Politics, I had come to realize, was infinitely more corrupt than the underworld. In the criminal circles of the Outer Rim, a blaster bolt to the gut was an honest transaction. You knew where you stood. If someone wanted you dead, they looked you in the eye or paid someone else to do it. But in the polished halls of the Core Worlds, despite my reputation and power, there was no end to the backstabbing, the snide side deals, and the poisonous whispers, all done in the name of progress and democracy.
Thankfully, I had my impotent Prime Minister to weather the storm.
Valen stood before my desk, ringing his hands. He was wearing the official sash of the Grove's Prime Minister, a garment that looked impressive but held about as much authority as a napkin.
"Master Bee," Valen stammered, his face pale. "The Trade Regulation representative is furious. He says the blockade on the Hydian Way is a violation of the Galactic Free Trade Accord. He is threatening sanctions. He is threatening to drag me before the Supreme Court."
I took a slow sip of my caf, watching the poor man sweat. "Let him threaten, Valen. What can he actually do to you?"
"He says he will seize my assets!" Valen cried.
"You don't have any assets," I reminded him gently. "You live in a house I own, you fly a ship I lease to you for one credit a year, and your bank account is managed by my firm. If they seize your assets, they are just seizing my dust."
"But the Senate," Valen argued, wiping his forehead. "They are demanding I sign the new taxation treaty. They say if I don't sign, they will embargo the Grove."
"Then tell them you need to consult your constituents," I said. "And since I am your only constituent, and I say no, then the answer is no."
Deals would be done with Valen, and if they were good for the whole of my empire, I wouldn't need to stand in the way. But if they were bad, it didn't matter. The Minister didn't have the power to enforce them. The Senate complained until they were blue in the face, but there was little they could do. The contracts were signed by the Minister, and legally, he had no say in how my Grove was run.
If the Senate pushed too hard and demanded I join personally and sign their restrictive contracts, I would simply leave altogether. I held the cards. They could have a fake Minister who could make deals and trade, or they could have nothing. And in a galaxy starving for resources, it was always better to have something than nothing.
Still, I learned a lot during these months. I learned the intricacies of the dirty side of politics. It was a lesson in obstructionism. It was something that I decided to apply to the underworld to help it run better. Or worse, depending on who you were.
One of the most powerful tools I discovered was red tape.
In the Senate, red tape was used to control factions through inaction. It was weaponized boredom. I realized the underworld had a version of this, but it was crude. If someone had to be killed in Hutt space, that person might be protected. You would have to visit people, get their permission, and pay off the correct capos. This helped to stop high-level criminals from being whacked by a low-level snot bag looking to make a name for himself. There were repercussions for killing someone important, and the more power they had, the fiercer the revenge.
But apart from kickbacks and high-level hits, there was little regulation. That was the beautiful thing about the underworld. You could get things done fast.
I decided to change that. I introduced financial red tape.
The problem most criminals faced was success. When a mercenary crew or a pirate gang got a big score, they didn't know what to do with it. You couldn't just walk into the Bank of the Core and deposit ten million credits marked "Stolen Goods." There were too many ways to trace the credits back to illegal gains.
This was where I came in.
"Unit 5," I said one afternoon, looking over the holographic interface of my new banking server. "Show me the transaction flow for the Crimson Dawn syndicate."
"Displaying now, sir," the droid replied. "They have deposited four million credits into the laundering system. They wish to withdraw it in clean, untraceable bonds."
With my new programs, I set up a simple way to launder their credits. I gave criminals a way to spend their cash how they saw fit without fear of losing everything to the Republic tax collectors. It would take a couple of days, but they would get their loot, clean and fresh.
But this was where the red tape came in.
"Pause the transaction," I ordered.
"Sir?" Unit 5 asked. "If we delay, they might get agitated."
"Let them be agitated," I said. "I see a transfer request here. They want to pay a contractor on Nar Shaddaa. Run a background check on the recipient."
Unit 5 processed the data. "The recipient is a freelance demolition expert. Known for working with rivals of the Pyke Syndicate."
"And the Pykes are currently buying a lot of bacta from us," I mused. "If Crimson Dawn blows up a Pyke shipment, I lose money."
If someone paid an assassin credits to kill someone, they would have to wait for the cash to be cleared by my program. But as my program was cleaning the credits, it was also checking where, when, and how. My program was checking to make sure that I and my interests were being protected.
"Deny the transfer," I said. "Tell them there is a... banking error. Tell them the servers are undergoing maintenance. Hold their money for three days. By then, the Pyke shipment will have arrived."
This was power. I controlled the flow of blood money across the sector.
A few days later, I had a meeting with a mercenary captain named Garek. He was a Weequay with leathery skin and a temper that matched his blaster. He stormed into my office, slamming his fist on my desk.
"Bee!" Garek shouted. "My boys are hungry. We did the job. We stole the cargo. We put the credits in your system. Why can't I access my funds?"
I sat calmly, peeling a piece of exotic fruit. "Garek, my friend. Please, sit down. You look stressed."
"I don't want to sit!" he yelled. "I want my credits! Your system says 'Pending Approval'. What is there to approve? It is my money!"
"It is your money," I agreed. "But you are trying to use it to buy heavy repeaters from a dealer in the spinward sector."
"So what?" Garek snarled. "It's a free galaxy."
"It is," I said, my voice dropping a little. "But that dealer is currently on my blacklist. He sold faulty parts to one of my shipyards last month. I don't do business with him, and therefore, money that flows through my system doesn't do business with him."
Garek stared at me, his mouth opening and closing. "You... you're telling me I can't buy guns because you have a grudge against the shopkeeper?"
"I am telling you that if you want your money cleared instantly, you will buy your repeaters from my armory instead," I smiled. "I will even give you a five percent discount."
Garek looked at me, then at the two massive war droids standing in the corner. He sighed, defeated. "Fine. Give me the catalogue."
You might think that only hardcore criminals would use this system, but it was the politicians who used it the most. Bribes, kickbacks, and gifts all found their way into the open hands of politicians. They were interconnected, which gave me massive amounts of blackmail power.
Senator Drost came to visit me personally. He was a slimy man from a mid-rim industrial world, always wearing silk robes that cost more than a starfighter.
"Mr. Bee," Drost said, sitting across from me with a fake smile plastered on his face. "We need to talk about your shipping lanes. The Senate is considering a new tariff. A very steep tariff. Unless, of course, certain... accommodations can be made."
He was shaking me down. It was adorable.
"Senator," I said, leaning back. "I don't think you want to do that."
"Oh?" Drost raised an eyebrow. "And why is that? Do you think your puppet Minister can stop me?"
"No," I said. "But I think your wife might have something to say about it."
Drost's smile faltered. "My wife? What are you talking about?"
I tapped a button on my desk. A hologram appeared, displaying a long list of transactions.
"You use the 'Golden Nexus' holding firm to manage your finances, don't you Senator?" I asked. "A very private, very discreet firm."
"I... I have investments," he stammered.
"Yes," I said. "Investments. I see a monthly transfer of five thousand credits to a young Twi'lek dancer on Coruscant. I see a purchase of a luxury speeder registered in her name. And I see a very large deposit from the Techno Union just days before you voted against the workers' rights bill."
Drost turned the color of ash. "How... how do you have this?"
"I own the bank, Senator," I said coldly. "I own the laundering software you use to hide your bribes. I know every credit you touch."
There was no end to the stupid and egotistical in politics who thought that they could win against me. The power they had wasn't a fraction of what I could release, but they couldn't understand what I could do to them until it was too late. However, they fully understood loss and gain. A simple message calling out their nasty deeds would be enough to end their careers.
"What do you want?" Drost whispered, looking at the floor.
"The tariff bill dies in committee," I said. "And you will publicly commend the Grove for its humanitarian efforts in the Outer Rim."
"Done," Drost said, standing up on shaky legs. "Is that all?"
"For now," I said. "Run along, Senator. And tell your mistress the speeder comes with a warranty. I'm not a monster."
It was odd. I was a big part of the underworld, but I had more control over the political world. It just went to show that the Senate was more corrupt than the underworld. There was honor among thieves. If you shook a Hutt's hand, the deal was solid until one of you died. But there were no gentlemen in the world of politics. They would smile at you while stabbing you in the kidney with a legislative pen.
I felt better than I had in years. I am sure that there isn't anyone I couldn't get to, anyone I couldn't bend to my will, anyone I couldn't bribe or trade. I think this may be the safest I have been.
And it was all thanks to my spyware.
I sat in my control room, surrounded by screens. My code, the living maze I had written with the help of the Force, was now embedded in banking terminals, communication arrays, and droid processors across half the galaxy.
I kept my eye on the powerful. I had feeds running on the Jedi Temple. I could see the Council meetings, though the audio was often scrubbed. I watched the Hutts on Nal Hutta, counting their credits and plotting their turf wars. I watched the Yaka, though their erratic behavior usually gave me a headache.
No matter how much I expected it, nothing majorly bad happened. There were the usual political assassinations, which were just business as usual. The Jedi occasionally tried to muscle their way into my Eden ships to inspect for "illegal artifacts," or they tried to audit my healing halls, but nothing like the war I had prepared for.
"It is quiet," I murmured. "Almost too quiet."
"Peace is good for business," Unit 5 noted.
"Peace is a lie," I quoted softly, a remnant of a darker philosophy I had studied. "But profit is real."
It was the golden age. My coffers were overflowing. My enemies were either on my payroll or trapped in my red tape. My technology was generations ahead of the competition.
I leaned back in my chair, the hum of the Eden ship vibrating through me. I was the spider in the center of a web made of gold and data.
"It could get better," I said to the empty room. "We just need to make sure we are the ones holding the detonator when the peace finally breaks."
"Shall I schedule a massage, sir?" Unit 5 asked, breaking the mood.
"Yes," I laughed. "And bring me the plans for the Dyson swarm. I think it is time we started thinking about legacy."