We didn't stay on Tatooine for long. The hunt looked primitive and simple. Splitting into pairs, the Mandalorians flew off in different directions, leaving me alone. Inquiring with the locals, I found out there were no Krayt dragons nearby; hunters had exterminated them long ago, but Tuskens, on the contrary, were present—but not for long.
Essentially, it was just a cleanup. Flew in quickly, shot everyone, and moved on. Do I feel sorry for the Tuskens? No. They might have been a decent people once, I don't know, but now they are cruel wild tribes you can't reason with. You can't trade with them; they know no mercy. Derick even provided me with a separate report regarding the damage caused by Tuskens. I vaguely remember the canon, but I recall some hero wiped out a settlement for them? Well, he did the right thing. Tuskens are quite the sadists, and they like to eat, no matter who. So let's act according to the Jedi precept—eliminate the probable threat before it becomes a real one!
And then—I was sent a price list of what the company on Kessel can provide, and at what prices. And the prices were in two columns. In the first, the original ones, and in the second, at a discount. The quantity was impressive; we simply, physically, have nowhere to put so much, unless we resell it.
The only thing is, I needed a license to purchase them, at least for half of them. What are called—goods not for free sale. I had to call Talia.
"Yes, Chief?" the cheerful Twi'lek responded.
"Talia, hello. Have you found yourself assistants yet?"
"Not yet."
"Bad. Very bad. Because I want to dump some more urgent work on you. And priority at that."
"Oh..." the poor girl's face fell.
"I'll send you a list of drugs. You need to get a license for their purchase, sale, and use."
"Medicines? And such serious ones... Is this somehow related to spice?"
"Yes."
"Then it will be difficult; there's strict control over drugs there," the Twi'lek tapped her lip with her finger.
"That's why everyone trades it," I smirked.
"And gets paid off," Talia finished. "I'll talk to my mother."
"Do it. If anything, contact Ordo; let him issue funds to speed up the process; I don't intend to lose months in this bureaucratic machine."
"Chief, may I object?"
"Go ahead."
"It's not my business, and I don't know how much funds you have, but if we always speed up such things with money... isn't that too wasteful? Especially since the company hasn't started earning yet."
"Do you have an alternative proposal?"
"Well... I have a friend; we studied together. He has an uncle. He works in the Judicial Department. We could help him climb higher, and he could help us resolve some legal issues."
"A good proposal, Talia; I'll think about it. But for now—resolve the issue with money."
"Okay. Chief, one more question."
"I'm listening."
"Do you really need this? Maybe to hell with it, with this Republic?"
"What do you mean?"
"Tatooine isn't part of the Republic, after all."
"Eh..." I truly froze. Blinked a couple of times and clarified: "Seriously?"
"Do you have your own representative in the Republic?"
"No..."
"Well there you go."
"Wait-wait. Sweetheart, how is that possible? Tatooine is on a good hyperroute; it was colonized long ago; moreover, when the Czerka Corporation was on the planet, the planet had its own representative in the Senate!"
"That's true, but that was in the past. De jure, Tatooine is classified as 'Te'—planets recognized as dead, useless, and so on; it's a long list, I won't go into details. When Czerka collapsed, the contract remained with the Corellian Engineering Corporation, which was in no hurry to do anything about it. The planet became a drain on the Republican budget, so it was recognized as unfit and excluded from the Republic. The entire sector followed Tatooine out of the Republic. So it turned out that Corellia had rights to a useless system, with a useless planet, which is excluded from the Republic. Since the system maintained the formal status of an independent world, they couldn't attach it anywhere. So it turned out that in the middle of the Republican colonies of the Outer Rim, a system remained hanging that no one needed."
"F*ck, I really hit the jackpot with the system," I whispered to myself.
"There. And since the system doesn't belong to the Republic, I don't understand why you need all these permissions? The tax office is one thing; you intend to trade with Republic worlds, and there are duties, fees, embargoes, and other joys. But permissions... why???"
"..."
"Chief?"
"..."
"Chief, are you alright?" the Twi'lek worried, looking at my expression.
"Yes... Everything's fine. Talia, Sweetheart, Honey, My young treasure, tell me please, where were you before?"
"Studying," she blinked her eyes.
"And where were you studying?"
"At the Coruscant Institute named after Tarsus Valorum, in business law. But in view of some... circumstances, I have to go beyond the established framework."
"I see."
"Why?"
"Oh, just because. Tell me, if we start weapons production, will they fly in?"
"No. Unless it's a huge production."
"How huge?"
"Comparable to the Baktoid company, and they have a turnover in the billions."
"I see..." I sighed heavily. "But to trade with the central worlds, a license is needed, right?"
"Yes."
"Hm..."
"Should I still get it?"
"Mmm..." looking up at the ceiling, I calculated the plans. "Go ahead. Only without extra expenses; let the bureaucratic machine do its job."
"Okay."
"And one more thing, Sweetheart, tell me please. If I want to create a PMC, what will be required?"
"Nothing. Just do it. You'll just be forbidden from doing business on Republic worlds, that's all. That's why the permission needs to be obtained. And also—it's not worth making the armed forces too large; the Judicial Department reacts very nervously to serious and at the same time uncontrolled armed forces."
"Serious, like what?"
"A couple of hundred thousand, plus a fleet—and they'll come to you with questions. Though, they'll come to you anyway if," the girl smirked, "you make Tatooine a serious planet with good economic potential. No one likes upstarts, especially in the Outer Rim."
"I'll keep that in mind. Tell me, do ships necessarily have to comply with Republican specifications?"
"Yes, if you want them to move freely through the Republic worlds."
"Got it. Thanks, Sweetheart."
"Why 'Sweetheart'?!"
"Because you're precious and beskar-less. And give your mother my regards and a low bow for such a specialist."
The Twi'lek blushed and nodded.
"Uh-huh."
"Talk soon."
"Talk soon, Chief."
Disconnecting, I forwarded the letter with mechanical movements. What a... I am an i-di-ot. Just... no words. I want to take something heavy and hit my head harder. No, really, how could I have known?! I couldn't even assume that Tatooine wasn't part of the Republic. At the very least, its system belongs to someone; there's an awesome hyperroute here, but no! Here, in this desert world—I am on my own, a kind of miniature king. Yes, it's not worth being insolent, but damn it, what prospects are opening up! Oh, it takes my breath away.
Well, whatever. At least now life will become easier and more fun. Because besides the positive side, there is also a negative one in the form of those who like to provide protection. No wonder the Hutts were looking at Tatooine, and if everything is exactly like that, then I am more than sure—the time will come and they will decide to visit me. And here's the choice: either they'll move me, or they'll try to come to an agreement. To avoid being moved, you need to have teeth and a good foothold, and there we return to money, raw materials, and time. Out of the three points, there isn't a single one. Eh... Hadiya, how I miss you.
Enough self-flagellation; I need to get things done. What's on the plans? Ah, I need to fly to Concord Dawn and speak with the leader of Clan Stick. Ideally, I should show up right at Mandalore, but the company doesn't exist yet, and no one will take me seriously. I can't just barge in, after all.
I don't remember the flight to Concord Dawn. I had to analyze Derick's report, study Trik's summary of the surrounding market, coordinate shipments, decide something about the population and labor which seems to be there but there are few of them and no money for more, and... And... And... Horror. Horror!!!
"The Force is with me, I am one with the Force," I whispered the mantra, doing a breathing exercise, but at this rate, even that will stop working. Sweets are already sticking in my throat, and I haven't found a worthy replacement for "Sweet Joy," even if I sit down and open it myself. By the way, that's a thought! But later.
One thing was pleasing—the Trade Federation, which Derick decided to approach. Shipments were expected to be many, and they would be expensive, and the TF is in a position to provide transportation. Yes, a bit expensive, but they are also ready to pay a penalty in the full cost of the transported goods, plus add on top for the inconvenience provided. Everything for the client! And most importantly—no fuss or red tape; the traders have everything refined to the smallest detail.
I hardly appeared in the lounge, and the few breaks I devoted to meditation. Work is work, but training shouldn't be neglected. If only there were someone to train with—then it would be really good. Otherwise, I might just grow stiff. Funny, but only now did I think about the fact that the Force of two Force-sensitives, directed against each other to foresee a strike, mutually neutralizes. That's why it usually doesn't work to end a battle quickly and for that reason Mom often lost to Dad. His control and ability to foresee surpassed hers many times over.
Upon arrival on Concord Dawn, we encountered an unusual phenomenon. People were looking suspiciously at their identically painted brothers and wondering what sect they had already managed to join or what they had put together.
Before going to the meeting with the clan leader, Warren and I flew home. Since we were going to move to Tatooine completely in the near future, we needed to collect the few things that were there from the house. While I was packing, I told Mom the news. From the side, it looked like I was complaining, and that was close to the truth.
Putting her swords in a bag and hanging the mask on my belt, Warren and I moved some things to the ship and only after that, renting a car, flew to the neighboring town.
Clan Stick wasn't anything outstanding; by local standards, it was average. There were many examples richer and more representative. Nevertheless, Stick occupied not the last place, and working with them was easiest for me because of Warren and Nerra. At least they'll listen to me there.
Expecting to see a house, I miscalculated a bit, as an entire clan district opened up to me, about ten houses, with adjoining workshops, their own small factory, a shooting range, and a training ground. We were met here with a positive attitude, if not as family. Actually, Warren was one of their own here, and many here apparently know about me, though they treat me with suspicion.
We hadn't managed to get far from the craft before a man accompanied by a woman came out of the main house to meet us. A stern face, looking about fifty to fifty-five years old, dressed in good quality fabric. One could make a comparison with an aristocrat, if not for the lack of jewelry and the way he carried himself.
"Parents?" I glanced at Warren.
"The very ones."
Approaching the clan's masters, I gave the traditional Mandalorian greeting.
"Su cuy'gar, ad'ika Mand'alor. Ni gai Aero Shade. Tion gar gai?" (Hello children of Mandalore. My name is Shade Aero. What is your name?)
"Hello, Shade. My name is Raiden Stick, and this is my wife—Levella Stick. I am glad to welcome you to our home," the man mirrored the gesture, followed by his wife.
"Do you know why we flew here?"
"Warren said you wanted to make us a profitable proposal. Но he didn't specify exactly what kind."
"Yes. And it's not for outsiders' ears."
"There are no outsiders here," the woman shook her head. Although the lady was older, it didn't prevent her from keeping herself in good shape. It was noteworthy that, unlike her husband, who had almost no scars, she had an implant instead of her left eye, and her left cheek looked as if it were sewn from different parts of skin.
"I understand. But let's let you decide yourselves what and to whom to tell after clarifying all the... subtleties?" I insisted.
"Father," Warren interjected, adding weight to my words.
"Of course. Are you hungry?"
"No, Father. Better get straight to business."
"Then follow me."
While we walked to the house, I looked around. There were almost no people; everyone was busy with something. The workshop was clattering, and pleasant aromas of roast drifted from the largest house with open doors. As I understood it, in clan districts there are houses intended for gatherings of the entire clan. They feast in them, conduct some events, and just stop in for a snack.
"And why do you need a house in a neighboring city when everything is right here?" I glanced at Warren.
"The district is already built up; there isn't enough space, that's all."
"M..."
"Warren has told us a lot about you, Shade," the woman suddenly spoke. "Mostly only good things. And I remember you wanted to join our clan. Why did you change your mind?"
"I didn't say I changed my mind; there are just some circumstances. I'll tell you everything inside."
"Is it that serious?"
"Everything is very serious."
After this question, the conversation didn't flow. Probably no one just knew what could be asked and what couldn't, because I had already turned down two topics. I, mentally, was picking words for the dialogue.
Neither inside nor out did the clan leader's house differ in anything special. Just like everyone else's, just furnished to their own taste. Two-story, neat, with armored shutters, reinforced walls, and a stern door. When we sat down in the living room, I began the dialogue:
"To leave no understatements, I want to start from afar. It's no secret to you that I am a being from the distant past. Yes, it's hard to understand and even harder to accept, but nevertheless, it is so. Separately, I want to say thank you for the fact that no one knowing about this is spreading it; otherwise, problems could have arisen. I myself am originally from the Hadian Empire. It doesn't exist now, but when it did, the Mandalorians and the Empire were loyal allies. So I was able to quickly find a common language with you."
"And why are you saying this?"
"In order to clarify—I want to help the Mandalorians, and the desire is open. But the trouble is that Mandalore is in a tight grip. If I joined the clan, nothing would have come of it. As I realized, creating your own company is very simple. It's specifically you who aren't allowed to create and develop them; so to speak, Mandalore is blacklisted. Therefore, it was decided to help from the side. Currently, I am creating my own company; Warren and Nerra are helping me with this. You can ask them; they will confirm everything."
"There is no need; I believe you," Raiden shook his head. "My son asked in advance to wait and just believe. Now I understand."
"Returning to business, we have the opportunity to arrange for the purchase of high-quality medical drugs at good discounts."
"You want to act as a mediator..." the woman finished.
"Yes. Formally, according to the contract, you will swap one six for half a dozen. For example, the purchase price will not be a hundred, but ninety-nine credits; in your realities, that's also money. But in fact, you will be purchasing drugs at cost. We will just divert eyes and pretend that, like everyone else, we are profiting from your problems."
"Hm..."
"What do you say?"
"What are the volumes?"
"Very large."
"In that case, may I supplement your proposal?"
"Certainly."
"We could immediately buy a large batch, keep part for ourselves, and redirect the rest to Mandalore."
"You decide that yourselves; what does it have to do with me?"
"The fact that we don't have such funds in free form. And we could get into 'debt' to your firm and provide our people as payment. In this way, the serious underpayment to your accounts can be explained."
"A very interesting proposal," I nodded. "I'm all for it! But just a little bit later. At the moment, we simply don't have such a need, as my company is only just being built."
"When can shipments be expected?"
"I'll send a letter; it has the prices and quantity. Once you make the list, just forward it to me with the address where it needs to be delivered; I'll arrange everything."
"Good."
"One more thing, Raiden. I am nobody to the Mandalorians and my name is nothing. Especially on Mandalore. Но in the future, I will need help."
"What kind of help?"
"When shipments of food, spare parts, and so on begin. I have big plans in which I want to bring you to self-sufficiency and independence. And this needs to be done quietly and carefully, leaving the appearance of big problems."
"Hm... I admit, I don't like the idea of hiding and lurking."
"You'll have to. Because otherwise—another preemptive strike awaits you, and it's far from certain that you'll survive it. To prevent this, you need to have a strong economy, army, and fleet. I want to give that, but with the help of a new state that Mandalore will join. But such a thing cannot be built alone. Someone will be needed who can represent my interests on your council."
"Warren?"
The Mandalorian nodded.
"I agree. You can count on the support of Clan Stick. But convincing the others will be harder."
"We will convince the others not with words, but with deeds," I smirked.
Talking a bit more and discussing separate details, I handed over the materials for familiarization. After that, we didn't fly away immediately. Warren spoke with his mother and clan members. He had to explain why he repainted his armor and, I admit, it wasn't going very well for him. I had to intervene and save the poor fellow from a small share of shame.
The rescue looked original. So much so that I was amazed at myself. I just bought a case of alcohol and, pushing the people at the evening gathering aside, announced that they were all idiots who f*cking don't know history!
Naturally, the first reaction was immediate—they tried to put me in my place. The only one who was calm was Warren, but he had already begun to develop an immunity to me and while everyone was growling and pouring mud on me, he was calmly drinking in his mother's company, sharing adventures with her.
As soon as the first wave of negativity died down and I put a few bruises and black eyes on the particularly rowdy ones, someone finally decided to ask: "Why idiots then?" And here my humble self pulled out a projector and demonstrated the old illustrations copied from the crystals, with our squad. The very one with which we went to kick arrogant Rakata mugs.
"This isn't just armor! And not just a color, as is customary with you! This squad, in ancient times, became famous throughout the galaxy! Seven of them beat the face of an entire race and brought down a huge battleship. Their armor inspired horror and awe in the enemy; their appearance—meant the death of the foe. They were valued as heroes, and the color of their armor remained forever a symbol of those who never give up. Who are ready to stand alone against an entire state and win!" I, a bit tipsy, preached from a table to a crowd of even more tipsy Mandalorians. "Many have forgotten this, but many—doesn't mean—all. I remember this, and your brother knows this. And to wear this paint, this symbol on the shoulder, you still have to earn that right."
Looking at how the people ignited, I realized I had overdone it a bit. After all, when one repaints—that's normal. When two—it's strange. But when ten, and five are from the same clan, it begins to hint that something is happening somewhere. And naturally, the people began to show interest, but we didn't elaborate further, limiting ourselves to mysterious expressions on our mugs.
Warren himself looked puzzled. Well, yeah, I was playing with words a bit; nevertheless—I didn't lie anywhere. The Sith will confirm, and it's written in black and white in the Jedi temple that my uniform was taken as an example precisely because of its effectiveness. Now I won't have to rack my brain over the uniform and how to make the Mandalorians repaint their armor.
After the drinking, we decided not to fly anywhere, and in the morning Raiden pleased me with the decision made. The man didn't play small and, since there was such an opportunity, took everything from the list. In the sense—everything, and he made a note about the desirability of delivering this product in the very first batch. Where they'd put so much, I didn't imagine, because the drugs would be enough for ten hospitals at least, but they know better what, where, and how.
Contacting the KCI director, I arranged for the shipments and immediately transferred the money with a small extra payment for KCI taking the delivery of the cargo to Tatooine upon themselves. Further, it will be necessary to do it ourselves, but whatever, I redirected this task to Derick. Let him find a free freighter with a crew on Corellia.
I clarified about insurance immediately. The man pleased me and said that all our equipment undergoes insurance immediately after acquisition. Since we are in not the most favorable regions and anything could be lost, better safe than sorry.
On that cheerful note, we left Concord Dawn. The next destination was Corellia. I needed to finally buy myself a ship, and then look at combat droids. Both for security and for conducting combat operations, if it came to that. Derick included mostly work machines in the estimate, including cleaning robots. Since the security service, by the will of my backside, stood apart, everything needed to be purchased separately and Warren would come in handy as ever. By the way... Since he's at hand, we'll look at the droid models first, and then to Corellia.
***
R-i-i-i-ght... Picked the droids. This is a F*ckup, comrades! So many models... So many colors... And all—not it!
"Shade, I don't get it. Why are you swearing so much at these models? Normal machines, they perform their function," Warren didn't understand when I closed another site.
"Warren, fck your program, and your father the assembly workshop. These aren't droids; this is crap. No, they undeniably represent something, but all the models we looked at are either highly specialized, or fcking expensive, or some kind of consumer goods. The most normal thing we found is the B1! For the ratio—price-quality-need."
"So, what do you want? Good models cost a lot."
"Do you understand that some clever bastard is just scamming the consumer? The same metal, the same workbench, two similar parts, but in one case the wrist rotation angle is sixty degrees, and in the other—one hundred and eighty. The price difference between these two elements is thirty percent!!! And that's only one element they offer to 'improve' in the base model! I'll learn to make droids myself faster than I'll buy something like that."
"By the way, those models have different brains and firmware."
"Warren, it's a pure scam in which the manufacturer simply profits from the consumer. No, I'm not talking about all companies, but nevertheless—it's a perfect indicator of the company's attitude toward buyers. What's called: 'They'll take even this.'"
"You think so?"
"Well, they are taking them!"
"Right. What are you proposing?"
"Take the B1 and modify it ourselves. There must be specialists on Mandalore; MandalMotors has been surviving on their account and high quality for decades. By the way, Dalien should be tasked with the appropriate equipment and specialists."
"Suppose so, but what to do now?"
"Now let's turn to that same MandalMotors and arrange through them to upgrade the basic B1s to an acceptable level. A droid shouldn't fall apart from one poke."
"Who will handle this?"
"You will; you have to command these tin cans. Just don't make IGs out of them; my budget won't pull that."
"What's the limit?"
"Four thousand per unit. In total, count on a hundred droids for each factory, plus another three hundred in the city, plus maintenance and spare parts. And yes, separately, a point regarding the ease of assembly must be put in. The simpler—and more reliable—the better."
"Why?"
"So as not to send the droid to the factory to replace a servo in the arm."
"Got it."
"Once you draft the wants and talk to the company representative, let me know; I want to see the result."
"Okay."
Leaving Warren to that, I head for the shipyards. I. Want. My. Own. Ship!
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan