It should be said that the purpose of visiting the Archives was originally entirely different.
The Temple, like any other social structure, teemed with rumors. There was nothing supernatural about it—Jedi are sentients too; it's in their nature to discuss internal and external affairs.
Including the Council's decisions.
My recovery was approaching, and therefore so was my departure for the front.
Faerost under a GAR siege. The battle on the moon of Thune. The Battle of Atraken… The war was expanding its reach. The mechanism of sentient destruction was picking up speed.
Even though the rumors didn't assign me a precise posting—rear lines or front—I still leaned toward the idea that I would have to learn the hardships of war firsthand. Most of those who survived Geonosis went to the front; I was no better. Not an exception even once.
I had a choice: act like a typical Jedi of this era and gain command experience through losses and failures, or adopt the wisdom of the saying, "A fool learns from his own mistakes, a smart man learns from others'."
I chose the latter.
This galaxy has seen more war than peace. Not always on a global scale, but conflicts in the Heavenly River are an inseparable part of existence.
So it would be simply stupid not to take advantage of the information on the tactical and strategic moves used by commanders, Jedi, and Sith in the past.
And there was no more accurate and complete (though after Dooku's manipulations, I would question that "complete" part) repository of data than the Temple Archives.
Like any Jedi, I could use the information stored here to my heart's content at any available time. But like everyone else, I had no right to take data storage out of here. At most, I could copy what I needed onto a holo-disc.
At an even pace (Jedi don't hurry), I walked through the third of the Archives' four halls to the terminal farthest from the entrance. Two dozen bronzium busts of the Lost Twenty—the last of them being the notorious Dooku—looked down at me.
Officially, the Order claimed only twenty Jedi Masters had voluntarily left their ranks. But even my very superficial knowledge was enough to doubt the truth of that statement. In any case, I hadn't come here to engage in demagoguery about the Order's path.
Settling in at the terminal, I started entering keywords into the search bar one by one. The Mandalorian Wars. Revanchists. The Old Sith Wars. The New Sith Wars. Dreadnoughts. Battleships. Space and ground combat tactics…
Thousands and thousands of pages of Aurebesh text…
There was no doubt I had no intention of reading it all right now. After skimming the key parts of each article, I discarded the unnecessary ones and decided to save the rest. Sliding one of the holo-discs into the receiver, I selected the articles and essays that appeared and queued them for copying.
As for myself, I decided to kill the time working on the Holonet.
Strangely enough, there was huge demand in the galaxy for Jedi lightsaber crystals. The price for ordinary Adegan crystals could reach several tens of thousands of credits. Estimating how many I had, I realized I could become obscenely rich. And if I considered how many ownerless, unwanted ones were lying around in the storeroom…
Stop. It can't really be that simple, can it? If even the simplest crystals sell for more than pocket change, why hasn't Gri sold them off by now? He's a Jedi fence. It can't be for no reason that he decided to help me with the ship—he was clearly pursuing his own interest. He can tell me all he wants that he "just wanted to help," but later he'll surely ask for some kind of favor.
Still, that didn't change the fact that with crystals worth a couple dozen million in his domain, he hadn't tried to cash in on them… Sure, he can't just "move" them all at once—who the hell needs hundreds of crystals—but by selling them little by little, he could live quite comfortably.
Of course, trading common crystals couldn't bring fabulous profits. On the market, just like among the Jedi, only the rarest crystals were truly valued.
For example, for a "Rainbow Gem," one anonymous buyer was willing to pay up to fifty MILLION credits.
Another offered a small planet in the Outer Rim in exchange for a crystal from the planet Eray.
There were also offers of favorable trades. A handful of Hurrikaine crystals promised its owner half of a profitable business on Mustafar…
Sellers and buyers operated on anonymous trading platforms that charged a certain percentage of the deal. The platform acted as an intermediary between seller and buyer, taking from one and delivering to the other. Client confidentiality, full legal and security support for transactions. No risk. The platform assumed full responsibility for the cargo or money delivered to the client. And as the advertisement assured, there were no dissatisfied customers.
Well. Very tempting.
Driven by greed, I took about a dozen plain crystals out of my cloak pocket and scanned them one by one on the portable device built into the terminal.
Then I created an anonymous seller account and added the scan files of the crystals to the goods registry…
"Do you require my assistance, Knight…?" A tall woman approached me—slightly wrinkled, but proud and unbending as a pole: Jocasta Nu.
The Temple's chief archivist. Keeper of all Jedi knowledge. And a lady who was quite easy to like.
If not for the fact that she crept up like a cat.
Thank the Force, she came from the opposite end of the table and couldn't see what I was doing.
"Knight Rik Dougan," I introduced myself, rising from the chair. "Forgive my discourtesy—I didn't notice your presence."
"I only just arrived," the archivist smiled. "I was passing by and couldn't help noticing your perplexed expression, Knight Dougan. I haven't seen you in the Temple before," she added meaningfully.
I had to explain.
"I spent a long time with my former Master, Abhira, in the Unknown Regions. I only arrived at the Temple shortly before Geonosis and became a Knight then. That's why my perplexed face is unfamiliar to you."
I allowed myself a smile, showing that my last words were a joke. Jocasta's gaze warmed by a couple of degrees.
"Well then, Master Abhira was a good friend of mine," she said. "His death is a grievous loss to the Order."
"Without a doubt," I nodded. "It hurts me too. Like some part of me was torn out by the roots."
Strangely, lying came just as easily to me as telling the truth. Not a single muscle in my body twitched as I said those words, even though memories of the torture the Zabrak put me through were swirling in my head. And there was no happier moment than the minute Valkorion turned him inside out.
But the archivist didn't need to know that. That was precisely why, with a clear conscience, I masked the hatred and contempt raging in me for my former mentor behind an aura of goodwill and Light. A little Sith spell Valkorion had shown Dougan…
"Perhaps then I can help you," the old woman offered. "From the looks of it, you're in a hopeless dead end."
"The thing is…" On the table in front of the terminal lay a scattering of crystals I had scanned but hadn't put away yet. While Jocasta and I stood on opposite sides of the terminal, she couldn't see them. Nor could she see that the screen displayed a trading platform for selling those very crystals. "I'm downloading information on wars of the past. I want to arm myself with the experience of my predecessors so I can act more effectively."
"Well," the archivist stroked her chin. "Since the start of the war, you are not the first Jedi to come to the Archives for that. But not all, not all… Here my help certainly won't be needed," she smiled. "Still, I will offer you advice. Pay attention to the New Sith Wars. Those were the last military actions of Jedi generals. One of the Order's most majestic histories."
"Thank you for the guidance, Master Nu," I bowed again. Then inspiration struck me. "Master Nu, could you help me with one matter?"
"For the former Padawan of my friend Abhira," Jocasta smiled. "I will help. And not with just one. What has happened, Rik?"
Choosing my words carefully, I continued:
"I have an old navigation computer. It contains information on the location of a planet I need. But the galactic coordinates are outdated. If I update the computer's database, that information will disappear."
"So that's how it is…" The archivist looked at me thoughtfully. "Is this planet truly absent from the modern database? Even in the Archives?"
"It's a very small planet," I improvised on the fly. "Far out in the Unknown Regions, and it doesn't have any useful minerals. So almost nothing is known about it now. But before I leave for the war, I would like to visit that world… again."
Jocasta looked at me with narrowed eyes.
"And the reason for your pull toward that planet—you will not tell me, of course, Knight Dougan?"
"Why wouldn't I?" I asked with theatrical surprise. "On that planet lies my past."
The Jedi woman nodded with understanding.
"You are seeking a path home," she said firmly. "But is your navicomp truly so old that you must account for errors from stellar drift?"
"The planet's coordinates vanished together with Master Abhira," I lied again. In reality, I had destroyed the navicomputer on the ship I returned to the Order in. Lightning—well, lightning does that. "So the only chance to find the planet is a computer from an ancient ship—more than a thousand years old."
"I understand," the old woman nodded. I didn't dissuade her from what she'd imagined for herself. Why would I? "Use the Bureau of Hyperspace Lanes algorithm for coordinate calculation prior to the Great Resynchronization," she advised. "It is quite accurate. Your computer is evidently very old, since such an algorithm is not installed in it. If my memory serves, they've been installing that algorithm on ships for three thousand years now…"
"Thank you, Master," I bowed once more. Satisfied with herself, the archivist left without another word.
No, I felt no pangs of conscience for deceiving the archivist. Not the slightest.
The moment Jocasta's back disappeared from view, I returned to the terminal. With a light motion of my hand, I swept the crystals into my pocket and focused on the monitor.
The algorithm I needed really was in the Archives. Created a little over four thousand years ago by some Corellian scientific outfit, it was transferred to the Bureau of Hyperspace Lanes—a Republic agency responsible for preserving old and developing new hyperspace routes in the galaxy. And the Order, as usual, had acquired a copy.
I copied the algorithm that interested me. There was still a gap in my plan to find Yavin: to update the coordinates in the navigation computer, an astromech droid was required. Because independent updates to navicomp databases were strictly forbidden by the manufacturer. I needed to acquire a little bucket on wheels.
Since the keyword-based information was still copying, I returned to browsing the trading platforms.
As it turned out, my anonymous profile had already received half a dozen messages.
I rejected the first two offers immediately—obvious, blatant advertising for intermediary services.
The third was too cheap: 100 credits per crystal.
The fourth was already acceptable: 8,000 per crystal. But only with supporting documentation from specialists—purity, origin of the crystals, and so on.
The fifth offer was to trade a couple crystals for a shipment of spice. No, thanks.
Only the last buyer raised the fewest objections.
The price I had listed—11,000 credits per crystal—was fine with him. But individual crystals didn't interest him; the client wanted all ten of the crystals I had put up for sale. Payment: a credit chip for 100,000 credits. Another 10,000 would go to the platform owners for intermediary services.
Well. 100,000 credits was a very solid sum. Many in the galaxy don't see that much in a year. And I'd been here less than a month, and that kind of money could already be mine.
I replied that I agreed. The buyer was currently offline. So I cleared the terminal's history and went back to my quarters.
***
I won't describe the deal itself in detail.
The platform sent a courier droid, onto which I loaded my crystals. A couple hours passed, and the droid delivered several credit chips to me.
Neither the movement of the money nor its owner could be traced. A perfectly crystal-clear deal.
Eleven chips, each with 10,000 credits. I left one of them in the droid as payment for the company's services, and the mechanical courier vanished.
We conducted the deal in one of the watering holes on the lower levels. Just a man who came to drink, and a mail droid flew to him twice. Nothing strange.
Also, now I had a partner.
After getting my money and sending the droid off with a tip, I was about to leave the establishment when I noticed a clumsy, barrel-shaped automaton on wheels, very much like R2-D2 on Jabba the Hutt's barge. Outfitted with drink trays, the droid rolled among the few patrons, occasionally returning to its owner—the Toydarian bartender—for another dose of scolding and alcohol. Hearing the bartender jab at the astromech yet again, I couldn't take it anymore.
"Sentient," I gestured for the bartender to come closer. When a relative of Watto drifted over with a suspicious look on his face and a miniature blaster in his hand, I pointed at the droid.
"Why do you need it? That's an astromech."
"Mmmm… why do you ask? My droid," the bartender said in that distinct Watto-like tone. "I do what I want."
"Is it okay?" I asked, pointing to how the droid had started spinning its "head" in a dazed way. One of the customers—a heavyset Twi'lek—carelessly shoved the droid, and it wobbled with a squeal and, the next moment, rolled behind the counter.
"Completely," the bartender snapped. "So what did you want?"
"What's your name?" I smiled.
"Siun Tarr," the Toydarian said, squinting his little eyes even more.
"Rik Dougan, farmer from Dantooine," I introduced myself. "How about selling me your droid?"
"He's almost new, Rik." Greed glittered in his eyes. "For one like that they offer fifteen thousand…"
"For a new one," I corrected. "Three, and not a credit more."
"Highway robbery," Siun groaned. "Seven…"
Estimating how much I'd have to pay for a new astromech—ten thousand, not fifteen—I decided to buy this little droid, smeared with soot, dirt, and paint the color of a child's unfortunate surprise.
The Force usually doesn't extend to machinery, but something in me insisted that this little guy was worth the money.
Tarr took five thousand, and quickly relieved the R3 of its extra cargo. After a short procedure transferring the droid's ownership, the Toydarian, with a nasty little smile, wished me and my new acquisition a good trip.
I understood the droid wasn't worth the money—at minimum it needed a serious hull repair. But I didn't argue with the Force.
Rolling gloomily and silently, like a prisoner headed for execution, the droid moved to my right at a short distance.
And, apparently, it wasn't particularly enthusiastic.
I headed to the taxi stand, from where I needed to get to the port dock where Kodos Pike and his guys had moved my corvette. For three thousand credits, Pike carried out diagnostic repairs and "spruced up" the ship. Another thousand I paid to have port droids scrape the old, peeling, rusty paint from the hull. And although blue was mostly used on CIS ships, I ordered my ship coated in the same color. Not fully—only in the places where the rust paint had been.
The ship was listed in all the necessary Republic registries as belonging to a private individual, Rik Dougan. Gri had wisely avoided advertising my ties to the Order. Had he done otherwise, Temple Security would have started asking unwanted questions.
So, after losing ten thousand credits in an evening—plus another nine; I spent the last thousand buying food for the ship—I was still pleased with myself. In less than half a month, I had managed to get on my feet in this universe, had my own ship, a droid…
"R3," I addressed my partner. "Are you familiar with Corellian Defender-class corvettes?"
An affirmative chirp. How strange. I didn't know I understood Binary.
"My ship is exactly that class. Its navigation computer is old, but all the information on it needs to be updated using the Bureau of Hyperspace Lanes algorithm for coordinate calculation prior to the Great Resynchronization," I showed the droid the disc with that algorithm. "Can you handle it?"
Another affirmative chirp. Like a slave agreeing that his master is sending him into gladiatorial combat.
"You're the best, buddy," I praised the bucket-droid. "We'll hop to one planet, and we'll fix up your sorry state," I tapped the dents on its hull with my knuckles.
An indignant exclamation.
"Of course I'll take care of you," I smirked. "You're my battle buddy now."
An anxious series of chirps.
"No, pal, I'm not a mercenary," as I walked, I threw open the edges of my cloak and showed the lightsaber on my belt. "Just shh—don't tell anyone."
Surprised beeping.
"That's right, buddy. Jedi. And while we're getting to the ship, would you like to tell me what happened to you?"
The robo-taxi I had caught a minute earlier took a course for the spaceport.
At first reluctantly, then faster, the droid began to beep and chirp, telling me about its difficult path.
R3-T7 was born at an Industrial Automata factory in Rordis City on Nubia. Created as a replacement for the well-proven R2 series, the new model and its siblings were designed to serve on large trade and military ships. My little guy managed to serve aboard a Republic patrol ship. Then fate placed him in the hands of a young and ambitious senator, with whom he spent quite a long time. The company had hoped the R3 series would become even more popular than its predecessor. A bodyguard and companion for the senator, the droid ended up among the property of a corrupt official who was expelled from the Senate in disgrace.
The droid obediently awaited his fate until he was sold for practically nothing to a dealer from the Uskru entertainment district. The buyer turned out not entirely clean-handed, using the droid as a courier. I smirked, recalling the mail droid and the crystal deal.
The droid got caught in a firefight and took a point-blank blaster hit. A not-quite-successful repair led to periodic sparks coming from R3's hull, and also to the loss of access to the AI's short-term and long-term memory. As a result, the droid often forgot everything and wandered aimlessly through the streets and alleys of its level.
Because of this, the dealer first tried to sell it, but no one wanted a memory-loss droid. So one day the dealer simply stopped looking for it, and it ended up at that very dive in search of a charging port. And it remained with the Toydarian, who, as it turned out, did manage to patch the droid up somehow—but the robot still needed a dealership repair, not a hack job.
The corvette met us with the coolness of recirculated air and the soft hum of warmed engines.
"Where did you find that filthy little thing?" Pike said with a laugh, pointing at my droid. "It's about to fall apart."
"Oh, come on," I smirked. "This droid is a lot tougher than it looks. Is the ship ready to fly?" I changed the subject.
"Of course. All systems are operational. Though if you ask me, you should go to the Corellians for modernization."
"I'll keep it in mind," I promised.
"There's a bunch of old junk in the hold and storage," Pike scratched behind his ear. "We didn't go in there, like you asked. Otherwise, it's honestly surprising this tin can even flies."
"Not much to look at, but she's got it where it counts," I quoted a smuggler from the trailers. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," the foreman scratched the back of his head again. "We should settle up…"
Smirking, I handed him a chip with his payment, and then the foreman and his workers left my ship.
"R3," I addressed the droid. "Inspect the bridge and update the navigation computer."
An affirmative chirp.
"And I'll take a look around," the thought slipped out loud.
Besides modernization, the ship needed a deep cleaning. Dust, trash, machine and droid parts, grime accumulated over centuries. All of it had to go.
I crawled over the ship from top to bottom, making sure the supplies had indeed been purchased and delivered aboard.
My things from the Temple storerooms were in the captain's quarters, carefully stacked near the entrance. I quickly checked them, making sure absolutely everything had been delivered. Then I continued my inspection.
In reality, the ship hardly differed from what I remembered in the game. Except in small details. For example, there was, in fact, a galley onboard. An unremarkable door next to the common room, behind which the game had no extra compartment, turned out to be a small galley with outdated food storage and preparation equipment. Nonfunctional. Sighing, I realized the whole mission to Yavin 4 would have me eating the dry rations I'd bought in bulk.
A door marked "Escape Pod" led to the crew compartment—a small section designed for four to five people, with a pair of bunk beds, lockers, and footlockers corresponding to crew members. And the escape pod itself was right there, through the wall from the bunks, which was very sensible: in an emergency, the crew could grab personal items and evacuate almost instantly.
To the right of the crew compartment entrance was a small corridor leading to the captain's quarters. There was a second door there too, leading to a separate fresher with showers. Nothing extraordinary—two closed shower stalls, two closed toilets. Strict functionality.
In the captain's quarters, besides a luxurious bed, a personal locker with the previous owner's everyday clothing sealed in special vacuum plastic containers—which I didn't bother focusing on—and a couple of bronzium Jedi statues, I found the items I'd ordered from the storerooms. After giving them a quick look, I confirmed everything was in place.
During my previous appearance aboard, I had visited the armory. It was there, in the central cabinet, that I found Thexan's saber… In the footlockers I now found numerous parts and repair kits for armor—fragments of fabric armor, armor plates, wires, microchips…
Now, looking around more thoroughly, I whistled in surprise as I discovered what was inside the other four wall cabinets, separated by ship bulkheads.
The cabinets were stuffed with armor. A good dozen sets in each.
Seeing the examples before me, I whistled in admiration.
The armor I had picked up in the Temple could hardly compare in legendary status to the specimens I was now looking at.
Packed in airtight containers no more than ten centimeters thick, with a transparent front, the sets stood before me like museum exhibits—polished and gleaming. Mounted in the ends of the cabinets, the containers slid out on rails, after which they could be removed.
Armor I knew well from SWTOR trailers: Jedi Knight armor, Sith Warrior armor, Republic Commando armor. Two or three variants of Mandalorian armor from the time of the Great Galactic War… I had seen all of it while playing SWTOR, and some of it I had even worn on my own character, playing one class or another.
And after that came armor I had only ever seen in cinematic trailers about the Eternal Empire…
Zakuulan Knight armor. Sets in yellow, white, black, silver… like cards of one rank in different suits, they stood out from the rest of the collection in their uniformity.
As far as I knew, the Knights were a Force-sensitive warrior caste of the Eternal Empire, sworn to Valkorion. In the trailers they used lightsaber pikes with blue blades (most likely the ones I had seen in the small storage) and shields—at least one was in the stand with the yellow Knight armor.
Scion armor. I knew little about those guys. Only that in the Zakuulan Empire they served the same role that the Prophets did under Palpatine.
Nathema Zealot armor. Looking at it, I remembered a clip about the Emperor's daughter, Vaylin, who was raised by a group of Nathema zealots—some kind of religious order within the Zakuulan Empire. I don't remember the details, but the armor looked perfect.
And other, unfamiliar sets, which I vaguely remembered from the game, but didn't risk naming.
About fifty armor sets… The owner of this ship had been one hell of a collector and trophy hoarder.
Strangely, I found no holocrons or Force artifacts of either side, besides the crystals and the weaponry. But I was quite surprised to discover that the informational crystal bay in the holoterminal room—shimmering with a blue glow—contained a lot of data copied from the Jedi Archives. Force techniques, hyperspace routes, texts of ancient Jedi… Plenty of bedtime reading.
Going down to the engineering deck, I looked into the engine bay, where a pair of powerful Corellian engines rumbled steadily around a mid-sized reactor alongside a class-two hyperdrive. In the game, this was where you could find the droid T7.
To the left of engineering was the medbay. One bunk, wall terminals. If only it had a small bacta tank, it would be perfect.
Opposite the medcenter was the main cargo hold, where I found a workbench for armor and weapons. Many containers along the perimeter looked more modern—those were the ones I'd bought. But the bulk of it was still a greeting from the past, which I still had to sort out. In the far wall of the hold, there was a separate cargo door to bring freight directly into the hold instead of through the main hatch.
As I was leaving the hold, I noticed a locked armored door next to the stairs. On the ship's plan it led to a small service compartment, but the mechanism refused to unlock it, citing a fault in the internal power circuit. Looks like someone once locked a nonfunctional door, and since then the closet hadn't seen the light of day.
That ended my tour of the ship. In broad strokes, I was satisfied with my choice. With an astromech aboard, flying the ship came down to simply selecting a route on a holographic map…
Over the intercom came a Binary call to return to the bridge.
Smiling, I climbed into the cockpit, where my R3, plugged into the instruments, trilled in beeps and whistles.
"Very good that you finished, pal," I praised the droid. "All right. Let's see what we've got here."
If after finding Thexan's saber I had only begun to suspect who it once belonged to, then after reviewing the holomap and the navigation database entries, I only confirmed my guess about the Defender's previous owner.
Tython, Coruscant, Ord Mantell, Taris, Nar Shaddaa, a Czerka Corporation station, Tatooine, Alderaan, Afraids, Balmorra, Quesh, Corellia, Dromund Kaas, Ziost, Rishi, Yavin 4, Zakuul, Ezailum, Odessen, Voss, Nathema, Iokath… Hundreds of coordinates for space stations not marked on official navigation charts, secret hyperspace lanes.
My certainty grew with each new planet I marked in the navigation computer. Of course, in the First and Second Great Galactic Wars and the Cold War, hundreds and thousands of Jedi took part and could have visited these worlds—but I knew only one person who had been to most of them.
The Hero of Tython. Jedi. General. Hutt-slayer. The one who shamed the Dread Masters. Revan's conqueror. Vitiate's longtime foe—his killer.
Whatever the Force had planned, it definitely had a sense of humor.
R3's cautious whistle interrupted my thoughts.
"Yeah, pal, you did great. Updated everything correctly."
Seemed pointless to praise a droid, didn't it?
But still. It's like a little kid—the more you praise it, the more devoted it becomes.
An affirmative chirp.
"Plot a course for Yavin 4," I ordered. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."