Chapter 5 : Blood on the Balance Sheet
The message comes through Jassi's network five days after the Nix transaction. Encrypted, bounced through eight proxies, professional operational security that immediately flags this as more sophisticated than my usual clientele.
"Require specialized equipment. Mutual contact suggests discretion guaranteed. 15,000 credits available. Reply for meeting coordinates."
Fifteen thousand. My largest potential sale yet. I trace the message origin—hits dead ends at every proxy node. Whoever this is has resources and training that street-level criminals don't possess.
I should be suspicious. Should recognize this as exactly the kind of client that gets suppliers arrested or killed. Instead, I'm calculating profit margins before my paranoia kicks in.
"Reply positive. Request equipment specifications and meeting location." My fingers type the response before conscious thought completes.
The answer arrives in ninety seconds:
"Thermal detonators (3), Titan jump kit with thirty-second boost capability, environmental seals rated for vacuum. Abandoned droid factory, Level 2156, Sector 14. 1800 hours today. Come alone."
My stomach drops.
The equipment combination is specific. Deliberate. Thermal detonators for demolition, jump kit for rapid insertion or escape, environmental seals for... vacuum operations. Space station infiltration. Or high-altitude bombing runs.
The Appraisal function triggers automatically when I focus on the message text:
[ SENDER ANALYSIS: SOPHISTICATED OPERATIONAL SECURITY ]
[ MESSAGE AUTHENTICITY: VERIFIED ]
[ PAYMENT CAPABILITY: CONFIRMED - 15,000 CREDITS ]
[ EQUIPMENT COMBINATION SUGGESTS: ORBITAL INSERTION OR HIGH-ALTITUDE OPERATION ]
[ THREAT ASSESSMENT: MODERATE TO HIGH ]
[ CLIENT PROFILE: MILITARY TRAINING PROBABLE, IDEOLOGICAL MOTIVATION LIKELY ]
I sit on my thin mattress staring at the message. The System helpfully calculates the transaction economics:
[ THERMAL DETONATOR x3: 6,000 CREDITS ]
[ TITAN JUMP KIT: 3,500 CREDITS ]
[ ENVIRONMENTAL SEALS: 500 CREDITS ]
[ TOTAL CATALOG COST: 10,000 CREDITS ]
[ SALE PRICE: 15,000 CREDITS ]
[ SERVICE FEE (10%): 1,500 CREDITS ]
[ NET PROFIT: 3,500 CREDITS ]
[ TRANSACTION VIABILITY: EXCELLENT ]
Three and a half thousand credits profit. Twenty percent margins on a high-value sale. Enough to cover two months rent and then some.
Also: probably terrorism. The equipment combination, the operational security, the urgency—everything screams planned attack on high-value target. Not gang warfare. Not personal protection. Something bigger.
My hands shake scrolling through the System catalog. I could refuse. Take the financial hit—except there is no financial hit. The System is clear about penalties:
[ REFUSING SALE: NO PENALTY IF CLIENT IS INFORMED OF LEGITIMATE SUPPLY ISSUE ]
[ LEGITIMATE ISSUES INCLUDE: INVENTORY UNAVAILABLE, PAYMENT INSUFFICIENT, SECURITY CONCERNS ]
[ MORAL OBJECTIONS: NOT RECOGNIZED AS LEGITIMATE ]
I have no legitimate reason to refuse. I have the inventory. Payment is sufficient. Security concerns are manageable. The only reason to refuse is knowing the equipment will be used for something terrible.
"That's not a legitimate business concern. That's conscience. And conscience doesn't pay rent."
I accept the meeting.
The abandoned droid factory on Level 2156 is exactly as depressing as expected. Rusted conveyor belts frozen mid-assembly, dismembered battle droids scattered like mechanical corpses, the ceiling leaking something that's probably toxic. Perfect place for transactions nobody wants witnessed.
I arrive thirty minutes early—paranoia dictating scouting time. The factory floor is empty. No obvious ambush setup. No Security presence. Just industrial decay and the distant sound of Coruscant's eternal traffic.
The client arrives at exactly 1800 hours.
Human male, late twenties, wearing nondescript gray civilian jumpsuit that's too clean for Lower Levels habitation. His movements are controlled—military training obvious in posture and gait. Eyes scan the space methodically before settling on me.
The Appraisal function triggers the moment he's in range:
[ AGENT WRYNN - HUMAN MALE ]
[ AGE: 27 STANDARD YEARS ]
[ STRESS LEVEL: ELEVATED BUT CONTROLLED ]
[ COMBAT TRAINING: CONFIRMED - MILITARY STANDARD ]
[ EMOTIONAL STATE: IDEOLOGICAL FERVOR, NERVOUS DETERMINATION ]
[ DECEPTION INDICATORS: MINIMAL - BELIEVES CAUSE IS JUST ]
[ ASSESSMENT: SEPARATIST OPERATIVE, PROBABLE TERROR CELL MEMBER ]
[ TARGET ANALYSIS BASED ON EQUIPMENT REQUEST: HIGH-PROFILE REPUBLIC INSTALLATION ]
[ PROBABILITY OF SENATE DISTRICT OPERATION: 74.3% ]
The analysis floods my consciousness in three seconds. Senate District. High-profile target. Probable civilian casualties. Everything I suspected confirmed by System's cold assessment.
I'm going to sell him weapons anyway.
"You're the supplier." His voice is steady despite elevated stress. Professional delivery of obvious statement.
"You're the buyer. Show payment verification."
He transfers 7,500 credits without hesitation—half now, standard protocol. The System confirms receipt.
[ 7,500 CREDITS RECEIVED ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 26,570 CREDITS ]
I pull up my datapad showing sanitized catalog images. He studies each item with professional intensity—checking specifications, comparing to whatever operational plan exists in his head.
"The jump kit—Titan technology? Thirty-second boost duration?"
"Correct. Enough thrust for orbital insertion if you're starting from upper atmosphere. Or rapid extraction from elevated position." I'm giving him tactical advice. Helping him plan whatever atrocity he's preparing.
"Environmental seals—they'll hold in vacuum?"
"Rated for six hours hard vacuum exposure. Longer if you're not exerting." More helpful information. More complicity.
He nods, apparently satisfied. "I need delivery in four hours. That timeline works?"
Four hours. Urgent. Whatever he's planning happens soon. Tomorrow maybe. Day after at latest.
My mouth is dry. "I can deliver in four hours."
"Good." He pauses, then: "You should know what this is for. The Republic is corrupt. Palpatine plays both sides while clones die and planets burn. Someone needs to make a statement. Show the people that Separatist ideology isn't about conquest—it's about freedom from tyranny."
He's explaining. Justifying. Wanting me to understand he's not a monster—he's an idealist willing to kill for principles he believes in.
I cut him off. "I don't need to know."
The words come out flat. Mechanical. If I let him finish, I'll have specific knowledge of target and timing. That transforms me from supplier into accomplice legally. Plausible deniability requires ignorance.
Also: hearing his justifications might make me reconsider. Better to stay ignorant and maintain transaction momentum.
He mistakes my interruption for professional discretion. "Of course. Operational security. I appreciate the professionalism."
We arrange the delivery location—different factory, different sector, four hours from now. He leaves without additional conversation.
I'm alone in the rusted factory with 7,500 credits deposited and four hours to materialize equipment that will kill people. Probably lots of people.
The System offers no judgment:
[ TRANSACTION PROCEEDING NORMALLY ]
[ MATERIALIZE ITEMS WHEN READY ]
[ NO PENALTIES ASSESSED ]
I start with the thermal detonators.
Each one tears through my skull—the Smuggler's Hold opens like wound in reality visible only to me. The headache is worse than usual. Maybe that's neural strain. Maybe that's conscience manifesting as physical pain.
First detonator: compact black cylinder, activation stud on top, enough explosive force to breach starship hulls. My hands shake holding it.
[ WARNING: NEURAL TEMPERATURE ELEVATED ]
[ RECOMMEND 10 MINUTE COOLDOWN ]
Second detonator after waiting. The migraine intensifies—ice pick behind eyes, vision blurring at edges. I lean against conveyor belt breathing through clenched teeth.
Third detonator after another cooldown. Blood starts running from my nose. I wipe it on my sleeve and continue.
The jump kit is worst—complex technology, substantial mass, sustained materialization duration. The pain spikes hard enough that I drop to my knees, vision whiting out completely for three seconds. When it clears, the kit is in my hands and I'm tasting copper.
Environmental seals are mercifully quick. Small components, simple fabrication, minimal neural load.
I'm sitting in factory corner surrounded by equipment that will enable mass murder. The System chimes helpfully:
[ ITEMS MATERIALIZED SUCCESSFULLY ]
[ NEURAL STRAIN: MODERATE ]
[ DELIVERY READY ]
My stomach heaves. I barely make it to opposite corner before vomiting—thin fluid and bile because I haven't eaten today. The System chimes "TRANSACTION IN PROGRESS" while I'm retching.
When there's nothing left, I lean against rust-stained wall and force myself to think through the implications.
Wrynn is Separatist operative. The equipment combination suggests high-altitude or orbital insertion. Target is probably Senate District based on his ideological fervor about "making a statement." That means senators. Aides. Civilians. Maybe clones on security detail.
People who will die because I provided tools enabling their deaths.
"He would have found another supplier. Someone else would have sold to him."
The rationalization feels hollow but I repeat it anyway. Testing whether repetition makes it more convincing.
"The war isn't my fault. Republic and Separatists both commit atrocities. Staying neutral is valid position."
Another justification. Slightly more substantial. Wars need suppliers. Suppliers don't choose sides—they just meet demand where it exists.
"Refusing accomplishes nothing except reducing my income. The violence happens regardless of my participation."
That's the core argument. The one that almost holds water. Wrynn isn't going to cancel his operation because I refused selling equipment. He'll find another supplier, obtain the tools through different channels, execute his plan on schedule. My refusal changes nothing except my bank balance.
But knowing that intellectually doesn't stop my hands from shaking.
I check the time: 2034 hours. Delivery scheduled for 2200 hours. Four hours becomes three and a half becomes counting minutes until I complete transaction that makes me complicit in terrorism.
At 2157 hours, I arrive at the delivery location. Different factory, same industrial decay. Wrynn is punctual—arrives at 2200 hours exactly with same controlled efficiency.
I hand over the equipment piece by piece. He inspects everything with professional attention—tests the detonators' arming mechanisms, examines jump kit's thrust calibration, checks environmental seals for micro-fractures. His expression shifts from skepticism to approval.
"Quality manufacturing. Exactly as specified." He transfers the remaining 7,500 credits. "You'll hear about this in a few days. Remember that you helped strike a blow against tyranny."
He leaves before I can respond. Not that I would—what's there to say? "Good luck with your mass murder"?
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 15,000 TOTAL ]
[ ITEMS PURCHASED: -10,000 ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -1,500 ]
[ NET PROFIT: 3,500 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 34,070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 4 ]
Thirty-four thousand credits. Four sales completed. Forty-six more until Store Level 2 unlocks and pricing stabilizes.
I'm staring at the balance display when the full weight hits. Not abstract guilt. Concrete understanding of what I've done.
Somewhere in Republic space—probably Coruscant Senate District—Wrynn is preparing for operation I enabled. Equipment I provided will detonate. People who woke up this morning expecting normal day will die violently because I materialized thermal detonators rather than refusing sale.
Their blood is on my hands. Metaphorically but measurably. The System's cold accounting doesn't track casualties but my memory will.
I sit in empty factory for two hours reviewing rationalization attempts:
"Someone else would have supplied him anyway."
Probably true. Galaxy is full of arms dealers. Wrynn has resources and connections. He'd have found equipment through different channels.
But he found it through me. I'm the one who took his credits, materialized his tools, enabled his plan. The hypothetical other supplier doesn't reduce my responsibility for actual transaction that occurred.
"I'm neutral. Switzerland. Supply both sides equally."
Except neutrality in warfare isn't moral position—it's cowardice disguised as principle. Providing weapons to both Republic and Separatists doesn't make me impartial observer. Makes me profiteer who enables violence regardless of which flag the victims salute.
"The war isn't my fault. These deaths would have happened regardless of my existence."
That's technically accurate. Clone Wars has causal chain starting decades before my transmigration. Palpatine's schemes, Separatist grievances, Republic corruption—none of that traces to my actions.
But this specific attack, these specific casualties, these specific deaths—those wouldn't happen without my contribution. The war's inevitability doesn't absolve me of participating in its atrocities.
The rationalizations circle without resolving. Each argument has logical merit. Each feels insufficient justifying what I've done.
At 0114 hours, I pull up Senate District layout on my datapad. The System doesn't block civilian infrastructure data—helps with delivery logistics apparently. I study building layouts, security protocols, crowd patterns.
Based on Wrynn's equipment and tactical profile, likely targets are: Senate Office Building (high symbolic value, moderate security), Senate Plaza (maximum civilian casualties, low security), or Senate Transport Hub (infrastructure disruption, medium casualties).
The analysis is clinical. Professional. Like I'm consulting on legitimate military operation rather than enabling terrorism.
I could warn them. Anonymous tip to Coruscant Security. Provide physical description, general timeline, equipment specifications. Enough information they could increase security, maybe intercept Wrynn before he reaches target.
The System offers no penalty:
[ ANONYMOUS WARNING: PERMITTED ]
[ NO TRANSACTION VIOLATION - SALE ALREADY COMPLETE ]
[ CLIENT RELATIONSHIP: LIKELY TERMINATED IF SOURCE IDENTIFIED ]
[ REPUTATION IMPACT: MINIMAL IF ANONYMITY MAINTAINED ]
No mechanical penalty. Just potential reputation damage if anyone traces the warning to me. And even that's minimal—one lost client versus potentially dozens of lives saved.
My finger hovers over the Security contact protocol. The interface glows softly blue waiting for input.
Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.
I close the interface.
Not my problem. Transaction is complete. Wrynn paid, received his equipment, left satisfied. What he does with the tools is his responsibility, not mine.
"Business is business. Suppliers don't control end-use. That's fundamental principle of commerce."
The justification sounds weaker than previous attempts. Almost pleading quality—trying to convince myself through repetition rather than logic.
But it's the justification I need to avoid sending warning that might prevent deaths I enabled.
I walk back to my hab-unit through Lower Levels' perpetual night. The crowds are thinner this late—just night-shift workers, desperate people, and predators of various species hunting for opportunities.
I'm one of the predators now. Different method, same fundamental nature. Taking advantage of others' desperation or ideology for personal profit.
The thought should bother me more than it does.
My hab-unit is exactly as depressing as I left it. Thin mattress, broken lock, walls transmitting neighbors' arguments. I lie down fully clothed and stare at cracked ceiling.
Thirty-four thousand credits. Enough to rent better housing. Buy actual security. Start building infrastructure for scaling operations.
Built on weapons that will kill people in approximately 48-72 hours based on Wrynn's urgency and operational timeline.
I think about the hypothetical casualties. Senators who'll die despite security details. Aides who'll die checking schedules. Civilians who'll die being in wrong place at wrong time. Maybe clones on security duty—ten-year-old soldiers bred for war who'll die protecting Republic that treats them as equipment.
Each casualty is person. Individual with history and relationships and future that gets terminated when Wrynn's detonators explode.
My detonators. My sale. My 3,500 credits profit.
Sleep doesn't come. I lie there for six hours cycling through rationalization attempts, trying to find version of events where I'm not villain of my own story.
The logic keeps coming back to same conclusion: I chose credits over preventing murders. The System didn't force anything—it just made conscience expensive and exploitation profitable.
I chose profit.
At 0647 hours, I give up on sleep and check news feeds. Nothing yet. Wrynn's operation is still pending. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. Soon enough that guilt will transform from hypothetical to concrete.
My datapad pings with new message from unknown sender: "Heard you supplied quality equipment recently. Have larger order. Interested?"
More business. More sales. More moral calculus disguised as economic opportunity.
I stare at the message for thirty seconds before responding: "Available. Send requirements."
Because that's what I am now. Merchant. Supplier. Necessary cog in galaxy's violence machine. The justifications still feel hollow but they're all I have.
Forward through compromise one sale at a time. Accumulating credits and casualties in equal measure until either weight crushes me or I stop feeling it altogether.
Right now, I can't tell which outcome I'm hoping for.
But the transaction is complete. The equipment is delivered. The blood is on my hands whether I warned anyone or not.
All that's left is waiting for news reports confirming exactly how many people died because I chose profit over warning them.
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 34,070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 4 ]
[ CASUALTIES PENDING: UNKNOWN ]
[ CONSCIENCE COST: ACCUMULATING ]
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