Revan sat at the table in Onaka's former cabin, deep in thought, staring at the T-shaped visor of his old mask. A helmet liner hadn't been found among the smugglers' belongings, so the former Sith Lord's "second face" rested on the table, awaiting its moment.
"Everything flows and everything changes, but Tatooine remains as constant as its sands," Revan mused aloud.
HK-47 slowly scraped a grayish-green film off his chest plate with a deactivated vibroblade. He was not enthused about the ship, having instantly nicknamed it "The Dump." The Jedi didn't object, as the heap had no other name.
The load of Beskar was moved to the Star Map cave, and the main entrance was re-sealed. It wouldn't be possible to sell it in the near future anyway. And first, they needed to figure out what to do with such a windfall. Still, credits were always useful.
"HK," Revan called, "calculate the odds of running into the Hutts in each of Tatooine's three major cities. Factor in that they recently lost valuable cargo and failed miserably trying to retrieve it."
"Assertion: Greater than 95%, Master," the droid replied. "Hutts are quite persistent regarding credits and their property. They are also very patient. The hunt can last for years, provided the description of the quarry is known."
Revan nodded in agreement. He had arrived at the same conclusion.
On the other hand, there was no one left to give his description. There were no witnesses. He had only used voice communication with the dispatcher. But Mel... Mel had been exposed.
The thought of checking up on him crossed his mind.
However, their unexpected new ally was confident he could disappear in Bestine. Going to check on him would just needlessly put him at risk. Besides, his mind was at ease. There was no sense of alarm. And that was a good sign from the Force.
"So, what's the tally?" Revan began to muse aloud. "We have a ship, and we have valuable cargo. But neither can be moved off Tatooine."
The droid tilted his head slightly, intrigued.
"We also have a catastrophic lack of information about the current situation in the galaxy."
HK nodded in assent.
"But that's a long-term task. Our main problem right now is repairs and procuring supplies."
"Hopeful statement: Please do not suggest Yuka Laka's droid shop as a repair facility."
Revan grinned, remembering HK's hatred for the Ithorian.
"Relax, my metallic friend. That meatbag is long dead."
"Joyful statement: Good riddance."
"But the question of a workshop remains open." The Jedi scratched his chin. "Both Mos Eisley and Anchorhead are out of the question. Those cities must be crawling with Jabba's thugs right now. Furthermore, our 'Dump' can't even approach an official spaceport, as our adversaries certainly have its description."
"Reasonable statement: There are other settlements on Tatooine, Master," the droid reminded him.
"Markets for starship and droid parts, as well as equipment and weapon shops, are only found in large settlements. And there aren't many of those." The former Sith activated the holoterminal and displayed a map of the planet. "That leaves Bestine and Mos Espa."
The man tapped the terminal several times.
"I'd rather not risk Bestine, even though it's closer. So, that leaves only Mos Espa."
"Eager statement: I would gladly exterminate the population of any city you choose, Master."
"Hold on, you red-eyed maniac! No one needs to be killed... yet."
"Disappointed statement: As you command, Master."
"Here," Revan tossed the droid a blaster carbine found among the previous owners' belongings, "study this tool for now. You'll figure out faster how much the weaponry in this... millennium... differs from what we're used to."
HK-47 caught the carbine and meticulously examined its structure, nodded at the markings, and then quickly disassembled it.
"Surprised statement: Master, this weapon does not differ structurally from the samples of our time. Power output is about 30% higher, and balance and rate-of-fire indicators are improved. Otherwise, it is similar to the Mandalorian M-302 'Macalus'."
"Hmm, I suspected as much," the Jedi nodded.
Even during his first foray into the extranet for information, it had seemed to him that progress had not advanced much in 4,000 years. Hyperdrives were slightly faster, weapons slightly more powerful. But nothing fundamentally new had emerged. Even in combat technology, the war was still being fought between repulsorlift armored vehicles and walkers. Personally, however, Revan preferred maximally simplified tracked platforms. They were more reliable and more resilient to damage to their locomotion systems.
Walkers always had legs as a weak point, no matter how many they had. And repulsorlifts didn't work in all climatic and weather conditions. Tracks, on the other hand, reliably churned through mud, sand, and rock anywhere and anytime. The main thing was to cover the tracks themselves reliably. Plus, repairs were simpler and cheaper.
However, there were very few examples of such technology, even during the time of the Old Republic: the HAV/T-N7 Crushroller heavy transport and the LRR-T4 light scout tank.
Memories of the bloody Mandalorian Wars attempted to flood the former general's consciousness, but he was able to drive them away with an act of will. It was not the time for reminiscences.
After spending several hours at the terminal, Revan, with the assistance of HK-47, compiled a tentative list of what they needed to acquire soon. The first item was information. This meant full, unrestricted access to the HoloNet.
The second item was parts for HK and gear for the Jedi.
After that, they planned to legalize the ship: purchasing and installing new navigation equipment and changing its transponder ID.
And that promised to be problematic. Finding someone who would agree to replace the transponder ID without notifying Jabba's people would be a non-trivial task. After all, the Hutt held the planet under complete control.
One more problem: credits. The "cash" on the chips inherited from Onaka and the thugs in Anchorhead totaled about 150,000, which was a significant sum by Tatooine's standards. However, equipment and parts, coupled with not-quite-legal services, were far from cheap.
Lacking a better choice of cities, they decided to go scouting in Mos Espa. According to the map, it had a spaceport, meaning it would be easy to get lost in the numerous crowds of new faces. Plus, Revan had not yet forgotten how to mask himself using the Force.
"The Dump" was left in a small ravine nearly a hundred kilometers from the city, and they switched to a speeder.
HK predictably took on the role of a protocol droid, which required him to forgo the heavy carbine in favor of compact hold-out blasters that he could conceal in designated hidden compartments in his chassis.
Entry into the city was trouble-free. The checkpoint was merely for show, most likely just to deter the Sand People. Nonetheless, this didn't stop Revan from extracting some information from one of the guards. For instance, which hotel would be best to stay in to wake up with all their belongings, rather than tied up at the barrel of a blaster... or not wake up at all.
A light application of Force persuasion was enough to get honest and reliable answers. So, the first thing the Jedi and his droid companion did was check into a small apartment far from the spaceport. This was where local merchants who valued their security usually stayed, which meant the room cost three times more than Revan had anticipated.
"HK, dig through the HoloNet. Gather information on modern weaponry, gear, and combat technology," the former Sith commanded, after ensuring there were no surveillance devices in the room. "And update your language database. You'll have to play the protocol droid convincingly, and the galaxy has gained new species."
"Offended statement: I always operate at maximum efficiency," the droid objected, adding the detested, "Master," at the end.
"I don't doubt it," Revan shrugged. "But that's an order."
"Submissive statement: Yes, Master."
The Jedi himself was studying a map of the city, marking points of interest such as the cantina, the market, a droid shop, and several gear stores. All of this could, in fact, be found simply by venturing into the port district closer to nightfall, which would be cheaper. However, for security reasons, he decided to try his luck during the day first.
The droid completed his task quickly, confirming that he was once again perfectly informed on how to most efficiently purge the world of meatbags and was ready to begin this sacred act at the first command.
Telling the metallic maniac to keep a low profile, Revan headed to the nearest store he had pre-marked. It turned out to be a shop selling armor and gear for hunting... and more.
The salesman was human. Or rather... more than just human. His movements and bearing revealed an experienced military man, which gave the former Sith hope that he wasn't just selling pretty rags with decorative inserts of shiny metal plates that might, at best, stop a spitball.
"Good day, esteemed merchant," Revan greeted him.
The man turned and scrutinized the potential buyer from head to toe with a critical eye. He lingered on the blaster holster and curled his lips slightly in disdain, clearly unimpressed by the cheap blaster and the generally mediocre gear.
"Same to you, kid," the shop owner replied, not overly courteously.
The Jedi was a little surprised to be called so young. After all, he currently looked older than the actual age of this body. Perhaps, though, this odd salesman addressed everyone this way?
"I'm looking for good gear, weapons, and light but strong armor," Revan politely continued.
The man raised a skeptical eyebrow and scoffed.
"And do you have the credits for it?"
"I do," the Jedi nodded with a smile.
The salesman shrugged and pointed to a rack of full-life-support suits whose mirror-polished plates sparkled, making one wince, not from the glare of Tatooine's binary suns, but from the price tag. The six-figure sum was clearly inflated, especially for such a backwater planet. Moreover, these suits were more of a rich man's toy than truly useful gear, which HK confirmed.
"Indignant statement: Master, you are being swindled! This scrap is not worth a third of its price. The filtration system is not designed for long-distance travel, and the internal microclimate control fails at temperatures above 45 degrees, which is daily on Tatooine. I won't even mention the protection. Such thin duraplast plates could be pierced with a finger," the droid declared, earning an approving smirk from the salesman.
"Then perhaps these will interest you?" he asked, pointing to full combat sets often used by the Justice Corps.
This time, Revan answered himself.
"Three millimeters of durasteel is good, but too heavy. I'd rather be a mobile target than a well-armored, but dead, one."
The shop owner grunted approvingly.
"Then..." He was about to show yet another rack of armor when he was interrupted by the former general's confident voice.
"Perhaps you should stop trying to scare us off with these useless toys?" he asked in Mando'a. "Where is the armor for real warriors?"
Judging by the raised eyebrows, Revan had been correct in identifying the shop owner as a Mandalorian, and he mentally thanked his former self for taking the time to learn the enemy's language.
"You speak Mando'a?" the salesman asked in his native tongue, barely managing to regain a neutral expression.
Revan nodded.
"But you are not one of us," the Mandalorian narrowed his eyes. "Neither by birth nor by clan."
"True. No one took me into a clan," the Jedi nodded. "But I... often dealt with your people and was once declared a friend of one of the clans."
"A friend?" the merchant repeated. "And which clan was that?"
The topic was delicate. Not only did the Mando'a word for friend have several meanings denoting varying degrees of closeness to a clan. In this case, Revan was almost a 'brother-in-arms,' as Canderous liked to say.
However, he had never been accepted into the clan, simply because ordinary warriors wouldn't have accepted it, even if it had been a direct order from the Mandalore. After all, taking a Jedi into the family, and the very one who had practically destroyed the Mandalorians by depriving them of their most important relic, was too much.
Furthermore, Revan didn't know if Clan Ordo still existed or if it had vanished into the ages. Still, he decided to risk it.
"Clan Ordo," he finally replied.
For a moment, surprise was again reflected on his interlocutor's face.
"Ordo? Hmm... a very old and respected name," the Mandalorian nodded respectfully, "though few of them remain."
Revan exhaled. Contact was established.
"So, do you actually have 'real' armor?" the Jedi asked.
The salesman smirked.
"Does a Mandalorian have armor?" he grinned. "Does a Wookiee have fur? Come on."
The merchant walked to the far wall and beckoned Revan closer. Behind the corner shelving unit was a hidden passage to the basement.
"My name is Ramzar. I am of Clan Volo," the salesman finally introduced himself once they were downstairs.
"Vaner Shan," Revan said, giving his new name. "And this is HK, my secretary."
"Eager statement: I am an excellent secretary! I specialize in accounting. I am best at reducing and dividing," the droid's sensors flashed.
And he wasn't lying. What did it matter that he was reducing the enemy's numbers and dividing enemies into their constituent parts?
"A Protocol Droid?" the warrior chuckled. "Right. A bit too agile, though."
"I don't like it when people can't keep up with me," Revan returned the smirk.
"There were once legends among the Mandalorians about the HK series of droids. Excellent... accountants, they were."
"The best," the former Sith nodded.
"Correction: Unique," the droid reminded them, who disliked being associated with the 'knockoffs' from G0-T0's company, the HK-50s and beyond.
"Perhaps," the salesman conceded, "but back to the armor. Are you looking for anything specific?"
"A light, durable suit that won't restrict movement," Revan began to describe. "Reinforced plates on the chest and back, but not too thick, so they can be hidden under a cloak or robe. Overlays on the most vulnerable areas, good thermal coating, and extra insulation in case of electrical attack. Exoskeleton or servo-assistance for muscle and joint reinforcement is not necessary. Lightness and compactness are key."
"Hmm... That's an unusual set," the Mandalorian mused. "Do you require a jetpack or other specialized equipment?"
"No. Just a standard belt and three pouches."
"Fine. Then it will be a standard undersuit of reinforced woven fiber, an M-321-L chest plate, and MT-333-R gauntlets and gloves from the drop-trooper model. Don't argue, they're lighter and better protected. Plus, the built-in grappling winch won't hurt. We'll take the belt from the same model. Greaves... hmm... the light scout MLR-301 would be perfect, but I don't have it. And it's unlikely to be found anywhere now. But we can substitute it by piecing together segments from the MR-305-S and MR-307-S."
The Jedi nodded favorably, though he only vaguely imagined what the sets mentioned by the shop owner looked like. The worn appearance of the armor also suggested that all the sets were secondhand.
'Is he selling his own?' Revan thought. 'No, too much for one person.'
"Are the difficulties with sourcing due to irregular shipments to Tatooine?" the former general of the Old Republic speculated aloud.
"Eh?" Ramzar didn't understand the question, but following the client's gaze, he explained: "No, it's just that proper Mandalorian gear is hard to get now. A pacifist movement is gaining ground on Mandalore. And they get more supporters every year. Plus, the Republic suddenly stopped buying gear from us, favoring cheaper alternatives. The armorers are losing orders and closing up shop. There's less and less quality Mandalorian-made armor. The new models that came after the M-340 are complete garbage! I heard they offloaded those on the Senate Guard in the last order."
Revan was stunned when he heard about Mandalorian pacifists and barely restrained himself from slapping his own face, overcome by a sudden fit of denial regarding this "new age."
The salesman, meanwhile, continued:
"Our people rarely stop by Tatooine now. All the orders are intercepted by those bunglers hanging around the Hutt palace. They're cheaper. But they perform the work accordingly," the warrior spat. "But occasionally, a few of our kin do show up. They visit me. And to them, I sell my goods."
Continuing to talk about his life on the sand planet, the Mandalorian began assembling the previously specified parts into a single set. Fortunately, the fasteners were universal.
During the preparation of his future armor, Revan learned that Clan Volo had always been armorers but were forced to leave Mandalore when the Republic began cutting off the supply of materials needed to produce quality armor.
Ramzar had flown to Tatooine to negotiate with the Hutts for alternative sources of raw materials. However, they never reached an agreement due to disagreements among the gastropods. The clan left, and Ram was left behind as a liaison, just in case the Hutts ever came to a consensus. He'd been waiting for the third year now, slowly building up his own business.
The armor turned out worthy and fully met Revan's requirements. The differences in the color scheme of the elements, taken from various suits, didn't matter. They could always be repainted. Though the current chaotic black-and-red coloring was quite satisfactory to the former Dark Lord.
Ignoring all objections, the shop owner insisted the Jedi don the newly assembled set.
"It fits perfectly," Volo nodded. "The sleeves will adjust their length automatically, so don't worry."
"It's quite light," Revan admitted, tapping the chest plate for confirmation.
"It's Mandalorian tempered," Ramzar explained. "Not Beskar, of course, but tougher than any duraplast. It can withstand four bolts from a hold-out blaster at near point-blank range. Don't risk a carbine. It will still protect against a glancing blow, but a direct hit, especially from close range, won't be stopped. The undersuit's fiber can even withstand a vibroblade strike. But repeated attacks, you understand, are also best avoided."
"Excellent!" The former Sith demonstrated a few hand-to-hand combat moves and confirmed that the armor did not restrict his movement.
"Do you need a helmet, by the way?" the salesman asked with a satisfied smile.
"Not the helmet itself, but I would take the helmet liner attachment for the mask and visor."
"Hmm... I'd advise taking a complete helmet, but that's up to you," the Mandalorian shrugged. "The MR-305-S would suit you; it has a good multi-functional visor."
"I already have a visor. I just don't know if a liner can be found for it."
"What model is it?" Volo asked with interest.
"Very old. Ancient, you could say."
"Do you have the number? The marking?"
"MLR-15," Revan recalled.
Hearing the name, Ramzar nearly dropped the helmet he had already taken off the shelf from one of the armor sets.
"15? Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"But... that's impossible..."
"Why?" the Jedi grew wary.
The salesman's reaction was mystifying. No, wait, it was perfectly understandable. How could he explain having what was practically a museum piece?
"The current marking and indexing system were introduced about 4,000 years ago, just before the Great Sith War with the Republic. It was also called the Mandalorian War," the shop owner began to explain. "So the 15th model must be from those times... and it is truly many, many years old. Where did you get it?"
"It's... a kind of family heirloom," Revan vaguely replied. "So, is it possible to find a liner for it?"
The Mandalorian seemed to sink into his own thoughts and just nodded.
"Y-yes, yes," he composed himself again. "Actually, any liner from a scout set will fit. As a nod to tradition, the 15-series has barely been changed structurally. The 305-set should work."
While Ramzar searched for the right item, Revan rummaged in the bag he had taken from the ship and pulled out the mask wrapped in cloth. Even just holding it was pleasant. It evoked a sense of calm and confidence within him, although the Dark Side was felt in it just as much as the Light.
The Mandalorian watched in fascination as Revan donned the charcoal-black liner and fastened the mask to his face. The fasteners worked flawlessly, as if they had been designed specifically for this model. The visor blinked several times, connecting to the armor's miniature power source, and displayed a fairly clear image, considering the artifact's age.
The former Sith reflexively ran his hands over the collar of the chest plate, searching for a hood, but, finding none, he lowered his hands and straightened up, examining his reflection in the nearest mirror.
He felt like Revan again! The person he once was. Along with this came an incredible lightness throughout his body, as if the Force was feeding him twice as strongly, even without meditation and constant control.
"There is a legend among the Mandalorians," Ramzar almost whispered, his gaze fixed on the former Sith, "about a great warrior who not only managed to win the war against our ancestors. He managed to break them... to deprive them of their legacy..."
Revan cautiously turned his head toward Volo. Behind him, HK's servomotors whirred softly, clearly preparing to defend his Master if necessary.
"Our ancestors had strayed from the path then. They forgot what it meant to be warriors and became mere thugs who danced to another's tune," the shop owner continued. "And then that warrior cast them down into the abyss of despair. He turned the Mandalorians into rootless hunters who fought even among themselves."
The Jedi fully turned to face the Mandalorian, who was staring intently at his mask.
"And when we had almost lost all our honor and pride, he appeared again and saved us, by giving us Mandalore the Preserver."
The former Sith Lord slightly lowered his head as memories of Canderous stirred his mind. He remembered how they had flown to that cursed ice planet. How they found the Mandalore's mask that Revan had hidden during the war... And he remembered how Canderous was forced to kill his own wife, who had been blinded by hatred.
"Revan," Ramzar pronounced, making the composed customer flinch. "That was his name. And he wore exactly the same mask."
The Jedi regained his composure. The salesman had only recounted an ancient legend of his people. Moreover, he showed no signs of hostility.
"An interesting story," Revan scoffed. "Do you think this mask is the one?"
"I don't know," Ramzar replied, slowly recovering his lost calm. "But no one has seen this model, especially in this color scheme, for about three hundred years."
"The galaxy is vast, and there are many coincidences in it," the buyer shrugged.
The shop owner intently peered into the mask's visor, as if trying to discern the face beneath it.
"Yes. You're probably right," he relaxed slightly and nodded.
"Shall we discuss payment?" the Jedi proposed. "I'm satisfied with the set."
Credits quickly restored the warrior-merchant's, apparently lost, ability to think quickly.
"Right, custom order, compensation for disassembled kits, plus individual fitting," Volo muttered. "That comes to 74,000 credits, but I'm willing to let you have it for 60,000."
At the announced price, Revan seemed to forget how to breathe. He even had to tap his chest a couple of times and cough to ask if he had heard correctly.
"Surprised statement: A very generous offer, Master," HK spoke up. "Armor like this fetches a high price on the open HoloNet markets."
"Well, I'm not greedy," Volo grinned, misinterpreting the buyer's reaction.
The former Sith, meanwhile, was weighing whether he was willing to part with a sum that nearly halved his budget. The armor was necessary. Security was paramount now, as his body had not yet reached its required form, and his former power was still limited.
Which meant... he wasn't just willing, he was obligated to buy this set!
"I'll take it," he finally exhaled.
"Excellent."
"Do you have a cloak of some kind? Preferably with a hood," Revan asked. "I don't want the armor to gleam in the sun."
The salesman smiled knowingly and pulled out a worn-looking, dark-gray robe from somewhere.
"Here. A shroud of traditional Mandalorian weave. Comfortable and durable."
The Jedi examined the fabric with interest. As it turned out, the tattered look of the robe was merely an illusion due to the play of light. He confirmed this by putting it over his shoulders. Not a single tear, no signs of wear. The cloth settled over the armor plates, making his silhouette indistinct, as if it were designed for that purpose.
"How much?" the buyer asked, no longer thinking about money.
"It's a gift."
"Thank you," Revan sincerely replied.
Going back upstairs to "seal the deal" with a couple of glasses of Mandalorian home liqueur, Ramzar and Revan ran into another armored figure.
The stranger gave a welcoming wave to the shop owner, then noticed the Jedi. For a few seconds, she peered into the T-shaped visor and examined the armor, apparently searching for clan markings.
"Greetings, Mando'ade warrior," Revan greeted her in Mando'a with a polite nod, recalling the etiquette of the "Children of Mandalore." "I am Vaner Shan."
The stranger merely nodded silently and turned to the salesman.
"Is everything ready?" she asked... in a woman's voice.
Beneath the armor and cloak, her figure and build were indistinguishable, so Revan only realized she was female now.
Ramzar, meanwhile, took a small rectangular container from under the counter and handed it to the stranger. With another nod, she turned toward the exit.
"You won't even introduce yourself?" the Jedi was surprised. In his experience, Mandalorians always reacted somehow to a greeting.
The warrior stopped and turned her head toward the Jedi.
"Tira. Nomad," she said after a moment's thought, and left the shop.
The salesman shook his head disapprovingly, and the assassin droid's optics flashed maliciously.
"Irritated statement: Disrespectful meatbag."
"Apologies for the greeting, Vaner. She's like that with everyone. And she speaks Mando'a poorly," Volo explained.
"So she's not a native Mandalorian?" the Jedi clarified.
"No. Clan Nomad took her in when they were wandering the Outer Rim," Ramzar scratched his chin. "About eight, maybe even ten years ago. She doesn't talk much, but she works well."
"A bounty hunter?" Revan guessed.
HK-47 made a sound resembling a grunt.
"One of the best in this sector. Only the young Fett can compete with her."
"Interesting," the Jedi thought and tried to memorize her presence in the Force, so he could recognize her if they met again.
The stranger was not Force-sensitive, but she radiated a palpable sense of danger. Such contacts could always be useful. After all, during the Jedi Civil War, a significant number of Force adepts died at the hands of non-sentient hired assassins.
However, that could wait. For now, they should return to pressing matters.
"Ramzar, can you advise me on where nearby I can get a navigation computer? Preferably from a decommissioned ship, but with a working transponder ID."
The former Sith perfectly understood that such questions were commonplace on Tatooine, just like on any other planet with thriving crime.
The salesman pondered.
"The easiest way would be to approach one of Jabba's bigwigs in the spaceport district."
"That won't work. I have... complicated relations with the Hutts."
"Hmm... then there are private dealers, but there aren't many of them."
"There must be someone."
"Well, there's a Toydarian. But it would be easier to take a blaster from a Mandalorian than to buy anything from him. His prices are so outrageous that even I'm embarrassed!"
Revan shrugged.
"I'll negotiate somehow. Give me the coordinates."
"Watto's junk shop. You can't miss it."
The walk wasn't far. Next to a low building with the sign "Watto's Shop. Goods for All Occasions!" were several stalls with worn, but still usable, parts, cables, and mechanisms.
With every step, Revan realized this was the place. This was where he would find everything necessary for both HK and the ship. The main thing was to agree on a price. He preferred not to resort to Sith methods of persuasion.
As soon as the Jedi, clad in his new armor, and HK stepped across the threshold of the shop, a comical alien flew up to meet them—a species Revan had never encountered before. However, he remembered something similar from the brief self-study course he'd put together using the HoloNet. The small, winged creature was unmistakably a Toydarian.
"Ah! Greetings, long-awaited customers!" he zipped around the entering pair, man and droid. "What can old Watto do for you?"
"Hopefully, quite a bit," Revan stated in an even voice. His face was hidden beneath the mask, a fact the former Sith Lord used to gain a more advantageous position for the upcoming negotiation. "I need an NTK-32/A model navigational computer. And also some spare parts for my protocol droid."
"I have lots of things. But I don't recognize the model of your droid."
"Oh, he's quite old," the Jedi waved off. "The original parts haven't been available for ages, so I just patch him up with whatever I can find."
HK: "Bored Remark: Yes, I am quite old. So old, in fact, that I can no longer recall who my master is... Master," the droid drawled.
"Then I suggest you go and choose," the Toydarian smiled, exposing his crooked teeth. "I'll call my slave to help you find everything in the warehouse."
"Wonderful," the Jedi forced out.
He did not accept slavery in any form. The very concept was repulsive to him. Yet, he understood that rushing to liberate everyone wasn't the best idea. These people and other sentients were accustomed to such a life. To truly help them, merely ripping off a collar or removing a tracking chip wasn't enough. It required a long period of adaptation and the work of a highly skilled psychologist. Otherwise, freedom would be worse than death for them.
"Ani!" the winged alien shouted toward the back room. "Ani! Anakin!"
"Coming!" a voice called from the doorway at the far end of the room. And then, much quieter: "I'll be there in a minute."
"And what about the navigational computer?" Revan returned to the subject, pushing thoughts of slavery aside.
"Yes, the navigator, right," Watto clapped his hands. "It's a rare item, but I've got one tucked away somewhere."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not interested in a new version at all," the former Sith Lord hinted.
The junk dealer quickly realized what the client was suggesting and bared his teeth in anticipation.
"You should have started with that!" he drawled. "That introduces completely different... circumstances."
Revan clearly heard "credits" behind the word "circumstances."
"But it's possible?"
"Of course!" the Toydarian grinned. "Nothing is impossible for old Watto!"
"And?" the Jedi tilted his head slightly. "What do such 'possibilities' cost these days?"
"Three hundred thousand," the winged creature quoted the price.
Revan was glad his face was hidden by the mask. He had never encountered such audacity.
According to the HoloNet, even a new model with all the latest improvements cost an order of magnitude less! For that kind of money, you could custom-build a new starship from scratch!
"My dear Watto," he began suavely. "I am not buying a whole corvette from you, only a couple of spare parts."
"On the contrary, you are buying not just a starship, but the ability to move freely through Hutt space," the alien narrowed his eyes. "Especially since I hear Jabba is currently checking all ships whose identifiers fail verification or have been issued very recently."
Revan tensed, perfectly understanding the implication. The seller was not so simple and quickly guessed the purpose of the decommissioned computer. Most likely, this overgrown fly intended to get a portion of the stolen cargo in exchange for silence. That's why he had demanded such an exorbitant price.
At that moment, a thin boy with sun-bleached, sandy-colored hair appeared from the opening in the back of the room.
"Watto, I'm here," he called to the shop owner. "What do you need me to do?"
Something was wrong with this child. Revan felt the air grow heavy in his presence, as if something, or someone, was acting on the surroundings through the Force.
"Ah, Ani!" the Toydarian shifted his gaze to him. "Show our guest the droid parts in the warehouse while he considers my offer."
Watto's gaze was more eloquent than his words, and the Jedi understood the unspoken message: Think fast. Refuse and leave, and I'll tell Jabba everything.
'What a greedy idiot,' the former Sith Lord thought. 'He's not even considering the option where "Sith Diplomacy" is employed. Naive.'
The slave boy ran up to Revan and took his hand, pulling him toward the warehouse. But the moment his palm touched the Jedi's armor, the consciousness of the warlord who had died four thousand years ago was engulfed by a vision: a horrifying black armor with a cape billowing behind it like the wings of death itself. The ragged gasp of a life support system's respirator. And the soul-chilling black aura of a Sith Lord.
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