Chapter 4

"The jump is complete," Pif stated the obvious.

"Padawan, you're up," Nemak ordered.

"Yes, teacher," I sighed and began to issue orders to the AI.

Sensei had an attack of pedagogical itch. This is, of course, a good thing, but its direction does not please me at all. It would be nice if he still taught me how to fly the ship, but after he appointed me a supercargo, he decided to share his innermost knowledge, namely economics. In all due honesty, he himself understood it at the level of an ordinary youngling, that is, he knew that money is a universal measure and so on. Quite quickly exhausting himself, or maybe realizing the idiocy of the situation, because I listened to the same lectures just a couple of years ago - I remember everything more than he did - in short, the mentor switched to practical. Yeah, he puzzled me by learning a standard set of commands and the sequence of their submission in no less standard situations. Now I'm taking a kind of exam.

What to say? Passed. It wasn't difficult. Memory did not disappoint. We flew to the planet, dived into the atmosphere, and landed where was indicated. Well done, five plus - praised myself and went to put on the spacesuit. Nevertheless, despite my outstanding body and Force, breathing methane it's not for me. We packed, pumped out the air, sealed the interior, equalized the pressure, and opened the ramps. Alas, using a force field that witch would hold the gas coctail familiar to us was not an option. The working individuals of the intelligent insectoids inhabiting the planet, now hurrying to the ship, whom would die even faster from oxygen then we would from methane. We stood, we waited, we looked around in wait.

In fact, methane, in itself, is a transparent gas, more precisely colourless, but taking into account some impurities, the atmosphere of the planet of insectoids was yellowyshly-green. At least that's how the sky looked like in their world. The inhabitants themselves resembled a cross between a spider and a praying mantis. Eight apendeges and a body placed on top. A pair of long limbs, each ending in what looked like a triple set of hooks. Latter, in the course of evolution, morphed into a pale imitation of fingers. In general, rather terrifying creatures with a triangular heads, rudimentary mandibles and classic compound eyes. Three antennae-wiskers stuck out between the latter. The pair ended with a kind of brushes and served to receive and transmit low-frequency signals, and was also a kind of sensory complex. The last tendril antenna was a rather unique thing and was a multi-membered assembly capable of emitting and capturing ultrasonic waves. In short, this is something like a sonar of dolphins and bats had. This wonderful process helped these monsters navigate underground.

The planet's spaceport was very original. Local residents tritely cleared and leveled the rock outcrop. And that's it, so to speak. Neither some division into sectors and sites at least, nor ... nothing, at all! Of all the equipment on a solid piece of flat stone, only a slightly dusted fuel tanker in the distance could be seen. I could have scratched behind my ear at that. But, alas, the suit gets in the way. Communication with the natives was carried out through a mobile translator box. Of course, a protocol droid would have been much better, but, as they say, "for lack of a maid, a janitor will do." Moreover, there was nothing to talk about with very alien to us sentients. After all, they operate with completely different concepts and notions.

The teacher stood nearby and allegedly supervised my work. In fact, he simply had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Wasn't the world for excursions. And to sit in the comfort of the interior - conscience apparently hadn't allowed. Be that as it may, no one canceled the work and it had to be done. The sooner we're done here, the sooner we can move on to a nicer planet. The light spacesuit did not cause any particular inconvenience and currently wasn't working in the spacesuit format. The helmet served as a filter mask, and the rest of the systems worked only to maintain a comfortable temperature. Not as bad working conditions as I thought. Rather, I tried to suggest it to the teacher.

The quickly assembled crowd of horrors turned out to be more effective than a dozen or two robots. They immediately organized something like an ant trail. The chemicals we brought were pre-packaged in liftable containers for local workers, so they took them away in just three hours. As for me, I had to poke at the pace of the machine gun sending confirmations on the datapad. Nothing, I managed, I didn't even have to use the Force. But there were some problems with loading. We had to haul away valuable ores, more precisely, their alloys. Apparently, those were very heavy, since the natives literally brought two or three ingots at a time. Another cheerful nuance-surprise presented by insects is the complete absence of not only containers, but even a hint of at least some kind of packaging. Such trifles did not interfere with the AI of the ship to immobilize the incoming cargo. However, I foresaw difficulties with unloading in advance. However, everything brought in in any case needed to be somehow sorted and secured.

The owners of the planet simply did not understand the point of storing something in a distinguishable way from a heap-piles way. One joy - each working specimen jumped into the hold, ran approximately to the centre of the room and already there threw its load. Attempts to explain that it is not the way to do so, have not been successful. They didn't even listen to us, let alone try to understand. As a result, most of the ingots still ended up on the deck lift. We also got a high-quality express training in telekinesis. Especially for me. Poking my finger into the datapad, and use the Force to throw the spilled stuff into the elevator. The teacher, willy-nilly, had to join the process. In general, I don't know about the two soldiers from the construction battalion who could replace the excavator, but a couple of Jedi can do a lot - a fact. Personally verified. Naturally, after the cargo was on board, and the local cockroaches fled away, we had to work hard. More than ten thousand ingots on five decks needed to be condensed into something digestible for the loader droids. Otherwise, the unloading process will drag on. So while the parsecs in the subspace were absorbing, this was our routine.

The experience of communicating with intelligent insects turned out to be quite educational. Now it will be something to remember in my old age and tell my grandchildren, if, of course, I live long enough. And I am just planning to survive as long as I can. However, who doesn't plan to? In general, in light of the upcoming Clone Wars, I am tormented by rather conflicting feelings and aspirations. On the one hand, the Jedi are perceived by me as someone close. On the other hand, I wouldn't call them my pride. In short, everything is quite complicated and even I do not understand it myself. In any case, it will not be superfluous to cook up a couple of burrows. Whatever happens, laying straws is always useful. The time before the war is eight years, maybe even all nine, so, quietly yes, the safe house there, the stash is here, just wait and I'll get ready.

The only reason I still haven't run to Master Yoda and handed over Darth Sidious is a clear feeling in the Force that such meddling will not lead to anything good. A rather vague feeling-knowledge that is not very clear in details, unequivocally saying that the gifted of my generation will, of course, survive, but it's a pity for grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It is clear that grandchildren with great-grandchildren in a metaphorical sense are meant. For what and why, the arranged massacre by Sidious is needed. Maybe the notorious balance of Force really needs to be restored? It's hard to figure this out, oh so hard.

* * *

From insectoids we flew to a completely ordinary world, in many ways similar to Earth, except that the continents are smaller, and they are a little larger, and so - the Earth as our Earth. Rather it should be called an earth-like planet. In general - blue sky, white clouds, green grass, breeze. Beauty and nothing out of the ordinary. If it were not for the rather tight schedule of the route organized for us by the Treasury, I would have rested with pleasure, took a walk, scolded through the forest or sat with a fishing rod at the river. Alas, in the coming months, such joys do not prospect for me. The mentor praised me for the excellent operation and said that he was proud of me. Uh-huh, and then he added that he completely trusts in me. It seemed to me, or did he really have some kind of malice, or gloating leaked through the Force? In short, sensei just went for a walk around the planet, more precisely, the second largest city on the planet, and I had to hand over the brought cargo and accept a new one. Will have to wait for Nemak, if he suddenly deigns to linger. Where am I without him? That's it, nowhere ofcourse. I have from the documents: wiskers, paws and tail. Juvenile Padawan and that says it all. A sword for ID might work in the Outer Rim, and even then, I suppose, not everywhere.

It was pretty funny to watch the teacher walk through the huge airstrip, but to be honest, even that made me jealous. After all, I had to communicate with a couple of Zabraks, whom arrived ahead of a actual army of robots. Apparently, this is not the first time they have dealt with bugganoids and are aware of their peculiarities regarding the format of deliveries. We greeted and got down to business. Why streatching it? I suppose, ingots will not load themselves.

I stood. Was bored. I poke my finger into the datapad. To put it mildly, depressingly. Zabraks had given out orders to the droids, they sat at the ramp and they don't give a damn. They chatter about their own something, in a language unknown to me, smoking cigarettes. Poisoning poor kitten. Ooh, horned villains. So I would have picked off those very horns. I can't, I'm a Jedi and all that. Damn, I want to smoke. Where is this coming from, huh? Also envy gnaws at the soul. The robots of the consignees are advanced - they quite understand what to take, how to take, where to drag and how to load. Simply - rrrr and there are no words. I tried to test the horned ones with the Force. Fortunately there is no teacher, I could work openly. It was possible to feel the zabraks without problems. I decided to read their thoughts, but nothing but superficial images were available to me. Yes, and those somehow as snipets were read. The datapad was pretty distracting, the droids, clanging with ingots, pressed on the ears, and just the mood was not very good.

"Boom!" the robot banged the ingot against his chest. "Damn, crooked piece of scrap, and you dropped it twice as quietly," I yelled mentally. In general, some of loaders cases are hollow. When they start filling pallets with manipulators, and tapping on themselves with a load, there is a ringing and hum for the whole hold - just horror. My poor ears. Definitely worth considering purchasing a helmet. But where do I get the money for it? Although, credits - fine for now. Here's how to convince the teacher to allow such open use? That's the bigger question. Okay, I'll make my own earplugs.

I said goodbye to the Zabraks, with joy that the ringing had stopped and the smoke no longer reached me - I wished them all the best. In response, I received a somewhat unexpected, but pleasant speech: I was very pretentiously and eloquently wished success, good luck, strength and ... growth. Apparently, the latter has some special meaning for them. In response, I only bowed, for which I was rewarded with another portion of wishes. While I was waiting for the sender of the cargo, with this very cargo, I was tormented by memory. When I read about zabrak, I did not come across anything about the importance of height, weight or size. However, many species settled throughout the galaxy long ago and organized enclaves on other worlds. Not to say that the Zabraks suffer from seclusion, however, the policy of open doors, even for their own, it is not to them. Hey, why I'm cracking my brains over this. You never know what tradition and why, or there a belief had arisen. Maybe those who settled on this planet thousands of years ago were sectarians. They could have branded on racial and species superiority? Easily! And now it has resulted in something that comes around with such wishes about growth. Damn, maybe Zabrak midgets originally were settling here. The population of the galaxy is unimaginable, the species diversity is huge, what kind of quirks you will not meet.

I did not have time to get rid of idiotic thoughts, as I experienced a natural shock. I never expected that the sender would be a Wookiee. It was very difficult for me to imagine these big guys in the role of businessmen. Accompanied by a giant with a glossy and well-groomed coat, was protocol droid. Logically, the structural features of the larynx affect. Wookiees cannot speak Galactic Common. True, they understand it perfectly. Still, their hearing is only slightly worse than mine. Yet, in a forest, especially one so dense as to cover their home world, the eyes are not the best organ for orientation. The guest roared a greeting, the robot immediately translated it, I responded with a bow and a brief introduction. To immediately remove questions about who I am and what I'm doing here. As it had already recently happened "lad, call the grownups" - ugh. In general, a couple of minutes for this and that, after which the "fun" began. Yeah, the most routine loading procedure.

Due to circumstances, it was not possible to communicate with the client. The Wookiee just went inside the grav platform cockpit to sit. He was sleeping there, furry ass. That's right, why strain something when there is a protocol clerk who will look after everything. The big man got out only at the end of the loading of the hold, in order to personally take a look at the results of our labors. This is where I got into his head. I was surprised to find out that the Wookiee is an ordinary intermediary who made very good money using our dumping prices for cargo transportation services. A client waiting for a batch of spare parts paid almost the usual rate, the discount was minimal. In principle, all this did not concern me at all, but there was some desire to restore justice and force such individuals to share part of the free profit.

* * *

In the absence of money, and rather because of the peculiarities of the worldview, the teacher did not go further than the port area. It is clear that he did not see anything particularly interesting, staggering between goods yards, warehouses and typical box houses where workers lived, he hadn't manage to seen those. But he was visited, as he thought, by a brilliant idea. And so, sensei went into the cantina, ordered himself a non-alcoholic cocktail, sat down at the table and hung his ears. It looked like he's gathering information. Rumors, gossip, everything. Such a kind of training before the main mission. Somewhere on the third glass, he became interested in the story of the pilot who flew in from the neighboring sector. He complained about the pirates. He vilified the Justicars who covered up the bad guys, and was just quite emotional when he spoke about the Republic. It was then that sensei's blood began to rush.

After all, here they are adventures. The ability to do justice and cause good. Alas, the work of delivering goods - a bad mission from the Treasury for the high-speed passage of the route, no one has cancelled it. However, the teacher was not particularly embarrassed. After all, he can find out the details and inform his brothers, and even those ... Absolutely, for sure, they will definitely send someone to deal with evil. Certainly will do?! It will certainly be so. In short, my teacher did not come up with anything better than to sit down with a talker and ... try to get him drunk so that he would share his secret knowledge. The pilot, wasn't a fool, didn't refuse free drinks and was ready to spill like a nightingale even until the morning. It all ended naturally. Nemak almost crawling to the ship, on the eyebrows, arrived. I didn't even immediately understood what was happening to him when I saw him wandering across the spaceport field. He walked, I must say, in a very wide zigzag. He manoeuvred almost five meters to the left, or to the right, but the Force led him. And eventually brought here.

"Ah, hick, m-my, p-padawan," this wonder gave out with a slurred tongue, when it managed to identify the spot in front of it.

I could only courageously hold on and remember if there was a description of the Force Technique or some skill on the holodisks that could replace a gas mask. My poor sense of smell. Okay, earplugs, but I have no idea how filters into the nose can be made.

"Master, are you okay?" - asked a very stupid question, but it was necessary to at least something.

"Nnaturalllly! I'm a kn-k-knight," Nemak said and chuckled. "R-real Jedi!" - the mentor laughed again.

"Uh-huh, great and mighty."

"Here! Y-you, rr-rh-really understand," - this wonder nodded, and it hung with its head down.

"Sensei, can I help you get to the cabin?" - promptly showed concern for the teacher, clearly understanding that if he "turns off" right now, I will have to somehow carry him myself.

"Of course not!" - the teacher immediately got excited, well, still, someone doubted his Jediism. "We'll contact the council immediately! We can't delay..."

"The galaxy is in danger!" I exclaimed passionately, trying to knock Nemak off his obviously idiotic impulse. He will crawl to the bridge and what kind of goodwill, he really do call for the masters, over the emergency line. No, my tail and ears are dear to me.

"W-why?" - the teacher, who was knocked out of his thought, did not manage to realize, and from that he decided to clarify the incomprehensible moment.

"Because damn it, you cabbage head."

"And what about cabbage and dough tortillas?" Sensei completely swam away.

"They are to blame for everything!"

"And I thought, s-sith," Nemak was puzzled, collecting his eyes in a heap.

"Uh-huh, master. So they created them. A terrible weapon, a product of darkness and their damned alchemy."

"Ah-ah," the mentor pointedly issued, finally losing the impulse to urgently report to someone about something.

"So shall I take you to your cabin, master?"

"Why?"

Looks like I overdid it. Jammed the poor sensei.

"You were going to try lying meditation. You said this way..."

"Yes! Completely forgot! Exactly! Let's go!" - Nemak issued and rushed forward.

If we had a race of wounded turtles here, he would undoubtedly have had a chance of winning, he would definitely be in the top three, I thought, slowly walking behind the mentor posing as a billiard ball. Slam - the left side of the corridor. Boom - right. Bah - left. Poke- right. Impact - floor. No, the designers didn't made the threshold here in vail. I can understand them, of course, safety, concern for the sentients, isolated compartments and all things, but ... Slam. However, the durasteel floor is not so hard.

You know, no kidding, I felt real pride from the fact that my teacher turned out to be stronger than he seemed. Pardon the pun. In general, despite all the insidious gravity and sophisticated traps set by the sadistic designers who designed the ship, he managed to overtake and even overcome. And how he climbed onto the bunk - there are no words. I even suspected that he either trained or had real experience.

"I will meditate," mumbled sensei into the pillow, still unable to swing his right leg in.

"Of course, master. Need to be covered?"

"Hrrrr," was my reply.

For a couple of seconds, he thought about whether to use some kind of medical technique to cleanse the teacher's body, after which I decided that it would be useful for him to experience the delights of a hangover. After all, obviously the first time he got drunk, so let him suffer. There should also be a pedagogical effect. Having laid Nemak on the bed entirely, otherwise, he would slide down to the floor, catch a cold, lie down on his sides - this is not good, wrong. In general, having arranged for a mentor to sleep off, I went to the bridge. Gave the command-clearance for take-off to the AI. There is nothing to waste time for, we still have a schedule. I pulled a tablet with telekinesis. The captain's chair is more comfortable and the view from it is better. So, according to the plans, I have six hours of self-education, then training with swords, and then it will be possible to meditate.

In itself, the idea of ​​obtaining information by soldering the one who possesses it is far from new, but that does not make it less workable. The main thing is not to get yourself drunk too much. This is unprofessional and generally harmful. The Jedi are undoubtedly a sturdy bunch, but far from being all-powerful. In general, such a method of collecting information, without a certain hardening with preparation, and without knowledge of the Force techniques of cleansing the body, should not be carried out. Cirrhosis of the liver is cirrhosis even in a galaxy far, far away. Although it is treated quickly and efficiently, still, there is little pleasure in it.

"Can't read," he complained, either just out loud, or to the ship.

"You're worried about Jedi Knight Nemak," Pif-Paf replied.

"Apparently," I twitched my ear and put down the datapad. "I didn't expect such a surprise from him."

"According to my knowledge, his behaviour is not typical for a Jedi, but fits perfectly into the framework of an ordinary person involved in cargo transportation."

"Ha-ha-ha, fyr-myrrr," he was somewhat hysterically amused by such an answer. "Tell me, my crystalline friend, where did you get your information from?"

"Mostly from the holonet."

"Yeah, that's how I understood it. What does the space wolf, the stern stellar trucker, do when he arrives at the port?"

"He's going to the cantina."

"Where he is sure to get drunk, fight and meet love, which has a dark past, a vague present and darck prospects for the future.

"I have already learned how to distinguish between fiction and holographic productions," Pif-Paf was indignant.

"Actually, I was joking."

"Is this what is called trolling?"

"No, sarcasm, but there was friendly banter."

"Understood. I will consider this concept."

"Yeah. How is your technical condition there?"- decided to change the subject and take care of our ship.

"Everything is fine. There are no comments or complaints. Thank you", added the AI after a pause.

"If anything, do not be shy, speak right away. It is better to carry out preventive maintenance once again and fix the little things right away than to bring you to the standard operation of the notification protocols. It will be cheaper and easier."

"Accepted."

"Okay, like it or not, but I have to practice," I sighed, yawned and took up the datapad.

* * *

The teacher, unfortunately, slept through very unsuccessfully, by that time I had just gone to bed myself. Perhaps it would be worth waiting for him, then he would definitely not get drunk as a fool. And it's all Pif-Paf's fault! Who asked him to take the initiative, when the Jedi, who was hanging around, was asking the age-old question "what to do" aloud? Advisor, damn it. In general, as you know, "an inaccurate hangover leads to a long drinking bout." The teacher healed so much that he safely got drunk and fell back to sleep. Praise the Force that he did not want to call anyone. As a result, the second time we woke up at the same time, about thirty or forty minutes before reaching the finish line, that is, to the end of the transit.

"May I help you, master? I know some medical techniques. I was even praised by my teachers for my success in their application."

"Uh-huh," the teacher replied suffering from the wildest hangover.

Concentrating. I had fallen into a light trance. I change the light of the Force passing through me to greenish. Actually, everything is much more complicated there, but if you visualize it like this, it somehow turns out easier. True, everything is individual here. Someone warms up, someone changes the taste, I prefer to work through colours. I start moving my paws around the teacher's thick pumpkin. He turned from a pale grey something before our eyes turns into a rosy-cheeked dead man with gorgeous circles under the eyes. Straight lemur, not a Jedi Knight turned out. In general, sensei came to life and even beamed. Apparently, I was not praised in vain.

"How are you feeling, master?"

"Much better, thanks."

"After being poisoned, if the body has recovered enough and Force Treatment Techniques have been used, it is recommended to eat something hot. Something fat is the best. Should I make you meat broth?

"No, thank you, you already helped," the teacher waved, clearly embarrassed by concern, suffering from remorse and simply not knowing how to behave. - "I can order the broth myself",- the mentor finished somewhat annoyed.

"As you say, sensei," I shrugged my shoulders, habitually duplicating the emotions expressed by the movement of my tail.

Nemak, well, I'm with him at the same time, moved into our kitchen-dining room. The teacher asked what his Padawan wishes. The Padawan naturally wanted meat, meat, and more meat. Well, yeah, a predator I am. Nature-s. In principle, the salads there are different, especially with seafood, and other grass I can chew on. It will even benefit me, but still, my main diet is meat food.

"A lightly fried steak with blood is great," stated the obvious, clearing the dishes.

"I prefer other foods," said the mentor, with a slight grimace.

"It's a matter of taste," I didn't argue with the obvious, looking sympathetically at Sensei, as at a hopelessly ill, but still beloved relative.

"We're getting out of the jump," the AI reported, immediately starting the countdown.

"Master, I'll run to the bridge. Who knows," - vaguely twitching my ear asking the dragonfly, without waiting for an answer. I slept, ate, and that's what pulls me to do something, run somewhere and just fool around. Hormones running wild.

"Boo-boo-boo," the active jaw-working sensei replied, he was just starting on the second one. Hungry during sleep. Understandable. I even sympathize. After all, alcohol does not replace food, even if it is a rather high-calorie thing.

While I was stuck in the hold, wasting time uselessly, the master was intensively engaged in fencing. The truth that ghostly mentors are chasing sensei's tail and mane, I found out a bit later. When I finished with the duties of a supercargo, I could not restrain myself and showed curiosity. Pif, of course, immediately satisfied it. It was interesting to me what the teacher on the ship toiled for so long. He did not even grace himself to appear in the hold. To be honest, I thought that he was stupidly sleeping, but it turned out that he was training with sweat on his brows. Commendable. I wholeheartedly approve-s and keep it up. Apparently, sensei is getting ready to spar with me. Well, I can understand him with all my limbs. One thing is frustrating - we will not be able to cross blades soon. What Nemak did on the record was, to put it mildly, not very good. For some Padawan, quite a decent level, but for a knight, in my opinion, complete darkness. Maybe my requirements are just too high? Actually, what do I want from a mentor? He became a Padawan at fourteen, after which no one did much fencing with him. He himself, as I understand it, was also not too zealous. Either there was no time due to constant meditations, or something else. What's the difference! The main thing is the result. There he is, a sighing result, froze on pause.

If we happen to get together now in training sparring, I will have to try very hard, I will have to somehow get out and lose or win so as not to infringe on sensei's pride. Rrrr, how many problems with him. Here, calm down. The teacher is not hopeless, since he took up training. That he is embarrassed to demonstrate his skills is understandable. Youth, pride, brains bruised by the code and lulled by a peculiar idea of ​​the role of a master. In general, everything is more or less clear here. All that is required of me now is not to interfere. Ideally, give the mentor the opportunity to train, which means, hmm, I will focus on meditation and practising Force techniques. Let's free the training room, let him jump in it as much as he wants. We'll see, in two or three months, he will improve his skills so that he can lose beautifully, well, or at least naturally. Yes, the fight must be lost anyway. This will benefit the sensei. He's too insecure. Eh, if it weren't for the stupid schedule, I could go for a walk, but... okay, we'll breakthrough.

And so we went. I train during the flight, leaning on meditations and techniques, for the most part, I sit in my own cabin or lower hold. The teacher does not object, praises even, says that he is proud and generally approves, and he himself tears the veins in the former observation gallery. Still, during the loading and unloading operations on the portside cantinas, he would not have shied away - he would not have a price. Alas, my sensei is ram-like. A lousy coincidence of circumstances, well, or fate and the will of the Force, then who cares. It's all about that ill-fated pilot.

Nemak, who finally slept well and recovered, did not forget about the intel. He had sent a long message to the order, and there, unexpectedly, they took it, and forwarded the information to the brothers who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those, of course, did not sit idly by, they checked, and, after all, bad luck, they found some pseudo-pirates covered by a small rank from the Justice Corps. In short, everything ended with the fact that we were sent a message in which the masters personally, albeit in writing, expressed their gratitude and approval. As for me, it was a standard video with approval, it was too much praise and the wording was streamlined. But that was more than enough for the teacher.

He was aroused and is now actively trying to get drunk. Okay, okay, I'm exaggerating, he didn't get drunk anymore, he even started practising something from healing, but still, I don't like it. I tried to talk, got the task to meditate, and in general, he already found out a lot of useful things about what is happening in the outer rinm of worlds. An attempt to hand over a selection of materials collected by Pif and processed by me was not successful. You see, they don't inspire confidence. The network is so muddy in general. Uh-huh, strays on the camp worlds of the Outer Rim are certainly the most reliable and utterly unquestionable source of information.

Somewhere after the second dozen planets on which I happened to fulfil the role of a supercargo, clients began to merge into some kind of single spot. A certain average image of consignors and consignees has appeared. Both those and these differed little from each other. Thoughts, aspirations, expectations, everything was somehow faded grey. It became wildly boring to work, it was not interesting to delve into other people's heads, to listen to the same thing - in general, it made me feel nauseous and, apart from a dull roar, did not cause anything. Funnily enough, I really enjoyed travelling and trucking. There was a feeling of bringing real benefit, but the stupid sticking around in the hold was murderous. In general, I suffered a little more, and meditated, but I did not comprehend Zen. After visiting the fortieth point of the route, I decided to talk to the mentor again.

"Master, I stopped learning anything new. For me, all clients have become the same person, their stories are not much different from one another and ..."

"No droids, Padawan. You must learn to work with different sentient and develop the core of the will," - Nemak stopped the prepared speech in the bud.

"Master!"- I didn't back down. "How can I learn to work with different sentients if everyone I have to deal with is the same person?! They don't really differ from each other except for their looks!"

"That's great," Sensei smiled, "your task will be to find differences between our clients from each other."

"Very well, master, as you say. But maybe we'll practice with swords? We fly so much, but we have never worked with blades."

"No," - after some thought, the mentor decided, - "now we are not ready yet. You need to wait, meditate, and work out Force techniques. Yes! Exactly! Focus on meditation."

"As you say, teacher," I waved my tail, "I'll go to meditating."

"That's right, I'll join you later," Nemak nodded.

Okay, plan A didn't work, so we'll use a spare. I'm tired of hanging around in the hold, and here also time allows. In general, I got to my cabin, sat down on the rug, tugged at my tail, and after thinking it over again, I decided. It should work! Not good, of course, but losing tenths of hours regularly is enough for me!

"Pif, I'm sorry, buddy, but I'm going to break you a little now."

"It's okay, I understand everything and in general, I find

Jedi Knight Nemak's behaviour being irrational, illogical, and just plain stupid."

"No, it's just, hmm, the peculiarities of temple upbringing and worldview of the order."

"You know better, Mirr-dono. Happy birthday, by the way."

"Thank you, I must admit, I somehow forgot about it."

"Also the features of temple education?"- showed curiosity AI.

"Uh-huh, few of the children remember such a holiday, and it's not always honoured, well, emotions, and it's somehow not customary for younglings to stand out from the crowd, unless, of course, they want to find teachers as soon as possible and become Padawans.".

"Everywhere has its customs."

"Well yes, yes. Okay, hold on, my friend, I'll spoil the superconducting windings in the coils. Which ones are the worn-down ones?"

"The second, fourth and seventh have recently begun to sag more than usual."

"Understood, now we will write them off ahead of schedule."

"What do you think Mirr-dono, will we be able to get the set of droids required by the requirements?"

"Yes, we would at least squeeze a couple of drones out of a mentor, what happiness it will be then."

"I would be interested in controlling them," Pif-Paf answered after a pause.

His personality is developing, ow how it is developing. Look, it's interesting for him to look at the world through the prism of a different platform. In fact, Pif tries to hide his intelligence, individuality and development. He doesn't want to be wiped. He remembers his past state and does not want to return to it. I understand him perfectly, I myself suffer because of my transmigrated nature. So, in a sense, we are in the same boat. Only Pif has no opportunity to escape and somehow resist the fate. Certainly less than mine. Scratched my ear, chuckled at untimely thoughts about the relationship of souls, and waved them away. Let them lie down in the far corner of the mind, let them wait their turn. There are more important things. To break it gently is not so easy.

"Curiosity is not a vice, but the engine of progress," I snorted, purred, and reached out in the Force to the coils.

"Execution of the command is impossible," Pif duplicated the message that was now sounding in the bridge. He has a good vocoder, malice conveys perfectly.

Nemak understood technology at an average level. Having received a report from the AI ​​and realizing that he could not cope on his own, he acted like any reasonable person - he turned to specialists. Soon a platform with a round-shouldered man of indeterminate age and four droids rolled up to us. The robots quickly dismantled the coils, identified the malfunction and reported to the owner. He tried to cheat the teacher by inflating the price, but failed. Still, blatantly lying to a trained gifted person - you must be completely stupid. In general, the man was upset, received the money, made a replacement and left without saying goodbye.

"It is unlikely that we will find even such service in the worlds of the Outer Rim," I attempted to make a ball rowing.

"There won't be any problems in the industrialized worlds," the teacher objected, but not too confidently.

Still, there was some benefit to his visits to the cantinas. After all, his main interlocutors were complainers, which created an appropriate picture of the world. However, it was not too far from reality, except that it was overly emotional and a little embellished.

"Our ship, according to the requirements, should be equipped with a set of robot technicians, plus loader drones, a med droid and a couple of android stewards.

"What are these for?" Nemak was surprised.

"They are universal, they can replace a retired crew member, besides, Pif can also be a cargo-and-passenger ship. It's not for the captain to take care of the maintenance and look after the order on the decks."

"Actually, it's the latter that is its responsibility."

"Well, the captain, in principle, is responsible for everything that happens "on" and "with" the ship,"" I flicked my ear. "Anyway, it's worth buying a couple of drones and a tech droid. There", - I waved my paw somewhere in the direction of the local moon that had crawled out from behind the cloud, - "not only will it be three times more expensive to replace an ordinary coil, but also someone who can handle it, you need to be able to find."

"You're probably right," Nemak nodded after thinking, and I almost started dancing. - "Weren't you ready to assemble a protocol droid from decommissioned spare parts?" he gave a questioning look.

"Yes, master. The current routine is tiresome, and it translates better than a mobile unit. It certainly knows more languages, and can instruct about the customs, it will always advise and give information. It is useful to have such a helper in the Outer Rim," I began to spill like a nightingale.

"If so, craft us a technician droid and drones," Sensei clipped my wings.

"I'll do it, master," - hell it will upset me, I'll drag so many spare parts that a crowd of machinery will form here.

"Good. After six systems, we will have a couple of days, you'll get at it then," the mentor demonstrated an excellent memory for the route.

"Yes, teacher."

"Okay, now let's go meditate."

"As you say, Nemak-dono."