Chapter 16 : The Syndicate War - Part 2
The armory smells like gun oil and ambition. Industrial space tucked into Level 1547, officially registered as "equipment storage" but everyone knows what Red Spire keeps here. Weapon racks line the walls—mostly empty now, waiting for my delivery to fill them.
Kreel dominates the room just by existing. Trandoshan, maybe seven feet tall, scales scarred from decades of violence. Operations boss for Red Spire, which means he decides where resources go and who dies when they're misallocated. Mora stands beside him—human, female, enforcement chief. She's smaller but somehow more dangerous, with the kind of stillness that precedes sudden movement.
Thax made the introductions ten minutes ago. Now I'm standing in front of Syndicate leadership with half a million credits worth of weapons in my Smuggler's Hold and a headache already building.
"Show us," Kreel says. His voice sounds like rocks grinding.
I pull up the System catalog on my datapad, displaying the inventory list. "Thirty Halo BR-85 battle rifles. Semi-automatic, armor-piercing rounds, effective range three hundred meters. Twenty Mass Effect Carnifex hand cannons—heavy pistols, shields bypass, stopping power against body armor. Fifteen personal energy shields—absorb ten direct hits before recharge. Five Titanfall jump kits for your strike team—thirty seconds powered flight, tactical mobility advantage."
Mora circles me slowly. "Where do these come from?"
"Prototype acquisitions through classified channels." The lie flows smoothly now. "Military development that never reached production. Black market diversion."
"Republic or Separatist?"
"Neither. Independent contractors working both sides."
She studies my face, looking for tells. I keep my expression neutral—weeks of practice hiding the System's existence has made me decent at deception. After fifteen seconds, she nods to Kreel.
"Demonstrate," the Trandoshan orders.
I start materializing. First rifle takes thirty seconds—reaching into the dimensional pocket, feeling the weight coalesce, pulling it through into reality. The headache blooms immediately. By the third rifle, my vision blurs. By the tenth, blood runs from my nose.
R4 hovers close, photoreceptor pulsing red. "Master's neural temperature critical. Smuggler's Hold capacity at 87%. Recommend immediate cessation."
"How many more?" I mutter.
"Twenty rifles, twenty pistols, fifteen shields, five jump kits remaining. Estimated time: four hours with mandatory rest intervals. Probability of permanent neural damage if continuing without breaks: 63.4%."
Mora notices my nose bleeding. "You alright?"
"Fine. Just... exertion." I wipe the blood. "Need ten minutes between batches."
She exchanges glances with Kreel. They're calculating—is my limitation a weakness they can exploit, or just operational constraint they need to accommodate? The Trandoshan gestures to a bench.
"Rest. We test weapons while you recover."
Kreel picks up one of the BR-85s with surprising delicacy for someone with claws. Examines the action, tests the weight, peers down the barrel. His scaled face shifts—appreciation mixed with hunger. He shoulders the rifle, aims at the far wall where targets are set up, and fires three rounds.
The sound is sharper than standard blasters. Three holes appear in the target's center mass, punched clean through the durasteel backing. Kreel's grin shows too many teeth.
"This cuts through armor."
"Standard clone trooper armor, yes. Heavier plating requires sustained fire."
Mora tests a Carnifex. The heavy pistol kicks hard enough that she adjusts her grip after first shot. The target's head explodes. She examines the weapon with professional interest.
"Black Sun uses cheap blasters. This is military grade."
"That's the point. Superior firepower wins engagements."
The next three hours are brutal. I materialize weapons in batches, resting between pulls to let the neural strain fade. Each rest period, I watch Syndicate soldiers examine equipment with growing enthusiasm. They're competent enough to recognize quality when they see it.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 285000 ]
[ ITEMS DELIVERED: 70 UNITS ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -28500 ]
[ NET PROFIT: 41500 ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 678595 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 10 ]
[ WARNING: NEURAL STRAIN EXTREME - 48 HOUR RECOVERY MANDATORY ]
My skull feels like someone's driving nails through it. R4 administers stimulants that help marginally. The final jump kit nearly makes me black out—complex technology requiring sustained focus to materialize.
When it's done, I collapse on the bench. Kreel approaches, surprisingly gentle.
"You look terrible."
"I'll survive."
"See that you do. We need ongoing supply." He gestures to the assembled weapons. "Train my soldiers. They need to know operation procedures."
"Of course they do. Because I'm not just supplying weapons anymore—I'm supporting operations."
The training session reveals how little I actually know about combat. I teach from System documentation—technical specifications, operational procedures, maintenance requirements. But when soldiers ask about combat applications, I struggle.
"What's optimal engagement range?"
"Uh. Three hundred meters maximum effective. But closer is better accuracy."
"Firing stance for sustained combat?"
"The... standard one? Feet shoulder-width apart, weapon secure against shoulder."
One of the soldiers—Weequay with cybernetic eye—grins. "You ever used these in combat?"
"I'm a supplier, not a soldier."
Mora confirms with brutal honesty: "He's terrible shot. Saw him at range last week—couldn't hit target at twenty meters. But his products work. Stick to business, Varro. Leave fighting to professionals."
The boundary feels important. I'm merchant, not warrior. I enable violence without participating directly. That distinction still matters, at least to me.
Training concludes at 1847 hours. Soldiers disperse to practice. I'm dismissed with instructions to "remain available for consultation." Translation: don't leave Coruscant.
Back in my hab-unit, I purchase surveillance drone for 3,000 credits. Military-grade, stealth capable, real-time feed. R4 questions the decision.
"Master intends to observe combat deployment?"
"Need to assess weapon effectiveness. Strategic intelligence."
"Master's rationalization noted. Actual motivation: morbid curiosity about consequences of sales. Psychological assessment: master seeks to confront guilt through direct observation."
"Just set up the drone."
That evening, Black Sun attacks Red Spire territory as intelligence suggested. Three squads hitting Syndicate warehouse district—standard gang warfare tactics. R4's drone feeds encrypted video directly to my datapad.
Syndicate soldiers deploy with my weapons. The difference is immediate and brutal.
BR-85 rifles cut through Black Sun defenders with mechanical efficiency. Energy shields absorb incoming fire, letting Syndicate soldiers advance under fire that would normally pin them down. One soldier activates jump kit—rockets into the air, lands behind Black Sun position, flanks them before they can adjust.
The engagement lasts eight minutes. Forty-seven seconds, to be precise. R4 times it.
Black Sun casualties: eleven dead, six wounded, three escaped. Red Spire casualties: zero. Minor injuries only.
I watch the feed in my dark hab-unit. Bodies fall in high-definition clarity. The BR-85s punch through cheap armor like paper. One Black Sun member tries surrendering—Syndicate soldier shoots him anyway. War crimes happening in real-time, enabled by technology I provided.
R4's voice is clinical: "Master's weapons decisive in conflict. Casualty count attributable to sales: previously 80, now 91 confirmed. Projected total by end of gang war: 300-500 depending on duration and escalation."
"Turn it off."
"Feed terminated. Master's biometric readings indicate distress response. However, distress significantly reduced compared to initial transactions. Psychological adaptation continuing."
The droid's right. Watching eleven people die should devastate me. Instead, I feel distant. Disconnected. Like watching a holovid where the deaths aren't real. Except they are real, and I'm the one who armed the killers.
"This is what I chose. This is who I am now."
I close the datapad and try to sleep. Dreams come eventually—assembly lines producing bodies instead of weapons, Syndicate soldiers with my face firing rifles at civilians who look like Mira, Qorzo's missing fingers pulling triggers endlessly.
Morning brings news coverage: "Level 1313 Gang Violence: 11 Dead in Weapons Escalation. Coruscant Security Issues Statement on Advanced Armament in Criminal Enterprises."
The reporter interviews Security spokesperson: "Recent engagements show concerning upgrade in criminal capabilities. Military-grade weapons appearing in gang conflicts. Investigation ongoing into supply sources."
My products made the news. Not my name—yet—but my technology. Coruscant Security notices when criminals suddenly have firepower rivaling Republic military.
Thax messages: "Weapons performed perfectly. Boss wants doubled order next week. 500k budget approved."
Half a million credits. Double the arsenal. More soldiers equipped. More casualties inevitable.
R4 projects: "Master's business expanding exponentially. Monthly revenue from Syndicate alone: estimated 1.5 million credits if current trajectory continues. Store Level 2 achievable within two months. Query: does master wish to discontinue violence-facilitating operations?"
I stare at the question for thirty seconds. The answer should be complicated. Morally fraught. Instead, it's simple.
"No. Project next month's Syndicate orders. If they want more, we supply more."
"Command acknowledged. Master's commitment to operations confirmed despite 91 confirmed casualties. Psychological assessment: master has fully accepted role as violence enabler. Remaining ethical boundaries: minimal."
The droid's analysis hits too close. But acknowledging truth doesn't change decisions. I'm too deep now. Forward is the only direction that makes sense.
I open the System catalog and start compiling inventory for Syndicate's next order. Business is business. Even when business includes eleven fresh corpses and counting.
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