My mentor, wrestling with his emotions, sat in the captain’s chair with a face like he was suffering from constipation and hemorrhoids at the same time, and uttered the sacred phrase: “Let’s go!” The ship’s AI replied: “Aye!” Actually, of course, a lot more was said.
We had to get various takeoff corridors and the vector for reaching orbit.
Calculate the jump to the first system on the route the treasury had drawn up.
And also coordinate the allocation of an acceleration lane beyond orbit.
In principle, the last part was a formality and something like a tradition.
Back in the old days, when ships could barely crawl, they took a long time to escape the gravity well.
Not the rockets I knew from my past life, of course, but still, compared to current times — heaven and earth.
Then they had to get clear and accelerate, and only then go into hyperspace.
In general, in a galaxy far, far away, things didn’t happen all that quickly.
And it was very uneven, too.
And how past experience held back progress was terrifying.
They used AI systems universally, but in such a way that it made your fur stand on end.
Though maybe that was a good thing?
Progress, especially scientific and technical, often carried many hidden dangers and problems that echoed decades, centuries, and sometimes even millennia later.
The question was mostly philosophical and, perhaps, even rhetorical.
Behind all the verbiage and tongue-twisting gibberish of commands that Nemak had rattled off, what was actually hidden was that same “let’s go.” If he’d given Gagarin’s command, nothing would have changed.
The ship hummed softly, lifted off the floor, and flew out of the massive temple hangar bay doors.
Against the backdrop of those enormous doors, we were like a gnat on a panoramic window.
A gentle hand of acceleration touched my chest for a moment, making me tense up and vow to check the compensators.
Streams of traffic consisting of myriads of atmospheric and non-atmospheric vehicles flashed by.
The screens began to darken rapidly — and soon the blackness of space, dotted with scattered stars, spilled into the viewports.
Quickly but carefully, without recklessness, we rounded the bulk of a huge bulk freighter.
Slipped between a pair of diverging liners.
Passed some ancient slowpoke that looked remarkably like a barge.
Briefly admired an elderly military station keeping the capital planet safe, and finally made it to the volume of space assigned to us.
“Jump readiness at one hundred percent,” the AI reported.
“Jump!” my master exhaled, gripping the armrests and leaning forward.
I, honestly, couldn’t hold back either and slightly tested the strength of my chair’s material with my claws.
“Beginning countdown.
Ten, nine…
one.
Jumping.”
The stars stretched into lines and merged into a tunnel.
The AI reported that we would arrive at our destination in ten hours and sixteen minutes.
I watched the subspace shimmering beyond the viewport.
Colors danced from delicate azure to deep, deep blue mixed with violet.
Though all of this was barely visible against the backdrop of the brightest white streaks that the stars had become.
Strange sensations.
Part of me thought “wow,” and part of me found it all completely mundane.
Like I’d gone to a new shopping center for groceries.
It was almost disappointing.
Not that I was completely disappointed, but I’d expected something more.
Ah, if only I knew exactly what “more” I’d expected.
“Well, here we are in space, Mirr,” my master stated the obvious, spinning around in the captain’s chair.
“Yes, Teacher,” I pressed my ears back slightly, then nodded just in case.
“I think we should spend our time productively,” Nemak smiled, but the emotions coming through our bond gave away his uncertainty.
Though even without that, his fidgeting fingers and tone were enough to understand everything.
Master didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he kept fussing with them.
Not that he was waving them around like a windmill, but his sleeves gave him no peace.
He’d adjust and fold a cuff, then hide his hands.
“Shall we have a training session, Nemak-dono?” I asked after a pause, the question my master was expecting.
“Yes.
We’ll meditate,” my master said, having made up his mind and clearly perking up.
“The best battle is the one that never happens,” Nemak smirked and looked at me like I was a foolish kitten chasing its own tail.
“Goodness should have fists.”
“Nonsense,” the Jedi waved dismissively.
“Come on, let’s get to work,” he cut off any potential argument.
“Yes, Master.”
What else could I do?
The teacher said meditate, so the padawan took a mat and went to obey.
I’m not the Chosen One, and Nemak isn’t Obi-Wan, after all.
Sure, I could have shown some backbone, but I’m not twelve — well, almost thirteen, that’s not the point.
I can keep my teenage recklessness and maximalism boxed up with willpower.
Besides, we should give the teacher a chance — maybe it’s not too late for him yet.
Either way, brushing things off and turning up my nose right off the bat isn’t the way to go.
Life’s like that — it can twist in unexpected directions.
In short, let’s not court trouble; instead, like any proper predator, we’ll sit patiently in ambush.
We spent four hours attuning to the Force — or rather, just existing within it, without any particular goal or purpose.
What can I say?
The time wasn’t wasted.
I gained an interesting experience.
Not much practical use, at least for my future plans, but still.
I can’t say I felt the Force any differently while aboard a ship hurtling through the galaxy, but there were differences.
In a way, it’s like comparing driving a car to riding a motorcycle.
In the latter case, you perceive the same speed completely differently.
Same thing here — everything just gets sharper.
Although your actual abilities stay the same — a motorcyclist doesn’t get better vision or hearing, but the sensations are…
different.
Intense and vivid, especially when you’re weaving between two parting freight trucks.
Adrenaline — a whole trainload and a little cartful.
Anyway, thanks to the sensei for the new experience.
I should try meditating in some quiet corner of space sometime.
To listen to the silence, so to speak.
The rest of the flight I spent reading from a datapad and swinging a sword under the guidance of a ghostly council.
It was good, it was great.
The Force is undeniably the main weapon of a gifted being and their primary distinction from others, but knowing how to swing a lightsaber is also quite useful.
Especially in light of what’s coming.
One problem: my teachers are non-corporeal, so I have no one to cross blades with.
The teacher preferred to go sleep.
He was altogether quite spiritual and enlightened at that moment.
At the beginning of our meditation, he kept reaching out to me through the Force, checking if I was slacking off.
Naive.
Nope — if I commit to something, I do it well and with full dedication.
Anyway, once he was convinced that his padawan was diligently comprehending the incomprehensible, the sensei calmed down, filled with pride for his mentoring talents, and withdrew from the world.
A couple of minutes before we arrived, I had just moved to the cockpit with my datapad when the well-rested and very cheerful teacher came running.
He greeted me, praised me for being busy with work instead of goofing off.
The moment he appeared, I had a general starship layout diagram on the screen.
He flopped into the captain’s chair, requested a report from the ship’s AI, and even rubbed his palms together impatiently.
The AI reported, performed the countdown, and exited lightspeed.
The stars returned to normal, and directly ahead appeared a dirty green planetary sphere — at the sight of which I just grunted and snorted.
There were small atmospheric swirls forming a pair of eyes.
One of them was clearly swollen.
Or getting swollen, which was more accurate.
The sensei also chuckled — it seemed our thoughts and associative chains aligned.
Flying fast — I noted the speed at which the planet rushed toward us.
Obviously, we were approaching it, but the visual effect through the viewport was exactly that.
When the huge planet sphere grew about one and a half times larger, the local controller contacted us.
A short dialogue, merely confirming the information already sent automatically by the systems, obtaining a corridor, orbital maneuvers, and then we were descending for landing.
A plasma cocoon envelopes the ship. Find the original chapter at g.com.
A blazing energy shield protecting our little vessel from the consequences of such a rapid atmospheric entry.
Thrilling.
Forget lightspeed and hyperspace.
This was the true miracle.
How rightly they say that fire is something you can watch forever.
The mesmerizing beauty of the flame, awakening something ancient and hidden in the soul.
“Mirr,” my teacher calls out to me, shattering the moment instantly.
“Master?”
“Don’t growl,” he says, shifting his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
“Sorry, Nemak-dono.
I’ll try to control myself,” I press my ears back guiltily and, with a habitual effort of will, settle my fur and tail.
“Did the landing approach impress you that much?”
“Just a reaction to the fire.
There are many plains in my homeland.
Steppe fires are the worst disaster.
It’s instinctual — an ancestral legacy.”
“I see.
I didn’t think you’d react so sharply.”
“I didn’t expect it from myself either, Master.
It must be the abundance of new impressions.”
“Probably,” Nemak smiles and nods.
By my fang, the sensei decided his padawan was scared.
No need to dissuade him.
Especially since I’m not sure myself which part of my reaction was what.
Perhaps I should meditate and dig around in my own subconscious.
Above the landing pad assigned to us, the speed dropped sharply, and I barely felt the deceleration.
Looks like I don’t have to worry about the compensators, but I should still get more familiar with the ship.
A short extract summary is not the same thing entirely.
You need to know your flying home inside and out, so you have a couple of extra chances to survive in case of trouble.
“Beautiful,” Nemak nods toward the metropolis and a patch of real nature in the distance.
“A living world.”
“Yeah, this isn’t Coruscant.”
Splat, I mentally voice Pif-Paf’s landing on the planet.
“Looks like clients,” I draw the teacher’s attention — he’s still staring out the viewport — to a line of empty platforms hurrying toward us.
“Huh?” Nemak snaps out of his thoughts.
“Yes, you’re right,” he nods, returning to reality.
“Come on, we need to meet them.”
The ramp hissed, and a fresh breeze burst into the cargo bay, filled with the smell of scale, fuel, lubricants, and the faint scents of a distant forest beginning beyond the northern edge of the spaceport.
I even sneezed from the combination.
Various sounds reached my ears — sounds long familiar to me from the temple hangars.
Except the roar of some ancient vehicle taking off was unusual.
The rest of the clanking and clatter was so mundane that my mind immediately filed it under white noise and stopped processing it after a minute.
The planet we brought seed material to — grown by our brothers from the AgriCorps — wasn’t anything unique, but it had its peculiarities.
First, there was almost no open water.
Yet you couldn’t call it arid.
There were enough rains and natural underground oceans.
Second, this world belonged to the so-called inner territories, yet had very weak industry.
Though, that depends on what you compare it to.
Third, without being a so-called farm planet, it managed to feed a dozen neighbors.
This was largely due to its proximity to the capital and the ability to easily obtain unique seeds directly from the Jedi.
There was another distinctive feature about the planet — and it was currently steering toward us.
You see, Trandoshans were known in the galaxy as slavers, pirates, and generally rather unpleasant individuals, but right here lived an enclave of reptiles engaged exclusively in agriculture.
And doing so very successfully.