Rumors that I had defeated Cat's gang spread through the neighboring streets literally overnight. And as is typical for rumors, they were exaggerated. Now, wandering through the entire lower city had become a normal part of my life. I had made friends from adjacent streets—all foundlings of the gangs, just like a significant portion of the children in this part of the city.
At first, it was difficult to find people to talk to, but we bonded over ships. Most of the kids in this area were completely obsessed with space travel and starships.
Together, we navigated the roofs of the dreary concrete buildings to sneak into the closed territory of the spaceport and gawk at the vessels.
They truly were impressive. When you watch them on a video screen, they look interesting, of course, but nothing breathtaking. In person, however, the emotions are completely different.
I will probably remember the sheer awe of my first sighting for the rest of my life, catching the liftoff of a cargo freighter, all scorch marks and metal patches, but nevertheless awe-inspiring.
The massive ship, fifty meters long and fifteen wide, dark brown in color, with five imposing weapon emplacements for defense against pirates. Or perhaps for seizing weaker vessels.
It reminded me of the pirate ships from my distant childhood, with a reckless crew of daredevils who would drink away every last coin before heading out on another dangerous adventure.
The guys and I climbed as high as possible and watched the metal monster ascend. It seemed like an old, yet still powerful, beast climbing out of its den for a final journey.
Once a week, we would always run to see new ships. Sometimes, in the spaceport located in the lower city, as the inhabitants of the upper districts called our slum-like neighborhoods, you could see ships belonging to Mandalorians or other mercenaries.
They were formidable, inspiring an involuntary respect for their owners. They were different from the sleek, exquisite yachts that the wealthy residents of the upper city traveled on—beautiful, certainly, but so useless, and never touching the filth and stench of the lower city.
It was a shame I had so little time; otherwise, I would have sat in the spaceport all day, maybe even latching onto the mechanics. But alas, I had duties.
I was growing up, and with that, the range of my responsibilities within the gang expanded. From a simple errand boy, I was turning into a recruit for our criminal syndicate, the Shadow Front.
My mother wasn't pleased that I was getting entangled in all this. I realized now that she was better educated than her friends. And unlike them, she didn't live paycheck to paycheck. She aspired to leave this planet, or at least save up money to move to the upper city.
It greatly distressed her when I became increasingly involved in the gang's internal affairs. But this was my choice. I didn't know how realistic it was to ever leave this swamp, so I had to make my way here, in the criminal underworld of this planet.
Initially, it caused a certain rejection in me; in the back of my mind, I understood that what all these people were doing was a malicious violation of every law. If I had met them in my old world, I would have definitely called the police, after first beating them up so they couldn't escape.
Yes, I myself participated in illegal fights, but staking my life was one thing; murder and theft were entirely another. Later, I found out that our field of activity included prostitution and gambling establishments. But even so, murder was not uncommon. The galaxy far, far away no longer seemed like the bright, hopeful place it once did. Violence and injustice thrived here just as much as in my old world, if not more so.
But perhaps it's true that environment strongly influences personality development. What at first seemed wrong and immoral no longer caused me any real aversion. Maybe it was because, despite the criminality of their actions, these people, or rather, these sentients, treated me with warmth and care. As the Boss said about our operations:
"We don't force people to come to us. They do it themselves. But if anyone harms my people, let them prepare for retribution. I don't engage in skirmishes just for the sake of it; I value the lives of my people. It's better to resolve an issue peacefully than to expose them to enemy blasters."
Now, my duties included delivering messages from one establishment to another. For example, how much alcohol to order, where an influential person would be celebrating, where more girls were needed, and so on. I also had to transport small packages, the contents of which I was strictly forbidden to look at.
If there were no deliveries, I was handed over to the older boys to teach me how to ride speeders and use weapons.
I quickly got used to the local equivalent of motorcycles. The most unfamiliar thing was that they moved using anti-gravity repulsors and could reach insane speeds. But that was a matter of practice and habit. Adapting to the local weaponry, however, took more work.
Ah, blasters, that's a separate topic. I was completely shocked when I learned how those things fired. They are powered by a special high-energy gas canister, tibanna, which usually lasts for hundreds of shots. No battery. Not that I understand anything about physics, chemistry, or other sciences. But the fact that gas served as the ammunition took a long time to process in my head.
However, a more significant shock was the lack of recoil. Or rather, it wasn't completely absent, but it was negligible compared to terrestrial firearms. I had once managed to fire a pistol at a shooting range. I wasted two magazines, unable to get the hang of it, but here, by the fourth try, I was practically hitting the center of the target. It was a dream.
And you had to know how to shoot; it was absolutely vital. If the gangs arranged a territorial conflict only once a month, that was considered a quiet time.
There was one instance when all of us were hiding in the corridors beneath the brothel, waiting out yet another gang war. For an entire week, the explosions and gunfire didn't stop. But to my surprise, no one was concerned or alarmed. Life went on as usual.
One of the duties for children like me was to retrieve the choice scraps from the battlefield. Simply put, looting was rampant. Naturally, the next generation of other gangs was also engaging in it.
There was even an unspoken tradition among the gangs: after a fight, they would leave small trifles for the young crows, like us, to pick over. Small pouches of coins, spare parts, perforated armor that was easier to discard or convert into patches, and so forth.
There were unwritten rules here: no actual weapons, don't pursue anyone who had made it two blocks away, and groups could only ally with prior agreement from the seniors—gentlemen's agreements like that. Of course, minor transgressions were overlooked. But they tried to maintain some semblance of order so the younger generation wouldn't wipe itself out.
Most often, these events ended in a general melee. Whoever was left standing took everything. There were also those who tried to sneak away with a valuable piece under the commotion.
Naturally, there were accidents during these children's raids. One boy, running, picked up a discarded blaster and took off. He was moving so fast that he failed to clear an opening and hit the stone masonry with the pistol. The old, worn weapon couldn't take it and exploded. No one was hurt, but the risk of being accidentally killed was always present.
There was one time when not only small items but also a speederbike was left behind after a skirmish. And not just any speeder; it was a very fast and maneuverable piece of equipment. It was also very expensive; sell ten of these, and you could easily buy a starship—not the newest, but still a starship.
The winners of gang battles rarely left anything like that behind; they usually loaded up all the valuables onto speeders and left in a convoy to lick their wounds. But here, they either didn't have time, didn't want to, or didn't have the space. In any case, this machine was left for us to fight over.
And it was positioned so enticingly, in the most brightly lit spot. It was as if nature had mockingly highlighted only that patch of ground. Its white sides, practically unstained by dirt, glistened in the rays of the rising sun. The seat looked comfortable even from a distance, and the control panel beckoned for a ride.
Upon hearing about this, swarms of children from half the lower city converged. Every house, fence, and pipe was covered with dirty, scruffy urchins with shining greed in their eyes. A child's head peeked out from every hole in the walls and from behind every cracked window frame.
Initially, they tried to negotiate, something like organizing a tournament. But in the very first round, the losing side collectively attacked the winners; someone shoved someone else, and chaos erupted.
It turned into such a terrifying free-for-all. Luckily, my group wasn't involved, having taken an observation post on the roof of a two-story building, from which it was easy to jump onto another and then slide down a canopy onto the street.
While most of the teens and children were enthusiastically beating each other up, one quick-witted boy simply hopped on the speeder and tried to make a clean getaway. And he almost succeeded. Almost no one noticed. Those who tried to break away from the general brawl quickly got punched on the head and were knocked out.
But we saw everything. Descending, the seniors intercepted him on one of the turns, politely asking him to hand over the property to us. Thankfully, that fool crashed into a wall on his own; good thing he was going slow and didn't damage the machine. One against seven, he naturally agreed. Taking the valuable prize, we slowly returned to the base.
However, that little rat told his seniors that we had threatened him with a blaster and he had no choice. It nearly led to a new clash. But somehow, the situation was resolved.
In Low-City, as the residents of the upper city condescendingly called us, these gangs were like vermin. Any group of thugs who took over some shack called themselves a gang. But there were four main powers.
The Red Moon Pirates: They primarily operated on nearby trade routes, actively collecting tribute for safe passage and destroying anyone who refused. Though not completely—they even helped some with repairs, taking, of course, exorbitant percentages.
The Republic's law enforcement tried to catch them a couple of times, but after getting beaten back, they decided to look the other way. An unidentifiable chip containing a large sum of Hutt dataries confirmed the head of space law enforcement, responsible for several nearby systems, in the correctness of this decision. As did the blaster held to his mistress's head, who was with him at his home. At least, that was the legend circulating through our gloomy streets.
The Chemists: The main supplier of all hallucinogens, illegal stimulants, and other drugs of all kinds. If rumors were to be believed, a significant portion of the wealthy youth squandered entire fortunes in this group's closed clubs. Mercenaries also didn't hesitate to buy chemical mixtures that temporarily improved endurance, strength, and speed.
Sometimes these drugs truly helped, but they were, as is logically assumed, addictive. The drugged fighters served as excellent shields, as did the mercenaries guarding the rich offspring of the upper city. Anyone who tried to raise a hand against the Chemists was ruthlessly eliminated.
The Headless Merrymaker: A recently formed group. This was more an assassin's guild than a common criminal gang; whatever the task, they always completed it. Their prices were astronomical, but their effectiveness was one hundred percent. Rumors circulated that even the murder of one of the Jedi on a neighboring planet was their doing. A secretive group; no one really knew anything, but the number of rumors was simply off the charts.
The Shadow Front (Us): All casinos, brothels, clubs, and bars were under our jurisdiction. The Boss, with an iron fist, crushed or absorbed his competitors. And for ten years now, the business has only grown stronger. Lately, there has been increasing talk of expanding the business beyond the planet. It's unclear where yet, but rumors multiply like rabbits.
All these factions maintained a fragile balance and didn't interfere in each other's affairs. A relative peace and quiet had reigned in Low-City for about two years now. Of course, there were smaller groups forming alliances, weaving intrigues, and merging into the ranks of the larger syndicates.
Walking through the night streets, amidst the grim metallic and concrete high-rise jumbles, illuminated by the bluish moonlight, one could find Chemists in toxic-colored armor walking past clubs blazing with neon madness. Pirates with red face tattoos singing songs and harassing loitering girls. Ordinary thugs scouting for a potential victim whose money they would spend tonight. Dark figures lurking in alleyways, furtively looking around before entering. The golden youth staging races on superbikes through the night city or emerging from gambling establishments, having just left behind a sum that could sustain three generations of ordinary people from Low-City. The sobs and cries of those who had gambled everything away, or those who couldn't get into the Chemists' establishments for a new fix. Muffled shouts from dark alleys that few would dare to enter alone. Streets piled high with rubbish being sifted through by the homeless. Tightly sealed doors of residential buildings and residents looking out cautiously. Many of them had a blaster barrel visible behind their backs.
There is a galactic code of laws, but here the laws of the concrete jungle, inhabited by various rabble and simply unlucky people, reigned supreme. It was at night that the lower city revealed itself in all its repulsive attractiveness. Some rich people flew in specifically from neighboring planets to immerse themselves in the vortex of vice this city offered.
My building was little different from the rest of Low-City. At night, it was ruled by lust and debauchery mixed with gambling. Quiet moans emanating from behind closed doors, languid glances cast by the girls at their favored clients. Mercenaries calculating their possibilities for the night. The loud clanging of mugs on tables, swearing mixed with declarations of eternal friendship ringing out on the first floor.
Oh, there goes one unfortunate client to sell his belongings to our fence so he can prolong his entertainment with a girl. And in the far, dark corner, a group of sentients is whispering with a waitress. A phrase reaches me:
"...Cards, money, two stv..."
They somehow know the code to enter our underground casino. Such details give these insignificant people a sense of their own importance. Imagine, they are now the chosen ones and can enter our closed club, where they will be stripped bare. Or perhaps fortune will smile, and they will be the lucky ones who win and then go tell others how easy it is to get money here, luring even more people into our nets.
I dodged the drunken swing of some burly guy; my senses were getting sharper every year. My daily, or rather, nightly, job as a delivery boy taught me to feel where a kick or a thrown bottle might come from. Sometimes, even in the heat of a brawl, I manage to emerge without injury. But my shift will end soon, and I need to go to the training ground.
Leaving the tray for my replacement, I duck into an inconspicuous door. Although it says "Staff Only," that's not the case. There is a secret bunker beneath every establishment, and only our people know about it, and not even all of them.
In these underground chambers, the Boss keeps some of his fighters, trains them, and develops plans. No one knows the exact strength of our group, but by my estimate, we have no less than three thousand well-trained soldiers and kriff knows how much other riff-raff.
That's right, soldiers. In the Boss's army, there is iron discipline and absolute loyalty. They are not just thugs; they are a brotherhood. Many of them grew up together and are ready to die for each other.
I was heading to training. Hand-to-hand combat, speeder riding, shooting, and everything else that could help in a fight on this planet. The youth were taught how to survive on the streets and how to defend themselves. Future commanders and the best fighters were being watched. Some, who had abilities, were taken under the wing of the financiers. An army capable of destroying any enemy lived and grew beneath Low-City.
My squad consisted of fifty boys and girls. Mostly children of former gang members. Towering over this buzzing host was the Old Man. No one knew his name. While calling our leader 'the Boss' was a common joke, there was nothing of the sort here. Only the Chief knew who he was and where he came from.
This individual arrived four years ago and requested an audience with the Boss. After that, he disappeared; now I know where. All this time, he had been preparing fighters for our group in similar underground facilities.
The Old Man was thin, but through his cloth cloak, a lean, strong, and not at all elderly body was visible. Powerful muscles and an iron will—that's the kind of man he was. He had prosthetics in place of a hand and a foot. Rumors circulated that he had a last-resort weapon hidden in them, but no one knew if it was true.
I was late; my squad was already groaning and puffing under the trainer's watchful eye. Our mentor merely nodded to me and continued the training.
"Faster! What are you dawdling for like pregnant flies! One, one, one!"
They all jumped up in unison and returned to the push-up position. No one whined; all the weaklings had been culled three months ago. They were transferred to other departments or simply hired as waiters and other minor staff. Only the most capable, the best, remained. At least, that's what was instilled in the children.
"Now, push the ground! Thirty times! Move, you Bantha fodder! Anyone who doesn't finish in forty seconds will have to run ten extra laps!"
I was lucky that working as a waiter in this place served as an excellent warm-up. Joining in, I started doing push-ups quickly. My body felt unusually light; energy was spreading through my limbs, making me stronger. Thank the Force, to which I turned out to be sensitive.
As I now knew, it was indeed the Force. The Boss had conducted closed tests that showed I had midi-chlorians in my blood. I don't know how many, but enough to strengthen my body, sense where an attack would come from, and sometimes even move objects.
A decent sum was being spent on developing my talent. Although, as the Chief later let slip to me, most of the things I received were passed on to me by inheritance. He had previously wanted to develop the Force himself, but his abilities were too weak.
I doubt they would let me leave the group now, even if I asked. And honestly, I didn't have that desire. The boundless possibilities and planets I could visit were frankly frightening and alluring at the same time. Although, I think it's still too early to look that far ahead. The main thing now is to grow up to at least fifteen, and then we'll see.
The Force rolls through my body like a wave, bringing a sense of freshness and allowing me to do a few more repetitions.
"Set, I see this is too easy for you. Hey, Marcus! Bring a twenty-kilogram weight. Your comrade is living too well. Faster, you Sarlacc burp!"
The old coot! I nearly howled when the weights were fastened to my legs and waist. But through sheer stubbornness and anger, I managed to do a few more repetitions.
Running, pull-ups, one-on-one duels, and again and again and again. It was clear from their eyes that almost everyone was at their limit, but they kept going out of stubbornness, out of anger, out of a desire to become better. I was the same; those emotions seemed to give me even more strength.
Faster, stronger, better… I am the best!
After training, when everyone else went to shower, I had to spend another half an hour training with a droid sphere that shot weak blasts at me. At first, I thought I had seen it somewhere before. After thoroughly digging through my memory, I recalled something similar in one of the films.
In fact, my memory was something very strange. I practically didn't remember anything from my previous life. Just separate fragments, images, but nothing whole. Maybe my brain was simply discarding everything old because there was too much new information? I don't know, and honestly, I'm not very interested. I'm alive, and that's what matters. I need to focus on the here and now.
The constant cycle of work, training, and youthful mischief was interrupted by my time with my mother.
Her warm hands and soft eyes soothed me. We could sit for entire evenings reading to each other or playing board games. I think she knew every card game in the galaxy.
She was the one who taught me to read and write, as well as addition and subtraction. Sometimes she would bring a datapad and show me how to use it. She never scolded me for my mistakes, only looked at me sadly and told me to try again until I succeeded.
One evening, she told me how we would soon be moving to another planet. I would start going to school like all normal children. She would get a job. We would live in a bright apartment, and flowers would grow next to our windows. How she would watch me grow from a boy into a man and become a worthy member of society.
She spoke a lot more, but exhausted after the long day, I fell asleep without hearing the end.