Squeezing our entire crew into the escape pod proved to be no easy feat, as it turned out to be a stripped-down model with seating for only four sentient beings—whereas there were five of us. I had to put my technical skills to work; we simply strapped Grana to the structural ribs using the pod's safety harnesses and the local equivalent of duct tape, hoping that Ked would pick us up before we "entered" the atmosphere—or, worse yet, actually landed on the planet.
And sure enough, the moment we detached from the ship, the compact holo-projector we had brought along sprang to life, displaying the all-too-smug mug of Ked. He dictated a new course to us, proving my earlier fears entirely groundless. A mere fifteen minutes later, a gravitational "crane" latched onto us and hauled us into a small cargo bay. Glancing at the bay's dimensions, I finally understood why that damned mercenary had insisted we arrive in an escape pod. No, it wasn't because he didn't want the hassle of offloading it later; it was simply because the thing wouldn't have physically fit inside.
Besides—and truth be told—I suspect that old clunker might not have even made it to the buyer; it likely would have simply shaken itself to pieces right there in the hold at the very first bit of turbulence. The mercenary, giving us no time to catch our breath, immediately made his presence known, issuing a mocking warning via the hologram:
"Don't you dare stick your heads out while the scan is running. Remember: the instant I spot anything out of the ordinary, I'm dropping the containment field—and you'll all get to go make friends with the 'extreme survival conditions of deep space.'" He seemed to be quoting that last phrase from somewhere, though—alas—for obvious reasons, I wasn't exactly well-versed in the contemporary mass media and pop culture of the DGG. A strange, unpleasant sensation rippled across my skin a couple of times, but it soon subsided. I nudged the Jedi in the ribs with my elbow, snapping him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into, then—in a matter of moments—used the Force to assemble my lightsaber. Kaleri belatedly followed suit, though we kept our blades concealed for the time being; first, I wanted to get some answers out of this guy. Or, to be more precise: who exactly had put out the hit on me?
With a loud hiss, the capsule's hatch finally slid open, revealing the unsightly chaos that reigned outside. Now, I was a hundred percent certain that Bane knew every single bolt in this place—and could locate any one of them in an instant if need be—much like a stereotypical dad knows exactly where everything is in his garage, despite the apparent clutter. Still, at first glance, there wasn't a weapon in sight—though that didn't stop Kem from immediately prying a piece of scrap metal off a nearby shelving unit—something that, with a generous stretch of the imagination, might be called an improvised club.
Suddenly, a mechanical *beep* sounded from behind a nearby row of crates; then came another, this time from the opposite side. Gran—who had just finished untangling himself from the handrails—staggered slightly and leaned against one of the crates, nearly knocking it over. With a startled cry, he recoiled:
"The whole place is booby-trapped!" And sure enough, once he'd shifted the crate, an explosive device became clearly visible; simultaneously, a hologram of Bane flickered to life atop one of the boxes. Smirking, he issued a warning:
"You've grasped the situation. Now, I'd advise you not to move. You see, I'm not actually on this ship right now—which means I can blow the whole damn thing to the Hutts at any moment. Is that clear?" "Now, don't do anything foolish—just follow this flying monstrosity." At his final words, a small scout droid rose into the air from atop a stack of crates; waving one of its "tentacles," it beckoned us to follow.
Shortly thereafter, we descended one floor to a section containing technical rooms—one of which had been repurposed as a holding cell for our confinement. Alas, faced with such threats —namely, a ship rigged with enough explosives to blow it sky-high—no one, for some reason, dared to put up a fight. Not even the perpetually belligerent Kem. And so, we had no choice but to meekly file inside.
To be honest, I actually found myself developing a grudging respect for this mercenary. Although, judging by my vague recollections of the animated series in which he'd made a cameo, he hadn't previously "suffered" from such serious tactical acumen—but perhaps my memory was simply fuzzy. In any case, there was one thing he'd overlooked: specifically, the fact that he'd put us all in the same room. Had I been in his shoes, I would have separated everyone, shoved them into solitary cells, and kept the walls and ceiling electrified—not lethally, mind you, but painfully so.
It was a rather minor advantage compared to the rest of his security measures, yet it was still better than nothing. The only trouble was, the opportunity to actually *use* that advantage simply hadn't presented itself yet. We sat cooped up in that little cubbyhole for what felt like an eternity—I had no way of checking the actual time—but at least they fed us, and the room came equipped with standard amenities like a shower and a toilet. Oh, God-Emperor, how relieved I was to finally wash away the dust of Tatooine! Even the strange odor of the water—which had clearly been filtered hundreds of times and laced with various chemicals, not unlike chlorine—couldn't spoil the sheer bliss of that cool shower. It wasn't until I had been standing underwater for thirty minutes that I suddenly flinched: *Wait—I'm part-cyborg; isn't standing like this actually harmful to me?* But after a minute of reflection, I calmed down again—after all, let alone cyborgs, even droids can... run around quite comfortably in the rain—why, look at Kamino in *Battlefront*; they didn't even flinch.
And yet, the mysteries of my own body intrigued me more and more: what exactly was it about this body that led the game developers to designate it as an entirely separate "race"? I felt my limbs; everything felt alive to the touch—I could even detect a pulse. Next, I began inspecting the various ports and connectors to see where they led; it turned out that most of them were clearly designed for interfacing with a suit of armor. The only question was: *which* armor? I hadn't paid any attention to this detail when I removed my own armor earlier—even though mine happens to be the adaptive kind. Very interesting. Meanwhile, a series of metallic "rivets" running along my spine served as clear evidence that my reaction speed was superior to that of other sentient beings not *solely* because I wielded the Force.
About ten minutes after I had finished freshening up, the ship gave a slight jolt. My memory banks immediately informed me that we had entered hyperspace—which meant, at the very least, that we weren't heading toward the Hutts. As for *where* we were going, or *who* we were going to meet... that remained a complete mystery—and one I had absolutely no desire to solve.
As for our current predicament aboard the ship... Frankly, if one approaches the matter logically, every prison or trap possesses a specific, critical vulnerability—a weak point that one should, as a rule, aim to exploit. Provided, of course, that you actually know what you're doing; otherwise, you'll only make things worse. However, I had already devised a plan. My apologies, Grandpa Palpy—or whoever it is that seems to have a need for me—but the prospect of meeting you holds absolutely *zero* appeal for me, under *any* circumstances.
Thus, the weakest link in any prison is its warden—or, more precisely, the individual who holds the "key" to it. In our case, that individual is Bane—and whoever happens to be commanding this ship in his absence. And if that was the case, only one small task remained: to use some "Jedi mind tricks" to persuade the "escort" currently aboard our ship—and force him, at the next course correction, to simply send us into a hyperspace jump toward a different set of coordinates.
It was a simple little plan—and precisely for that reason, it just might work. Well, all that remained was to resolve the problem posed by our capricious Jedi companion. And preferably, without making a sound, since I was ninety-nine percent certain the walls around us had "ears."
I had to walk over and loom above the meditating Kaleri, who paid me no mind until the shadow I cast broke his concentration. Glaring at me malevolently, he nevertheless calmed down quickly, grumbling in a slightly irritated tone:
"Well? What do you want?" But before he could finish speaking—or even react—I moved as fast as I could, placing my palm against his forehead; then, focusing my will, I attempted to transmit my thoughts to him, just as I had done with Kem.
Judging by the way his face instantly twisted into a grimace—as if he'd just bitten into a lemon—I'd evidently managed to get *something* across. At the very least, he didn't lash out in retaliation; instead, he began massaging his temples without uttering a single word aloud. I had to wait until he regained his composure, at which point he nodded three times—signaling his readiness and confirming that he had understood everything. Well, at least he didn't argue; for that much, I was grateful.
Now, only one minor hurdle remained: somehow getting the attention of the ship's resident "pilot." After all, surely a starship couldn't fly on autopilot indefinitely... Could it?
In any case, I did have a few ideas. Approaching the door, I simply pressed my palm against the metal surface, then blasted it with lightning at full power. When we had entered, a control panel had been located directly behind where my hand now rested—a panel our jailer had even pressed something on while ushering us inside—so all that electronics gear was toast. Naturally, a siren immediately began to wail, and a couple of minutes later, the captain himself came rushing to the scene. Well, at least while we were in hyperspace, there was no need to worry about Bane hitting the "big red button," since he was traveling separately; that meant only our target had access to the detonator.
Alas, I hadn't experienced such a frustrating letdown in ages. Our ship was being piloted by a damn hunk of metal! There was no way in hell you could affect a droid—and you couldn't even risk breaking it, since there was no telling if it had any "brethren" on board to serve as backup.
In my frustration, I kicked one of the crates standing in the room—crates that had apparently been graciously provided for us to sit on—and suddenly realized something:
"Hey, Kaleri... Where's Grana?" I asked. The Jedi and I exchanged glances.
"He was still with us when we went inside..." he muttered in bewilderment. But then Kem suddenly spoke up:
"That kid is going to grow into a worthy assassin. He asked me to give him a boost, so I tossed him into the ventilation shaft. Don't worry, I angled the camera away; nobody saw us." *When on earth did they find the time?* For some reason, I hadn't noticed their acrobatics at all. And, of course, only the Jedi and I could understand our dear Dashade's gibberish—and even then, only with the aid of the Force—so we weren't worried about being overheard. I'm a hundred percent certain that his language hasn't been uploaded to the databases of even the most basic protocol droids for a couple of thousand years now. But exactly what this little brat intends to get up to outside the confines of our cozy little cubbyhole—that remains a big question. He hasn't shown any particular pyrotechnic tendencies, and besides—what could a lowly slave from the outskirts of Tatooine possibly know about the inner workings of a starship? Anakin, at least, lived in a spaceport and helped out in a shop dealing with all sorts of tech; this kid, at most, probably just knows how to turn on the irrigation system on a farm—or whatever it is they did out there...
In any case, for once in a blue moon, I had to rely on others. And, naturally, take a few precautions of my own. And here is what I ultimately concluded: sometimes, it really isn't such a bad idea to just sit back and try to meditate—the way the Jedi do... No, I didn't manage any *true* meditation—I haven't quite attuned myself to the Force to that extent yet—but it did, nonetheless, allow me to clear my head.
Then, an hour after he had vanished, Grana reappeared, bringing with him some rather useful intel. It turned out there was only one droid on the ship; furthermore—since we were currently in hyperspace—there was no damn way Bane could blow us up. This meant I could approach our "captain"—who was currently tinkering with a control panel on a door—with a clear conscience, and then simply use my Force lightning to fry all his circuitry to hell. To be honest, I'd been itching to do exactly that for quite some time, but I'd had to wait for the right moment.
That's when the real circus began... Frankly, we made for pretty lousy bomb disposal, yet the ship was absolutely stuffed with all manner of explosive devices—ranging from standard mines to crates packed solid with explosives. Truth be told, the crates were the easiest part: a quick slash with a laser across the display panel, and—*voilà*—the electronics were toast. It was all the smaller odds and ends that we really struggled to clear out.
As Kaleri—the only one among us capable of figuring out how to pilot the vessel—explained, we were scheduled to remain in hyperspace for nearly two full days before our first necessary course correction would require us to drop back into real space. So, we had plenty of time. In the end, the only explosives left uncleared were the tiniest mines—the kind affixed to the walls and ceiling—which we often simply bypassed by taking alternate corridors. Regrettably, the only way to disarm *those* was to detonate them, and I just wasn't willing to take that kind of risk. So, when we dropped out of hyperspace near a small planet oddly named Spirana, I felt bold enough to flip our adversary the bird—though not over the comms, of course (lest he take offense and blast us as we fled)—and immediately execute a second hyperjump, this time to a completely different set of coordinates. He wouldn't realize we were gone for another twenty-four hours... Or perhaps he already had, if he was a true paranoid and had programmed his droid to send him some sort of coded signal. In any case, we made the jump into hyperspace without a hitch.
And just like that, I suddenly found myself in "possession" of an entire starship. Of course, Kaleri might very well beg to differ on that point—but to hell with it; we could hash that out later.
If I had to describe my sensations during that first journey through hyperspace, they were decidedly mixed. On one hand, it was pretty cool—all those blurred, streaking stars visible through the viewport—but on the other, it felt as though the Force had gone completely dead in the space surrounding the ship. It was a strange sensation; I couldn't even recall exactly when I'd first begun sensing other living beings around me—or the Force itself, for that matter—yet here, in this alternate dimension, I somehow couldn't sense it beyond the ship's hull. Perhaps some kind of energy shield had enveloped the vessel, or something similar; whatever the cause, the experience itself was rather unsettling—almost like suddenly going blind in one eye.
Conversely, upon arriving in orbit around Coruscant, I nearly lost my mind from the sheer abundance of life forms—and this was out in space, aboard a starship! It was terrifying to imagine what it would feel like down on the planet's surface. And I wasn't merely sensing their presence; gradually, it began to feel as though I could perceive something far deeper—something akin to their emotions... Yet the moment I tried to focus on that sensation, it would vanish completely. I recalled from Taales's memories that, for him, sensing the minds of sentient beings nearby had once been the norm—but then again, I wasn't him... Well, not entirely, anyway. Still, the fact that these abilities were "returning" to me was a source of joy.
As for Coruscant... Well, yes, I decided to come here specifically. Right into the snake's pit, so to speak—but this was precisely where my future journey had to begin. If I wanted to change anything at all about the unfolding events—and I certainly did—then this was where I needed to be. Naturally, tipping off the Council about Sidious's true identity would be reckless; they couldn't handle him back then, and they'd only fail again now. Besides, it's generally best to have nothing to do with Jedi; they're far too self-absorbed. The Senate, however, was a different matter. No, one shouldn't trust politicians either—but figuring out what makes them "tick," and perhaps forging a few connections, would be a useful endeavor. That said, one shouldn't get *too* close; politicians are politicians, even in the GFFA—they'd bite the nose off a curious meddler without so much as a wince.
And so, in this fashion—quite mundanely, without any fanfare or dramatic theatrics (such as hundreds of enraged Jedi waiting to confront my terrifying self)—we arrived at what is, and I say this without hesitation, the capital planet of the entire galaxy.
Incidentally, Caleri had looked absolutely dreadful for the past twenty-four hours. He'd been a bundle of nerves, evidently agonizing over whether or not to turn me in to the Council. Nevertheless, when I followed the rescued Gertis Thios—who had promised to show me an excellent hotel—the Jedi made no move to stop me; he simply exchanged contact details via a datapad he'd purchased on the spot, and departed in silence. And so, I was left saddled with our entire "zoo"... While traveling with the Dashade was manageable enough (just try telling *him* "no"), dealing with the kid and the old man was proving to be a far more stressful affair. Fortunately, we were able to easily exchange our peggatas for modern credits with the local money changers at a fair rate, so we settled in with every comfort. The plan was to stay on the planet until one of two things happens: either Kalerri gets shipped off to fight—and *that's* where we'll step in to help him secure proper access to the archives, rather than the restricted access he has now—or until I manage to find some common ground with the local senators, at which point they might toss me a job or two. It's the simplest way to ingratiate oneself with the bigwigs without having to sink astronomical sums into the effort—a fact confirmed by Taales's own experience.
As for Bane? To hell with him. The ship *was* tagged with a beacon, of course, but I managed to offload it here in just under an hour—at a price slightly below market value—and immediately used the proceeds to buy myself a beat-up old bucket. It's a bit more clapped-out than the last one, and smaller to boot, but it can still fly—so I wasn't losing any sleep over that particular matter. Yeah, that Duros turned out to be quite the paranoiac; he had everything so meticulously planned out, yet even his flawless scheme had a weak point—and, worst of all, it failed due to the stupidest mistake imaginable: he should have just killed us right off the bat... Although, if he *didn't* kill us, that must mean someone suddenly decided they needed me alive. I wonder why.
And just like that—right as we were finally starting to fully settle into the comforts of civilized life, and I was busy stocking up on various odds and ends and ship consumables—a message arrived on my datapad barely twenty-four hours later. It was from Kalerri, stating that he needed to meet with me—urgently.
Doesn't look suspicious *at all*, does it? Well, I'm no Cad Bane yet, but I certainly have no intention of dying for "absolutely no good reason." Consequently, a healthy dose of paranoia has now become our guiding principle. Though I might be dramatizing things a bit; these are Jedi we're talking about. They're far more likely to just maroon me on some uninhabited little planetoid and leave me there to rot until someone finally deigns to fly out and pick me up—but even so, it's hardly a pleasant prospect. And frankly, it's hard to say which fate would be worse. And yet, sooner or later, I'll have to deal with them somehow, regardless—and I'd rather not cast myself as an enemy. It's better to sort this out right away.
So, what should I do? Well, given that Kaleri asked me to fly out here, there's still a chance he hasn't let slip a word about me; but even if the "Jedi Council Organized Crime Syndicate" is lying in wait for us there... even so... even so, I've placed my bet on that bastard, and whatever the cost, I'm going in there to talk to them. "The harder it is, the better," my very nature tells me—and in this instance, I'll even have the element of surprise on my side. Besides, this isn't a back-alley showdown; I don't have to go in alone. Alright—no matter what awaits me there, in any case, no one (aside from Ked) is going to try to kill me on sight. Which means, as a certain well-known General once said: "Ah, yes... negotiations."