Chapter 11 : Rationalization
The refugee sector is celebrating when I arrive. Banners made from scrap fabric hang between shelters. Children actually smile. The change from desperate survival to something approaching hope is visible in every face.
Mira spots me first and waves me toward the central meeting area. Five camp elders wait there—representatives from each community pooling resources for the bulk purchase. One hundred eighty thousand credits. Their combined savings representing months of scavenging, begging, selling everything they own.
"You came," the eldest says. Twi'lek male I remember from before, named Cham. "We have the payment ready."
They transfer the credits collectively—thirty-six thousand from each camp, coordinated through a shared account. The System confirms receipt, and I get to work.
Forty blaster pistols. Twenty rifles. The Smuggler's Hold can manage about ten weapons per materialization before neural strain becomes dangerous. That means four trips through the pain.
The first batch makes me wince. The second makes me gasp. By the third, I'm on one knee, vision blurring. R4 hovers close, monitoring my vitals.
"Master's neural temperature elevated. Recommendation: ten-minute cooldown before fourth materialization."
"We don't have ten minutes. They're waiting."
"Master prioritizing client satisfaction over personal health. Psychological assessment: seeking validation through perfect service delivery. Probability of neural damage if continuing: 47.2%."
I wait five minutes instead of ten, then pull the last batch through. Blood drips from my nose. The refugees gasp—they can't see the dimensional pocket, just me pulling weapons from empty air like magic. To them, I'm performing miracles.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 180000 ]
[ ITEMS PURCHASED: -152000 ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -18000 ]
[ NET PROFIT: 10000 ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 38570 ]
Wait, that's wrong. I started with 28,570 after the Syndicate payment. Plus 180,000 makes... 208,570. Minus costs brings me to—
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 209070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 6 ]
[ BULK TRANSACTION COUNTED AS SINGLE SALE ]
Two hundred thousand credits. More money than I've ever had in either life. Built on desperate refugees pooling literal survival funds to buy weapons because the galaxy abandoned them.
I watch them distribute the weapons with reverence. Each pistol is examined, cherished, secured carefully. These aren't just tools—they're lifelines. The difference between becoming victims or having a chance.
And I feel... nothing.
No guilt like when I sold to Mira the first time. No shame at charging full markup to starving families. Just satisfaction at a successful transaction. Clean numbers. Profitable exchange.
"When did this stop bothering me?"
R4 answers without being asked. "Master's neural patterns show no emotional distress during transaction. Heart rate remained stable. Stress hormones normal. Psychological adaptation to mercantile exploitation: complete. Master no longer experiences guilt when profiting from humanitarian crisis."
Cham approaches, smiling. "You've given us hope. Seven more camps want to organize similar purchases. Could you handle ongoing supply contracts?"
The business opportunity appears before I even think about it. Subscription model. Recurring revenue. Predictable income stream.
"I can offer protection packages," I say. The words come automatically, like I've done this before. "Monthly ammunition resupply, replacement parts, basic maintenance. Five thousand credits per camp per month. Seven camps means thirty-five thousand monthly recurring revenue."
Cham's smile falters slightly—that's not cheap. But he nods. "We'll organize it. Better to pay you than raiders or slavers."
We finalize details. Contract terms. Delivery schedules. I'm building a business empire on refugee desperation, and it feels efficient rather than evil.
Walking away from the meeting, R4 projects analysis onto my datapad:
"Master exhibited zero physiological stress markers during negotiation with desperate clientele. Conclusion: psychological adaptation complete. Master no longer experiences moral discomfort when exploiting humanitarian crises for profit. Comparison to initial refugee transaction: 87% reduction in guilt response. Pattern suggests complete boundary dissolution."
"You're saying I'm fully compromised."
"Affirmative. Master's ethical framework has been recalibrated to accept profitable exploitation as normative behavior. Rationalization protocols now activate automatically: 'they'd pay anyone,' 'if not me then someone else,' 'at least I provide quality.' These thoughts occur without conscious effort. Psychological defense mechanism has become primary operating mode."
The droid is right. The rationalizations came automatically while I was quoting prices. I didn't have to convince myself—the logic just appeared, pre-packaged and ready to deploy.
We pass through the market sector. Vendors shout prices. Bodies press close in the eternal crowd. Somewhere overhead, the wealthy levels of Coruscant continue their comfortable existence, completely unaware of the desperation markets operating kilometers below.
"R4, am I still a good person?"
Processing pause. "Query requires undefined parameters. 'Good' is subjective designation. Objective assessment: master provides valuable services at exploitative pricing, profits from violence without causing violence directly, enables survival for some while profiting from suffering of many. Moral classification: ambiguous. However, master's trajectory shows clear pattern toward increasing moral flexibility and decreasing ethical constraints."
"So that's a no."
"Correct. Master is not 'good person' by conventional metrics. However, master is effective survivor and profitable merchant. Survival and profit were master's stated goals post-transmigration. Goals achieved. Moral costs: significant but apparently sustainable."
We reach my hab-unit. The cramped space feels less oppressive now—I can afford better, but moving means establishing patterns. Patterns mean vulnerability. Better to stay small and forgettable.
I update my business records, creating new categories in the spreadsheet:
HUMANITARIAN CRISIS MARKET SEGMENT
High Margin Due to Desperation
Subscription Model: 7 Camps @ 5K Monthly = 35K Recurring Revenue
Expansion Potential: 20+ Camps = 100K+ Monthly
I stare at the clinical language. Wait for disgust to hit. Feel nothing except satisfaction at efficient categorization.
That night, I sleep better than I have since transmigration. No nightmares about casualty lists or Qorzo's missing fingers. Just deep, dreamless rest. The kind that comes when guilt stops being an obstacle.
When I wake, R4 is projecting profit estimates onto the wall:
"If subscription model scales to twenty camps: 100,000 monthly recurring revenue. Annual gross: 1.2 million credits. Master's Store Level 2 requirement: 50 sales, 5 million total revenue. Current progress: 6 sales, approximately 900,000 revenue. Projected timeline to Level 2: eight months at current rate, four months if subscription scaling succeeds."
The math looks good. Clean. Numbers that don't show the desperation underneath.
"You know what the worst part is?" I ask the droid.
"Query requires context."
"It doesn't bother me anymore. Looking at those numbers. Knowing what they represent. I feel nothing except interest in the profit margin."
"Master's observation confirms psychological adaptation thesis. However, question remains: is this negative outcome? Master survived three weeks in hostile environment through moral flexibility. Rigid ethics would have resulted in death or poverty. Master's adaptation is tactically optimal for stated goals."
"But at what cost?"
"Cost calculated: master's pre-transmigration ethical framework, self-image as moral agent, and psychological comfort associated with believing oneself virtuous. Benefits: 209,070 credits, criminal network protection, growing business, and continued survival. Cost-benefit analysis: ambiguous depending on values prioritization."
I laugh—bitter, hollow sound. "You're saying I traded my soul for credits and survival."
"Metaphorical language noted. Correction: master traded abstract ethical consistency for concrete survival advantages. Whether 'soul' exists and whether this transaction constitutes permanent loss: unknown variables outside analytical framework."
"Thanks. That's really comforting."
"Comfort is not primary function. Accurate assessment is. Master appears to be seeking validation for completed adaptation. Validation cannot be provided. Master must either accept new ethical framework or attempt reconstruction of old one. Current behavioral pattern suggests acceptance."
The droid's right. I'm not trying to become better—I'm trying to accept what I've become. The difference is subtle but important.
My datapad pings. Message from Thax: "Got three potential clients for you. Republic quartermaster looking for side weapons, Separatist cell needs equipment, independent operator wants heavy ordnance. Interested?"
Three clients. Minimum fifteen thousand credits combined, probably more. My finger hovers over "accept."
Pre-transmigration me would have hesitated. Questioned. Worried about enabling violence.
Current me just confirms and starts cataloging inventory.
R4 watches silently, photoreceptor fixed on me. When it speaks, the tone is different—almost sad, if machines could feel sadness.
"Master's transformation complete. Probability of returning to pre-transmigration ethics: 3.7%. Master is now fully adapted to underworld economics. Survival probability: increased. Moral foundation: destroyed. Long-term psychological consequences: unknown but concerning."
"Log it," I say. "Add it to all the other concerning variables."
"Command acknowledged. Master should note: this unit cannot determine if transformation is tragedy or necessity. Possibly both simultaneously."
"That's the most honest thing you've ever said."
The notification from Thax glows on my screen. Three clients waiting. Three opportunities. Three steps further into the business I've built on violence and desperation.
I accept them all and start preparing inventory lists.
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