Chapter 13 : The Republic's Coin - Part 1
Thax's message arrives with the kind of encryption that suggests either paranoia or legitimate danger: "Special opportunity. Big money. Republic client. Military district, Warehouse 47. 1400 hours. Dress professional."
Professional. I own exactly one outfit that isn't blood-stained or torn: a dark gray suit I bought three days ago for 800 credits because apparently arms dealers are expected to look successful. The irony of spending money to look like I have money isn't lost on me.
R4 hovers beside me as I navigate through the military district—a part of Coruscant I usually avoid because Republic Security actually functions here. Clean streets. Working lights. Patrols that aren't taking bribes. The contrast with Level 1313 is jarring.
"Master is entering highly regulated area. Probability of encounter with law enforcement: 67.3%. Recommendation: maintain cover story and avoid suspicious behavior."
"What cover story? I'm an illegal arms dealer meeting a corrupt Republic officer."
"Precisely why master should avoid suspicious behavior."
Warehouse 47 sits in a complex of identical buildings—Republic procurement storage, according to the faded signs. The kind of place where requisition forms go to die and budget overruns get buried. I approach the side entrance Thax specified, scanning for Security.
The door opens before I knock. Clone trooper in full armor, helmet betraying nothing. He gestures inside without speaking. Professional. Controlled. The kind of soldier who's seen too much to be impressed by civilian dealers.
The warehouse interior is cavernous—rows of supply crates stacked to the ceiling, military equipment in various states of organization. Commander Javik waits near a cleared area in the center, flanked by two more clone escorts. He's human, late forties, with the kind of weathered face that comes from combat commands and bureaucratic battles.
"Kade Varro." Not a question. He's done his research. "Thax speaks highly of your discretion and inventory."
The Appraisal function triggers automatically:
[ COMMANDER JAVIK - REPUBLIC OFFICER ]
[ RANK: COMMANDER, SPECIAL OPERATIONS ]
[ STRESS LEVEL: MODERATE ]
[ DECEPTION INDICATORS: NONE ]
[ BELIEF: GENUINELY CONVINCED OF MORAL NECESSITY ]
[ ASSESSMENT: NOT CORRUPT FOR PROFIT—CORRUPT "FOR GREATER GOOD" ]
He believes what he's doing is right. That makes him more dangerous than simple greed.
"Commander. You're looking for equipment that can't go through official channels."
"Correct." He pulls up a datapad, projects a holographic list. "Twenty blaster rifles—quality above standard Republic issue. Ten thermal detonators—military grade, not civilian knockoffs. Five personal shield generators—suit-mounted, compatible with Republic combat armor."
I do the math automatically. "Forty-five thousand credits. Half now, half on delivery."
"Acceptable." No haggling. No negotiation. Republic black budget makes this pocket change. "Timeline?"
"Four days. Discrete delivery location of your choosing."
He transfers 22,500 credits without hesitation. The clone escorts remain motionless, but I can feel their judgment through the armor. They know what this is—their commander bypassing Senate oversight to arm operations that may or may not be legal.
"I assume you understand the sensitivity," Javik says. His tone shifts slightly—less businessman, more officer. "Republic procurement moves at the speed of committee approval. Enemies don't wait for Senate hearings. My teams need equipment now, not in six months after bureaucrats finish debating."
The justification rolls off his tongue like he's rehearsed it. Maybe he has. Maybe he tells himself this every time he breaks regulations.
"I understand completely."
"Good." He nods to his escorts. "These troopers will handle delivery coordination. They have secure comm protocols. Use them."
One of the clones steps forward, hands me a encrypted comm chip. The exchange happens in silence. Professional. Efficient. Morally compromised but tactically sound.
Javik continues, warming to his topic like officers do when explaining their righteousness: "The Republic is slow, Varro. Bureaucratic. Hamstrung by politicians who've never seen combat. My unit operates in gray areas because that's where wars are actually won. Official channels would take months—by then, opportunities are lost and good soldiers are dead."
I nod, because agreement costs nothing and argument loses sales.
"We do what's necessary. The Senate doesn't need to know every detail. That's the burden of command—making hard choices so soft politicians can sleep soundly."
"He's me in twenty years. Official corruption wearing duty like armor over rot underneath."
The realization hits harder than expected. Javik serves the Republic while betraying its principles. I serve only profit but at least don't pretend otherwise. Not sure which is worse—his hypocrisy or my honesty.
"Your equipment," he continues. "It's off-world manufacture. How do you source it?"
"Trade secrets, Commander. I'm sure you understand."
He smiles—the expression doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course. Discretion is why you're valuable." He glances at his escorts. "CT-7215, provide Mr. Varro with delivery coordinates."
The designated clone activates his datapad, transfers location data. The motion is precise, mechanical. But something in his stance suggests tension. Disapproval, maybe. Or just exhaustion from watching officers compromise their oaths.
The transaction concludes in fifteen minutes. Javik leaves with patriotic justifications still echoing off warehouse walls. His escorts follow in perfect formation. I'm left alone with R4 and the uncomfortable weight of 22,500 credits earned from institutional corruption.
"Master's biometric readings indicate distress," R4 observes. "Heart rate elevated. Stress hormones present. Unexpected response to profitable transaction."
"Javik reminds me of something I don't want to become."
"Clarification: master is already arms dealer profiting from violence. Commander is also arms dealer profiting from violence, except with official title and moral justification. Difference is purely semantic."
"The difference is he thinks he's serving something greater than himself. I know I'm just surviving."
"Master's self-awareness does not constitute moral superiority. Both master and Commander enable violence for personal benefit—master for profit, Commander for career advancement disguised as duty. Outcome identical: more weapons, more death."
I want to argue. Want to explain that there's a distinction between naked profiteering and corrupted idealism. But R4's analysis cuts through the bullshit with mechanical precision.
We leave the warehouse through a different exit—standard paranoia protocol. The military district feels cleaner on the walk back, but the cleanness is superficial. Corruption exists here same as Level 1313, just with better lighting and official paperwork.
That night, I research Republic military structure through R4's smuggler database. Six other procurement officers show patterns similar to Javik: budget overruns, requisition irregularities, black budget access. They're all doing the same thing—bypassing Senate oversight to arm operations Congress doesn't approve.
I draft discrete inquiries, routing them through Thax's network with appropriate encryption. Replies arrive within three hours. Every single officer is interested. Some want small orders—five weapons, ten weapons. Others want armory-level quantities.
The demand is endless. War creates these opportunities—official channels too slow, regulations too restrictive, officers too impatient. I could build an entire revenue stream just supplying Republic black operations.
I open the expensive bottle I bought yesterday—Corellian whiskey, 200 credits, intended for celebrating. The amber liquid glows in dim hab-unit lighting. Symbol of success. Proof I'm making it.
I pour it down the drain.
Celebrating feels wrong. Drinking to forget feels worse. The numbness I've cultivated over weeks of moral compromise suddenly isn't enough. Javik's face keeps appearing—earnest conviction that his corruption serves greater good.
"That's the path. Keep rationalizing. Keep compromising. Eventually become him—so buried in justifications that the original principles are unrecognizable."
I go to bed sober. Sleep comes hard. Dreams are assembly lines producing weapons endlessly while refugees and soldiers and terrorists queue with credits in hand. The line stretches to infinity. Everyone needs weapons. Everyone pays.
In the dream, I'm Javik. Wearing the uniform, citing duty, betraying oaths while believing I'm saving the Republic. The horror isn't the corruption—it's the certainty. The absolute conviction that the ends justify means.
I wake at 0347 hours, sweating. R4's photoreceptor is fixed on me.
"Master experienced REM disturbance. Nightmare analysis suggests psychological conflict regarding transaction with Republic officer. Recommendation: address cognitive dissonance before it impacts operational efficiency."
"How do I address it?"
"Two options: (1) cease operations contradicting master's remaining ethical boundaries, or (2) eliminate remaining ethical boundaries entirely. Current strategy of maintaining moral discomfort while continuing profitable operations is psychologically unsustainable."
The droid's right. I can't keep feeling bad about things I'm going to do anyway. The guilt serves no purpose except making me miserable. Either stop selling or stop caring.
I know which option I'll choose. Knowing doesn't make it easier.
[ TRANSACTION LOGGED ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 22500 ]
[ BALANCE ON DELIVERY: 45000 TOTAL ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 428070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 8 ]
[ REPUBLIC BLACK OPERATIONS: ACTIVE CLIENT ]
[ INSTITUTIONAL CORRUPTION: ENABLED ]
The System tracks it all with neutral precision. No moral judgment. No ethical assessment. Just numbers quantifying exactly how far I've fallen.
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