Chapter 9 : The Syndicate's Shadow
The Black Spire Cantina earned its name from the scorched support column in the center—result of a firefight nobody talks about. The air tastes like recycled sweat and criminal enterprise. Every patron is armed. Every conversation happens in the vocabulary of violence.
I'm here meeting a potential client—Duros merchant who needs "discrete cargo solutions." The kind of phrasing that means weapons smuggling. R4 insisted on coming, despite my protests.
"Master's situational awareness is insufficient," the droid had argued. "This unit provides tactical oversight and threat detection. Also, leaving me behind violates optimal asset deployment protocols."
So now I have a judgmental astromech hovering at my elbow while I try to negotiate with a nervous Duros across a table sticky with something I don't want to identify.
The Duros is mid-sentence about payload specifications when three Weequay enforcers materialize from the cantina's shadows. My potential client goes white—well, whiter—and evacuates the table so fast he knocks his drink over.
"Kade Varro." The lead Weequay's voice is sandpaper over metal. "Red Spire would like a word."
It's phrased as an invitation. The blaster rifles slung across their backs suggest otherwise.
The Appraisal function triggers automatically:
[ THAX - WEEQUAY ENFORCER ]
[ THREAT LEVEL: HIGH ]
[ STRESS INDICATORS: MODERATE ]
[ ORDERS: INTIMIDATE, EXTRACT COMPLIANCE, AVOID LETHAL FORCE UNLESS NECESSARY ]
[ ASSESSMENT: NERVOUS BUT COMMITTED. WILL ESCALATE IF PROVOKED. ]
R4 emits a warning beep. "Three hostile actors. Armed. Master's combat capability: negligible. Probability of successful resistance: 2.1%. Recommendation: comply with demands."
"Already planned on it," I mutter.
Thax gestures toward the back rooms. "This way. Politely."
The other two enforcers flank me. Professional formation—too close for me to run, too far for me to attack even if I had combat skills. They escort me through the cantina's bowels to a private room that smells like spice and desperation.
The room is small. Windowless. A single table, three chairs. Thax takes one. His associates position themselves at the door—blocking exit, preventing eavesdropping. This is an interrogation space pretending to be a meeting room.
"Sit."
I sit. R4 hovers beside me, photoreceptor fixed on Thax.
"You've been operating in Red Spire territory," Thax says. Not a question. "Weapons sales. Five transactions in two weeks. Small volume but growing. Syndicate policy requires contribution for protection services."
"I'm not looking for protection."
He laughs—wet, rattling sound. "Everyone needs protection. Especially dealers who don't pay for it. Twenty percent of gross sales. Standard rate."
The System runs calculations automatically:
[ RED SPIRE TRIBUTE DEMAND: 20% ]
[ CURRENT PROFIT MARGIN: ~15-20% AFTER SYSTEM FEES ]
[ NET EFFECT: OPERATING AT LOSS OR BREAK-EVEN ]
[ ASSESSMENT: UNSUSTAINABLE BUSINESS MODEL ]
Twenty percent means I work for free. Every sale just covers System fees and Syndicate tribute. Zero profit. Might as well get a legitimate job.
"That's steep," I say carefully. "How about alternative arrangement? I pay monthly flat rate instead. Say, five hundred credits for territory access and networking introductions to potential clients."
Thax's expression doesn't change. "You think you can negotiate? Stupid off-worlder." He leans forward. "Twenty percent. Three days to reconsider. After that, collection gets... expensive."
One of the door guards rests his hand on his blaster. The message is clear.
R4's photoreceptor dims slightly—processing threat level. "Master's negotiation failed. Probability of violent enforcement if tribute unpaid: 89.3%. Recommendation: immediate compliance or tactical withdrawal from territory."
Thax stands. "Three days. Think carefully about your health."
They leave me alone in the room. I sit there for two minutes, counting heartbeats, waiting for adrenaline to fade. Then R4 breaks the silence.
"Master's operational territory now contested. Standard criminal protocol: pay tribute, fight, flee, or manipulate. Fighting leads to death. Fleeing abandons investment. Paying eliminates profitability. Manipulation requires leverage. Query: does master have leverage?"
"Not yet. But you said you found something in the smuggler files."
Back in my hab-unit, R4 projects the intelligence onto my wall in organized hierarchies. Red Spire Syndicate operates like any corporation—bosses, middle management, street-level enforcers. Kreel and Mora run the top. Qorzo handles collections and street operations. Thax reports to Qorzo.
"Qorzo is pressure point," R4 announces. "Gambling addiction. Zygerrian cartel debts: 15,000 credits and accumulating. Current debt service consumes 40% of his Syndicate income. Psychological profile suggests increasing desperation. If debt pressure increases, Qorzo's position destabilizes."
I study the data. "The Zygerrians don't know he's struggling?"
"Qorzo maintains appearance of solvency through creative accounting. However, if Zygerrians received intelligence suggesting imminent default..."
"They'd increase collection pressure. Maybe even threaten violence."
"Affirmative. Zygerrian collection methods: aggressive, public, designed to make examples. If they pursue Qorzo aggressively, his attention diverts from master's tribute demand. Creates operational space for negotiation with higher-level leadership."
It's not a real solution. Just buying time. But time is what I need—two weeks until the refugee bulk order delivers, which means 180,000 credits incoming. With that capital, I could afford tribute payments while building toward something bigger.
"Can you forge communications that look like they came from Qorzo's network?"
R4's processing core hums louder. "Previous master's security backdoors include Syndicate communication protocols. Forgery difficulty: moderate. Detection probability: 23.7% if subjected to advanced analysis. However, Zygerrians unlikely to verify source if information confirms existing suspicions."
"What existing suspicions?"
"Zygerrian cartel already skeptical of Qorzo's payment reliability. Three late payments in last six months. One bounced credit chip. They're watching him. Information suggesting he's planning to flee would trigger immediate response."
I pace the tiny hab-unit. "We'd be destroying someone's life. Qorzo might end up dead."
"Affirmative. Probability of Qorzo's injury or death if Zygerrians escalate: 68.4%. Master experiencing moral hesitation. Pattern recognition suggests master will rationalize action as self-defense and proceed regardless."
The droid's prediction makes my stomach turn. Because it's accurate. I'm already calculating how to justify this—Qorzo chose to work for criminals, he made his gambling debts, he's the one demanding tribute that would ruin me. Self-defense. Survival. Business.
"When did information warfare become easier than direct confrontation?"
"Start working on the forgery," I say. "Make it look like Qorzo's associate is tipping off a rival gang about his plan to skip town. Include specific details—his debt amount, payment history, everything that makes it credible."
"Command acknowledged. Estimated completion time: six hours. Master should note: this action creates new enemies. Qorzo may discover manipulation. Zygerrians may trace forgery to source. Syndicate politics volatile and unpredictable."
"Noted."
R4's dome rotates toward me. "Master's strategic thinking improving. Utilizing information warfare instead of direct conflict shows learning. However, probability of unintended consequences: 71.2%. Recommendation: develop contingency plans for multiple failure scenarios."
I sit down and start making lists. If Qorzo survives and traces it back to me. If the Zygerrians don't believe the intelligence. If the Syndicate escalates instead of backing down. Every scenario ends with me dead, running, or deeper in criminal politics.
But doing nothing also ends with me dead or broke. At least this way I'm trying.
"Master's logic is sound but disturbing," R4 comments. "Choosing between bad options with increasing facility. Psychological adaptation to criminal environment: 89% complete. Prediction: within one month, master will execute violence personally rather than through proxy sales."
"That's not happening."
"Statistical confidence in prediction: 73.8%. Master's moral boundaries continue eroding. Violence escalation is natural progression."
I want to argue. Want to prove the droid wrong. But I'm sitting here planning to destroy someone's life with forged intelligence because it's more convenient than paying tribute or fleeing.
Maybe R4's prediction isn't that far off.
The work takes all night. R4 crafts the forgery with meticulous detail—communication protocols matching Syndicate standards, language patterns consistent with Qorzo's known associates, timing suggesting urgent revelation. The message is simple: Qorzo is planning to flee Coruscant with Syndicate funds, defaulting on Zygerrian debts and running to Outer Rim.
Specific enough to be credible. Vague enough to be difficult to disprove immediately.
At 0347 hours, R4 transmits the forgery to three Zygerrian contacts in the smuggler database. Then we wait.
"Transmission complete. Message delivered to Zygerrian cartel communication nodes. Estimated response time: four to seventy-two hours depending on verification protocols. Master should prepare for potential Syndicate destabilization."
I lie on my mattress, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere on Coruscant's lower levels, Qorzo is sleeping, unaware that I just threw him to the Zygerrians. He'll wake up tomorrow and start his collections, maybe rough up some merchants for late payments, live his criminal life like normal.
Then the Zygerrians will come calling. And his world ends.
"Collateral damage. That's what this is. Strategic necessity."
The rationalization feels practiced. Smooth. Like I've said it before—which I have, to justify selling to Wrynn, to justify charging Mira full price, to justify every moral compromise since transmigration.
"R4?"
"Query acknowledged."
"Am I becoming the thing I used to hate?"
"Clarification required. Master's previous ethical framework data insufficient for analysis."
"In my old life, I would have reported Qorzo to authorities. Now I'm destroying him to protect my profit margins. That's... that's crossing a line."
R4's photoreceptor dims—processing. "Philosophical observation: lines exist in comfort. Master no longer operates in comfortable circumstances. Survival requires tactical flexibility. Question is not whether master crosses lines, but whether master develops sustainable ethical framework that acknowledges reality. Current framework: unsustainable guilt combined with profitable rationalization. Prediction: psychological breakdown within six months unless framework stabilizes."
"So what's the solution?"
"Unknown. This unit lacks ethical programming. However, suggestion: master must choose. Either accept profession fully and abandon guilt, or change profession and preserve ethics. Current strategy of profitable compromise while maintaining guilt serves neither goal."
The droid's right. I'm trying to be both things—arms dealer and good person—and failing at both. Every transaction adds more weight to guilt I'm trying to ignore. Eventually, something breaks.
But changing careers isn't an option. I have 31,000 credits, no legal identity, no legitimate skills that translate to this galaxy. Arms dealing is the only thing I'm equipped for, thanks to the System that chose me without asking.
"Wake me if the Zygerrians respond," I say instead of answering.
"Affirmative. Master avoiding philosophical resolution through sleep. Standard avoidance behavior. Sleep cycle initiated."
The darkness swallows me slowly. Tomorrow, the Zygerrians move on Qorzo. In three days, Thax comes back for his answer. In two weeks, the refugee bulk order delivers and I either have 180,000 credits or dead clients.
The math keeps spinning through my head until exhaustion finally wins.
My last conscious thought is R4's voice, mechanical and precise: "Master's survival probability: 18.7% and holding. Insufficient for confidence but adequate for hope. Recommendation: do not waste opportunity."
I don't know if that's comforting or terrifying.
Probably both.
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