Alex started the speeder and drove out of the university parking lot, heading towards his parents' apartment. Usually, this trip calmed him – the speed, the wind, the flashing city lights created a sense of freedom. But today, something was wrong.
Even the sun, setting towards the horizon, shone somewhat disturbingly – its rays seemed sharper, casting long, distorted shadows between the buildings. Or was it just his imagination? Alex shook his head, trying to shake off the strange feeling, but it wouldn't go away. It was as if something elusive hung in the air, foreshadowing disaster.
Flying past another transport hub, he noticed another ship with refugees slowly descending for landing. A battered YT-class freighter, its sides covered with makeshift patches. More and more such ships arrived every day – people were fleeing worlds where active combat was taking place or where famine had begun due to supply chain disruptions.
Alex slowed down, watching as exhausted families with children and meager luggage disembarked from the ship. The war was approaching. Not an abstract war from holonet reports, but a real, tangible threat that was already driving people from their homes. He had a distinct feeling that something big and terrible, something inexorable, was approaching. A steamroller that could crush those who accidentally got in its way.
He sped off, but his thoughts wouldn't let him rest. The other day, rumors circulated among the institute's students that Corellia was considering officially leaving the Republic. Not to join the separatists, but to declare complete neutrality and avoid attracting the attention of any side. The Corellian Senate understood – remaining part of the Republic meant sooner or later becoming a target for the Confederacy of Independent Systems.
Parking the speeder at his house, Alex glanced at the sky again. Stars began to appear through the twilight, but even they seemed somewhat restless, flickering not as usual.
The next morning at the university, Alex looked more closely at his classmates. He hadn't paid much attention to social differences before, but now they were striking.
Kyle Jans wore an expensive leather jacket from a renowned Coruscant designer, his tablet was the latest model from "Datatec," and the chronometer on his wrist cost more than Alex spent on living for half a year. The son of a small navigation systems factory owner, he never thought about the price of things.
Taylor Renn, who studied industrial design, was the daughter of a senator from one of the outer worlds. Her clothing was more restrained, but the quality of the fabrics and the cut revealed the hand of the best tailors. She wore a delicate necklace of rare Corellian pearls, passed down through her family for generations.
Marcus Vane, despite his father owning "just" a small ship repair yard, also stood out among ordinary students. His boots were custom-made, and he always had a golden stylus for notes in his pocket – a coming-of-age gift.
Mira Kess, the quietest in their group, was the daughter of a major trade magnate. Her modesty was deceptive – her seemingly simple dress was made of fabric produced only on Alderaan, and her textbook bag cost as much as a new speeder.
Alex looked at his own clothes – ordinary jeans, a simple shirt, worn-out boots. Nothing wrong, but the difference was obvious. It was strange that he was in the same group as these rich kids. However, the guys were decent – no one flaunted their wealth, no one looked down on less fortunate classmates.
Before the lecture, the conversation turned to the latest news.
"Did you see yesterday's reports from Christophsis?" Kyle asked, scrolling through the news feed on his tablet. "Republican troops recaptured the capital."
"Yes, but at what cost," Taylor shook her head. "Half the city is in ruins. And how many civilians died..."
"But the Confederates faltered," Marcus interjected. "The news says their defense is crumbling. A few more victories like this, and the war will end."
Alex snorted: "Do you really believe this propaganda? The war will only end when the beneficiaries decide they've profited enough. As long as military orders bring trillions in profit..."
"You're too cynical," Mira retorted. "The Republic is defending democracy and freedom."
"Of course," Alex nodded. "And the Confederacy is also defending freedom – freedom from a corrupt Senate. Each side believes it is right."
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Professor Volin.
Lecture Hall 247 was one of the most spacious in the university – high ceilings, panoramic windows overlooking the city blocks, and modern holographic equipment. Professor Darek Volin was already arranging his materials on the podium as students filled the auditorium.
Volin was a legend among teachers – a former lead engineer at "Corellian Engineering," who had worked on projects ranging from small freighters to heavy cruisers. His gray hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes spoke of decades of intense work, and the scar on his left arm – of the time he personally tested prototypes in space.
"Good morning," he began, activating the holoprojector. A three-dimensional model of the familiar YT-1000 freighter appeared in the air. "Today we will talk about the industrial design of spacecraft. But first, tell me – what do you think this is?"
Taylor raised her hand first: "Is it when a ship looks beautiful and stylish? So that customers like its appearance?"
Mira nodded: "Yes, and so that the interior is comfortable, ergonomic. So that the pilot feels comfortable."
The professor smiled: "Beauty is also important, I don't argue. But it's just the tip of the iceberg." He turned to the hologram and began to break down the ship into its components. "The main task of industrial design is to optimally arrange the ship so that all necessary equipment fits inside, to ensure maximum usable space, to achieve the declared mass and speed characteristics, and at the same time not to exceed the budget."
Kyle frowned: "That sounds like a task for engineers, not designers."
"Exactly!" Volin exclaimed. "A modern industrial designer is an engineer, an economist, a psychologist, and an artist in one person." He gestured to enlarge the hologram, showing the ship's interior. "Just think: the most ordinary small freighter, the YT-1000 – an outdated model – consists of two million parts. Two million! From tiny bolts to huge reactor blocks."
Silence fell in the auditorium. The students tried to imagine such a number of components.
"And now imagine the choice of possible parts," the professor continued, his voice becoming more tense. "Tens of millions of different components from thousands of manufacturers across the galaxy. Different characteristics, different compatibility, different prices. And you also need to plan the order of installation of all this into the hull so that it is as cheap as possible. No, not even the most talented engineer can analyze such an amount of information alone. The human brain simply cannot hold all these interrelationships."
Marcus raised his hand: "Then how are new ships created?"
"Excellent question," Volin nodded. "A completely new project is developed over decades. Teams of hundreds of specialists work on every aspect. If you want to work on such a project, be prepared for your career to be tied to one ship. You will start as a junior engineer and end as the lead designer of the same project."
He paused, looking at the students.
"But there is also the other side of the coin. No one is creating fundamentally new designs anymore. It's too expensive, too risky. The main successful layouts were developed centuries ago. Now they are only modernized for new needs – more powerful engines, modern navigation systems, improved protection. This is what you will most likely be doing."
Alex listened to the lecture, but his thoughts were working in a different direction. Two million parts, tens of millions of options... This is an ideal task for a computer! A program could go through all possible combinations, evaluate them according to the given criteria, and provide the optimal result.
He raised his hand: "Professor, why not create a program that will do this for people? Computers are excellent at analyzing large amounts of data."
Volin stopped and looked carefully at Alex: "An interesting thought, young man. But there are several problems. Firstly, such a program needs data. Huge arrays of information about all ship projects. And this data is the commercial secret of the manufacturers. They won't share it just like that."
"But isn't some data publicly available?" Alex persisted.
"Yes," the professor agreed. "But it's data from standard, proven designs. A program trained on such data will create the same standard solutions. Innovation requires creativity, intuition, the ability to take risks."
He activated a new hologram – a diagram of modern automated design.
"However, such programs exist. 'Galactic Design Systems' and 'Starship Solutions' offer their packages. But the licenses for them..." he chuckled. "Let's just say, using them costs billions of credits per month. Only the largest corporations can afford it."
Alex felt his jaw drop: "Billions? Per month?"
"Welcome to the world of big business," Volin remarked dryly. "When the stakes are measured in trillions of credits in profit, a billion for a tool doesn't seem like such a large sum."
After the lecture, Alex couldn't think of anything else. A program for automated ship design... This was exactly what could change the entire industry. And if existing solutions cost billions, it meant the market was huge.
He headed to the university library – a huge building with endless rows of holocrystals and terminals for accessing galactic archives. The librarian droid led him to a terminal in a quiet corner.
"I need such a program," Alex muttered, starting his search.
He spent several hours studying patents, scientific articles, and corporate reports. There was a lot of information, but it all concerned either theoretical aspects or commercial products inaccessible to ordinary people. Source code, algorithms, anything practically applicable – nothing.
It was worth a try, but the search led nowhere. Alex was about to give up when he remembered his recent discovery – the archive of the "Stellar Paths of the Galaxy" company.
This corporation ceased to exist fifteen thousand years ago, during the Old Republic era. All data about it was classified for ten thousand years – a period that once seemed like an eternity. But time passed, and now no one remembered it. The archive neural network simply didn't receive the necessary requests to provide information about this company. That's why the data hadn't been purged yet.
Alex entered a search query using archaic terms and old classification codes. The system thought for a long time, then gave a result:
"FOUND: 946 documents. STATUS: Declassified upon expiration of term. ACCESS: Granted."
Alex's heart began to beat faster. He started browsing the files – technical specifications, design documentation, research reports. And there it was – a mention of the "Star Architect" program, a system for automated spacecraft design.
But the program was on a physical medium in the university's basement archives.
The next day, Alex descended into the basement again. The smell of old plastic and dust, dim lighting, endless rows of shelves with holocrystals and ancient disks. He found the right section and began his search.
The crystal was quite small – the size of a finger, covered with a thin layer of dust. The label, in faded letters, read: "Star Architect v.3.7. Experimental version."
Alex carefully took the crystal and headed to the reading device. The old system took a long time to load, but eventually, the program was copied to his portable drive.
At home, in his room, Alex connected the drive to the family computer. The program was written in an archaic programming language, the interface looked outdated, but when he launched the demo mode, he couldn't believe his eyes.
The program actually worked! Slowly, with long pauses for calculations, but it analyzed the ship's requirements and suggested layout options. Of course, the parts database was fifteen thousand years old, but the principle of operation was exactly what was needed.
He went to visit his parents, but his mother was delayed at work, so they sat down to dinner without her. Alex and his father were almost at dessert when the door opened, and a tired voice sounded from the hallway: "Hello everyone..."
Lyra entered the kitchen, and Alex's heart involuntarily tightened. She looked as if she had aged. Shadows under her eyes, her usually neatly gathered hair had escaped its bun, and her posture, once straight and energetic, showed such deep fatigue as if she had been heavily pressed by gravity. She threw her jacket with the "Hyper-Logics" company logo onto a chair and sank heavily into her own seat.
"Sorry for starting without me," she smiled weakly. "Another 'urgent' route. A military convoy of six transports urgently required recalculation of jumps due to a 'suddenly' discovered separatist threat in the Tall sector. Three hours for replanning, coordination with the Republican commandant, resolving conflicts with civilian traffic... In short, a standard day."
His father silently poured her soup and placed it in front of her. Lyra thanked him with a nod and began to eat almost mechanically.
"Mom," Alex began cautiously. "This is... not normal. You look... you look terribly tired. Isn't it easier to quit? At least for a while?"
Lyra sighed, pushing her plate away, and ran her hand over her face.
"Quit? And how will we live, son?" her voice held no irritation, only a hopeless statement of fact. "'Hyper-Logics' now works seventy percent for the Republican Military Staff. The salary has doubled, bonuses for 'urgent' and 'dangerous' routes. Your father's shipyard is also focused on military orders. If we both lose our jobs – and the private sector is shrinking now – how will we pay for this apartment? We have reserves, of course, but they will run out very quickly if we don't work."
She looked at him, and in her eyes, Alex saw not only fatigue but also fear. Fear of losing their fragile stability.
Kairen silently placed his hand on her shoulder. Alex said nothing. All his arguments about the futility of war and someone's profit were shattered against the simple and terrifying reality: the war fed his family and slowly killed them at the same time.
"I understand," he said dully. "Sorry, Mom. I'm just... worried."
"I know, son," Lyra picked up her spoon again, her movements becoming slightly more collected. "Everything will be fine. As soon as this nonsense ends... Everything will be fine."
But there was no faith in her words, only the usual, learned comforting phrase.
After dinner, his father noticed his thoughtfulness: "You're not in the mood today, son. Problems at the university?"
"No, Dad, everything's fine. Just thinking about a project," Alex replied, but his thoughts were still with his mother's tired, aged back as she went to her room to rest.
"I see. And what do they say about the war at the institute? The news is talking about big victories again. Your classmates might know something..."
Alex winced, looking towards the closed bedroom door: "What victories... It's just a meat grinder. And there's no end in sight."
"Hmm," Kairen put down his fork. "You know, they're saying at the shipyard that they'll expand military orders. The Republic needs freighters to supply the army."
"And is that good or bad?"
"For the workers – good. There will be plenty of work, salaries will be raised. But for everyone else..." he shook his head. "Prices are already jumping like crazy. I went grocery shopping today – everything has gone up by about twenty percent in a week."
Alex nodded. He had also noticed the price increase. His savings – a hundred thousand credits – were losing purchasing power every day. Wartime inflation was eating away at ordinary people's savings, transferring wealth to military-industrial corporations.
After dinner, Alex called his Uncle Garrek on Nar Shaddaa. His uncle's holographic image appeared above the communicator – he looked much better than during their last conversation.
"Alex! How are things, nephew?"
"Fine, Uncle Garrek. And how are you? Not thinking of returning to Corellia?"
Garrek shook his head: "Not yet. Things are going well here – I opened a droid repair shop. Plenty of clients, money is there. And you know what? Nar Shaddaa isn't such a bad place if you don't cross paths with the lower levels."
"Seriously? And what about your complaints about current morals?"
"What's the point of complaining?" the uncle chuckled. "It's better to adapt. At least here it's honest – everyone knows it's a criminal world. Not like in 'civilized' systems where they steal under the guise of laws."
"And aren't you afraid of the war?"
"War?" Garrek laughed. "Nephew, Nar Shaddaa will survive any war. They trade with everyone here – both Republicans and Separatists. War for Smuggler's Moon is just another way to make money."
After talking with his uncle, Alex became even more convinced that he needed to do something with his money. Keeping it in the bank meant slowly but surely getting poorer.
The next day, he began studying the computer equipment market. The prices were steep, but Alex understood – it was an investment in the future. He found a suitable cluster – not the most powerful, but sufficient for serious calculations.
Fifty thousand credits – almost half of all his savings. But what was the point of money that was depreciating every day?
The equipment was delivered in a special transport container – Alex had specifically ordered a mobile configuration so that the cluster could be quickly moved elsewhere if necessary. He placed the container in a small warehouse he rented not far from the university.
When everything was connected and set up, Alex launched "Star Architect" at full power. The result exceeded all expectations – the program worked hundreds of times faster and could handle much more complex projects.
But the main problem remained – the outdated parts nomenclature. The program could only assemble ships from fifteen-thousand-year-old components, many of which were no longer produced.
The solution came unexpectedly. The next day, Alex cautiously started a conversation with his father:
"Dad, do you have a database at your work of all available parts for shipbuilding?"
"Of course. A huge database – everything that can be bought in this sector of the galaxy. Why do you ask?"
"A school project," Alex lied. "I need to analyze the current component market."
"Well, technically it's not secret information," his father said thoughtfully. "Anyone can go to the suppliers and request catalogs. We just have everything gathered in one place for convenience."
"Can you help me get a copy?"
"I think so. Come to the shipyard tomorrow afternoon, and I'll show you how it's done."
The Corellian shipyards were a massive complex—docks, workshops, warehouses, office buildings. The smell of metal, the sounds of welding and cutting, and the worker droids scurrying everywhere created an atmosphere of real production.
In the technical department, where his father now worked, stood powerful computers with access to corporate databases. Kairen led his son to his workstation:
"Here, look. Here are the catalogs of all suppliers—engines, life support systems, navigation equipment, hull elements. Everything with specifications, prices, and delivery times."
"Incredible," Alex muttered, looking at the screen. "And how many items are there?"
"Millions. Maybe even tens of millions, if you count all the modifications and variants."
Alex connected his data drive and began copying. The volume of data was enormous—terabytes of information about millions of different components. The copying took several hours, but the result was worth it.
"Thanks, Dad. This will really help with the project."
"You're welcome. Just make sure no one finds out where you got this data. Technically, I haven't broken any rules, but the management might not understand."
The next month was a trial for Alex. He practically lived in the warehouse, ate ready-made food, and slept four hours a night. The program stubbornly refused to work with the new data—the formats had changed, the catalog structure was different, and new types of components had appeared that didn't exist fifteen thousand years ago.
In the evenings, he turned on the holovision to distract himself from work. The news was monotonous—front-line reports, interviews with military analysts, talk shows with endless discussions about strategy and tactics.
"...Republican troops continue their offensive on Ryloth. According to General Windu, the Confederates have faltered and are retreating on all fronts..."
"...new supplies of weapons and equipment will allow the war to be concluded in the coming months. A representative of the 'Kaminoan Systems' concern stated their readiness to increase clone production..."
"...food prices have risen by another fifteen percent. The Minister of Economy explained this by temporary wartime difficulties..."
Alex turned off the holovision with disgust. Propaganda and lies. The war wasn't going to end—too many people were making money from it. As long as military orders brought trillions in profit, the conflict would continue.
He returned to working on the program. Gradually, step by step, the "Star Architect" began to understand the modern nomenclature. Alex rewrote code, adapted algorithms, and created data converters.
For testing, he chose a well-known project—the YT-1300, a more modern modification of the ship that Professor Volin had shown him. Alex entered the basic requirements: cargo capacity, speed, autonomy, crew, budget.
The program thought for several hours, then produced a result. Alex compared it to the actual characteristics of the YT-1300—the match was almost perfect! Moreover, the program suggested several modification options that could improve individual characteristics.
But the hardest part was yet to come—translating the interface into modern language and creating a user-friendly control system. Archaic commands and incomprehensible terms needed to be replaced with something an ordinary engineer could work with.
Another two weeks were spent creating the new interface. Alex studied modern software design standards, watched tutorial videos, and consulted on programmer forums. Gradually, the "Star Architect" acquired a modern, intuitive interface.
When everything was ready, Alex launched the final test. He entered the parameters for a hypothetical medium-class transport and started the design process. The program worked all night, and in the morning, it produced a detailed design—from the overall layout to a list of every single bolt, with supplier and price indicated.
Alex leaned back in his chair, realizing the scale of what he had created. In his hands was a program that could compete with solutions costing billions of credits. Theoretically, he was a potential billionaire.
But practically... Alex understood reality. If he tried to enter the market with such a product, the major corporations would simply destroy him. Patent lawsuits, accusations of industrial espionage, "accidents"—they had many ways to get rid of an inconvenient competitor.
No, direct competition with industry giants was suicide. But the program could be used differently—to create custom projects for private clients, small companies, people who needed something special.
Alex saved all the files on an encrypted drive and hid it in a safe place. The "Star Architect" was his secret weapon, but now he needed to recoup his investment. Fifty thousand credits was a serious sum, especially with galloping inflation.
Outside the warehouse window, the dawn of a new day was breaking. Somewhere in the depths of the galaxy, the war continued, prices rose, people fled their homeworlds, and politicians gave speeches about imminent victory. But Alex had a plan.
He remembered Jack Tolcho—a smuggler he had met some time ago. People like him always had connections, acquaintances, clients who might need something special. A special ship project, for example.
Alex picked up his communicator and began dialing. It was time to find out if any of Jack's acquaintances needed a unique ship design. War is war, but life goes on. And someone had to make money from it.