Chapter 30 : Preparation Montage - Part 1
The equipment purchases begin at 0647 hours. I've been awake three hours already, cataloging Mandalorian requirements, calculating optimal specifications, preparing for the most intensive materialization sequence yet.
Two hundred blaster rifles. Fifty heavy weapons. Personal armor upgrades. Anti-jetpack equipment. Total value: 420,000 credits. Total profit margin: zero—I'm essentially buying equipment at cost to fulfill contract and establish relationship.
"This is investment. Political protection and market access worth more than immediate profit."
The rationalization comes automatically. Everything is rationalization now.
I start with rifles. Halo MA5D assault rifles—reliable, durable, effective against armored targets. Each one costs 1,400 credits from System catalog. I need two hundred.
The first materialization from Smuggler's Hold is smooth. The rifle appears in my hands with only minor headache—neural feedback tolerable. I set it aside and pull the second.
Headache intensifies. Not concerning yet, just noticeable pressure building behind eyes.
Third rifle. Fourth. Fifth. The pressure becomes pain. By the tenth rifle, blood drips from my nose.
R4's alarm systems trigger. "Master's neural temperature elevated. Smuggler's Hold usage approaching dangerous levels. Recommend ten-minute cooldown."
"Can't stop. Need momentum."
"Master's momentum will result in neural damage if continued without breaks."
Fifteenth rifle. The pain is sharp now—ice picks driven through skull. Vision blurs at edges. I grab the table for support, waiting for equilibrium to return.
Eight's voice cuts through pain: "Master's biological limitations are becoming operational constraints. System has costs beyond credits. Neural pathways are inflaming from excessive dimensional pocket access. Recommend immediate cessation or permanent damage probability increases significantly."
"How significantly?"
"Current trajectory: 47.3% probability of permanent neural impairment if master continues without adequate rest periods."
I ignore the warning and pull twentieth rifle. The pain explodes. Vision goes completely white. Balance fails. I'm falling—
Darkness.
Consciousness returns gradually. I'm on safehouse floor. R4 hovers above, medical scanners active. My head feels like someone used it for target practice.
"Master regained consciousness after six hours, fourteen minutes. Neural scan indicates minor damage—temporary but concerning. Smuggler's Hold overuse causes biological stress System interface does not adequately warn about."
"Six hours?"
"Affirmative. Master collapsed from neural strain. This unit administered emergency medication and monitored vitals. Master's body cannot handle current System usage rate indefinitely."
Eight adds clinical observation: "Interesting limitation. System provides capabilities but biological substrate remains constrained. Master has been treating dimensional pocket as infinite resource without considering personal costs. This represents strategic miscalculation requiring correction."
I sit up slowly. The room spins briefly before stabilizing. My nose is crusted with dried blood. The headache persists—dull throb that promises to return full force if I push too hard.
"How many rifles did I complete?"
"Twenty," R4 confirms. "One hundred eighty remaining. Plus fifty heavy weapons, armor upgrades, and anti-jetpack equipment. At current neural strain rate, completing order requires minimum five days with mandatory rest periods. Master's original timeline: three days. Revision necessary."
Five days. That still leaves nine days before the Buyer's two-week protection expires. Manageable if I'm careful about pacing.
I spend the next four hours working systematically. Pull three rifles. Rest fifteen minutes. Pull three more. Rest again. The neural strain remains but becomes manageable through pacing.
R4 monitors constantly. "Master's revised approach is acceptable. Neural temperature remains elevated but stable. Permanent damage probability reduced to 8.7%."
"Eight percent is still concerning."
"Eight percent is significantly better than forty-seven percent. Master is learning prudence. Slowly. Very slowly."
By evening, I've materialized sixty rifles total. One hundred forty remaining. The Smuggler's Hold has expanded to twenty-five cubic meters after the Titan purchase, but that doesn't reduce neural strain—just increases capacity.
The heavy weapons are worse. Mass Effect M-920 Cain heavy cannons weigh forty kilograms each. Pulling them through dimensional pocket feels like materializing small vehicles. After the third cannon, I vomit from neural feedback.
"Master's body is rejecting continued System usage," Eight observes. "Biological limitations remain frustrating constraint on operational efficiency."
"Noted. Any suggestions beyond 'push through pain'?"
"Negative. Master's biology is fixed parameter. System provides capabilities but cannot eliminate physical costs. Recommendation: accept constraints and plan accordingly."
I switch to armor upgrades—lighter items that cause less strain. Titanfall pilot gear adapted for Mandalorian use. Each suit costs 1,750 credits and weighs maybe fifteen kilograms. Still painful to materialize but manageable.
Three days later, the order is complete. Two hundred rifles lined up in safehouse that's becoming armory. Fifty heavy weapons arranged by category. Twenty personal armor suits. Specialized anti-jetpack equipment—EMP grenades, grappling systems, jet-disruption ammunition.
The cost:
[ MANDALORIAN ORDER COMPLETE ]
[ TOTAL EXPENDITURE: 420000 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 154595 CREDITS ]
[ NEURAL DAMAGE: MODERATE (RECOVERING) ]
[ TIME REMAINING: 9 DAYS UNTIL BUYER'S PROTECTION EXPIRES ]
One hundred fifty-four thousand credits. The lowest balance I've had since the refugee bulk order. But the equipment is ready for delivery to Bo-Katan.
Now comes extraction planning.
Jassi agrees to handle physical handoff for ten thousand credit fee. "You're fleeing Coruscant, aren't you? Smart. Jedi are asking questions. CS is building case. You stayed too long."
"Had commitments to fulfill."
"Commitments to criminals." She examines the equipment with professional eye. "This is military hardware. You're supplying warriors, not gangsters. Escalating again."
"Mandalorians pay better."
"Mandalorians also kill better. If this equipment fails during combat, they'll hunt you across galaxy." She transfers coordinates. "Delivery location is neutral warehouse I control. Mandalorians inspect goods there. If satisfied, they pay, and I forward credits to your account minus my fee."
"Fair terms."
"Fair terms with dangerous client." Her lekku twitch with concern. "Kade, you've adapted fast. Too fast. Started as desperate survivor. Now you're arming Death Watch. That's not adaptation—that's transformation into something you won't recognize."
"Too late. Already don't recognize myself."
But I don't say that. Just nod. "Transfer the equipment to your warehouse. Schedule delivery with Bo-Katan for day after tomorrow."
"You'll be gone by then?"
"Long gone."
I purchase off-world transport tickets using three different false identities. Fifteen thousand credits total for tickets that provide maximum flexibility—multiple departure times, various destinations, refundable if plans change. The paranoia is expensive but necessary.
Starport security requires bribing for "no questions asked" departure clearance. Twenty-five thousand credits to customs official who looks the other way when scanning cargo that obviously contains weapons. Not cheap, but cheaper than arrest.
Total extraction costs: fifty thousand credits. Combined with Jassi's ten-thousand-credit handling fee, I'm spending sixty thousand to escape safely.
[ EXTRACTION PLANNING COMPLETE ]
[ TRANSPORT TICKETS: 15000 CREDITS ]
[ SECURITY BRIBES: 25000 CREDITS ]
[ HANDLING FEE: 10000 CREDITS ]
[ TOTAL EXTRACTION COST: 50000 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 104595 CREDITS ]
[ BALANCE AFTER DELIVERY: 504595 CREDITS (420K PAYMENT - 10K FEE - 5595 MISC) ]
One hundred four thousand credits currently. Five hundred four thousand after Bo-Katan pays. Enough to restart operations elsewhere. Enough to survive while establishing Mandalore presence.
But it means leaving Coruscant. The only home I've had since transmigration. The city where I built business from nothing. The place where I became... whatever I am now.
R4 hovers beside packed supplies. "Master's neural damage is healing. Medical scan shows 73% recovery. Full recovery estimated in seven days. However, master should note: permanent System overuse may cause cumulative damage that doesn't heal completely."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning master's casual use of Smuggler's Hold could eventually result in permanent cognitive impairment. Recommendation: use System sparingly, plan materializations carefully, never exceed safe usage thresholds."
Eight disagrees predictably: "Master should optimize usage patterns rather than limit System capabilities. Biological constraints can be managed through chemical assistance and tactical rest periods. Limiting System access reduces operational effectiveness."
"Master's body is not disposable resource," R4 argues. "Permanent neural damage would compromise all future operations. Caution is optimal strategy."
"Caution that reduces capability is suboptimal. Master should push limits while managing costs."
They're arguing again. Binary exchanges too fast to follow. Two AIs with fundamentally opposed philosophies fighting over whether I should sacrifice health for operational capability.
I sit on the mattress—same uncomfortable surface I've slept on for weeks. The safehouse that's been temporary home feels even more temporary now. In two days, I leave Coruscant. Probably forever. The city where I woke in blood-soaked alley with System interface and desperate need to survive.
"Was it worth it? Everything I've done. Everything I've become."
The question feels important but unanswerable. I survived. Built business. Accumulated 107 confirmed casualties. Destroyed Qorzo. Armed terrorists. Enabled gang warfare. Supplied military mechs to criminals. And now I'm fleeing with Jedi hunting me and mysterious Buyer holding favor I can't refuse.
Success or catastrophe? Progress or descent? The definitions keep shifting until they're meaningless.
"Master's psychological state indicates contemplation of past decisions," R4 observes. "Pattern suggests guilt resurgence or existential questioning. Recommendation: focus on immediate survival rather than philosophical assessment."
"Master's contemplation is inefficient use of cognitive resources," Eight agrees. "Past cannot be changed. Only future operations require planning. Guilt serves no tactical purpose."
For once, they agree on something. Both AIs want me to stop thinking about what I've done and focus on what comes next.
"Maybe they're right. Maybe looking backward is luxury I can't afford."
That night, I review the situation one final time. One hundred four thousand credits. Neural damage healing. Nine days until Buyer's protection expires. Two days until Mandalorian delivery. Then immediate evacuation to Mandalore space where Death Watch operates outside Republic jurisdiction.
The plan is solid. The execution is pending. The consequences are unknown.
R4 projects final assessment: "Master's health declining from System overuse. Financial reserves depleted then restored through high-risk contracts. Enemy count increasing exponentially. Assessment: master's trajectory unsustainable long-term."
Eight counters: "Master is adapting, evolving, optimizing. Short-term pain enables long-term survival. Physical discomfort is temporary. Profit and strategic positioning are permanent. Master's trajectory is exactly as planned."
"You two ever agree on anything?" I ask.
Both AIs respond simultaneously, perfect synchronization: "No."
Despite everything—the danger, the guilt, the exhaustion—I laugh. The sound is harsh, half-broken, but genuine.
Progress. In some definition that's become completely untethered from anything resembling morality or sanity.
But I'm alive. That counts for something. Even if I'm not entirely sure what that something is anymore.
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