Chapter 8 : Mira's Aftermath
The refugee sector looks different in daylight. Less desperate, somehow. Or maybe I'm just seeing it through different eyes—ones that have spent the last week with R4 methodically cataloging my moral failures.
"Master's emotional attachment to previous client is tactically disadvantageous," R4 announces from its position hovering beside me. I'd tried leaving it behind, but the droid simply followed. "Revisiting transaction sites increases profile visibility. Recommendation: avoid unnecessary contact."
"Noted and ignored."
"Probability of master ignoring sensible advice: 94.7%. Prediction validated."
The makeshift camp has changed. Last time, it was chaos—families huddled in torn tents, children crying, the whole place radiating defeat. Now there are actual structures. Barricades made from scrap metal. Organized watch rotations—I count three sentries on elevated positions, all armed. The perimeter has layers.
"They built this in a week?"
Mira spots me before I spot her. She's carrying supply crates, but drops them the moment recognition hits. Her sprint across the camp is undignified and enthusiastic.
"You came back!"
I'd rehearsed this conversation. Practiced being professionally distant. But her genuine joy short-circuits the script. "Just checking on—"
She crushes me in a hug. I stand there, awkward, until she releases me and steps back, wiping her eyes.
"Your weapons saved us. The raiders came three nights ago. They expected easy targets like always." Her smile is fierce. "We fought back. Set the charges like you said—caught six of them in the kill zone. The rest ran when they realized we'd shoot back."
R4 emits a soft beep. "Analysis: successful defensive implementation. Casualties?"
Mira's expression darkens. "Four of them dead. Two wounded and retreated. None of us injured." She gestures toward a wall where names are carved into scrap metal. "That's our memorial. Six people killed in raids before we armed ourselves. We added the raiders' names too—they were people once, even if they chose wrong."
The Appraisal function triggers automatically:
[ MIRA - BIOMETRIC ANALYSIS ]
[ STRESS LEVEL: MODERATE (SIGNIFICANT DECREASE FROM PREVIOUS SCAN) ]
[ NUTRITIONAL STATUS: IMPROVED ]
[ DECEPTION INDICATORS: NONE ]
[ EMOTIONAL STATE: GRATITUDE, RELIEF, RESIDUAL TRAUMA ]
[ ASSESSMENT: GENUINE APPRECIATION, NO MANIPULATION DETECTED ]
She's telling the truth. My weapons—my 2,000 credit, break-even, technically-fair-pricing transaction—saved lives. Stopped raids that were grinding them down. The math is uncomfortably simple: if I hadn't sold to her, more names would be on that memorial.
"So was it exploitation or salvation? Can it be both?"
An older Twi'lek approaches—male, maybe sixty, with scars that tell stories I don't want to hear. He extends his hand, and I shake it automatically.
"You gave us a chance," he says. His voice is rough, weathered. "That's more than the Republic did. More than anyone else offered."
"I charged full price."
"You gave us quality equipment that worked exactly as promised. Fair trade."
Fair trade. The words sit strange in my mouth. I charged a starving family their entire savings for minimal defensive capability. That shouldn't qualify as "fair." But they're alive. They have shelter. The children playing in the dirt nearby aren't crying from hunger anymore.
R4 rotates its dome toward me. "Master experiencing cognitive dissonance. Positive outcome from morally questionable transaction creates ethical paradox. Standard response: further rationalization or emotional shutdown. Prediction: master will choose rationalization."
"Shut up, R4."
The elder laughs. "Your droid speaks truth. You helped us, even if you charged what you could. Both things are real."
"Five other camps heard what happened," Mira adds, pulling out a datapad. "They want to arm themselves too. Pooled resources from all five groups. They're asking if you can supply bulk order."
She shows me the list: forty blaster pistols, twenty rifles, basic ammunition for each. The quantities are precise, organized. Someone did real planning here.
The System helpfully calculates:
[ BULK ORDER ANALYSIS ]
[ 40 BLASTER PISTOLS @ 1800 CREDITS: 72000 ]
[ 20 RIFLES @ 3500 CREDITS: 70000 ]
[ AMMUNITION PACKAGES @ 500 CREDITS: 10000 ]
[ TOTAL COST: 152000 CREDITS ]
[ RECOMMENDED SALE PRICE: 180000 CREDITS ]
[ ESTIMATED PROFIT AFTER FEES: 12000 CREDITS ]
[ BULK DISCOUNT OPTION: AVAILABLE ]
[ CHARITY TAX THRESHOLD: 15% DISCOUNT OR GREATER ]
One hundred eighty thousand credits. The number is massive—nearly six times my current balance. It would require spending almost everything I have to purchase the inventory, then waiting for payment. High risk. High reward.
The old me—two weeks ago me—would have hesitated. Offered a discount for humanitarian bulk purchase. Tried to balance profit with compassion.
Current me does the math cold. "One hundred eighty thousand credits. Full payment on delivery. No deposits, no payment plans."
The elder doesn't flinch. "We'll need two weeks to collect from all camps. Can you deliver then?"
"Yes."
Mira's watching my face. Seeing something there that makes her smile fade slightly. "No discount for bulk?"
"The price is already fair for what you're getting."
She nods slowly. "I suppose it is."
We finalize details—delivery location, verification protocols, safety measures. The whole conversation is professional. Businesslike. I'm selling weapons to refugees who will use them for survival, and I'm charging full market rates without guilt.
"When did this stop bothering me?"
R4 answers as if I'd spoken aloud. "Psychological adaptation occurred between transactions three and five. Master's moral framework has been recalibrated to accept profitable exploitation as normative behavior. Current emotional response: confusion at absence of guilt rather than guilt itself."
The elder leaves to coordinate with other camps. Mira walks me back toward the sector exit, R4 hovering between us like a mechanical chaperone.
"I meant what I said," she tells me quietly. "You saved us. I know you charged what you needed to charge. I understand business. But you came through when nobody else would even look at us."
"I came through because you had credits."
"Maybe." She stops at the perimeter. "But you're here now, checking on us. That's not business. That's something else."
I don't have an answer for that. R4 does, though.
"Master's psychology remains conflicted. Seeks validation for profitable exploitation through post-transaction contact. Requires confirmation that harm was minimized to sustain operational capacity. Assessment: master is poorly suited to amoral profiteering but continues regardless."
Mira laughs—surprised, delighted. "I like your droid."
"It's growing on me. Like a fungus."
The walk back takes longer than the walk there. R4 maintains running commentary about tactical vulnerabilities, optimal escape routes, and my declining mental health. I mostly tune it out until one phrase catches my attention.
"Master's question remains unanswered: exploitation or aid. Statistical analysis suggests both labels apply simultaneously. Master provided valuable service at exploitative pricing. Refugees benefited despite financial burden. Moral classification: gray area with positive outcome."
"That's the most accurate thing anyone's said about me."
"Accuracy is primary function. Master's self-awareness does not improve tactical position, however. Positive refugee outcomes unlikely to impact master's long-term survival probability."
"Why not?"
"Refugees have limited resources and minimal political power. Useful as reputation builders but insufficient as protection against hostile actors. Master requires more powerful allies or increased operational security. Current trajectory leads to conflict with criminal syndicates within estimated two weeks."
The prediction is too specific to ignore. "You see something in those smuggler files?"
"Affirmative. Pattern analysis indicates master's territory overlaps with three competing criminal organizations. Statistical probability of territorial dispute: 78.3%. Recommended action: establish formal relationship with one syndicate for protection, or relocate operations to less contested area."
"Or?"
"Or master accumulates sufficient wealth and firepower to defend territory independently. Current assets insufficient for that strategy. Estimated requirement: two million credits minimum, private security force, and multiple secure locations."
Two million credits. I have thirty-one thousand. The refugee bulk order will net me twelve thousand more. Still impossibly far from that goal.
We reach my hab-unit. The door lock is still broken—I keep meaning to fix it, but that requires caring about security. R4 immediately begins scanning the space, photoreceptor sweeping every corner.
"Habitat security assessment: unchanged. Still catastrophically inadequate. Master's survival priority ranking: profit first, security distant second, personal wellbeing irrelevant."
"You're really cheerful, you know that?"
"Cheerfulness is not primary function. Threat identification is. Current threat assessment: master will likely be contacted by criminal syndicate within next seventy-two hours. Probability: 71.4%."
I pour a drink. "Based on what?"
"Transaction pattern analysis. Master has completed five sales in territory controlled by Red Spire Syndicate. Volume and frequency have reached threshold where Syndicate taxation becomes probable. Standard criminal economics: allow small operators until they reach profitability, then extract tribute."
"So I'm about to get shaken down."
"Affirmative. Master's options: pay tribute, fight, or flee. Paying reduces profit margin. Fighting leads to death. Fleeing means abandoning established territory and client contacts."
"What about option four: outsmart them?"
R4's photoreceptor brightens. "Elaboration requested."
I pull up the smuggler files R4 decrypted. "Your previous owner operated here for years. Must have had arrangements with local syndicates. What did he know about Red Spire?"
The droid projects data onto my wall: organizational structure, key personnel, territory boundaries, revenue sources. The Red Spire runs protection rackets, smuggling, and black market weapons sales across Levels 1000-2000. Three bosses: Kreel (Trandoshan, operations), Mora (human, enforcement), Qorzo (lieutenant under Mora, handles street-level collections).
"Qorzo is weak link," R4 announces. "Gambling debts to Zygerrian cartel: 15,000 credits. Debt service consuming 40% of his Syndicate income. Psychological profile indicates stress, paranoia, desperation. Vulnerable to information warfare."
I study the data. "If someone tipped off the Zygerrians that Qorzo is planning to default..."
"Zygerrians would increase collection pressure. Qorzo's Syndicate position would destabilize. Chaos creates opportunity for negotiation with higher-level Syndicate leadership."
It's not a solution. Not yet. But it's the beginning of one. Information warfare instead of direct conflict. Use the system against itself.
"Can you forge communications that look like they came from Qorzo's network?"
"Affirmative. Previous master's security backdoors include Syndicate communication protocols. Forgery detectable only through advanced analysis. Probability of detection: 23.7%."
Twenty-three percent. Not great odds, but better than trying to fight Red Spire directly.
"Start working on it. I need leverage before they come calling."
R4's processing core hums. "Master learning to weaponize information. Survival probability increasing to 18.7%. Still insufficient for long-term viability, but improvement noted."
That night, I lie on my mattress while R4 works on forged communications in the corner. The blue glow of its processing cycles provides the only light. Outside, Coruscant's endless night continues—millions of lives stacked on top of each other, all grinding away at survival.
I helped Mira's camp. They're alive because I sold them weapons. That should feel good. Should feel like redemption for enabling the Senate bombing.
Instead, it just feels hollow. Like I'm collecting positive outcomes to offset the negative ones, hoping the balance sheet comes out neutral at the end.
R4's voice cuts through the darkness. "Master's emotional state declining despite positive refugee outcome. Psychological analysis suggests master expected validation to resolve guilt. Did not occur as anticipated."
"You're really bad at comforting people."
"Comfort is not primary function. However, observation: master cannot accumulate enough positive outcomes to offset fundamental moral compromise of profession. Attempting to balance karmic ledger through selective compassion is statistically futile."
"So what's the point?"
"Query unclear. Point of what? Life? Profession? Continued existence?"
"Any of it."
R4 is silent for fifteen seconds—processing time. "This unit lacks philosophical programming to address existential questions. However, tactical observation: master's question indicates psychological distress. Recommendation: sleep, rest, reduce alcohol consumption, and develop sustainable ethical framework before next major decision."
I close my eyes. "Wake me if the Syndicate shows up early."
"Affirmative. Probability of early contact: 11.3%. Master should rest while circumstances allow."
Sleep comes slowly. But when it does, I dream of refugee camps and casualty lists and R4's mechanical voice calculating the exact percentage of my damnation.
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