I woke up just as a med droid was examining me aboard the ship. Well, in principle, there had been no fighting for several hours. The Neimoidians and other "aliens" had fled in their Lucrehulk in an unknown direction, taking a whole detachment of droids with them. The Geonosians had holed up in their catacombs, and no one wanted to go in after them. Clone commandos were planting charges to destroy the droid factories. A fortified base was being established on the planet, with a garrison assigned to remain. The rest were soon to depart for Coruscant.
All this was explained to me by a rather talkative surgical droid, who was busily stitching up my wounds, pouring bacta over them, and applying healing bandages that covered my entire chest and part of my arms and legs. There was even a bandage on my forehead. It would be frightening to look in the mirror — I probably looked exactly like a mummy. I didn't feel any real pain, only a faint itching and burning sensation. The droid had clearly injected me with something.
After finishing his work, he chirped something life-affirming in binary and ordered two clones to take me to my ward. Apparently, he still had plenty of patients to attend to.
***
There weren't enough medical transports, so I, like many other wounded, was transferred to one of the Acclamator-class assault ships. It turned out to be the flagship, and the surviving Jedi, led by Master Yoda, had gathered there.
Now Yoda and the Jedi Council Masters were in session, discussing their affairs. To be honest, I wasn't particularly interested in what they were talking about. Senator Amidala was also present, and soon I realized why. Well, of course.
Very few had survived the rescue operation, and of those who did, only a handful were badly enough injured to be admitted to the makeshift "hospital." So it was no surprise that I was placed in one of the cubicles hastily converted into a general ward — where, drumroll, my neighbors turned out to be Kenobi and Skywalker. The latter, lying on a cot with his stump heavily bandaged, swore in twelve languages, including the dialects of the Hutts, the Toydarians, and even binary. Respect — no doubt about it. The guy was clearly furious. Obi-Wan, on the other hand, remained silent. Judging by his expression, the Jedi was "tormented by vague doubts." As far as I recalled, Dooku had burdened him with information about Darth Sidious and his influence on the Senate. Obi-Wan was clearly wondering whether it was true or false.
And I had plenty to think about too.
***
The heat of battle had passed, the adrenaline in my blood had dissolved, and a quiet panic set in. The eternal questions — "What do I do?" and "Who's to blame?" — loomed before me. Now, fully realizing the depth of the mess I was in, I found myself in a state of near prostration.
I wondered: what had I done to deserve this? Or was it just fate? It didn't matter. As far as I could tell, I wasn't going back. I'd have to figure out a way to get through this.
The Galactic Republic with its clone wars, dogmatic Jedi, corrupt Senate, scheming Sith, and all its "charms" — lawlessness, drugs, and slavery. And in the middle of all this mess — me, Mikore Vikt.
Okay, calm down! Are you a Jedi or a coward? Calm down. Breathe in, breathe out. Again — in, out.
Right. I needed to settle down and sort things out. Let's think about what my "earthly" self could actually contribute here.
First of all, it turned out that in practical terms, I couldn't bring anything new to the table — the culture and technology here were orders of magnitude beyond anything from my homeland. The only thing that might prove useful was my knowledge of history, since history has a tendency to repeat itself. I specialized mostly in the Middle East and Central Asia. Some basic theoretical principles of warfare were still in my memory — at least from the examples of ancient battles. I even remembered the battle maps in my school history textbooks — those little blue and red arrows and squares. Moreover, over the centuries, humanity had changed its weapons and tactics, but its strategy remained virtually the same. That was basically the extent of my expertise.
Now let's test my Jedi memory. Well, what do we have here? Meditation. Some understanding of politics (a mess) thanks to my teacher Arto. A little knowledge of local technology — nothing outstanding, just the general education level of the Temple. Meaning, I couldn't build a starship, but I should be able to repair the local equivalent of a beat-up speeder with a hydrospanner and some scrap parts. I knew about the Sith Wars only in the broad strokes the instructors had mentioned long ago — and most of that had gone in one ear and out the other.
That was basically it.
Oh yes — and I also knew the war would last three years, and then the Emperor would issue the Order 66, and all the Jedi would… well, "have fun."
Damn.
Okay, calm down. Stop panicking. Think, Jedi — about what you're going to do and how you're going to survive all this shit. As one of our teachers used to say: "Break the problem down into its components and solve them one by one. Perhaps by solving some of them, you will turn others to your advantage. Or you may discover new problems, depending on your luck." I could only hope luck was on my side.
Let's consider the possible courses of action.
Option one. Let's call it "Laziness." Do nothing, follow the canon, and as a result either die in the war or fall to Order 66. Definitely not.
Option two. "Prophet." Run around shouting, "I know everything — Chancellor, you're a Sith!" Tempting, but who would believe me? And in the process, they might silence me — no need to ask a fortune-teller. I once read that Sidious had almost a third of the galaxy's criminal underworld in his pocket and was closely tied to the financial system, much like the InterGalactic Banking Clan had once been subjugated by his master. Palpatine, of course, inherited it all without hesitation. And what would stop him from declaring Order 66 right now, with so many clones already on Coruscant? Nothing. Especially since, in the canon, four Jedi Masters came to arrest him — including Kit Fisto and Mace Windu himself. These were not idealistic monks gone soft in peaceful times, but seasoned warriors hardened by three years of war. If they had lost their edge, it was only in their dreams of retirement. And yet Sidious crushed almost all of them. Later, even Yoda couldn't defeat him alone. Either Palpatine was truly that strong, or the Jedi had grown complacent over the millennia since the Order's fighting core was destroyed on Ruusan. Either way, let's discard this option.
Option three. "Run for your life." Escape and hide as far away as possible, preferably in the Unknown Regions. Clearly not viable. If the Jedi didn't find me, the Separatists would, and if not them, then Vader would track me down and chop me into little pieces. How many Jedi were there in the galaxy at this point? Tens of thousands, certainly. And how many were still alive when Luke left Tatooine? A dozen? The statistics spoke for themselves. Or maybe the Yuuzhan Vong would show up — if I lived that long. Well, how long until their invasion? It was now twenty-two years before the Battle of Yavin, and they'd arrive about twenty-one years after. That meant roughly forty years from now. Why in the galaxy would I want that kind of "joy" in old age? No, thank you. Definitely not.
Option four. "Maybe I could quickly evolve into a water creature?" In other words — become a Sith. Ridiculous. What, just stumble upon Darth Revan's holocron and persuade the ghost of Marka Ragnos to become my teacher? Sure. Except that Darth Sidious clearly didn't tolerate competition, even without such tricks. After all, Bane's Rule of Two — though Palpatine seemed to have already concluded it was flawed. He would still hunt me down and kill me with particular relish. Or Vader would strangle me. And truthfully, the dark side didn't tempt me that much. Yes, the Force was impressive, but there were more interesting things in the galaxy.
Damn. Wherever you turn, it's a dead end. Think, Miko, think. That head of yours was made for something.
In the end, I reached the following conclusion: if I didn't want to die, I had to become an influential figure — someone neither the Jedi nor Palpatine would find advantageous to discard. After all, the Imperial Inquisitorius later recruited from among former Jedi. People actively joined, many transported to Byss on special prison ships. And the coming war would give many Jedi the chance to rise as commanders. I needed to be among them. Next, once I gained fame, I would have to secure the support of some important figure — preferably a senator (though, to be honest, finding someone decent in the Senate was going to be an epic undertaking). The name of Senator Chuchi flashed through my mind and then vanished. Then I'd need to find a way to survive Order 66. That would be the real snag — but time would tell, and I'd think of something.
In addition, I needed to improve as a Jedi. Train, and train again. Of course, I would never reach Skywalker's level — let alone Yoda's or Palpatine's — but perhaps I could become a solid, reliable average. Probably.
A plan slowly began to form in my mind. Upon learning that we were heading for Coruscant — a flight that would take about fifteen hours — I decided to get some rest and let my wounds heal. And when else would I get such an opportunity in the near future? The days ahead were clearly going to be very, very difficult.