Sylvestri Yarrow looked at the balance sheet before her and tried not to scream. Why hadn’t anyone warned her how expensive it was to own a ship? Between the rising cost of fuel and the Nihil threat forcing them to alter their routes, she and her crew were barely scraping by. Once the shipment of gnostra berry wine—the most lucrative cargo they’d had in months—was delivered, there would still be a slight shortfall from their last fuel pickup in Port Haileap. Not to mention the bill they still owed on Batuu. At this rate she was going to be in debt to half of the galaxy.

And she still hadn’t paid her taxes from the last couple of hauls.

Syl leaned back in her seat in the cockpit of the Switchback, her pride and current frustration, and watched the peaceful blue of hyperspace stream by. The cockpit was dark enough that she could clearly see her own reflection in the glass, and the dark-skinned face that looked back at her was long past worried. It was positively distraught, and if her copilot, Neeto, saw her he would know things were bad. Syl took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and forced herself to think.

There had to be an answer. Longer routes? Hauling passengers? Doubling fees, which were already higher than they had been a year ago? What was the magical equation that would make shipping profitable, especially in a time when the Nihil—space pirates without any sense of honor or self-preservation—plagued the shipping lanes?

Syl didn’t know, and trying to puzzle it out was giving her a headache.

“Em-Two,” she said, opening her eyes and turning toward the droid sitting in the copilot’s seat. “I think we might be in trouble.”

The droid turned its head with a shrieking sound, and Syl winced. “And we need to quit buying you that cheap oil.” She grabbed the nearby oil can and went to work on the droid’s joints. At over two hundred years old, M-227 was the oldest droid Syl had ever met. Like the Switchback, he had been part of Syl’s inheritance when her mother was killed by Nihil raiders and one of the few things Syl could call her own. She should have traded him away, but she couldn’t bring herself to sell the droid. He was like family. He reminded her there had once been better times.

Just a few months ago, in fact. It was a time that Syl had started thinking of as before. Before the Nihil had destroyed a good portion of Valo and killed hundreds of thousands of people. Before the Republic had realized they were a threat. Syl’s mother, Chancey Yarrow, had known the Nihil were dangerous from the beginning. She’d joined with a number of other shippers to demand that the frontier planets align and try to nullify the threat. But it hadn’t done much good.

It hadn’t stopped Chancey from losing her life to the raiders, either.

Syl dashed sudden tears from her eyes.

“Please. Do not worry,” M-227 said in his stilted voice. His speech box hadn’t been updated in years, just one more task that Syl had been putting off until she had some extra funds.

“Too late,” Syl whispered, mostly to herself. She rested her head in her hands and took a deep breath, running her fingers through her dark, frizzy curls until they stood even farther out from her head. Syl loved the Switchback. She loved flying through the darkness of space and jumping into the cool blue of hyperspace. She enjoyed meeting new people and going to places that seemed impossibly strange and exciting. And most of all, she loved that no one questioned her about any of it. She had far more independence than so many other eighteen-year-olds in the galaxy.

But at this rate she wasn’t going to be able to feed herself, let alone repair the finicky hyperdrive or improve the engines the way she’d wanted to.

The Switchback came out of hyperspace with a bump, and every single proximity alarm began to blare all at once.

“I leave for one minute and things go sideways,” Neeto Janajana said, strolling down the corridor from the crew mess. The Sullustan did not run, just stretched out his legs a bit more. Syl sometimes wondered if he knew the meaning of “hurry up” or if that was just something he didn’t believe in, like minding his own business.

“I didn’t do anything. We just got kicked out of hyperspace. This seems to be a bit early,” Syl said, looking at the readouts. She put the balance sheet to the side. No need for Neeto to know they were not just broke, but hemorrhaging credits. He might seem unflappable, but the threat of indenture could get a rise out of anyone, and he’d been down that road once before.

M-227 stood with a screeching of metal, and Neeto sat down in the copilot’s seat, taking the droid’s place. He frowned, the ridges around his large black eyes narrowing a bit. “Well, it wasn’t debris. Otherwise you and I would be having this conversation with a lot less oxygen.”

Syl nodded. “Running diagnostics right now to see what happened.”

“Good idea. Although I will say this feels a bit too familiar.”

Syl agreed. When they’d lost her mother there had been a bit of strangeness before the attack: weird readouts, alarms, and then the sudden appearance of ships bearing down on them. But surely it couldn’t be the Nihil? M-227 had planned a route that avoided any sector that had ever had any reported sightings of the marauders. It should have been safe.

Syl pushed her worries aside and began to run the diagnostic on the hyperdrive as the ship drifted. It was standard procedure. It wasn’t common for a ship to get knocked out of hyperspace, but with the Switchback’s sketchy hyperdrive it happened occasionally. And just like that, Syl was worrying about credits all over again.

“This is wrong,” Neeto said, dragging Syl from her despair spiral. “Did you see this? It looks like we somehow circled back to the Berenge system. Nothing out here but a dead star and a whole bunch of nothing.”

Syl blinked as a number of ships appeared on her readout. “How—nonononono. Not again.”

Neeto looked out the viewscreen. “Is that… ?” he asked, voice low.

She and Neeto exchanged a look, and a chill ran down her spine. “Nihil,” she said.

Neeto nodded. “Sure enough. They must have discovered a way to kick ships out of hyperspace without damaging them. But I am not about to sit around and ask them for the recipe.”

Syl nodded, all of her worry now focused on the ships bearing down on them. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Already on it,” Neeto said, flipping switches.

The Switchback powered up and moved around, away from the approaching ships and back toward the spot where they’d been ejected from hyperspace.

“I can’t find a single beacon,” Neeto said.

“Can we jump without a destination?” Syl asked, trying to cycle the navicomputer so that it could calibrate the path. It was a rhetorical question. She knew the answer; she just didn’t much like it.

“It’s not a good idea, but it’s preferable to whatever our friends on the approach have planned. And yes, I know. But it’s a risk we have to take.”

Syl grimaced. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“All right, hold on,” Neeto said, rerouting all of the ship’s power to the hyperdrive to help them jump just that much faster. Any other ship would have been caught by surprise by such an attack, but Syl and Neeto had tangled with the Nihil before. They knew this dance.

That was, of course, when the engine blew.

The sound of the ship shutting down, of every component losing power, left a cold lump of dread in Syl’s middle. “Oh no. Not now.”

Neeto grimaced. “I’m guessing that the coaxium regulator couldn’t wait to be replaced, after all,” he said, not a hint of fear or stress entering his voice. The only sign that he was not having a great day was the extra line that had appeared between his large, liquid eyes.

“We’re spine fish in a barrel,” Neeto said. “We have to evacuate.”

“No,” Syl said. Her fear hadn’t lessened at all, but she straightened just a bit.

“Yes. The Nihil want the ship, which we do not have time to fix. If we run we can maybe save our lives. I doubt they’d notice an escape pod. Em-Two-Two-Seven? Tell Syl our odds of survival if we evacuate now. Before they get to us.”

M-227 turned creakily. “Evacuation is best.”

“No,” Syl said, hunching over in her seat. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilled at the idea of leaving the Switchback. “This is all I have, Neeto. And you know running is not my style. If the Nihil want my ship, then they can take it from me. Betty and I can handle them.” Syl reached down and pulled the modified blaster rifle from its holster under the control panel. It had been a joke when her mother had first given her the rifle, naming it after her childhood doll. But the name had stuck, and Syl and Betty were a lethal combo. She’d never missed a shot with the snub-barreled blaster rifle, and it had only been because of the gas the Nihil used that she hadn’t stopped the marauders who’d boarded their ship the day her mother was killed.

Neeto sighed. “Syl.”

“A captain doesn’t quit their ship, no matter how bleak things get.” Syl blinked away hot tears and turned back to Neeto. “This is all I have left.”

Neeto stood and pointed through the cockpit’s window, to the ships approaching. “How many people do you think have died just like your mother? We have to tell someone what is happening out here. Do you think the Republic or the Jedi know that the Nihil can now kick ships out of hyperspace? They’ve already killed so many, but this means that not even hyperspace is safe. We have to let someone on Coruscant know. Otherwise, how will we keep other haulers safe?”

Syl blinked, and M-227 began to move toward the escape pod like a very old man, each movement punctuated by a squeal of rusty hinges. Syl knew they were right, but in this moment she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to do the smart thing. She wanted her heart to stop breaking.

“The Switchback is my home,” Syl said.

“It’s my home, too,” Neeto said, his voice clogged with emotion. “And I promise you we will get it back. But first, we have to survive.”

Syl nodded and reluctantly stood, sliding Betty into the backpack holster she wore. And then she ran to the escape pod with Neeto and M-227, fleeing for her life, giving up one of the last things she had left of her mother.

They made it to the escape pod just as the sounds of the Nihil breaching the air lock reverberated through the ship. As they launched out into the darkness of space, Syl’s thoughts were only for the Switchback.

She would do everything in her power to get her ship back.

Either that, or she would extract its price in Nihil blood.

Ах, если бы, ах если бы, не жизнь была б, а песня бы. Однако во времена моего детства ребёнок 7 лет, возвращающийся из школы сам - это было само собой разумеется, учителя даже не особо спрашивали, даже если оному ребёнку надо было ехать на транспорте. Если ребёнка даже в 6 лет посылали в магазин, то продавец просто смотрела, не положил ли он сдуру деньги в бидон, прежде чем наливать туда молоко или сметану, а если продавец была достаточно дружелюбной, то могла переспросить, ничего ли он не забыл. А сейчас могут отказать обслуживать, а родителям пригрозить вызвать опеку, так как до 12 лет по закону ребёнок не только никуда не может ходить без сопровождения родителей, он не может даже дома один оставаться. До 15 лет ребёнок не может сам пойти к врачу. И с бабушкой не может, если у той от родителей нет нотариальной доверенности. Иначе есть риск опять же опеки. А когда я в 2019 году дома лежала с обширными ожогами и послала сына в аптеку с рецептом от врача на антибиотики, дезинфектор, ангиопротектор и перевязочные материалы, то его обслужили только с моего скандала по телефону, типа несовершеннолетних не обслуживаем, приходите сами. А мне блин тогда до туалета дойти было проблемой. По рецепту врача! В советское время подростка даже меньшего возраста обслужили бы без вопросов. А ещё, так для справки, по закону, дети до 18 лет не имеют права находиться вне дома без сопровождения родителей после 22:00. Эта норма дико бесит родителей одиннадцатиклассников, которые готовятся к поступлению в вузы и зачастую бегают по курсам и репетиторам, а также студентов первого курса вечерних отделений, если они не живут в родном городе у меня в вузе было несколько историй как раз со студентами-вечерниками, скандал с полицией улаживал деканат. Но формально по закону, 17-летнего подростка на улице после 22:00 должны направить в детприёмник и принудительно водворить домой, а родителей оштрафовать, дабы не отпускали деточку одну. И то, что деточка учится и работает, никого не волнует. Для сравнения, у меня дед в 17 лет в военное училище поступил, а в 19 защищал Ленинград. А у нас разговоры про то... как это деточек в армию в 18 лет, как это им оружие давать, они ещё маленькие, давайте поднимем планку до 21. Для сравнения, в 19 и начале 20 века формально можно было выходить замуж без согласия родителей с 16 лет, жениться то же можно, только никто не отпустит дочь за салагу, который пока не особо зарабатывает. У нас брачный возраст с 18, но разговоры идут о поднять его не то до 21, не то до 25 даже, а то деточки маленькие, рано им жениться. Как это сочетается с тем, что после 25 женщина считается старородящей - вопрос не ко мне. Так что искусственная инфантилизация налицо, и это не про крепкие напитки и табак отнюдь. И маааленький такой довесок. Я не знаю, что у нас с методиками преподавания, но сейчас будущих врачей просто замордовывают в медвузах, а когда училась моя прабабушка на медфаке МГУ, она могла позволить себе какой-нибудь блок сдать досрочно и уехать погулять в Ленинград. При этом врачей такого класса, который мог по состоянию радужки и глазного дна поставить диагноз, для постановки которого при современной диагностики куча анализов, УЗИ, КТ, и всё равно зевают через раз, где сейчас найти можно? Редкий зверь, практически краснокнижный. Или жена её брата. После ЖЕНСКОЙ гимназии, где образование было куда слабее, чем в мужских, и даже без всяких Бестужевских Курсов баба Нина всю жизнь работала в УПДК, была личным референтом послов. А после её ухода на пенсию с её работой 3 выпускницы МГИМО не справлялись. Так что вопрос не только в том, чему учить, но и видимо как.