Location: Nar Shaddaa Date: 16 BBY
Two years had passed since Alex's arrival on Nar Shaddaa. He had become one of the most sought-after ship modernization specialists in the sector. His dock in the industrial zone was never empty, and clients booked months in advance.
This evening, he sat in the "Star Wanderer"—an elite cantina on the mid-levels where the local "aristocracy" gathered: successful smugglers, mercenary captains, rare goods traders. In two years, Alex had become a regular here.
"Corren!" called out Valek Kri, a Corellian captain whose YT-1760 Alex had modernized six months ago. "How are things?"
"Can't complain," Alex raised his glass of local whiskey. "And you?"
"Great. Your modernization has paid for itself three times over. Now I can take routes that were previously beyond my capabilities."
At the next table sat Grido, a Rodian information broker. He nervously looked around, clearly worried about something.
"Problems, Grido?" Alex asked, taking a sip of whiskey. The bitterness spread across his tongue, but he was already used to the local drinks.
"No... I mean, yes," the Rodian lowered his voice, leaning closer. His breath smelled of alcohol and something sour. "Heard the story about the smuggler who owed Gorgan Hutt? And his daughter?"
Grido finished his glass and immediately poured another. His hands trembled slightly.
"My acquaintances were there," he continued, his voice taking on bitter notes. "Good sentients, I swear. Tal always paid, never cheated anyone. And the girl..." he shook his head, "she was so lively, cheerful. Always talking about flying."
Alex tensed at the mention of the name. Gorgan was one of the cruelest Hutts on Nar Shaddaa, and Alex tried to deal with him as little as possible. But in two years, he had seen young slaves in the Hutt's palace several times – always different, always humanoid, always broken. The Hutt played with each for about a month, and then... they disappeared.
"Tal Vessra?" Alex repeated, feeling a growing, unpleasant nervous tension throughout his body.
"Yes, him. And the daughter's name was Verena," Grido drank again. "I remember when she got into the academy on Corellia. Tal was so proud... Said she'd become the best pilot in the sector."
Alex remembered that meeting in his uncle's workshop two years ago. A young Twi'lek with burning eyes who spoke so passionately about stars and flying. Verena Vessra. So, it was her.
"What happened?" he asked, though he already understood from Grido's face that it was nothing good.
"Lost cargo," the Rodian shook his head. "A whole freighter of spice. Tempted by big money. The fool didn't think big money wasn't paid for free. Imperial patrol caught him. Tal barely escaped with his life, but the cargo was gone. And Gorgan... you know how he feels about debts."
Grido finished his glass and poured another. Alex noticed the bottle was already half empty.
"How much did he owe?"
"A lot... And it's not about the money anymore... Tal was to blame for getting into this game," Grido gave a bitter chuckle. "But why the girl? She's done nothing wrong. Just returned from the academy, got her diploma. Dreamed of working as a pilot on trade routes."
"And what happened to them?" Alex already knew the answer, but had to hear it.
"They dealt with the family last week. Fed them all to a rancor – in front of Verena. Mother, father, brother... Gorgan wanted to teach other debtors a lesson," Grido's voice became very quiet. "And he kept the girl for himself. Says she's too beautiful to just kill. Poor thing, she'd have been better off with them... I feel sorry for her."
Something cold and evil stirred in Alex's chest. He had seen the results of Gorgan's "games," knew what awaited this girl. A month of torture and humiliation, and then death or something even worse. The very Verena who dreamed so much of the stars.
"Nasty story," Grido muttered, pouring himself another. "And nothing can be done. Gorgan isn't one to bargain. He loves his amusements too much."
Alex silently finished his whiskey. The face of the young Twi'lek, her eyes burning with enthusiasm as she spoke of flying, flashed in his memory. "It's pure freedom!" she had said then. And now...
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Nasty story. I'm going..."
Alex finished his whiskey and stood up. Something in his head clicked – some trigger he couldn't explain. Why did he want to help her specifically? He couldn't understand. Perhaps it was the Force making the decision for him. His weak connection to it always manifested through intuition, and now every cell in his body screamed: act.
"You can't help everyone," he told himself. In two years, he had seen too much suffering, too many deaths. But then another thought came: "Not everyone. But her – yes. At least one can be saved. At least one out of twenty-three."
He tried to analyze his motives. He had money – the last job had brought good profit. But it wasn't about the money.
Maybe he was just tired of the vile feeling of helplessness? Tired of dreaming of the faces of the doomed whom he couldn't save? Tired of waking up at night with the feeling that he could have done something, but didn't?
"There will be a bright memory," he thought. "That I helped someone. That I saved at least one."
"Where are you going?" Grido asked, surprised.
"On business."
Gorgan Hutt's palace appeared in the distance. Alex had been there a couple of times on business – the Hutt loved to upgrade his ships and droids, and paid well.
The guards knew him and let him pass without question. Inside the palace, the same atmosphere reigned. Signs of cruelty were everywhere: shackles built into the walls, dark stains on the floor that the servants couldn't completely wash away.
"Ha-ha-ha!" Gorgan rasped in Huttese, his voice higher than other Hutts, almost shrill. "Alex Corren! My talented engineer. What brings you to my home?"
Alex forced himself to smile. He already knew that Gorgan was unpredictable and cruel even by the standards of his race.
"I heard Your Excellency has a new acquisition," he said, nodding towards a corner where a figure in torn rags sat on a short leash. "A beautiful girl."
The Hutt's eyes narrowed. He was smart enough to understand where the conversation was leading.
"And so?" he drawled.
"I want to buy her."
Gorgan didn't laugh. He studied Alex for a long time with his small, cruel eyes.
"Interesting," he finally said. "Very interesting. But she's not for sale, human. Too... special. I get special pleasure from her."
"Name your price," Alex replied curtly.
The Hutt leaned forward, his breath audible even from a distance.
"I don't need credits, Corren. But I have something better for you."
Gorgan clapped his hands, and one of his associates brought a metal box. Inside lay an ancient device – clearly pre-war, covered in strange symbols.
"A navigation computer," Gorgan explained. "Very old, very valuable. My technicians can't extract information from it. But you can, can't you? Your reputation as an engineer is known far beyond this sector."
Alex took the device in his hands. The metal was cold, almost icy, and the symbols seemed familiar – something from the Old Republic era.
"What exactly are you interested in?" he asked.
"They say this thing records forgotten hyperspace routes," Gorgan's eyes lit up with greed. "I want them."
Alex nodded. He understood the value of such information. New routes could be worth millions.
"Extract the data, and the girl is yours," Gorgan added. "But if you try to cheat me..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but the threat was clear.
"Agreed," Alex said.
Only then did he allow himself to look closely at the Twi'lek. What he saw made something clench in his chest. Her blue skin was covered in scars and bruises, her lekku – head appendages – were tightly bandaged, apparently to inflict additional pain. But worst of all were her eyes. Empty, lifeless, like a droid's.
She sat staring at one spot, not reacting to what was happening around her. When one of the guards kicked her, checking if she was asleep, she didn't even flinch. She just slowly turned her gaze to the floor.
"A month," Alex thought. "Only a month since she was enslaved, and only an shell remains of a living sentient. Just like all the other twenty-two."
For the next three days, Alex worked on the navigation computer in his dock, but his thoughts constantly returned to the Twi'lek. He couldn't get her empty gaze, her mechanical movements out of his head. What must happen to a sentient for her to disconnect from reality like that?
The task was complex – ancient navigation systems used programs that hadn't been used by anyone for a long time. But the knowledge gained at KTI in archaeotechnology, and old programs downloaded from the archive at one time, helped him understand the device.
Finally, the computer worked. Upon activation, it projected a three-dimensional map of star systems with several unknown routes. The information was valuable, but not critically important – most of the paths led through dangerous regions or nebulae.
"Excellent," Gorgan whispered, watching the holographic projection. "It really works."
"As promised, Your Excellency."
"Good. Verena is yours." The Hutt nodded to a guard. "Take off her collar."
A Gamorran approached the Twi'lek and removed the metal collar from her neck. The girl didn't move, showed no emotion. It seemed she didn't understand what was happening.
"Verena," Alex said quietly. "Let's go."
She looked at him with empty eyes, but stood up and followed him. Her arms hung limply, her shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"Take care of her," Gorgan chuckled. "She's very... fragile. And remember – if you try to sell information about the routes to competitors, I'll find out."
Alex didn't answer. He took the girl's hand – it was cold and lifeless – and led her to the exit.
Only when they were on the ship did Verena seem to wake up. She looked around, saw that she was not in the palace, and for the first time in a month, a flicker of emotion appeared in her eyes. Fear.
"Where... where am I?" she whispered in Basic Galactic with a Ryloth accent. Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken for a long time.
"Safe," Alex replied, trying to speak gently. "You're not with Gorgan anymore."
"I don't understand..."
"I bought you. You're free."
Verena looked at him with disbelief, then slowly sank to the floor, hugging her knees. The posture was defensive, instinctive.
"No one does anything for free," she whispered. "What do you want?"
"Nothing. I just thought you deserved better."
Then her eyes truly came alive for the first time. A fire flashed in them – not of hope, but of contempt.
"You want to play savior?" her voice became sharper, angrier. "You think I'll believe in your kindness? You work with Gorgan!"
Alex was a little taken aback by this turn. He expected gratitude, tears of relief, anything, but not this cold contempt.
"What's wrong with being a savior?" he finally asked. "I don't need anything from you."
Indeed, he didn't need it. He himself didn't know why he was doing it. Perhaps he had a feeling that if he passed by, he would lose his luck forever. It was something on an intuitive level.
"You don't need anything?" Verena laughed, but the laugh was bitter, broken. "Everyone wants something. Gorgan wanted my suffering. My father wanted easy money. My mother wanted a beautiful life. And what do you want?"
"Maybe just to do something good," Alex replied quietly.
"Good?" she laughed again. "I saw a rancor tear my parents apart. I was a toy for a psychopath for a month. I'm broken. Do you understand? Broken. What good can there be?"
Alex sat on the floor opposite her, trying not to make any sudden movements.
"Any. You have a choice – stay on Nar Shaddaa, fly wherever you want, start a new life. I have money for a ticket and starting capital. I'll give them to you, just like that."
"I'm broken," she repeated monotonously, as if chanting a mantra. "Broken, broken, broken."
Verena fell silent, staring at the floor. Minutes dragged by in silence. Alex saw her trembling – not from the cold, but from internal tension.
Verena was silent for a long time, looking out the viewport at the lights of Nar Shaddaa. Alex didn't rush her.
"Can I... can I just be alone?" she finally asked.
"Of course. The cabin on the right is yours."
When she left, Alex remained in the cockpit, reflecting on his actions. In two years, he had learned to think pragmatically, calculate profit, avoid unnecessary risks. Saving Verena didn't fit into this logic.
"No good deed goes unpunished," he recalled his Uncle Garrek's aphorism. "Well, so be it. I have the money. I'll see this rescue through to the end."
The following days showed the scale of the problem. Verena hardly left her cabin, ate only when Alex brought food and stood by while she ate at least half of it. She spoke little, mostly just stared into space.
At night, she was tormented by nightmares. Alex heard muffled screams, crying, sometimes sounds of falling through the bulkheads – she thrashed in her sleep and fell off the bunk. When he tried to help, she pushed him away, not fully awake.
Alex understood that his capabilities were limited. It was clearly not within his power to bring her back to life. But perhaps there were specialists?
A week later, he made a decision.
"We're flying to Coruscant," he informed Verena.
"Why?" she sat in the corner of the cabin, hugging her knees.
"There's a clinic there. Specialists in psychological rehabilitation. They help sentients who have experienced trauma."
"It won't help," she shook her head.
"We'll try. I have business there anyway."
This was only partly true. He did have business on Coruscant, but it could wait. The main thing was to find help for Verena. Or to buy off his conscience...
Coruscant greeted them with the usual chaos of air traffic. Alex rented a small apartment in a decent neighborhood and began searching for a clinic.
"The Cole Aldera Center for Psychological Rehabilitation" was located on one of the middle levels of the city-planet. The clinic specialized in helping victims of military conflicts and the consequences of other traumatic events. The cost of treatment was astronomical, but Alex was willing to pay. Previously, the medical center was named "Jedi Cole Aldera's." They wanted to rename it completely, but this man had too many merits and lived long ago. Imperial propaganda decided to remove only the mention of his origin.
"It's a complicated case," said Dr. Amina Sein, the chief psychiatrist of the clinic, after reviewing Verena's medical chart. "Post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, signs of dissociative disorder. Plus the physical consequences of torture. It's hard to work after the Hutts..."
"Can you help her?"
"We can try. But it will take months, possibly years. And there are no guarantees of full recovery."
"How much will it cost?"
"The basic program is one hundred thousand credits. Full rehabilitation may require up to three hundred thousand. We'll have to involve rare specialists."
Alex didn't bat an eye. "This will be my project to save at least someone in this damn galaxy."
"Do whatever is necessary."
Verena met the news of hospitalization with her usual apathy.
"Why?" she asked.
"I told you – we'll try."
"You'll waste a lot of money."
"It's my money. And my decision."
At the clinic, Verena was placed in a private room with a view of one of Coruscant's rare parks. Treatment included medication, psychotherapy, physical rehabilitation, and work with reconstructing memories using a neuro-interface. Alex was initially uneasy about this, but then he realized it couldn't get any worse. As far as he understood, they were not dangerous with standard software.
Alex visited her during his regular flights to Coruscant once a month. Progress was slow, almost imperceptible. She still spoke little, still repeated that she was broken. But the nightmares became less frequent, her hands trembled less.
A year passed. Alex had already spent almost three hundred thousand credits – including expensive bacta therapy for scars. He spent most of his time working on Nar Shaddaa, but regularly flew to Coruscant to visit Verena and pay for the next stage of treatment.
The result was worth it. She was almost unrecognizable compared to the broken girl he had pulled from Gorgan's palace. Her skin cleared of scars, the nightmares stopped, and there was life in her eyes. She hadn't become her old self – that carefree flight academy graduate had died in Gorgan's throne room. But she had started to live.
"The doctor says the main course is completed," she reported during a regular visit. "Now only supportive sessions."
"Excellent. What do you plan to do?"
"I don't know. Flying is still scary, but maybe something with technology or logistics?"
Alex nodded. He had an acquaintance on Coruscant – Marvo Ciro, owner of a transport company. An honest man.
"I know someone who's looking for a dispatcher. It's a calm, office job."
The meeting with Marvo was successful. The elderly Corellian took a liking to Verena immediately.
"The girl is sharp," he told Alex in private. "And well-educated. I'll hire her."
Alex rented an apartment for Verena in a decent neighborhood, paid the rent for six months, and left a chip with fifty thousand credits.
"This is too much," she protested.
"Starting capital. For the first time."
Alex felt like he had finished his rescue.
On the last day, they met in a small cafe.
"Thank you," Verena said. "For everything."
"Live well," Alex replied. "That's all that's needed."
At the spaceport, they hugged briefly. As he walked up the ramp, Alex looked back. Verena stood by the terminal window. She looked alive. Real.
The ship lifted into Coruscant's gray sky. Alex set the autopilot and leaned back in his seat.
A year had changed a lot. He had spent a lot of money, but gained the knowledge that in this cruel galaxy, good deeds could still be done. Verena would live – work, maybe find someone. And he would return to Nar Shaddaa.
But now this life would be a little different. Because somewhere in the galaxy, there was a sentient who was alive because of him. One of twenty-three. But at least one. Of whom there are actually hundreds, thousands, millions.
The stars stretched into lines, and the ship went into hyperspace, carrying Alex back to the Smuggler's Moon.