The transition from the lush, high-canopy cathedrals of Kashyyyk to the rust-colored, smog-choked horizons of Ord Mantell was a localized aesthetic tragedy that Revan Shan met with a lopsided grin and a fresh Naboo spice-latte. It was the turn of 103 BBY, and the Black Pearl drifted into the atmosphere of the "Scrapper's Paradise" with its Automatic Stealth Generator set to "Background Industrial Noise." To the local authorities, they were just another freighter full of scrap; to the Force, they were a pocket of absolute, sassy intent.
Revan sat in his Sovereign's Command Chair, which was currently angled at a forty-two-degree "Exploratory Slump." Chewbacca, comfortably ensconced in his oversized Co-Captain's Chair, let out a resonant, inquisitive growl.
"I know, Chewie," Revan replied, petting Calculus while Theorem attempted to hunt the blinking lights on the navigation console. "According to my 4th Doctorate in Advanced Engineering, Ord Mantell is 90% garbage and 10% bad decisions. But according to my heart, it's a giant toy box. Somewhere in those junkyards is a piece of history that doesn't know it's missing yet."
The Junkyard Audit: 103 BBY
The Black Pearl landed in a secluded sector of the Ten Mile Plateau, a vast expanse of crashed starships and discarded logic cores. The air tasted of ozone and oxidized durasteel. Revan stepped off the ramp, his black Phrik-weave robes billowing, followed by HK-47, Eleven, and D6.
"Right then," Revan muttered, pulling his Sonic Screwdriver from his belt. "According to my 8th Doctorate in Ancient Art & Archaeology, we're looking for a specific resonance. Something pre-Republic. Something... homicidal, but polite."
"Statement: Master, my sensors indicate a high concentration of obsolete, rusting meatbag-constructs," HK-47 whirred, his electrostaff sparking. "Observation: This place is a cemetery for inferior logic. I find it remarkably soothing."
Revan ignored the droid's macabre sentiment and closed his eyes, utilizing Force Precognition and a localized Mechu-deru pulse to feel the layers of scrap beneath their feet.
> The Scrapyard Resonance Variable (\Psi_{junk}):
> By his internal audit, Revan wasn't just scanning for metal; he was looking for a specific chronological 'stain' in the Force. The Sonic Screwdriver's cyan trill acted as a tuning fork, snapping through the interference of a thousand rusted freighters.
>
Whirrr-vwoop-trill!
"There," Revan pointed to a massive pile of blackened hull plating from a defunct Hammerhead-class cruiser. "Eleven, D6, get the mag-lifters. There's a ghost down there that needs a latte."
The Find: The HK-01 Chassis
Hours of excavation revealed a hidden vault within the wreckage—a pressurized containment unit that had survived four thousand years. Inside, buried under layers of inert coolant, sat a chassis that made HK-47 tilt his head in a rare display of droid-curiosity.
It was an HK-01 Series unit—the progenitor of the assassin droid line. It was bulkier, more primitive, and built with a structural philosophy that predated the Ruusan Reformations. Its chassis was a dark, matte alloy, etched with ancient logic-codes.
"According to my 10th Doctorate in Galactic History," Revan whispered, "this shouldn't be here. This is the prototype of the 'Great Droid Revolution.' It's different from you, 47. It was designed to lead, not just to execute."
"Query: Master, are you suggesting I have a cousin? Preliminary Assessment: I shall audit its memory core. If it is found to be insufficiently sassy, I suggest we utilize it as a footstool."
Revan laughed, the 11th Doctor's joy radiating. "We'll take it back to the Pearl. I suspect Miner is going to have a field day with this."
Local Delicacies and Local Thugs
The year on Ord Mantell wasn't all digging in the dirt. Revan and Chewie spent their afternoons in the Lady Fate Casino, eating Savrip Steaks (which Chewie insisted were "under-seasoned") and drinking Mantellian Sunrise cocktails.
The peace was inevitably broken by a group of Zeyalt Slavers who had mistaken the young-looking Jedi for an easy mark. They had cornered a group of local scrapper-orphans in the alleyway behind the casino.
Revan walked out of the back door, a lemon candy in one hand and his Sonic Screwdriver in the other. He didn't ignite his sabers. He didn't need to.
"According to my 3rd Doctorate in Sentient Sociology," Revan said, his voice dropping into the 12th Doctor's cold, clinical tone, "your business model is a localized failure of ethics. You're currently operating at a moral deficit, and I'm here to close the account."
"Get lost, kid," the lead slaver sneered, raising a blaster.
Revan didn't move. He utilized Force Stasis on the air molecules in front of the blaster, then used Mechu-deru to whisper to the slaver's weapon.
Whirrr-vwoop.
The blaster didn't fire. Instead, it let out a high-pitched, melodic chime and ejected its power cell into the mud.
"Try to be nice," Revan grinned, his sassy lopsided smile returning. "Do good. But never fail to be kind. Since you failed the 'Kindness Audit,' I believe my friend here would like to have a word."
Chewbacca stepped out of the shadows, letting out a roar that shattered the nearby windows. Within thirty seconds, the slavers were hanging by their ankles from a nearby crane, and the orphans were eating the rest of Chewie's steak.
The Sovereign's Nap: End of 103 BBY
By the end of the year, the Black Pearl was fully stocked with rare parts and the ancient HK-chassis. Revan sat in his chair, Theorem curled up on his left shoulder and Calculus on his right.
"Status, Cortana," Revan whispered, the chair reclining to the Calculated Nap Angle of 134.5 degrees.
"The HK-01 unit is secured in the workshop. The 90-million credit liquidity is stable, and the 3.41 billion in IGBC rods is currently earning 0.04% interest in a localized 'Kindness Fund'," Cortana reported. "Chewbacca is currently teaching Eleven how to play Dejarik. Eleven is losing, but he's cheating quite effectively."
"Brilliant," Revan yawned. "Adventure is the journey, D6. And Ord Mantell was a remarkably productive stop. According to my audit, 102 BBY is going to be even better."
He closed his eyes. The Maverick was at peace. The "Golden Age" of the Republic continued its slow, oblivious drift, but in the heart of a black freighter, the books were perfectly balanced.
"Try to be nice, galaxy," Revan murmured. "I'll see you at Corellia."