Chapter 4 : The Third Client
The abandoned droid factory smells like rust and burnt circuitry. Perfect place for the kind of business nobody wants witnesses for.
I arrive twenty minutes early—old habit from software project meetings, weirdly applicable to illegal arms deals. The factory floor stretches into shadow, conveyor belts frozen mid-assembly, dismembered battle droids scattered like mechanical corpses. The ceiling leaks somewhere. Water drips in steady rhythm.
My datapad pings: "Five minutes out. -N"
Nix. Human smuggler, mid-thirties, operates on the edge of organized crime without quite crossing into syndicate territory. Smart. Stay independent, stay alive. His message came through three intermediaries—word of mouth spreading faster than I'm comfortable with. "Off-world supplier with discrete inventory" is apparently my reputation now.
I pull up the System interface and navigate to his order: three thermal detonators. Military-grade explosives, compact enough to hide in a jacket, powerful enough to breach starship hulls. He claimed they're for "supply disruption." Which means robbery. Or terrorism. Or both.
The Appraisal function flickers when I think about him—I'd scanned his initial contact message yesterday, burning through one of my daily uses. The reading came back clean: nervous but determined, no deception indicators, credits verified as legitimate. Standard criminal contractor looking for tools.
[ THERMAL DETONATOR - CLASS V ]
[ CATALOG PRICE: 2000 CREDITS ]
[ MARKET VALUE: 2500 CREDITS ]
[ RECOMMENDED MARKUP: 25% ]
I'd quoted him 2,500 each. Total: 7,500 credits. He'd countered with 7,000 for all three. The haggling took ninety seconds. I accepted because the math works: costs me 6,000 to purchase through System, 10% service fee on the 7,000 sale means 700 credits to the System, profit of 300 credits after costs.
Not great margins. But steady accumulation beats desperate gambles.
Footsteps echo across the factory floor. Two figures emerge from the shadows—Nix and his partner. Rodian, judging by the snout and green-scaled skin. Both armed with blaster pistols worn openly. The Rodian's hand rests on his holster.
Nix raises his empty palm in greeting. "You're early."
"Professional habit."
He laughs—short, humorless bark. "I like that. Most dealers show up late, try to intimidate with tardiness. You're different."
"Different is good. Different means they don't know how to categorize me."
"You have the payment?" I ask.
He tosses a credit chip. I catch it and slot it into my datapad. The System scans automatically.
[ 7000 CREDITS VERIFIED ]
[ PROCEED WITH TRANSACTION? ]
I confirm mentally. The headache starts before the first detonator materializes—familiar spike of pain behind my eyes. I've learned to anticipate it, brace for the neural strain. My hand reaches into empty air and closes around solid metal. The Smuggler's Hold opens like a wound in reality that only I can see.
The detonator appears in my palm. Matte black cylinder, activation stud on top, compact and deadly. I hand it to Nix.
He examines it with professional interest—checks the charge indicator, tests the arming mechanism, weighs it carefully. "Quality manufacturing. Not Republic standard."
"Told you. Off-world sources."
The second detonator materializes. Worse headache. My vision blurs slightly but I keep my expression neutral. Nix doesn't notice—he's too focused on inspecting the merchandise. The Rodian partner watches me with unblinking eyes, but doesn't speak.
Third detonator. The pain spikes hard enough that I have to close my eyes for three seconds. When I open them, Nix is smiling.
"These will do nicely." He distributes them between himself and the Rodian—two in his bag, one in his partner's. "Pleasure doing business."
They leave without elaborating on what "supply disruption" means. I don't ask. Asking creates complicity—specific knowledge of criminal intent. Better to maintain plausible deniability.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 7000 ]
[ ITEMS PURCHASED: -6000 ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -700 ]
[ NET PROFIT: 300 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 19070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 3 ]
I lean against a rusted conveyor belt and wait for guilt to hit. The detonators will be used for crime. Probably violence. Maybe someone dies when they detonate. That's on me, at least partially. I'm the supply chain.
The guilt doesn't come.
Just cold satisfaction at seeing the balance increase. 19,070 credits. Three sales completed. The System has conditioned me efficiently—pain for using the tools, reward for making money, neutrality about consequences. Pavlovian arms dealing.
"When did this become so easy?"
I walk back through the Lower Levels, navigating the maze of catwalks and service corridors that connect this industrial sector to civilization. The crowds thicken as I approach the markets—the eternal churn of bodies buying, selling, surviving.
Jassi's stall appears ahead. I need supplies: food that isn't expired rations, basic medical kit, replacement power cell for my datapad. She spots me and waves me over.
"The successful merchant returns." Her tone is neutral but her lekku twitch—irritation or concern, I can't tell which.
I browse her inventory. "Need supplies."
"Everyone needs supplies. The question is whether they can afford them." She quotes prices as I point: nutrient packs (50 credits for a week's worth), medical kit (120 credits), power cell (40 credits). Fair rates. I transfer 210 credits without haggling.
She bags the items but doesn't hand them over immediately. "You're adapting fast. Most off-worlders either die or flee within first month. You're thriving."
I take the bag. "Is that a problem?"
"It worries me." She leans on her counter, studying my face. "Galaxy doesn't need more predators."
The accusation stings more than expected. "I'm surviving. That's not predatory."
"That's what all predators say." She doesn't elaborate, just returns to arranging her display. The conversation is over but her disappointment lingers like smoke.
I leave the market and head back to my hab-unit. The walk takes forty minutes—plenty of time to dissect her words. Predator. Am I? The thermal detonators will explode somewhere. Nix's "supply disruption" will hurt someone. I provided the tools knowing that.
But refusing wouldn't have stopped him. He'd have found another supplier. The violence was inevitable. I just profited from inevitability.
The rationalization feels too smooth. Too practiced. Like I've had this internal argument before and refined the logic.
My hab-unit is exactly as depressing as I left it. Thin mattress, broken lock, walls that transmit every neighbor's argument in high definition. I drop the supplies on the floor and pull up the System interface.
Three sales. Nineteen thousand credits. At this rate, reaching Store Level 2 requires forty-seven more sales and accumulating roughly five million credits in total revenue. That's years of work at current pace.
I need to scale. More clients. Bigger orders. Faster turnover.
The System catalog beckons—thousands of items still locked behind level requirements. Vehicles at Level 2. Capital ships at Level 3. Technology I can barely comprehend beyond that. Each level requires exponentially more sales, more revenue, more moral compromise.
"Is this worth it? Building a business on violence?"
I close the interface without answering my own question. Sleep comes hard, and when it does, I dream about conveyor belts manufacturing bodies instead of droids.
Morning brings news and opportunity in equal measure. My datapad pings with a message from an encrypted address:
"Require specialized equipment. Mutual contact suggests you can provide. 15,000 credits available. Reply for meeting."
Fifteen thousand. That's five times my biggest sale so far. I trace the message origin—bounces through fourteen proxies, ends at a dead address. Professional operational security.
I reply: "Available. Specify requirements and meeting location."
The response comes in ninety seconds: "Thermal detonators (3), jump kit with thirty-second boost capability, environmental seals rated for vacuum. Meet at coordinates attached. 1400 hours today. Come alone."
My stomach drops. The jump kit and environmental seals suggest orbital insertion. The detonators suggest target destruction. Combined, they paint a picture: someone's planning to infiltrate a space station or capital ship, plant explosives, escape in the chaos.
The Appraisal function triggers automatically when I focus on the message text:
[ SENDER ANALYSIS: INSUFFICIENT DATA ]
[ MESSAGE AUTHENTICITY: VERIFIED ]
[ PAYMENT CAPABILITY: CONFIRMED - 15000 CREDITS AVAILABLE ]
[ THREAT ASSESSMENT: MODERATE ]
I sit on my mattress and calculate. The equipment costs roughly 10,000 credits from the System catalog. Service fee takes 10%, leaving me 3,500 credits profit. Good margins. Professional client. High-value transaction.
Also: definitely terrorism. Or assassination. Or sabotage. Nothing good.
"You can refuse. System said no penalty for legitimate supply issues."
Except I have no legitimate reason to refuse. The client has credits. I have products. That's the entire transaction. Moral objections aren't "legitimate" in the System's eyes.
I accept the meeting.
The coordinates lead to another abandoned building—this one a former warehouse on Level 2156. I arrive early again, scouting the perimeter from a neighboring rooftop. No Security presence. No obvious ambush setup. Just empty industrial space waiting for bad decisions.
The client arrives precisely at 1400 hours: human male, late twenties, wearing nondescript gray jumpsuit. His movements are controlled, efficient. Military training, probably. His eyes scan the warehouse methodically before entering.
I drop through a service hatch and meet him at ground level.
"You're the supplier." Not a question. He's already identified me from description alone.
"You're the buyer. Show payment."
He transfers 7,500 credits—half now, half on delivery. Standard precaution. I accept and pull up the catalog on my datapad, showing him sanitized images of the equipment. He studies each item carefully.
"The jump kit—Titan technology?"
"Correct. Thirty seconds of boosted thrust, enough for orbital insertion or rapid extraction."
"You've sold these before?"
"You're my first client for this specific configuration." Honesty. Easier than maintaining lies.
He nods, apparently satisfied. "I need them in six hours. Can you deliver?"
Six hours. That's fast. Suspicious. But 15,000 credits is 15,000 credits.
"I can deliver in four."
We arrange the drop location and he leaves without small talk. Professional. Dangerous. Definitely about to commit some spectacular violence.
I materialize the equipment in the warehouse's back room. Each item tears through my skull—the headache builds with every use of the Smuggler's Hold. The jump kit is worst: complex technology, heavy mass, sustained thirty seconds to pull through. By the time I finish, blood is running from my nose.
[ WARNING: EXCESSIVE NEURAL STRAIN ]
[ SMUGGLER'S HOLD USAGE: 7 MATERIALIZATIONS IN 24 HOURS ]
[ RECOMMENDED COOLDOWN: 12 HOURS ]
I wipe my nose on my sleeve and stare at the equipment. Three detonators. One jump kit. Environmental seals. My hands are shaking.
"People are going to die. You know that. You're enabling this."
The thought sits heavy in my chest. Heavier than it should. The normalization from Nix's sale is cracking—this feels different. Bigger. More consequential.
I could report this. Anonymous tip to Coruscant Security. Give them the drop location, physical description, transaction details. Stop whatever's about to happen.
The System offers no penalty for warning. It's not my transaction anymore once delivery is complete. I'm legally clear—morally muddy, but legally clear.
My finger hovers over the Security contact protocol.
"He'll just find another supplier. You refusing doesn't stop anything."
"Someone else would sell to him anyway."
"The war isn't your fault."
The rationalizations feel hollow. But they're also true. I'm not creating the violence—just facilitating it. Small distinction. Probably meaningless distinction.
But it's the distinction I need to press "confirm delivery" instead of "report to authorities."
Four hours later, the client collects his equipment and transfers the remaining 7,500 credits. He inspects everything thoroughly, nods once in approval, and vanishes into the Lower Levels.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 15000 ]
[ ITEMS PURCHASED: -10000 ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -1500 ]
[ NET PROFIT: 3500 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 34070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 4 ]
I sit in the empty warehouse and stare at my updated balance. 34,070 credits. More money than I've ever had in either life. Built on top of violence I chose not to prevent.
The vomit comes suddenly. I barely make it to the corner before my stomach empties. The System chimes "TRANSACTION COMPLETE" while I'm retching.
When there's nothing left, I lean against the wall and force myself to think clearly.
"Wrynn would have found another supplier. You refusing only costs you credits. The violence was happening either way."
"You're neutral. Switzerland. You supply both sides equally."
"This is war. People die in wars. That's not your responsibility."
The logic is sound. Airtight, even. So why does it feel like I'm lying to myself?
I check the timeline in my head—if Wrynn is planning what I think he's planning, the Senate District bombing happens in three or four days. Probably less, given the urgency of his purchase.
I could still warn them. Still prevent it.
I walk back to my hab-unit and don't send any warnings.
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