Chapter 23 : The Titan Deal - Part 1
Syndicate headquarters feels different this time. Guards are positioned at every corner. Automated turrets track movement through hallways. The paranoia is visible—Black Sun's coordinated attacks have Red Spire on edge.
Kreel waits in the conference room with Mora beside him. The Trandoshan gestures to empty chair. "Sit. We have escalation problem."
I lower myself carefully—broken ribs still healing, every movement calculated to minimize pain. R4 hovers at my shoulder, photoreceptor scanning the room for threats.
Mora activates holographic display. Gang war casualty projections, territory maps, resource expenditure graphs. "Black Sun hit four positions simultaneously three days ago. Professional coordination. They're getting desperate, which makes them dangerous."
"Desperate enough to target supply routes directly," Kreel adds. His claws tap the table rhythmically. "They can't match our weapons conventionally. So they're changing tactics—ambush our dealer, eliminate the advantage."
"I noticed." My ribs provide physical reminder.
"We need overwhelming force. Something that ends this war decisively." The Trandoshan's eyes gleam. "You showed us advanced weapons before. Small arms, shields, jump kits. What about vehicles? Heavy weapons platforms?"
"Here it comes. The escalation I knew was inevitable."
I pull up the System catalog on my datapad, navigating to the vehicle section. Past light speeders and cargo haulers. Into military hardware. The Titanfall section appears—mechs designed for urban warfare, anti-infantry operations, overwhelming firepower.
"Atlas-class Titan." I project specifications. "Twenty feet tall. Dual XO-16 chainguns, 40mm ordnance launcher, energy shields, nuclear power core. Designed for suppressing infantry and light vehicles."
The hologram rotates slowly. Massive humanoid war machine, bristling with weapons, armored plating that could shrug off standard blaster fire.
Mora leans forward. "You can supply this?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
I calculate rapidly. Purchase cost from System: 95,000 credits. This is military mech that will shift gang warfare permanently. Casualties will be massive. Black Sun will have no counter.
[ ATLAS-CLASS TITAN ]
[ PURCHASE COST: 95000 CREDITS ]
[ MARKET VALUE: UNKNOWN - NO COMPARABLE ITEMS ]
[ RECOMMENDED MARKUP: 250-300% ]
[ ESTIMATED CASUALTY IMPACT: 40-60 DEATHS IN INITIAL DEPLOYMENT ]
"Three hundred fifty thousand credits."
Kreel doesn't blink. "That's more than we spent on your entire armory."
"That's also a twenty-foot war machine that will end this conflict. How much is victory worth?"
"Or you're overpricing because you know we're desperate." Mora's hand drifts toward her weapon. Casual threat. "Maybe we take the information. Find your supplier. Cut you out entirely."
The temperature drops. Thax shifts position—subtle movement that puts him between me and Mora. Protecting me or just watching how I respond?
My broken ribs scream as I stand slowly, carefully. "You can try finding my supplier. Good luck with that. Meanwhile, Black Sun keeps hitting your territory. Keeps killing your soldiers. Keeps making you look weak."
"Careful," Kreel warns.
"I'm being realistic. You need this weapon. I can provide it. The price reflects the value—both to me and to you. You win this war, you absorb Black Sun's territory. What's that worth? Five million? Ten million annually?"
Mora's weapon is halfway drawn when Kreel raises one clawed hand. "Stand down." To me: "You're either brave or suicidal. Three hundred fifty thousand is extreme."
"Three hundred twenty thousand. Plus you facilitate my Mandalorian introduction immediately. Not next week. Tomorrow."
"You're negotiating while she has a gun?"
"I'm establishing that I'm not intimidated by threats. You kill me, you lose access to technology Black Sun can't match. You work with me, you win decisively. Mathematics is simple."
R4's photoreceptor pulses warning colors only I can see. "Master's negotiation strategy: high risk. Probability of violence: 47.3%."
Silence stretches. Kreel studies me with predator's focus. Calculating. Assessing. Deciding if I'm asset or liability.
"Three hundred twenty thousand," he finally says. "Plus Mandalorian introduction happens tomorrow. Plus we provide permanent security detail—three guards minimum whenever you operate in our territory."
"Deal."
Mora holsters her weapon. "You've got spine. Stupid spine, but spine."
"Stupidity has gotten me this far."
Kreel laughs—genuinely amused. "Payment on delivery. When can you provide the mech?"
I check System processing requirements. "Seventy-two hours. Need dedicated location for materialization—thing is twenty feet tall, can't exactly pull it out in a storage closet."
"We have warehouse. Level 1678, industrial sector. Isolated, defensible, large enough for your needs." He transfers coordinates. "Security will be waiting."
The meeting concludes with handshake. My ribs protest the movement but I keep expression neutral. Can't show weakness when negotiating with predators.
Outside, Thax catches up. "That was either brilliant or insane. Kreel respects courage but despises stupidity. You walked a very thin line."
"The line keeps getting thinner."
"Yeah." He glances back toward headquarters. "Mandalorian introduction tomorrow. I'll send you details tonight. Be ready—they're not like us. Syndicate is business with violence. Death Watch is violence with business. They don't negotiate—they test. Survive the test, you're golden. Fail..." He draws finger across throat.
Back in secondary safehouse, I collapse on mattress. Every breath sends pain through damaged ribs. The medication is wearing off.
R4 projects analysis unprompted: "Master committed to supplying military mech that will kill dozens. Escalation from small arms to heavy weapons platforms represents significant moral boundary crossing. Query: does master acknowledge implications?"
"I acknowledge I'm arming criminals with war machine for gang warfare."
"And master's emotional response?"
I think about it. Try to access the guilt that used to come automatically. The horror that made me vomit after Senate bombing. The conscience that made Mira's desperation cut so deep.
Nothing. Just pragmatic assessment of profit margins and survival necessity.
"I don't feel anything."
"Concerning. Master's psychological profile shows complete desensitization to violence-enabling. Moral boundaries: effectively nonexistent. Pattern suggests master has accepted role as systematic death merchant."
"Is that a problem?"
"For master's survival: no. For master's humanity: yes. Assessment: master has sacrificed psychological wellbeing for operational efficiency. Long-term consequences: unknown but concerning."
I pull up the Titan purchase order. 95,000 credits. The most expensive single item I've ever bought. My balance will drop to 476,595 credits after purchase—significant reduction but still substantial.
The specifications are detailed. XO-16 chainguns fire armor-piercing rounds at 900 rounds per minute. 40mm launcher delivers explosive ordnance. Energy shields can absorb sustained blaster fire. Nuclear power core provides effectively unlimited operational time.
Black Sun has no counter. Their standard weapons will bounce off Titan's armor. Their soldiers will be torn apart by overwhelming firepower. The casualty count will be catastrophic.
[ ESTIMATED CASUALTIES: ATLAS DEPLOYMENT ]
[ INITIAL ENGAGEMENT: 15-25 DEATHS ]
[ SUBSEQUENT OPERATIONS: 25-35 ADDITIONAL DEATHS ]
[ TOTAL PROJECTED: 40-60 KILLED BY SINGLE WEAPON SYSTEM ]
[ MASTER'S CUMULATIVE CASUALTY ATTRIBUTION: 131-151 DEATHS ]
One hundred thirty-one minimum. One hundred fifty-one probable. The System tracks it all with clinical precision. Every death enabled by my weapons. Every casualty resulting from my profit motive.
"At what point does the number become meaningless? When does it stop being people and become statistics?"
The answer is uncomfortable: already happened. Somewhere between Wrynn's twenty-three dead and the clone soldiers I'm exploiting, the casualties became numbers in a spreadsheet rather than human lives with families and futures.
I confirm the Titan purchase. The System processes it efficiently.
[ ATLAS-CLASS TITAN ACQUIRED ]
[ COST: -95000 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 476595 CREDITS ]
[ DELIVERY WINDOW: 68-72 HOURS ]
[ WARNING: HEAVY EQUIPMENT REQUIRES DEDICATED MATERIALIZATION SPACE ]
[ NEURAL STRAIN: EXTREME - RECOMMEND 48 HOUR RECOVERY POST-DELIVERY ]
Materializing twenty-foot mech will push Smuggler's Hold to absolute limits. The neural strain will be catastrophic. But 320,000 credits profit justifies the pain.
"Everything has a price. Including my health. Including my humanity."
That night, I review tactical data on Titans. Optimal deployment strategies. Urban warfare applications. Anti-infantry effectiveness. I'm not just supplying weapon—I'm becoming strategic advisor for its use. The line between dealer and combatant continues blurring.
R4 watches silently. When I finally close the files, the droid speaks: "Master has crossed threshold. Supplying military mech represents commitment to violence escalation beyond previous operations. Psychological assessment: master has accepted transformation from reluctant dealer to systematic death merchant. Probability of reversal: 2.1%."
"You said that already."
"Repetition for emphasis. Master's trajectory is irreversible. Person master was at transmigration: gone. Person master is becoming: unknown but concerning. Query: does master recognize this?"
I stare at my reflection in cracked window. Wearing cortosis armor even in supposed safety. Broken ribs from combat I barely survived. Planning delivery of war machine that will kill dozens. The face looking back is mine but not mine—hardened by compromise, hollowed by accumulated guilt I've learned to ignore.
"I recognize it."
"And master's response?"
"Forward is the only direction that makes sense."
"Acknowledged. Master's consistency is notable if disturbing. Recommendation: prepare for Mandalorian introduction tomorrow. Survival probability during negotiation: 42.7%. Death Watch does not tolerate weakness or deception. Master should be authentic, direct, and demonstrate value proposition clearly."
The warning is appreciated but unnecessary. I know tomorrow's meeting could end in execution. Know the odds are terrible. Know that forward momentum is carrying me into situations I'm not prepared for.
But stopping means dying anyway—Black Sun, Anakin, CS, the accumulated enemies all closing in. Moving forward at least gives illusion of agency.
I take pain medication and try sleeping. Dreams come eventually—twenty-foot mechs crushing bodies that wear Patch's face, Anakin standing amid wreckage asking what market value I place on civilian lives, Kreel laughing while counting credits stained with blood that won't wash clean.
Morning brings encrypted message from Thax: "Mandalorian meeting confirmed. Tomorrow, 1400 hours. Concordia moon, abandoned mining facility. Come alone with droid. They'll have twenty warriors minimum. Any deception, any threat, you die immediately. Good luck. You'll need it."
Twenty Mandalorian warriors. Concordia moon. Testing environment where failure means death.
R4 calculates survival probability: "42.7% master survives negotiation. 57.3% master executed for insufficient value proposition or cultural offense."
I check my equipment. Cortosis armor. Shields. Emergency beacon. Backup identities. Everything I own that might keep me alive when meeting warrior cult that might murder me for existing.
The Titan purchase sits in my transaction history. Three hundred twenty thousand credits incoming if I survive long enough to deliver. Military mech that will kill dozens. Mandalorian introduction that might kill me.
This is the path I chose. Step by step, compromise by compromise, until survival requires embracing violence I once found horrifying.
"Business is business. Even when business is systematic death."
I repeat the phrase that's become mantra. The rationalization that makes escalation tolerable. The linguistic shorthand allowing moral compromise through simple declaration.
R4 is right. I've crossed threshold. The person who vomited in alleys over Senate casualties is gone. Replaced by someone who catalogs projected deaths while calculating profit margins.
Tomorrow, I meet Mandalorians who might kill me. In three days, I deliver war machine that will kill dozens. In weeks, maybe months, the accumulated consequences catch up.
But tonight, I just review Titan specifications and try convincing myself that forward momentum is the same as progress.
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