The ship dropped out of hyperspace at the system's border, and immediately the comms crackled with incoming signals. Alex felt his stomach clench with anxiety. Ahead lay a world he knew only from crime reports and horror stories.
"Unidentified YT-1300, this is Nar Shaddaa control. State your documents and declare your cargo," the voice was bored, with the characteristic Outer Rim accent, but it carried the weariness of one accustomed to corruption.
Alex activated the transmitter, trying to keep his voice steady:
"Control, this is the trading vessel 'Wanderer,' Captain Alex Corren. I'm carrying crystalline processors for droids, transmitting documents."
While the documents were being checked, he looked at the planet-moon growing larger ahead, and his face contorted with a grim premonition. Nar Shaddaa — the Smuggler's Moon — looked like a giant cancerous tumor in space. The entire surface was covered with metallic growths of cities, descending hundreds of levels deep. The moon's atmosphere was stained a sickly yellow from industrial emissions. Even from space, it was clear that this place lived by its own twisted laws — ships flew chaotically, without clear corridors, and some surface areas pulsed with neon lights even in the daylight of the local star.
What am I doing? Alex thought, watching a battered smuggler freighter narrowly avoid a collision with another ship. Perhaps I should have found another place? Some quiet planet in the Outer Rim?
But he knew the answer. Nar Shaddaa was the perfect place precisely because no one here cared about your past. Here, you could dissolve into the crowd of galactic dregs, become another nameless face. And most importantly — there was no control here. The Hutts hated the Republic, and now they hated the Empire no less than he did now.
"Documents in order, 'Wanderer.' Proceed to port number 94, mid-levels. Prepare five hundred credits for docking fees and..." the controller paused, and Alex heard familiar undertones in it, "...another two hundred for expedited cargo processing."
Alex gave a bitter chuckle. A bribe even before landing. Well, he had studied local customs in preparation for this journey.
"Understood, control. The money will be ready."
Roan Shryne, sitting in the co-pilot's seat, shook his head, looking at the chaos of ships around them:
"Interesting place you've chosen for a new home, kid."
"At least they don't ask too many questions here," Alex replied, maneuvering between cargo barges and battered freighters. One of them was clearly carrying something illegal — it was escorted by armed fighters.
The descent into the atmosphere was a trial. The air was so polluted with industrial emissions, and hot air spewed from numerous pipes, the ship even shook from turbulence. As they passed the city levels through the viewports, the lower they went, the darker and more dangerous they looked. The upper levels glittered with the lights of luxurious casinos and Hutt palaces. The mid-levels were a labyrinth of industrial complexes, ports, and residential blocks. And below, in the depths, stretched the slums where those lived who were considered dregs even on Nar Shaddaa.
Landing pad 94 turned out to be typical for Nar Shaddaa — dirty, noisy, and overcrowded. Ships were parked so closely that a person could barely pass between them. The air was saturated with the smells of rocket fuel and something indefinably organic — either rotting food or decomposing bodies. Alex tried to breathe through his mouth, but the air seemed to have a taste that was worse than the smell.
Loaders scurried everywhere — representatives of dozens of races, most of whom looked emaciated and sick. Their eyes were vacant, their movements mechanical. Many were clearly under the influence of drugs — some to dull the pain, others simply to forget.
At a neighboring pad, Alex saw a group of slave girls being unloaded from a transport. Girls of different races — humans, Twi'leks, Zeltrons — stood in chains, with vacant stares. Their guard, a fat Gamorrean with a stun baton, urged them on with blows. One of the girls, a very young human, stumbled and fell. The Gamorrean struck her with a grunt, and she screamed.
Alex clenched his fists, but Roan placed a hand on his shoulder:
"Don't. It's common here. If you interfere, you'll only harm yourself and her."
A customs officer immediately approached the ship — a fat man with greasy hair and a smug smile. His uniform was dirty, and he reeked of alcohol.
"Captain Corren? I'm Inspector Pil. Let's see your cargo," he spoke with a Coruscant accent, but it was clear that his education and upbringing were long in the past.
Alex opened the cargo hold, showing the neatly packed crates of crystalline processors. Pil glanced into one crate for show, but it was obvious he was interested not in the processors, but in the size of the bribe.
"The cargo looks... suspiciously high quality," the inspector drawled, licking his lips. "Perhaps an additional inspection is in order? We have new instructions here..."
Alex took out a credit chip, feeling disgusted with himself:
"I don't think that's necessary. The cargo is absolutely legal."
Seven hundred credits transferred to Pil's account, and he immediately brightened:
"Of course, of course! All documents are in order. Welcome to Nar Shaddaa, Captain. If you need anything special, just ask. I have connections."
When the customs officer left, swaying from his drink, Roan shook his head:
"The system works like clockwork. I wonder how much of that money will reach the Hutts?"
"About twenty percent," Alex guessed, closing the ship and activating all security systems. On Nar Shaddaa, the ship could be dismantled for parts overnight. "The rest will end up in the pockets of officials. But everyone is fine with that."
They disembarked from the landing pad into the labyrinth of the mid-levels, and Alex immediately felt how the world around him had changed. The air was heavy, saturated with fumes from the lower levels — a mixture of chemical waste, sewage, and death. The sky overhead was obscured by a tangle of bridges, pipelines, and structures from the upper levels, so that even during the day, eternal twilight reigned here.
The architecture was a chaotic jumble of buildings from different eras and styles. Ancient Hutt pyramids stood next to Republic administrative blocks, which, in turn, were disfigured by makeshift additions and advertising billboards. Neon signs in a dozen languages advertised cantinas, repair shops, brothels, and services whose purpose Alex preferred not to think about.
The streets teemed with life, but it was a sickly, perverted life. Prostitutes of all ages, genders, and races stood in doorways, shouting offers in broken Basic. Many of them were clearly underage, and their eyes were dead, like dolls. Next to them, drug dealers openly offered their wares — from the relatively harmless ryll to the deadly glitterstim.
On a street corner, Alex saw a group of addicts gathered around a makeshift spice vaporizer. They inhaled the poisonous fumes, and their faces glowed with an unhealthy sheen. One of them, a young man about twenty, suddenly began to convulse, foam coming from his mouth. The others didn't even pay attention — such things happened here every day.
"The Force," Alex whispered, "what have I gotten myself into?"
Roan heard his words:
"Doubting your choice?"
"I don't know," Alex answered honestly. "Maybe I should have found another place. Some quiet farming planet..."
"On a quiet farming planet, they'll find you in a week if they need you," Roan said. "And talented engineers are needed. But here... here you can hide among millions of other fugitives."
They walked through narrow alleys, and every turn revealed new horrors. In one place, they stumbled upon a crowd gathered around an improvised arena. In the center, two gladiators — a human and a Weequay warrior — fought to the death with their bare hands, while spectators placed bets and shouted encouragement. Blood sprayed onto the front rows, but no one flinched — on the contrary, the crowd roared with delight.
In another alley, they saw a group of mercenaries in battered armor beating up some merchant. The victim no longer resisted, only wheezed and spat blood, but the blows continued. Passersby avoided the scene, not wanting to get involved.
"Help?" Alex asked quietly.
"Don't," Roan shook his head. "Every conflict here has a backstory. Perhaps this merchant cheated the wrong people. Perhaps he didn't pay his debt. Or perhaps he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."
The sounds of Nar Shaddaa were deafening — the roar of speeder engines, music from cantinas, shouts of merchants and prostitutes, moans of addicts and crime victims. All this merged into a single cacophony of suffering and vice.
The air grew worse as they delved deeper into the labyrinth of streets. To the smells of fuel and chemicals were added the aromas of rotting food, unwashed bodies, vomit, and urine. The sewage system clearly couldn't cope with the load, and waste flowed directly down to the lower levels.
"The ways of the Force lead each person down their own path," Roan said, stopping at an intersection where the neon sign of the "Pink Dreams" brothel flickered pink. "I need to find my path, Alex. Thank you for helping me get here."
Alex nodded, feeling panic rise in his chest. He understood — the former Jedi couldn't stay nearby for long. Too dangerous for everyone. But being alone in this hell was terrifying.
"Good luck, Roan."
Before leaving, Roan took out a small card and silently handed it over.
Alex took the card, on which was written only the name — "Master Shryne" — and a comlink frequency.
"Roan, can I ask a question? I do have the Force, don't I? Blood analysis showed about three thousand midi-chlorians."
The former Jedi smiled sadly:
"Alex, the Force isn't something you can train like muscles. It's like growth. When you're an adult, you can't grow anymore, and a child's growth is predetermined genetically. Three thousand midi-chlorians is slightly above average for a normal person, but for a Jedi, you need at least seven thousand. You can develop intuition, perhaps a premonition of danger, but not more than that."
"So, I won't be able to learn to use the Force?"
"A Jedi is not just the Force, Alex. It's... some complexities, even without this whole situation. You don't need it, believe me," Roan put his hand on his shoulder. "Don't let this place break you. Remember who you are."
They shook hands, and Roan disappeared into the crowd of dregs and scoundrels. Alex was left alone in a strange, hostile world.
He spent the next two hours searching for Uncle Garrek's workshop, and every minute was a trial. The address he had was approximate — on Nar Shaddaa, street numbering changed depending on the level and sector. He had to ask locals for directions, and every piece of advice cost a few credits.
The locals were as broken as everything else on this planet. An old Duros man he asked for directions was blind in one eye and spoke with a hoarse voice — clearly affected by industrial emissions. A Twi'lek woman selling fried insects kept looking around as if expecting a blow. Even the children here looked old — their eyes had seen too much for their age.
Along the way, he witnessed several more scenes of violence. In one cantina, a drunken smuggler beat up a waitress for spilling a drink on him. Right on the platform of one of the high-rises, a group of teenagers were raping a homeless addict, and passersby pretended not to see anything. On a bridge between levels, he saw someone throw a body — it fell into the abyss of the lower levels, where no one would ever find it.
What am I doing here? Alex thought again.
Finally, he found the right alley. The sign "Droid Repair — Garrek Corren" hung above a narrow door between the "Stardust" cantina and a used parts shop. The sign had red and blue backlighting to attract attention.
Alex knocked and entered. The workshop was small but relatively clean — an island of order in the chaos of Nar Shaddaa. Workbenches were cluttered with disassembled droids, and shelves held jars of parts and tools.
"Uncle Garrek?" Alex called.
His uncle came out of the back room. He once resembled Alex's father, but several years on Nar Shaddaa had left their mark — his face had become harder, and wariness had settled in his eyes. Seeing Alex, he stopped.
"Hey, Alex, glad to see you!" he said cheerfully. Then, sadly, he continued, "My condolences. Your parents were good people."
"Thank you," Alex replied, feeling his throat tighten with unshed tears. "I got your message. You wrote that there's work here."
"There is. Lots of work," Garrek looked his nephew over with a discerning gaze. "You've changed. Grown up."
"Times have changed," Alex placed his luggage in a corner. "Tell me about the local ways."
Garrek poured two glasses of some local drink — the liquid was cloudy, but at least it was sterilized by alcohol — and sat down at the table:
"Nar Shaddaa is a world unto itself, Alex. It has its own laws, its own morality. The main rule is: don't ask too many questions and pay those who need to be paid. It's like a tax."
"Who exactly needs to be paid?"
"Depends on where you work. This sector is controlled by Gorga Hutt — one of the younger representatives of the clan, but influential enough. His men come once a week for 'security tax.' Then there's the port administration, they charge for every deal. Plus the local 'protection' — the Red Suns gang, they maintain order on the streets."
Alex calculated the sums:
"How much is that per month?"
"Thirty percent of turnover. But then, no one interferes with your business. You can repair anything, trade anything, work with anyone. The main thing is to pay and not cause problems."
"And what kind of clients are there?"
Garrek chuckled humorlessly:
"Various. Smugglers, mercenaries, slavers, brothel owners, drug dealers. Money is all the same color. But there are nuances..."
Alex nodded, feeling disgusted by it all. He understood — he would have to work in the gray zone, or even the outright black zone. But after everything that had happened on Corellia, moral compromises seemed like the lesser evil. He had already realized that nothing in the galaxy was more powerful than money, and all legal sources were blocked so reliably that the only way to earn remained only in the gray and black zones of the economy.
"Show me the workshop?"
The next hour, Garrek led him around the premises, explaining where everything was and how it worked. The equipment was old but functional. Alex immediately saw several places where his knowledge could be applied to improve processes.
In the evening, they visited several neighboring establishments. Alex familiarized himself with the local ecosystem — the cantina owner, the parts dealer, the local gang leader. Everywhere he was introduced as "Garrek's nephew, a specialist in complex technology."
Each acquaintance was a trial. The cantina owner, a fat bandit named Jorin, frankly described how he "disposed of" insolvent clients — their organs went to the black market. The parts dealer, a nervous Rodian, offered "special" parts for slaver ships — hidden compartments for "live cargo." The gang leader, a scarred man nicknamed Razor, displayed a collection of severed fingers of debtors.
In the "Stardust" cantina, he saw real Hutts for the first time. Two very young representatives of this race sat at a large table, surrounded by guards and slave girls. One of them — judging by the tattoos, from the Gorga clan — was laughing loudly, watching his human slave girl dance on the table.
The girl was young, perhaps eighteen, but her eyes were dead. She moved mechanically, like a droid. There were traces of beatings and burns on her body — the Hutt clearly enjoyed inflicting pain.
Alex noticed that the Hutt's laughter grew louder every time the girl stumbled or showed fear. It wasn't just entertainment — the Hutt derived physical pleasure from her humiliation and suffering.
"Don't stare too hard," Garrek said quietly. "They sense curiosity and don't like it. And this particular Hutt is especially cruel — last week he fed his rancor a waiter who spilled a drink on him."
"Understood," Alex turned away, but the slave girl's gaze remained in his memory — hopeless, vacant, full of such despair that he wanted to scream.
Later, in the workshop, he asked:
"Uncle, why do Hutts still use slaves? Droids are more efficient and cheaper in the long run."
Garrek was silent for a long time, then sighed:
"It's not about efficiency, Alex, there are many factors, from economic to the peculiarities of Hutt psychology. Hutts can't buy modern droids — Republic sanctions, now Imperial. All high-tech equipment goes only through smuggling, at triple prices. And slaves... slaves are cheap and always available."
"But it's a vicious cycle. They use slaves because they can't buy droids. But they can't buy droids because they are sanctioned for slavery."
"The sanctions aren't because of slaves. That's just a pretext. It's more complicated," Garrek poured himself another drink. "The Hutts are fine with it because they derive sadistic pleasure from power over sentient beings. That's their neurophysiology. Corporations are fine with it because they sell outdated equipment at inflated prices. Republic, and now Imperial, officials are fine with it because they receive bribes for 'softening' sanctions. The Hutts are only nominally independent; in reality, they have long been integrated into the general swamp."
Alex pondered. The system was corrupt, but stable. Each participant benefited from maintaining the status quo.
"And what happens if someone tries to change it?"
"There were attempts, but a long time ago. The last time was during the Ruusan Reformation," Garrek looked out the window at the flickering neon lights. "Republic idealists tried to free slaves by force. There were entire wars. The Hutts bought new ones. Corporate reformers offered cheap droids in exchange for abandoning slavery. The Senate blocked initiatives under pressure from lobbyists."
"So, the system is invincible?"
"As long as it's profitable for everyone to maintain it — yes."
Alex didn't go to his uncle's apartment but slept on a folding bed in the back room of the workshop, listening to the sounds of Nar Shaddaa — music from cantinas, the hum of engines, distant screams and laughter. But now he knew what lay behind these sounds — the pain, suffering, and despair of millions of beings trapped in this world.
This was a world where moral principles had to be left at the entrance. But it was also a world where he could begin to implement his plan.
His thoughts finally cleared, dispelling the initial shock of this place. He had come here to work. His ship design program was his main asset and his most terrible crime. On any legal planet, under the jurisdiction of the Corporate Sector or the Empire, mere possession of such unlicensed, uncertified software for designing military-civilian class ships would be considered industrial espionage and a security threat. Here, however, in this giant port of smugglers, pirates, mercenaries, and semi-legal traders, his only possible clientele was concentrated. Someone who needed a fast, discreet ship. Someone who needed to build hidden compartments into the hull of an old freighter. Someone willing to pay for their rusty bucket to hold hyperspace jumps 0.5% better and accelerate 3% faster in the atmosphere. They didn't need certificates from the Corellian Engineering Guild. They needed results.
He would feed this monster — the world of Nar Shaddaa — with his knowledge. And the monster, in turn, would give him money, anonymity, and power. Real power. The power of someone on whom it depends whether a ship escapes pursuit, whether cargo arrives, whether the crew survives.
Tomorrow, he wouldn't just start helping his uncle. Tomorrow, he would begin to discreetly inquire. Who was the best but most overloaded engine mechanic here? From which supplier could he unofficially buy chips for overclocking navigation computers? Which of the local "businessmen" was looking for an engineer for a "special project"?
His path began here, in this workshop, among spare parts and shadows. The path of an engineer for those who live in the shadows.
Outside the window, advertising lights flickered, promising pleasures for every taste and budget. Somewhere above, on the elite levels, Coruscant officials entertained themselves in luxurious brothels, not ashamed that their policies created such places. Somewhere below, in the basements, things happened that were better not to think about — torture, murder, experiments on living beings.
And he, Alex Korran, a former student of a prestigious institute, the son of honest parents, was now part of this system. Tomorrow he will start repairing droids for smugglers and slave traders. He will improve ships for those who might be transporting drugs. He will remain silent when he sees suffering, because intervention means death.
But he had no choice. Or rather, the choice was between two forms of slavery. On legal worlds, the system would have enslaved him: contracts, licenses, patent wars, corporate boards of directors who would have taken everything for next to nothing, and made him a cog in their machine. His talent, his knowledge would have become just a commodity, not belonging to him.
Here, in this den of vice, slavery was different—cruder, bloodier, but honest. There were no illusions here. Pay the bandits, don't look around, do the job. But here—and this was the key, the only important difference for him—he remained the master. Master of his knowledge, his tools, his reputation. In a world where every second person is a bandit or a smuggler, a good, inconspicuous, and very, very smart engineer is worth more than a whole gang of cutthroats. Uncle found his niche here, and he will too.