Chapter 17 : The Syndicate War - Part 3
The bombing happens at 1134 hours on a Tuesday. I'm reviewing Republic procurement requests when R4's emergency alert cuts through.
"Master. Black Sun retaliation. Civilian casualties confirmed."
The news feed loads: Red Spire cantina, neutral ground where Syndicate members meet civilians. The building is gone—just rubble and fire and screaming. Emergency responders pull bodies from debris while the camera captures everything in brutal clarity.
Initial casualty count: eighteen dead. Nine Syndicate members. Nine civilians.
The reporter's voice shakes: "Witnesses report individual dressed as civilian entered cantina during lunch service. Detonation occurred at peak occupancy. Among the dead: three children, ages 6, 8, and 11."
My first thought is calculating: "I didn't sell them those detonators."
Second thought: "I created the situation that forced Black Sun to desperate tactics."
The guilt is more complex now. Less immediate horror, more strategic assessment. Black Sun can't match Syndicate firepower conventionally, so they changed tactics. Terrorism. Soft targets. Civilians as collateral damage.
R4 projects analysis without being asked: "Black Sun strategy shift: conventional engagement futile against superior weapons. Alternative tactics employed: suicide bombing, civilian targeting, asymmetric warfare. Probability of additional civilian casualties: 87.3%. Master's indirect contribution: significant."
"Show me the children."
"Master's biometric readings suggest—"
"Show me."
The images appear on my datapad. Three kids. Twi'lek girl, maybe six, holding stuffed animal. Human boy, eight, wearing school uniform. Rodian child, eleven, caught mid-laugh in family photo the news pulled from somewhere.
Dead because Black Sun needed to hurt Syndicate. Dead because I armed Red Spire with technology that made conventional warfare non-viable. Dead because every choice I made since Grax led here, step by step, compromise by compromise.
I wait for devastation. For the gut-wrenching guilt that made me vomit after the Senate bombing. For some proof I'm still human under the merchant exterior.
It doesn't come. Just hollow acknowledgment that this is the cost. This is what war means. These are the consequences I enabled.
"When did I stop feeling?"
The answer is uncomfortable: gradually. Incrementally. One boundary at a time until the person who cried over casualties became the person who catalogs them clinically.
My datapad pings—Coruscant Security. Not Thax's warning. Official communication.
REQUEST FOR INTERVIEW
SUBJECT: KADE VARRO
MATTER: ONGOING INVESTIGATION INTO WEAPONS TRAFFICKING
LOCATION: LEVEL 1287 PRECINCT OFFICE
TIME: TOMORROW, 0900 HOURS
FAILURE TO APPEAR MAY RESULT IN WARRANT
R4's photoreceptor flares bright. "Master's identity compromised. CS has authority to subpoena records, freeze assets, detain indefinitely pending investigation. Probability of arrest if master appears: 73.4%. Probability of asset seizure: 91.2%."
"Options?"
"Three viable strategies: (1) appear with legal representation, attempt to navigate interview without incrimination; (2) flee Coruscant immediately; (3) become unavailable temporarily while Syndicate handles CS pressure."
Thax's message arrives before I decide: "Heard about CS summons. Don't go. We'll handle it. Stay hidden 72 hours minimum. Have safehouse?"
I do—purchased secondary location last month for 5,000 credits monthly. Paranoia paying off. Anonymous lease, fake identity, untraceable to my primary operations. Three rooms in Level 1893, far enough from known territory that patterns don't connect.
"Yes. Going dark."
"Smart. Sending protection detail to watch perimeter. CS comes sniffing, we redirect."
Evacuation takes forty minutes. Essential items only—datapad, R4, credits, weapons, armor. Everything else gets abandoned. The hab-unit that's been home for weeks becomes crime scene waiting to happen.
I activate the extraction speeder and navigate through Lower Levels using routes R4 maps in real-time. The droid's sensors sweep for surveillance—finds three CS tracking units, helps me avoid all of them.
The secondary safehouse is smaller. Cleaner. Lonelier. One window overlooking industrial sector. No neighbors close enough to ask questions. Perfect hiding spot for criminal avoiding law enforcement.
Six hours after I evacuate, R4's surveillance alerts trigger. CS arrives at my old hab-unit with warrant. Four officers, full tactical gear. They breach the door, search thoroughly, confiscate the decoy datapad I left behind. Question neighbors who know nothing useful.
I watch through hacked security feeds. My stomach twists—not from fear of capture, but from realization of what this means.
"Master's civilian identity compromised," R4 confirms. "CS has physical description, known associates, operational patterns. Returning to legitimate society: probability 0.3%. Master is fully committed to criminal life now. No exit path remains."
The words hit harder than the bombing footage. I'd been telling myself this was temporary. Survival strategy until I accumulated enough wealth to vanish, start fresh somewhere clean. But CS doesn't forget. Republic databases don't expire. My face is flagged now—associated with gang warfare, weapons trafficking, multiple deaths.
"There's no going back."
The choice was made incrementally. Grax to Wrynn to Mira to Qorzo. Each compromise feeling small, manageable. But accumulated weight is absolute. I'm not arms dealer playing at criminal—I'm criminal who can never be anything else.
"Master's realization accurate," R4 observes. "Previous life irretrievable. Current trajectory: continue operations, accumulate wealth, survive through power and connections. Alternative trajectories: none viable."
I sit on the safehouse floor and try to process. The walls are bare. The furniture is minimal. The space feels temporary—which it is, because even this location becomes compromised eventually. Always running. Always hiding. Always one step ahead of consequences I enabled.
The news feed updates: casualty count rises to twenty-three. Five more died from injuries. Among them: Syndicate lieutenant Thax knew personally. Black Sun claims responsibility through anonymous channel, promising more attacks until Red Spire "ceases military aggression."
Military aggression. They mean my weapons.
Thax messages: "Boss wants meeting tomorrow. Secure location. Bring ideas for Black Sun problem."
Ideas. They want strategic consultation now. Not just weapons but tactical planning. The line between supplier and combatant blurs further.
That night, I research Black Sun's structure through R4's smuggler database. Leadership hierarchy. Territory distribution. Known safehouses. Weak points. If Syndicate asks for "ideas," I need solutions that don't involve me personally fighting.
The droid projects data on bare walls: "Black Sun vulnerability analysis: leadership concentrated in three locations, supply lines exposed during shift changes, civilian fronts create legal complications. Master developing tactical plans for criminal organization. Role evolution: supplier to strategic advisor."
"What's the difference?"
"Supplier enables violence through equipment provision. Advisor directs violence through strategic consultation. Responsibility level: significantly increased. Master's casualty attribution will include strategic casualties from master's planning, not just equipment-facilitated deaths."
The math is uncomfortable. If I suggest targeting Black Sun leadership and Syndicate executes, those deaths are mine. Not indirect like weapons sales—direct contribution to specific violence.
"Is there a line I won't cross?"
The question feels important. But the answer doesn't come. Just pragmatic assessment that Syndicate expects solutions, and refusing means losing protection when CS is actively hunting me.
I compile tactical recommendations anyway. Prioritize Black Sun supply disruption over leadership assassination. Target their weapon caches, credit reserves, communication hubs. Asymmetric response to their asymmetric warfare.
The recommendations are professional. Thorough. Exactly the kind of strategic planning that marks me as more than simple merchant.
R4 saves the analysis. "Master's tactical acumen developing. Recommendations show military-grade strategic thinking. Query: where did master acquire such knowledge?"
"Strategy games. Business school. Same skills, different context."
"Master applying corporate competition theory to gang warfare. Interesting adaptation. However, consequences more severe than market share loss."
The droid's right. In my old life, bad strategy meant losing clients. Here, bad strategy means dead civilians and CS investigations. The stakes are absolute.
I try sleeping. Dreams are fragmented—the three children from news footage, standing in cantina, looking at me with accusation. They don't speak. Just stare while bombs detonate endlessly around them.
Morning brings no resolution. Just acceptance that I'm committed now. Fully. Irreversibly. The path forward leads deeper into violence until something stops me—CS, rivals, or consequences finally catching up.
I check my balance: 673,595 credits after safehouse payment. Enough to flee Coruscant, start fresh elsewhere. But fleeing means abandoning network, reputation, everything built over weeks of compromise.
"Forward is the only direction that makes sense."
I open the news feed. More coverage of bombing. More interviews with survivors. More political pressure on CS to solve gang warfare escalation.
Somewhere in those reports, three children's names appear. I force myself to read them. Remember them. Add them to the accounting I'm keeping—not in System's clinical database, but personal ledger of costs I can never repay.
Then I open Thax's message and confirm attendance at tomorrow's meeting. Business is business. Even when business includes dead children whose names I'll carry forever.
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