Chapter 43
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Boroda Orka
Getting sticky.
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Vacation. Now there was a funny invention. Dangerous, too. Terrifying, even. Worse than drugs. You try it once, and that's it—you're hooked. The sentients of this universe had invented something truly monstrous. If anyone had told me ten years ago that one day I'd be counting up my banked vacation days, I would have laughed in their face. Neighed, more like. Vacation? What for? Work was fun. And if you got tired and felt like seeing the world, you packed your crap and went. And yet... here I was.
But things worked a little differently here. For one thing, a good chunk of my time went to things I didn't actually find interesting. Teaching had its own charms, especially when I got to shock the student body. Trouble was, the little bastards eventually got used to everything. These days, the veteran assholes who had survived more than a year here even made sure to prepare the first-years in advance. Which took a great deal of the fun out of it. Granted, the "veterans" themselves were hardly above finding some creative way to screw with the newcomers.
The portal project, for example, remained almost entirely theoretical. It was too soon. The sheer scale of this universe made the whole thing problematic enough, and then there was the small matter of that one successful breach having dumped me clear into another universe...
In short, until I can build a research complex on some lifeless planet where there's no risk of unleashing a full-scale apocalypse on the local sentients, I've decided to hold off. I have to be honest with myself: opening a window onto one of the demonic planes is entirely possible, and there is no one here capable of dealing with whatever comes through. I'd get eaten alive, plain and simple, by an endless tide of lesser demons, and the greater ones are ancient creatures thousands of years old—powerful, cunning, intelligent things for whom one sorcerer would amount to little more than a light snack on the way to several trillion much tastier souls. Hecate couldn't handle that alone, not at her current level of power, and I have no intention of letting the rest of the pantheon in here. Gods accumulate far too many strange fixations under the influence of worship and their own aspects.
So. Vacation. I'd finally accumulated enough time for a proper trip through a few interesting worlds. My "best friend" Willy had sold me, at a fairly merciful price, safe and little-known routes to several planets that had caught my interest. This time it wouldn't be another mad dash across the galaxy, but a proper scientific expedition. The witch clans of Dathomir, for example, had caught my attention.
These Force-sensitives not only breed and train rancors... though that isn't quite accurate. The local ladies have, in a sense, integrated the semi-sentient creatures into their society and use them as transportation, combat assets, and heavy machinery—something along the lines of bulldozers and excavators. Rumor also has it that the witches of Dathomir practice not only Force techniques but some form of sorcery of their own, which interests me a great deal. That was also the world where young Pancake, my daughter's beloved pet, had been purchased. Karray absolutely adores the ugly brute, and the rancor himself is surprisingly intelligent, obedient, and deeply attached to the young sorceress.
And yes, the little menace finally wore me down. I officially adopted her. Karray'darla'Dziha joined my bloodline, becoming my daughter and first heir. She handled the blood-changing ritual remarkably well. The only downside was that the Lightbringer's curse transferred to her as well, so now the little brat struts around with black sclera and red irises. Damn divine curses. Fortunately, she wasn't upset. Quite the opposite. Now we scare the students together. Karray has even started taking lessons from Romri in the "Siith smile," paying for them with little get-togethers where the two of them bare their teeth at each other, make Suti laugh, and eat cake.
The second world that interested me was Korriban, also known as Moraband. The planet had spent long stretches under the rule of the Sith Order and had, at times, even served as their capital. It was also the homeworld of the species that bore the same name, a people renowned for powerful practitioners of the Dark Side. These days, the little rock drifting through the endless void was of little use to anyone. It sat under the Commercial Guild's wing. I had no idea what they were doing there, but the planet was open to visitors, and we had already reached a preliminary agreement regarding my trip. Korriban was home to countless Sith tombs, and the rumors surrounding them were rather unpleasant... I was positively itching to see what was actually there.
Our Jedi ladies immediately started wailing in unison about how visiting that world was oh-so-terribly dangerous. The Dark Side was strong there, you see. Frightfully strong. Perfect. Just lovely. We'd set up camp well away from the "cursed" lands with the tombs, and I'd finally get a chance to study what this Dark Side actually was.
I suspected it was nothing more exotic than the pressure of death magic or dark magic. Possibly Chaos as well, tinted toward the negative end of the spectrum. What convinced me was the fact that the situation hadn't corrected itself in centuries, and that sort of thing happened mostly with "dark energies." Once a certain area reached critical mass, neutral mana began converting itself on its own, preventing the dark background from simply dispersing. I used to raise the ambient necroenergy in my necropolis artificially so that my undead could become self-sustaining without any additional conversion.
Back home, on the Turtle, the same thing happened naturally at the sites of particularly vicious massacres or other sufficiently horrible events. Especially when the clergy waved the problem away and couldn't be bothered to clean up after anything soaked in negative energies. That was where all those supposedly cursed places came from, the ones where "Death herself raises the dead." Right. Sure. As if the Pale Lady had nothing better to do than raise low-grade undead. Can't eat, can't sleep—too busy running around the ass end of the world desecrating village graveyards and cursing old battlefields. Meanwhile, the fat-assed priest who does his duties half-heartedly, assuming he does them at all instead of simply eating his way through the donations and groping the village girls, bears absolutely no responsibility whatsoever. Nope. None at all. A holy man, that one. The fact that he can barely squeeze through the temple doors is merely his patron's divine grace swelling inside him.
On the other hand, old necro-geezers and liches absolutely loved taking jobs to lift those kinds of "curses." The liches rarely bothered with anything that petty, but young necromancers would come whooping and hollering to any village graveyard that would have them. Necroenergy is heavy stuff. Converting neutral mana into the mana of the dead is dangerous for the inexperienced and takes a fair bit of work, while topping off your reservoirs with free energy is a lovely thing indeed. And here they'd even pay you for it—or feed you if they had no money. If you got really lucky, you might even tumble some pretty young thing in a hayloft. The important part, if you were young and inexperienced, was managing to get away from her father and brothers afterward. The young but experienced ones usually put on a whole show with illusions of assorted horrors and a few fireballs for good measure. That way you got beer with your meal, and the girl's father and brothers tended not to chase the shameless bastard quite so enthusiastically.
So. If the magical background on Korriban really worked that way, I could buy some land there and build a JMG complex. Then I could send the dark-magic faculties there for serious practical training. I doubted the Commercial Guild would object. Especially if a couple of gifts happened to find their way into the hands of its local management.
I was also interested in the planet's wildlife, which had almost certainly mutated under the influence of energies from the negative end of the spectrum. Creatures like that sometimes developed very interesting traits—natural mechanisms an experienced chimerologist could borrow for his own work. And then there were the tombs themselves, of course, and especially the so-called Sith "ghosts" that, according to rumor, could be encountered there. I was very curious to find out, assuming they were real, exactly what they were: a successful attempt at immortality, or some peculiar magical phenomenon?
There were also repositories of Force-sensitive knowledge—holocrons—and, again according to rumor, the Jedi had not cleared everything off this world. Very, very tempting to get my hands on something like that. I had no intention of telling the Order about it, of course, but thanks to Wilmar Grark and Arvik—or, more precisely, thanks to Fett, who shared Arvik's devotion to the Resol'nare—I had contacts for a couple of rogue Jedi. Aurra Sing, for instance, might well agree to activate one for a sufficiently generous fee if I couldn't manage it myself. The important thing was making sure the fellows in robes never found out. They'd lecture me into suicide.
The two healers training to become chimerologists had gotten on both my nerves and Karray's so thoroughly with their lectures about what was right and what was wrong that eventually we had to have a serious talk with them.
"Director, we need to have a serious conversation," the green one began. Well, yes. To be fair, it was the Jedi who actually initiated the serious conversation. But I'd been planning one too... I'd put it off every single day, sure, but I had been planning it. That still counted, right?
"Sit down, then, if it's serious," I sighed, gesturing toward the chairs for visitors. "Suti, sweetheart, make me some caf, please. Ladies, anything for you?"
"No, thank you," Knight Rig declined, while Allie merely shook her head. "We wanted to talk about Karray, your ward."
"She didn't share her cake?" I gasped in mock horror, already realizing that I was about to have sex with a pair of Jedi. Well, more precisely, sex with their philosophy and dogma. Mmm... My favorite. Not.
"Director," the green—and admittedly very cute—healer Knight said, shaking her head reproachfully. I only snorted. She hadn't earned the right to wag a finger at me yet. Little glowstick runt. Seeing that I had failed to grasp the full abyss of my moral downfall and was merely studying her with amused attention, the girl continued. "Master Dziha, with all due respect, your ward is terribly spoiled."
I raised an eyebrow in surprise, silently asking her to elaborate, and let out a weary sigh. Another preacher of morality and virtue, fresh out of the temple and projecting the philosophy of her own brethren onto the entire world around her. "She humiliates others, mocks them, and respects no one except you and a handful of other sentients. She takes other people's health, their lives... and their appearance far too lightly!"
"Hold on, Knight Rig Nema," I said, raising a hand and sighing again. The little green one's heated stream of accusations had worn me out almost immediately. Stass Allie, on the other hand, was a pleasant surprise. The Tholothian kept her expression unreadable and simply watched events unfold with close attention. She was there to support her fellow member of the Order, but showed neither approval nor disapproval. "Let's start from the beginning. When, exactly, and how does my ward humiliate other sentients?"
"Just recently! Kenny McCormick died in the cafeteria! And she dragged his body across the floor!"
"So?" I raised both eyebrows, making it perfectly clear from my expression that I had no idea what the problem was.
"That was disrespectful!" Knight Nema even raised her voice slightly.
"Oh..." I closed my eyes for a moment, accepting the caf and thanking my assistant. "Suti, be a dear and send any second-year student to my office, please. Whoever's closest."
While the little Twi'lek went to snag the first student passing by, I savored my caf, glancing at the puzzled Jedi with growing anticipation.
"Director, you called?" Shella Grark asked with a sweet smile as she entered the office, and I gave an inward hum of satisfaction. Hit-Girl certainly wouldn't let me down.
"Hello, Fluffy. Stand still for me, please," I told her with a warm smile, which made both Jedi visibly shudder.
I leisurely pulled a powerful blaster from my desk drawer—a gift from Arvik—aimed it at my student, who was watching the whole thing with perfect calm, and fired three shots. The Devaronian merely watched the little sparks showering down onto the floor, while the Jedi had already scattered to opposite corners of the room, trying to wrench the weapon out of my hand with the Force. I calmly put it back where it belonged. Turns out, pulling a blaster out of my grip while it's wrapped in my aura isn't so easy. Aura-tendril telekinesis: one-nil.
"Knight Nema, tell me what I just did," I said, turning back to the outraged little green woman as though nothing had happened.
"You tried to kill your student!" the healer snapped angrily.
"First of all, calm down," I said, drawing my brows together sternly. "Anger is the path to the Dark Side. And second, if I had wanted to kill Fluffy, she wouldn't be standing there perfectly intact right now. Shelly, sweetheart, tell me, please—what did I just do?"
"You fired a blaster at me three times," the young mage said with a smile.
"Exactly right, Hit-Girl. Exactly right. Thank you very much. You can go."
"Director. Knights." The girl gave us a nod in farewell and left the office.
"Now then. Listen carefully, my dear students. And sit down already. I'm not planning to shoot anything else for the foreseeable future."
The Jedi settled back into their seats. Rig was still indignant, though she was clearly working to restore her inner balance, while Stass looked thoughtful. There was a reason people were already talking about making her a Master—she was obviously drawing conclusions.
"Out in the galaxy, beyond the walls of our Academy, death is, for the most part, final. The price of ignoring safety procedures in the workplace isn't limited to fines or getting fired. It can mean mutilation, death, all kinds of poisoning, burns. A sentient sentient—pardon the tautology—follows safety rules because they don't want to hurt themselves, end up crippled, or die." I took another sip of caf, watching the tension smooth itself from Knight Allie's face.
"At the JMG, things work a little differently, and the reason is you, me, and Karray. Chimerologists. You two are still inexperienced, of course, so you wouldn't be able to properly 'resurrect' a person yet. But I can, and to a lesser extent, so can my ward. Sounds like a good thing, but there's always a catch. Sometimes more than one. And in this case, they're pretty damn big. The first, and for me the most important: a careless student who manages to die at an inconvenient time distracts me from my work. Serious work. The same goes for Karray, though in her case it also makes for decent practice. Even so, she has her own curriculum, her own interesting projects... And then, just like that, the bastards kill Kenny again."
"But that—"
I cut the Knight off with a raised hand.
"Patience, Greenie. Patience is a virtue in any professional. Mage, warrior, Jedi—it doesn't matter. The second catch is the illusion of immortality. Let me explain: a sentient can get used to the idea that Death is no big deal. And yes, you can get used to that too. Sentients can get used to anything. And we get used to the good things fastest of all."
"How is that supposed to be a good thing?" the girl finally burst out.
"So resurrection and healing are bad now?" I asked, genuinely surprised this time.
"No, that's not what I mean! The pain, and then all that humiliation with the... transportation," she explained.
"That, Knight, is the price. The price of death. When a sentient dies, they die, understand? Here, the natural order has been broken. The dead man died, but he didn't stay dead. And dying is supposed to be bad! Savvy? Otherwise you lose respect for the End of Life. Now, back to Karray. The girl can't lift a heavy corpse yet. Her aura isn't developed enough. That's one. She healed every injury caused during transport. That's two. And most importantly: no honors, no respect, nothing for an idiot who got himself killed doing something stupid! That's three!"
"But it wasn't his fault..."
I slammed my palm down on the desk hard enough to make every loose object on it rattle and send ripples through my mug of caf.
"Stop interrupting me, Knight Nema! Listen until I'm finished, because I am not done! The dead man was at fault! That day, he was at fault three times over! Three times! The only reason I didn't expel him six months ago is because he is carelessness incarnate. A cautionary tale for everyone else! A laughingstock. And I pity him, too, because if I throw him out, he'll simply get himself killed for good. Maybe he has a wonderful inner life—he must, if perfectly decent students are willing to be friends with him—but as a mage, right now, he's already a corpse."
By then I wasn't even trying to hide my irritation and was practically lecturing them at full volume. Suti, clever girl that she was, silently slipped away to the little kitchenette to prepare a calming brew. Yes, I'm that kind of pervert—the sort who can drink caf and then happily wash it down with herbal tea.
"First, during morning practice he forgot to put up protection against direct effects. That's basic. You have to know that. It needs to be hammered into your skull, into your reflexes: the moment you start working with spells, put up protection. Or use the proper artifacts. He did neither. Second, he inflated himself because he forgot to specify the coordinates of the water-condensation focus point and forgot to set a limit on the volume of condensate. Blew himself up like village children blowing up frogs with a straw shoved up their ass! Then he burst and sprayed half the classroom and his fellow students with his own shit and guts! And third, despite dying with a regularity that would make the economies of most Outer Rim worlds jealous, the idiot still doesn't wear a protective amulet! This is..."
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath through my nose, forcing myself to calm down. Yes, the ridiculous shit Deadman got up to amused me—let's be honest about that—but his attitude toward his own life could only be described as insanity.
"I just can't wrap my head around it, you understand?" I said, returning to a calmer tone. "Protective amulets are easy enough to buy from artificers here. Shella Grark—Fluffy, that is—bought her protective ring from Romri Tano, who charges our own people, mages and sorcerers, only a thirty-percent markup instead of the three hundred percent she charges everyone else. And the artifact is genuinely high-quality, because I personally helped her with the design. It protects against more than just blaster fire: kinetic impacts, pure energy... hell, it even has a built-in climate-control module and an automatically deploying force-field umbrella. Put a ring like that on and you've got nothing to worry about. Just remember to recharge it every evening."
The Jedi tried to interrupt me again, but I pinned her in place with a heavy stare. These little outbursts from the audience annoyed me quite enough even during lectures. Remember the question and ask it when the lecturer pauses. That is what the pauses are for.
"Dozdrogodul take the amulet! You can buy the same kind of charm for a couple of wupiupi from any artificer with six months of training! What respect for Deadman are you talking about when he has no respect for my work or my ward's? The girl who, in her entire life, has ended up as my patient exactly once—because she ate so much cake she gave herself indigestion. At eight years old. Why can't he put an end to this endless string of his own deaths with a shred of mental discipline or a handful of credits? Hecate is my witness, I even gave him an amulet with a painkilling effect as a hint! Jedi Knights, have I made my position clear regarding respect for those who fall in battle against their own stupidity?!"
"Yes, Master Dziha," Stass Allie spoke for the first time, giving a calm nod.
"But that's not all," Knight Nema said, shooting her fellow Jedi an indignant glare. Apparently she had been hoping to keep going in the vein of but that's wrong. "She had an argument with an Alderaanian girl, a first-year, and three days ago, when she was treating her for an injury... she grew... on her..."
"She grew clusters of warts on the Alderaanian girl's ass?" I supplied helpfully when the girl hesitated.
"You knew?!" I honestly couldn't tell which there was more of in the healer's eyes: outrage or surprise.
"Of course I knew," I said with a calm nod. "The girl called my ward a filthy little plebeian brat. That idiot is worse than Deadman, and she should be grateful."
"For the warts?"
"For the fact that she'll be going home alive," I said flatly. "We are not Jedi. We are spellcasters. We don't have a rigid code of conduct, and we aren't bound by the Order's rulebook. I'm more than certain that idiot would never have thought to insult one of the Mandalorians, because only a complete moron mouths off to a warrior from a warrior clan. They'd just shoot her. Simple as that."
"What about the laws of the Republic?" the Jedi protested.
"No body, no case," I said with an indifferent shrug, earning a choking cough from Greenie. "I'm exaggerating, obviously. Relax. Karray is a very kind girl, and if you've noticed, for all her restlessness and 'spoiled' behavior, she never insults other sentients. She's brilliant, talented, frighteningly intelligent. She's proud of herself, and deservedly so, but she never puts others down. That little childish revenge was necessary. Besides, the warts disappeared after three hours. It helps build her reputation as a dangerous sorceress—a kind of passive defense against idiots and loudmouths. And it taught that fool an important lesson: never be rude to your doctor. A spellcaster should generally be polite to fellow practitioners. I'll go even further: everyone should be polite to everyone. I swear, if all sentients suddenly started treating one another with basic courtesy, the mortality rate across the galaxy would plummet."
"But revenge isn't the answer!" the young Jedi sighed sadly.
"Depends on the revenge," I disagreed. "See, if that Alderaanian hadn't started screaming loud enough for the whole Academy to hear, nobody would ever have known something had grown on her ass. Even if she'd come to me, it would have ended quietly. I'd have scared her a little with my friendly smile, explained that calling people names is a bad idea, and then told her that 'the horror' would disappear on its own in a couple of hours. You understand? A scandal-loving aristocrat, used to strutting around Alderaan like a peacock, humiliated herself. Killing her over something like that? Yes, that would have been excessive. She wouldn't have learned anything. There would have been no lesson to take from it. But now? Maybe she'll think before deciding what to say and to whom. She might even realize that this isn't her homeworld, and nobody here is going to coddle her."
"You make it sound as though Karray can do no wrong," Rig Nema said, a hurt note creeping into her voice as she looked at me sadly.
"And that's exactly how it is, young and kindhearted Knight Nema. Exactly how it is. You see, you two are my students. I'm obligated to teach you chimerology under my agreement with the Grand Master of the Jedi Order. Karray, on the other hand, is my ward. I don't merely teach her. Strange as it may sound, I also raise her. Sometimes that means taking a belt to her backside; sometimes it means long conversations. From your Jedi point of view, she's a terrible child. From mine, she's an exemplary sorceress—one who, when she grows up, will be able to live on her own, won't let parasites latch onto her and live off her, and won't get herself killed through stupidity or misplaced trust. We're simply different. Just as your training methods and your way of life can look utterly bizarre to non-Force-sensitives, we're just as different in our own way. I couldn't care less how someone who died through sheer stupidity gets transported. But if Karray ever showed that kind of disrespect toward Master Yaddle, who quite literally gave her life to save an entire city and two Jedi, I'd give her such a belting she'd be sleeping on her stomach for a week."
"But the vivisections! She's constantly offering people money to let her cut them open—"
At that, I very rudely burst out laughing and interrupted her.
"Sorry, sorry." I raised both hands. I'd just spent all that time lecturing her about how rude it was to interrupt people, and now here I was doing exactly that. "It's just that she switched entirely to advanced diagnostic spells about three years ago. She doesn't actually need to cut anyone open anymore."
"Then why does she—" the representative of the Healer Corps began, only for Stass to cut in.
"The image?" the girl asked with a smile.
"Exactly," I nodded. "Besides, she enjoys watching everyone jump out of their skins. Just don't go spreading that around, or she'll get offended with me. And to answer your question before you ask it: those two Neimoidians who agreed to the procedure simply slept inside diagnostic ritual diagrams while Karray ran her tests. She even fixed up a few things in their bodies as a reward for their bravery. Though... in their case, I suspect it was greed strangling their survival instincts. And before they woke up, she simply set the proper mood—scattered saws and knives all over the place and smeared everything with Neimoidian blood she'd made from the 'soup.'"
The Tholothian laughed merrily, closing her beautiful violet eyes. I would have called her an attractive woman if not for that creepy headpiece with its weird dangling ornaments, which she wore all the time. Until her first examination, I had actually thought the things were some kind of lekku. Impressive craftsmanship, I had to admit. I hadn't exactly stared, but fooling the trained eye of a chimerologist was no small achievement.
In any case, she was a pleasant girl. Knight Rig was too. That one was downright adorable. She reminded me a great deal of Suti, with the same light, almost airy quality. If only there were a little less idealism spilling over into preachiness... But that was youth. Give her another forty or fifty years, and I suspected she'd grow into a thoroughly charming Lady in every sense of the word.
And after that, we simply said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. As far as I could tell, Stass had had her concerns about the whole matter, but my answers satisfied her. Rig, on the other hand, was still convinced I was wrong. Well, Dozdrogodul take her. Sorcerers aren't peggats. We can't be liked by everyone.
Yeah. Some bright idea that was, agreeing to teach these cousins of paladins. Ah, well. Could be worse. Vacation was close. I'd gather the old crew and head off in search of adventure. The guys had already agreed, and Arvik had brought in another couple of Mando from among his own people. So we'd get some rest, clear our heads, and who knows—maybe we'd even run into some pirates!
It was a shame I couldn't take Karray with me. At least one competent chimerologist had to remain on Jabiim. The Jedi weren't ready yet—the sheer volume of knowledge they still needed was simply too great, though the combination of Force and Magic was formidable. At Choala Hospital, they were going to start worshipping those two and Karray before long. Oh, what magnificent healers they were going to become...
Original Russian story
You can find more chapters on my Patreon.
The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
But things worked a little differently here. For one thing, a good chunk of my time went to things I didn't actually find interesting. Teaching had its own charms, especially when I got to shock the student body. Trouble was, the little bastards eventually got used to everything. These days, the veteran assholes who had survived more than a year here even made sure to prepare the first-years in advance. Which took a great deal of the fun out of it. Granted, the "veterans" themselves were hardly above finding some creative way to screw with the newcomers.
The portal project, for example, remained almost entirely theoretical. It was too soon. The sheer scale of this universe made the whole thing problematic enough, and then there was the small matter of that one successful breach having dumped me clear into another universe...
In short, until I can build a research complex on some lifeless planet where there's no risk of unleashing a full-scale apocalypse on the local sentients, I've decided to hold off. I have to be honest with myself: opening a window onto one of the demonic planes is entirely possible, and there is no one here capable of dealing with whatever comes through. I'd get eaten alive, plain and simple, by an endless tide of lesser demons, and the greater ones are ancient creatures thousands of years old—powerful, cunning, intelligent things for whom one sorcerer would amount to little more than a light snack on the way to several trillion much tastier souls. Hecate couldn't handle that alone, not at her current level of power, and I have no intention of letting the rest of the pantheon in here. Gods accumulate far too many strange fixations under the influence of worship and their own aspects.
So. Vacation. I'd finally accumulated enough time for a proper trip through a few interesting worlds. My "best friend" Willy had sold me, at a fairly merciful price, safe and little-known routes to several planets that had caught my interest. This time it wouldn't be another mad dash across the galaxy, but a proper scientific expedition. The witch clans of Dathomir, for example, had caught my attention.
These Force-sensitives not only breed and train rancors... though that isn't quite accurate. The local ladies have, in a sense, integrated the semi-sentient creatures into their society and use them as transportation, combat assets, and heavy machinery—something along the lines of bulldozers and excavators. Rumor also has it that the witches of Dathomir practice not only Force techniques but some form of sorcery of their own, which interests me a great deal. That was also the world where young Pancake, my daughter's beloved pet, had been purchased. Karray absolutely adores the ugly brute, and the rancor himself is surprisingly intelligent, obedient, and deeply attached to the young sorceress.
And yes, the little menace finally wore me down. I officially adopted her. Karray'darla'Dziha joined my bloodline, becoming my daughter and first heir. She handled the blood-changing ritual remarkably well. The only downside was that the Lightbringer's curse transferred to her as well, so now the little brat struts around with black sclera and red irises. Damn divine curses. Fortunately, she wasn't upset. Quite the opposite. Now we scare the students together. Karray has even started taking lessons from Romri in the "Siith smile," paying for them with little get-togethers where the two of them bare their teeth at each other, make Suti laugh, and eat cake.
The second world that interested me was Korriban, also known as Moraband. The planet had spent long stretches under the rule of the Sith Order and had, at times, even served as their capital. It was also the homeworld of the species that bore the same name, a people renowned for powerful practitioners of the Dark Side. These days, the little rock drifting through the endless void was of little use to anyone. It sat under the Commercial Guild's wing. I had no idea what they were doing there, but the planet was open to visitors, and we had already reached a preliminary agreement regarding my trip. Korriban was home to countless Sith tombs, and the rumors surrounding them were rather unpleasant... I was positively itching to see what was actually there.
Our Jedi ladies immediately started wailing in unison about how visiting that world was oh-so-terribly dangerous. The Dark Side was strong there, you see. Frightfully strong. Perfect. Just lovely. We'd set up camp well away from the "cursed" lands with the tombs, and I'd finally get a chance to study what this Dark Side actually was.
I suspected it was nothing more exotic than the pressure of death magic or dark magic. Possibly Chaos as well, tinted toward the negative end of the spectrum. What convinced me was the fact that the situation hadn't corrected itself in centuries, and that sort of thing happened mostly with "dark energies." Once a certain area reached critical mass, neutral mana began converting itself on its own, preventing the dark background from simply dispersing. I used to raise the ambient necroenergy in my necropolis artificially so that my undead could become self-sustaining without any additional conversion.
Back home, on the Turtle, the same thing happened naturally at the sites of particularly vicious massacres or other sufficiently horrible events. Especially when the clergy waved the problem away and couldn't be bothered to clean up after anything soaked in negative energies. That was where all those supposedly cursed places came from, the ones where "Death herself raises the dead." Right. Sure. As if the Pale Lady had nothing better to do than raise low-grade undead. Can't eat, can't sleep—too busy running around the ass end of the world desecrating village graveyards and cursing old battlefields. Meanwhile, the fat-assed priest who does his duties half-heartedly, assuming he does them at all instead of simply eating his way through the donations and groping the village girls, bears absolutely no responsibility whatsoever. Nope. None at all. A holy man, that one. The fact that he can barely squeeze through the temple doors is merely his patron's divine grace swelling inside him.
On the other hand, old necro-geezers and liches absolutely loved taking jobs to lift those kinds of "curses." The liches rarely bothered with anything that petty, but young necromancers would come whooping and hollering to any village graveyard that would have them. Necroenergy is heavy stuff. Converting neutral mana into the mana of the dead is dangerous for the inexperienced and takes a fair bit of work, while topping off your reservoirs with free energy is a lovely thing indeed. And here they'd even pay you for it—or feed you if they had no money. If you got really lucky, you might even tumble some pretty young thing in a hayloft. The important part, if you were young and inexperienced, was managing to get away from her father and brothers afterward. The young but experienced ones usually put on a whole show with illusions of assorted horrors and a few fireballs for good measure. That way you got beer with your meal, and the girl's father and brothers tended not to chase the shameless bastard quite so enthusiastically.
So. If the magical background on Korriban really worked that way, I could buy some land there and build a JMG complex. Then I could send the dark-magic faculties there for serious practical training. I doubted the Commercial Guild would object. Especially if a couple of gifts happened to find their way into the hands of its local management.
I was also interested in the planet's wildlife, which had almost certainly mutated under the influence of energies from the negative end of the spectrum. Creatures like that sometimes developed very interesting traits—natural mechanisms an experienced chimerologist could borrow for his own work. And then there were the tombs themselves, of course, and especially the so-called Sith "ghosts" that, according to rumor, could be encountered there. I was very curious to find out, assuming they were real, exactly what they were: a successful attempt at immortality, or some peculiar magical phenomenon?
There were also repositories of Force-sensitive knowledge—holocrons—and, again according to rumor, the Jedi had not cleared everything off this world. Very, very tempting to get my hands on something like that. I had no intention of telling the Order about it, of course, but thanks to Wilmar Grark and Arvik—or, more precisely, thanks to Fett, who shared Arvik's devotion to the Resol'nare—I had contacts for a couple of rogue Jedi. Aurra Sing, for instance, might well agree to activate one for a sufficiently generous fee if I couldn't manage it myself. The important thing was making sure the fellows in robes never found out. They'd lecture me into suicide.
The two healers training to become chimerologists had gotten on both my nerves and Karray's so thoroughly with their lectures about what was right and what was wrong that eventually we had to have a serious talk with them.
"Director, we need to have a serious conversation," the green one began. Well, yes. To be fair, it was the Jedi who actually initiated the serious conversation. But I'd been planning one too... I'd put it off every single day, sure, but I had been planning it. That still counted, right?
"Sit down, then, if it's serious," I sighed, gesturing toward the chairs for visitors. "Suti, sweetheart, make me some caf, please. Ladies, anything for you?"
"No, thank you," Knight Rig declined, while Allie merely shook her head. "We wanted to talk about Karray, your ward."
"She didn't share her cake?" I gasped in mock horror, already realizing that I was about to have sex with a pair of Jedi. Well, more precisely, sex with their philosophy and dogma. Mmm... My favorite. Not.
"Director," the green—and admittedly very cute—healer Knight said, shaking her head reproachfully. I only snorted. She hadn't earned the right to wag a finger at me yet. Little glowstick runt. Seeing that I had failed to grasp the full abyss of my moral downfall and was merely studying her with amused attention, the girl continued. "Master Dziha, with all due respect, your ward is terribly spoiled."
I raised an eyebrow in surprise, silently asking her to elaborate, and let out a weary sigh. Another preacher of morality and virtue, fresh out of the temple and projecting the philosophy of her own brethren onto the entire world around her. "She humiliates others, mocks them, and respects no one except you and a handful of other sentients. She takes other people's health, their lives... and their appearance far too lightly!"
"Hold on, Knight Rig Nema," I said, raising a hand and sighing again. The little green one's heated stream of accusations had worn me out almost immediately. Stass Allie, on the other hand, was a pleasant surprise. The Tholothian kept her expression unreadable and simply watched events unfold with close attention. She was there to support her fellow member of the Order, but showed neither approval nor disapproval. "Let's start from the beginning. When, exactly, and how does my ward humiliate other sentients?"
"Just recently! Kenny McCormick died in the cafeteria! And she dragged his body across the floor!"
"So?" I raised both eyebrows, making it perfectly clear from my expression that I had no idea what the problem was.
"That was disrespectful!" Knight Nema even raised her voice slightly.
"Oh..." I closed my eyes for a moment, accepting the caf and thanking my assistant. "Suti, be a dear and send any second-year student to my office, please. Whoever's closest."
While the little Twi'lek went to snag the first student passing by, I savored my caf, glancing at the puzzled Jedi with growing anticipation.
"Director, you called?" Shella Grark asked with a sweet smile as she entered the office, and I gave an inward hum of satisfaction. Hit-Girl certainly wouldn't let me down.
"Hello, Fluffy. Stand still for me, please," I told her with a warm smile, which made both Jedi visibly shudder.
I leisurely pulled a powerful blaster from my desk drawer—a gift from Arvik—aimed it at my student, who was watching the whole thing with perfect calm, and fired three shots. The Devaronian merely watched the little sparks showering down onto the floor, while the Jedi had already scattered to opposite corners of the room, trying to wrench the weapon out of my hand with the Force. I calmly put it back where it belonged. Turns out, pulling a blaster out of my grip while it's wrapped in my aura isn't so easy. Aura-tendril telekinesis: one-nil.
"Knight Nema, tell me what I just did," I said, turning back to the outraged little green woman as though nothing had happened.
"You tried to kill your student!" the healer snapped angrily.
"First of all, calm down," I said, drawing my brows together sternly. "Anger is the path to the Dark Side. And second, if I had wanted to kill Fluffy, she wouldn't be standing there perfectly intact right now. Shelly, sweetheart, tell me, please—what did I just do?"
"You fired a blaster at me three times," the young mage said with a smile.
"Exactly right, Hit-Girl. Exactly right. Thank you very much. You can go."
"Director. Knights." The girl gave us a nod in farewell and left the office.
"Now then. Listen carefully, my dear students. And sit down already. I'm not planning to shoot anything else for the foreseeable future."
The Jedi settled back into their seats. Rig was still indignant, though she was clearly working to restore her inner balance, while Stass looked thoughtful. There was a reason people were already talking about making her a Master—she was obviously drawing conclusions.
"Out in the galaxy, beyond the walls of our Academy, death is, for the most part, final. The price of ignoring safety procedures in the workplace isn't limited to fines or getting fired. It can mean mutilation, death, all kinds of poisoning, burns. A sentient sentient—pardon the tautology—follows safety rules because they don't want to hurt themselves, end up crippled, or die." I took another sip of caf, watching the tension smooth itself from Knight Allie's face.
"At the JMG, things work a little differently, and the reason is you, me, and Karray. Chimerologists. You two are still inexperienced, of course, so you wouldn't be able to properly 'resurrect' a person yet. But I can, and to a lesser extent, so can my ward. Sounds like a good thing, but there's always a catch. Sometimes more than one. And in this case, they're pretty damn big. The first, and for me the most important: a careless student who manages to die at an inconvenient time distracts me from my work. Serious work. The same goes for Karray, though in her case it also makes for decent practice. Even so, she has her own curriculum, her own interesting projects... And then, just like that, the bastards kill Kenny again."
"But that—"
I cut the Knight off with a raised hand.
"Patience, Greenie. Patience is a virtue in any professional. Mage, warrior, Jedi—it doesn't matter. The second catch is the illusion of immortality. Let me explain: a sentient can get used to the idea that Death is no big deal. And yes, you can get used to that too. Sentients can get used to anything. And we get used to the good things fastest of all."
"How is that supposed to be a good thing?" the girl finally burst out.
"So resurrection and healing are bad now?" I asked, genuinely surprised this time.
"No, that's not what I mean! The pain, and then all that humiliation with the... transportation," she explained.
"That, Knight, is the price. The price of death. When a sentient dies, they die, understand? Here, the natural order has been broken. The dead man died, but he didn't stay dead. And dying is supposed to be bad! Savvy? Otherwise you lose respect for the End of Life. Now, back to Karray. The girl can't lift a heavy corpse yet. Her aura isn't developed enough. That's one. She healed every injury caused during transport. That's two. And most importantly: no honors, no respect, nothing for an idiot who got himself killed doing something stupid! That's three!"
"But it wasn't his fault..."
I slammed my palm down on the desk hard enough to make every loose object on it rattle and send ripples through my mug of caf.
"Stop interrupting me, Knight Nema! Listen until I'm finished, because I am not done! The dead man was at fault! That day, he was at fault three times over! Three times! The only reason I didn't expel him six months ago is because he is carelessness incarnate. A cautionary tale for everyone else! A laughingstock. And I pity him, too, because if I throw him out, he'll simply get himself killed for good. Maybe he has a wonderful inner life—he must, if perfectly decent students are willing to be friends with him—but as a mage, right now, he's already a corpse."
By then I wasn't even trying to hide my irritation and was practically lecturing them at full volume. Suti, clever girl that she was, silently slipped away to the little kitchenette to prepare a calming brew. Yes, I'm that kind of pervert—the sort who can drink caf and then happily wash it down with herbal tea.
"First, during morning practice he forgot to put up protection against direct effects. That's basic. You have to know that. It needs to be hammered into your skull, into your reflexes: the moment you start working with spells, put up protection. Or use the proper artifacts. He did neither. Second, he inflated himself because he forgot to specify the coordinates of the water-condensation focus point and forgot to set a limit on the volume of condensate. Blew himself up like village children blowing up frogs with a straw shoved up their ass! Then he burst and sprayed half the classroom and his fellow students with his own shit and guts! And third, despite dying with a regularity that would make the economies of most Outer Rim worlds jealous, the idiot still doesn't wear a protective amulet! This is..."
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath through my nose, forcing myself to calm down. Yes, the ridiculous shit Deadman got up to amused me—let's be honest about that—but his attitude toward his own life could only be described as insanity.
"I just can't wrap my head around it, you understand?" I said, returning to a calmer tone. "Protective amulets are easy enough to buy from artificers here. Shella Grark—Fluffy, that is—bought her protective ring from Romri Tano, who charges our own people, mages and sorcerers, only a thirty-percent markup instead of the three hundred percent she charges everyone else. And the artifact is genuinely high-quality, because I personally helped her with the design. It protects against more than just blaster fire: kinetic impacts, pure energy... hell, it even has a built-in climate-control module and an automatically deploying force-field umbrella. Put a ring like that on and you've got nothing to worry about. Just remember to recharge it every evening."
The Jedi tried to interrupt me again, but I pinned her in place with a heavy stare. These little outbursts from the audience annoyed me quite enough even during lectures. Remember the question and ask it when the lecturer pauses. That is what the pauses are for.
"Dozdrogodul take the amulet! You can buy the same kind of charm for a couple of wupiupi from any artificer with six months of training! What respect for Deadman are you talking about when he has no respect for my work or my ward's? The girl who, in her entire life, has ended up as my patient exactly once—because she ate so much cake she gave herself indigestion. At eight years old. Why can't he put an end to this endless string of his own deaths with a shred of mental discipline or a handful of credits? Hecate is my witness, I even gave him an amulet with a painkilling effect as a hint! Jedi Knights, have I made my position clear regarding respect for those who fall in battle against their own stupidity?!"
"Yes, Master Dziha," Stass Allie spoke for the first time, giving a calm nod.
"But that's not all," Knight Nema said, shooting her fellow Jedi an indignant glare. Apparently she had been hoping to keep going in the vein of but that's wrong. "She had an argument with an Alderaanian girl, a first-year, and three days ago, when she was treating her for an injury... she grew... on her..."
"She grew clusters of warts on the Alderaanian girl's ass?" I supplied helpfully when the girl hesitated.
"You knew?!" I honestly couldn't tell which there was more of in the healer's eyes: outrage or surprise.
"Of course I knew," I said with a calm nod. "The girl called my ward a filthy little plebeian brat. That idiot is worse than Deadman, and she should be grateful."
"For the warts?"
"For the fact that she'll be going home alive," I said flatly. "We are not Jedi. We are spellcasters. We don't have a rigid code of conduct, and we aren't bound by the Order's rulebook. I'm more than certain that idiot would never have thought to insult one of the Mandalorians, because only a complete moron mouths off to a warrior from a warrior clan. They'd just shoot her. Simple as that."
"What about the laws of the Republic?" the Jedi protested.
"No body, no case," I said with an indifferent shrug, earning a choking cough from Greenie. "I'm exaggerating, obviously. Relax. Karray is a very kind girl, and if you've noticed, for all her restlessness and 'spoiled' behavior, she never insults other sentients. She's brilliant, talented, frighteningly intelligent. She's proud of herself, and deservedly so, but she never puts others down. That little childish revenge was necessary. Besides, the warts disappeared after three hours. It helps build her reputation as a dangerous sorceress—a kind of passive defense against idiots and loudmouths. And it taught that fool an important lesson: never be rude to your doctor. A spellcaster should generally be polite to fellow practitioners. I'll go even further: everyone should be polite to everyone. I swear, if all sentients suddenly started treating one another with basic courtesy, the mortality rate across the galaxy would plummet."
"But revenge isn't the answer!" the young Jedi sighed sadly.
"Depends on the revenge," I disagreed. "See, if that Alderaanian hadn't started screaming loud enough for the whole Academy to hear, nobody would ever have known something had grown on her ass. Even if she'd come to me, it would have ended quietly. I'd have scared her a little with my friendly smile, explained that calling people names is a bad idea, and then told her that 'the horror' would disappear on its own in a couple of hours. You understand? A scandal-loving aristocrat, used to strutting around Alderaan like a peacock, humiliated herself. Killing her over something like that? Yes, that would have been excessive. She wouldn't have learned anything. There would have been no lesson to take from it. But now? Maybe she'll think before deciding what to say and to whom. She might even realize that this isn't her homeworld, and nobody here is going to coddle her."
"You make it sound as though Karray can do no wrong," Rig Nema said, a hurt note creeping into her voice as she looked at me sadly.
"And that's exactly how it is, young and kindhearted Knight Nema. Exactly how it is. You see, you two are my students. I'm obligated to teach you chimerology under my agreement with the Grand Master of the Jedi Order. Karray, on the other hand, is my ward. I don't merely teach her. Strange as it may sound, I also raise her. Sometimes that means taking a belt to her backside; sometimes it means long conversations. From your Jedi point of view, she's a terrible child. From mine, she's an exemplary sorceress—one who, when she grows up, will be able to live on her own, won't let parasites latch onto her and live off her, and won't get herself killed through stupidity or misplaced trust. We're simply different. Just as your training methods and your way of life can look utterly bizarre to non-Force-sensitives, we're just as different in our own way. I couldn't care less how someone who died through sheer stupidity gets transported. But if Karray ever showed that kind of disrespect toward Master Yaddle, who quite literally gave her life to save an entire city and two Jedi, I'd give her such a belting she'd be sleeping on her stomach for a week."
"But the vivisections! She's constantly offering people money to let her cut them open—"
At that, I very rudely burst out laughing and interrupted her.
"Sorry, sorry." I raised both hands. I'd just spent all that time lecturing her about how rude it was to interrupt people, and now here I was doing exactly that. "It's just that she switched entirely to advanced diagnostic spells about three years ago. She doesn't actually need to cut anyone open anymore."
"Then why does she—" the representative of the Healer Corps began, only for Stass to cut in.
"The image?" the girl asked with a smile.
"Exactly," I nodded. "Besides, she enjoys watching everyone jump out of their skins. Just don't go spreading that around, or she'll get offended with me. And to answer your question before you ask it: those two Neimoidians who agreed to the procedure simply slept inside diagnostic ritual diagrams while Karray ran her tests. She even fixed up a few things in their bodies as a reward for their bravery. Though... in their case, I suspect it was greed strangling their survival instincts. And before they woke up, she simply set the proper mood—scattered saws and knives all over the place and smeared everything with Neimoidian blood she'd made from the 'soup.'"
The Tholothian laughed merrily, closing her beautiful violet eyes. I would have called her an attractive woman if not for that creepy headpiece with its weird dangling ornaments, which she wore all the time. Until her first examination, I had actually thought the things were some kind of lekku. Impressive craftsmanship, I had to admit. I hadn't exactly stared, but fooling the trained eye of a chimerologist was no small achievement.
In any case, she was a pleasant girl. Knight Rig was too. That one was downright adorable. She reminded me a great deal of Suti, with the same light, almost airy quality. If only there were a little less idealism spilling over into preachiness... But that was youth. Give her another forty or fifty years, and I suspected she'd grow into a thoroughly charming Lady in every sense of the word.
And after that, we simply said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. As far as I could tell, Stass had had her concerns about the whole matter, but my answers satisfied her. Rig, on the other hand, was still convinced I was wrong. Well, Dozdrogodul take her. Sorcerers aren't peggats. We can't be liked by everyone.
Yeah. Some bright idea that was, agreeing to teach these cousins of paladins. Ah, well. Could be worse. Vacation was close. I'd gather the old crew and head off in search of adventure. The guys had already agreed, and Arvik had brought in another couple of Mando from among his own people. So we'd get some rest, clear our heads, and who knows—maybe we'd even run into some pirates!
It was a shame I couldn't take Karray with me. At least one competent chimerologist had to remain on Jabiim. The Jedi weren't ready yet—the sheer volume of knowledge they still needed was simply too great, though the combination of Force and Magic was formidable. At Choala Hospital, they were going to start worshipping those two and Karray before long. Oh, what magnificent healers they were going to become...
Original Russian story
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The translation of new chapters will also be published here—but with a bit of a delay.
!!!!!
I think Sorcediith is better as he is also a Sith 
