Chapter 15 : The Syndicate War - Part 1
Thax's message doesn't start with pleasantries: "Black Sun problem. Warehouse 47. Now."
The same warehouse where I met Javik three days ago. I'm starting to associate that location with complications I don't want. R4 hovers beside me as I navigate back to the military district, photoreceptor scanning for threats.
"Master received urgent summons from criminal associate. Probability of hostile situation: 73.4%. Recommendation: bring additional defensive equipment."
I'm wearing the personal shield generator under my jacket. Blaster on my hip. Emergency beacon linked to every contact who might conceivably care if I disappear. It's not enough—never enough when criminal syndicates start having "problems"—but it's what I have.
Thax waits inside with four other Red Spire enforcers. His expression is grim enough that my hand drifts toward my weapon.
"Don't." He raises both hands, showing they're empty. "We're not the problem. Black Sun is."
"Explain."
He activates a holographic projector. Images of destroyed cargo, burned buildings, dead bodies in colors too vivid to be comfortable. "Black Sun hit three of our operations in the last seventy-two hours. Traced weapons used against them back to off-world tech. Our tech. Your tech specifically—those Titan weapons you sold us last month."
The dominoes click into place. I'd sold Red Spire advanced equipment to give them edge over competitors. Black Sun noticed the sudden upgrade. Traced it back to Syndicate. Now they want the source.
"They've demanded we provide your identity," Thax continues. "Otherwise, this escalates to full war. They gave us seventy-two hours."
The Appraisal function shows Thax's stress is genuine. Red Spire profits from my weapons, but profit means nothing if Black Sun burns their territory. He's caught between keeping a valuable asset and avoiding hundreds of deaths.
"What are you asking me?"
"Will you stay or run?" He meets my eyes directly. "Syndicate can provide protection—safe houses, armed escorts, everything we have. But Black Sun is bigger than us. More territory, more soldiers, deeper pockets. If they commit to finding you, they will. Question is whether you're willing to risk it."
R4 projects data only I can see:
[ BLACK SUN SYNDICATE ANALYSIS ]
[ TERRITORY: LEVELS 500-1500, 15 SECTORS ]
[ ESTIMATED FORCES: 2000-3000 ARMED MEMBERS ]
[ RESOURCES: EXTENSIVE BLACK MARKET NETWORK ]
[ RED SPIRE SYNDICATE ANALYSIS ]
[ TERRITORY: LEVELS 1000-2000, 8 SECTORS ]
[ ESTIMATED FORCES: 800-1200 ARMED MEMBERS ]
[ RESOURCES: MODERATE OPERATIONS, GROWING ]
[ PROBABILITY ASSESSMENT ]
[ RED SPIRE VICTORY: 23.7% ]
[ BLACK SUN VICTORY: 61.4% ]
[ MUTUAL DESTRUCTION: 14.9% ]
[ IF MASTER FLEES: 87.3% SURVIVAL ]
[ IF MASTER STAYS: 34.2% SURVIVAL IF WAR STARTS ]
The math is brutal. Fleeing is the smart choice—liquidate position, take transport off-world, rebuild somewhere Black Sun doesn't operate. Tatooine. Nal Hutta. A thousand worlds where I could start fresh with 428,000 credits and no gang war.
But fleeing means abandoning territory I've built. Client networks. The refugee subscription generating 35,000 monthly. Republic connections. Clone contacts. The Buyer in Black who might return with more premium contracts.
"When did profit start mattering more than survival?"
"I stay," I hear myself say.
Thax blinks. "You understand what that means? Black Sun will come for you directly. They don't negotiate. They don't compromise. They'll kill you and anyone protecting you just to make a point."
"Then we give them reason not to. I supply Red Spire exclusively. Advanced weapons. The kind that give you overwhelming tactical advantage." I pull up my datapad, showing him the System catalog's restricted section. "Titanfall Jump Kits. Halo UNSC armor. Mass Effect biotic amps. Technology Black Sun can't match."
His eyes widen as he scrolls through options. The prices make him wince—individual items costing more than most contracts. But the capability is undeniable. Jump infantry. Energy shields. Weapons that punch through standard armor like paper.
"This equipment... you can supply this quantity?"
"For the right price, yes. But it's not cheap. Outfitting a combat squad costs fifty thousand minimum. Full company? Half a million."
"That's..." He calculates rapidly. "That's our entire quarterly revenue."
"War is expensive. But winning is profitable. Black Sun controls valuable territory. You win this, you take their operations. Return on investment."
I'm selling him on gang war. Convincing a criminal syndicate to commit to violence that will kill hundreds because my profit margins depend on it. The person I was four weeks ago would be horrified.
Current me is already calculating commission percentages.
Thax studies the data for three minutes—long enough that his enforcers shift uncomfortably. Finally: "I need to clear this with Kreel and Mora. But if they approve... you become Syndicate's exclusive supplier. Full protection, territorial access, client referrals. In exchange, you don't sell to Black Sun or their allies. Ever."
"Agreed."
We shake on it. The gesture feels absurdly formal given we're negotiating mass violence.
"Black Sun's deadline is seventy hours now," Thax says. "That's when they'll escalate. I'll have answer from bosses in twenty-four hours. Either way, you should prepare for violence."
He's not wrong. Whether Red Spire accepts my offer or not, Black Sun will move. They've already committed to forcing the issue. Backing down makes them look weak. Criminal organizations don't survive looking weak.
I leave the warehouse and head straight to the nearest equipment supplier. Not for Red Spire—for me.
[ PERSONAL DEFENSE PURCHASES ]
[ HALO UNSC MJOLNIR-PATTERN ARMOR (SCALED): 15000 CREDITS ]
[ PERSONAL SHIELD GENERATOR (MILITARY GRADE): 8000 CREDITS ]
[ EMERGENCY EXTRACTION SPEEDER: 12000 CREDITS ]
[ TOTAL: 35000 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 393595 CREDITS ]
The armor arrives via discrete courier—matte black, reinforced at vital areas, comfortable enough to wear for extended periods. It's not full UNSC Spartan-grade—I'm not superhuman and the System won't let me purchase beyond my physical capabilities—but it'll stop most blaster shots and even lightsaber glances.
The shield generator is military surplus, rated for twenty hits before recharge. The speeder is fast, maneuverable, and equipped with countermeasures for pursuit.
R4 watches me assemble the equipment with what might be approval.
"Master finally prioritizing self-preservation over pure profit. Survival probability increased to 39.7%. Still insufficient for confidence, but improvement noted."
I strap on the armor piece by piece. Chest plate. Arm guards. Leg protection. Each piece is another layer between me and violence I've enabled. The irony isn't subtle—I'm protecting myself with weapons technology while selling weapons to people who'll kill each other.
"Do you think I'm making the right choice?" I ask the droid.
"Insufficient data to determine 'right' choice. However, strategic analysis suggests staying offers higher long-term profit potential despite increased short-term risk. Master's decision aligns with established pattern: prioritize profit over safety when probability of survival remains above 30%."
"That's not a ringing endorsement."
"Endorsement is not primary function. Accurate assessment is. Master has chosen sides in criminal gang war. Black Sun will attempt to kill master within estimated ninety-six hours. Red Spire will provide protection proportional to financial investment. Master's survival depends on: (1) Red Spire accepting weapons deal, (2) equipment providing sufficient tactical advantage, (3) Black Sun not deploying overwhelming force."
The variables stack up. Too many unknowns. Too many points of failure. This is the kind of decision that gets people killed.
But it's also the kind of decision that builds empires. The Hutts didn't become powerful by avoiding conflict. The syndicates that control Coruscant's underworld fought their way to dominance. Risk and reward are two sides of the same credit chip.
I secure the last armor piece and check the chrono. Sixty-eight hours until Black Sun's deadline. Enough time to prepare. Not enough time to feel ready.
My datapad pings—message from Thax: "Kreel approved. Full contract. 500k budget for initial armament. Delivery ASAP. War starts in 2 days."
Half a million credits. Enough to jump my Store Level progress significantly. Enough to establish Red Spire as dominant force. Enough to make me a very valuable target.
[ MAJOR CONTRACT CONFIRMED ]
[ ESTIMATED REVENUE: 500000 CREDITS ]
[ ESTIMATED PROFIT: 75000 CREDITS AFTER COSTS ]
[ WARNING: HIGH-RISK TRANSACTION ]
[ COMBAT PROBABILITY: 94.7% ]
[ MASTER'S COMBAT CAPABILITY: MINIMAL ]
I start cataloging inventory. Jump kits for mobility. Energy shields for defense. Heavy weapons for overwhelming firepower. The order is massive—enough equipment to outfit fifty elite soldiers with technology Black Sun has never encountered.
R4 projects tactical analysis: "Master is preparing for war. Not merely supplying war—participating in planning and execution. Line between arms dealer and combatant blurring. Probability master engages in direct violence within next week: 73.4%."
"I'm not a soldier."
"Correct. Master is arms dealer with minimal combat training preparing to survive gang war. Statistical outcome: poor. However, master's pattern recognition suggests acceptance of risk for profit. Query: at what point does profit cease justifying mortality risk?"
I don't have an answer. Just the weight of armor on my shoulders and the knowledge that seventy hours from now, people start dying in a conflict I'm enabling.
The apartment feels smaller somehow. Like the walls are closing in. Like the weight of accumulated decisions is compressing the space until there's no room left to move.
I sit on the mattress and stare at my reflection in the polished armor piece. The face looking back is mine but not mine—harder, older, worn down by weeks of moral compromise. The kind of face that belongs to someone who chooses profit over peace.
"Is this who I am now? The person who starts wars for commission?"
R4 answers without being asked: "Master has always been this person. Previous innocence was ignorance, not virtue. Transmigration revealed character under pressure. Master chose survival and profit over ethics. Current situation is logical conclusion of those choices."
"That's a depressing way to put it."
"Accuracy often is."
Outside my window, Coruscant's eternal night glows with billions of lights. Somewhere in those lights, Black Sun is mobilizing. Red Spire is preparing. Hundreds of criminals are about to kill each other over territory and pride and the weapons I'll provide.
And I'm sitting here in expensive armor, calculating profit margins, wondering when the guilt stopped mattering.
The answer comes with uncomfortable clarity: it stopped mattering when I stopped caring. Somewhere between Mira and Marker, between Qorzo and the Buyer in Black, I crossed a line I can't uncross. The person who vomited over enabling the Senate bombing is gone. In his place: someone who sees gang war as a business opportunity.
Two days until violence starts. Sixty-eight hours until Black Sun comes calling. Enough time to prepare equipment but not enough to prepare for what I'm becoming.
I check my weapons one last time, confirm the shield generator is charged, and try to convince myself that surviving the next week is worth whatever pieces of my soul I'm trading away to do it.
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