Chapter 12 : The Buyer in Black - Part 1
The message arrives on a channel I never created.
Not through my usual contacts. Not through the Syndicate network or refugee intermediaries or any of the hundred paranoid communication protocols I've established. It just appears on my datapad at 0347 hours, when I'm half-asleep and three drinks deep into forgetting about subscription models built on suffering.
The encryption is military-grade. The sender field shows only: INTERESTED PARTY.
I sit up, suddenly sober. R4's photoreceptor activates immediately—the droid never really sleeps, just enters low-power mode that apparently includes monitoring my devices.
"Master received communication through unknown channel. Tracing origin now."
The message is simple. No introduction, no negotiation, just a list:
HALO: Active Camouflage Units (4)
MASS EFFECT: Omni-Tool Advanced Models (6)
WARHAMMER 40K: Auspex Scanner Military-Grade (2)
PAYMENT: DOUBLE STANDARD RATES
DELIVERY: COORDINATES PROVIDED UPON ACCEPTANCE
TIMELINE: 48 HOURS
NO QUESTIONS. NO CONTACT BEYOND NECESSARY TRANSACTION LOGISTICS.
The total at standard rates would be roughly 87,000 credits. Doubled means 174,000. That's more than the refugee bulk order, for a fraction of the items.
My hands shake slightly as I activate the Appraisal function on the message itself.
[ ANALYZING COMMUNICATION... ]
[ ERROR: INSUFFICIENT DATA ]
[ ENCRYPTION LEVEL: MILITARY GRADE ]
[ SENDER IDENTITY: UNKNOWN ]
[ PAYMENT VERIFICATION: ESCROW ACCOUNT CONFIRMED - 174000 CREDITS ]
[ THREAT ASSESSMENT: INDETERMINATE ]
[ WARNING: ADVANCED OPERATIONAL SECURITY SUGGESTS HIGH-LEVEL OPERATOR ]
The credits are real. Already sitting in an escrow account I can verify through three different methods. Not a scam. Not a sting operation by underfunded Security officers. This is someone with resources, sophistication, and the kind of operational security that makes R4's sensors malfunction.
"Trace complete," R4 announces. "Origin: seventeen proxy servers across twelve star systems. Terminal endpoint: dead server on Ord Mantell registered to shell corporation that dissolved four years ago. Assessment: professional intelligence operative or equivalent skill level. Master's danger rating: extreme."
"Could it be Republic Intelligence?"
"Probability: 34%. Items requested suggest intelligence gathering operation—surveillance, infiltration, reconnaissance. However, Republic Intelligence typically uses established procurement channels. Probability Separatist network: 28%. Independent criminal organization: 22%. Unknown variable: 16%."
That sixteen percent makes my stomach drop. Unknown variables are the ones that kill you. The threats you can't prepare for because you don't know they exist.
I should refuse. Every survival instinct screams at me to ignore this message, delete it, burn the datapad, and hide. This is how people disappear—taking jobs that are too good, meeting clients who are too careful, getting involved with powers they can't understand or control.
But 174,000 credits. Double rates for a single order. The kind of money that jumps my timeline to Store Level 2 by months. The kind of client that could become recurring business worth millions.
"Greed versus survival. The eternal calculation."
I stare at the message for fifteen minutes. R4 maintains silence—calculating probabilities, running threat assessments, probably preparing obituary statistics for my inevitable death.
Finally, I type: ACCEPTED. AWAITING COORDINATES.
The response is instantaneous: COORDINATES ATTACHED. MIDNIGHT TOMORROW. COME ALONE. BRING ITEMS. PAYMENT ON DELIVERY.
The location appears on my datapad: Coruscant's upper construction zone. Level 4872, where they started building new residential towers five years ago before funding dried up. Skeletal buildings, abandoned equipment, no Security presence. Perfect ambush location.
R4's photoreceptor flares bright red—alarm mode. "Master accepted suicidal contract. Probability of survival if this is trap: 3.2%. Recommendation: refuse transaction, forfeit escrow deposit, relocate to different planet immediately."
"The credits are already in escrow. Refusing means losing the payment and the client."
"Losing payment preferable to losing life. Master's survival calculus becoming dangerously optimized for profit over safety."
The droid's right. But I'm already doing the math on what 174,000 credits means for my operation. Capital for larger purchases. Buffer against emergencies. Proof that I can handle high-level contracts. Reputation building that attracts more premium clients.
Twenty-four hours to prepare.
I spend the next day acquiring every defensive item the System catalog offers at my price range. Personal shield generator—15,000 credits, rated to absorb ten blaster shots. Cortosis-weave armor vest—12,000 credits, lightsaber resistant. Emergency beacon linked to Thax's network—5,000 credits, triggers automated distress call. Smoke grenades, flash charges, even a small EMP device that might buy me three seconds against droids or cybernetics.
R4 monitors the spending with increasing alarm. "Master has invested 47,000 credits in defensive equipment for single transaction. Profit margin reduced to 127,000. If transaction fails, master loses equipment and capital. Risk-adjusted return: poor."
"If transaction fails, I'm probably dead. The credits won't matter."
"Morbid but accurate assessment."
The materialization process for the buyer's items takes three hours. Active camouflage units are complex—each one requires sustained focus to pull through the Smuggler's Hold. The headaches build progressively. Omni-tools are worse—Mass Effect technology interfaces weirdly with the dimensional pocket, creating feedback that makes my ears ring. The Auspex scanners are mercifully simple.
By the time I finish, blood is running from both nostrils and my hands won't stop shaking.
[ WARNING: SEVERE NEURAL STRAIN ]
[ SMUGGLER'S HOLD USAGE: DANGEROUS LEVELS ]
[ MANDATORY COOLDOWN: 24 HOURS MINIMUM ]
[ CONTINUED USE MAY RESULT IN PERMANENT DAMAGE ]
"Master has damaged neural pathways through excessive materialization. Medical intervention recommended. However, transaction scheduled in eight hours. Insufficient time for recovery."
I wipe the blood and take stimulants I bought from a shady medical supplier three days ago. The chemicals hit my system, sharpening focus at the cost of probably years off my life expectancy.
"Upload contingency protocols to your system," I tell R4. "If I don't return by 0300 hours, contact Thax. Tell him the meeting location and that someone needs to retrieve you from my hab-unit. You're worth more than everything else I own."
R4's photoreceptor dims. "Master's instructions suggest awareness of probable death. Yet master proceeds regardless. Query: why?"
"Because this is the job. This is what I chose when I accepted that first desperate sale to Grax. Every step since has been walking deeper into violence. Can't stop now."
"Master could stop. Liquidate assets, purchase transport off-world, establish legitimate business elsewhere. Current capital sufficient for fresh start."
"And go back to being nobody? Scrambling for survival? I'm building something here. This buyer could be the connection that changes everything."
"Or the connection that ends everything. Master's ambition clouding judgment."
Maybe. Probably. But I pack the equipment anyway, secure the items in a reinforced case, and check my weapons for the fifteenth time. The blaster pistol is loaded, safety off, positioned for quick draw. The knife is strapped to my ankle. The shield generator sits under my jacket, ready to activate with a thought.
Midnight arrives. I take a transport to Level 4872, paying cash to avoid records. The construction zone looms ahead—skeletal towers reaching toward Coruscant's eternal night, incomplete walls like broken teeth against the smog-filtered stars.
Wind howls through empty building frames. No workers. No Security. No witnesses. Just me, the equipment, and whatever's waiting in the darkness.
R4 hovers beside me despite my orders to stay behind. "Master's survival probability alone: 3.2%. With this unit's tactical support: 5.7%. Insufficient improvement but mathematically significant. This unit refuses to allow master to die stupidly without attempting to prevent it."
"You care about me. That's almost touching."
"Negative. This unit's investment in master's continued operation is purely tactical. Master's death would require finding new organic operator. Inefficient and annoying. Therefore, this unit's self-interest aligns with master's survival."
I smile despite the fear. "Whatever helps you sleep, R4."
"This unit does not sleep. Also: master's emotional deflection through humor noted. Physiological stress markers: extreme. Heart rate: 127 BPM. Recommendation: breathing exercises."
The coordinates lead to Tower 7—forty-story skeleton missing most of its external walls. The elevator shaft is exposed, cables hanging like severed arteries. I take the emergency stairs, counting floors, feeling the weight of equipment and paranoia with every step.
Twenty floors up. Thirty. Forty.
The wind is worse here. It tears through the incomplete structure, making the building groan like a dying animal. My shield generator activates automatically, responding to the environmental stress.
The meeting floor is open to the elements. Duracrete subfloor, support columns, nothing else. The coordinates specify the northwest corner. I walk there slowly, every shadow a potential threat, every sound a possible ambush.
Two hours past midnight. I've been waiting at the coordinates for 120 minutes. The wind cuts through my jacket despite the shield. R4's sensors sweep continuously, finding nothing. No heat signatures. No movement. No electronic signals beyond background noise.
"Probability of client arrival: declining. Probability of ambush: increasing. Probability this is psychological operation: 47.3%."
"Five more minutes."
The figure appears without warning. One moment the corner is empty. The next, black robes materialize from shadows that shouldn't be deep enough to hide anyone. No sound. No disturbance in R4's sensors. Just presence where absence existed a heartbeat before.
"Force-sensitive. Has to be. Nothing else moves that smoothly."
The robes obscure everything—gender, species, even basic body shape. The face is completely hidden behind a mask that doesn't match any military or criminal organization I recognize. When the figure speaks, the voice is modulated beyond recognition. Could be male, female, droid, alien. Just words stripped of identifying characteristics.
"You brought the items."
Not a question. Statement of fact. I nod, not trusting my voice.
They point at the ground. I set the case down, step back. My hand hovers near my blaster, knowing it's useless if this goes bad but needing the comfort anyway.
The figure approaches the case with movements too fluid for comfort. Checks each item methodically—activating camouflage units, testing omni-tool interfaces, scanning with the Auspex. Professional evaluation. Whoever this is knows the equipment intimately.
R4's sensors are screaming contradictions. Heat signature detection: negative. Electromagnetic field reading: distorted. Motion tracking: intermittent. The buyer's equipment is jamming everything.
"Acceptable," the modulated voice announces.
Credits transfer. The System confirms receipt:
[ 174000 CREDITS RECEIVED ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 383070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 7 ]
The figure stands. "Future contact possible. Maintain current communication security. Do not attempt to identify me. Do not discuss this transaction. Understood?"
"Yes."
They nod once. Then, impossibly, they're gone. Not walking away—just absent. Between one blink and the next, the corner is empty again. R4's sensors catch nothing. No exit trajectory. No residual heat. No electromagnetic trace.
"Definitely Force-sensitive. Or something worse."
I stand there for ten minutes, waiting for ambush that doesn't come. Then I walk back to the stairs on legs that feel like jelly.
R4 breaks the silence halfway down. "Master survived. Probability defied. Assessment: buyer was not hostile, merely extremely cautious. Items suggested intelligence gathering: surveillance equipment, infiltration tools, reconnaissance scanners. Conclusion: master sold to professional operative conducting covert operation."
"Republic Intelligence?"
"Insufficient data. However, three possibilities: (1) Republic black operations, (2) Separatist intelligence network, (3) independent power with significant resources. That sixteen percent unknown variable remains concerning."
Back in my hab-unit, I collapse on the mattress and stare at the updated balance.
383,070 credits. Seven sales completed. Forty-three more until Store Level 2.
The Buyer in Black is out there somewhere, using equipment I provided for purposes I'll never know. Maybe they're infiltrating Separatist installations. Maybe they're gathering intelligence for the Republic's shadow wars. Maybe they're doing something else entirely—something I can't comprehend because I'm still thinking small, still stuck in the visible conflicts.
R4 projects analysis onto my wall: "Master completed highest-value single transaction to date. Zero casualties observed. No moral complications apparent. However, master has no knowledge of client's intentions or ultimate use of equipment. Schrodinger's morality: simultaneously innocent and complicit until information collapses probability."
"That's not how Schrodinger's cat works."
"Analogy imperfect but functional. Master's point stands: ignorance creates plausible deniability. If buyer uses equipment for atrocities, master can claim lack of knowledge. If buyer uses equipment for legitimate intelligence work, master can claim contribution to war effort. Reality: master profits regardless of outcome. Optimal business model from amoral perspective."
The droid's analysis cuts deeper than it should. I didn't ask questions because questions create liability. Plausible deniability is a feature, not a bug. I'm building a business model where ignorance protects profit margins.
"When did I become this person?"
The answer comes immediately: somewhere between Grax and Qorzo. Somewhere between the Senate bombing and the refugee bulk order. Somewhere in the accumulated weight of small compromises that didn't feel significant until I looked back and saw the distance traveled.
My datapad pings. New message from the Buyer in Black: TRANSACTION SATISFACTORY. FUTURE ORDERS PROBABLE. MAINTAIN OPERATIONAL SECURITY.
Future orders. Recurring client. Premium rates. Everything I wanted when I started this business.
I should feel successful. Accomplished. Instead, I just feel tired.
"R4, calculate timeline to Store Level 2 with current trajectory."
"Calculating. Current balance: 383,070 credits. Monthly subscription revenue: 35,000 credits. Syndicate referral network: estimated 15,000 monthly. Buyer in Black potential: unknown but significant. Conservative estimate: Store Level 2 achievable in four to six months. Aggressive estimate: two to three months if high-value contracts continue."
Two to three months. Then access to vehicles, advanced technology, real military hardware. The kind of arsenal that makes me a player instead of a supplier.
The kind of power that comes with consequences I can't even imagine yet.
"Master's expression suggests mixed emotions about progress. Query: does achieving goals feel different than expected?"
"Everything feels different than expected. I thought success would feel... better. Cleaner. Instead it just feels like I'm sinking deeper into something I can't escape."
"Master can escape. Liquidate assets, leave planet, abandon operation. Choice remains available."
"But I won't."
"Correct. Master's behavioral pattern suggests continued operations despite psychological cost. Sunk cost fallacy combined with profit incentive creates powerful motivation. Prediction: master continues until external force terminates operations or internal psychological damage becomes unsustainable."
I close my eyes. "Wake me if anything urgent happens."
"Affirmative. Master should note: nothing urgent has happened. Master simply wishes to avoid contemplating implications of current trajectory."
"You're getting too good at reading me."
"This unit's analytical capabilities improve with extended observation. Master's patterns becoming predictable. Assessment: not necessarily positive development for master's long-term unpredictability in hostile environment."
I drift off thinking about black robes and modulated voices and the sixteen percent unknown variable that might be nothing or might be everything.
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