9 years before the proclamation of the Empire
Alex sat in the corner of Uncle Garrek's workshop, carefully turning the Astra-Nav MK-IV navigational computer block in his hands. The evening light of Corellia struggled to penetrate the dusty windows, but its rays picked out the device's casing from the semi-darkness – unremarkable, rectangular, covered with a layer of industrial dust and small chips.
He studied not the external appearance, but what the portable diagnostic scanner, connected to the service port, showed. Data scrolled across the small screen in lines: power cell check, crystal memory test, absolute positioning sensor calibration. The block was working, but its "brains" – the firmware and mapping databases – were two decades out of date.
"Everything's fine," Alex muttered, disconnecting the scanner. "No errors. But the settings are off, and the databases haven't been updated since the Naboo Blockade."
"Interesting thing," Uncle Garrek said, peering over his shoulder. His rough, scarred hands habitually sorted tools on the workbench, but his gaze was fixed on the processor. "How much do they give for one of these?"
"About three thousand," Alex replied, not taking his eyes off the device. He brought it closer to the lamp, and the internal patterns played with new colors. "But I think it could be worth more. If the firmware and databases are updated."
"...doesn't change anything," Garrek finished for him, softly but firmly. "Kid, you're overcomplicating things. Do you know who this client from Duro is? He owns a small company that transports parts between Duro and Corellia on three authorized routes. He doesn't need 'optimized algorithms.' He needs a cheap, working block so his truck doesn't get lost between two points he knows like the back of his hand. That's all his navigation. But only madmen would take a block with altered memory. Who knows what's recorded there? This block, though outdated, is licensed."
Alex sighed, put down the scanner, and reached for the packing film and anti-static bag. Garrek was right, as always. From a business perspective. But as he carefully wrapped the block, his thoughts were far away. He replayed the scanner's data in his head again and again. Those very non-optimal algorithms. Those very outdated maps.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor made Alex look up. He recognized his father's gait even before he appeared in the doorway. Kairen looked tired after a long day of negotiations, but satisfied – so business was going well.
Although there were no more windfalls like the ancient ship, they had found a niche where they could make money. But they began to concentrate on more modern components. There were fewer questions about them and a more understandable market. In a year of successful operations, Alex's father became one of the gray suppliers of used ship components on Corellia. Their reputation spread in very narrow circles. Small carriers and smugglers, which were often the same thing. Business was going great, and no one wanted to risk their hard-won reputation.
This was a more stable niche. His father had made arrangements with Bob to buy components from him. Not everyone could afford licensed maintenance, and used parts could often work for many more years.
But Alex wasn't satisfied. Money interested him only as a means to acquire knowledge. And knowledge required experiments. Every day spent as a simple appraiser and consultant felt like a waste of time. Treasures of knowledge lay around him, and he could only determine their market value.
"Alex, pack up the device," his father said, entering the workshop and brushing dust off his cloak. "A buyer from Duro will arrive tomorrow."
"Okay, Dad," Alex carefully placed the device in a protective case, feeling the cold metal of its casing cool under his fingers. But deep down, he wanted to tinker with its internals.
In the evening, during a family dinner in their small apartment, Alex listened to his parents talk about business, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Through the kitchen windows, the spaceport of Corellia was visible, where ships from all corners of the galaxy landed and took off. Each carried stories, technologies, and possibilities in its cargo holds. And he was trapped within the confines of the family business. He wanted to negotiate and communicate with clients himself.
An opportunity arose two days later when Alex was working alone in the workshop. His father had gone to meet with suppliers, and his uncle Garrek had gone to the lower levels of the city on his own business. The silence was broken by the sound of approaching engines—a battered cargo ship was docking at the workshop.
Alex looked out the window and recognized Captain Rex's vessel. The short man with a deep scar across his left cheek was one of their regular clients. Rex usually approached Kyren for engine repairs, but today his problem was different.
"My sensors are going crazy," he complained, entering the workshop and rubbing the back of his neck. His pilot's jumpsuit was damp with sweat, and his eyes showed worry. "They're showing some energy surges in the cargo hold, but I can't figure out where they're coming from. Your father is busy, and it's urgent. I have to fly to Duro in an hour, and the customs officials there don't sleep."
Alex looked up from his workbench, where he was disassembling an old communicator, studying the principles of its encryption modules. The chance to earn money and prove his competence was too tempting to pass up.
"I can take a look," he offered, setting down his tools. "I have a portable analyzer."
Rex skeptically eyed the thirteen-year-old teenager. His gaze showed doubt—too young, too inexperienced for serious work.
"Are you sure, boy? This is serious equipment. If something goes wrong..."
"I understand sensor systems better than many adults," Alex replied calmly, taking out his analyzer.
"It'll cost five hundred credits."
"Expensive for a kid."
"Cheap for an expert."
Rex laughed and agreed. They headed to the ship, and for the first time in a long time, Alex felt like a real technician, not just an assistant in the family business.
Inside the "Free Wind," it smelled of recycled air and that peculiar scent that ships get from spending a lot of time in hyperspace. The cargo hold was filled with containers of various goods—from industrial equipment to food. Alex turned on the analyzer and began methodically scanning the compartments.
The work required patience and attention to detail. Alex moved slowly, carefully checking every section. The analyzer showed normal energy signatures—working life support systems, navigation computers, refrigeration units. But in a far corner of the hold, the device registered an anomaly.
"There's something here," Alex said, pointing to the bulkhead. "The energy activity is too high for a normal wall."
After half an hour of painstaking searching, he discovered a hidden compartment behind a false bulkhead that the captain himself had forgotten about. Inside were smuggled medical supplies, whose energy cells were giving off the mysterious signals.
"Damn it," Rex muttered, examining the contents of the cache. "I completely forgot about this cargo. I picked it up six months ago on Rome, and then... events got hectic. You saved my life, kid. The customs officials on Duro would have spotted it immediately."
Five hundred credits went into the till. Money earned on his own. It was important—not just as income, but as proof of his own competence.
That evening, Alex was in his room, making plans. Outside the window, the lights of night Corellia were coming on, and ships for long-haul flights were preparing for departure at the spaceport. Somewhere out there, among the stars, lay worlds full of ancient mysteries and forgotten technologies.
The next day at school was boring, as usual. Alex sat in galactic history class in a stuffy classroom. Outside, the city bustled, living its complex life, while here time seemed to have stopped. He listened as the teacher, Velan—an elderly man with a gray beard and tired eyes—monotonously recounted the technological development of the Old Republic.
"Ancient engineers created primitive devices," Velan said, pointing to a holographic schematic of an old hyperdrive. The projection flickered and trembled—the school equipment had long needed replacement. "Modern technologies are much more efficient and reliable."
Alex barely managed not to laugh. The hyperdrive, according to the teacher, was a primitive device.
"Mr. Korren," the teacher addressed him, noticing his absent gaze, "do you disagree with something?"
"No, sir," Alex replied, trying to look interested. "I was just thinking that ancient technologies might have been more complex than we assume."
"Those are romantic fantasies," Velan dismissed, with the air of someone who had heard similar objections from dreamy students many times.
Alex remained silent. It was useless to argue. But the lesson confirmed once again: the education here limited him more than it developed him.
After school, he slowly walked home along familiar streets. Corellia was preparing for the evening—lights were coming on in shop windows, workers hurried home, street vendors offered the last goods of the day. Alex loved this time when the city transitioned from the day's bustle to the evening's calm.
He needed a space where he could be himself. Where he didn't have to pretend to be an ordinary schoolboy or an obedient assistant in the family business. A place where he could do what was truly important.
The flea market on the 25th level buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Alex pushed through the crowd to a familiar spot—a boarded-up stall, in front of which, on crates, were laid out not parts, but knowledge. Behind the counter, hunched over a worn terminal, sat Grak. The old Durose recognized Alex without looking up, only his one good hand waved in greeting.
"The textbooks are out," Grak rasped when Alex stopped in front of the stall. "They'll arrive on Thursday."
"I need more than that," Alex lowered his voice, though the market noise drowned out any words. "I need calibration manuals. For the 'Astra-Nav.' Algorithms, calibration protocols. Not basic ones."
Grak slowly looked up at him. His dark, bead-like eyes studied the teenager expressionlessly.
Generally, purchasing such training documents required a special license from corporations or educational institutions. But Grak was a gray market dealer.
There were several reasons for this situation. Firstly, lives depended on the accuracy of the navicomputer. Incorrect calibration could send a ship on a collision course with an asteroid. The hyperdrive's automation itself would prevent a collision with something large. The Republic kept this under control. Secondly, and this was more important... The government greatly wanted all traffic to follow official, illuminated, controlled hyperlanes. Lanes with beacons, where records were kept and tolls were collected. Any unauthorized adjustment, any reprogramming—was the first step to charting one's own route. Bypassing checkpoints. Bypassing scanners. Bypassing the law. Such knowledge was fuel for smugglers, slavers, and pirates. That's why it was licensed.
Grak sighed, as if resigned to the inevitable, and reached under the counter. From there came the sound of a metal container opening, unlike the boxes of ordinary crystals. He pulled out a small, flat box made of dull alloy. Inside, on black velvet, lay two items: a regular data crystal marked with an educational institution's logo (most likely stolen or "written off"), and... a clean, matte chip without any identifying marks.
"The crystal is what you asked for. Technical manuals, schematics, codes. Dry theory. You can't go further without it." He touched the clean chip with his prosthetic. "And this... A bootloader program for calibration software. The kind used in service centers. It's about fifty years out of date, but you won't find anything newer."
"How much for the whole set?" Alex asked.
"Three thousand credits."
"Why so expensive? It's just literature."
"Alright. Literature is a gift. Two thousand nine hundred fifty."
Grak laughed—the sound was hoarse but good-natured.
"The program is expensive."
Alex paid and took the crystals.
At home during dinner, his parents discussed business. Kyren talked about a new order from a group of smugglers who needed modified sensors to bypass patrols. Garrek complained about the rising prices of rare components—the economic crisis affected all areas of trade. Alex listened with half an ear, mentally planning the setup of his future workshop.
"Alex, you've been a bit thoughtful lately," his mother noticed, serving him another portion of stewed vegetables. Lyra Korren was an observant woman who always sensed the mood of her loved ones. "Is everything okay?"
"Yes, Mom. Just thinking about school."
But he was thinking about something else. About how his role in the family business was limited to that of a consultant and assistant. All important decisions were made by the adults, all major deals went through them. And he wanted more. He wanted not just to sell components, but to understand them, develop them, create something new.
Late at night, when his parents were asleep, Alex inserted the crystals into a portable crystal reader. On the computer screen, connected to the reader by a thin fiber-optic cable, lines of code and schematics scrolled by.
This was data from the first crystal—technical manuals for the "Astra-Nav" system. Not beautiful holograms, but dry, monotonous documents: error signal correspondence tables, electrical schematics of modules, primary initialization algorithms. The language was dry, technical, full of abbreviations understandable only to specialists. Alex read intently, squinting from the strain. He understood maybe a third. But even that third opened up a whole world. This is how the system polls sensors before a jump. This is how it calculates gravitational correction. Here—a critical check of the hyperspace circuit's integrity. An error at this stage, and the ship simply won't jump, which, as the note ironically stated, "is the preferred alternative to uncontrolled disintegration in subspace."
He switched to the second crystal. The screen displayed a simulator of a service droid interface. The inscription glowed green: "TEST MODE. For developers." Some kind of crudely hacked version. He selected from the menu a virtual model of the "Astra-Nav" unit that he had packed for his father's client that day.
The program came to life. Load graphs, star chart data correctness diagrams, diagnostic log files simulating the device's operation appeared. Alex could press buttons, enter commands, initiate verification procedures.
The silence of the room was broken by the creak of a floorboard in the corridor. A light, cautious step.
The door creaked open. A figure of his mother, Lyra, in a long housecoat, appeared in the doorway.
"Alex? You're not asleep yet? I saw the light."
Lyra entered the room, her gaze sweeping over the desk, the computer screen, his face.
"You'll ruin your eyes in this darkness," she said softly, flicking on the desk lamp. Warm yellow light filled the room, dispelling the mysterious blue shadows. "And it's late. You have school tomorrow."
"In a moment, Mom," Alex turned off the computer.
His mother stood for another moment, and he saw in her eyes that same mixture of care and slight, constant anxiety that had lived in her since their lives became dependent on semi-legal deals.
"Don't overload yourself," she finally said, stroking his hair. "Studying is important, but so is sleep. Good night, son."
"Good night, Mom."
He needed a place where no one would distract him.
The idea came to him a week later, when he was wandering through the abandoned levels of the industrial district. Alex loved exploring the city—it helped him think and plan.
These walks became a kind of meditation for him. Here, among empty corridors and abandoned workshops, he could contemplate the future without being distracted by everyday concerns. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls, creating a rhythm that made thinking easy.
These areas now reminded him of how the Republic was wasting resources. Entire complexes stood empty because corporations had found cheaper production methods on other planets. Equipment worth millions of credits rusted idly while bureaucrats decided what to do with it. It was typical shortsightedness—instead of developing existing capacities, they preferred to build where labor was cheaper. A dead end. Profitable for corporations, but what good was it to Corellia?
That's where he wanted to set up his "base."
Not for trade. Not for profit. To have a place where he could disassemble a valuable device without worrying about what the adults would say. Where he could experiment, make mistakes, discover new things.
His own place.
He already had enough money to start. Earnings from consultations, his share of family operations, savings from small deals. Over the past few months, he had saved enough credits—a sum that allowed him to seriously set up a laboratory.
The plan was finalized. Tomorrow, he would start buying the necessary equipment. In a week, he would begin setting up the laboratory. And in a month, he would have his own place for research.