is that?"
"Just call me Siith. Teacher is fine too. I don't like all those sirs and masters. Back to your question: seeing and sensing are things you have to learn as well. Humans are... mm... too material. And the material world is too bright for us—it keeps us from making out the colors of the world of magic. Just as sunlight renders any attempt by the moons to light your path pointless. An untrained sorcerer can easily live the life of an ordinary person and die without ever realizing what they were. But there is one common trait, especially in children: young sorcerers interpret sensations from magic through feelings they already know. For example, a stone saturated with the elemental power of fire will feel 'warm' to them—but not warm to the touch. More like... it somehow feels warm."
The children laughed—all except the sisters. Karray nodded solemnly, as if confirming, Yes, that's exactly right, while her older red-haired sister fell into thought, clearly remembering something.
"Yes, it sounds funny, but I heard something like that myself from one young spellcaster. And then, as children grow older, they train themselves to ignore such 'nonsense.' Though they still tend to get rid of obviously cursed or dangerous things if they're poorly disguised. There was a case, for example, when a young man inherited a mansion and threw out one of the paintings. 'It always frightened and irritated me,' he said. Later it turned out that the damned thing had been feeding on the lives of his relatives. So, something like that. As for why Karray could see my artifacts glowing—that was because they were unnatural and had no concealment spells. Free magic is everywhere. We're used to it, we live in it, and seeing it requires special techniques. Without them, a sorcerer simply experiences the world as more alive, colors as brighter, emotions as stronger... But foreign magic—magic that isn't 'natural,' that has been transformed by a spellcaster's aura—is clearly visible to any sorcerer."
About ten days later, I finally found the right components for the weather-control ritual. Stratus wanted to combine the trial clearing of the clouds with the departure of a couple of ore haulers that were currently waiting for a "window" in the cloud cover, but I talked him out of it. This would be my first attempt in this world—who knew how the weather would behave here, on a sphere?
So there we stood beneath an umbrella-like dome stretched over both us and the patch of ground where the ritual figure was to be drawn. The children were practically devouring Alto with their eyes, while he calmly sipped caf from a special thermos, making me envy him beyond measure—I hadn't thought to bring any from home myself. Cordelia, wearing a sleepy, disgruntled expression, glanced at each of us in turn. She didn't like mornings either. Funny, but in my eyes, that fact outweighed her constant suspiciousness and difficult temperament. So I liked her better for it—especially in the mornings.
Alto, incidentally, had met my apprentices a few days earlier. After we talked in the library, I talked him into putting on a little performance with me. To be honest, I expected another dose of skepticism, but the general surprised me by taking the matter seriously. "This isn't a performance, sorcerer. It's the truth, and it's necessary," were his exact words. Then the two of us went to the sitting room, where Emthree—as I had taken to calling the gole... droid—had gathered the children.
Stratus spoke for no less than ten minutes. He addressed each of them by name and explained how important what they were doing was for Jabiim. He knew that both boys and the military-minded girl had been orphaned in a Trandoshan raid. Choosing his words skillfully, he soon had all three practically pawing at the ground, so eager were they to start producing protective charms for the Nimbus—to save the fighters who would then keep the enemies of their world away from other civilian families. He spoke about the respect and status the young mages would earn once their training was complete. With a smirk, he added that they wouldn't be stingy with credits either, so they wouldn't have to worry about food or comfort, which earned an understanding smile from Taria, the blonde who had a healthy respect for financial security. He told Karray how lucky she was to have such a caring sister in Karina, and promised that he and the entire Nimbus would protect them and make sure no one harmed them.
Talent. I could only marvel inwardly. Alto was an extraordinarily gifted man—in war and in dealing with people alike. Even now, while preparing the site for the magical ritual, I found myself remembering that moment and feeling genuine respect for the general. I could work with people like that.
I leveled out a circle of ground fifteen meters across, dried it, and packed it down. Then I surrounded it with a force barrier to keep the water out and began drawing the patterns. For nearly an hour I moved around the circle, tracing the necessary lines and symbols and placing the components where they needed to be for everything to trigger correctly. After that came the application of the required constructs, designed to launch all the processes in the proper sequence. The final touch was setting the mana reservoirs in place to power the ritual.
According to my preliminary calculations, both the mana supply and the durability of the ritual structure should be enough for two or three hours of operation, and although I knew the ritual well, safety still had to come first.
First, we were a long way from any inhabited settlements, with one exception. There were no civilians there, only a Nimbus garrison. It had been arranged that way in case pirates happened to be waiting in orbit around the planet. I'd overheard Cordelia telling her cousin that "there won't be any problems—the cover story is airtight."
Second, about half a kilometer away, a protected zone had been set up. All the components used in the magical construction had been studied, but they were still new to me, and proper precautions were necessary even if there was only the faintest chance of failure. So I started a ten-minute timer, and all of us climbed into the nearby transport and headed for the designated area.
** Same place. Alto Stratus **
"It's started," the red-eyed sorcerer said with satisfaction, tilting his head back to look at the sky. They stood beneath a transparent dome that protected them from the rain and gusting wind. Around them, drawn on the dry, level ground, was a figure that Siith had described as "protective circuits, just in case."
The sky erupted in a succession of brilliant lightning flashes, and a second later the surrounding air filled with peals of thunder. They sounded like an artillery barrage. The noise was so powerful he could feel it vibrating through his insides. The clouds churning overhead began to move. They hadn't been still before, of course, but now there was a strange sense of order to their motion. Cordelia, standing beside him, said something, but over the fury of the elements her voice was impossible to make out. Judging by her expression, though, his cousin was swearing again.
A few minutes later, it was already easy to make out the clouds overhead gathering speed as they moved in a circle. Lightning flashed without end, and thunder rolled continuously, bringing on a mild headache and, at the same time, a strange sense of childlike delight. Glancing at the children, the general was surprised to see little Karray sitting on the shoulders of a terrifyingly grinning Siith, happily chattering away to him, every now and then looking up at the sky in delight and waving her arms excitedly. Apparently, the sorcerer had somehow muffled the cannonade of the storm for the two of them, because they were clearly able to talk without any trouble.
Alto was not an especially trusting man. Politics quickly cured a man of excessive openness and of trusting every stranger he met... Though the latter was hardly a good trait even for ordinary people. Despite that, the general considered himself an honest man. Honest and fair.
That was exactly why, back at that transit point, he had decided not to send his people to handle the conversation, but to meet the strange visitor to Jabiim personally and thank him. After all, the man really had helped the people of that settlement. He had done what the Nimbus could not have done in time. And when Alto entered the medical station, he saw the stranger treating his fellow Jabiimites. There was no showy politeness or concern, and yet not a single patient even cried out during the healing. In halting phrases, the red-eyed man gave them instructions and asked for caf. Alert and, it seemed, satisfied with the work he had done, he showed no sign of nervousness or doubt. To be completely honest, though, their conversation had been shaped not only by the general's gratitude, but also by the power the sorcerer had demonstrated: killing the entire lizard landing force at once was a very good reason to be polite to a sentient.
At first, Alto thought the Temple had finally sent a Jedi to help. Well, at least now, flashed through his mind. For centuries, Jabiim had cried out for help, begged for it, demanded it! And in return there had been either silence or some bureaucratic: "We will certainly look into your problem." The general ground his teeth, remembering the fury those little bureaucratic notes had sent him into every time he read them.
Then came the misunderstanding, and the visitor was taken for a Sith. The enemies of the Jedi Order had been wiped out nearly a thousand years ago, and Alto had only ever taken a passing interest in them. Terrible, horrible, evil, wicked things, according to the Order of the "Republic's defenders," they were little more than a bogeyman and a swear word. At the time he had thought: To hell with what they say. This Sith helped my people. He deserves a chance. I need to watch him, see what he's really like. Maybe everything they say about his kind is just propaganda. History is written by the victors, and the Sith were the losing side.
A risk, yes. But the red-eyed man had earned a measure of trust.
In the end, the sorcerer turned out to be... who the hell even knew what. Everything he told them inspired doubt and suspicion, but he only smiled that unsettling smile of his and said outright that doubt was a good thing. He didn't like working with gullible idiots, so he would demonstrate everything himself.
And he did.
He had been demonstrating his abilities even before that conversation—making little bone trinkets that provided excellent protection against blasters, healing people, and using magic that let vehicles cross the mud of their homeworld as if they were driving on a smooth road...
And now the sorcerer was demonstrating his skill again, Alto thought as he watched a patch of clear sky appear at the center of the rotating disk of clouds. The small cloudless opening grew wider and wider, like the opening iris of an airlock door.
"The doors to space..." the general whispered, not even trying to hide his smile. Soon he would see the sun and a clear sky. For a Jabiimite, that was a genuine joy. And he would do everything in his power to make sure his people felt only that joy, not the fear that bandit landing ships might come plunging down from the cloudless sky.
The sorcerer had not lied to him once so far. Of course, that still wasn't enough to trust him blindly, but Stratus was a man of honor. If Siith truly helped his world, the general would do everything he could to repay him. The main thing was that it must not come at his homeland's expense.
Half an hour later, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were circling in a ring around a vast expanse of clear sky. Sunlight gently warmed the smiling people below.
But their smiles didn't last long.
A rapidly growing speck appeared in the clear sky.
"General," the sorcerer said, drawing his attention as he pointed at the sky and at a... remarkably detailed hologram hovering above his palm. "That's it."
"A Gozanti," Cordelia clicked her tongue beside him. "Cargo hold's probably been modified for hauling slaves."
Alto frowned, running through the options in his head, while Siith bared his teeth in a frightening grin and asked an unexpected question.
"Is that thing expensive?"
"A hundred and fifty thousand credits for a new one," Alto answered automatically. "They've only recently hit the market..."
"One hundred and fifty thousand sounds excellent! Not as good as two hundred, but better than one hundred," the red-eyed man muttered, rubbing his hands together. A little animal's face poked out from the collar of his robe, sniffing the air excitedly with its funny little nose and letting out funny little squeaks. Siith gently scratched the creature under the jaw and smiled. "Yes, yes, Quartermaster. Smells like profit. I want to take a look at that flying coffin... Right, I suggest we head back to our people. As soon as that Gozanti lands, I'll shut down the ritual, and then this baby isn't getting away from us... General, if your radios have the range, order your troops to hide in the forest. No point risking them right now. I'll show you how I used to hunt bandits back home. Heh-heh-heh..."
Sitting in the passenger compartment and looking out the window at the rain once again pouring from the gloomy sky, I whistled a tune I had heard from my beloved long, long ago. I managed to convince both Stratuses after all. Oddly enough, Cordelia backed me almost immediately, and after her, Alto let himself be talked into it as well. Our wheeled steed had been covered with all the necessary concealment spells, which immediately drew questions from both cousins.
After a short drive, we climbed out into the fresh air and took cover behind a small grove not far from where the flying coffin was coming down. On the way, I'd arranged for them to let me inspect the prize and pay me half its value once it had been appraised. Fairly simple work on my end—neutralize the crew and the landing party, while Alto and his people handled the administrative side of things. I could have haggled, but I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I had no idea where to sell the thing, how to move it, or where to get it appraised. Half the price was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances.
I handed Karray over to Cordelia, told everyone to stay behind me and a little off to the side so that, if anything happened, a stray blaster bolt wouldn't hit them, and quickly headed toward the enemy. As long as they knew what to look for, they wouldn't lose track of me; to everyone else, all of us were hidden by the concealment spells.
This time, things were even simpler than the first. No need to pick and choose: everyone there was an enemy. And when I saw the mix of bandits, my enthusiasm reached new heights. Variety! A variety of sentients! I counted at least four different species among the raiders. There were about thirty-five sentients inside the transport, and another four were searching the buildings of the small settlement. Lucky me. Heh-heh-heh.
Today I'd be testing a new construct and conducting an experiment at the same time. Its core was a complex analytical module designed to gather information about the test subjects' minds. "Assembling" it took around twenty minutes. I wasn't worried about the others: Jabiimites were no strangers to getting soaked in the rain, and they were dressed for it.
Once the main construct was ready, I used "Sense Life" and "Search for Intelligence" to keep track of the enemies and loaded every target with influence and information-gathering modules. I activated the spell complex... The first effects began to show among the humans. Yawning, sluggishness, calm and peaceful expressions gradually settling over their faces. The others weren't far behind, though. Next came the humanoid creatures with strange tentacles on their heads, and then the rest followed.
From time to time, pockets of resistance flared up when the sentients realized something was wrong and tried to shake off the drowsiness, slap themselves awake, or say something over the radio, but the intelligent construct simply increased the pressure. Their anxiety faded, giving way to apathy and indifference. Less than forty minutes later, every marked target was sleeping soundly wherever they happened to have settled down. I was especially pleased by one crew member who had returned to the starship and left the entrance open behind him. And besides a sleeping Gozanti ready for the taking, I now had a data package containing information on the properties of the targets' minds. I transferred a copy from the construct into a little glass trinket—it would hold for a couple of days, and by then I'd find somewhere more suitable to store it.
It all ended rather boringly. The general called in his troops, who quickly flew in from the forest on their flying boots, disarmed everyone, stripped them down to their underwear, and tied them up. According to Cordelia, the ship really had been modified for use by slavers, and there were eighteen sentients in the hold who had already been captured somewhere else. They were all asleep, and when they woke up, they would already be in the firm clutches of Security. Some of the captured raiders had been promised to me for experiments and soul capture, while Cordelia had decided to keep the rest in custody for the time being. The slaves would be released after they had been checked.
"It was all somehow... too easy," Alto said, standing beside me.
"Pfft, it only seems easy to you! Three hundred years ago, I wouldn't have been able to pull off a spell like that! I simply wouldn't have had the knowledge. You can't even imagine how much time it took just to gather the information needed to begin developing it. And how many years the work itself took!!! As one old sorcerer used to say: 'The only thing that's easy is scratching your ass.'"
Cordelia laughed beside me. I really ought to translate Rung's Reflections for her sometime—there was plenty of that sort of thing in there. I think I even had an uncensored version somewhere, copied directly from the original.
"Siith," the general said, drawing my attention. "You look very... sinister right now. And tell me, is what your animal is doing normal?"
Quartermaster was sitting on the face of one of the sleeping raiders, intently... taking a dump right in his eye.
"He's establishing dominance over the enemy. Crushing him morally and asserting himself," I explained with complete composure, shifting my gaze to the captured property. Someday, I'd fly off in something like that to explore the mysteries of this universe.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
"At least I got everything done," I rasped in a voice that barely sounded like my own. Sitting up, I grabbed the mug of caf from the bedside table.
"Master, I would like to point out that such a daily routine is harmful to your health. Humans require seven to nine hours of sleep," my new property chimed in. I merely waved him off as I headed for the bathroom, casting a simple healing spell on myself along the way. A sentient nag of a golem. If someone had told me about such a thing, I wouldn't have believed them.
Before the teenagers started breakfast, I sat down at the table and delighted them with the news about kitchen duty. I saw no enthusiasm on their faces, and the boys even came out with something along the lines of, "We're men; women are supposed to do the cooking." I ignored their words and did full justice to the excellent food. But once everyone had eaten, I asked whether they had enjoyed it. Remarkable unanimity, I snorted to myself as I listened to them sing the praises of our kitchen magician's cooking.
"There are ten of us here already, kids, and there's only one Maria. Cooking for a horde this size is hard work. Now, if you're fine with tasty food turning into slop, then I suppose we can do without kitchen duty..." I gave my future apprentices an ironic look as they started chiming in from all sides that they'd "help, fine, whatever." There we go. That's more like it.
After that, things really got moving. The teachers wouldn't start coming to the house for another few days, so I gathered all five of them in the attic. While giving them an introductory lecture—explaining the possibilities of sorcery, the basics, and the various paths they could pursue—I was also putting together some more advanced toys for Karray.
It was amusing to watch the children sneak glances at the wood flowing from one shape into another. I had added a few extra effects during the enchanting as well, so the little animal figures would flare with webs of runes one moment and multicolored lights the next. Children needed to see the beauty of magic so they wouldn't lose interest during the first couple of months of dull theory and meditation. I even found myself slipping into a kind of peaceful state. It felt as though I had taken a break from constant work—work I loved, but which was difficult and exhausting. Maybe having to put my own projects aside for a while wasn't such a bad thing after all?
"Mr. Siith," one of the boys, Dan, cut in. "You said that spellcasters are divided into mages and sorcerers, and that sorcerers can see magic. And you also said that magic is everywhere—an ocean of it. But Karray only saw your things glowing. Why is that?"
"Just call me Siith. Teacher is fine too. I don't like all those sirs and masters. Back to your question: seeing and sensing are things you have to learn as well. Humans are... mm... too material. And the material world is too bright for us—it keeps us from making out the colors of the world of magic. Just as sunlight renders any attempt by the moons to light your path pointless. An untrained sorcerer can easily live the life of an ordinary person and die without ever realizing what they were. But there is one common trait, especially in children: young sorcerers interpret sensations from magic through feelings they already know. For example, a stone saturated with the elemental power of fire will feel 'warm' to them—but not warm to the touch. More like... it somehow feels warm."
The children laughed—all except the sisters. Karray nodded solemnly, as if confirming, Yes, that's exactly right, while her older red-haired sister fell into thought, clearly remembering something.
"Yes, it sounds funny, but I heard something like that myself from one young spellcaster. And then, as children grow older, they train themselves to ignore such 'nonsense.' Though they still tend to get rid of obviously cursed or dangerous things if they're poorly disguised. There was a case, for example, when a young man inherited a mansion and threw out one of the paintings. 'It always frightened and irritated me,' he said. Later it turned out that the damned thing had been feeding on the lives of his relatives. So, something like that. As for why Karray could see my artifacts glowing—that was because they were unnatural and had no concealment spells. Free magic is everywhere. We're used to it, we live in it, and seeing it requires special techniques. Without them, a sorcerer simply experiences the world as more alive, colors as brighter, emotions as stronger... But foreign magic—magic that isn't 'natural,' that has been transformed by a spellcaster's aura—is clearly visible to any sorcerer."
About ten days later, I finally found the right components for the weather-control ritual. Stratus wanted to combine the trial clearing of the clouds with the departure of a couple of ore haulers that were currently waiting for a "window" in the cloud cover, but I talked him out of it. This would be my first attempt in this world—who knew how the weather would behave here, on a sphere?
So there we stood beneath an umbrella-like dome stretched over both us and the patch of ground where the ritual figure was to be drawn. The children were practically devouring Alto with their eyes, while he calmly sipped caf from a special thermos, making me envy him beyond measure—I hadn't thought to bring any from home myself. Cordelia, wearing a sleepy, disgruntled expression, glanced at each of us in turn. She didn't like mornings either. Funny, but in my eyes, that fact outweighed her constant suspiciousness and difficult temperament. So I liked her better for it—especially in the mornings.
Alto, incidentally, had met my apprentices a few days earlier. After we talked in the library, I talked him into putting on a little performance with me. To be honest, I expected another dose of skepticism, but the general surprised me by taking the matter seriously. "This isn't a performance, sorcerer. It's the truth, and it's necessary," were his exact words. Then the two of us went to the sitting room, where Emthree—as I had taken to calling the gole... droid—had gathered the children.
Stratus spoke for no less than ten minutes. He addressed each of them by name and explained how important what they were doing was for Jabiim. He knew that both boys and the military-minded girl had been orphaned in a Trandoshan raid. Choosing his words skillfully, he soon had all three practically pawing at the ground, so eager were they to start producing protective charms for the Nimbus—to save the fighters who would then keep the enemies of their world away from other civilian families. He spoke about the respect and status the young mages would earn once their training was complete. With a smirk, he added that they wouldn't be stingy with credits either, so they wouldn't have to worry about food or comfort, which earned an understanding smile from Taria, the blonde who had a healthy respect for financial security. He told Karray how lucky she was to have such a caring sister in Karina, and promised that he and the entire Nimbus would protect them and make sure no one harmed them.
Talent. I could only marvel inwardly. Alto was an extraordinarily gifted man—in war and in dealing with people alike. Even now, while preparing the site for the magical ritual, I found myself remembering that moment and feeling genuine respect for the general. I could work with people like that.
I leveled out a circle of ground fifteen meters across, dried it, and packed it down. Then I surrounded it with a force barrier to keep the water out and began drawing the patterns. For nearly an hour I moved around the circle, tracing the necessary lines and symbols and placing the components where they needed to be for everything to trigger correctly. After that came the application of the required constructs, designed to launch all the processes in the proper sequence. The final touch was setting the mana reservoirs in place to power the ritual.
According to my preliminary calculations, both the mana supply and the durability of the ritual structure should be enough for two or three hours of operation, and although I knew the ritual well, safety still had to come first.
First, we were a long way from any inhabited settlements, with one exception. There were no civilians there, only a Nimbus garrison. It had been arranged that way in case pirates happened to be waiting in orbit around the planet. I'd overheard Cordelia telling her cousin that "there won't be any problems—the cover story is airtight."
Second, about half a kilometer away, a protected zone had been set up. All the components used in the magical construction had been studied, but they were still new to me, and proper precautions were necessary even if there was only the faintest chance of failure. So I started a ten-minute timer, and all of us climbed into the nearby transport and headed for the designated area.
** Same place. Alto Stratus **
"It's started," the red-eyed sorcerer said with satisfaction, tilting his head back to look at the sky. They stood beneath a transparent dome that protected them from the rain and gusting wind. Around them, drawn on the dry, level ground, was a figure that Siith had described as "protective circuits, just in case."
The sky erupted in a succession of brilliant lightning flashes, and a second later the surrounding air filled with peals of thunder. They sounded like an artillery barrage. The noise was so powerful he could feel it vibrating through his insides. The clouds churning overhead began to move. They hadn't been still before, of course, but now there was a strange sense of order to their motion. Cordelia, standing beside him, said something, but over the fury of the elements her voice was impossible to make out. Judging by her expression, though, his cousin was swearing again.
A few minutes later, it was already easy to make out the clouds overhead gathering speed as they moved in a circle. Lightning flashed without end, and thunder rolled continuously, bringing on a mild headache and, at the same time, a strange sense of childlike delight. Glancing at the children, the general was surprised to see little Karray sitting on the shoulders of a terrifyingly grinning Siith, happily chattering away to him, every now and then looking up at the sky in delight and waving her arms excitedly. Apparently, the sorcerer had somehow muffled the cannonade of the storm for the two of them, because they were clearly able to talk without any trouble.
Alto was not an especially trusting man. Politics quickly cured a man of excessive openness and of trusting every stranger he met... Though the latter was hardly a good trait even for ordinary people. Despite that, the general considered himself an honest man. Honest and fair.
That was exactly why, back at that transit point, he had decided not to send his people to handle the conversation, but to meet the strange visitor to Jabiim personally and thank him. After all, the man really had helped the people of that settlement. He had done what the Nimbus could not have done in time. And when Alto entered the medical station, he saw the stranger treating his fellow Jabiimites. There was no showy politeness or concern, and yet not a single patient even cried out during the healing. In halting phrases, the red-eyed man gave them instructions and asked for caf. Alert and, it seemed, satisfied with the work he had done, he showed no sign of nervousness or doubt. To be completely honest, though, their conversation had been shaped not only by the general's gratitude, but also by the power the sorcerer had demonstrated: killing the entire lizard landing force at once was a very good reason to be polite to a sentient.
At first, Alto thought the Temple had finally sent a Jedi to help. Well, at least now, flashed through his mind. For centuries, Jabiim had cried out for help, begged for it, demanded it! And in return there had been either silence or some bureaucratic: "We will certainly look into your problem." The general ground his teeth, remembering the fury those little bureaucratic notes had sent him into every time he read them.
Then came the misunderstanding, and the visitor was taken for a Sith. The enemies of the Jedi Order had been wiped out nearly a thousand years ago, and Alto had only ever taken a passing interest in them. Terrible, horrible, evil, wicked things, according to the Order of the "Republic's defenders," they were little more than a bogeyman and a swear word. At the time he had thought: To hell with what they say. This Sith helped my people. He deserves a chance. I need to watch him, see what he's really like. Maybe everything they say about his kind is just propaganda. History is written by the victors, and the Sith were the losing side.
A risk, yes. But the red-eyed man had earned a measure of trust.
In the end, the sorcerer turned out to be... who the hell even knew what. Everything he told them inspired doubt and suspicion, but he only smiled that unsettling smile of his and said outright that doubt was a good thing. He didn't like working with gullible idiots, so he would demonstrate everything himself.
And he did.
He had been demonstrating his abilities even before that conversation—making little bone trinkets that provided excellent protection against blasters, healing people, and using magic that let vehicles cross the mud of their homeworld as if they were driving on a smooth road...
And now the sorcerer was demonstrating his skill again, Alto thought as he watched a patch of clear sky appear at the center of the rotating disk of clouds. The small cloudless opening grew wider and wider, like the opening iris of an airlock door.
"The doors to space..." the general whispered, not even trying to hide his smile. Soon he would see the sun and a clear sky. For a Jabiimite, that was a genuine joy. And he would do everything in his power to make sure his people felt only that joy, not the fear that bandit landing ships might come plunging down from the cloudless sky.
The sorcerer had not lied to him once so far. Of course, that still wasn't enough to trust him blindly, but Stratus was a man of honor. If Siith truly helped his world, the general would do everything he could to repay him. The main thing was that it must not come at his homeland's expense.
Half an hour later, the rain had stopped, and the clouds were circling in a ring around a vast expanse of clear sky. Sunlight gently warmed the smiling people below.
But their smiles didn't last long.
A rapidly growing speck appeared in the clear sky.
"General," the sorcerer said, drawing his attention as he pointed at the sky and at a... remarkably detailed hologram hovering above his palm. "That's it."
"A Gozanti," Cordelia clicked her tongue beside him. "Cargo hold's probably been modified for hauling slaves."
Alto frowned, running through the options in his head, while Siith bared his teeth in a frightening grin and asked an unexpected question.
"Is that thing expensive?"
"A hundred and fifty thousand credits for a new one," Alto answered automatically. "They've only recently hit the market..."
"One hundred and fifty thousand sounds excellent! Not as good as two hundred, but better than one hundred," the red-eyed man muttered, rubbing his hands together. A little animal's face poked out from the collar of his robe, sniffing the air excitedly with its funny little nose and letting out funny little squeaks. Siith gently scratched the creature under the jaw and smiled. "Yes, yes, Quartermaster. Smells like profit. I want to take a look at that flying coffin... Right, I suggest we head back to our people. As soon as that Gozanti lands, I'll shut down the ritual, and then this baby isn't getting away from us... General, if your radios have the range, order your troops to hide in the forest. No point risking them right now. I'll show you how I used to hunt bandits back home. Heh-heh-heh..."
Sitting in the passenger compartment and looking out the window at the rain once again pouring from the gloomy sky, I whistled a tune I had heard from my beloved long, long ago. I managed to convince both Stratuses after all. Oddly enough, Cordelia backed me almost immediately, and after her, Alto let himself be talked into it as well. Our wheeled steed had been covered with all the necessary concealment spells, which immediately drew questions from both cousins.
After a short drive, we climbed out into the fresh air and took cover behind a small grove not far from where the flying coffin was coming down. On the way, I'd arranged for them to let me inspect the prize and pay me half its value once it had been appraised. Fairly simple work on my end—neutralize the crew and the landing party, while Alto and his people handled the administrative side of things. I could have haggled, but I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I had no idea where to sell the thing, how to move it, or where to get it appraised. Half the price was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances.
I handed Karray over to Cordelia, told everyone to stay behind me and a little off to the side so that, if anything happened, a stray blaster bolt wouldn't hit them, and quickly headed toward the enemy. As long as they knew what to look for, they wouldn't lose track of me; to everyone else, all of us were hidden by the concealment spells.
This time, things were even simpler than the first. No need to pick and choose: everyone there was an enemy. And when I saw the mix of bandits, my enthusiasm reached new heights. Variety! A variety of sentients! I counted at least four different species among the raiders. There were about thirty-five sentients inside the transport, and another four were searching the buildings of the small settlement. Lucky me. Heh-heh-heh.
Today I'd be testing a new construct and conducting an experiment at the same time. Its core was a complex analytical module designed to gather information about the test subjects' minds. "Assembling" it took around twenty minutes. I wasn't worried about the others: Jabiimites were no strangers to getting soaked in the rain, and they were dressed for it.
Once the main construct was ready, I used "Sense Life" and "Search for Intelligence" to keep track of the enemies and loaded every target with influence and information-gathering modules. I activated the spell complex... The first effects began to show among the humans. Yawning, sluggishness, calm and peaceful expressions gradually settling over their faces. The others weren't far behind, though. Next came the humanoid creatures with strange tentacles on their heads, and then the rest followed.
From time to time, pockets of resistance flared up when the sentients realized something was wrong and tried to shake off the drowsiness, slap themselves awake, or say something over the radio, but the intelligent construct simply increased the pressure. Their anxiety faded, giving way to apathy and indifference. Less than forty minutes later, every marked target was sleeping soundly wherever they happened to have settled down. I was especially pleased by one crew member who had returned to the starship and left the entrance open behind him. And besides a sleeping Gozanti ready for the taking, I now had a data package containing information on the properties of the targets' minds. I transferred a copy from the construct into a little glass trinket—it would hold for a couple of days, and by then I'd find somewhere more suitable to store it.
It all ended rather boringly. The general called in his troops, who quickly flew in from the forest on their flying boots, disarmed everyone, stripped them down to their underwear, and tied them up. According to Cordelia, the ship really had been modified for use by slavers, and there were eighteen sentients in the hold who had already been captured somewhere else. They were all asleep, and when they woke up, they would already be in the firm clutches of Security. Some of the captured raiders had been promised to me for experiments and soul capture, while Cordelia had decided to keep the rest in custody for the time being. The slaves would be released after they had been checked.
"It was all somehow... too easy," Alto said, standing beside me.
"Pfft, it only seems easy to you! Three hundred years ago, I wouldn't have been able to pull off a spell like that! I simply wouldn't have had the knowledge. You can't even imagine how much time it took just to gather the information needed to begin developing it. And how many years the work itself took!!! As one old sorcerer used to say: 'The only thing that's easy is scratching your ass.'"
Cordelia laughed beside me. I really ought to translate Rung's Reflections for her sometime—there was plenty of that sort of thing in there. I think I even had an uncensored version somewhere, copied directly from the original.
"Siith," the general said, drawing my attention. "You look very... sinister right now. And tell me, is what your animal is doing normal?"
Quartermaster was sitting on the face of one of the sleeping raiders, intently... taking a dump right in his eye.
"He's establishing dominance over the enemy. Crushing him morally and asserting himself," I explained with complete composure, shifting my gaze to the captured property. Someday, I'd fly off in something like that to explore the mysteries of this universe.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
readsalot
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Can't wait to see him explore the galaxy and uncover the mysteries of magic… I mean the Force
Chapter 13
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Boroda Orka
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"What is evil? Demons? Undead? Vampires? Women? Pfft. Grafters—that's True Evil! Those spawn of darkness will bleed you dry in such a way that you'll still walk away pleased you managed to hand your hard-earned money over to the monster."
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.
The days blurred together into a kaleidoscope of events, and strangely enough, it didn't bother me. Apparently, I'd grown a little tired of solitude during my seclusion. At least I felt no urge to ride off into the sunset, nor any need to sic Quartermaster on someone. Only Emthree was getting on my nerves—a real droid granny.
Pedantic, grumbling, argumentative, and annoying. Useful, though, yes. He didn't care about the faces I made when I was interrupted, my frightening smiles, or my grumbling. He even ignored my threats. "Master, it's lunchtime. Finish your work after you've eaten." "Master, it's time to go to bed. The efficiency of organics declines when they don't get enough sleep." He also brought me caf and various brews, and he was simply excellent at reminders. So despite the occasional urge to turn him into a pile of scrap metal, I restrained myself and was even a little grateful. The usefulness of the tin can outweighed the irritation he caused. And even that irritation was... mm... not exactly serious.
It was the fourth month of training—both mine and the children's. Once I had dealt with the urgent matters, I got my hands on a piece of local technology for storing and studying information: a datapad. An amazing little thing, with an enormous number of functions. We had something similar back home, but if I was being fair, the craftsmen of this universe had left my world far behind. You could argue in our defense that there were vastly more of them, but those were just excuses. What I had in my hands was a device whose size and functionality simply blew every equivalent from my world out of the water. And the ability to connect to a "global network" was altogether beyond good and evil.
At my request, that datapad was loaded with study materials: books and instructional films. An enormous amount of information, the sheer scale of which filled me with horror at the thought of how much work it would take to master it all—and with delight for exactly the same reason. Cordelia also remarked, with obvious displeasure, that there was even more to be found beyond Jabiim. Many species had more advanced educational programs, all kinds of schools and academies where they taught practically anything one could dream of!!! Magnificent! Something to strive for!
So every waking hour was packed to the brim. I even managed to corner the kids' teachers from time to time—some things needed explaining even despite the full power of my intellect. Not that I couldn't have figured them out myself, of course. This was simply faster.
Part of my time went into studying this universe: social interactions, history, moral norms—which varied wildly from world to world—and simply everyday life. It was necessary if I wanted to avoid awkward situations. Otherwise, I might offer Cordelia a cup of caf one day and find out I'd just proposed marriage... No, no, no. I'm far too young to get married!
I also spent a lot of time filling Alto's orders for the Nimbus. My apprentices were already on the verge of being able to churn out protective charms; all they needed was a little more practice, and then I could move their training on toward serious work with artifacts. As for me, I enchanted part of the Nimbus ground fleet, integrating artifacts into the vehicles that projected "Taash's Tread" and could operate for a week without recharging. I also created ten "charging stations" that allowed energy to be gathered into reservoirs more quickly, using artificially grown crystals supplied by Stratus as the reservoirs.
Some things had to be explained to the general as well: the difference between a reservoir and a mana pump, how drawing mana from the surrounding world differed from generating energy from captured souls, and the specifics of how each method worked and was used.
That day, I combined the children's lesson with my explanations for Alto and gathered everyone together.
In short, mana could be gathered into a reservoir. You created a special artifact construct—or sometimes a ritual one, if it was meant for a single use—that pumped energy into the reservoir. In principle, it was all fairly simple, with one catch: size. The larger the construct, the "thicker" the flow, and accordingly, the faster the reservoir filled.
A simple amulet that repels animals, like the ones a friend of mine used to provide for the kids at an orphanage, made sense to supplement with a small module of this kind—a modest reservoir paired with a very low-cost effect. Just leave it on a shelf overnight, and by morning the amulet's reservoir would be full.
But that wouldn't work with my adaptive-protection amulet, nor with the robe or the knife. Their energy consumption was simply too high. And that was where three other methods came in: charging reservoirs with a soul prison, "manual" charging by pouring a spellcaster's reserve directly into the reservoir, and charging them with a large artifact mana pump. The amulet had no reservoirs of its own, so without a soul-battery it simply wouldn't work. The robe was the opposite case—I hadn't been able to implement a mana converter based on a soul vault because it conflicted with some of the enchantments already laid on it.
For the vehicles, I set up reservoir charging using the third method. You take the crystal out of the artifact in the all-terrain vehicle, slot it into the mana pump—which looks like a fifteen-meter disk—wait two or three hours, and you can "refuel" the next one. I planned to handle all enchanted equipment along the same lines. Making spellcasters work full-time as glorified fuel pumps was a lousy idea, while souls came with the inconvenient necessity of producing corpses. A charging station, on the other hand, doesn't ask to be fed—just keep slotting crystals into it and take it easy.
That approach wouldn't work with charms, though, because they were single-use. They had no reservoirs; the mana reserve was poured directly into the material itself, and once that reserve was exhausted, the object broke down. Quick, cheap, and protective—but only once.
Artifact-making was a vast subject in its own right. Take reservoir crystals alone: stability, energy capacity, how both depended on quality and size. I could have talked about it for hours, but for now neither the children nor Alto needed that level of detail. I was only beginning to compile a table of characteristics for the new materials. A pity I still hadn't found anything better than Crystal Dragon bones. Though... I was getting spoiled, of course. The only way to make a better reservoir would be from crystallized blood or tears of the Gods. Hecate had supplied me with magnificent materials for artifact-making that would last a very long time... or enough for something truly enormous, like a floating fortress. Though with that much, I could probably build a floating city instead. I'd only finished charging the robe from my own reserves a week ago—the amount of energy it held was unimaginable.
In the end, Alto agreed that charging stations with mana pumps and reservoirs in the vehicles were the best solution, and we began putting the system into practice along the most troublesome patrol routes—places where the distances were simply too great and the troops sometimes couldn't get there in time. The charging-station components were manufactured to my designs and shipped to the mansion disassembled. There, right in the courtyard beneath an umbrella-dome, I enchanted them, and the finished kit was then sent off to whichever base needed it. There was no need for me to go along—the assembled construction activated automatically the moment a reservoir was inserted into its socket.
Fortunately, the Stratuses had taken my request for a "roomier" place to work and live seriously. In a week, we would be moving our work to a formerly abandoned industrial complex, now restored after falling into decline and shutting down a couple of decades ago. It had truly enormous spaces—the kind I needed for working on oversized components. It also had a spacious, modern classroom by Jabiim's standards for the children, a room for them to relax in, and space set aside for an enormous library... which, of course, I would also have to fill. Sigh... sigh... sigh...
Later on, a residential building would be constructed on the grounds of the complex as well, but for now we'd have to commute back and forth. Fortunately, the trip took less than an hour, and we had our own transport now.
Some time ago, Alto, Cordelia, and I had sat down together and discussed where on Jabiim my efforts were needed. There were quite a few such areas. The transport alone, which ideally needed to be upgraded all across the planet, already amounted to several months of daily work. The artifact complexes for weather control were simpler—one for each major city, of which there were five on the planet. One was already nearly finished. As for the hovering boats, so far there was only a design for a twelve-person craft—the size of a single Nimbus squad. We hadn't started production yet. And then there were the smaller things—amulets and charms, which for now I was churning out right in the middle of the lectures I gave the children.
Besides that, the Stratuses were very interested in the prospects of magical and technomagical ore processing, but during our discussion we put that project off for the future. As I understood it, the two of them were currently having problems with the powers that be. Well... "problems" might be putting it a bit strongly.
Trouble brewing, yes. No matter how carefully they hid our activities, no matter how thoroughly they kept me out of sight, a word here, a word there... and the rumors started spreading, each more astonishing than the last. As a result, the aristocracy had begun quietly making inquiries. For now, they were doing it lazily and without much enthusiasm, but that was how these things started.
I remembered the conversation the three of us had in the library yesterday. Over the past few months, we had started talking like that fairly often. Mostly with Cordelia, since she visited us more frequently. But Alto had also begun joining our improvised little get-togethers from time to time. In fact, it was through those conversations that I had come to understand the situation on Jabiim—and in the Republic as a whole—much better. Nothing unusual. Just plain, simple corruption, understandable to any sentient. I honestly didn't know of a sentient society that was immune to it.
The Stratuses had very little love for the moneybags sitting at the top of the planet's power structure. They made little effort to hide the fact that they were lining their pockets, paying kickbacks to corrupt Republic officials, running all sorts of schemes... As far as I was concerned, they were even within their rights to a point. The land with the mines belonged to them, almost all the transports belonged to them, the industry... well, you get the idea. They weren't called the aristocracy for nothing. In practice, they were the owners of the planet. On the other hand, they were frankly shitty owners. Stupid and greedy. A prudent owner doesn't just get richer—he invests in his holdings so he can get even richer!!! The plebs will always be dissatisfied, of course, but here it was a question of scale. And the scale was such that all Jabiim needed was a leader, and the flames of revolution would erupt. The constant bleeding of the population by pirates and slavers, poor medicine, endless shortages of practically everything—even locally produced goods—an appalling standard of living for ordinary people, and brutal working conditions. It had all been piling up for years, while the problems only grew worse: with every generation, the "aristocracy" thought less and less about Jabiim, taking everything for granted, and more and more about their own purses.
"I don't understand, Alto. Why are you sitting there kneading your tits?" I finally snapped during yesterday's conversation, after he complained about yet another cut to the budget allocated to his troops.
"Excuse me?" The general clearly had no idea what I meant and looked at me in surprise over the rim of his cup, while Cordelia merely shook her head disapprovingly. Pfft... She was hardly shy about colorful language herself, and now suddenly she was the guardian of public morals.
"Why don't you just cut their throats?" I let my irritation show on my face. "The Republic clearly doesn't give a shit about any of this. You told me yourself that during that... brain-liquefying epidemic, they didn't even send you any aid. And that epidemic threatened to reduce the amount of goods you supplied to the Republic and cut the taxes flowing into its coffers."
The girl sitting with us put on a stern expression and had already drawn breath to speak, but I gestured for her to let me finish.
"Yes, yes, Cordelia, I can see how outraged you are. People were dying, and I'm talking about money. But you're thinking about it the wrong way. That's exactly how the bureaucrats in the Senate think: the money keeps coming in—everything's fine. It stops coming in—sadness, disaster, tragedy. Stage a Night of the Long Knives, gut the aristocracy, and put people from your own little club into the positions that matter."
It was amusing to watch one cousin bristle with outrage while the other kept his face completely impassive. Only his sharp eyes showed that he was listening closely... and I saw no rejection of my words in them.
"It's simple. Keep paying the taxes and replace the crews on the ore haulers. Restrict traders' access to the Jabiimites... Quarantine, all that. Invent some nasty but nonlethal disease... Testicular liquefaction? How does that sound? Anyway, you hardly need me to teach you how to do this. That's it. With our weather, news of the coup won't reach the Republic's capital for another ten years. And by then it'll be too late to do anything about it."
Cordelia was outraged, while Alto chuckled quietly. That laugh brought a faint, knowing smile to my face, while the general's cousin practically choked on her emotions. She wasn't exactly a little girl anymore, yet idealism was practically pouring out of her. Though... something about it felt off. Forced, somehow... unnatural.
"I hear you, Siith." He shot a quick glance at his cousin, and she immediately relaxed back into her chair, no longer searching for something to say. She only glared darkly at both of us. "So, as I understand it, a development like that doesn't exactly... shock you?"
"Pfft. The only reason the regime hasn't changed yet is because of you and the Nimbus—things on the planet have started getting a little better. I have eyes to see and ears to hear." And a whole pile of eavesdropping spells that faithfully supplied me with plenty of information, but they didn't need to know about those. Though they had probably figured that much out themselves. "There's only one question now: when are you going to decide to spill some blood? And if you mean the mass killing of those in power and how I feel about that, I honestly don't give a damn. Six hundred years is plenty of time to stop fainting at the words 'political assassination' and squealing like a virgin in a hayloft."
"Is it really that obvious?" Stratus smiled calmly. Cordelia, meanwhile, stopped playing the offended innocent and let the mask of outrage drop from her face. Her expression turned serious and attentive. The general had decided to stop playing games.
"Experience." I shrugged, taking a sip of the hot, fragrant drink. "I wasn't always a recluse, and magic wasn't the only thing that interested me in life. Youth, you know... all that."
"Ancient sage," Cordelia snorted sarcastically. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, she allowed the corners of her mouth to curl into a faint mocking smile.
"Age matters not. What matters is who you feel yourself to be. Young I am. At heart."
The girl rolled her eyes toward the ceiling—she found it incredibly irritating whenever I slipped back into my original way of speaking. And yes, I knew that. Heh-heh. But she reacted so emotionally that I simply couldn't help myself.
"Since you think a change of power is inevitable and the idea doesn't exactly... bother you..." The general fell silent, gathering his thoughts, while I gave an ironic snort. Here it comes. I'm about to get an offer I have absolutely no intention of refusing. "Maybe you could help us with that?"
"I'll help. To be frank, General, there's something I need. We make a deal, and an epidemic begins." Cordelia and Alto frowned at the same time; epidemics were not exactly fondly remembered on Jabiim. I, meanwhile, was already smiling in the finest tradition of cheerful malefics—merrily and with anticipation. "It'll be fast and relatively mild, with very few deaths. And those deaths, by some strange, mysterious, utterly incredible coincidence, will occur only among your political opponents. The only thing I'll need is something that was once part of each of them. Hair, blood, a nail clipping—anything except urine, feces, or saliva. You could even disguise it as routine medical testing. They feel unwell, go to a doctor, and during the examination a vial of blood somehow finds its way to me. How does that sound? You won't even need to go pew-pew."
"How long have you been planning this?" Surprise and suspicion were written all over Cordelia's face.
"While I was on my way here from that transit point, after Alto and I first met a few months ago. The soldiers didn't say all that much, nor did the people in the settlement, but anyone who knows how to listen can pick up on certain nuances. When people love their general and their rulers... not so much, this is usually where things end up. I don't much like getting involved in politics, but right now I... need some gratitude, yes."
"And what do you need? I'm telling you right now, no sacrificing babies or anything li—"
I burst out laughing. We'd known each other for nearly half a year by now, and they were still projecting all those Jedi horror stories onto me. Though, to be fair, my appearance might have had something to do with that.
"Libraries, Alto. Just libraries dedicated to my patroness. Large ones—truly large ones. In every city. With paper books and electronic archives. And each will have a section devoted to the Mistress of Magic. That section will contain only 'religious' literature, insofar as that term even applies to Hecate's cult: mostly philosophical works and reflections on the value of knowledge. No magical manuals, so you won't have to worry about 'wild mages' appearing."
"That... could be done. But why?"
"The more believers she has, the stronger the Goddess becomes. The more seekers who come there in search of knowledge, the more power she will gain. And I'll get some 'goodies' out of it." I smiled openly, but when I saw the lack of understanding on the Stratuses' faces, I decided to explain, while thinking that this must have been exactly how Ir'rina felt when she explained that word to me. That slight annoyance when people didn't understand you. "It means I'll earn Hecate's favor, and perhaps something more tangible as well."
"And what's the catch?" Cordelia's suspiciousness was... almost endearing by this point.
"None. I swear by Hecate's pantaloons!" I jokingly raised one hand in the gesture of taking an oath. And then realized I had... uh... screwed up a little, as my beloved used to say. Yeah. Back in my own world, there was practically no chance of attracting the Wisest One's attention with a joke like that, but here... while sitting in her only shrine... Ahem. I may have been a little too quick with the jokes. I realized that at the same moment a book smacked me in the back of the head. Straight through all my defenses.
Ow...
"Sss... Ow!!!"
"If he gets smacked over the head one more time, I'm signing up as a believer," Cordelia laughed delightedly, while I tried to dodge another projectile flying straight at my forehead.
Unsuccessfully.
"Ow, all right, I get it, I get it!!! Stop hitting me!!!" I shouted in exasperation, rubbing my forehead as I gave the general's cousin a reproachful look. "Can't even make a joke anymore. And what's with all this bloodthirstiness toward me, anyway?"
"You've got an infuriating grin, my brother in faith!" Cordelia bared her teeth at me happily. "And seriously, sorcerer, have you lost your mind, swearing by a woman's underwear?!"
And at the very edge of hearing, I caught an offended word spoken in an enchanting female voice.
That word was:
"Boor."
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
© Rung, sorcerer of the Age of Heroes.
The days blurred together into a kaleidoscope of events, and strangely enough, it didn't bother me. Apparently, I'd grown a little tired of solitude during my seclusion. At least I felt no urge to ride off into the sunset, nor any need to sic Quartermaster on someone. Only Emthree was getting on my nerves—a real droid granny.
Pedantic, grumbling, argumentative, and annoying. Useful, though, yes. He didn't care about the faces I made when I was interrupted, my frightening smiles, or my grumbling. He even ignored my threats. "Master, it's lunchtime. Finish your work after you've eaten." "Master, it's time to go to bed. The efficiency of organics declines when they don't get enough sleep." He also brought me caf and various brews, and he was simply excellent at reminders. So despite the occasional urge to turn him into a pile of scrap metal, I restrained myself and was even a little grateful. The usefulness of the tin can outweighed the irritation he caused. And even that irritation was... mm... not exactly serious.
It was the fourth month of training—both mine and the children's. Once I had dealt with the urgent matters, I got my hands on a piece of local technology for storing and studying information: a datapad. An amazing little thing, with an enormous number of functions. We had something similar back home, but if I was being fair, the craftsmen of this universe had left my world far behind. You could argue in our defense that there were vastly more of them, but those were just excuses. What I had in my hands was a device whose size and functionality simply blew every equivalent from my world out of the water. And the ability to connect to a "global network" was altogether beyond good and evil.
At my request, that datapad was loaded with study materials: books and instructional films. An enormous amount of information, the sheer scale of which filled me with horror at the thought of how much work it would take to master it all—and with delight for exactly the same reason. Cordelia also remarked, with obvious displeasure, that there was even more to be found beyond Jabiim. Many species had more advanced educational programs, all kinds of schools and academies where they taught practically anything one could dream of!!! Magnificent! Something to strive for!
So every waking hour was packed to the brim. I even managed to corner the kids' teachers from time to time—some things needed explaining even despite the full power of my intellect. Not that I couldn't have figured them out myself, of course. This was simply faster.
Part of my time went into studying this universe: social interactions, history, moral norms—which varied wildly from world to world—and simply everyday life. It was necessary if I wanted to avoid awkward situations. Otherwise, I might offer Cordelia a cup of caf one day and find out I'd just proposed marriage... No, no, no. I'm far too young to get married!
I also spent a lot of time filling Alto's orders for the Nimbus. My apprentices were already on the verge of being able to churn out protective charms; all they needed was a little more practice, and then I could move their training on toward serious work with artifacts. As for me, I enchanted part of the Nimbus ground fleet, integrating artifacts into the vehicles that projected "Taash's Tread" and could operate for a week without recharging. I also created ten "charging stations" that allowed energy to be gathered into reservoirs more quickly, using artificially grown crystals supplied by Stratus as the reservoirs.
Some things had to be explained to the general as well: the difference between a reservoir and a mana pump, how drawing mana from the surrounding world differed from generating energy from captured souls, and the specifics of how each method worked and was used.
That day, I combined the children's lesson with my explanations for Alto and gathered everyone together.
In short, mana could be gathered into a reservoir. You created a special artifact construct—or sometimes a ritual one, if it was meant for a single use—that pumped energy into the reservoir. In principle, it was all fairly simple, with one catch: size. The larger the construct, the "thicker" the flow, and accordingly, the faster the reservoir filled.
A simple amulet that repels animals, like the ones a friend of mine used to provide for the kids at an orphanage, made sense to supplement with a small module of this kind—a modest reservoir paired with a very low-cost effect. Just leave it on a shelf overnight, and by morning the amulet's reservoir would be full.
But that wouldn't work with my adaptive-protection amulet, nor with the robe or the knife. Their energy consumption was simply too high. And that was where three other methods came in: charging reservoirs with a soul prison, "manual" charging by pouring a spellcaster's reserve directly into the reservoir, and charging them with a large artifact mana pump. The amulet had no reservoirs of its own, so without a soul-battery it simply wouldn't work. The robe was the opposite case—I hadn't been able to implement a mana converter based on a soul vault because it conflicted with some of the enchantments already laid on it.
For the vehicles, I set up reservoir charging using the third method. You take the crystal out of the artifact in the all-terrain vehicle, slot it into the mana pump—which looks like a fifteen-meter disk—wait two or three hours, and you can "refuel" the next one. I planned to handle all enchanted equipment along the same lines. Making spellcasters work full-time as glorified fuel pumps was a lousy idea, while souls came with the inconvenient necessity of producing corpses. A charging station, on the other hand, doesn't ask to be fed—just keep slotting crystals into it and take it easy.
That approach wouldn't work with charms, though, because they were single-use. They had no reservoirs; the mana reserve was poured directly into the material itself, and once that reserve was exhausted, the object broke down. Quick, cheap, and protective—but only once.
Artifact-making was a vast subject in its own right. Take reservoir crystals alone: stability, energy capacity, how both depended on quality and size. I could have talked about it for hours, but for now neither the children nor Alto needed that level of detail. I was only beginning to compile a table of characteristics for the new materials. A pity I still hadn't found anything better than Crystal Dragon bones. Though... I was getting spoiled, of course. The only way to make a better reservoir would be from crystallized blood or tears of the Gods. Hecate had supplied me with magnificent materials for artifact-making that would last a very long time... or enough for something truly enormous, like a floating fortress. Though with that much, I could probably build a floating city instead. I'd only finished charging the robe from my own reserves a week ago—the amount of energy it held was unimaginable.
In the end, Alto agreed that charging stations with mana pumps and reservoirs in the vehicles were the best solution, and we began putting the system into practice along the most troublesome patrol routes—places where the distances were simply too great and the troops sometimes couldn't get there in time. The charging-station components were manufactured to my designs and shipped to the mansion disassembled. There, right in the courtyard beneath an umbrella-dome, I enchanted them, and the finished kit was then sent off to whichever base needed it. There was no need for me to go along—the assembled construction activated automatically the moment a reservoir was inserted into its socket.
Fortunately, the Stratuses had taken my request for a "roomier" place to work and live seriously. In a week, we would be moving our work to a formerly abandoned industrial complex, now restored after falling into decline and shutting down a couple of decades ago. It had truly enormous spaces—the kind I needed for working on oversized components. It also had a spacious, modern classroom by Jabiim's standards for the children, a room for them to relax in, and space set aside for an enormous library... which, of course, I would also have to fill. Sigh... sigh... sigh...
Later on, a residential building would be constructed on the grounds of the complex as well, but for now we'd have to commute back and forth. Fortunately, the trip took less than an hour, and we had our own transport now.
Some time ago, Alto, Cordelia, and I had sat down together and discussed where on Jabiim my efforts were needed. There were quite a few such areas. The transport alone, which ideally needed to be upgraded all across the planet, already amounted to several months of daily work. The artifact complexes for weather control were simpler—one for each major city, of which there were five on the planet. One was already nearly finished. As for the hovering boats, so far there was only a design for a twelve-person craft—the size of a single Nimbus squad. We hadn't started production yet. And then there were the smaller things—amulets and charms, which for now I was churning out right in the middle of the lectures I gave the children.
Besides that, the Stratuses were very interested in the prospects of magical and technomagical ore processing, but during our discussion we put that project off for the future. As I understood it, the two of them were currently having problems with the powers that be. Well... "problems" might be putting it a bit strongly.
Trouble brewing, yes. No matter how carefully they hid our activities, no matter how thoroughly they kept me out of sight, a word here, a word there... and the rumors started spreading, each more astonishing than the last. As a result, the aristocracy had begun quietly making inquiries. For now, they were doing it lazily and without much enthusiasm, but that was how these things started.
I remembered the conversation the three of us had in the library yesterday. Over the past few months, we had started talking like that fairly often. Mostly with Cordelia, since she visited us more frequently. But Alto had also begun joining our improvised little get-togethers from time to time. In fact, it was through those conversations that I had come to understand the situation on Jabiim—and in the Republic as a whole—much better. Nothing unusual. Just plain, simple corruption, understandable to any sentient. I honestly didn't know of a sentient society that was immune to it.
The Stratuses had very little love for the moneybags sitting at the top of the planet's power structure. They made little effort to hide the fact that they were lining their pockets, paying kickbacks to corrupt Republic officials, running all sorts of schemes... As far as I was concerned, they were even within their rights to a point. The land with the mines belonged to them, almost all the transports belonged to them, the industry... well, you get the idea. They weren't called the aristocracy for nothing. In practice, they were the owners of the planet. On the other hand, they were frankly shitty owners. Stupid and greedy. A prudent owner doesn't just get richer—he invests in his holdings so he can get even richer!!! The plebs will always be dissatisfied, of course, but here it was a question of scale. And the scale was such that all Jabiim needed was a leader, and the flames of revolution would erupt. The constant bleeding of the population by pirates and slavers, poor medicine, endless shortages of practically everything—even locally produced goods—an appalling standard of living for ordinary people, and brutal working conditions. It had all been piling up for years, while the problems only grew worse: with every generation, the "aristocracy" thought less and less about Jabiim, taking everything for granted, and more and more about their own purses.
"I don't understand, Alto. Why are you sitting there kneading your tits?" I finally snapped during yesterday's conversation, after he complained about yet another cut to the budget allocated to his troops.
"Excuse me?" The general clearly had no idea what I meant and looked at me in surprise over the rim of his cup, while Cordelia merely shook her head disapprovingly. Pfft... She was hardly shy about colorful language herself, and now suddenly she was the guardian of public morals.
"Why don't you just cut their throats?" I let my irritation show on my face. "The Republic clearly doesn't give a shit about any of this. You told me yourself that during that... brain-liquefying epidemic, they didn't even send you any aid. And that epidemic threatened to reduce the amount of goods you supplied to the Republic and cut the taxes flowing into its coffers."
The girl sitting with us put on a stern expression and had already drawn breath to speak, but I gestured for her to let me finish.
"Yes, yes, Cordelia, I can see how outraged you are. People were dying, and I'm talking about money. But you're thinking about it the wrong way. That's exactly how the bureaucrats in the Senate think: the money keeps coming in—everything's fine. It stops coming in—sadness, disaster, tragedy. Stage a Night of the Long Knives, gut the aristocracy, and put people from your own little club into the positions that matter."
It was amusing to watch one cousin bristle with outrage while the other kept his face completely impassive. Only his sharp eyes showed that he was listening closely... and I saw no rejection of my words in them.
"It's simple. Keep paying the taxes and replace the crews on the ore haulers. Restrict traders' access to the Jabiimites... Quarantine, all that. Invent some nasty but nonlethal disease... Testicular liquefaction? How does that sound? Anyway, you hardly need me to teach you how to do this. That's it. With our weather, news of the coup won't reach the Republic's capital for another ten years. And by then it'll be too late to do anything about it."
Cordelia was outraged, while Alto chuckled quietly. That laugh brought a faint, knowing smile to my face, while the general's cousin practically choked on her emotions. She wasn't exactly a little girl anymore, yet idealism was practically pouring out of her. Though... something about it felt off. Forced, somehow... unnatural.
"I hear you, Siith." He shot a quick glance at his cousin, and she immediately relaxed back into her chair, no longer searching for something to say. She only glared darkly at both of us. "So, as I understand it, a development like that doesn't exactly... shock you?"
"Pfft. The only reason the regime hasn't changed yet is because of you and the Nimbus—things on the planet have started getting a little better. I have eyes to see and ears to hear." And a whole pile of eavesdropping spells that faithfully supplied me with plenty of information, but they didn't need to know about those. Though they had probably figured that much out themselves. "There's only one question now: when are you going to decide to spill some blood? And if you mean the mass killing of those in power and how I feel about that, I honestly don't give a damn. Six hundred years is plenty of time to stop fainting at the words 'political assassination' and squealing like a virgin in a hayloft."
"Is it really that obvious?" Stratus smiled calmly. Cordelia, meanwhile, stopped playing the offended innocent and let the mask of outrage drop from her face. Her expression turned serious and attentive. The general had decided to stop playing games.
"Experience." I shrugged, taking a sip of the hot, fragrant drink. "I wasn't always a recluse, and magic wasn't the only thing that interested me in life. Youth, you know... all that."
"Ancient sage," Cordelia snorted sarcastically. Despite the seriousness of the conversation, she allowed the corners of her mouth to curl into a faint mocking smile.
"Age matters not. What matters is who you feel yourself to be. Young I am. At heart."
The girl rolled her eyes toward the ceiling—she found it incredibly irritating whenever I slipped back into my original way of speaking. And yes, I knew that. Heh-heh. But she reacted so emotionally that I simply couldn't help myself.
"Since you think a change of power is inevitable and the idea doesn't exactly... bother you..." The general fell silent, gathering his thoughts, while I gave an ironic snort. Here it comes. I'm about to get an offer I have absolutely no intention of refusing. "Maybe you could help us with that?"
"I'll help. To be frank, General, there's something I need. We make a deal, and an epidemic begins." Cordelia and Alto frowned at the same time; epidemics were not exactly fondly remembered on Jabiim. I, meanwhile, was already smiling in the finest tradition of cheerful malefics—merrily and with anticipation. "It'll be fast and relatively mild, with very few deaths. And those deaths, by some strange, mysterious, utterly incredible coincidence, will occur only among your political opponents. The only thing I'll need is something that was once part of each of them. Hair, blood, a nail clipping—anything except urine, feces, or saliva. You could even disguise it as routine medical testing. They feel unwell, go to a doctor, and during the examination a vial of blood somehow finds its way to me. How does that sound? You won't even need to go pew-pew."
"How long have you been planning this?" Surprise and suspicion were written all over Cordelia's face.
"While I was on my way here from that transit point, after Alto and I first met a few months ago. The soldiers didn't say all that much, nor did the people in the settlement, but anyone who knows how to listen can pick up on certain nuances. When people love their general and their rulers... not so much, this is usually where things end up. I don't much like getting involved in politics, but right now I... need some gratitude, yes."
"And what do you need? I'm telling you right now, no sacrificing babies or anything li—"
I burst out laughing. We'd known each other for nearly half a year by now, and they were still projecting all those Jedi horror stories onto me. Though, to be fair, my appearance might have had something to do with that.
"Libraries, Alto. Just libraries dedicated to my patroness. Large ones—truly large ones. In every city. With paper books and electronic archives. And each will have a section devoted to the Mistress of Magic. That section will contain only 'religious' literature, insofar as that term even applies to Hecate's cult: mostly philosophical works and reflections on the value of knowledge. No magical manuals, so you won't have to worry about 'wild mages' appearing."
"That... could be done. But why?"
"The more believers she has, the stronger the Goddess becomes. The more seekers who come there in search of knowledge, the more power she will gain. And I'll get some 'goodies' out of it." I smiled openly, but when I saw the lack of understanding on the Stratuses' faces, I decided to explain, while thinking that this must have been exactly how Ir'rina felt when she explained that word to me. That slight annoyance when people didn't understand you. "It means I'll earn Hecate's favor, and perhaps something more tangible as well."
"And what's the catch?" Cordelia's suspiciousness was... almost endearing by this point.
"None. I swear by Hecate's pantaloons!" I jokingly raised one hand in the gesture of taking an oath. And then realized I had... uh... screwed up a little, as my beloved used to say. Yeah. Back in my own world, there was practically no chance of attracting the Wisest One's attention with a joke like that, but here... while sitting in her only shrine... Ahem. I may have been a little too quick with the jokes. I realized that at the same moment a book smacked me in the back of the head. Straight through all my defenses.
Ow...
"Sss... Ow!!!"
"If he gets smacked over the head one more time, I'm signing up as a believer," Cordelia laughed delightedly, while I tried to dodge another projectile flying straight at my forehead.
Unsuccessfully.
"Ow, all right, I get it, I get it!!! Stop hitting me!!!" I shouted in exasperation, rubbing my forehead as I gave the general's cousin a reproachful look. "Can't even make a joke anymore. And what's with all this bloodthirstiness toward me, anyway?"
"You've got an infuriating grin, my brother in faith!" Cordelia bared her teeth at me happily. "And seriously, sorcerer, have you lost your mind, swearing by a woman's underwear?!"
And at the very edge of hearing, I caught an offended word spoken in an enchanting female voice.
That word was:
"Boor."
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
Last edited:
readsalot
Experienced.
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Treangulator
Not too sore, are you?
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Me thinks the better choice would be "kneading".
Like "kneading dough".
Also yeah, pantaloons? Oh Siith, who told you that's the goddess choice of underwear? What do you even understand in female fashion besides of how to take it off?
Last edited:
Boroda Orka
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Me thinks the better choice would be "kneading".
Like "kneading dough".
Thanks for pointing that out. It really does sound much better this way
Chapter 14
New
Boroda Orka
Making the rounds.
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Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and soon it would be a year since I arrived in this world. For three months now, Jabiim had been groaning under a new epidemic of an unknown disease that had swept across the entire planet like a hurricane. Well... "groaning" might be overstating it. At the moment, there were practically no complaints.
For the first two weeks, the planet teetered on the edge of hysteria: the Jabiimites remembered all too well how "Brain Rot" had ravaged the population. Fortunately, the army, with the active involvement of the Nimbus and its general, managed to prevent any unrest, and the disease itself did little to encourage activity. After the first outbreaks of panic, the initial statistics helped calm the population. The disease was unpleasant, but so far there had been no deaths, and once the doctors found a way to ease the symptoms considerably, the Jabiimites settled down completely.
The thing was, a healthy lifestyle and proper nutrition all but eliminated most of the symptoms, and even those were more unpleasant than frightening: weakness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Pregnant women, who, along with children, barely noticed the illness at all, even joked, "Jabiim Fever—let the whole world find out what morning sickness feels like."
Riding the wave of those jokes, even Cordelia Stratus, sporting a nobly greenish complexion and dark circles under her eyes during one interview, quipped, "I haven't given birth yet, but thanks to this Sith-damned bug*, I now have a pretty good idea of what to expect—and even more respect for the strength and patience of all mothers."
With each passing week, the doctors gathered more and more information, while Republic warships arrived in orbit to enforce the quarantine. Interestingly enough, the message sent out aboard one of the ore haulers had also included a plea for aid from the Republic... But the quarantine they set up. Doctors? Humanitarian aid? Medicine? Nothing. Alto just spat angrily at that.
He was sick too, by the way. But despite feeling awful and looking decidedly unwell, he made a point of appearing before the people and the troops as often as possible, driving his popularity among ordinary Jabiimites even higher. He even gave a couple of interviews, and some of his lines began circulating through the local network: "No illness can overcome my devotion to our homeland," "If I ever stop working for the good of Jabiim, it means I'm dead," "I don't have time to lie around in bed—there's work to be done."
Meanwhile, the internal broadcasts were running an active public-information campaign. The scientists still hadn't found the pathogen, but they had established that drug addicts suffered the worst. Next came people who regularly drank hard liquor to excess. And within a couple of weeks, Jabiim entered a golden age of Healthy Living, with some doctors even beginning to cautiously praise the disease.
According to them, the epidemic might actually prove beneficial for the planet. Studies showed that the body was actively purging itself of harmful substances. Yes, the doctors said, the strain on the internal organs increased, but a healthy diet, vitamins, and moderate exercise would help the Jabiimites cope with it. Especially since the disease affected everyone differently and placed no extreme strain on the body. The only people truly at risk were those who had either been using hard drugs for a long time or continued to live in ways that amounted to self-destruction.
"How's a man supposed to have a proper drink anymore?" complained one of the farmers who grew food crops suited to the local climate, sitting with his friends over a mug of herbal tea. "You knock back a couple of glasses, and the next morning the hangover feels like you've been drinking nonstop for a month."
His friends responded only with nods and murmurs of agreement, while their better halves chattered merrily in the next room. Snatches of conversation drifted through: "Finally," "I'm actually glad," and "Let them stay sick a little longer."
At the first signs of the epidemic, the aristocracy had shut themselves away in their mansions and country villas, and at first they didn't get sick. Healthy, plump, rosy-cheeked politicians appearing on the internal broadcasts with calls to "stand together, grit our teeth, endure, and overcome" inspired nothing but simmering resentment among ordinary Jabiimites. And once word leaked onto the network that the epidemic had reached them too, schadenfreude began blooming among the people in all its glory.
The first death from the disease was met with alarm. One of the rich bastards had literally "shit himself to death," practically forcing his own guts out in the process. The fear faded after the fifth death, though: everyone who died belonged to the wealthy clique, and the kitchen-table experts began arriving at a simple conclusion—the aristocracy were probably a bunch of junkies who had spent quarantine getting blasted on spice, convinced that Jabiim Fever would never reach them.
Those rumors were confirmed once the death toll passed two dozen and information about the deaths was released without sugarcoating anything, despite attempts to hush up certain details. The doctors' conclusion was unequivocal: the bodies of the deceased bore every sign of long-term drug abuse. After that, ordinary people began openly rejoicing at the deaths of others, and several reports showing off the dead aristocrats' lavish mansions only fanned the flames of schadenfreude. Some people even started calling the disease the People's Fever.
What finally broke the dam of public patience was the information that surfaced about the schemes the dead had been running: countless bribes, falsified workplace-accident statistics at their enterprises, safety violations, compensation withheld from injured workers. Some families had even made a practice of buying—or, more often, simply abducting—girls they took a liking to from poor families, then paying fat bribes to the police department to keep it all covered up. The cherry on top of that shit cake was the revelation that information on remote settlements and their security systems had been routinely fed to pirates and slavers.
It would have been funny if it weren't so grim, but ninety percent of what Nimbus Security uncovered was true. Not fabricated evidence, but real crimes. The "aristocracy" had quite literally been selling their own fellow citizens and profiting from their deaths. One recording of a conversation between an already-dead nouveau riche and his still-living heir even included the line, "It's no great loss. They can always breed more." Alto, to whom Cordelia sent the information first as it came in, flew into such a rage that one of his offices had to be completely refurnished afterward. Having lost his parents in just such a raid when he was a child, he finally stopped seeing what was happening as anything negative. In his eyes, the rich had gone from corrupt officials to traitors, and the epidemic had become an act of healing—his homeland purging itself of parasites.
What came to light enraged the population so badly that the Stratuses had to work hard to calm people down. Appearing on the broadcasts, Alto promised the Jabiimites that as soon as the Jabiim Fever crisis was over, he would personally oversee the investigations, while for the time being he would deploy the Nimbus to lock the rich down in their estates. Just in case. Fortunately, the quarantine squadron was doing a fine job of scaring off pirates, so some patrol routes could be left temporarily uncovered. During a private conversation in the library, the general joked darkly that he had never imagined he would find himself keeping good Jabiimites from tearing those bloodsuckers apart.
Meanwhile, the "epidemic" continued successfully mowing down his political opponents, allowing Nimbus Security to stick its nose ever deeper into their closets, packed with the skeletons of their fellow citizens.
It got to the point where every death from the disease was greeted by the population with all but open cheers of joy and approval, while reading the obituaries became a favorite morning pastime. Several attempts by prominent politicians to flee the planet were also thwarted, and in one case, when the escape could not be stopped, the quarantine fleet destroyed the fat cat's yacht.
At the moment, however, the epidemic was winding down. Only a couple dozen names remained on the target list, while Alto and his team were already hard at work drafting a plan to nationalize the enterprises, ships, and mines belonging to the planet's richest politicians—who also happened to be its biggest bastards.
"I never thought it could go this smoothly," Alto drawled thoughtfully, sipping one of Maria's brews.
"Smoothly?! Alto, are you... out of your mind?" Cordelia choked out indignantly. "My people and I have been running ourselves ragged to keep everything from going... off the rails!!! I haven't had a decent night's sleep in two months!!!"
"You really shouldn't do that," I remarked calmly. Then, imitating Emthree, I elaborated: "Organics require seven to nine hours of sleep for normal functioning."
If looks could set people on fire, I'd probably have been rolling around on the floor right then, trying to put myself out.
"You know, Siith... I can't decide what I want more," Cordelia hissed, boring into me with a heavy glare. "To hug you to death for helping us lance this festering boil on the body of our world—or just strangle you because of that smug little grin of yours. Thanks to you, I've been suffering through this fucking morning sickness for three months now!!!"
"I had absolutely nothing to do with that. You two were the ones who said, 'Let us share all the hardships of the illness with the people of Jabiim.' Noble, of course, but that was your decision. Don't go blaming the mentally healthy one here for your own idealism."
"He called us psychos too," the girl said, looking at her cousin almost plaintively.
"And who's healthy these days?" Stratus said thoughtfully, then looked warmly at his cousin. "Forgive me. You know what I mean. I didn't mean to diminish your contribution—or your people's—in the slightest. It's just... now we can pull the whole thing off with so little bloodshed... And there'll be practically no trouble afterward. Even those who officially did business with those bastards won't object much to the changes. We'll keep selling them ore at the same prices, at least at first, and funnel the kickbacks into the budget. That money alone will be enough to improve living standards, modernize and expand the armed forces, buy a number of warships... And if we manage to pull off an operation to get the money in their accounts transferred into the planetary budget..."
The general narrowed his eyes dreamily and took another sip.
"And how are those 'airspeeders' of yours coming along?" Cordelia asked after a minute of silence, putting particular emphasis on the last word as she glanced at me.
"Twelve are already finished—just enough for a company and a half**. Twenty hours of flight time, six hours to recharge the reservoir at a charging station, a top speed of around two hundred kilometers per hour. Each one can easily carry twelve people in full gear, plus up to two hundred kilograms of additional equipment, and has a maximum flight altitude of about fifty meters. Another couple of machines, and the apprentices will be able to handle all the routine production work themselves. I'll only have to do the final enchanting. Unfortunately, they won't be able to manage that part on their own for another year or two—rote memorization only gets you so far. But overall, the kids are doing great. I haven't even called anyone a stupid bantha in the past month."
"That's quite an achievement," Alto snorted.
"Oh, he works all of them so hard the Hutts would be jealous. It's only his precious Karray he fusses over," Cordelia ratted me out.
"Be jealous in silence. And anyway, have a little one of your own and cuddle her all you want. You've gotten into the habit of stuffing Karray with sweets, and that's bad for her teeth!"
"You're jealous, old-timer!"
"I'm not old! I'm in the prime of my life!!!"
"So no objections to the jealousy part, then?!"
"Madhouse..." Alto closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch our bickering, though the smile he was trying to suppress rather spoiled the effect of his ostentatious disapproval of the chaos we were causing.
To be fair, for some time now I'd been privately thinking of both of them as friends. Nothing brings people together quite like a planet-wide epidemic that was actually an incredibly complex, mana-hungry curse, political assassinations, and a coup d'état. Yeah.
I wasn't even bothered by Cordelia's constant checks anymore. The girl remained true to herself and her paranoia, periodically putting out feelers about my future. The bait varied. Recently, for example, she'd offered me a post in the future government they were now actively putting together: "We'll make you Minister of Education." Yeah, sure, I'm running so fast I'm tripping over myself. That's exactly the kind of shit my life is missing, I swear. Absolute authority over five blockheads and M-3PO is more than enough for me; they already do a splendid job of fraying my nerves.
The most I'm willing to take on is temporarily running a school for training mages someday. And even then, I'll happily dump it onto the first pair of shoulders sturdy enough to carry the load. I'll offer advice. Sometimes.
At first I had my doubts, wondering how the local sorcerous fraternity—the Jedi—would react, but after looking into the matter properly, I came to the conclusion that there shouldn't be any problems. Dozens of different cults flourished across the galaxy, from harmless idiots to outright dark-as-hell associations of necrophiliac perverts. And even the latter were hunted with remarkable laziness. So the "Mages of Jabiim" would most likely provoke nothing more than a visit from a couple of guys in robes carrying glowing sticks—those things look nothing like swords, and I know what a sword looks like; Alto has one, after all—who'd come to ask, "So, what exactly are you doing here? Oh, working for the good of this mudball? Carry on, then. Carry on."
If the Sith hadn't been wiped out, though, then yes, I'd have had to think about it a little more. Those guys were a rough bunch, assuming what I'd read about them wasn't lying.
Coruscant. Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine
At today's Senate session, Palpatine pushed through a decision to send Jabiim a shipment of humanitarian aid, along with a large supply of medicines and medical equipment. He even placed the matter under his personal supervision.
It was easy enough to do. All he had to do was pull up the history of Jabiim's requests to the Senate and lay it before the senators, and it became obvious just how bad things were there. Slaver raids, brutal weather conditions, and the relatively recent "Brain Rot" epidemic that had severely thinned the planet's population all served to highlight just how little attention the Republic paid to small worlds on the periphery. And just how much he, Chancellor Palpatine, cared about the well-being of the people. Unlike his predecessor. In fact, Sheev had spent less time persuading the senators than using his eloquence to make it look as though persuading them had been difficult.
The disease itself wasn't dangerous. According to the data being sent from the planet to the quarantine fleet along with requests for aid, there had been very few deaths. Only a few hundred. And that was with nearly the entire population infected—close to a hundred million sentients. There was also evidence that the new illness, which had been dubbed Jabiim Fever, posed almost no threat to a healthy body. The only ones truly at risk were those who were heavily poisoning themselves with drugs and alcohol.
And that was excellent as well. When the media covered the story, everything could be framed as: "Only thanks to the Republic's actions—and the Chancellor's timely attention to the problem—were mass casualties averted." Combined with the planned reforms and the coming fight against corruption—or, more precisely, against those corrupt officials who were currently getting in his way, and those who needed to start being purged today—aid to a world struck by an unknown disease would be one more brick in the impregnable wall of his reputation as a champion of everything good against everything bad. Democracy, the ideals of the Republic... Blah-blah-blah...
His plan was entering a new phase. His Master was dead, the crisis on Naboo was over... somewhat unexpectedly, but that was no great concern. The Skywalker boy had been taken in for Jedi training. All that remained was to show the kid a little interest and care from time to time. Sheev Palpatine was a kind and grateful man, after all—one who would never forget the child who had done so much to help his homeworld. The boy could barely reach the controls of a starfighter, yet somehow managed to destroy the droid control ship. No one was surprised when the Chancellor promised to keep an eye on him.
Maul, on the other hand, had disappointed Sidious... Went and died so uselessly... Defeated by a boy, a naive girl, and a Padawan... Well, at least he managed to kill Qui-Gon Jinn. The tool had served its purpose, giving the Jedi's bloated self-importance one last good kick on the way out. Loyal... perhaps the Zabrak's only truly outstanding quality had been his loyalty. Unfortunately, his pride and overconfidence outweighed even that virtue. Palpatine had never regarded him as a true Sith Lord, so in a way, he even felt relieved by Maul's defeat.
Still, he'd had to cover his tracks. The Jedi were trying to find the second Sith, but Maul's ship had been almost completely destroyed, there was no recovering any data from it, and in any case it had somehow "gone missing" while being transported to Kuat. His former apprentice's droid had had its memory wiped and now had a new owner. Once that and the remaining loose ends had been dealt with, all that was left was to wish the Jedi good luck hunting for the Sith sitting right under their noses. On Coruscant. Holding the highest office in the Republic.
And he had work to do... He needed to strengthen his position. A whole nest of snakes had already taken note of the Supreme Chancellor's "kind and pliable" nature and were making plans for how they would manipulate him. He would have to play along, gather as much dirt on them as possible, and subtly nudge those snakes toward the decisions he needed. Pick the most promising among them and turn them into his supporters. That Chagrian, Mas Amedda, for instance, looked very promising. And those who didn't make the cut... they would fall in the fight against corruption.
He also needed to weaken the Jedi and prepare the ground for their eventual destruction. And, of course, prepare the Republic's transition to a new order. With him at the head of it, naturally.
Author's note:
*"Sith-damned bug"—in the GFFA, the word "Sith" was sometimes used much like our "devil," so the expression didn't particularly surprise anyone, while Cordelia got a little extra enjoyment out of taking a jab at Siith.
**Nimbus company: 100 people (2 platoons). Platoon: 50 people (4 squads). Squad: 12 people. (Thanks to the excellent videos by Elven Tanker on YouTube.)
And here's a magnificent mug of our protagonist, courtesy of one of the readers of the original Russian story. An enormous, inhuman thank-you to the supremely talented Hook and Aircoat (or Mr.Dog, as the signature says)—this chapter is dedicated to you and your talent!
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
For the first two weeks, the planet teetered on the edge of hysteria: the Jabiimites remembered all too well how "Brain Rot" had ravaged the population. Fortunately, the army, with the active involvement of the Nimbus and its general, managed to prevent any unrest, and the disease itself did little to encourage activity. After the first outbreaks of panic, the initial statistics helped calm the population. The disease was unpleasant, but so far there had been no deaths, and once the doctors found a way to ease the symptoms considerably, the Jabiimites settled down completely.
The thing was, a healthy lifestyle and proper nutrition all but eliminated most of the symptoms, and even those were more unpleasant than frightening: weakness, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Pregnant women, who, along with children, barely noticed the illness at all, even joked, "Jabiim Fever—let the whole world find out what morning sickness feels like."
Riding the wave of those jokes, even Cordelia Stratus, sporting a nobly greenish complexion and dark circles under her eyes during one interview, quipped, "I haven't given birth yet, but thanks to this Sith-damned bug*, I now have a pretty good idea of what to expect—and even more respect for the strength and patience of all mothers."
With each passing week, the doctors gathered more and more information, while Republic warships arrived in orbit to enforce the quarantine. Interestingly enough, the message sent out aboard one of the ore haulers had also included a plea for aid from the Republic... But the quarantine they set up. Doctors? Humanitarian aid? Medicine? Nothing. Alto just spat angrily at that.
He was sick too, by the way. But despite feeling awful and looking decidedly unwell, he made a point of appearing before the people and the troops as often as possible, driving his popularity among ordinary Jabiimites even higher. He even gave a couple of interviews, and some of his lines began circulating through the local network: "No illness can overcome my devotion to our homeland," "If I ever stop working for the good of Jabiim, it means I'm dead," "I don't have time to lie around in bed—there's work to be done."
Meanwhile, the internal broadcasts were running an active public-information campaign. The scientists still hadn't found the pathogen, but they had established that drug addicts suffered the worst. Next came people who regularly drank hard liquor to excess. And within a couple of weeks, Jabiim entered a golden age of Healthy Living, with some doctors even beginning to cautiously praise the disease.
According to them, the epidemic might actually prove beneficial for the planet. Studies showed that the body was actively purging itself of harmful substances. Yes, the doctors said, the strain on the internal organs increased, but a healthy diet, vitamins, and moderate exercise would help the Jabiimites cope with it. Especially since the disease affected everyone differently and placed no extreme strain on the body. The only people truly at risk were those who had either been using hard drugs for a long time or continued to live in ways that amounted to self-destruction.
"How's a man supposed to have a proper drink anymore?" complained one of the farmers who grew food crops suited to the local climate, sitting with his friends over a mug of herbal tea. "You knock back a couple of glasses, and the next morning the hangover feels like you've been drinking nonstop for a month."
His friends responded only with nods and murmurs of agreement, while their better halves chattered merrily in the next room. Snatches of conversation drifted through: "Finally," "I'm actually glad," and "Let them stay sick a little longer."
At the first signs of the epidemic, the aristocracy had shut themselves away in their mansions and country villas, and at first they didn't get sick. Healthy, plump, rosy-cheeked politicians appearing on the internal broadcasts with calls to "stand together, grit our teeth, endure, and overcome" inspired nothing but simmering resentment among ordinary Jabiimites. And once word leaked onto the network that the epidemic had reached them too, schadenfreude began blooming among the people in all its glory.
The first death from the disease was met with alarm. One of the rich bastards had literally "shit himself to death," practically forcing his own guts out in the process. The fear faded after the fifth death, though: everyone who died belonged to the wealthy clique, and the kitchen-table experts began arriving at a simple conclusion—the aristocracy were probably a bunch of junkies who had spent quarantine getting blasted on spice, convinced that Jabiim Fever would never reach them.
Those rumors were confirmed once the death toll passed two dozen and information about the deaths was released without sugarcoating anything, despite attempts to hush up certain details. The doctors' conclusion was unequivocal: the bodies of the deceased bore every sign of long-term drug abuse. After that, ordinary people began openly rejoicing at the deaths of others, and several reports showing off the dead aristocrats' lavish mansions only fanned the flames of schadenfreude. Some people even started calling the disease the People's Fever.
What finally broke the dam of public patience was the information that surfaced about the schemes the dead had been running: countless bribes, falsified workplace-accident statistics at their enterprises, safety violations, compensation withheld from injured workers. Some families had even made a practice of buying—or, more often, simply abducting—girls they took a liking to from poor families, then paying fat bribes to the police department to keep it all covered up. The cherry on top of that shit cake was the revelation that information on remote settlements and their security systems had been routinely fed to pirates and slavers.
It would have been funny if it weren't so grim, but ninety percent of what Nimbus Security uncovered was true. Not fabricated evidence, but real crimes. The "aristocracy" had quite literally been selling their own fellow citizens and profiting from their deaths. One recording of a conversation between an already-dead nouveau riche and his still-living heir even included the line, "It's no great loss. They can always breed more." Alto, to whom Cordelia sent the information first as it came in, flew into such a rage that one of his offices had to be completely refurnished afterward. Having lost his parents in just such a raid when he was a child, he finally stopped seeing what was happening as anything negative. In his eyes, the rich had gone from corrupt officials to traitors, and the epidemic had become an act of healing—his homeland purging itself of parasites.
What came to light enraged the population so badly that the Stratuses had to work hard to calm people down. Appearing on the broadcasts, Alto promised the Jabiimites that as soon as the Jabiim Fever crisis was over, he would personally oversee the investigations, while for the time being he would deploy the Nimbus to lock the rich down in their estates. Just in case. Fortunately, the quarantine squadron was doing a fine job of scaring off pirates, so some patrol routes could be left temporarily uncovered. During a private conversation in the library, the general joked darkly that he had never imagined he would find himself keeping good Jabiimites from tearing those bloodsuckers apart.
Meanwhile, the "epidemic" continued successfully mowing down his political opponents, allowing Nimbus Security to stick its nose ever deeper into their closets, packed with the skeletons of their fellow citizens.
It got to the point where every death from the disease was greeted by the population with all but open cheers of joy and approval, while reading the obituaries became a favorite morning pastime. Several attempts by prominent politicians to flee the planet were also thwarted, and in one case, when the escape could not be stopped, the quarantine fleet destroyed the fat cat's yacht.
At the moment, however, the epidemic was winding down. Only a couple dozen names remained on the target list, while Alto and his team were already hard at work drafting a plan to nationalize the enterprises, ships, and mines belonging to the planet's richest politicians—who also happened to be its biggest bastards.
"I never thought it could go this smoothly," Alto drawled thoughtfully, sipping one of Maria's brews.
"Smoothly?! Alto, are you... out of your mind?" Cordelia choked out indignantly. "My people and I have been running ourselves ragged to keep everything from going... off the rails!!! I haven't had a decent night's sleep in two months!!!"
"You really shouldn't do that," I remarked calmly. Then, imitating Emthree, I elaborated: "Organics require seven to nine hours of sleep for normal functioning."
If looks could set people on fire, I'd probably have been rolling around on the floor right then, trying to put myself out.
"You know, Siith... I can't decide what I want more," Cordelia hissed, boring into me with a heavy glare. "To hug you to death for helping us lance this festering boil on the body of our world—or just strangle you because of that smug little grin of yours. Thanks to you, I've been suffering through this fucking morning sickness for three months now!!!"
"I had absolutely nothing to do with that. You two were the ones who said, 'Let us share all the hardships of the illness with the people of Jabiim.' Noble, of course, but that was your decision. Don't go blaming the mentally healthy one here for your own idealism."
"He called us psychos too," the girl said, looking at her cousin almost plaintively.
"And who's healthy these days?" Stratus said thoughtfully, then looked warmly at his cousin. "Forgive me. You know what I mean. I didn't mean to diminish your contribution—or your people's—in the slightest. It's just... now we can pull the whole thing off with so little bloodshed... And there'll be practically no trouble afterward. Even those who officially did business with those bastards won't object much to the changes. We'll keep selling them ore at the same prices, at least at first, and funnel the kickbacks into the budget. That money alone will be enough to improve living standards, modernize and expand the armed forces, buy a number of warships... And if we manage to pull off an operation to get the money in their accounts transferred into the planetary budget..."
The general narrowed his eyes dreamily and took another sip.
"And how are those 'airspeeders' of yours coming along?" Cordelia asked after a minute of silence, putting particular emphasis on the last word as she glanced at me.
"Twelve are already finished—just enough for a company and a half**. Twenty hours of flight time, six hours to recharge the reservoir at a charging station, a top speed of around two hundred kilometers per hour. Each one can easily carry twelve people in full gear, plus up to two hundred kilograms of additional equipment, and has a maximum flight altitude of about fifty meters. Another couple of machines, and the apprentices will be able to handle all the routine production work themselves. I'll only have to do the final enchanting. Unfortunately, they won't be able to manage that part on their own for another year or two—rote memorization only gets you so far. But overall, the kids are doing great. I haven't even called anyone a stupid bantha in the past month."
"That's quite an achievement," Alto snorted.
"Oh, he works all of them so hard the Hutts would be jealous. It's only his precious Karray he fusses over," Cordelia ratted me out.
"Be jealous in silence. And anyway, have a little one of your own and cuddle her all you want. You've gotten into the habit of stuffing Karray with sweets, and that's bad for her teeth!"
"You're jealous, old-timer!"
"I'm not old! I'm in the prime of my life!!!"
"So no objections to the jealousy part, then?!"
"Madhouse..." Alto closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch our bickering, though the smile he was trying to suppress rather spoiled the effect of his ostentatious disapproval of the chaos we were causing.
To be fair, for some time now I'd been privately thinking of both of them as friends. Nothing brings people together quite like a planet-wide epidemic that was actually an incredibly complex, mana-hungry curse, political assassinations, and a coup d'état. Yeah.
I wasn't even bothered by Cordelia's constant checks anymore. The girl remained true to herself and her paranoia, periodically putting out feelers about my future. The bait varied. Recently, for example, she'd offered me a post in the future government they were now actively putting together: "We'll make you Minister of Education." Yeah, sure, I'm running so fast I'm tripping over myself. That's exactly the kind of shit my life is missing, I swear. Absolute authority over five blockheads and M-3PO is more than enough for me; they already do a splendid job of fraying my nerves.
The most I'm willing to take on is temporarily running a school for training mages someday. And even then, I'll happily dump it onto the first pair of shoulders sturdy enough to carry the load. I'll offer advice. Sometimes.
At first I had my doubts, wondering how the local sorcerous fraternity—the Jedi—would react, but after looking into the matter properly, I came to the conclusion that there shouldn't be any problems. Dozens of different cults flourished across the galaxy, from harmless idiots to outright dark-as-hell associations of necrophiliac perverts. And even the latter were hunted with remarkable laziness. So the "Mages of Jabiim" would most likely provoke nothing more than a visit from a couple of guys in robes carrying glowing sticks—those things look nothing like swords, and I know what a sword looks like; Alto has one, after all—who'd come to ask, "So, what exactly are you doing here? Oh, working for the good of this mudball? Carry on, then. Carry on."
If the Sith hadn't been wiped out, though, then yes, I'd have had to think about it a little more. Those guys were a rough bunch, assuming what I'd read about them wasn't lying.
Coruscant. Supreme Chancellor Sheev Palpatine
At today's Senate session, Palpatine pushed through a decision to send Jabiim a shipment of humanitarian aid, along with a large supply of medicines and medical equipment. He even placed the matter under his personal supervision.
It was easy enough to do. All he had to do was pull up the history of Jabiim's requests to the Senate and lay it before the senators, and it became obvious just how bad things were there. Slaver raids, brutal weather conditions, and the relatively recent "Brain Rot" epidemic that had severely thinned the planet's population all served to highlight just how little attention the Republic paid to small worlds on the periphery. And just how much he, Chancellor Palpatine, cared about the well-being of the people. Unlike his predecessor. In fact, Sheev had spent less time persuading the senators than using his eloquence to make it look as though persuading them had been difficult.
The disease itself wasn't dangerous. According to the data being sent from the planet to the quarantine fleet along with requests for aid, there had been very few deaths. Only a few hundred. And that was with nearly the entire population infected—close to a hundred million sentients. There was also evidence that the new illness, which had been dubbed Jabiim Fever, posed almost no threat to a healthy body. The only ones truly at risk were those who were heavily poisoning themselves with drugs and alcohol.
And that was excellent as well. When the media covered the story, everything could be framed as: "Only thanks to the Republic's actions—and the Chancellor's timely attention to the problem—were mass casualties averted." Combined with the planned reforms and the coming fight against corruption—or, more precisely, against those corrupt officials who were currently getting in his way, and those who needed to start being purged today—aid to a world struck by an unknown disease would be one more brick in the impregnable wall of his reputation as a champion of everything good against everything bad. Democracy, the ideals of the Republic... Blah-blah-blah...
His plan was entering a new phase. His Master was dead, the crisis on Naboo was over... somewhat unexpectedly, but that was no great concern. The Skywalker boy had been taken in for Jedi training. All that remained was to show the kid a little interest and care from time to time. Sheev Palpatine was a kind and grateful man, after all—one who would never forget the child who had done so much to help his homeworld. The boy could barely reach the controls of a starfighter, yet somehow managed to destroy the droid control ship. No one was surprised when the Chancellor promised to keep an eye on him.
Maul, on the other hand, had disappointed Sidious... Went and died so uselessly... Defeated by a boy, a naive girl, and a Padawan... Well, at least he managed to kill Qui-Gon Jinn. The tool had served its purpose, giving the Jedi's bloated self-importance one last good kick on the way out. Loyal... perhaps the Zabrak's only truly outstanding quality had been his loyalty. Unfortunately, his pride and overconfidence outweighed even that virtue. Palpatine had never regarded him as a true Sith Lord, so in a way, he even felt relieved by Maul's defeat.
Still, he'd had to cover his tracks. The Jedi were trying to find the second Sith, but Maul's ship had been almost completely destroyed, there was no recovering any data from it, and in any case it had somehow "gone missing" while being transported to Kuat. His former apprentice's droid had had its memory wiped and now had a new owner. Once that and the remaining loose ends had been dealt with, all that was left was to wish the Jedi good luck hunting for the Sith sitting right under their noses. On Coruscant. Holding the highest office in the Republic.
And he had work to do... He needed to strengthen his position. A whole nest of snakes had already taken note of the Supreme Chancellor's "kind and pliable" nature and were making plans for how they would manipulate him. He would have to play along, gather as much dirt on them as possible, and subtly nudge those snakes toward the decisions he needed. Pick the most promising among them and turn them into his supporters. That Chagrian, Mas Amedda, for instance, looked very promising. And those who didn't make the cut... they would fall in the fight against corruption.
He also needed to weaken the Jedi and prepare the ground for their eventual destruction. And, of course, prepare the Republic's transition to a new order. With him at the head of it, naturally.
Author's note:
*"Sith-damned bug"—in the GFFA, the word "Sith" was sometimes used much like our "devil," so the expression didn't particularly surprise anyone, while Cordelia got a little extra enjoyment out of taking a jab at Siith.
**Nimbus company: 100 people (2 platoons). Platoon: 50 people (4 squads). Squad: 12 people. (Thanks to the excellent videos by Elven Tanker on YouTube.)
And here's a magnificent mug of our protagonist, courtesy of one of the readers of the original Russian story. An enormous, inhuman thank-you to the supremely talented Hook and Aircoat (or Mr.Dog, as the signature says)—this chapter is dedicated to you and your talent!
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
readsalot
Experienced.
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Damn he look badass, the eyes are super cool,
Fellow Human
Soup Master
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I thought we had an extra decade, prep time is important.
Vyraco
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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This. Is. Awesome!
YOU. Are Awesome!
Just read this story in one sitting, and all I wish is for you to write faster.
Maybe think about putting it in NSFW and other platforms (SB, SV,...) for more exposure, it deserves to be noticed and read by everyone
YOU. Are Awesome!
Just read this story in one sitting, and all I wish is for you to write faster.
Maybe think about putting it in NSFW and other platforms (SB, SV,...) for more exposure, it deserves to be noticed and read by everyone
Chapter 15
New
Boroda Orka
Making the rounds.
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"Good mowning, Daddy!"
"Good morning, Karray. And I'm Mentor!"
"Daddy!"
"Mentor!"
"Daddy!"
"Mentor!!!"
"Da-ddy!!!"
The little red-haired disaster climbed into my lap and hugged me, grinning from ear to ear and showing everyone around that she was missing two upper front teeth and one lower one. Uuu... Forbidden move! Cheating!!! But the little menace didn't give a damn about the rules!
"Master," my droid spoke up from beside me. "You have been trying for a year to teach this child the proper form of address, with no success. With all due respect, Master, your mentoring skills appear insufficient."
"Yes, Emthree, I think you're right." I gently stroked the girl's back. These little arguments had long since become nothing more than a game. The girl was drawn to me. At first, that surprised me quite a bit. Then I simply accepted it: mysterious and winding are the ways of a child's mind. "Let's eat."
"I can do it myself!" Karray cried cheerfully, settling more comfortably on my lap and grabbing a spoon.
I moved my own plate farther out of her reach. We had some delicious milk porridge for the child, and Luritta was just setting it down in front of her. Smiling softly, the girl took my spoon from the little fidget's hand and gave her her own utensil instead—a smaller one.
My apprentices watched the whole thing with almost no interest; they saw scenes like this regularly, a couple of times a week. Only Karina smiled as she watched her sister, occasionally turning a languid, cow-eyed village-girl gaze on me. That look filled me with annoyance and a certain amount of unease. The reason for it was obvious enough. What to do about it was another question entirely.
I have no idea what thought processes were going on inside that cute red head of hers, but the silly little idiot had developed a crush on me. And I'd been one hundred percent sure nothing like that would happen: my affectionate smile could make orcs turn pale, so surely it ought to scare off underage girls. But... here we are. Maybe it was because Karray was so attached to me, maybe it was the teacher effect, or maybe she was just a little pervert with a thing for men who looked like serial killers?
A real predicament, basically. During lectures, this lovestruck fool listened attentively for maybe the first ten minutes; then her gaze would turn hazy, and she'd start looking at me with that idiotic, dreamy expression on her face. It would probably pass with time—first crushes were perfectly normal. But at the moment, an otherwise very bright girl was taking a serious hit to her effectiveness.
Romance, in general, had turned into a real "pandemic" in our household. The boys were courting the other two girls, Sergiy had started dating Luritta, the physical-training instructor was even marrying one of the kids' teachers, and Roger, Alto's adjutant, was making a determined play for Maria... And that was where I was genuinely worried.
If I frankly didn't give a damn about everyone else's love lives, our cook was a different matter... Her peace of mind ranked second only to my own. Though, come to think of it, maybe even first! So one evening, when that dandy was here, I intercepted him for a serious talk.
"Listen closely, Roger." I caught him by the shoulder in one of the corridors. "I've noticed you've started dangling your little bells around our Maria. So here's a warning, lad: if, Goddess forbid, you upset our darling cook, I'll make your life very entertaining, you little shit, and even Alto won't be able to help you. The moment I find out you've hurt her—and I will find out, don't doubt that—you can say goodbye to your equipment. And don't get me wrong, I won't lay a finger on you. It's just that one not-so-fine day, a sausage will fall out of one trouser leg and your balls out of the other. Have I made the prospects sufficiently clear?"
For several seconds, the stunned Roger just stared into my eyes, then started nodding frantically.
"Good. That's a good lad." I clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, which made the general's adjutant go pale and swallow hard. "Off you go, then. And remember: Maria should be the happiest girl on Jabiim whenever you're around her."
Youth, I thought, watching with satisfaction as the lad walked away with a slightly twitchy gait. All that lovey-dovey stuff was secondary, but if the quality of my meals dropped, I might actually start killing people. Romantic troubles were like that: everything slipped from your hands, you thought about your wounded little heart instead of the job... and next thing you knew, the meat on the table was dried out, oversalted, and generally just over-un-delicious. So the lad needed to understand just how important his relationship was to his equipment... in every sense of the word.
My reminiscing about terrorizing the younger generation was interrupted by Cordelia's arrival. Now there was someone romance gave a very wide berth. The girl was so formidable that, for all her beauty, the men around her weren't thinking about her ass—they were thinking about how to get as far away from her difficult personality as quickly as possible.
"Hey, everyone! Luritta, does Maria have anything else to snack on back there? And a mug of caf, please." The girl dropped wearily into one of the empty chairs as our housekeeper left the room. "Crazy night. I only managed to doze off for a couple of hours."
"You really shouldn't do that," I said with a faint smile, while my apprentices murmured their greetings. "Organics require seven to nine hours of sleep for normal functioning."
"Tch, sorcerer, don't you start getting on my nerves too, all right? For Hecate's sake!"
"But Master is absolutely right, ma'am. According to my..."
"Emthree, you shut up too, you bore." The girl was clearly irritated, and at my questioning look she explained why. "There was a break in the clouds last night. A shipment from Coruscant arrived for us. Medicines, medical equipment, humanitarian aid. I was... very surprised. Those corrupt assholes in the Senate finally decided to help us! Only took them a hundred fucking years. Though maybe it's because of the new Chancellor. The accompanying documents say he's taken personal charge of the epidemic situation."
"Is the shipment at least useful?"
"You bet! There's ten times more bacta alone than all the reserves on our entire planet put together! And the equipment is all brand-new, straight from the factories. We can easily modernize a couple of hospitals now." The girl was already practically glowing with genuine happiness, with no trace of her earlier irritation left. She really did love Jabiim and cared about it every bit as much as her cousin did. "And then there's the standard humanitarian stuff. Tents, clothing, military rations, salt, heaters... We'll find a use for all of it. The rations are definitely going into the emergency stockpiles—their shelf life is long, and every batch was produced literally a month ago. We haven't found a single substandard item so far. Maybe the new Chancellor really does have them all by the balls over there. Usually those crooks love palming off defective goods and obsolete junk."
And just like that, abandoning all the important business—she was pretty thoroughly exhausted, after all—she switched her attention to the little girl sitting on my lap.
"How's my little Kavvy? Did you miss Auntie Kovdelia?"
"I'm not Kavvy!" the girl declared belligerently, waving her spoon and nearly poking me in the eye. "I'm Kavvay! Did you bwing me candy?"
"Right," I cut into the conversation, putting some sternness into my voice, because Cordelia was already reaching into her blouse with an indulgent smile. "No sweets while there's still porridge on your plate! Eat up!"
"Daddy's a tywant," the little girl drawled sadly, scooping up another spoonful of porridge with a doomed expression.
"I'm not a tyrant, I'm his henchman," I laughed, and Cordelia snorted right after me. Well, what? A general who seizes power is a tyrant any way you look at it. And since I'm part of his gang, that makes me a bona fide henchman.
"Listen, sorcerer," the head of Nimbus Security said once we'd finished eating and the children had already left the dining room. "You told us how old you are, right? So why are you so... spry? Your appearance, fine—magic and all that—but you don't act like an old geezer, you know?"
"Heh." That really was an amusing question. For me. "Because I want to live." Seeing the lack of understanding in her eyes, I decided to elaborate. "Humans are short-lived sentient animals. Relatively short-lived, of course, but our lifespan is limited by nature: a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty years, and that's it. And our brains are wired for exactly that span of time. If you ever spend time with a truly long-lived species, you'll notice that they're incredibly unhurried. Deliberate. Rarely in any hurry to get anywhere. Even the way they talk makes them sound slow: smoothly, with pauses, taking their time to choose the right words. To them, it's perfectly normal to say something like, 'See you soon. I'll be passing through your city again in about fifty years.' They're in no hurry to live the way we are. Hell, the elves back in my world often keep trees as pets!!! Partly because trees can actually live a very long time!"
While Luritta cleared away the dishes, I smiled at her, gestured for another mug of caf, and returned to the conversation.
"I really am old by human standards, but I'm young in spirit, understand? There are still things in life that interest me. Believe me, not everyone is that lucky. But if the drive to keep living ever runs out... Imagine that every goal has been achieved, every dream fulfilled. What's left to live for? That's it. The end. There's simply no point in extending your life again: you're tired, you're sick of everything. For a while you still flounder around, trying to find a new purpose, taking up whatever happens to come your way. Sometimes you even get genuinely interested in something for a while. But with every iteration, that interest becomes more and more hollow, until one day you simply realize it's time to stop, because the 'spark has gone out' and the 'grain of sand is gone.'"
I smiled bitterly, remembering dozens of people I'd known who had stopped living. Some to a knife or a spell, and some exactly the way I had just described.
"That's why it's so important for us to stay... passionate about things! That's why I'm not dropping everything right now to bury myself in research, but helping solve Jabiim's problems instead. The longer I can't devote myself fully to what I love, the more I'll... miss it, understand? The real problem with immortality isn't overcoming the inevitable death from old age, as those who have only just begun living tend to think—it's overcoming boredom. The only ones who truly live for a very long time are those who are genuinely consumed by something. Researchers, scientists, inventors, politicians, warriors, killers, madmen and maniacs—all those so deeply immersed in what they love that they're simply too busy to bother dying. Whether it's power, magic, war, or science doesn't matter. There's too much to do to get distracted by something as stupid as death."
"I think I understand," the girl said thoughtfully, giving me a look that was rather difficult to read. In return, I gave her a mocking smile.
"Sorry, Cordelia, but I seriously doubt that."
"No, I really did understand. I didn't feel it, of course, but I understood what you meant."
The girl headed toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms—she had probably decided to get some sleep at our place—while I remained slightly puzzled. She had been oddly serious when she left my company. Maybe she really had understood?
The "epidemic" on Jabiim ended a month later, and two weeks after that, the Stratuses' plan was put into action. People who shared Alto and Cordelia's values were installed in key positions. True Jabiimites, as the general called them. The investigative machine quickly spun into motion. The reputations of families that only recently had been second only to God on the planet were rapidly sinking to the bottom of the mire.
As Alto put it, both in public and in private, "They were lucky to die before all this came to light." Of course, there were those who suspected something was off. Anyone with enough standing in society was simply given access to the investigation materials—the findings were going to be made public anyway. In ninety percent of cases, that worked better than any blackmail or coercion. Especially when the doubters were shown some of the more memorable "sights."
For example, private prisons for sex slaves, home videos featuring them, or the swamp burial ground where some kidnapping victims had found their final resting place. And the footage of specialists recovering the girls' remains left few people unmoved. As for the financial crimes, there was no point even talking about them—the sheer amount of that filth that surfaced was unbelievable. None of this, of course, erased the questions surrounding such a conveniently timed epidemic, but it did dull the urge to dig too hard for answers.
In three months, elections were to be held for the planet's leader—the new head of Jabiim's government. The Stratuses weren't even considering playing dirty: it was already obvious who would win. Especially after the general laid the aristocracy's filth out for everyone to see. Everyone who had survived from the rich men's faction—even those who were spotless before the law—had become politically dead. The Jabiimites simply would not forgive them for having any friendly ties to thieves, murderers, rapists, and slavers.
Meanwhile, the provisional government was running itself ragged, picking up the abandoned reins of power, restoring the chain of command, and studying every possible course of action. Things worked out nicely with the rich men's accounts, by the way. Necromancy works wonders, yes. The Shadow of Life provided all the information we needed; fortunately, I had pieces of the deceased on hand, so there were no problems with getting things done quickly. Which meant Jabiim's rather lean budget would soon be receiving some very welcome infusions of very, very large sums.
Meanwhile, I was choosing buildings or plots of land for the future libraries. They wouldn't be built right away, of course. I'd told Alto myself there was no need to bleed the budget dry. Whenever he could manage it was fine—I wasn't in any hurry, and Hecate perceived time differently anyway. A year or a hundred years made little difference to her. But I was picking the best locations I could. Places with enough room for a park around them. My idea was to cover the library building and a small area around it with a rainproof dome, while artifacts inside would provide sunlight. Why the hell not? We'd disguise them as a weak force field and lamps.
We could plant trees from other planets, beautiful flowers—species that needed lots of sunlight and simply didn't grow here. But reading real paper books while sitting on a bench beneath a tree... now that would be magnificent! We'd put up stalls selling caf and ice cream! Though there'd be no need to put them up ourselves. We'd just set aside a few small spots suitable for vendors, and they'd come on their own. People would be drawn in. Even Cordelia approved of the idea—not just a library, but a genuine place for cultural recreation. Jabiim didn't have many places like that.
When I told her about the idea while we were sitting in the house library, she listened very carefully. She even set aside one of the adventure books from my world that she'd been reading during her rare breaks. And the next day, she pressed a chip with five thousand credits into my hand. I was surprised, and she just muttered, "My contribution to your project. Consider it a donation."
"Cordelia, there's no need for this. Hecate doesn't requi—"
"Just take my money, sorcerer." The girl shot me an angry look, shoved the chip into my hand, and strode decisively toward the door. Right at the threshold, she stopped, stood there for a couple of seconds, then clicked her tongue in irritation and turned back toward me.
"I just like your idea! I want to be part of it, understand? People call our world a mudball, but if they start calling it 'the mudball where people love books,' I'll like that a whole lot better."
The slam of the door put an end to our conversation and left me listening to her retreating footsteps. I have no idea how she managed it, but somehow even her footsteps sounded irritated. I looked down at the chip. A fairly large sum by galactic standards, and certainly by the standards of this world. I knew the girl didn't make a habit of using her position and connections for personal gain, so this was a rather... substantial contribution.
Coruscant. Jedi Temple.
"Master, you've seemed rather thoughtful these past few days. More than usual."
"Something has happened. Significant changes in the Force, I feel. Even through the shadow of the dark side. But no details do I have. Troubling, this is."
"Sith?"
"Perhaps. Know, I do not. Darkness I do not feel, but neither light. That the future has changed, I know. Another path, the hearts of many have chosen, and their first steps upon it they have taken. A road, yes. Like a bridge over an abyss, the paths of many it changes. Finished only recently, it was—I felt the final stone laid. Understand me, do you, Master Windu, hmm?"
"Vaguely," the man nodded gravely.
"Lucky you. Understood nothing myself, I did. Depressing, that is."
The dark-skinned Jedi glanced sideways at the small but mighty Jedi walking beside him. A faint, slightly mocking smile played across the Grand Master's face. And people call Drallig a troll, Mace thought. They just haven't spent enough time talking to Yoda.
Author's note:
We now have a composite sketch of the underwear thief, undead-devourer, ladies' favorite, and all-around killer hamster—Quartermaster! Let's thank Mr.Dog for the generosity with which he shares his talent with us!
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
"Good morning, Karray. And I'm Mentor!"
"Daddy!"
"Mentor!"
"Daddy!"
"Mentor!!!"
"Da-ddy!!!"
The little red-haired disaster climbed into my lap and hugged me, grinning from ear to ear and showing everyone around that she was missing two upper front teeth and one lower one. Uuu... Forbidden move! Cheating!!! But the little menace didn't give a damn about the rules!
"Master," my droid spoke up from beside me. "You have been trying for a year to teach this child the proper form of address, with no success. With all due respect, Master, your mentoring skills appear insufficient."
"Yes, Emthree, I think you're right." I gently stroked the girl's back. These little arguments had long since become nothing more than a game. The girl was drawn to me. At first, that surprised me quite a bit. Then I simply accepted it: mysterious and winding are the ways of a child's mind. "Let's eat."
"I can do it myself!" Karray cried cheerfully, settling more comfortably on my lap and grabbing a spoon.
I moved my own plate farther out of her reach. We had some delicious milk porridge for the child, and Luritta was just setting it down in front of her. Smiling softly, the girl took my spoon from the little fidget's hand and gave her her own utensil instead—a smaller one.
My apprentices watched the whole thing with almost no interest; they saw scenes like this regularly, a couple of times a week. Only Karina smiled as she watched her sister, occasionally turning a languid, cow-eyed village-girl gaze on me. That look filled me with annoyance and a certain amount of unease. The reason for it was obvious enough. What to do about it was another question entirely.
I have no idea what thought processes were going on inside that cute red head of hers, but the silly little idiot had developed a crush on me. And I'd been one hundred percent sure nothing like that would happen: my affectionate smile could make orcs turn pale, so surely it ought to scare off underage girls. But... here we are. Maybe it was because Karray was so attached to me, maybe it was the teacher effect, or maybe she was just a little pervert with a thing for men who looked like serial killers?
A real predicament, basically. During lectures, this lovestruck fool listened attentively for maybe the first ten minutes; then her gaze would turn hazy, and she'd start looking at me with that idiotic, dreamy expression on her face. It would probably pass with time—first crushes were perfectly normal. But at the moment, an otherwise very bright girl was taking a serious hit to her effectiveness.
Romance, in general, had turned into a real "pandemic" in our household. The boys were courting the other two girls, Sergiy had started dating Luritta, the physical-training instructor was even marrying one of the kids' teachers, and Roger, Alto's adjutant, was making a determined play for Maria... And that was where I was genuinely worried.
If I frankly didn't give a damn about everyone else's love lives, our cook was a different matter... Her peace of mind ranked second only to my own. Though, come to think of it, maybe even first! So one evening, when that dandy was here, I intercepted him for a serious talk.
"Listen closely, Roger." I caught him by the shoulder in one of the corridors. "I've noticed you've started dangling your little bells around our Maria. So here's a warning, lad: if, Goddess forbid, you upset our darling cook, I'll make your life very entertaining, you little shit, and even Alto won't be able to help you. The moment I find out you've hurt her—and I will find out, don't doubt that—you can say goodbye to your equipment. And don't get me wrong, I won't lay a finger on you. It's just that one not-so-fine day, a sausage will fall out of one trouser leg and your balls out of the other. Have I made the prospects sufficiently clear?"
For several seconds, the stunned Roger just stared into my eyes, then started nodding frantically.
"Good. That's a good lad." I clapped him on the shoulder and smiled, which made the general's adjutant go pale and swallow hard. "Off you go, then. And remember: Maria should be the happiest girl on Jabiim whenever you're around her."
Youth, I thought, watching with satisfaction as the lad walked away with a slightly twitchy gait. All that lovey-dovey stuff was secondary, but if the quality of my meals dropped, I might actually start killing people. Romantic troubles were like that: everything slipped from your hands, you thought about your wounded little heart instead of the job... and next thing you knew, the meat on the table was dried out, oversalted, and generally just over-un-delicious. So the lad needed to understand just how important his relationship was to his equipment... in every sense of the word.
My reminiscing about terrorizing the younger generation was interrupted by Cordelia's arrival. Now there was someone romance gave a very wide berth. The girl was so formidable that, for all her beauty, the men around her weren't thinking about her ass—they were thinking about how to get as far away from her difficult personality as quickly as possible.
"Hey, everyone! Luritta, does Maria have anything else to snack on back there? And a mug of caf, please." The girl dropped wearily into one of the empty chairs as our housekeeper left the room. "Crazy night. I only managed to doze off for a couple of hours."
"You really shouldn't do that," I said with a faint smile, while my apprentices murmured their greetings. "Organics require seven to nine hours of sleep for normal functioning."
"Tch, sorcerer, don't you start getting on my nerves too, all right? For Hecate's sake!"
"But Master is absolutely right, ma'am. According to my..."
"Emthree, you shut up too, you bore." The girl was clearly irritated, and at my questioning look she explained why. "There was a break in the clouds last night. A shipment from Coruscant arrived for us. Medicines, medical equipment, humanitarian aid. I was... very surprised. Those corrupt assholes in the Senate finally decided to help us! Only took them a hundred fucking years. Though maybe it's because of the new Chancellor. The accompanying documents say he's taken personal charge of the epidemic situation."
"Is the shipment at least useful?"
"You bet! There's ten times more bacta alone than all the reserves on our entire planet put together! And the equipment is all brand-new, straight from the factories. We can easily modernize a couple of hospitals now." The girl was already practically glowing with genuine happiness, with no trace of her earlier irritation left. She really did love Jabiim and cared about it every bit as much as her cousin did. "And then there's the standard humanitarian stuff. Tents, clothing, military rations, salt, heaters... We'll find a use for all of it. The rations are definitely going into the emergency stockpiles—their shelf life is long, and every batch was produced literally a month ago. We haven't found a single substandard item so far. Maybe the new Chancellor really does have them all by the balls over there. Usually those crooks love palming off defective goods and obsolete junk."
And just like that, abandoning all the important business—she was pretty thoroughly exhausted, after all—she switched her attention to the little girl sitting on my lap.
"How's my little Kavvy? Did you miss Auntie Kovdelia?"
"I'm not Kavvy!" the girl declared belligerently, waving her spoon and nearly poking me in the eye. "I'm Kavvay! Did you bwing me candy?"
"Right," I cut into the conversation, putting some sternness into my voice, because Cordelia was already reaching into her blouse with an indulgent smile. "No sweets while there's still porridge on your plate! Eat up!"
"Daddy's a tywant," the little girl drawled sadly, scooping up another spoonful of porridge with a doomed expression.
"I'm not a tyrant, I'm his henchman," I laughed, and Cordelia snorted right after me. Well, what? A general who seizes power is a tyrant any way you look at it. And since I'm part of his gang, that makes me a bona fide henchman.
"Listen, sorcerer," the head of Nimbus Security said once we'd finished eating and the children had already left the dining room. "You told us how old you are, right? So why are you so... spry? Your appearance, fine—magic and all that—but you don't act like an old geezer, you know?"
"Heh." That really was an amusing question. For me. "Because I want to live." Seeing the lack of understanding in her eyes, I decided to elaborate. "Humans are short-lived sentient animals. Relatively short-lived, of course, but our lifespan is limited by nature: a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty years, and that's it. And our brains are wired for exactly that span of time. If you ever spend time with a truly long-lived species, you'll notice that they're incredibly unhurried. Deliberate. Rarely in any hurry to get anywhere. Even the way they talk makes them sound slow: smoothly, with pauses, taking their time to choose the right words. To them, it's perfectly normal to say something like, 'See you soon. I'll be passing through your city again in about fifty years.' They're in no hurry to live the way we are. Hell, the elves back in my world often keep trees as pets!!! Partly because trees can actually live a very long time!"
While Luritta cleared away the dishes, I smiled at her, gestured for another mug of caf, and returned to the conversation.
"I really am old by human standards, but I'm young in spirit, understand? There are still things in life that interest me. Believe me, not everyone is that lucky. But if the drive to keep living ever runs out... Imagine that every goal has been achieved, every dream fulfilled. What's left to live for? That's it. The end. There's simply no point in extending your life again: you're tired, you're sick of everything. For a while you still flounder around, trying to find a new purpose, taking up whatever happens to come your way. Sometimes you even get genuinely interested in something for a while. But with every iteration, that interest becomes more and more hollow, until one day you simply realize it's time to stop, because the 'spark has gone out' and the 'grain of sand is gone.'"
I smiled bitterly, remembering dozens of people I'd known who had stopped living. Some to a knife or a spell, and some exactly the way I had just described.
"That's why it's so important for us to stay... passionate about things! That's why I'm not dropping everything right now to bury myself in research, but helping solve Jabiim's problems instead. The longer I can't devote myself fully to what I love, the more I'll... miss it, understand? The real problem with immortality isn't overcoming the inevitable death from old age, as those who have only just begun living tend to think—it's overcoming boredom. The only ones who truly live for a very long time are those who are genuinely consumed by something. Researchers, scientists, inventors, politicians, warriors, killers, madmen and maniacs—all those so deeply immersed in what they love that they're simply too busy to bother dying. Whether it's power, magic, war, or science doesn't matter. There's too much to do to get distracted by something as stupid as death."
"I think I understand," the girl said thoughtfully, giving me a look that was rather difficult to read. In return, I gave her a mocking smile.
"Sorry, Cordelia, but I seriously doubt that."
"No, I really did understand. I didn't feel it, of course, but I understood what you meant."
The girl headed toward the stairs leading to the bedrooms—she had probably decided to get some sleep at our place—while I remained slightly puzzled. She had been oddly serious when she left my company. Maybe she really had understood?
The "epidemic" on Jabiim ended a month later, and two weeks after that, the Stratuses' plan was put into action. People who shared Alto and Cordelia's values were installed in key positions. True Jabiimites, as the general called them. The investigative machine quickly spun into motion. The reputations of families that only recently had been second only to God on the planet were rapidly sinking to the bottom of the mire.
As Alto put it, both in public and in private, "They were lucky to die before all this came to light." Of course, there were those who suspected something was off. Anyone with enough standing in society was simply given access to the investigation materials—the findings were going to be made public anyway. In ninety percent of cases, that worked better than any blackmail or coercion. Especially when the doubters were shown some of the more memorable "sights."
For example, private prisons for sex slaves, home videos featuring them, or the swamp burial ground where some kidnapping victims had found their final resting place. And the footage of specialists recovering the girls' remains left few people unmoved. As for the financial crimes, there was no point even talking about them—the sheer amount of that filth that surfaced was unbelievable. None of this, of course, erased the questions surrounding such a conveniently timed epidemic, but it did dull the urge to dig too hard for answers.
In three months, elections were to be held for the planet's leader—the new head of Jabiim's government. The Stratuses weren't even considering playing dirty: it was already obvious who would win. Especially after the general laid the aristocracy's filth out for everyone to see. Everyone who had survived from the rich men's faction—even those who were spotless before the law—had become politically dead. The Jabiimites simply would not forgive them for having any friendly ties to thieves, murderers, rapists, and slavers.
Meanwhile, the provisional government was running itself ragged, picking up the abandoned reins of power, restoring the chain of command, and studying every possible course of action. Things worked out nicely with the rich men's accounts, by the way. Necromancy works wonders, yes. The Shadow of Life provided all the information we needed; fortunately, I had pieces of the deceased on hand, so there were no problems with getting things done quickly. Which meant Jabiim's rather lean budget would soon be receiving some very welcome infusions of very, very large sums.
Meanwhile, I was choosing buildings or plots of land for the future libraries. They wouldn't be built right away, of course. I'd told Alto myself there was no need to bleed the budget dry. Whenever he could manage it was fine—I wasn't in any hurry, and Hecate perceived time differently anyway. A year or a hundred years made little difference to her. But I was picking the best locations I could. Places with enough room for a park around them. My idea was to cover the library building and a small area around it with a rainproof dome, while artifacts inside would provide sunlight. Why the hell not? We'd disguise them as a weak force field and lamps.
We could plant trees from other planets, beautiful flowers—species that needed lots of sunlight and simply didn't grow here. But reading real paper books while sitting on a bench beneath a tree... now that would be magnificent! We'd put up stalls selling caf and ice cream! Though there'd be no need to put them up ourselves. We'd just set aside a few small spots suitable for vendors, and they'd come on their own. People would be drawn in. Even Cordelia approved of the idea—not just a library, but a genuine place for cultural recreation. Jabiim didn't have many places like that.
When I told her about the idea while we were sitting in the house library, she listened very carefully. She even set aside one of the adventure books from my world that she'd been reading during her rare breaks. And the next day, she pressed a chip with five thousand credits into my hand. I was surprised, and she just muttered, "My contribution to your project. Consider it a donation."
"Cordelia, there's no need for this. Hecate doesn't requi—"
"Just take my money, sorcerer." The girl shot me an angry look, shoved the chip into my hand, and strode decisively toward the door. Right at the threshold, she stopped, stood there for a couple of seconds, then clicked her tongue in irritation and turned back toward me.
"I just like your idea! I want to be part of it, understand? People call our world a mudball, but if they start calling it 'the mudball where people love books,' I'll like that a whole lot better."
The slam of the door put an end to our conversation and left me listening to her retreating footsteps. I have no idea how she managed it, but somehow even her footsteps sounded irritated. I looked down at the chip. A fairly large sum by galactic standards, and certainly by the standards of this world. I knew the girl didn't make a habit of using her position and connections for personal gain, so this was a rather... substantial contribution.
Coruscant. Jedi Temple.
"Master, you've seemed rather thoughtful these past few days. More than usual."
"Something has happened. Significant changes in the Force, I feel. Even through the shadow of the dark side. But no details do I have. Troubling, this is."
"Sith?"
"Perhaps. Know, I do not. Darkness I do not feel, but neither light. That the future has changed, I know. Another path, the hearts of many have chosen, and their first steps upon it they have taken. A road, yes. Like a bridge over an abyss, the paths of many it changes. Finished only recently, it was—I felt the final stone laid. Understand me, do you, Master Windu, hmm?"
"Vaguely," the man nodded gravely.
"Lucky you. Understood nothing myself, I did. Depressing, that is."
The dark-skinned Jedi glanced sideways at the small but mighty Jedi walking beside him. A faint, slightly mocking smile played across the Grand Master's face. And people call Drallig a troll, Mace thought. They just haven't spent enough time talking to Yoda.
Author's note:
We now have a composite sketch of the underwear thief, undead-devourer, ladies' favorite, and all-around killer hamster—Quartermaster! Let's thank Mr.Dog for the generosity with which he shares his talent with us!
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
Vyraco
I trust you know where the happy button is?
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I think artists could be included here, as long as there is inspiration, there is always the next project.
Heavenly Mark
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Nice new star wars fic
Chapter 16
New
Boroda Orka
Making the rounds.
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"Are you sure, Siith?" It was strange to see uncertainty in Cordelia's eyes. Even her voice sounded somehow hesitant and lost.
"It'll be fine! We fly out, we fly back. A two- or three-month adventure, tops. Don't worry—I'll have Emthree with me, the mercenaries, and... uh... what was the pilot's name again?"
"Ras. His name is Ras," the girl sighed, rolling her eyes. Then she cast a doubtful glance at my personal Lambda-class shuttle, the one I was planning to take on my little trip. "Maybe you should stay after all? What do you need those Twi'leks for?"
"Well, we don't have many of them. Only six on the whole planet, and those are captured bandits. Not enough data, like I already told you."
"Why do I get the feeling you just wanted an adventure for your old, wrinkled ass?"
"My ass is perfectly fine! Smooth and soft as a baby's!" Damn perceptive Cordelia. I really did want to travel. No, seriously! There were a fuckton of worlds out there, and I'd already spent three years getting soaked in the rain.
A lot had been accomplished in that time. Every city now had its own weather-control artifact. There were only two spaceports, so the other three cities were equipped purely for defense: if pirate ships appeared in the opening in the clouds, it would simply be closed.
We kept the quarantine in place for another two years, "because the pathogen responsible for Jabiim Fever had still not been identified." At the spaceports, all interaction with outsiders was handled exclusively through droids. Facility maintenance took place only after every transport carrying offworlders had departed, so the workers could go about their business in peace.
The Nimbus was now fully equipped with "Jabiim-made military transport airspeeders," which had been "designed specifically for the harsh weather conditions of their homeworld." What was more, two of my apprentices, who were already married—one of the military-minded boys and the mercenary-minded blonde—had started a company producing "civilian models." They could also repair or enchant new Nimbus transports whenever necessary. Taria, the blonde, had very quickly shifted the lad's priorities from "I want to fight for Jabiim" to working for the good of the population. Work that paid well and didn't require risking his life. Clever girl. The two of them ended their formal training there, having decided to carve out a niche for themselves.
I don't judge them in the slightest—to each their own. Besides, the young couple hadn't cut ties with us; they often came by for advice and made regular use of my library for mages. So they were still improving their skills anyway. Specialized spellcasters were a perfectly normal thing as far as I was concerned. As a result, two- and five-seat airspeeders had already appeared. They were quite affordable for a Jabiimite with an above-average income. Their speed and maximum altitude were significantly lower, but their endurance had increased severalfold, and the reservoirs—now freely available for purchase—only needed to be swapped out about once a week.
The military-minded couple, on the other hand, were now with the Nimbus, heavily involved in producing amulets and charms. And they truly basked in the respect of their comrades. At first, the two of them felt self-conscious about not charging into battle with blasters at the ready, but after a few months they changed their minds. The special-forces troops turned out to be grateful men and women, and my apprentices weren't idiots. So in time, they came to terms with the fact that they weren't winning battles on the front lines—they were saving lives through their hard work. Soldiers who had narrowly escaped death thanks to their amulets and charms made sure of that, never stinting on words of gratitude.
Karina and Karray were now my personal apprentices. The former had taken the new group of five prospective mages under her wing while I was away. She had stopped losing her head and staring at me with the eyes of a lovestruck cow. Not completely, but still. I did catch her giving me long, intent looks and shooting jealous glances at Cordelia, Maria, and even Luritta, but at least she no longer lost all reason. Quite the opposite—Karina had proven so good at teaching that I'd begun training her as a generalist.
As for the little "Kavvy," she'd beaten me. I no longer resisted being called Daddy. I didn't call her my daughter, admittedly, but I'd grown deeply attached to the little one. Curious and restless, the nine-year-old sorceress was almost always at my side. Incidentally, getting out of taking her along on the planned trip had cost me a fair amount of nerves—and a promise to bring back something interesting. Little extortionist.
Cordelia came by just as often. Despite her constant flashes of anger, suspicion, or irritation toward me, she was soft and indulgent with the child. And in general, she was very sincere whenever the matter didn't involve some Nimbus secret or her cousin. No, there was no "romantic spark" between us or anything like that. Just mutual respect. The girl appreciated the three years I'd spent working for the good of her homeworld, as well as the fairly modest rates I charged for my work. Well, why not? I had virtually no expenses: Jabiim supplied all the materials, I didn't pay a single credit for the premises, and I had no staff on payroll. So for one person, the profit was very substantial. Substantial enough that, after consulting with the Stratuses, I ordered myself a shuttle, named it the "Great Turtle," hired a pilot, set aside money to hire several bodyguards, and still had funds left over. But to be honest, the price was a nasty surprise. That same Gozanti cost a hundred and fifty thousand brand-new, while this shuttle in an eight-seat configuration cost almost twice as much! They explained to me that its "guts" were high-quality and all that, but for now I still had trouble wrapping my head around it. Once I'd flown around in space for a while, I'd figure out all the finer points.
By the way, our former industrial complex, where we held our lessons, was gradually being rebuilt into the Jabiim School of Magic. The residential building they had originally planned, then abandoned after a while, would instead become a five-story dormitory. The first three floors would be for students, the fourth for teachers, and the fifth for the administration. Some of the former production halls would be converted into classrooms, while others would become rooms for practical training. It was very much a plan for the future, but both Alto and Cordelia had genuinely embraced it. They had seen the benefits mages brought to Jabiim and were making plans to integrate spellcasters into society. And me... well, I supported it. Why wouldn't I? It fit perfectly with my own plans, and besides, I liked the Stratuses and Jabiim.
I'd decided to go to Ryloth, the Twi'lek homeworld, because of a recent encounter with the Jedi. More precisely, it was the species of one of them that had given me the idea. Two Jedi had attended the opening of our first library in the capital six months ago. A master and an apprentice. The quarantine had already been lifted by then, so Alto sent me a message saying that two sentients in distinctive robes, with lightsabers hanging from their belts, were wandering around Choal and asking all sorts of questions.
I reached the capital just after they had visited the "airspeeder workshop." My former apprentices only shrugged when I asked about the Jedi. Yes, they'd stopped by, looked at the prices. Asked what principles the machines worked on, and were politely referred to the general or their teacher. For some reason, they kept waving their hands around in front of them in a funny way while asking about me. Overall, the sorcerers behaved civilly: "No one punches you in the face just for asking," as Rung once wrote.
For two days, those two disappeared into the capital, turning up here and there from time to time, talking to people. There were reports that they had met with representatives of the general's "opposition." Though in practice, that amounted to little more than a handful of disgruntled political corpses who still hadn't given up on making a fuss about their rights. A mixed bag of the stupidest or most stubborn. Alto kept an eye on them, but without going overboard: those particular sentients hadn't been implicated in any serious crimes, and disagreeing with Stratus's policies wasn't forbidden here.
We first met in person at the grand opening ceremony. The property of several former rich men had been confiscated, their mansions demolished, and in their place a ten-story cylindrical building had been erected. From the outside, the facade was completely covered in opaque, durable glass, and there were entrances on all four sides. Above each entrance was the symbol of the Mistress of Magic.
Each floor was a single circular space, with elevators in the center. Administration desks, reading tables, and an enormous number of bookshelves filled the rest. The tenth floor was reserved for the administration, while the basement housed a small print shop with an entirely magical production process.
Around the building lay a small but beautiful park with walkways, benches, and neat little fountains. The entire library grounds, park included, covered an area six hundred meters in diameter. An umbrella-dome stretched over it, and dozens of small suns hung from its inner surface, creating the impression of a bright, sunny day beneath it. At night, the suns went dark, and the inside of the dome was decorated with crescent moons—young and old. Above the building itself, Hecate's symbol lit up. That was where we met the Jedi, during Alto's opening ceremony.
Two cloaked figures, their hoods thrown back, stood behind the crowd of locals and watched the planet's leader, Alto Stratus, give his speech.
The Council had sent Jedi Master Tholme and his Padawan, Aayla Secura, to the planet Jabiim. Not exactly one of the more important places in the galaxy. To be perfectly honest, it was a backwater even by the standards of the sector. The weather conditions made travel to and from the world difficult, which left the planet lagging badly in development. In every sense.
The mission had been arranged at the Chancellor's request. Palpatine had taken personal charge of the epidemic that had recently broken out on Jabiim, and once the quarantine was lifted, he asked the Jedi Council to pay the world a little attention. To assess the situation.
Master Yoda agreed, and so Tholme and Aayla set off for that rainy, gloomy world with a parting instruction from the master of masters: look around, get some rest, and unwind. The man snorted.
Rest. The planet had barely any places for that. As for sights, there were only swamps and forests, and the one thing that set this world apart from countless others like it was the endless rain—and the absurdly overblown prejudices about the Jedi. People literally hid their children from them the moment the pair introduced themselves. In general, the defenders of democracy were treated with chilly politeness.
And the oddities began the moment they arrived. First, their ship was inspected in orbit. Nothing in the mission briefing had mentioned that a small fleet of two Bounty-class frigates and five CR-70 corvettes trained their guns on anyone approaching the planet. Upon landing, they had to register, receive permits for temporary stay on Jabiim outside the spaceport grounds, and listen to a warning about the recent Jabiim Fever epidemic. With a completely impassive expression, the customs officer advised them not to leave the spaceport if either Jedi used hard drugs or abused alcohol.
Tholme merely shook his head reproachfully at the officer and laid a calming hand on the shoulder of the Twi'lek girl, who had nearly choked on her indignation. The customs officer only shrugged indifferently and said that warning visitors about it was part of his job.
Then came the information gathering, conducted under an endless curtain of rain. There was a meeting with representatives of the planetary administration, who answered their questions politely enough, but they were not granted access to the leader of the Jabiimites, Commander-in-Chief Alto Stratus. "The Gen—Commander has a great many matters demanding his attention, honored Jedi. His next available appointment is in three months. Would you like me to schedule you?" Attempts to press the point that they were representatives of the Jedi Council got them nowhere: "The Commander does not care who you are. If you wish to meet with him over something other than an emergency, then join the regular queue."
The leader of the opposition, on the other hand, received them immediately, and the conversation left them with a... mixed impression.
"Master, I think he's insane. Who would infect an entire planet?"
"It certainly looks that way, Aayla. His assumptions are far too incredible—especially with no evidence to support them," the Jedi said, shaking his head. "You studied the reports, didn't you? The epidemic and those deaths brought so much filth to light that I wouldn't be surprised if the collapse of all his hopes really did drive the man out of his mind. And besides, the situation here hardly looks like the military tyranny this sentient claims it is."
The deaths caused by the mysterious disease had indeed been remarkably convenient. But the forensic reports also supported the media's official version. Secura had been unpleasantly surprised by the sheer number of drug addicts among the planet's ruling elite. Tholme, however, had not.
"Cargo traffic here is too light, and the population isn't wealthy enough. Shipping very cheap narcotics to this world simply wouldn't be profitable, but truly expensive spice for the elite—that's another matter. So yes, Aayla, it's entirely plausible. Especially against the backdrop of how bleak life is on this planet."
And then they stumbled across something unusual. Or rather, noticed it. Airspeeders. There weren't many of them, but they cruised calmly through the atmosphere—an atmosphere practically guaranteed to wreck sensitive electronics. There was a reason wheeled vehicles were the most common form of transport on the planet. Repulsorcraft wore out and broke down at an insane rate.
Their questions eventually led them to a married couple of... mages. And to a conversation that yielded absolutely nothing.
"Ask the Commander."
"You should ask the Teacher."
"Maybe you'd like to buy an airspeeder? It would improve your mobility."
When Tholme tried to use a mind trick on the man—"You will tell me about your Teacher"—he got a sullen reply:
"No, I won't. Knowing him, he'll tan my ass with a switch again, and my ass isn't government property."
The Jedi left the workshop... bewildered. Neither master nor apprentice quite knew what to make of it.
And now they were at the opening of the new library in the capital. By Coruscant standards, the building wasn't impressive, but for Jabiim it was genuinely beautiful. And there was no constant rain, so both of them were actually enjoying the warmth beneath the rays of the little pseudo-suns hanging overhead. Not even the red-eyed man of indeterminate age standing to Aayla's right spoiled the experience. At first Tholme had taken him for a Jedi—their clothing looked far too similar—but there was no lightsaber at the man's belt. Only the sheath of a small knife or dagger.
"Look, Master! It's beautiful!" the Padawan said, spellbound. And she was right: with Stratus's final words—that the library was dedicated to someone called Hecate—the symbols above the library doors flared with silvery light, small fountains sprang to life, and the suns overhead blossomed into beautiful flowers of brilliant light.
"Yeah, turned out pretty well," the stranger standing beside them agreed with satisfaction. "Glad you like it, blue girl. Nice to know I didn't spend a week busting my ass enchanting all this for nothing. There'll be a rainbow over the fountains in a moment, too."
And sure enough, rainbows appeared over each of the small fountains. Tiny ones, but they made the whole place feel even more magical. The Jedi, however, were no longer looking at the beauty around them. Their attention was fixed on the man in robes that looked remarkably similar to their own.
"Ahem..." The Jedi cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. "I'm Jedi Master Tholme, and this is my Padawan, Aayla Secura. And you are...?"
"Siith is my name," his interlocutor said with an unpleasant smile, making both Jedi tense and rest their hands on the hilts of their lightsabers. "Once again: that's my name, not... an affiliation with some order. My parents named me that. I'm a sorcerer. At your service."
The man gave a slight nod and began studying them with curiosity through those rather off-putting eyes of his. He paid more attention to the Twi'lek girl, and when he noticed the hint of irritation on her face, he gave an amused snort.
"Sorry, blue girl. It's just that I've hardly ever seen any Twi'leks. We only have a handful here on Jabiim, and they're all men. I'm curious."
"My name is Aayla Secura," the girl muttered.
"Yes, yes." The man waved a hand airily. "Sorry, Padawan Secura."
"Strange name," Tholme drawled, still keeping one hand on the hilt of his lightsaber.
"It translates from my native language as 'one who lives despite all odds.' Perfectly normal name. Back home, 'tholmes,' for example, are temporary builders' huts—the ones they live in while construction is underway." The Padawan let out a quiet chuckle at that, but after glancing at her master, she quickly put on a serious face. "I heard you were looking for me? The teacher of those two blockheads?"
"Did you really beat that guy with a switch?" the young Twi'lek asked.
"He went and complained about it, did he? Pfft, what an idiot... That blockhead nearly burned the house down! If he can't absorb my wisdom through his ears, then I'll deliver it through his ass."
"But that's..."
"If the door to the mind is closed, knock from behind," the red-eyed man said, clearly quoting someone, his frightening smile flashing. "Why don't we go have some caf? There's a vendor stall over there. Master Tholme, do stop boring holes into me with that suspicious stare. It's rude, after all. I don't think I've given you any reason for aggression yet, and planning to hack me apart with a glowing stick just because my name gives you unpleasant associations is a bit much."
Tholme stared at him for several seconds, then gave a restrained nod.
"Fair enough," he said gravely, and the group headed toward the stall selling caf.
"And they're not sticks. They're swords," Aayla Secura commented on the sorcerer's words.
"See the general over there? Now that's a sword hanging from his belt. Yours, sorry to say, is a glowing stick. I've seen them on the Holonet. Oh, could you turn that thing on? I'd be curious to see one in person."
"Another time," the Jedi Master said firmly. "Not in the middle of a crowd. It is a weapon, after all."
Tholme was bewildered yet again. Something strange was going on on this planet. With the red-eyed man in particular. He could feel no movement of the Force in him. None at all. It was as if the man weren't Force-sensitive in the slightest—and yet he had introduced himself as a sorcerer. Was he hiding himself in the Force? Possible... So despite his outward composure, the Jedi was rapidly going through possibilities. His first thought had been that they had stumbled across a Sith, but after considering it rationally, Tholme discarded the idea. Someone being hunted by the entire Order would hardly expose himself so blatantly. A member of some other group of Force-sensitives? Or perhaps simply a technician who called technology magic? Maybe even just a charla—
"Daddy!" A shout from nearby interrupted the Jedi's train of thought. Their red-eyed interlocutor turned toward the sound, where two figures were hurrying over to them: a girl about the same age as his Padawan, and a child who looked around ten. The sorcerer broke into that off-putting grin of his at the sight of them. His daughters?
"Girls! You decided to come see the opening too?"
"Yep!" the younger one replied happily, wrapping the man in a hug. The older girl only nodded, casting an embarrassed glance at the Jedi. "Uncle Alto is awesome! As always!"
"Couldn't have said it better, kiddo," he said, stroking the girl's back before ruffling her hair to an indignant, "Aw, come on!" "How are things, Karina? How are the apprentices?"
"Fine, Teacher," the older girl sighed, while the younger one fixed her hair and muttered something aggrieved under her breath.
"Sorrow in your words I hear, young spellcaster," the man laughed, making Tholme nearly cough as he stared at the red-eyed man in surprise. The latter planted his feet wide apart, raised his gaze to the sky, clenched a fist on one bent arm, and proclaimed with theatrical grandeur and a hint of malicious glee, "Know all the pain of being a Teacher! Feel for yourself the full abyss of despair and horror that I once felt! Look nightmare in the eyes and find the strength to endure! Overcome unimaginable suffering—and make spellcasters out of these monsters!"
"Hey, Dad! We weren't monsters!" the girl protested, planting her fists on her hips. "Well, my sister and I definitely weren't!"
"Remember this, Karray. To a Teacher, apprentices are always two things at once: a gigantic pain in the ass when their training begins, and a gigantic pain in the ass after it ends."
A few seconds of silence passed before Aayla Secura was the first to break it.
"What's the difference?"
"After the training, you're proud of that pain in the ass too," the red-eyed man burst out laughing, giving Karina a light pat on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally, apprentice. You were almost always a good girl. Unlike this little fidget here."
"Daaad!!!"
"All right, enough joking around. Girls, I need to talk to... Oh, right! Introductions! These two are Jedi. Master Tholme and his Padawan, Aayla Secura. Honored Jedi, this is Karray and Karina Boon—sisters, and my apprentices."
"Wow! Real ones?" the younger girl asked, staring at them in awe, while the older sister gave the visitors an interested once-over. Aayla puffed herself up importantly—finally, a normal reaction instead of gloomy stares. Unfortunately, the girl's next words made her choke, while Master Tholme's eyes widened in surprise.
"Make sure you invite us to the autopsy, Dad!!!"
"Karray," the man frowned, while the Jedi took a couple of steps back. "You can't say things like that to sentients right away. You have to lay the groundwork first, and only then ask whether they'd agree to vivisection."
"Who would ever agree to something like that?" the Padawan exclaimed, drawing her saber but not activating it. "Are you people insane, suggesting something like that to sentients? Who would ever want to die?!"
"Padawan, calm down." Tholme placed a hand on her shoulder. "Siith, care to explain yourself?"
"Why kill anyone?" the girl cut in. "No one's ever died from that with Dad. Quite the opposite—you'll be healthier afterward."
"Karray," the red-eyed man sighed reproachfully. "Please, be quiet. Karina, go buy your sister some juice while I calm down the test subje— uh... the Jedi."
The older girl nodded and, taking her sister by the hand, led the deeply offended child toward the stall.
"Forgive the girl. She's gotten very into chimerology and doesn't spend much time around people outside her usual circle," the man said with a perfectly straight face, though his eyes made it obvious he was enjoying every second of this. Aayla caught herself thinking that he reminded her somewhat of her previous Master, Quinlan Vos. And that slip about "test subjects" had probably been deliberate too. The man was simply having fun. "No one, of course, is going to subject you to either an autopsy or vivisection. Karray simply hasn't mastered diagnostic spells well enough yet, so I give her lessons where I show her more... detailed examples. Real ones. No one dies, and no one even feels any pain. But if you are interested in earning a couple hun—"
"No, no, no! We're not interested!!!" Aayla cut the sorcerer off, wrapping her arms around herself.
"All right, all right! I'm not insisting." The sorcerer shrugged.
They did end up getting themselves some caf, and after taking one of the empty benches, they continued the conversation. Siith turned out to be a fairly decent conversationalist. It was only his smile that was off-putting—a fact he was well aware of, and he even apologized for the inconvenience. "People who spend enough time around me eventually get used to it, but at first meeting I tend to scare people, yes," he explained.
The conversation itself was about nothing in particular. Tholme tried asking about Siith's sorcery, but the man only smiled and asked in return whether the Jedi would be willing to share their own secrets.
"Come now, you flew all the way to Jabiim, you're asking about my secrets, and you won't even agree to an autopsy! That's simply unfair!"
Aayla choked on her juice at that, while the Jedi Master merely smiled. There was no aggression coming from the sorcerer. Only mild irony and curiosity. When asked whether he could help arrange a meeting with Stratus, he simply shook his head.
"Alto can't stand you Jedi. If the Chancellor had come here, then yes. He's shown that Jabiim actually matters to him. But you—sorry—the Commander won't even bother talking to you."
"But why? The Jedi are defenders of peace!" the Twi'lek girl protested.
"Yes, yes, defenders. Whatever you say," the red-eyed man drawled ironically. Then he pulled a datapad from beneath his robe, tapped at the screen a few times, and held it out to the girl. "Here. Statistics for the past hundred years. Jabiimites killed or abducted by pirates and slavers. Next page: orphans left without parents. Third page: deaths from epidemics and disease. There's no page showing how many Jabiimites the Jedi saved. Because you weren't here. And Senate aid is tucked away all by itself on page four. Personally from your Chancellor. Well, obviously he didn't buy it, pack it, and ship it himself, but he did oversee the process."
While the Jedi studied the datapad, the sorcerer pulled a funny little furry creature from inside his robe and began scratching its belly. Aayla found it terribly distracting; every so often, her fingers made involuntary grasping motions. The little beast was just far too cute.
"That's..."
"Regrettable," the sorcerer cut Tholme off, taking the datapad back. "I understand there aren't exactly many of you on a galactic scale. But you make a great deal of noise about yourselves. Defenders of peace, defenders of the Republic. So naturally, sentients start asking perfectly fair questions. If you are defenders, then where is the defense? And if there is no defense, can you really call yourselves that, hmm?"
The Jedi sighed—the complaints were fair. The information he'd just seen was staggering. Meanwhile, the red-eyed man took a sip of caf, handed the furry little creature to the Padawan—who had been staring at it without looking away—and continued.
"And you know what the worst part is? You can't even say, 'We didn't know.' Not when you proclaim your 'protection' to the whole galaxy, and not when you were aware of the problems on this planet." The sorcerer stopped the girl, who had started to bristle, with a raised hand. "I'm not saying that you personally, Master Tholme and Padawan Secura, knew and did nothing. The Senate and the Jedi Council knew. The Jabiimites asked for help more than once. And you can't excuse it by saying there wasn't enough time, either. The entire three-thousand-year history of this planet is filled with hardship and disaster, and no one ever helped the locals deal with any of it. But they were always happy enough to collect taxes."
"So that's why everyone was reacting to us like that." The Twi'lek girl looked at her mentor. "Master, how did it come to this?"
"Unfortunately, Padawan, the Jedi are not all-powerful. There are worlds in the galaxy whose people feel much the same way as the Jabiimites do."
"Oh, all right, you can sort that out yourselves," the sorcerer snorted, holding out a hand to the little beast. It immediately leapt onto his palm and scampered up his sleeve, disappearing somewhere beneath his robe. "Or maybe you won't, but either way, that's your business. Different question: is there anything else I can help you with, apart from spilling my secrets and introducing you to the Commander?"
I couldn't help them. Though, to be fair, I hadn't intended to. They were little more than a curiosity to me. And I'd decided to step onto the stage myself. I showed a reasonable amount of goodwill, calmly explained why they weren't particularly welcome here, and spared Alto the trouble. Those two might have decided to push for a meeting with him, and if they succeeded, I wasn't sure Stratus wouldn't say more than he should.
We exchanged contact information before parting and said our goodbyes. Three days later, they left. Fair winds, as they say.
Funny thing was, they turned out not to be sorcerers. My spells showed some kind of strange picture. An ordinary human, an ordinary Twi'lek. No anomalies at all. Shame they never used their Force—or maybe my spells simply couldn't detect whatever it was they used? No ide-e-ea.
Well, I chose Ryloth for several reasons:
First, everything there would be new to me—as it would be on pretty much any other planet.
Second, they might be nonhumans, but at least they're close enough to us—not some weird-ass monstrosities with legs growing out of their shoulders and arms out of their asses, like those... what were they called again... Dugs!
Third, the situation on the planet leaves a lot to be desired too, and my funds should definitely be enough to live there in decent conditions until it's time to fly back.
And fourth, you can legally buy slaves there. I could pick out a married couple with a child and set up a whole servant dynasty for myself. Treat them well, pay them, give them decent living conditions, and they'll be tied to me more securely than by any contract. Cordelia objected, of course—she hated slavery—but I convinced her that those sentients would be better off working for me in decent conditions than rotting somewhere in slave barracks.
And lastly. I just found out what a vacation is! I want a vacation! And I want to spend it on the planet that happens to be the galaxy's main supplier of dancers and concubines! Heh-heh-heh.
I'd just make one little stop along the way and hire myself a couple of cutthroats. Good Jabiimites were often a rather morally squeamish lot, and having a few sentients around who weren't especially burdened by moral principles could come in handy. The main thing was that they looked civilized and presentable.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
"It'll be fine! We fly out, we fly back. A two- or three-month adventure, tops. Don't worry—I'll have Emthree with me, the mercenaries, and... uh... what was the pilot's name again?"
"Ras. His name is Ras," the girl sighed, rolling her eyes. Then she cast a doubtful glance at my personal Lambda-class shuttle, the one I was planning to take on my little trip. "Maybe you should stay after all? What do you need those Twi'leks for?"
"Well, we don't have many of them. Only six on the whole planet, and those are captured bandits. Not enough data, like I already told you."
"Why do I get the feeling you just wanted an adventure for your old, wrinkled ass?"
"My ass is perfectly fine! Smooth and soft as a baby's!" Damn perceptive Cordelia. I really did want to travel. No, seriously! There were a fuckton of worlds out there, and I'd already spent three years getting soaked in the rain.
A lot had been accomplished in that time. Every city now had its own weather-control artifact. There were only two spaceports, so the other three cities were equipped purely for defense: if pirate ships appeared in the opening in the clouds, it would simply be closed.
We kept the quarantine in place for another two years, "because the pathogen responsible for Jabiim Fever had still not been identified." At the spaceports, all interaction with outsiders was handled exclusively through droids. Facility maintenance took place only after every transport carrying offworlders had departed, so the workers could go about their business in peace.
The Nimbus was now fully equipped with "Jabiim-made military transport airspeeders," which had been "designed specifically for the harsh weather conditions of their homeworld." What was more, two of my apprentices, who were already married—one of the military-minded boys and the mercenary-minded blonde—had started a company producing "civilian models." They could also repair or enchant new Nimbus transports whenever necessary. Taria, the blonde, had very quickly shifted the lad's priorities from "I want to fight for Jabiim" to working for the good of the population. Work that paid well and didn't require risking his life. Clever girl. The two of them ended their formal training there, having decided to carve out a niche for themselves.
I don't judge them in the slightest—to each their own. Besides, the young couple hadn't cut ties with us; they often came by for advice and made regular use of my library for mages. So they were still improving their skills anyway. Specialized spellcasters were a perfectly normal thing as far as I was concerned. As a result, two- and five-seat airspeeders had already appeared. They were quite affordable for a Jabiimite with an above-average income. Their speed and maximum altitude were significantly lower, but their endurance had increased severalfold, and the reservoirs—now freely available for purchase—only needed to be swapped out about once a week.
The military-minded couple, on the other hand, were now with the Nimbus, heavily involved in producing amulets and charms. And they truly basked in the respect of their comrades. At first, the two of them felt self-conscious about not charging into battle with blasters at the ready, but after a few months they changed their minds. The special-forces troops turned out to be grateful men and women, and my apprentices weren't idiots. So in time, they came to terms with the fact that they weren't winning battles on the front lines—they were saving lives through their hard work. Soldiers who had narrowly escaped death thanks to their amulets and charms made sure of that, never stinting on words of gratitude.
Karina and Karray were now my personal apprentices. The former had taken the new group of five prospective mages under her wing while I was away. She had stopped losing her head and staring at me with the eyes of a lovestruck cow. Not completely, but still. I did catch her giving me long, intent looks and shooting jealous glances at Cordelia, Maria, and even Luritta, but at least she no longer lost all reason. Quite the opposite—Karina had proven so good at teaching that I'd begun training her as a generalist.
As for the little "Kavvy," she'd beaten me. I no longer resisted being called Daddy. I didn't call her my daughter, admittedly, but I'd grown deeply attached to the little one. Curious and restless, the nine-year-old sorceress was almost always at my side. Incidentally, getting out of taking her along on the planned trip had cost me a fair amount of nerves—and a promise to bring back something interesting. Little extortionist.
Cordelia came by just as often. Despite her constant flashes of anger, suspicion, or irritation toward me, she was soft and indulgent with the child. And in general, she was very sincere whenever the matter didn't involve some Nimbus secret or her cousin. No, there was no "romantic spark" between us or anything like that. Just mutual respect. The girl appreciated the three years I'd spent working for the good of her homeworld, as well as the fairly modest rates I charged for my work. Well, why not? I had virtually no expenses: Jabiim supplied all the materials, I didn't pay a single credit for the premises, and I had no staff on payroll. So for one person, the profit was very substantial. Substantial enough that, after consulting with the Stratuses, I ordered myself a shuttle, named it the "Great Turtle," hired a pilot, set aside money to hire several bodyguards, and still had funds left over. But to be honest, the price was a nasty surprise. That same Gozanti cost a hundred and fifty thousand brand-new, while this shuttle in an eight-seat configuration cost almost twice as much! They explained to me that its "guts" were high-quality and all that, but for now I still had trouble wrapping my head around it. Once I'd flown around in space for a while, I'd figure out all the finer points.
By the way, our former industrial complex, where we held our lessons, was gradually being rebuilt into the Jabiim School of Magic. The residential building they had originally planned, then abandoned after a while, would instead become a five-story dormitory. The first three floors would be for students, the fourth for teachers, and the fifth for the administration. Some of the former production halls would be converted into classrooms, while others would become rooms for practical training. It was very much a plan for the future, but both Alto and Cordelia had genuinely embraced it. They had seen the benefits mages brought to Jabiim and were making plans to integrate spellcasters into society. And me... well, I supported it. Why wouldn't I? It fit perfectly with my own plans, and besides, I liked the Stratuses and Jabiim.
I'd decided to go to Ryloth, the Twi'lek homeworld, because of a recent encounter with the Jedi. More precisely, it was the species of one of them that had given me the idea. Two Jedi had attended the opening of our first library in the capital six months ago. A master and an apprentice. The quarantine had already been lifted by then, so Alto sent me a message saying that two sentients in distinctive robes, with lightsabers hanging from their belts, were wandering around Choal and asking all sorts of questions.
I reached the capital just after they had visited the "airspeeder workshop." My former apprentices only shrugged when I asked about the Jedi. Yes, they'd stopped by, looked at the prices. Asked what principles the machines worked on, and were politely referred to the general or their teacher. For some reason, they kept waving their hands around in front of them in a funny way while asking about me. Overall, the sorcerers behaved civilly: "No one punches you in the face just for asking," as Rung once wrote.
For two days, those two disappeared into the capital, turning up here and there from time to time, talking to people. There were reports that they had met with representatives of the general's "opposition." Though in practice, that amounted to little more than a handful of disgruntled political corpses who still hadn't given up on making a fuss about their rights. A mixed bag of the stupidest or most stubborn. Alto kept an eye on them, but without going overboard: those particular sentients hadn't been implicated in any serious crimes, and disagreeing with Stratus's policies wasn't forbidden here.
We first met in person at the grand opening ceremony. The property of several former rich men had been confiscated, their mansions demolished, and in their place a ten-story cylindrical building had been erected. From the outside, the facade was completely covered in opaque, durable glass, and there were entrances on all four sides. Above each entrance was the symbol of the Mistress of Magic.
Each floor was a single circular space, with elevators in the center. Administration desks, reading tables, and an enormous number of bookshelves filled the rest. The tenth floor was reserved for the administration, while the basement housed a small print shop with an entirely magical production process.
Around the building lay a small but beautiful park with walkways, benches, and neat little fountains. The entire library grounds, park included, covered an area six hundred meters in diameter. An umbrella-dome stretched over it, and dozens of small suns hung from its inner surface, creating the impression of a bright, sunny day beneath it. At night, the suns went dark, and the inside of the dome was decorated with crescent moons—young and old. Above the building itself, Hecate's symbol lit up. That was where we met the Jedi, during Alto's opening ceremony.
Two cloaked figures, their hoods thrown back, stood behind the crowd of locals and watched the planet's leader, Alto Stratus, give his speech.
The Council had sent Jedi Master Tholme and his Padawan, Aayla Secura, to the planet Jabiim. Not exactly one of the more important places in the galaxy. To be perfectly honest, it was a backwater even by the standards of the sector. The weather conditions made travel to and from the world difficult, which left the planet lagging badly in development. In every sense.
The mission had been arranged at the Chancellor's request. Palpatine had taken personal charge of the epidemic that had recently broken out on Jabiim, and once the quarantine was lifted, he asked the Jedi Council to pay the world a little attention. To assess the situation.
Master Yoda agreed, and so Tholme and Aayla set off for that rainy, gloomy world with a parting instruction from the master of masters: look around, get some rest, and unwind. The man snorted.
Rest. The planet had barely any places for that. As for sights, there were only swamps and forests, and the one thing that set this world apart from countless others like it was the endless rain—and the absurdly overblown prejudices about the Jedi. People literally hid their children from them the moment the pair introduced themselves. In general, the defenders of democracy were treated with chilly politeness.
And the oddities began the moment they arrived. First, their ship was inspected in orbit. Nothing in the mission briefing had mentioned that a small fleet of two Bounty-class frigates and five CR-70 corvettes trained their guns on anyone approaching the planet. Upon landing, they had to register, receive permits for temporary stay on Jabiim outside the spaceport grounds, and listen to a warning about the recent Jabiim Fever epidemic. With a completely impassive expression, the customs officer advised them not to leave the spaceport if either Jedi used hard drugs or abused alcohol.
Tholme merely shook his head reproachfully at the officer and laid a calming hand on the shoulder of the Twi'lek girl, who had nearly choked on her indignation. The customs officer only shrugged indifferently and said that warning visitors about it was part of his job.
Then came the information gathering, conducted under an endless curtain of rain. There was a meeting with representatives of the planetary administration, who answered their questions politely enough, but they were not granted access to the leader of the Jabiimites, Commander-in-Chief Alto Stratus. "The Gen—Commander has a great many matters demanding his attention, honored Jedi. His next available appointment is in three months. Would you like me to schedule you?" Attempts to press the point that they were representatives of the Jedi Council got them nowhere: "The Commander does not care who you are. If you wish to meet with him over something other than an emergency, then join the regular queue."
The leader of the opposition, on the other hand, received them immediately, and the conversation left them with a... mixed impression.
"Master, I think he's insane. Who would infect an entire planet?"
"It certainly looks that way, Aayla. His assumptions are far too incredible—especially with no evidence to support them," the Jedi said, shaking his head. "You studied the reports, didn't you? The epidemic and those deaths brought so much filth to light that I wouldn't be surprised if the collapse of all his hopes really did drive the man out of his mind. And besides, the situation here hardly looks like the military tyranny this sentient claims it is."
The deaths caused by the mysterious disease had indeed been remarkably convenient. But the forensic reports also supported the media's official version. Secura had been unpleasantly surprised by the sheer number of drug addicts among the planet's ruling elite. Tholme, however, had not.
"Cargo traffic here is too light, and the population isn't wealthy enough. Shipping very cheap narcotics to this world simply wouldn't be profitable, but truly expensive spice for the elite—that's another matter. So yes, Aayla, it's entirely plausible. Especially against the backdrop of how bleak life is on this planet."
And then they stumbled across something unusual. Or rather, noticed it. Airspeeders. There weren't many of them, but they cruised calmly through the atmosphere—an atmosphere practically guaranteed to wreck sensitive electronics. There was a reason wheeled vehicles were the most common form of transport on the planet. Repulsorcraft wore out and broke down at an insane rate.
Their questions eventually led them to a married couple of... mages. And to a conversation that yielded absolutely nothing.
"Ask the Commander."
"You should ask the Teacher."
"Maybe you'd like to buy an airspeeder? It would improve your mobility."
When Tholme tried to use a mind trick on the man—"You will tell me about your Teacher"—he got a sullen reply:
"No, I won't. Knowing him, he'll tan my ass with a switch again, and my ass isn't government property."
The Jedi left the workshop... bewildered. Neither master nor apprentice quite knew what to make of it.
And now they were at the opening of the new library in the capital. By Coruscant standards, the building wasn't impressive, but for Jabiim it was genuinely beautiful. And there was no constant rain, so both of them were actually enjoying the warmth beneath the rays of the little pseudo-suns hanging overhead. Not even the red-eyed man of indeterminate age standing to Aayla's right spoiled the experience. At first Tholme had taken him for a Jedi—their clothing looked far too similar—but there was no lightsaber at the man's belt. Only the sheath of a small knife or dagger.
"Look, Master! It's beautiful!" the Padawan said, spellbound. And she was right: with Stratus's final words—that the library was dedicated to someone called Hecate—the symbols above the library doors flared with silvery light, small fountains sprang to life, and the suns overhead blossomed into beautiful flowers of brilliant light.
"Yeah, turned out pretty well," the stranger standing beside them agreed with satisfaction. "Glad you like it, blue girl. Nice to know I didn't spend a week busting my ass enchanting all this for nothing. There'll be a rainbow over the fountains in a moment, too."
And sure enough, rainbows appeared over each of the small fountains. Tiny ones, but they made the whole place feel even more magical. The Jedi, however, were no longer looking at the beauty around them. Their attention was fixed on the man in robes that looked remarkably similar to their own.
"Ahem..." The Jedi cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts. "I'm Jedi Master Tholme, and this is my Padawan, Aayla Secura. And you are...?"
"Siith is my name," his interlocutor said with an unpleasant smile, making both Jedi tense and rest their hands on the hilts of their lightsabers. "Once again: that's my name, not... an affiliation with some order. My parents named me that. I'm a sorcerer. At your service."
The man gave a slight nod and began studying them with curiosity through those rather off-putting eyes of his. He paid more attention to the Twi'lek girl, and when he noticed the hint of irritation on her face, he gave an amused snort.
"Sorry, blue girl. It's just that I've hardly ever seen any Twi'leks. We only have a handful here on Jabiim, and they're all men. I'm curious."
"My name is Aayla Secura," the girl muttered.
"Yes, yes." The man waved a hand airily. "Sorry, Padawan Secura."
"Strange name," Tholme drawled, still keeping one hand on the hilt of his lightsaber.
"It translates from my native language as 'one who lives despite all odds.' Perfectly normal name. Back home, 'tholmes,' for example, are temporary builders' huts—the ones they live in while construction is underway." The Padawan let out a quiet chuckle at that, but after glancing at her master, she quickly put on a serious face. "I heard you were looking for me? The teacher of those two blockheads?"
"Did you really beat that guy with a switch?" the young Twi'lek asked.
"He went and complained about it, did he? Pfft, what an idiot... That blockhead nearly burned the house down! If he can't absorb my wisdom through his ears, then I'll deliver it through his ass."
"But that's..."
"If the door to the mind is closed, knock from behind," the red-eyed man said, clearly quoting someone, his frightening smile flashing. "Why don't we go have some caf? There's a vendor stall over there. Master Tholme, do stop boring holes into me with that suspicious stare. It's rude, after all. I don't think I've given you any reason for aggression yet, and planning to hack me apart with a glowing stick just because my name gives you unpleasant associations is a bit much."
Tholme stared at him for several seconds, then gave a restrained nod.
"Fair enough," he said gravely, and the group headed toward the stall selling caf.
"And they're not sticks. They're swords," Aayla Secura commented on the sorcerer's words.
"See the general over there? Now that's a sword hanging from his belt. Yours, sorry to say, is a glowing stick. I've seen them on the Holonet. Oh, could you turn that thing on? I'd be curious to see one in person."
"Another time," the Jedi Master said firmly. "Not in the middle of a crowd. It is a weapon, after all."
Tholme was bewildered yet again. Something strange was going on on this planet. With the red-eyed man in particular. He could feel no movement of the Force in him. None at all. It was as if the man weren't Force-sensitive in the slightest—and yet he had introduced himself as a sorcerer. Was he hiding himself in the Force? Possible... So despite his outward composure, the Jedi was rapidly going through possibilities. His first thought had been that they had stumbled across a Sith, but after considering it rationally, Tholme discarded the idea. Someone being hunted by the entire Order would hardly expose himself so blatantly. A member of some other group of Force-sensitives? Or perhaps simply a technician who called technology magic? Maybe even just a charla—
"Daddy!" A shout from nearby interrupted the Jedi's train of thought. Their red-eyed interlocutor turned toward the sound, where two figures were hurrying over to them: a girl about the same age as his Padawan, and a child who looked around ten. The sorcerer broke into that off-putting grin of his at the sight of them. His daughters?
"Girls! You decided to come see the opening too?"
"Yep!" the younger one replied happily, wrapping the man in a hug. The older girl only nodded, casting an embarrassed glance at the Jedi. "Uncle Alto is awesome! As always!"
"Couldn't have said it better, kiddo," he said, stroking the girl's back before ruffling her hair to an indignant, "Aw, come on!" "How are things, Karina? How are the apprentices?"
"Fine, Teacher," the older girl sighed, while the younger one fixed her hair and muttered something aggrieved under her breath.
"Sorrow in your words I hear, young spellcaster," the man laughed, making Tholme nearly cough as he stared at the red-eyed man in surprise. The latter planted his feet wide apart, raised his gaze to the sky, clenched a fist on one bent arm, and proclaimed with theatrical grandeur and a hint of malicious glee, "Know all the pain of being a Teacher! Feel for yourself the full abyss of despair and horror that I once felt! Look nightmare in the eyes and find the strength to endure! Overcome unimaginable suffering—and make spellcasters out of these monsters!"
"Hey, Dad! We weren't monsters!" the girl protested, planting her fists on her hips. "Well, my sister and I definitely weren't!"
"Remember this, Karray. To a Teacher, apprentices are always two things at once: a gigantic pain in the ass when their training begins, and a gigantic pain in the ass after it ends."
A few seconds of silence passed before Aayla Secura was the first to break it.
"What's the difference?"
"After the training, you're proud of that pain in the ass too," the red-eyed man burst out laughing, giving Karina a light pat on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally, apprentice. You were almost always a good girl. Unlike this little fidget here."
"Daaad!!!"
"All right, enough joking around. Girls, I need to talk to... Oh, right! Introductions! These two are Jedi. Master Tholme and his Padawan, Aayla Secura. Honored Jedi, this is Karray and Karina Boon—sisters, and my apprentices."
"Wow! Real ones?" the younger girl asked, staring at them in awe, while the older sister gave the visitors an interested once-over. Aayla puffed herself up importantly—finally, a normal reaction instead of gloomy stares. Unfortunately, the girl's next words made her choke, while Master Tholme's eyes widened in surprise.
"Make sure you invite us to the autopsy, Dad!!!"
"Karray," the man frowned, while the Jedi took a couple of steps back. "You can't say things like that to sentients right away. You have to lay the groundwork first, and only then ask whether they'd agree to vivisection."
"Who would ever agree to something like that?" the Padawan exclaimed, drawing her saber but not activating it. "Are you people insane, suggesting something like that to sentients? Who would ever want to die?!"
"Padawan, calm down." Tholme placed a hand on her shoulder. "Siith, care to explain yourself?"
"Why kill anyone?" the girl cut in. "No one's ever died from that with Dad. Quite the opposite—you'll be healthier afterward."
"Karray," the red-eyed man sighed reproachfully. "Please, be quiet. Karina, go buy your sister some juice while I calm down the test subje— uh... the Jedi."
The older girl nodded and, taking her sister by the hand, led the deeply offended child toward the stall.
"Forgive the girl. She's gotten very into chimerology and doesn't spend much time around people outside her usual circle," the man said with a perfectly straight face, though his eyes made it obvious he was enjoying every second of this. Aayla caught herself thinking that he reminded her somewhat of her previous Master, Quinlan Vos. And that slip about "test subjects" had probably been deliberate too. The man was simply having fun. "No one, of course, is going to subject you to either an autopsy or vivisection. Karray simply hasn't mastered diagnostic spells well enough yet, so I give her lessons where I show her more... detailed examples. Real ones. No one dies, and no one even feels any pain. But if you are interested in earning a couple hun—"
"No, no, no! We're not interested!!!" Aayla cut the sorcerer off, wrapping her arms around herself.
"All right, all right! I'm not insisting." The sorcerer shrugged.
They did end up getting themselves some caf, and after taking one of the empty benches, they continued the conversation. Siith turned out to be a fairly decent conversationalist. It was only his smile that was off-putting—a fact he was well aware of, and he even apologized for the inconvenience. "People who spend enough time around me eventually get used to it, but at first meeting I tend to scare people, yes," he explained.
The conversation itself was about nothing in particular. Tholme tried asking about Siith's sorcery, but the man only smiled and asked in return whether the Jedi would be willing to share their own secrets.
"Come now, you flew all the way to Jabiim, you're asking about my secrets, and you won't even agree to an autopsy! That's simply unfair!"
Aayla choked on her juice at that, while the Jedi Master merely smiled. There was no aggression coming from the sorcerer. Only mild irony and curiosity. When asked whether he could help arrange a meeting with Stratus, he simply shook his head.
"Alto can't stand you Jedi. If the Chancellor had come here, then yes. He's shown that Jabiim actually matters to him. But you—sorry—the Commander won't even bother talking to you."
"But why? The Jedi are defenders of peace!" the Twi'lek girl protested.
"Yes, yes, defenders. Whatever you say," the red-eyed man drawled ironically. Then he pulled a datapad from beneath his robe, tapped at the screen a few times, and held it out to the girl. "Here. Statistics for the past hundred years. Jabiimites killed or abducted by pirates and slavers. Next page: orphans left without parents. Third page: deaths from epidemics and disease. There's no page showing how many Jabiimites the Jedi saved. Because you weren't here. And Senate aid is tucked away all by itself on page four. Personally from your Chancellor. Well, obviously he didn't buy it, pack it, and ship it himself, but he did oversee the process."
While the Jedi studied the datapad, the sorcerer pulled a funny little furry creature from inside his robe and began scratching its belly. Aayla found it terribly distracting; every so often, her fingers made involuntary grasping motions. The little beast was just far too cute.
"That's..."
"Regrettable," the sorcerer cut Tholme off, taking the datapad back. "I understand there aren't exactly many of you on a galactic scale. But you make a great deal of noise about yourselves. Defenders of peace, defenders of the Republic. So naturally, sentients start asking perfectly fair questions. If you are defenders, then where is the defense? And if there is no defense, can you really call yourselves that, hmm?"
The Jedi sighed—the complaints were fair. The information he'd just seen was staggering. Meanwhile, the red-eyed man took a sip of caf, handed the furry little creature to the Padawan—who had been staring at it without looking away—and continued.
"And you know what the worst part is? You can't even say, 'We didn't know.' Not when you proclaim your 'protection' to the whole galaxy, and not when you were aware of the problems on this planet." The sorcerer stopped the girl, who had started to bristle, with a raised hand. "I'm not saying that you personally, Master Tholme and Padawan Secura, knew and did nothing. The Senate and the Jedi Council knew. The Jabiimites asked for help more than once. And you can't excuse it by saying there wasn't enough time, either. The entire three-thousand-year history of this planet is filled with hardship and disaster, and no one ever helped the locals deal with any of it. But they were always happy enough to collect taxes."
"So that's why everyone was reacting to us like that." The Twi'lek girl looked at her mentor. "Master, how did it come to this?"
"Unfortunately, Padawan, the Jedi are not all-powerful. There are worlds in the galaxy whose people feel much the same way as the Jabiimites do."
"Oh, all right, you can sort that out yourselves," the sorcerer snorted, holding out a hand to the little beast. It immediately leapt onto his palm and scampered up his sleeve, disappearing somewhere beneath his robe. "Or maybe you won't, but either way, that's your business. Different question: is there anything else I can help you with, apart from spilling my secrets and introducing you to the Commander?"
I couldn't help them. Though, to be fair, I hadn't intended to. They were little more than a curiosity to me. And I'd decided to step onto the stage myself. I showed a reasonable amount of goodwill, calmly explained why they weren't particularly welcome here, and spared Alto the trouble. Those two might have decided to push for a meeting with him, and if they succeeded, I wasn't sure Stratus wouldn't say more than he should.
We exchanged contact information before parting and said our goodbyes. Three days later, they left. Fair winds, as they say.
Funny thing was, they turned out not to be sorcerers. My spells showed some kind of strange picture. An ordinary human, an ordinary Twi'lek. No anomalies at all. Shame they never used their Force—or maybe my spells simply couldn't detect whatever it was they used? No ide-e-ea.
Well, I chose Ryloth for several reasons:
First, everything there would be new to me—as it would be on pretty much any other planet.
Second, they might be nonhumans, but at least they're close enough to us—not some weird-ass monstrosities with legs growing out of their shoulders and arms out of their asses, like those... what were they called again... Dugs!
Third, the situation on the planet leaves a lot to be desired too, and my funds should definitely be enough to live there in decent conditions until it's time to fly back.
And fourth, you can legally buy slaves there. I could pick out a married couple with a child and set up a whole servant dynasty for myself. Treat them well, pay them, give them decent living conditions, and they'll be tied to me more securely than by any contract. Cordelia objected, of course—she hated slavery—but I convinced her that those sentients would be better off working for me in decent conditions than rotting somewhere in slave barracks.
And lastly. I just found out what a vacation is! I want a vacation! And I want to spend it on the planet that happens to be the galaxy's main supplier of dancers and concubines! Heh-heh-heh.
I'd just make one little stop along the way and hire myself a couple of cutthroats. Good Jabiimites were often a rather morally squeamish lot, and having a few sentients around who weren't especially burdened by moral principles could come in handy. The main thing was that they looked civilized and presentable.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
Chapter 17
New
Boroda Orka
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The Sweaty Gizkat Cantina. Mos Espa. Tatooine.
The day was dragging by miserably. For a week now, Arvik and his two companions, Koit and Romri, had been haunting this cantina and others like it where mercenaries gathered. No decent employers had turned up. A few promising sentients, unfortunately, had been looking either for larger groups or, on the contrary, for a lone bodyguard, so their colorful little company—a human Mando, a Gungan, and a Togruta—hadn't suited anyone so far. And none of them wanted to break up a close-knit team that already worked well together.
Working for a kajidic* held little appeal, either. Neither he nor his friends were thrilled by the prospect of taking orders from Hutt slugs. As Romri put it, "They stink so badly it makes me want to stop living." Arvik couldn't disagree. Back in his younger days, he'd had the dubious honor of meeting one of their kind in person, and the smell had left a lasting impression. Though, of course, the stench wasn't the main reason.
"Romri," he began, if only to amuse himself. "How about showing a little more skin? You'll see—the clients will come flocking!"
It was worth noting that the girl already wore a top that covered little more than her breasts, and even there the neckline left nothing to the imagination. Look closely, and it was obvious she wasn't wearing anything underneath it at all. Her shorts weren't much better—the barrel of a blaster stuck out farther than the hem of that "clothing." So the joke was simple and about as subtle as a vibroknife.
The girl had a point: Tatooine was hot. But because of her choice of clothing, Arvik had already been forced to shoot three idiots who'd gotten a little too eager to get their hands on her, and Koit had skewered another on his spear.
"Go fuck yourself, Mando. Better put a bucket on your head—you've scared off all the clients with that face of yours," the girl snorted, smacking the laughing Gungan on the shoulder.
"Oh, a Jedi!" Koit exclaimed. He was sitting facing the entrance, and his shout drew the attention of both his companions and a couple of nearby groups. After getting a good look at the two who had entered the cantina, Arvik grimaced.
"Damn, he really does look like one. Bantha poodoo," he grumbled, pulling on his helmet. The Mando didn't like Jedi. And it wasn't even because of the history between Mandalorians and lightsaber-wielders. He'd crossed paths with members of the Order a couple of times before. Some people called his fellow Mandos crazy, but in the man's opinion, the quirks of certain Mandalorians were nothing compared to how completely unhinged the "peacekeepers" he'd met could be.
One of the newcomers was a tall human in robes, with red eyes. He looked pleased with himself, an unpleasant, anticipatory smile playing across his face. The second was a little shorter, and his species was impossible to determine for certain: the presumed Jedi's companion was clad in armor and wore a fully enclosed helmet with a scarlet-orange visor.
About a minute before the two of them entered, the musicians had taken a short break, so everyone could hear one of the lowlifes sitting near the entrance toss an insult at the robed man.
To the surprise of Arvik's whole group—and, really, everyone else in the cantina—the red-eyed man burst out laughing along with the men who had mocked him, merrily if somewhat unpleasantly, then gave his companion a reassuring pat on the shoulder when the latter reached for his blaster.
"Leave it, Ron! That was a good one," the man said with an unpleasant grin, studying the would-be comedian. "Ah, so young... almost a shame."
The red-eyed man's face fell into an exaggeratedly mournful expression, but then he shook his head, slung an arm around the armored man's shoulders, and headed toward the bar. Laughter from the local riffraff followed them, while Arvik read the Jedi's lips as he said to his companion, "Easy, Rob. You'll get your chance."
"Disgusting to watch," Romri snorted contemptuously and spat on the dirty floor. "And that's supposed to be a Jedi."
At that, the red-eyed man looked straight at her, gave her a slow once-over from head to toe, shook his head in admiration, and winked, flashing another of those smiles that, judging by her involuntary movement, made the girl want to cover every inch of exposed skin.
"Look over there," Koit said, nodding toward the table where the petty criminals were sitting. The joker was clearly not doing well. He was breathing heavily and gripping the tabletop so hard his fingers had gone rigid. "Looks like he's taken a turn for the worse."
"Greetings, wise barkeep," the strange pair reached the bar in the meantime. "Something tasty and nonalcoholic for me. Ros, order whatever you want, don't be shy! I'm paying! Oh, and one more thing. Send a bottle of the vilest booze you've got to that table. The boys need something to drink to the departed."
As if he'd been waiting for those words, the bandit dropped to all fours and started vomiting. First came everything he'd drunk and eaten, then blood and... what looked like chunks of flesh? The Mando watched the unpleasant spectacle with disgust.
"That's definitely not a Jedi," he said quietly, but loud enough for his companions to hear. He flinched slightly when the red-eyed man looked straight at him and flashed a cheerful grin. By then, the joker had already gone still.
"I'll remember him as a joker and a merry fellow," the "Jedi" said mournfully, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"Corpse removal costs one turgut," the Toydarian bartender said impassively, his wings beating rapidly as he sent a bottle of truly shitty yardle* over with a droid.
"Fair enough," the human said with a shrug, sniffing the mug that had been set in front of him. "You have to pay for entertainment."
"Hey, you!" one of the local lowlifes roared—a big man with two blasters on his belt. Under his helmet, the Mandalorian grimaced. Complete idiot. The red-eyed man smiled at the bartender and slapped two turguts onto the counter.
"Yes?" the "Jedi" asked with a delighted smile as he turned toward him, while his companion removed his helmet and, paying no attention to what was happening, began choosing a drink.
"You killed Scotty!" the big man growled.
"Yeah. So?" The Mando actually chuckled—the bandit's face twisted into such a ridiculous expression.
"You! You—" the big man started working himself up, while the entire cantina went still in anticipation of some entertainment. Everyone except the bartender, who was pouring some kind of alcohol into a glass for the red-eyed man's companion while calmly watching the scene unfold, the armored man himself, and the "Jedi," who cut the bandit off with a smile.
"Now, don't get worked up. I'll fix everything in a moment."
He made a finger gun, pointed it at the bandit, and said, "Pew."
At the same instant, a red bolt of energy shot from his fingertip and, with a quiet psssshhh, struck the criminal square in the head, leaving a neat little hole in his forehead.
"There. Now you and Scotty are together again. No need to thank me, nameless dumbass."
After that, his laughter filled the room. Genuine—and more than a little unsettling. But when the dead criminals' companions started rising from their seats with threatening looks and reaching for their blasters, the laughter cut off.
Now the whole group found themselves staring down two finger guns, backed by a very serious look from the red-eyed man.
"Think very carefully, kids. These little beauties have enough plasma for all of you, and I'd really rather not pay to have that many bodies hauled out."
For several seconds, the riffraff visibly tried to think things through. Then one of them—probably the brightest of the bunch—finally said, "Come on, guys. You'll regret this."
And the whole group filed toward the exit under the aim of the so-called Jedi's so-called guns.
"Seriously, do they get their lines from holomovies or something?" the "Jedi" muttered, scratching the back of his head. Then he waved it off, snorted, and reached for his drink.
"Sir, have I mentioned that your laugh is terrifying?"
"More than once! You're far too gloomy, Ron. Life is wonderful, and we're many parsecs closer to our vacation! We'll wrap up this last bit of business, buy the parts we need, tune up the Turtle, and then we're off to see some exotic dancers!"
"My name is Ras, sir."
"That's exactly what I'm talking about, kid," the red-eyed man said, shaking his head sadly. "You're too serious! When you work, give it everything you've got. When it's time to rest, enjoy it. A human life is short—you have to get the most out of it."
"You scared off my customers," the bartender grumbled.
"And how much could you have made off them?" the red-eyed man asked.
"Maybe a peggat."
"That's way too much for a bunch of ragged lowlifes like that, sir," the armored man immediately chimed in.
"You asked how much I could make, and I told you," the Toydarian said. At the same time, the human pulled a peggat from the folds of his robe and set it on the counter, though he kept his hand on it, pinning the money in place.
"I'll compensate you for the inconvenience, good barkeep," he said to the winged wheeler-dealer, who was eyeing the Hutt currency with interest. "But in return, you'll recommend two to four good mercenaries for a short-term contract."
And then the Mando smiled faintly beneath his helmet, because Scipi the bartender's gaze immediately shifted toward the three of them. That turgut Arvik had slipped him for occasions like this clearly hadn't gone to waste.
"No problem. See those three over there? They've been looking for a decent employer for two weeks now. The big guy in armor is a Mandalorian. The long-eared one is good with a spear and knows his way around a blaster too. Don't know much about the girl, haven't heard anything about her, but she carries a blaster on her belt. They're solid, reasonable types. Don't let the long wait fool you—their group's small, and they don't want to work for a kajidic. They've just had bad luck so far."
"Well, looks like their bad luck just ran out," the red-eyed man said with a broad smile as he watched his money disappear into the bartender's pocket. "Thank you, wise barkeep."
The whole group watched the man approach. The Gungan and Arvik simply looked interested, while the Togruta wore a pleased smile. The girl loved money, and the ease with which the red-eyed man parted with his was downright inspiring.
Though that smile of his put all of them on edge. Even now, the team remained somewhat tense.
"Greetings, warriors. Mind if I sit down?" The man standing beside their table was no longer smiling, but he asked politely, and his voice sounded friendly.
Arvik quietly exhaled beneath his helmet, and the Togruta and Gungan relaxed as well. Without that off-putting smile, the man could even be called handsome.
The Mandalorian simply gestured toward one of the empty chairs at their table.
"Thank you." The red-eyed man nodded as he sat down. "My name is Siith, and no, I'm not a Sith—the names just happen to sound similar. As you've probably heard, I'm looking for a small team of mercenaries to serve as bodyguards. Short-term contract, two or three months, and after that we'll see. I pay two thousand Republic credits a month, though I can pay in Hutt currency at the current exchange rate if you prefer. Food and lodging are on me. Any loot you personally take is yours. Interested?"
The group exchanged glances. Arvik hesitated. On the one hand, this "not a Sith" looked an awful lot like a Sith. On the other hand, the pay was decent, assuming there wasn't a serious bounty on the client's head.
"How long's the line for your heads?"
"We haven't really stepped on anyone's toes yet. Put down about a dozen thugs here on Tatooine, but they were absolute trash. Already had two attempted robberies," the red-eyed man said with a shrug. "And then those two idiots. I suspect we'll keep running into morons like that."
"Hmm... and where are you headed, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Figure we'll spend another two or three days wandering around Tatooine, then head to Ryloth, and after that we'll see. I'm on vacation—I'm just going wherever my left heel tells me."
"Just bodyguard work, without any... exotic conditions?" the Togruta asked.
The red-eyed man gave her an amused look and snorted softly.
"Just bodyguard work, Red. Though if we come to an agreement, I will ask you to dress a little more modestly. The view is certainly delightful, but I... well, never mind me—everyone's going to be distracted by you."
"It's really hot here," Romri grumbled, sounding both pleased and a little offended at the same time. The Gungan only gave a quiet snort.
"Hmm..." The man thought for a second, then reached inside his robe.
First, he set a small furry creature on the table. Rising onto its hind legs, it began sniffing comically at the Togruta's plate, which held a scattering of nuts. While the girl smiled fondly and offered the little beast one of them, the red-eyed man pulled out a jumble of assorted rings, chains, and dangling trinkets. After rummaging through the pile, he picked out a neat little ring of silvery metal, its entire surface covered in microscopic patterns.
"Here, try this on," he said, holding it out to the girl. "Don't look at me like that—I'm not proposing. Just put it on and tell me if it feels any cooler."
Romri gave Arvik a doubtful look, but he only shrugged.
"I think I'll pass," the Togruta said with a faint smile, casting a quick glance at the two corpses a pair of droids were dragging somewhere deeper into the cantina.
"Your choice, but I sincerely approve of a healthy dose of distrust. Quartermaster, get over here, fat-ass. Stop eating the girl's food." Scooping up the little beast along with the pile of trinkets, he looked at the Mandalorian. "So, what do you say?"
Good, I thought as I headed toward the less-than-stellar "hotel" to pick up our new bodyguards' things. Ras, by the way, got properly hammered once he heard we'd reached an agreement with the mercenaries. Looks like the guy had finally decided to let himself unwind. Serious fellow. Back in the day, I'd literally had to put him back together piece by piece: one of the pirate raids had hit the Nimbus pretty hard. Alto had already acquired a fleet by then, but the crews were still training with their ships outside our system.
The kid had been saved by a stasis amulet and an old acquaintance of mine—the sergeant from the squad that had taken me to Alto's mansion. At the time, I was up to my ears in work creating a prototype magical equivalent of an ore-processing line, so I patched the guy up almost on autopilot while thinking through the peculiarities of turning local ores into ingots. By the next day, I didn't even remember him or the sergeant. I only found out that she'd taken it upon herself to bring the guy to me the next time Cordelia came by.
Back then, I'd just waved it off. I was stuck on the project anyway, so at least I'd done something useful. Later, when I started looking for a pilot, Ras volunteered to work for me himself. I paid for his pilot training, Alto seconded the lad to me, and that was pretty much the whole story.
As for the mercenaries—they were an amusing bunch. I'd never met either a Gungan or a Togruta before, so I was thinking more about how to get them into a diagnostic and analysis circle than about their combat skills.
Arvik the Mandalorian actually chided me for that after we shook on the deal. Said I hadn't learned nearly enough about them before deciding to hire them. On Tatooine, after all, it was easy enough to run into sentients who weren't exactly honest.
No point telling him that if they tried to cheat me, they'd be joining the dozen or so souls currently stored in the miniature soul vault in my pocket. For me, it was a no-lose situation. Either I got competent mercenaries, or I got three more souls and the chance to study the bodies of two new species.
Why do I even need guards? If nothing else, to learn more about the world around me. Archive records, the HoloNet, stories from Jabiimites... not enough. Some of the latter already knew less about the galaxy than I did. Mercenaries, on the other hand, had personally been to plenty of planets, had seen things, heard things, and often liked to while away the evenings spinning tales for an appreciative audience.
In my world, at least.
There was plenty of lying and boasting too, of course, but that was a minor detail.
The bodyguards could also do some weapon-rattling for me. Keeping the soul vault stocked was useful, sure, but paving my road with corpses would be overdoing it. You never knew who might start taking an interest.
One armored man bristling with guns and his two nonhuman companions made for a good group to scare off small fry, and even anyone more serious would think twice.
"Boss," the Mandalorian walking beside me spoke up, catching my attention. "You sure you didn't have any Sith among your ancestors?"
"Absolutely sure," I snorted. "I lost my family name only after I'd learned the names and brief biographies of every notable member of the line, all the way back to its founder. No guys with red glowing sticks and faces like they'd been constipated for a month. Though some of them did have some truly spectacular mugs, heh-heh. Why do you ask?"
"Mm... the robes are like what Force-sensitives wear, and the sorcery's strange. Or were those some kind of concealed blasters?"
"Oh, listen, how about I tell you later? It's a pretty long story, and I just can't be bothered to talk that much right now. But there were no Sith or your Jeddies in my family. I'm a sorcerer—different school, different tradition, basically. None of that high-minded spiritual nonsense."
"Sir, the parts," the pilot reminded me, pointing at the sign above one of the shops. Good man! He'd been drinking, but he still remembered the job.
"Right. Might as well go in."
"I'm starting to get the feeling this isn't a Hutt planet at all, but a Toydarian one," Ras grumbled on the way back to our "Turtle." "Bartenders, shopkeepers, spaceport bureaucrats—one winged, money-grubbing bastard after another, all after our money."
"Well, Watto seems like a decent enough sentient," the slave woman walking with us toward the ship said in defense of her owner. We'd managed to bargain for both the parts and their installation in one deal. Ras had taken accelerated pilot training, but when it came to mechanics, he was frankly weak. And I, to be honest, had only skimmed the surface myself—there was simply too much of it to learn.
"Toydarians are fine, really. There are greedier races out there," I said with a dismissive wave, remembering the gnomes.
"Yeah," the Togruta agreed. "Like the Neimoidians. Those guys would strangle themselves over a wupiupi. Or strangle someone else."
Arvik snorted under his helmet, while the Gungan burst out laughing. At my surprised look, the Mandalorian only shook his helmet, but the spearman decided to elaborate.
"Romri doesn't like Neimoidians because they love money even more than she does, Boss-sa. Our last employer was a Neimoidian, and after the job the two of them yelled at each other over every last credit so loudly that— Ow, crazy woman!" The Gungan jumped aside from the Togruta's kick. "Can't get mad at the truth. Boss-sa should know what a greedy mercenary he's hired."
"You say that like you two love money any less than I do," the Togruta said, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
"Yes."
"Of course," both of her companions replied in unison, and I burst out laughing. I like sentients with a sense of humor. Even Watto's slave, Shmi Skywalker, was smiling, though she was trying not to make it too obvious.
Meanwhile, we reached our ship's berth, and Ras gave the command to lower the ramp.
"Make yourselves at home, troops," I said, waving toward the gangway. "We'll take care of some minor repairs in the meantime. Shmi, you're in charge! I'll help."
At the young woman's surprised look and the mercenaries' puzzled ones, I only shrugged.
"I like learning new things. Maybe I'll pick up a thing or two while we work."
Author's note:
Peggat (gold peggat) = 4 turguts = 64 wupiupi. 1 turgut = 16 wupiupi. Hutt currency. Exchange rate around the time of Episode I: 1 peggat = 40 credits. (Once again, many thanks to the Elven Tanker channel on YouTube and VK.)
Kajidic* — a Hutt criminal clan.
Yardle* — a popular strong alcoholic drink on Tatooine.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
The day was dragging by miserably. For a week now, Arvik and his two companions, Koit and Romri, had been haunting this cantina and others like it where mercenaries gathered. No decent employers had turned up. A few promising sentients, unfortunately, had been looking either for larger groups or, on the contrary, for a lone bodyguard, so their colorful little company—a human Mando, a Gungan, and a Togruta—hadn't suited anyone so far. And none of them wanted to break up a close-knit team that already worked well together.
Working for a kajidic* held little appeal, either. Neither he nor his friends were thrilled by the prospect of taking orders from Hutt slugs. As Romri put it, "They stink so badly it makes me want to stop living." Arvik couldn't disagree. Back in his younger days, he'd had the dubious honor of meeting one of their kind in person, and the smell had left a lasting impression. Though, of course, the stench wasn't the main reason.
"Romri," he began, if only to amuse himself. "How about showing a little more skin? You'll see—the clients will come flocking!"
It was worth noting that the girl already wore a top that covered little more than her breasts, and even there the neckline left nothing to the imagination. Look closely, and it was obvious she wasn't wearing anything underneath it at all. Her shorts weren't much better—the barrel of a blaster stuck out farther than the hem of that "clothing." So the joke was simple and about as subtle as a vibroknife.
The girl had a point: Tatooine was hot. But because of her choice of clothing, Arvik had already been forced to shoot three idiots who'd gotten a little too eager to get their hands on her, and Koit had skewered another on his spear.
"Go fuck yourself, Mando. Better put a bucket on your head—you've scared off all the clients with that face of yours," the girl snorted, smacking the laughing Gungan on the shoulder.
"Oh, a Jedi!" Koit exclaimed. He was sitting facing the entrance, and his shout drew the attention of both his companions and a couple of nearby groups. After getting a good look at the two who had entered the cantina, Arvik grimaced.
"Damn, he really does look like one. Bantha poodoo," he grumbled, pulling on his helmet. The Mando didn't like Jedi. And it wasn't even because of the history between Mandalorians and lightsaber-wielders. He'd crossed paths with members of the Order a couple of times before. Some people called his fellow Mandos crazy, but in the man's opinion, the quirks of certain Mandalorians were nothing compared to how completely unhinged the "peacekeepers" he'd met could be.
One of the newcomers was a tall human in robes, with red eyes. He looked pleased with himself, an unpleasant, anticipatory smile playing across his face. The second was a little shorter, and his species was impossible to determine for certain: the presumed Jedi's companion was clad in armor and wore a fully enclosed helmet with a scarlet-orange visor.
About a minute before the two of them entered, the musicians had taken a short break, so everyone could hear one of the lowlifes sitting near the entrance toss an insult at the robed man.
To the surprise of Arvik's whole group—and, really, everyone else in the cantina—the red-eyed man burst out laughing along with the men who had mocked him, merrily if somewhat unpleasantly, then gave his companion a reassuring pat on the shoulder when the latter reached for his blaster.
"Leave it, Ron! That was a good one," the man said with an unpleasant grin, studying the would-be comedian. "Ah, so young... almost a shame."
The red-eyed man's face fell into an exaggeratedly mournful expression, but then he shook his head, slung an arm around the armored man's shoulders, and headed toward the bar. Laughter from the local riffraff followed them, while Arvik read the Jedi's lips as he said to his companion, "Easy, Rob. You'll get your chance."
"Disgusting to watch," Romri snorted contemptuously and spat on the dirty floor. "And that's supposed to be a Jedi."
At that, the red-eyed man looked straight at her, gave her a slow once-over from head to toe, shook his head in admiration, and winked, flashing another of those smiles that, judging by her involuntary movement, made the girl want to cover every inch of exposed skin.
"Look over there," Koit said, nodding toward the table where the petty criminals were sitting. The joker was clearly not doing well. He was breathing heavily and gripping the tabletop so hard his fingers had gone rigid. "Looks like he's taken a turn for the worse."
"Greetings, wise barkeep," the strange pair reached the bar in the meantime. "Something tasty and nonalcoholic for me. Ros, order whatever you want, don't be shy! I'm paying! Oh, and one more thing. Send a bottle of the vilest booze you've got to that table. The boys need something to drink to the departed."
As if he'd been waiting for those words, the bandit dropped to all fours and started vomiting. First came everything he'd drunk and eaten, then blood and... what looked like chunks of flesh? The Mando watched the unpleasant spectacle with disgust.
"That's definitely not a Jedi," he said quietly, but loud enough for his companions to hear. He flinched slightly when the red-eyed man looked straight at him and flashed a cheerful grin. By then, the joker had already gone still.
"I'll remember him as a joker and a merry fellow," the "Jedi" said mournfully, but loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"Corpse removal costs one turgut," the Toydarian bartender said impassively, his wings beating rapidly as he sent a bottle of truly shitty yardle* over with a droid.
"Fair enough," the human said with a shrug, sniffing the mug that had been set in front of him. "You have to pay for entertainment."
"Hey, you!" one of the local lowlifes roared—a big man with two blasters on his belt. Under his helmet, the Mandalorian grimaced. Complete idiot. The red-eyed man smiled at the bartender and slapped two turguts onto the counter.
"Yes?" the "Jedi" asked with a delighted smile as he turned toward him, while his companion removed his helmet and, paying no attention to what was happening, began choosing a drink.
"You killed Scotty!" the big man growled.
"Yeah. So?" The Mando actually chuckled—the bandit's face twisted into such a ridiculous expression.
"You! You—" the big man started working himself up, while the entire cantina went still in anticipation of some entertainment. Everyone except the bartender, who was pouring some kind of alcohol into a glass for the red-eyed man's companion while calmly watching the scene unfold, the armored man himself, and the "Jedi," who cut the bandit off with a smile.
"Now, don't get worked up. I'll fix everything in a moment."
He made a finger gun, pointed it at the bandit, and said, "Pew."
At the same instant, a red bolt of energy shot from his fingertip and, with a quiet psssshhh, struck the criminal square in the head, leaving a neat little hole in his forehead.
"There. Now you and Scotty are together again. No need to thank me, nameless dumbass."
After that, his laughter filled the room. Genuine—and more than a little unsettling. But when the dead criminals' companions started rising from their seats with threatening looks and reaching for their blasters, the laughter cut off.
Now the whole group found themselves staring down two finger guns, backed by a very serious look from the red-eyed man.
"Think very carefully, kids. These little beauties have enough plasma for all of you, and I'd really rather not pay to have that many bodies hauled out."
For several seconds, the riffraff visibly tried to think things through. Then one of them—probably the brightest of the bunch—finally said, "Come on, guys. You'll regret this."
And the whole group filed toward the exit under the aim of the so-called Jedi's so-called guns.
"Seriously, do they get their lines from holomovies or something?" the "Jedi" muttered, scratching the back of his head. Then he waved it off, snorted, and reached for his drink.
"Sir, have I mentioned that your laugh is terrifying?"
"More than once! You're far too gloomy, Ron. Life is wonderful, and we're many parsecs closer to our vacation! We'll wrap up this last bit of business, buy the parts we need, tune up the Turtle, and then we're off to see some exotic dancers!"
"My name is Ras, sir."
"That's exactly what I'm talking about, kid," the red-eyed man said, shaking his head sadly. "You're too serious! When you work, give it everything you've got. When it's time to rest, enjoy it. A human life is short—you have to get the most out of it."
"You scared off my customers," the bartender grumbled.
"And how much could you have made off them?" the red-eyed man asked.
"Maybe a peggat."
"That's way too much for a bunch of ragged lowlifes like that, sir," the armored man immediately chimed in.
"You asked how much I could make, and I told you," the Toydarian said. At the same time, the human pulled a peggat from the folds of his robe and set it on the counter, though he kept his hand on it, pinning the money in place.
"I'll compensate you for the inconvenience, good barkeep," he said to the winged wheeler-dealer, who was eyeing the Hutt currency with interest. "But in return, you'll recommend two to four good mercenaries for a short-term contract."
And then the Mando smiled faintly beneath his helmet, because Scipi the bartender's gaze immediately shifted toward the three of them. That turgut Arvik had slipped him for occasions like this clearly hadn't gone to waste.
"No problem. See those three over there? They've been looking for a decent employer for two weeks now. The big guy in armor is a Mandalorian. The long-eared one is good with a spear and knows his way around a blaster too. Don't know much about the girl, haven't heard anything about her, but she carries a blaster on her belt. They're solid, reasonable types. Don't let the long wait fool you—their group's small, and they don't want to work for a kajidic. They've just had bad luck so far."
"Well, looks like their bad luck just ran out," the red-eyed man said with a broad smile as he watched his money disappear into the bartender's pocket. "Thank you, wise barkeep."
The whole group watched the man approach. The Gungan and Arvik simply looked interested, while the Togruta wore a pleased smile. The girl loved money, and the ease with which the red-eyed man parted with his was downright inspiring.
Though that smile of his put all of them on edge. Even now, the team remained somewhat tense.
"Greetings, warriors. Mind if I sit down?" The man standing beside their table was no longer smiling, but he asked politely, and his voice sounded friendly.
Arvik quietly exhaled beneath his helmet, and the Togruta and Gungan relaxed as well. Without that off-putting smile, the man could even be called handsome.
The Mandalorian simply gestured toward one of the empty chairs at their table.
"Thank you." The red-eyed man nodded as he sat down. "My name is Siith, and no, I'm not a Sith—the names just happen to sound similar. As you've probably heard, I'm looking for a small team of mercenaries to serve as bodyguards. Short-term contract, two or three months, and after that we'll see. I pay two thousand Republic credits a month, though I can pay in Hutt currency at the current exchange rate if you prefer. Food and lodging are on me. Any loot you personally take is yours. Interested?"
The group exchanged glances. Arvik hesitated. On the one hand, this "not a Sith" looked an awful lot like a Sith. On the other hand, the pay was decent, assuming there wasn't a serious bounty on the client's head.
"How long's the line for your heads?"
"We haven't really stepped on anyone's toes yet. Put down about a dozen thugs here on Tatooine, but they were absolute trash. Already had two attempted robberies," the red-eyed man said with a shrug. "And then those two idiots. I suspect we'll keep running into morons like that."
"Hmm... and where are you headed, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Figure we'll spend another two or three days wandering around Tatooine, then head to Ryloth, and after that we'll see. I'm on vacation—I'm just going wherever my left heel tells me."
"Just bodyguard work, without any... exotic conditions?" the Togruta asked.
The red-eyed man gave her an amused look and snorted softly.
"Just bodyguard work, Red. Though if we come to an agreement, I will ask you to dress a little more modestly. The view is certainly delightful, but I... well, never mind me—everyone's going to be distracted by you."
"It's really hot here," Romri grumbled, sounding both pleased and a little offended at the same time. The Gungan only gave a quiet snort.
"Hmm..." The man thought for a second, then reached inside his robe.
First, he set a small furry creature on the table. Rising onto its hind legs, it began sniffing comically at the Togruta's plate, which held a scattering of nuts. While the girl smiled fondly and offered the little beast one of them, the red-eyed man pulled out a jumble of assorted rings, chains, and dangling trinkets. After rummaging through the pile, he picked out a neat little ring of silvery metal, its entire surface covered in microscopic patterns.
"Here, try this on," he said, holding it out to the girl. "Don't look at me like that—I'm not proposing. Just put it on and tell me if it feels any cooler."
Romri gave Arvik a doubtful look, but he only shrugged.
"I think I'll pass," the Togruta said with a faint smile, casting a quick glance at the two corpses a pair of droids were dragging somewhere deeper into the cantina.
"Your choice, but I sincerely approve of a healthy dose of distrust. Quartermaster, get over here, fat-ass. Stop eating the girl's food." Scooping up the little beast along with the pile of trinkets, he looked at the Mandalorian. "So, what do you say?"
Good, I thought as I headed toward the less-than-stellar "hotel" to pick up our new bodyguards' things. Ras, by the way, got properly hammered once he heard we'd reached an agreement with the mercenaries. Looks like the guy had finally decided to let himself unwind. Serious fellow. Back in the day, I'd literally had to put him back together piece by piece: one of the pirate raids had hit the Nimbus pretty hard. Alto had already acquired a fleet by then, but the crews were still training with their ships outside our system.
The kid had been saved by a stasis amulet and an old acquaintance of mine—the sergeant from the squad that had taken me to Alto's mansion. At the time, I was up to my ears in work creating a prototype magical equivalent of an ore-processing line, so I patched the guy up almost on autopilot while thinking through the peculiarities of turning local ores into ingots. By the next day, I didn't even remember him or the sergeant. I only found out that she'd taken it upon herself to bring the guy to me the next time Cordelia came by.
Back then, I'd just waved it off. I was stuck on the project anyway, so at least I'd done something useful. Later, when I started looking for a pilot, Ras volunteered to work for me himself. I paid for his pilot training, Alto seconded the lad to me, and that was pretty much the whole story.
As for the mercenaries—they were an amusing bunch. I'd never met either a Gungan or a Togruta before, so I was thinking more about how to get them into a diagnostic and analysis circle than about their combat skills.
Arvik the Mandalorian actually chided me for that after we shook on the deal. Said I hadn't learned nearly enough about them before deciding to hire them. On Tatooine, after all, it was easy enough to run into sentients who weren't exactly honest.
No point telling him that if they tried to cheat me, they'd be joining the dozen or so souls currently stored in the miniature soul vault in my pocket. For me, it was a no-lose situation. Either I got competent mercenaries, or I got three more souls and the chance to study the bodies of two new species.
Why do I even need guards? If nothing else, to learn more about the world around me. Archive records, the HoloNet, stories from Jabiimites... not enough. Some of the latter already knew less about the galaxy than I did. Mercenaries, on the other hand, had personally been to plenty of planets, had seen things, heard things, and often liked to while away the evenings spinning tales for an appreciative audience.
In my world, at least.
There was plenty of lying and boasting too, of course, but that was a minor detail.
The bodyguards could also do some weapon-rattling for me. Keeping the soul vault stocked was useful, sure, but paving my road with corpses would be overdoing it. You never knew who might start taking an interest.
One armored man bristling with guns and his two nonhuman companions made for a good group to scare off small fry, and even anyone more serious would think twice.
"Boss," the Mandalorian walking beside me spoke up, catching my attention. "You sure you didn't have any Sith among your ancestors?"
"Absolutely sure," I snorted. "I lost my family name only after I'd learned the names and brief biographies of every notable member of the line, all the way back to its founder. No guys with red glowing sticks and faces like they'd been constipated for a month. Though some of them did have some truly spectacular mugs, heh-heh. Why do you ask?"
"Mm... the robes are like what Force-sensitives wear, and the sorcery's strange. Or were those some kind of concealed blasters?"
"Oh, listen, how about I tell you later? It's a pretty long story, and I just can't be bothered to talk that much right now. But there were no Sith or your Jeddies in my family. I'm a sorcerer—different school, different tradition, basically. None of that high-minded spiritual nonsense."
"Sir, the parts," the pilot reminded me, pointing at the sign above one of the shops. Good man! He'd been drinking, but he still remembered the job.
"Right. Might as well go in."
"I'm starting to get the feeling this isn't a Hutt planet at all, but a Toydarian one," Ras grumbled on the way back to our "Turtle." "Bartenders, shopkeepers, spaceport bureaucrats—one winged, money-grubbing bastard after another, all after our money."
"Well, Watto seems like a decent enough sentient," the slave woman walking with us toward the ship said in defense of her owner. We'd managed to bargain for both the parts and their installation in one deal. Ras had taken accelerated pilot training, but when it came to mechanics, he was frankly weak. And I, to be honest, had only skimmed the surface myself—there was simply too much of it to learn.
"Toydarians are fine, really. There are greedier races out there," I said with a dismissive wave, remembering the gnomes.
"Yeah," the Togruta agreed. "Like the Neimoidians. Those guys would strangle themselves over a wupiupi. Or strangle someone else."
Arvik snorted under his helmet, while the Gungan burst out laughing. At my surprised look, the Mandalorian only shook his helmet, but the spearman decided to elaborate.
"Romri doesn't like Neimoidians because they love money even more than she does, Boss-sa. Our last employer was a Neimoidian, and after the job the two of them yelled at each other over every last credit so loudly that— Ow, crazy woman!" The Gungan jumped aside from the Togruta's kick. "Can't get mad at the truth. Boss-sa should know what a greedy mercenary he's hired."
"You say that like you two love money any less than I do," the Togruta said, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
"Yes."
"Of course," both of her companions replied in unison, and I burst out laughing. I like sentients with a sense of humor. Even Watto's slave, Shmi Skywalker, was smiling, though she was trying not to make it too obvious.
Meanwhile, we reached our ship's berth, and Ras gave the command to lower the ramp.
"Make yourselves at home, troops," I said, waving toward the gangway. "We'll take care of some minor repairs in the meantime. Shmi, you're in charge! I'll help."
At the young woman's surprised look and the mercenaries' puzzled ones, I only shrugged.
"I like learning new things. Maybe I'll pick up a thing or two while we work."
Author's note:
Peggat (gold peggat) = 4 turguts = 64 wupiupi. 1 turgut = 16 wupiupi. Hutt currency. Exchange rate around the time of Episode I: 1 peggat = 40 credits. (Once again, many thanks to the Elven Tanker channel on YouTube and VK.)
Kajidic* — a Hutt criminal clan.
Yardle* — a popular strong alcoholic drink on Tatooine.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
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readsalot
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Boroda Orka
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The Force of Magic is getting dangerously close to catching up with the original (On Patreon) 
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Which means I'll soon need another story to translate while we wait for inspiration to ambush the author again.
So—you get to choose the next one.
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Chapter 18
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Shmi spent three hours tinkering with the "minor problem." Within the first twenty minutes, I'd pestered her with so many questions that she started narrating what she was doing just to get ahead of me. Incidentally, the woman was downright adorable when she lost her temper during repairs. Childish little curses like "stupid thing," "nasty terminal," and "may whoever thought of putting a bolt in there hiccup for three years" had me chuckling under my breath, and at that last one I burst out laughing.
Shmi, blushing slightly, explained that her young son used to live with her and was very interested in machinery. So she'd gotten into the habit of swearing in ways that wouldn't teach the boy any bad words. One thing led to another, and we got talking while we worked, as well as during the short breaks I practically had to force the woman to take. It turned out her little one was studying at the Jedi Temple now, while she had stayed here with Watto. You don't need to live six hundred years to notice how hard it was for her to talk about it. She desperately missed her son while at the same time being happy that the boy was no longer a slave. "But hey, at least he's in a cult," I snorted to myself.
After spending the whole repair chatting with her, I picked up a bit of useful knowledge and learned that, besides being good with children and having fairly extensive technical skills, she could cook too. I gave it some thought, then offered her a job with me. The daycare on Jabiim was going to expand, and having someone specifically responsible for looking after the children wouldn't hurt. It wasn't that we couldn't find a Jabiimite woman for the job; I just liked the way Shmi talked about kids, and I felt a little sorry for her. The Jedi practiced something close to monastic upbringing, taking children away from their families, and caring for little mage brats might help ease the ache in a mother's heart.
Well, there were two other factors. One minor, and one very important. The minor one was the prospect of having a grateful Jeddie who might voluntarily agree to be put through tests and analysis rituals. Minor, because I'd probably be able to find a Force-sensitive like that sooner anyway. If I hadn't been willing to kidnap members of the Order back home, then a couple of Jedi going missing somewhere far from Jabiim shouldn't compromise me too badly. Especially if they turned up later alive and perfectly healthy, just with a week-long gap in their memories.
And the important factor was having a cook on the ship!!! The food kept in stasis by dear, wonderful, charming Maria—beloved by everyone in the mansion—would run out soon, and I had no intention of choking down field rations! I doubted Shmi could cook on the same level, but anything was better than those high-calorie, vitamin-fortified army bricks!
So I offered Shmi a position as the ship's mechanic and cook for the duration of my vacation. Once we reached Jabiim, she'd switch to working with the children, and naturally, I'd pay her fairly for her labor. After buying her from Watto, we'd sign a ten-year contract, during which she'd repay the purchase price through small deductions spread across the entire term of employment. Once the contract expired, she could either keep working for me or take whatever she'd saved and go wherever she pleased. Naturally, that would be after swearing an oath before Hecate not to reveal anything she had seen or heard while in my service.
I got the impression that the deciding factor in her agreement wasn't the favorable terms for a slave, but the mention that Jabiim had no deserts at all. None. And that it rained all year round. When the woman agreed, she had such a dreamy look on her face that I didn't have the heart to disappoint her by saying that rain could get old too. Though... who knows? Maybe after long years of living on Tatooine, she'd never get tired of Jabiim's climate.
Long story short, Shmi, Arvik, and I went to see Watto, and after a bit of haggling I bought her for four protective amulets and three climate-control artifacts. All of them had automatic recharging modules, though the recharge cycle was fairly slow. The Toydarian was so thrilled by getting his hands on something exclusive—something that existed nowhere else in the galaxy except with me and, now, him—that he gave Shmi permission to take anything she needed from her shack. The only thing Watto wrung out of me was a promise not to sell anything similar on Tatooine for the next week.
What I regretted most when I asked the Mandalorian to shoot me was that he had a helmet on. It took me about two minutes to talk him into it, and then, after some three dozen pew-pews from his blaster, I got to watch a very, very pleased Toydarian who wasn't merely flying around his shop anymore—he was practically fluttering. He even wished us luck and invited us to drop by for caf if we were ever in Mos Espa again. I also asked him that if Shmi's son ever showed up, he should tell the boy that she was on Jabiim now.
Then came the matter of moving the former slave's few personal belongings. She explained that slaves having personal possessions—and even a little income of their own—was very rare. So she generally spoke well of Watto. Besides, the winged fellow had never been cruel, and neither she nor her son had ever been physically punished while they were his slaves. Any punishment had always been verbal, and even then he never went too far.
While transporting the young woman's few belongings on a small repulsor cart, we came across a grisly sight: a group of corpses sprawled together in the middle of one of the streets. The state of the bodies suggested asphyxiation. They had already been stripped of most of their clothes and all their gear—unclaimed belongings didn't stay lying around in plain sight for long in this town.
"Boss, aren't those the idiots from the cantina?" Arvik asked after getting a look at a few of the faces.
"They are. What a terrible tragedy, Arvik. Tatooine is clearly a very dangerous place."
"Indeed," came a chuckle from beneath the helmet. "All kinds of things happen around here."
We spent another day converting one of the cabins into a proper, if rather small, galley. To my surprise, the Mandalorian threw himself into the work with enthusiasm. His explanation—"I like good food"—only reinforced my impression that I'd found a decent bunch. By the way, I gave each of them a protective amulet like the ones I'd traded to Watto, and promised that if I was satisfied with their work, they could keep them at the end of the contract. Arvik, having seen the "personal shield" in action, was very impressed and, in a private conversation with the Togruta, strongly advised her not to refuse if I offered her another "climate-control" ring.
The Gungan overheard that conversation. Simple guy, by the way, but with his own brand of Gungan wisdom. Suffering badly in Tatooine's climate, he came up to me and, without any fuss or beating around the bush, simply asked for an amulet "to make it cooler." And I, just as simply, gave him one. I showed him how to set the temperature and adjust the humidity, and ten minutes later the long-eared fellow, grinning sincerely and almost with tears in his eyes, was telling his companions that "this red-eyed Boss-sa is the best employer and a great sorcerer," and, "Arvik, we definitely need to give Boss-sa our contact details so he can easily find us next time."
The Togruta took one look at the blissful Koit, asked to try the amulet on, walked around the ship, and after returning the trinket with an almost audible grinding of teeth, went off to get one for herself.
Either the girl was embarrassed because she'd turned down the ring earlier, or she was simply too proud to come right out and ask... Whatever the reason, she decided to take a different route and deploy the ultimate weapon: feminine magic.
So for the next two hours, I watched her in that outrageously revealing outfit doing everything she could to demonstrate just how unbearably hot she was. Honestly, if she hadn't managed to make the whole performance so damn erotic, I'd have handed over an amulet right away. But Great Hecate! I'm a man, aren't I?
So I spent two hours enjoying the sight of her languishing before finally, when she looked about ready to give up on her brilliant plan, I handed her the same ring I'd offered in the first place. I had amulets too, of course, but the combination of a captivating exotic beauty and a ring simply appealed to me more.
One way or another, by the third day after buying Shmi, we were ready to leave, had a proper galley, and had gotten a chance to judge the former slave's cooking. I'll be honest: Maria cooks better, but not by much. And I, being an experienced man, would never in my life say that to a woman. Especially since Shmi was a good cook, something Ras and the mercenaries clearly appreciated too. It was especially obvious from Arvik's grateful looks—he stared at Shmi the way a man in the desert looks at a spring. We were just about ready to take off when we discovered that Quartermaster was missing.
Romri was the one who noticed. She'd spent her days feeding the little bastard nuts, cuddling him, and scratching his belly. My hamster's personal slave immediately raised the alarm, but after checking his location, I told everyone to wait for the pet to come back on his own. The thing was, my fat-assed furry companion was several kilometers away from us. When Romri asked whether we should go after him, I just waved her off. We were on vacation. If Quartermaster wanted to go have some fun, then let him enjoy himself. If he wasn't back by tomorrow, we'd go looking. Until then, let the little bastard have his fun.
I was already busily planning a visit to the local casino, while Ras was just as busily trying to talk me out of it, when I felt the little beast start moving in our direction—slowly, but steadily. Yes, I could sense him; in fact, I can feel him from a very long distance away. The fact that I hadn't noticed he was gone... well, I'm absent-minded, what can you do... So I told everyone to get ready for departure, while I flopped down with a datapad to read.
By the way, about flying. Romri, according to her—and confirmed by the other mercenaries—turned out to be an experienced pilot. So I made a deal with her: for an extra two hundred credits, she'd serve as our copilot, and for another five hundred a month, she'd drill the hell out of Ras on his piloting. After all, crash courses don't exactly turn out ace pilots, and back on Jabiim we were desperately short on good flyers.
In the end, we finally took off half an hour later. Quartermaster, having apparently gorged himself half to death somewhere, practically rolled up to the ramp, and I scooped him up and carried him back to my cabin. Ahead of us was the flight to Ryloth—a relatively short one, but I don't like hyperspace. Space in general makes me uneasy, and traveling through hyperspace triggers some kind of subconscious fear in me. Purely psychological, probably, since I hadn't noticed any actual negative effects.
Jabba Desilijic Tiure
Jabba was in mourning today: someone had killed Pateesa, his beloved and only pet rancor. The slave who looked after the monster said that something had eaten the beast's brain. There was a hole where one of its eyes had been, and its skull was completely empty. The distraught Hutt had even dismissed his entire entourage and sunk into depression. What kind of horrifying creature could have done something like that to one of the greatest predators in the galaxy?
Aboard the Great Turtle shuttle as it flew through hyperspace, the hamster-chimera known as Quartermaster let out a satisfied belch. It had been a long time since he'd eaten that well...
Jedi Council
Today, the Jedi Council reached a decision regarding the newly emerged group of Force-sensitives. The Jabiimite Mages had appeared suddenly, but the investigation concluded that they posed no threat and were, in fact, beneficial to the world they lived on. The Jedi were even relieved to learn that the mages did not live in an isolated enclave, but simply reintegrated into society after completing their training.
There wasn't much information, but the agents had failed to uncover anything dangerous. So, by majority vote, the Council decided not to interfere with the fledgling organization, to keep observing it, and, where possible, to establish contact and good relations.
"Master Tholme and Padawan Secura are on Ryloth right now. As soon as they return from their mission, I suggest we hand the matter over to them," Master Windu proposed.
"Support this, I do," Yoda said calmly, closing his eyes to signal his agreement. "Familiar faces they are, and good relations with them they already have. Well of that sorcerer, Master Tholme spoke. His jokes, however, he did not approve of."
"I thought it was rather funny," the serpentine Master Rancisis said with a smile. "'You want to learn my secrets, but you won't even agree to a little vivisection,' ha-ha-ha. If relations with these mages work out, I'd be quite happy to have a conversation with this Siith."
Master Yaddle merely snorted at his words. Her former Padawan had... a unique sense of humor.
Ryloth. Fenn Family Citadel. Aayla Secura.
She was "home" again. Ryloth... stirred conflicting feelings in her. The homeland she had left as a little girl. Memories of the underground cities, of her own people... A planet where slavery flourished and women had no voice. Her former home, where her own family had planned to sell her to the Hutts because she would be safer with them.
The girl banished the ghost of anger from her heart before it could gather strength, fed by the memories. Her home was the Temple. Her family was the Jedi. She wanted nothing to do with those who had tried time and again to make her a slave, those who had drugged her, those because of whom she had nearly fallen to the dark side. She didn't want them in her life, and she never would.
There were two men in the room with her. The master of the house, Ro Fenn, and his "friend," Vilmarh Grahrk—a Devaronian who called himself Villie. The latter was a gambler, liar, cheat, womanizer, and smuggler. Everyone else present in the room was a slave woman: some setting the table, others entertaining the host and his guest with dances, and Aayla herself, refilling their drinks.
Fenn had been a member of the ruling five, which included Pol. When the latter died, Fenn contacted the Devaronian, having no desire to leave for the Bright Lands—the half of Ryloth that was always turned toward the sun, a barren desert where sentients faced death either from heat storms or from the claws and fangs of predators. It was an ancient tradition of her people: when one of the rulers died, all the others immediately relinquished their positions and went to their deaths in the sun-scorched lands. In this way, her people ensured a regular turnover of power, with the older generation making way for the younger, while also preventing rivalry between the leaders of the clan's families. Instead of struggling against one another for power, they worked closely together and protected each other from outside threats.
But there was a way to extend the old rulers' time in office: if the younger generation was not yet ready to take up the reins of power, regents could be appointed in their place, and those regents were often drawn from the previous ruling council. That was exactly the option Ro Fenn wanted to use, but negotiations with Lon Secura, one of the members of the future government, were going nothing like he had planned. Lon had managed to win the support of a Jedi—Master Tholme.
"The situation is becoming impossible, Grahrk! Lon Secura brought a Jedi to the negotiations! A JEDI!" The gray-skinned, overweight Twi'lek's chins quivered in panic, beads of sweat gleaming on his face. "I'm doomed to go to the Bright Lands!"
"What a terrible moral dilemma," Vilmarh said with a toothy grin, sprawling across the cushions while Aayla topped up his glass. "Honor tradition and die like some pathetic slug under the sun, or make a deal with good friends—friends like Villie—and stay alive! What dreadful alternatives."
"I'm not a fool, Devaronian." Irritation flashed in Fenn's eyes and voice. "I know who can be trusted... and it certainly isn't you!"
The Twi'lek hauled his heavy body up from the cushions and began pacing around the chamber.
"The problem is that Jedi. Tholme. I don't like Jedi. Their supernatural abilities drive me mad. If only Tholme were dead..."
"Bad idea." The Devaronian rose after Ro Fenn. Without looking at Aayla, he set his empty glass on her tray and walked over to the gray-skinned Twi'lek. "Kill one Jedi, dozens more show up. Villie knows. Very bad luck, killing a Jedi. If you want to get the situation under control, you need Lon Secura."
Vilmarh flashed a cheerful grin and loomed over his so-called friend.
"Kill Secura?!" Fenn shook his head firmly. "That's an even worse idea than killing the Jedi. There'd be a massive scandal, and since the whole city knows about our feud, I'd be blamed for everything."
"Lon isn't our target, my friend." The horned Devaronian slipped an arm around the heavy Twi'lek and steered him out of the room. "Worm-head Lon's heir is Nat. His only son, first in line to succeed him. First in line—first target! Consider it handled. Trust Villie. My boys are already on it."
The pieces clicked into place in Aayla's mind. Of course: kidnap Nat and use him to influence Lon's decisions. Lon wouldn't be able to ignore Ro Fenn's demands if Fenn had leverage in the form of his only and beloved son.
Hurrying out onto the balcony where the other slaves wouldn't see her, the girl contacted her master over the comlink.
"Master, Vilmarh Grahrk is here. They didn't recognize me. Secura's heir is in danger. Right now, Master! The Devaronian said they're already moving to abduct him—right now! What should I do?"
"Get here as quickly as you can. I'll protect the boy," her master's voice replied, and the connection cut off.
Author's note:
The Ryloth storyline is based on the comic Star Wars: Republic — Rite of Passage 01.
A very brief note on Ryloth (shamelessly stolen from Wookieepedia): The planet had no day-night cycle, since its rotation on its axis was synchronized with its orbit around the sun. One side of the planet permanently faced the star, while the other remained in darkness (the illuminated side was known as the "Bright Lands"). It was a world of deserts and mountain ranges, with vanishingly little surface water apart from the ice cap on the night side. Along the equator, between the day and night sides, lay a narrow habitable band—a twilight realm between the two extremes.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
I hope you haven't decided I'm a heartless bitch for distracting you with silly polls when I know perfectly well how badly you're waiting for the next chapter.
Guys, seriously. I may be a bitch, but I do have limits.
So here's a chapter as compensation.
Love you.
Shmi, blushing slightly, explained that her young son used to live with her and was very interested in machinery. So she'd gotten into the habit of swearing in ways that wouldn't teach the boy any bad words. One thing led to another, and we got talking while we worked, as well as during the short breaks I practically had to force the woman to take. It turned out her little one was studying at the Jedi Temple now, while she had stayed here with Watto. You don't need to live six hundred years to notice how hard it was for her to talk about it. She desperately missed her son while at the same time being happy that the boy was no longer a slave. "But hey, at least he's in a cult," I snorted to myself.
After spending the whole repair chatting with her, I picked up a bit of useful knowledge and learned that, besides being good with children and having fairly extensive technical skills, she could cook too. I gave it some thought, then offered her a job with me. The daycare on Jabiim was going to expand, and having someone specifically responsible for looking after the children wouldn't hurt. It wasn't that we couldn't find a Jabiimite woman for the job; I just liked the way Shmi talked about kids, and I felt a little sorry for her. The Jedi practiced something close to monastic upbringing, taking children away from their families, and caring for little mage brats might help ease the ache in a mother's heart.
Well, there were two other factors. One minor, and one very important. The minor one was the prospect of having a grateful Jeddie who might voluntarily agree to be put through tests and analysis rituals. Minor, because I'd probably be able to find a Force-sensitive like that sooner anyway. If I hadn't been willing to kidnap members of the Order back home, then a couple of Jedi going missing somewhere far from Jabiim shouldn't compromise me too badly. Especially if they turned up later alive and perfectly healthy, just with a week-long gap in their memories.
And the important factor was having a cook on the ship!!! The food kept in stasis by dear, wonderful, charming Maria—beloved by everyone in the mansion—would run out soon, and I had no intention of choking down field rations! I doubted Shmi could cook on the same level, but anything was better than those high-calorie, vitamin-fortified army bricks!
So I offered Shmi a position as the ship's mechanic and cook for the duration of my vacation. Once we reached Jabiim, she'd switch to working with the children, and naturally, I'd pay her fairly for her labor. After buying her from Watto, we'd sign a ten-year contract, during which she'd repay the purchase price through small deductions spread across the entire term of employment. Once the contract expired, she could either keep working for me or take whatever she'd saved and go wherever she pleased. Naturally, that would be after swearing an oath before Hecate not to reveal anything she had seen or heard while in my service.
I got the impression that the deciding factor in her agreement wasn't the favorable terms for a slave, but the mention that Jabiim had no deserts at all. None. And that it rained all year round. When the woman agreed, she had such a dreamy look on her face that I didn't have the heart to disappoint her by saying that rain could get old too. Though... who knows? Maybe after long years of living on Tatooine, she'd never get tired of Jabiim's climate.
Long story short, Shmi, Arvik, and I went to see Watto, and after a bit of haggling I bought her for four protective amulets and three climate-control artifacts. All of them had automatic recharging modules, though the recharge cycle was fairly slow. The Toydarian was so thrilled by getting his hands on something exclusive—something that existed nowhere else in the galaxy except with me and, now, him—that he gave Shmi permission to take anything she needed from her shack. The only thing Watto wrung out of me was a promise not to sell anything similar on Tatooine for the next week.
What I regretted most when I asked the Mandalorian to shoot me was that he had a helmet on. It took me about two minutes to talk him into it, and then, after some three dozen pew-pews from his blaster, I got to watch a very, very pleased Toydarian who wasn't merely flying around his shop anymore—he was practically fluttering. He even wished us luck and invited us to drop by for caf if we were ever in Mos Espa again. I also asked him that if Shmi's son ever showed up, he should tell the boy that she was on Jabiim now.
Then came the matter of moving the former slave's few personal belongings. She explained that slaves having personal possessions—and even a little income of their own—was very rare. So she generally spoke well of Watto. Besides, the winged fellow had never been cruel, and neither she nor her son had ever been physically punished while they were his slaves. Any punishment had always been verbal, and even then he never went too far.
While transporting the young woman's few belongings on a small repulsor cart, we came across a grisly sight: a group of corpses sprawled together in the middle of one of the streets. The state of the bodies suggested asphyxiation. They had already been stripped of most of their clothes and all their gear—unclaimed belongings didn't stay lying around in plain sight for long in this town.
"Boss, aren't those the idiots from the cantina?" Arvik asked after getting a look at a few of the faces.
"They are. What a terrible tragedy, Arvik. Tatooine is clearly a very dangerous place."
"Indeed," came a chuckle from beneath the helmet. "All kinds of things happen around here."
We spent another day converting one of the cabins into a proper, if rather small, galley. To my surprise, the Mandalorian threw himself into the work with enthusiasm. His explanation—"I like good food"—only reinforced my impression that I'd found a decent bunch. By the way, I gave each of them a protective amulet like the ones I'd traded to Watto, and promised that if I was satisfied with their work, they could keep them at the end of the contract. Arvik, having seen the "personal shield" in action, was very impressed and, in a private conversation with the Togruta, strongly advised her not to refuse if I offered her another "climate-control" ring.
The Gungan overheard that conversation. Simple guy, by the way, but with his own brand of Gungan wisdom. Suffering badly in Tatooine's climate, he came up to me and, without any fuss or beating around the bush, simply asked for an amulet "to make it cooler." And I, just as simply, gave him one. I showed him how to set the temperature and adjust the humidity, and ten minutes later the long-eared fellow, grinning sincerely and almost with tears in his eyes, was telling his companions that "this red-eyed Boss-sa is the best employer and a great sorcerer," and, "Arvik, we definitely need to give Boss-sa our contact details so he can easily find us next time."
The Togruta took one look at the blissful Koit, asked to try the amulet on, walked around the ship, and after returning the trinket with an almost audible grinding of teeth, went off to get one for herself.
Either the girl was embarrassed because she'd turned down the ring earlier, or she was simply too proud to come right out and ask... Whatever the reason, she decided to take a different route and deploy the ultimate weapon: feminine magic.
So for the next two hours, I watched her in that outrageously revealing outfit doing everything she could to demonstrate just how unbearably hot she was. Honestly, if she hadn't managed to make the whole performance so damn erotic, I'd have handed over an amulet right away. But Great Hecate! I'm a man, aren't I?
So I spent two hours enjoying the sight of her languishing before finally, when she looked about ready to give up on her brilliant plan, I handed her the same ring I'd offered in the first place. I had amulets too, of course, but the combination of a captivating exotic beauty and a ring simply appealed to me more.
One way or another, by the third day after buying Shmi, we were ready to leave, had a proper galley, and had gotten a chance to judge the former slave's cooking. I'll be honest: Maria cooks better, but not by much. And I, being an experienced man, would never in my life say that to a woman. Especially since Shmi was a good cook, something Ras and the mercenaries clearly appreciated too. It was especially obvious from Arvik's grateful looks—he stared at Shmi the way a man in the desert looks at a spring. We were just about ready to take off when we discovered that Quartermaster was missing.
Romri was the one who noticed. She'd spent her days feeding the little bastard nuts, cuddling him, and scratching his belly. My hamster's personal slave immediately raised the alarm, but after checking his location, I told everyone to wait for the pet to come back on his own. The thing was, my fat-assed furry companion was several kilometers away from us. When Romri asked whether we should go after him, I just waved her off. We were on vacation. If Quartermaster wanted to go have some fun, then let him enjoy himself. If he wasn't back by tomorrow, we'd go looking. Until then, let the little bastard have his fun.
I was already busily planning a visit to the local casino, while Ras was just as busily trying to talk me out of it, when I felt the little beast start moving in our direction—slowly, but steadily. Yes, I could sense him; in fact, I can feel him from a very long distance away. The fact that I hadn't noticed he was gone... well, I'm absent-minded, what can you do... So I told everyone to get ready for departure, while I flopped down with a datapad to read.
By the way, about flying. Romri, according to her—and confirmed by the other mercenaries—turned out to be an experienced pilot. So I made a deal with her: for an extra two hundred credits, she'd serve as our copilot, and for another five hundred a month, she'd drill the hell out of Ras on his piloting. After all, crash courses don't exactly turn out ace pilots, and back on Jabiim we were desperately short on good flyers.
In the end, we finally took off half an hour later. Quartermaster, having apparently gorged himself half to death somewhere, practically rolled up to the ramp, and I scooped him up and carried him back to my cabin. Ahead of us was the flight to Ryloth—a relatively short one, but I don't like hyperspace. Space in general makes me uneasy, and traveling through hyperspace triggers some kind of subconscious fear in me. Purely psychological, probably, since I hadn't noticed any actual negative effects.
Jabba Desilijic Tiure
Jabba was in mourning today: someone had killed Pateesa, his beloved and only pet rancor. The slave who looked after the monster said that something had eaten the beast's brain. There was a hole where one of its eyes had been, and its skull was completely empty. The distraught Hutt had even dismissed his entire entourage and sunk into depression. What kind of horrifying creature could have done something like that to one of the greatest predators in the galaxy?
Aboard the Great Turtle shuttle as it flew through hyperspace, the hamster-chimera known as Quartermaster let out a satisfied belch. It had been a long time since he'd eaten that well...
Jedi Council
Today, the Jedi Council reached a decision regarding the newly emerged group of Force-sensitives. The Jabiimite Mages had appeared suddenly, but the investigation concluded that they posed no threat and were, in fact, beneficial to the world they lived on. The Jedi were even relieved to learn that the mages did not live in an isolated enclave, but simply reintegrated into society after completing their training.
There wasn't much information, but the agents had failed to uncover anything dangerous. So, by majority vote, the Council decided not to interfere with the fledgling organization, to keep observing it, and, where possible, to establish contact and good relations.
"Master Tholme and Padawan Secura are on Ryloth right now. As soon as they return from their mission, I suggest we hand the matter over to them," Master Windu proposed.
"Support this, I do," Yoda said calmly, closing his eyes to signal his agreement. "Familiar faces they are, and good relations with them they already have. Well of that sorcerer, Master Tholme spoke. His jokes, however, he did not approve of."
"I thought it was rather funny," the serpentine Master Rancisis said with a smile. "'You want to learn my secrets, but you won't even agree to a little vivisection,' ha-ha-ha. If relations with these mages work out, I'd be quite happy to have a conversation with this Siith."
Master Yaddle merely snorted at his words. Her former Padawan had... a unique sense of humor.
Ryloth. Fenn Family Citadel. Aayla Secura.
She was "home" again. Ryloth... stirred conflicting feelings in her. The homeland she had left as a little girl. Memories of the underground cities, of her own people... A planet where slavery flourished and women had no voice. Her former home, where her own family had planned to sell her to the Hutts because she would be safer with them.
The girl banished the ghost of anger from her heart before it could gather strength, fed by the memories. Her home was the Temple. Her family was the Jedi. She wanted nothing to do with those who had tried time and again to make her a slave, those who had drugged her, those because of whom she had nearly fallen to the dark side. She didn't want them in her life, and she never would.
There were two men in the room with her. The master of the house, Ro Fenn, and his "friend," Vilmarh Grahrk—a Devaronian who called himself Villie. The latter was a gambler, liar, cheat, womanizer, and smuggler. Everyone else present in the room was a slave woman: some setting the table, others entertaining the host and his guest with dances, and Aayla herself, refilling their drinks.
Fenn had been a member of the ruling five, which included Pol. When the latter died, Fenn contacted the Devaronian, having no desire to leave for the Bright Lands—the half of Ryloth that was always turned toward the sun, a barren desert where sentients faced death either from heat storms or from the claws and fangs of predators. It was an ancient tradition of her people: when one of the rulers died, all the others immediately relinquished their positions and went to their deaths in the sun-scorched lands. In this way, her people ensured a regular turnover of power, with the older generation making way for the younger, while also preventing rivalry between the leaders of the clan's families. Instead of struggling against one another for power, they worked closely together and protected each other from outside threats.
But there was a way to extend the old rulers' time in office: if the younger generation was not yet ready to take up the reins of power, regents could be appointed in their place, and those regents were often drawn from the previous ruling council. That was exactly the option Ro Fenn wanted to use, but negotiations with Lon Secura, one of the members of the future government, were going nothing like he had planned. Lon had managed to win the support of a Jedi—Master Tholme.
"The situation is becoming impossible, Grahrk! Lon Secura brought a Jedi to the negotiations! A JEDI!" The gray-skinned, overweight Twi'lek's chins quivered in panic, beads of sweat gleaming on his face. "I'm doomed to go to the Bright Lands!"
"What a terrible moral dilemma," Vilmarh said with a toothy grin, sprawling across the cushions while Aayla topped up his glass. "Honor tradition and die like some pathetic slug under the sun, or make a deal with good friends—friends like Villie—and stay alive! What dreadful alternatives."
"I'm not a fool, Devaronian." Irritation flashed in Fenn's eyes and voice. "I know who can be trusted... and it certainly isn't you!"
The Twi'lek hauled his heavy body up from the cushions and began pacing around the chamber.
"The problem is that Jedi. Tholme. I don't like Jedi. Their supernatural abilities drive me mad. If only Tholme were dead..."
"Bad idea." The Devaronian rose after Ro Fenn. Without looking at Aayla, he set his empty glass on her tray and walked over to the gray-skinned Twi'lek. "Kill one Jedi, dozens more show up. Villie knows. Very bad luck, killing a Jedi. If you want to get the situation under control, you need Lon Secura."
Vilmarh flashed a cheerful grin and loomed over his so-called friend.
"Kill Secura?!" Fenn shook his head firmly. "That's an even worse idea than killing the Jedi. There'd be a massive scandal, and since the whole city knows about our feud, I'd be blamed for everything."
"Lon isn't our target, my friend." The horned Devaronian slipped an arm around the heavy Twi'lek and steered him out of the room. "Worm-head Lon's heir is Nat. His only son, first in line to succeed him. First in line—first target! Consider it handled. Trust Villie. My boys are already on it."
The pieces clicked into place in Aayla's mind. Of course: kidnap Nat and use him to influence Lon's decisions. Lon wouldn't be able to ignore Ro Fenn's demands if Fenn had leverage in the form of his only and beloved son.
Hurrying out onto the balcony where the other slaves wouldn't see her, the girl contacted her master over the comlink.
"Master, Vilmarh Grahrk is here. They didn't recognize me. Secura's heir is in danger. Right now, Master! The Devaronian said they're already moving to abduct him—right now! What should I do?"
"Get here as quickly as you can. I'll protect the boy," her master's voice replied, and the connection cut off.
Author's note:
The Ryloth storyline is based on the comic Star Wars: Republic — Rite of Passage 01.
A very brief note on Ryloth (shamelessly stolen from Wookieepedia): The planet had no day-night cycle, since its rotation on its axis was synchronized with its orbit around the sun. One side of the planet permanently faced the star, while the other remained in darkness (the illuminated side was known as the "Bright Lands"). It was a world of deserts and mountain ranges, with vanishingly little surface water apart from the ice cap on the night side. Along the equator, between the day and night sides, lay a narrow habitable band—a twilight realm between the two extremes.
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
I hope you haven't decided I'm a heartless bitch for distracting you with silly polls when I know perfectly well how badly you're waiting for the next chapter.
Guys, seriously. I may be a bitch, but I do have limits.
So here's a chapter as compensation.
Love you.
),... horrible, but awesome.
Chapter 19
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Boroda Orka
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Tholme hurried toward the spaceport. He had nearly managed to stop the kidnappers from abducting Lon Secura's heir.
Almost.
The damned Devaronian had somehow managed to dig up two Morgukai and bring them in on the kidnapping. The brief fight ended with one opponent knocking Tholme's lightsaber from his hand with a blaster bolt, while the other struck him with a cortosis-coated staff. And it wasn't just a simple blow—the Morgukai hit the Jedi with the end fitted with an electrical generator, and the discharge knocked Tholme unconscious for a good ten seconds.* Though... he could hardly complain. A strike from the other end, the one with the energy blade, might have been fatal.
Those two Nikto** had also managed to slaughter the guards Lon Secura had sent to help Tholme. The Jedi came to with his face in Twi'lek blood, hearing the final moments of the fight.
Lon Secura burst into his son's bedchamber just as the Jedi was getting back to his feet and the kidnappers disappeared over the balcony. After outlining the situation in a couple of quick sentences and telling him to have his Padawan sent to the spaceport, Tholme jumped from the balcony and raced after the abductors.
Among the parked ships, the Jedi heard several blaster shots followed by a wild, gut-wrenching howl of pain that lasted for several seconds. With a chill, Tholme thought the Morgukai had killed someone else and ran toward the scream, but the sight that met him was... surprising, to put it mildly.
He froze behind a stack of crates, watching the new players on the scene.
Standing over the motionless bodies of the two Nikto** was a colorful assortment: a Togruta, a Gungan, a Mandalorian, and an unknown figure in robes with his hood pulled up.
"This one's dead, Boss-sa," the Gungan said, giving one of the Morgukai a kick. "Got him in the back of the head with my spear. Lucky hit, though."
"That's because he was dodging fire from Arvik and me and got distracted by the one who started screaming," the Togruta grumbled. "Koit, you cheater."
"Dunno what you're talking about," the Gungan said, shaking his head vigorously. His long ears flopped comically from side to side. "I killed this... uh... what is it?"
"A Morgukai. Nikto species," the Mandalorian rumbled from beneath his helmet. "You really did get lucky, Koit. They're tough opponents."
"Hey, I served under Captain Roos Tarpals himself, and he didn't tolerate incompetents," the Gungan objected. "That was a precise, calculated strike, though. Admit it and I'll split the loot three ways."
"You are a great warrior of a great people. Never have I seen such an elegant use of a spear, my friend," the Togruta declared with heartfelt solemnity, even pressing a hand to her chest. The Mandalorian merely shook his helmeted head at her instant change of heart. "So why was that one screaming like that? Boss, was that you? And what's in the bundle?"
"It's moving..."
"Of course it's moving, Koit. Guys, untie the child already," the hooded figure cut in. The male voice sounded familiar to Tholme. "Master Tholme, perhaps you've been hiding long enough? I hope these weren't friends of yours that we... uh... neutralized?"
The whole group began looking around for whoever their mysterious Boss was addressing. Not only had he detected the Jedi, he actually knew him. Another Jedi? But then who were all these sentients with him?
"Romri, please untie the little Twi'lek. Our ugly mugs are definitely going to scare him," the hooded man said, distracting the Togruta from tracking the approaching Tholme over the barrel of her blaster. "And lower your weapons, guys. He's a Jedi, and we know each other."
At the same time, the man threw back his hood, and the Jedi Master recognized the sorcerer from the eternally rain-soaked world of Jabiim—Siith. The sclera of his eyes were still vivid red, his coal-black irises fixed on the Jedi. An unpleasant smile played across his face, though most likely the sorcerer was trying to make it look friendly and welcoming.
"Master Siith." Tholme nodded to him and caught a momentary flicker of confusion on the sorcerer's face. That drew a faint smile from the Jedi. "I'm glad to see you on Ryloth, and thank you for stopping these Morgukai. I was pursuing them myself."
"Boss, the kid's all right, but we should still take him to our autodoc. He took a pretty nasty hit when that idiot threw him aside," the Togruta spoke up.
"You don't mind, Master?" the sorcerer asked, glancing at Tholme. After receiving a nod from the Jedi, he turned toward the second body. "Arvik, take the boy, please. Quartermaster, get out of there. Stop eating!"
The second Morgukai's corpse began to twitch faintly, and a few seconds later a bulge started forming between his collarbones, just above the edge of his armor. A second later the skin split, and the sorcerer's blood-covered little beast crawled out of the Nikto's body. It froze for a couple of heartbeats, sniffed the air, darted its beady eyes around, then began making strange little motions with its forepaws while sticking straight up out of the corpse like a tiny soldier at attention. As it did so, the animal squeaked and kept opening its little mouth wide, almost as if it were making faces.
"Yeah, yeah, you're very scary," the sorcerer snorted, while everyone else stood around in stunned silence. "You've gotten yourself filthy, though. Fine, you can ride like that, you furry bruiser."
Both bodies rose into the air along with their staffs. At Tholme's shocked stare—he had once again felt no movement in the Force—Siith merely shrugged and said, "Spoils of war, you know."
And so they went: the Mandalorian carrying the child, the colorful assortment of exotics, the sorcerer, and the Jedi.
"Boss-sa," the Gungan began cautiously, "how did your beast get inside him?"
"Remember when he screamed?" the sorcerer said, nodding toward the body with the little creature sticking out of it and darting its eyes around. "That was the exact moment my hamster was... ahem... making his way inside. By the way, from this corpse I'm only taking the staff for study. The rest is yours."
***
We made good time on the way back, but no one spoke. My fighters were in high spirits over the loot, Tholme was deep in thought, and I was frantically wondering whether I should use magic in front of the Jedi this time. I'd lifted those two with aura manipulation, without actually casting any spells.
The only thing I'd allowed myself to do to the Jedi back on Jabiim was tag Tholme and Secura with my markers. The markers themselves were the simplest of charms, aside from several layers of safeguards hiding them from detection. A marker like that "stuck" to the aura and simply remained there until the mana in its reservoir ran out. Its entire function was to produce a faint response on the physical plane, one the artifact array built into my robes could read. That was exactly how I'd found the Jedi Master.
I'd prepared the spells in advance, well away from the two Jedi, and when we met at the library opening, I "stuck" them on with aura tendrils.
My artifacts were shielded by the robe, but any newly forming construct would be outside the concealment field and could therefore be detected. Another option was to enter a meditative state and try to get a read on the Jedi that way, but that came with its own set of difficulties...
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching speeder and the marker on Master Tholme's Padawan entering range. We were already near the Great Turtle, so we simply waited for the little blue Twi'lek.
I was actually glad to see her, especially considering what she was wearing. Some kind of gold-colored metal bikini, a whole bunch of dangling ornaments, and mesh on her arms and legs that hid absolutely nothing.
Yeeaah... Twi'leks really knew a thing or two about dressing beautiful girls.
It was amusing to watch her first reaction to us. Secura quickened her pace toward her master at first, then stopped short when she recognized me and spent a few moments studying my face—which, I'm sure, looked thoroughly delighted at the sight of her. Then she gave the faintest sly smile and continued toward her master with considerable grace.
Yeah... I thought, admiring the exotic beauty's captivating figure and smooth, fluid movements. That was sexuality crystallized.
And she wasn't embarrassed in the slightest...
"Boss..." Arvik quietly got my attention, and I looked over at the Mandalorian. "You picked the right place for a vacation."
"Pff," the Togruta snorted after hearing our heavily armored fighter's comment, while I allowed myself a faint smile, hiding it by scratching my beard. Our red-skinned beauty was used to collecting all the male attention herself, and it looked like she was a little jealous.
Maybe even subconsciously.
"Master Tholme?" Aayla managed to put so much question into her teacher's name that the all-encompassing "what the hell is going on here?" was practically audible.
"Hmm. Romri, take the kid to the autodoc. Guys, keep watch around us while we have a little chat." I gave my people their instructions. The Togruta nodded and went up the ramp after taking the boy from the Mandalorian, while the others spread out, giving us room to talk.
Tholme considered it for a few seconds, gave me a doubtful look, then nodded and told me what had happened to him. It turned out that almost as soon as I arrived, I'd managed to get myself mixed up in the local power struggle...
Not great, on the one hand. On the other, I seemed to have done Tholme and one of the local future rulers a small favor.
I told them what had happened on our end. Basically, it had been a simple misunderstanding. Two guys came charging out, one of them with a suspicious-looking bundle over his shoulder. They shouted something aggressive, and Romri and Arvik opened fire on one of them. The Gungan pulled off a neat little pirouette, got behind him, and jabbed his spear into the unarmored back of his head. As for the second one, I sicced Quartermaster on him. In partial combat mode, the chimera stopped being a cute, chubby lump and shot toward its target, instantly gnawing its way inside the enemy's torso and setting about destroying his internal organs. So in the end, we had two corpses and one bruised little Twi'lek boy.
By the time we finished talking, Romri appeared on the ramp with the dejected-looking boy beside her. According to her, nothing serious had happened: a couple of minor bruises, one nasty hematoma on his side, and a bruised left buttock.
"The fighter will live," the Togruta said, baring her sharp little teeth in a grin. Then, after casting an unfriendly glance at the Padawan, she straightened slightly so that her assets looked a little more impressive.
"Thank you, Romri," the Jedi said with a smile, then turned his gaze to me. "And thank you, Master Siith. Are you staying on Ryloth long?"
"You're welcome," I said with a shrug. "It all just sort of happened on its own. As for how long we'll be staying on the planet, I don't know yet. I'm on vacation, and I want to see the local sights..." My gaze somehow drifted back to the Twi'lek girl's outfit, earning a faint smile from her. "Ahem... Anyway, I haven't decided yet. But we'll definitely be here for at least a week."
"All right," Tholme nodded. "Then, if you don't mind, I'll contact you sometime in the next few days. I think Lon Secura will want to thank you in person."
"No problem. Uh... Secura?" I looked questioningly at the blue-skinned Twi'lek, whose expression had darkened slightly. "Same last name?"
"He's my uncle," the girl said stiffly, with a trace of dislike, then added after a second of silence, "Was."
At that, little Nat stared at her in surprise.
"I see. Family business," I drawled, shifting my gaze to her master. "Then..."
"Aayla, go to Lon Secura and take your cousin to him." The girl nodded and took the child by the hand, giving him an encouraging smile. "I still need to find a certain Devaronian and ask him a few questions. Until next time, Master Siith, gentlemen."
"See you, and good luck." I nodded to the Jedi, then turned to the others. "Well then, ladies and gentlemen, are you going to strip the corpses? Keep in mind, the dead bodies and one staff are mine. I've never gutted a Nikto before."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aayla Secura give a little shudder. Well, aren't we sensitive. Chopping up sentients with glowing sticks is perfectly fine, but when a pathologist does his job it's suddenly "ew, how horrible."
Hypocritical blue ass.
A pretty one, though...
***
The guys were quite pleased with their new gear. The armor and staffs were coated with cortosis. For one thing, the metal was extremely expensive, and for another, it stood up remarkably well to blows from glowing sticks.
There wasn't much of it on the chestplates, but I promised to strip off the cortosis when I had the time and outfit the guys with pieces of gear coated in it. They weren't planning on fighting Jedi, of course, but mercenaries always accounted for the "well, what if?" scenario.
I tossed my staff into the cabin, and Koit did the same. "Gotta get used to it, though," the Gungan commented on his decision. We reassured Ras and Shmi, who had been surprised by our return, and since we were back anyway, had a mug of caf each. I attached a couple of stasis artifacts to the Morgukai corpses—expensive things, and difficult to make. In effect, they slowed the flow of time for the target to a crawl. And the larger and bulkier the target, the greater the mana cost. A Nikto body, for example, required artifacts with three soul traps apiece as power sources. My adaptive-protection amulet, by comparison, used only one. And the "fuel" consumption was enormous: the batteries would run dry in a week to a week and a half, so I'd have to deal with the corpses sooner rather than later.
That was precisely why each Nimbus unit was issued only one of those things. They simply cost too many pirates to make. Alto had even joked once that he'd never imagined there would come a day when he'd look forward to raids and be glad to see slavers. Heh. He'd discovered why the sorcerous fraternity was always so eager to take part in operations to wipe out bandit bases, and why some of them would drop whatever they were doing just to fight a little war for some prince or other. Experienced spellcasters, naturally: youngsters weren't much use on a battlefield, and they probably didn't know how to collect souls properly either. Except perhaps by the simplest method—personally killing someone at close range.
Anyway, once we'd taken care of everything, we headed off as planned—to the cantina by the spaceport. The people of Ryloth weren't exactly an open bunch, so outsiders only had access to the spaceport, the tourist zones, and a handful of designated tour routes. Maybe I could talk this Lon Secura into letting me see how the locals actually lived, at least within territory controlled by his family?
***
"Grahrk got away," were Tholme's first words as he entered the room where Aayla stood staring thoughtfully out the window.
"The Devaronian is... very slippery," the girl said with a hint of indifference. Her heart felt heavy.
Her cousin Nat reminded her of her own story in some ways. The younger, unloved son, feeling the weight of his father's irrational reproach. From what the boy had said, he felt that Lon Secura wished it had been him who died, not his elder son—the beloved heir into whose upbringing so much time and effort had gone.
The one who had always lived in the shadows. His own child, yet unwanted. A son for whom there was never enough time, and on whom his father had never cared to spend any parental attention.
The girl remembered how, many years ago, she had been just as unwanted. Even though she had been only two years old, her lekku gave her an excellent memory, while Jedi mental techniques allowed her to remember it all as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. A daughter no one wanted. A child of an influential family, sold to the Hutts because "she would be safer there." Damned hypocrites. She had always been gifted, and alongside the Force she had always possessed another gift—empathy. Empathy that told her that, of all her relatives, only her mother truly loved her. A mother who was just as powerless and voiceless a slave as hundreds of thousands, millions of Twi'lek women.
The girl had never told anyone, but she was grateful to the enraged wampa the Hutt had bought from a smuggler. Bought it just as he had bought her from her own family, no matter what her uncle—Pol Secura, still alive at the time—might have claimed. The threat of death and her scream through the Force had allowed the little girl to draw the attention of the sentient being dearest to her in the entire universe. Back then, of course, he had been nothing more than a Jedi Padawan—Quinlan Vos, who saved the girl. Saved her and took her away from Ryloth, far from that breeding ground of slavery sheltered beneath the Republic's wing.
As an adult, Secura understood why things on her homeworld were the way they were. She understood, but she could not accept it. Her next visit to Ryloth, together with Quinlan Vos, who had become her master, ended with her fall to the Dark Side—her own uncle, Pol, damn him, kept her drugged so heavily that she forgot who she was and became nothing more than a dancer in his palace. And once again Quinlan came for her, once again pulling her out of yet another nightmare. Her master, who, just like her, had lost himself, had conquered the darkness in his own mind and saved her... Unfortunately, because the two of them had come dangerously close to the edge, the Council decided to separate them. Her new master was John Tholme, and as Quinlan had joked sadly, "My old master will be your master now. Try to fray his nerves a little less than I did back in the day."
And now, Ryloth again. "Family" again. The girl remembered with disgust what Lon had said when she asked where Master Tholme was: "None of your concern, slave. Get back to your duties, woman."
Only after she showed him her lightsaber and explained that Tholme was her master did the head of House Secura tell her that he was at the spaceport. How satisfying it had been to toss over her shoulder as she left, "Thank you, Uncle," and then, at his bewilderment, explain, "I'm Aayla. Once, I was your niece."
The Jedi taught that one should keep one's emotions in check, but at that moment the girl had been unable to suppress a triumphant smile. A small pleasure she would never tell anyone about.
"Aayla..." Tholme sat down across from her and looked at the girl with concern. He was a very good man—not as daring or reckless as Quinlan, but caring and perceptive. The Twi'lek girl smiled at him.
"I'm all right, Master Tholme. Just unpleasant memories. After the mission, I'll need to..."
"Have a good long meditation," her master finished the joke for her, smiling warmly and sympathetically. The thing was, the active and emotional girl was no great fan of meditation, though she did acknowledge its benefits. "I'm glad you're coping."
"I'm a Jedi," Aayla said proudly, straightening up. "How could it be otherwise?"
"Pride..."
"A path to the Dark Side it is. I know, Master," she finished for him, her smile bright and cheerful now. Master Yoda's sayings, besides containing wisdom, also had a way of lifting one's spirits, though no one in the Order openly talked about that...
"Then get some sleep, Padawan. It's been a hard day. Tomorrow Ro Fenn will leave for the Bright Lands. After that, we'll speak with the Jabiim sorcerer, say goodbye to Lon Secura, and return to the Temple."
"That sorcerer..."
"Did you sense anything from him?" her master asked. He knew about Aayla's gift for empathy. It had often been their trump card during investigations.
"Nothing like that, Master. He isn't hostile toward us—rather the opposite. He was glad to see me. I felt his admiration for me, but it was... clean. He admired me the same way I admire a beautiful landscape or the beauty of space. To be honest, it was even... kind of insulting?"
Her master allowed himself a quiet chuckle and continued looking at her expectantly.
"The Mandalorian doesn't like us, but there's no hatred. The long-eared one..."
"Gungan," Tholme supplied.
"The Gungan didn't care. He was proud of himself. The Togruta, Romri, was jealous... of everyone paying attention to me?"
"She's the only girl on the ship," her master said with an amused squint. "Maybe she's simply not used to sharing her companions' attention? Though I could sense there were other sentients aboard the shuttle."
"Maybe," the girl said, running a hand over her lekku. "But taken as a whole, just like last time, I don't sense any dislike or threat. Just..."
"Just..."
"He reminds me of Master Yoda, this Siith. That constant faint condescension, the harmless teasing, the gentle goodwill. And the curiosity! Those jokes of his about autopsies, combined with that curiosity—just like that girl on Jabiim—genuinely scare me, Master!"
Tholme chuckled quietly. Siith really did come across as slightly unhinged. And with that perpetually unsettling little smile of his, he looked downright like a maniac. But who in their right mind would make themselves look that suspicious so openly? The sentient simply had the same sort of sense of humor as Master Rancisis.
They talked a little longer, then Tholme went to his own room, and about ten minutes later Aayla drifted into a deep sleep.
A couple of hours passed with the girl sleeping soundly. Ryloth's "night" was quiet, soft light seeping through the windows. And in that silence, a shadow began to grow in the window. A beast unknown on this planet, comically twitching its nose, crept into the girl's room. For several seconds it wandered around the chamber, then headed purposefully for the small drawer where she kept her underwear.
*** Ship Inferno. Open Space. Vilmarh Grahrk. ***
"Boss, the job went bad. The Morgukai are dead, the kid's gone. Villie barely managed to get away."
"Damn it," Kh'aris Fenn's angry voice came over the comm. "Are you sure they're dead?"
"Yes, Boss. My droid recorded everything in detail, but only the fight. I decided that hanging around on a planet with Jedi any longer was a luxury I couldn't afford."
"You made the right call," the voice of the Fenn family exile softened slightly. "Send me everything you have on the job, including the droid's recording. You're free for now. I'll contact you."
The connection cut off, and Villie snorted into the empty air. This Fenn was just like every other pompous moneybag—arrogant and overflowing with self-importance.
Now Villie, on the other hand... The Devaronian glanced at himself in a small mirror. Handsome devil, wasn't he? No matter. He'd done everything he could. The employers had been let down by the very people they themselves had hired, and now he could relax a little and get some rest. No one had any complaints about him, right? So he could reward himself. Where were the best whores in the galaxy again?
Anywhere but Ryloth, Vilmarh snorted. Better not show his face there for a couple of months.
***
"Count, the plan failed," the gray-skinned Twi'lek said, turning to his patron.
"It's no disaster, Kh'aris," the former Jedi replied with a smile. "As long as you're alive, there will always be another chance. So don't despair. If not this time, then the next, Ryloth will have you as its leader."
"And we'll finally cast aside those moss-grown traditions," the young man said, clenching his fists and giving the tip of one lekku an angry twitch. "It's only a small delay. My people have endured for thousands of years. I hope they can endure a little longer."
"You're looking at the situation the right way, my friend. A little patience. You've paid too high a price to rush into battle without beskar-clad certainty of victory."
"My father sacrificed me for power. And I sacrificed my name, my homeland, my honor, and my dignity. But everything I've lost isn't worth a single tear from my mother."
The gray-skinned Twi'lek with orange eyes turned sharply on his heel and left the room.
Dooku merely watched him go with sympathy. For several seconds he remained motionless, then the Count of Serenno pressed his lips into a thin line.
The Republic... How many more lives must it destroy, how many more fates must this tumor on the body of the galaxy shatter before it finally devours itself?
"The Counts of Serenno do not complain, and they do not cry. We are born to care for others. We do not expect others to care for us," the aging man whispered.***
Author's Note:
The Morgukai are a highly secretive order, most often composed of members of the Nikto species, though there have been cases of other sentients being accepted as well. They did not use the Force the way the Jedi or Sith did, but they possessed techniques that allowed them to resist mind tricks. (A trained mind.) They were also known as hunters of Jedi and Sith.
*Tholme wasn't finished off because another Morgukai interfered in his duel with the first. By their traditions, the victory would no longer have been "clean" and wouldn't have earned them any "respecc."
**Nikto is the name of a species from a galaxy far, far away. It really jars me when translating from Russian, since nikto (никто) means "nobody."
***Count Dooku is a very complex character, and the author of the original work will make every effort to portray him as more than just some bearded villain, but as a man with motivations of his own. If anyone is interested, feel free to read up on him. He was a deeply ambiguous man, but he never sought power merely for power's sake. I know the champions of All That Is Good and enemies of All That Is Bad will now start furiously composing angry odes, but the author has decided to make his position clear from the outset. ;-)
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
Almost.
The damned Devaronian had somehow managed to dig up two Morgukai and bring them in on the kidnapping. The brief fight ended with one opponent knocking Tholme's lightsaber from his hand with a blaster bolt, while the other struck him with a cortosis-coated staff. And it wasn't just a simple blow—the Morgukai hit the Jedi with the end fitted with an electrical generator, and the discharge knocked Tholme unconscious for a good ten seconds.* Though... he could hardly complain. A strike from the other end, the one with the energy blade, might have been fatal.
Those two Nikto** had also managed to slaughter the guards Lon Secura had sent to help Tholme. The Jedi came to with his face in Twi'lek blood, hearing the final moments of the fight.
Lon Secura burst into his son's bedchamber just as the Jedi was getting back to his feet and the kidnappers disappeared over the balcony. After outlining the situation in a couple of quick sentences and telling him to have his Padawan sent to the spaceport, Tholme jumped from the balcony and raced after the abductors.
Among the parked ships, the Jedi heard several blaster shots followed by a wild, gut-wrenching howl of pain that lasted for several seconds. With a chill, Tholme thought the Morgukai had killed someone else and ran toward the scream, but the sight that met him was... surprising, to put it mildly.
He froze behind a stack of crates, watching the new players on the scene.
Standing over the motionless bodies of the two Nikto** was a colorful assortment: a Togruta, a Gungan, a Mandalorian, and an unknown figure in robes with his hood pulled up.
"This one's dead, Boss-sa," the Gungan said, giving one of the Morgukai a kick. "Got him in the back of the head with my spear. Lucky hit, though."
"That's because he was dodging fire from Arvik and me and got distracted by the one who started screaming," the Togruta grumbled. "Koit, you cheater."
"Dunno what you're talking about," the Gungan said, shaking his head vigorously. His long ears flopped comically from side to side. "I killed this... uh... what is it?"
"A Morgukai. Nikto species," the Mandalorian rumbled from beneath his helmet. "You really did get lucky, Koit. They're tough opponents."
"Hey, I served under Captain Roos Tarpals himself, and he didn't tolerate incompetents," the Gungan objected. "That was a precise, calculated strike, though. Admit it and I'll split the loot three ways."
"You are a great warrior of a great people. Never have I seen such an elegant use of a spear, my friend," the Togruta declared with heartfelt solemnity, even pressing a hand to her chest. The Mandalorian merely shook his helmeted head at her instant change of heart. "So why was that one screaming like that? Boss, was that you? And what's in the bundle?"
"It's moving..."
"Of course it's moving, Koit. Guys, untie the child already," the hooded figure cut in. The male voice sounded familiar to Tholme. "Master Tholme, perhaps you've been hiding long enough? I hope these weren't friends of yours that we... uh... neutralized?"
The whole group began looking around for whoever their mysterious Boss was addressing. Not only had he detected the Jedi, he actually knew him. Another Jedi? But then who were all these sentients with him?
"Romri, please untie the little Twi'lek. Our ugly mugs are definitely going to scare him," the hooded man said, distracting the Togruta from tracking the approaching Tholme over the barrel of her blaster. "And lower your weapons, guys. He's a Jedi, and we know each other."
At the same time, the man threw back his hood, and the Jedi Master recognized the sorcerer from the eternally rain-soaked world of Jabiim—Siith. The sclera of his eyes were still vivid red, his coal-black irises fixed on the Jedi. An unpleasant smile played across his face, though most likely the sorcerer was trying to make it look friendly and welcoming.
"Master Siith." Tholme nodded to him and caught a momentary flicker of confusion on the sorcerer's face. That drew a faint smile from the Jedi. "I'm glad to see you on Ryloth, and thank you for stopping these Morgukai. I was pursuing them myself."
"Boss, the kid's all right, but we should still take him to our autodoc. He took a pretty nasty hit when that idiot threw him aside," the Togruta spoke up.
"You don't mind, Master?" the sorcerer asked, glancing at Tholme. After receiving a nod from the Jedi, he turned toward the second body. "Arvik, take the boy, please. Quartermaster, get out of there. Stop eating!"
The second Morgukai's corpse began to twitch faintly, and a few seconds later a bulge started forming between his collarbones, just above the edge of his armor. A second later the skin split, and the sorcerer's blood-covered little beast crawled out of the Nikto's body. It froze for a couple of heartbeats, sniffed the air, darted its beady eyes around, then began making strange little motions with its forepaws while sticking straight up out of the corpse like a tiny soldier at attention. As it did so, the animal squeaked and kept opening its little mouth wide, almost as if it were making faces.
"Yeah, yeah, you're very scary," the sorcerer snorted, while everyone else stood around in stunned silence. "You've gotten yourself filthy, though. Fine, you can ride like that, you furry bruiser."
Both bodies rose into the air along with their staffs. At Tholme's shocked stare—he had once again felt no movement in the Force—Siith merely shrugged and said, "Spoils of war, you know."
And so they went: the Mandalorian carrying the child, the colorful assortment of exotics, the sorcerer, and the Jedi.
"Boss-sa," the Gungan began cautiously, "how did your beast get inside him?"
"Remember when he screamed?" the sorcerer said, nodding toward the body with the little creature sticking out of it and darting its eyes around. "That was the exact moment my hamster was... ahem... making his way inside. By the way, from this corpse I'm only taking the staff for study. The rest is yours."
***
We made good time on the way back, but no one spoke. My fighters were in high spirits over the loot, Tholme was deep in thought, and I was frantically wondering whether I should use magic in front of the Jedi this time. I'd lifted those two with aura manipulation, without actually casting any spells.
The only thing I'd allowed myself to do to the Jedi back on Jabiim was tag Tholme and Secura with my markers. The markers themselves were the simplest of charms, aside from several layers of safeguards hiding them from detection. A marker like that "stuck" to the aura and simply remained there until the mana in its reservoir ran out. Its entire function was to produce a faint response on the physical plane, one the artifact array built into my robes could read. That was exactly how I'd found the Jedi Master.
I'd prepared the spells in advance, well away from the two Jedi, and when we met at the library opening, I "stuck" them on with aura tendrils.
My artifacts were shielded by the robe, but any newly forming construct would be outside the concealment field and could therefore be detected. Another option was to enter a meditative state and try to get a read on the Jedi that way, but that came with its own set of difficulties...
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching speeder and the marker on Master Tholme's Padawan entering range. We were already near the Great Turtle, so we simply waited for the little blue Twi'lek.
I was actually glad to see her, especially considering what she was wearing. Some kind of gold-colored metal bikini, a whole bunch of dangling ornaments, and mesh on her arms and legs that hid absolutely nothing.
Yeeaah... Twi'leks really knew a thing or two about dressing beautiful girls.
It was amusing to watch her first reaction to us. Secura quickened her pace toward her master at first, then stopped short when she recognized me and spent a few moments studying my face—which, I'm sure, looked thoroughly delighted at the sight of her. Then she gave the faintest sly smile and continued toward her master with considerable grace.
Yeah... I thought, admiring the exotic beauty's captivating figure and smooth, fluid movements. That was sexuality crystallized.
And she wasn't embarrassed in the slightest...
"Boss..." Arvik quietly got my attention, and I looked over at the Mandalorian. "You picked the right place for a vacation."
"Pff," the Togruta snorted after hearing our heavily armored fighter's comment, while I allowed myself a faint smile, hiding it by scratching my beard. Our red-skinned beauty was used to collecting all the male attention herself, and it looked like she was a little jealous.
Maybe even subconsciously.
"Master Tholme?" Aayla managed to put so much question into her teacher's name that the all-encompassing "what the hell is going on here?" was practically audible.
"Hmm. Romri, take the kid to the autodoc. Guys, keep watch around us while we have a little chat." I gave my people their instructions. The Togruta nodded and went up the ramp after taking the boy from the Mandalorian, while the others spread out, giving us room to talk.
Tholme considered it for a few seconds, gave me a doubtful look, then nodded and told me what had happened to him. It turned out that almost as soon as I arrived, I'd managed to get myself mixed up in the local power struggle...
Not great, on the one hand. On the other, I seemed to have done Tholme and one of the local future rulers a small favor.
I told them what had happened on our end. Basically, it had been a simple misunderstanding. Two guys came charging out, one of them with a suspicious-looking bundle over his shoulder. They shouted something aggressive, and Romri and Arvik opened fire on one of them. The Gungan pulled off a neat little pirouette, got behind him, and jabbed his spear into the unarmored back of his head. As for the second one, I sicced Quartermaster on him. In partial combat mode, the chimera stopped being a cute, chubby lump and shot toward its target, instantly gnawing its way inside the enemy's torso and setting about destroying his internal organs. So in the end, we had two corpses and one bruised little Twi'lek boy.
By the time we finished talking, Romri appeared on the ramp with the dejected-looking boy beside her. According to her, nothing serious had happened: a couple of minor bruises, one nasty hematoma on his side, and a bruised left buttock.
"The fighter will live," the Togruta said, baring her sharp little teeth in a grin. Then, after casting an unfriendly glance at the Padawan, she straightened slightly so that her assets looked a little more impressive.
"Thank you, Romri," the Jedi said with a smile, then turned his gaze to me. "And thank you, Master Siith. Are you staying on Ryloth long?"
"You're welcome," I said with a shrug. "It all just sort of happened on its own. As for how long we'll be staying on the planet, I don't know yet. I'm on vacation, and I want to see the local sights..." My gaze somehow drifted back to the Twi'lek girl's outfit, earning a faint smile from her. "Ahem... Anyway, I haven't decided yet. But we'll definitely be here for at least a week."
"All right," Tholme nodded. "Then, if you don't mind, I'll contact you sometime in the next few days. I think Lon Secura will want to thank you in person."
"No problem. Uh... Secura?" I looked questioningly at the blue-skinned Twi'lek, whose expression had darkened slightly. "Same last name?"
"He's my uncle," the girl said stiffly, with a trace of dislike, then added after a second of silence, "Was."
At that, little Nat stared at her in surprise.
"I see. Family business," I drawled, shifting my gaze to her master. "Then..."
"Aayla, go to Lon Secura and take your cousin to him." The girl nodded and took the child by the hand, giving him an encouraging smile. "I still need to find a certain Devaronian and ask him a few questions. Until next time, Master Siith, gentlemen."
"See you, and good luck." I nodded to the Jedi, then turned to the others. "Well then, ladies and gentlemen, are you going to strip the corpses? Keep in mind, the dead bodies and one staff are mine. I've never gutted a Nikto before."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Aayla Secura give a little shudder. Well, aren't we sensitive. Chopping up sentients with glowing sticks is perfectly fine, but when a pathologist does his job it's suddenly "ew, how horrible."
Hypocritical blue ass.
A pretty one, though...
***
The guys were quite pleased with their new gear. The armor and staffs were coated with cortosis. For one thing, the metal was extremely expensive, and for another, it stood up remarkably well to blows from glowing sticks.
There wasn't much of it on the chestplates, but I promised to strip off the cortosis when I had the time and outfit the guys with pieces of gear coated in it. They weren't planning on fighting Jedi, of course, but mercenaries always accounted for the "well, what if?" scenario.
I tossed my staff into the cabin, and Koit did the same. "Gotta get used to it, though," the Gungan commented on his decision. We reassured Ras and Shmi, who had been surprised by our return, and since we were back anyway, had a mug of caf each. I attached a couple of stasis artifacts to the Morgukai corpses—expensive things, and difficult to make. In effect, they slowed the flow of time for the target to a crawl. And the larger and bulkier the target, the greater the mana cost. A Nikto body, for example, required artifacts with three soul traps apiece as power sources. My adaptive-protection amulet, by comparison, used only one. And the "fuel" consumption was enormous: the batteries would run dry in a week to a week and a half, so I'd have to deal with the corpses sooner rather than later.
That was precisely why each Nimbus unit was issued only one of those things. They simply cost too many pirates to make. Alto had even joked once that he'd never imagined there would come a day when he'd look forward to raids and be glad to see slavers. Heh. He'd discovered why the sorcerous fraternity was always so eager to take part in operations to wipe out bandit bases, and why some of them would drop whatever they were doing just to fight a little war for some prince or other. Experienced spellcasters, naturally: youngsters weren't much use on a battlefield, and they probably didn't know how to collect souls properly either. Except perhaps by the simplest method—personally killing someone at close range.
Anyway, once we'd taken care of everything, we headed off as planned—to the cantina by the spaceport. The people of Ryloth weren't exactly an open bunch, so outsiders only had access to the spaceport, the tourist zones, and a handful of designated tour routes. Maybe I could talk this Lon Secura into letting me see how the locals actually lived, at least within territory controlled by his family?
***
"Grahrk got away," were Tholme's first words as he entered the room where Aayla stood staring thoughtfully out the window.
"The Devaronian is... very slippery," the girl said with a hint of indifference. Her heart felt heavy.
Her cousin Nat reminded her of her own story in some ways. The younger, unloved son, feeling the weight of his father's irrational reproach. From what the boy had said, he felt that Lon Secura wished it had been him who died, not his elder son—the beloved heir into whose upbringing so much time and effort had gone.
The one who had always lived in the shadows. His own child, yet unwanted. A son for whom there was never enough time, and on whom his father had never cared to spend any parental attention.
The girl remembered how, many years ago, she had been just as unwanted. Even though she had been only two years old, her lekku gave her an excellent memory, while Jedi mental techniques allowed her to remember it all as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. A daughter no one wanted. A child of an influential family, sold to the Hutts because "she would be safer there." Damned hypocrites. She had always been gifted, and alongside the Force she had always possessed another gift—empathy. Empathy that told her that, of all her relatives, only her mother truly loved her. A mother who was just as powerless and voiceless a slave as hundreds of thousands, millions of Twi'lek women.
The girl had never told anyone, but she was grateful to the enraged wampa the Hutt had bought from a smuggler. Bought it just as he had bought her from her own family, no matter what her uncle—Pol Secura, still alive at the time—might have claimed. The threat of death and her scream through the Force had allowed the little girl to draw the attention of the sentient being dearest to her in the entire universe. Back then, of course, he had been nothing more than a Jedi Padawan—Quinlan Vos, who saved the girl. Saved her and took her away from Ryloth, far from that breeding ground of slavery sheltered beneath the Republic's wing.
As an adult, Secura understood why things on her homeworld were the way they were. She understood, but she could not accept it. Her next visit to Ryloth, together with Quinlan Vos, who had become her master, ended with her fall to the Dark Side—her own uncle, Pol, damn him, kept her drugged so heavily that she forgot who she was and became nothing more than a dancer in his palace. And once again Quinlan came for her, once again pulling her out of yet another nightmare. Her master, who, just like her, had lost himself, had conquered the darkness in his own mind and saved her... Unfortunately, because the two of them had come dangerously close to the edge, the Council decided to separate them. Her new master was John Tholme, and as Quinlan had joked sadly, "My old master will be your master now. Try to fray his nerves a little less than I did back in the day."
And now, Ryloth again. "Family" again. The girl remembered with disgust what Lon had said when she asked where Master Tholme was: "None of your concern, slave. Get back to your duties, woman."
Only after she showed him her lightsaber and explained that Tholme was her master did the head of House Secura tell her that he was at the spaceport. How satisfying it had been to toss over her shoulder as she left, "Thank you, Uncle," and then, at his bewilderment, explain, "I'm Aayla. Once, I was your niece."
The Jedi taught that one should keep one's emotions in check, but at that moment the girl had been unable to suppress a triumphant smile. A small pleasure she would never tell anyone about.
"Aayla..." Tholme sat down across from her and looked at the girl with concern. He was a very good man—not as daring or reckless as Quinlan, but caring and perceptive. The Twi'lek girl smiled at him.
"I'm all right, Master Tholme. Just unpleasant memories. After the mission, I'll need to..."
"Have a good long meditation," her master finished the joke for her, smiling warmly and sympathetically. The thing was, the active and emotional girl was no great fan of meditation, though she did acknowledge its benefits. "I'm glad you're coping."
"I'm a Jedi," Aayla said proudly, straightening up. "How could it be otherwise?"
"Pride..."
"A path to the Dark Side it is. I know, Master," she finished for him, her smile bright and cheerful now. Master Yoda's sayings, besides containing wisdom, also had a way of lifting one's spirits, though no one in the Order openly talked about that...
"Then get some sleep, Padawan. It's been a hard day. Tomorrow Ro Fenn will leave for the Bright Lands. After that, we'll speak with the Jabiim sorcerer, say goodbye to Lon Secura, and return to the Temple."
"That sorcerer..."
"Did you sense anything from him?" her master asked. He knew about Aayla's gift for empathy. It had often been their trump card during investigations.
"Nothing like that, Master. He isn't hostile toward us—rather the opposite. He was glad to see me. I felt his admiration for me, but it was... clean. He admired me the same way I admire a beautiful landscape or the beauty of space. To be honest, it was even... kind of insulting?"
Her master allowed himself a quiet chuckle and continued looking at her expectantly.
"The Mandalorian doesn't like us, but there's no hatred. The long-eared one..."
"Gungan," Tholme supplied.
"The Gungan didn't care. He was proud of himself. The Togruta, Romri, was jealous... of everyone paying attention to me?"
"She's the only girl on the ship," her master said with an amused squint. "Maybe she's simply not used to sharing her companions' attention? Though I could sense there were other sentients aboard the shuttle."
"Maybe," the girl said, running a hand over her lekku. "But taken as a whole, just like last time, I don't sense any dislike or threat. Just..."
"Just..."
"He reminds me of Master Yoda, this Siith. That constant faint condescension, the harmless teasing, the gentle goodwill. And the curiosity! Those jokes of his about autopsies, combined with that curiosity—just like that girl on Jabiim—genuinely scare me, Master!"
Tholme chuckled quietly. Siith really did come across as slightly unhinged. And with that perpetually unsettling little smile of his, he looked downright like a maniac. But who in their right mind would make themselves look that suspicious so openly? The sentient simply had the same sort of sense of humor as Master Rancisis.
They talked a little longer, then Tholme went to his own room, and about ten minutes later Aayla drifted into a deep sleep.
A couple of hours passed with the girl sleeping soundly. Ryloth's "night" was quiet, soft light seeping through the windows. And in that silence, a shadow began to grow in the window. A beast unknown on this planet, comically twitching its nose, crept into the girl's room. For several seconds it wandered around the chamber, then headed purposefully for the small drawer where she kept her underwear.
*** Ship Inferno. Open Space. Vilmarh Grahrk. ***
"Boss, the job went bad. The Morgukai are dead, the kid's gone. Villie barely managed to get away."
"Damn it," Kh'aris Fenn's angry voice came over the comm. "Are you sure they're dead?"
"Yes, Boss. My droid recorded everything in detail, but only the fight. I decided that hanging around on a planet with Jedi any longer was a luxury I couldn't afford."
"You made the right call," the voice of the Fenn family exile softened slightly. "Send me everything you have on the job, including the droid's recording. You're free for now. I'll contact you."
The connection cut off, and Villie snorted into the empty air. This Fenn was just like every other pompous moneybag—arrogant and overflowing with self-importance.
Now Villie, on the other hand... The Devaronian glanced at himself in a small mirror. Handsome devil, wasn't he? No matter. He'd done everything he could. The employers had been let down by the very people they themselves had hired, and now he could relax a little and get some rest. No one had any complaints about him, right? So he could reward himself. Where were the best whores in the galaxy again?
Anywhere but Ryloth, Vilmarh snorted. Better not show his face there for a couple of months.
***
"Count, the plan failed," the gray-skinned Twi'lek said, turning to his patron.
"It's no disaster, Kh'aris," the former Jedi replied with a smile. "As long as you're alive, there will always be another chance. So don't despair. If not this time, then the next, Ryloth will have you as its leader."
"And we'll finally cast aside those moss-grown traditions," the young man said, clenching his fists and giving the tip of one lekku an angry twitch. "It's only a small delay. My people have endured for thousands of years. I hope they can endure a little longer."
"You're looking at the situation the right way, my friend. A little patience. You've paid too high a price to rush into battle without beskar-clad certainty of victory."
"My father sacrificed me for power. And I sacrificed my name, my homeland, my honor, and my dignity. But everything I've lost isn't worth a single tear from my mother."
The gray-skinned Twi'lek with orange eyes turned sharply on his heel and left the room.
Dooku merely watched him go with sympathy. For several seconds he remained motionless, then the Count of Serenno pressed his lips into a thin line.
The Republic... How many more lives must it destroy, how many more fates must this tumor on the body of the galaxy shatter before it finally devours itself?
"The Counts of Serenno do not complain, and they do not cry. We are born to care for others. We do not expect others to care for us," the aging man whispered.***
Author's Note:
The Morgukai are a highly secretive order, most often composed of members of the Nikto species, though there have been cases of other sentients being accepted as well. They did not use the Force the way the Jedi or Sith did, but they possessed techniques that allowed them to resist mind tricks. (A trained mind.) They were also known as hunters of Jedi and Sith.
*Tholme wasn't finished off because another Morgukai interfered in his duel with the first. By their traditions, the victory would no longer have been "clean" and wouldn't have earned them any "respecc."
**Nikto is the name of a species from a galaxy far, far away. It really jars me when translating from Russian, since nikto (никто) means "nobody."
***Count Dooku is a very complex character, and the author of the original work will make every effort to portray him as more than just some bearded villain, but as a man with motivations of his own. If anyone is interested, feel free to read up on him. He was a deeply ambiguous man, but he never sought power merely for power's sake. I know the champions of All That Is Good and enemies of All That Is Bad will now start furiously composing angry odes, but the author has decided to make his position clear from the outset. ;-)
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation is still in progress, and new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
Last edited:
readsalot
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Oh absolutely, Dooku is a legend who set out with great ideals, Sidious corrupted that.
Without Sidious, or if Dooku said fk you and betrayed him first really early, Dooku would have been awesome.