Want to make God laugh?
Tell Him about your plans.
(folk saying).
***
The shuttle, flanked by four gunboats, settled onto one of the landing pads before the Jedi Temple. During the flight, I had sat quietly in my seat, keeping my presence as low-key as possible—just in case. In fact, no one had paid me any attention. Yoda and Windu remained silent, Amidala whispered with Anakin, and Obi-Wan dozed—or perhaps meditated. The other Jedi were also absorbed in their own affairs, doing their best not to betray any anxiety.
What can I say? Yeah. They sure know how to build here—with a flourish. I don't remember who exactly designed this Temple, but they were clearly not limited in resources. The area in front of the Temple is so vast that it could easily accommodate six Acclamators. And the Temple itself covers an area of about ten square kilometers. Its four-kilometer spires alone are worth seeing.
The Masters proceeded solemnly to their business, joined by some of the Temple's mentors and teachers—probably those permitted to take part in the Order's politics. Skywalker and Obi-Wan headed for the medical wing—obviously in a hurry to get a prosthesis. It's a matter of a couple of hours here. Amidala would most likely head to the Senate (after changing her outfit and powdering her nose, of course—how could she not?). As far as I remember, after that Padme, accompanied by Anakin, would sail away on a yacht to Naboo, where they would secretly get married. Conspirators, damn it.
All in all, I was left alone on the landing pad. No one came out to meet us, the escort clones and transport departed for their deployment zones, the summer sun beat down on my head, and all around there was silence and peace—as if nothing at all had happened. I snorted. You don't know the latest news yet.
***
As I walked through the Jedi Temple, images from the past of this body—now mine—flashed through my mind like a kaleidoscope: here I am entering the Temple for the first time; together with other younglings, I listen to the teacher telling the story of the Jedi Order; I pick up a lightsaber for the first time—a training one, true, but still; the first time I engage in a training duel; debating with friends what kind of sword I want to assemble. Yes. I have many memories tied to this place. No wonder so many Jedi consider it home.
First, I headed to the Technical and Administrative Department, commonly known as the warehouse. I needed to get my hands on some useful little things for day-to-day life before the whole Order got involved and the choice ran out—and besides, it was time to update my wardrobe. I had no trouble finding my way—my memory helpfully pointed me in the right direction.
Walking slowly down the corridor (let the wounds heal properly; besides, it's awkward to run here), I bowed silently to the Jedi I met. They nodded back automatically, noticing my bandaged body. Some even stopped to look after me.
"Hey, wait, Miko! Wait, I'm talking to you!" an angry female voice suddenly rang out from behind me. A vaguely familiar voice.
I turned. Zio Kad'ishi was approaching at a brisk pace, and at once I remembered her—a Devaronian, my former classmate. She looked almost like a human woman, the differences being two dark horn "bumps" on her forehead, lynx-like tufts of hair on her ears, and sharper facial features. We'd arrived at the Jedi Temple at about the same time. She'd always been a very authoritative person, bossing everyone around as she pleased. Not surprising, really—if I recall, their planet is matriarchal.
Next came Slit Cavendish, a melancholic Rodian and another acquaintance of mine. Like almost all Rodians, he was green with large faceted eyes, tube-shaped ears, and an elongated mouth. Fortunately, by now I was accustomed to my memories, and this body had grown up with such neighbors since infancy, so there were no awkward incidents from close contact with a species so unlike humans.
A few steps from me, Zio slowed when she saw my outfit and "heroic" wounds. Then, without further ado, she dragged me into the nearest dead-end niche. I didn't resist—it's easier to make a rancor dance the yuutabi than to change the mind of this self-confident lady.
"Tell me!" the Devaronian said, planting her hands on her hips, barely in time to pin me against the wall. "We just got back, and the Temple is half empty! You're gone, no one knows anything, and then all kinds of rumors start spreading, each one worse than the last! You were there, so spill it. Where did you all go, why did so few of you return, and what happened? And what are these strange soldiers?"
"Yes, friend. You must tell us everything," Cavendish added, staring at me intently.
Sighing, I briefly recounted the essence of recent events—of course without dangerous revelations about things I shouldn't know at all—only the vision from my predecessor's position. I said that nothing had foreshadowed it, then an agitated Windu had arrived, gathered almost all the adult Jedi who were in the Temple, gave a short speech about saving our own and defending the Republic, herded everyone into transports, and so on, up to the battle for Geonosis.
"What will happen now?"
I shrugged.
"War."
"This is outrageous! The Jedi are guardians of peace in the galaxy, not soldiers. We must keep this world in balance, not start conflicts. I won't let this go!"
"And what are you going to do?" The situation was starting to stress me out—a little more than the need to report to someone I only knew from someone else's memory. No, I understand it's necessary and there's no way around it, and the guys seem like good people, but… Anyway, her rhetoric grated on me.
"If the Order doesn't stop pandering to the Senate, we'll have no choice but to leave the Order in protest!" the girl said heatedly. "It's the wisest and most correct decision."
The Rodian nodded in agreement.
"The Jedi Council is acting recklessly. Such a policy undermines the ideals of the Jedi Order. We must leave."
Damn… I'd completely forgotten that after Geonosis, some Jedi left the Order because they disagreed with its policy. Nearly a thousand, if not more, went into exile, unwilling to fight. Are these my friends from the so-called outcasts? And do they want to drag me into this too?
"We?" I was starting to dislike where this was going.
"What, you're not coming with us?"
I shook my head.
"No. You know, the war can't be stopped. So I have no choice but to try…"
"You brainless, blind fool!" The Devaronian jabbed her finger at my chest, pinning me with her fiery gaze as if I'd spat on her soul. "That's what you are! You're following the Council's lead? Aren't your wounds enough? Do you want to die defending the ideals of this rotten Republic? So be it!"
She turned abruptly, shot me one last angry look, and strode quickly down the corridor.
"Think, Miko. Your path is your own," Slit sighed sadly, then hurried after Zio.
"Damn…" That was all I managed to say. What had just happened threw me off balance.
It's a shame. Judging by my memories, they're actually pretty good people. We really were close friends during our studies. The memories of that… warmed my heart. Even though I understood they weren't truly mine, but… I'm sorry. I can't help you. Even if I tell you everything, you simply won't believe me. Yes. My path is only my path.
***
Lost in thought, I finally made it to the warehouse. To be honest, Ali Baba's cave had nothing on it. The warehouses were huge. No. That's not right. HUGE. Thousands of square meters. Hundreds upon hundreds of shelves. Dozens of different containers and bags.
I should explain something. The specifics of the Order do not allow Jedi to own personal property, but at the same time, any Jedi can come to this warehouse and get anything completely free of charge. Naturally, they must provide a constructive justification for the request. That is, you can't just get a frigate here, but clothes or other consumables? Easy. Within reasonable limits, of course.
"What brings you here, Knight?" The Toydarian warehouse manager, clearly a hired hand, greeted me with a nasal accent. In general, the Order often employed hired workers, provided they had certain talents. This one had clearly leveled up his hamster and toad to level 80, no doubt—judging by the immaculate state of the warehouse.
I began to explain my requests. The Balance Corps, where my predecessor had served, does not require frequent absences from the Temple, so Miko had practically nothing necessary for life away from civilization—let alone for military conditions. I wanted to live, and preferably for more than a little while. Therefore, it was not surprising that as I listed the items, the storekeeper clicked his tongue in surprise, tinged with respect. When I finished, he whistled.
"However, it's been a long time since anyone has come to me with such an interesting list. Let's see what I can do to help you."
Clicking away at the terminal, the storekeeper sent a couple of droids off somewhere deep into the warehouse. Then, flapping his wings toward the nearest shelf, he returned with a bundle and moved back to the racks.
First, he laid out a set of clothes and a cloak on the counter. I had no doubt everything was exactly my size. It followed with six YR-2P12 training droids. A pair of training swords. A medium-power comlink combined with a holoprojector. A dozen empty holodiscs. A pair of standard batteries for a lightsaber. A number of rare metals and standard components for constructing a saber. A spacious backpack. A small survival kit—nothing serious—just a couple of dry food briquettes, a water desalination device, a universal breathing apparatus, and a coil of strong rope.
"But about the armor, I need to clarify—what kind do you want?" Once again turning away from the screen, the quartermaster glanced at me meaningfully.
"Well, probably not too bulky, so it doesn't restrict movement. But in case of emergency, it should at least provide some protection—at least from blaster shots. What, are there options?"
"Oh yes. This, so to speak, product is not very popular with the Jedi, no. In fact, you're the first person to ask for it in the last twenty years. Although I have about seven thousand sets of various armor in stock," the Toydarian proudly announced.
"I'll leave the choice up to you," I replied diplomatically.
"You know," the storekeeper grunted, rubbing his chin and looking me over, "I have something interesting for you."
With a couple of keystrokes, he projected the image of unusual armor onto the screen. I had seen it somewhere before, but I couldn't remember where, for the life of me.
"Of course, it's not power armor, nor is it Mandalorian beskar'gam, but it's the best option for you."
"What kind of armor is it?" I asked.
"Oh, it's a pretty good replica of some ancient armor," the Toydarian said with a hint of smugness in his voice. "This armor was produced by a private company about seven hundred years ago for the army of one of the planets. I don't know exactly what happened there, but some of the armor ended up with us as a trophy. In general, this model was quite popular at one time. The helmet was redesigned to be more comfortable than the original. I have about a dozen of them in storage. The helmets are easier—your brothers don't use them, so they're still in their factory packaging. Back then, they knew how to make quality stuff, yeah..."
The storekeeper respectfully drew out the last sound, then searched thoughtfully for something on the monitor, clearly moving the cursor.
"What else is there... ah! So, the armor plates are durasteel with a cortosis coating, but only the chest plates and gauntlets. The lining is made of fabric armor—a very common material capable of dissipating several not-too-strong blaster hits and reflecting a couple of lightsaber strikes, you know. The design is tailored specifically for humanoids and does not restrict movement, even with all your jumping and acrobatics. The armor has a built-in medium-range comlink and a deck, somewhere on the arms—you'll have to look for it. There is also a compact shield generator, but this model is about three hundred years out of date: it only provides protection against energy weapons, and its operating time is limited to thirty seconds. After that, it takes at least half an hour to recharge the storage cells. Although you need to check them too—you may have to replace them."
The quartermaster finished his monologue and looked at me expectantly.
Hmm, I pursed my lips. Although this armor wasn't so bad.
"No, don't think that!" my interlocutor understood my expression in his own way. "I have newer things, but they won't suit you Jedi very well. After the first training session, you'll come back to exchange them or sit down to rework them. The ergonomics of the elements are wrong: either the joints are too tight, or you can't raise your arms because of the plates. Believe old Rolf: how wouldn't I know what kind of plugs your training droids have with degrees of freedom in their limbs? By the time you find a suitable set of hinges, you'll have sweated buckets. And specifically for itself, the Temple hasn't ordered armor anywhere for a thousand years."
"Okay, I think I'll take it. Am I an idiot to refuse protection, even if it's like this?"
"I hope it helps you, Knight..."