Chapter 19: INTO THE SYNDICATE
Draven's warehouse smelled like industrial lubricant and old money.
The space had been converted from a processing facility into something that aspired toward respectability—polished floors where machinery once stood, conference tables where assembly lines used to run. But the bones of the place still showed through: exposed ducts, reinforced walls, the kind of architecture designed for function rather than impression.
We arrived at sunset, as instructed. Vex'ila walked two steps behind me, datapad clutched to her chest like a shield. Torren stayed with the Requital—backup, in case things went sideways.
Draven waited at the far end of the main floor, seated behind a massive desk that looked like it had been salvaged from a Core World executive suite. Two guards flanked him, different from the ones at the cantina. Better armed. Better trained.
"Morgan. And the slicer." Draven gestured to chairs across from him. "Please, sit."
We sat.
"I've considered your proposal," Draven said, fingers steepled before him. "And I've consulted with my... associates. They're interested in what you're offering."
"Associates?"
"The people I work for. The ones who provide the capital that keeps this operation running." He smiled thinly. "You didn't think I was at the top of this pyramid, did you?"
I had, actually. My investigation had suggested Draven was the local authority. The revelation that he answered to someone else shifted my calculations.
"What are they interested in?"
"Your skills. Your slicer's skills. Your demonstrated ability to handle complications." He glanced at Vex'ila. "The data you stole—that was impressive work. Dangerous, stupid, but impressive."
Vex'ila's expression remained neutral.
"Here are the terms," Draven continued. "Your crew handles logistics and security for special clients. Sensitive operations that require discretion. In exchange, you receive fifteen percent of operational fees, plus protection from local authorities and competitors."
"Twenty percent."
Draven's eyebrow rose.
"You're negotiating."
"I'm establishing value. We're not just logistics. We're problem solvers. That's worth more than fifteen."
A pause. Draven's fingers drummed against the desk—a tell I filed away for future reference.
"Twenty percent," he agreed. "But the slicer restores the stolen data to our servers. All of it. No copies."
I looked at Vex'ila. She nodded slightly—we'd already discussed this possibility. The copies she'd made were hidden in locations Draven would never find.
"Acceptable."
"Then we have an arrangement." Draven stood and extended his hand.
I shook it—glove to skin. The barrier held. No jolt. No transfer.
Still paranoid about handshakes. Probably always will be.
The memory of the cantina disaster surfaced unbidden—dozens of items appearing in my pockets, the Devaronian screaming about his chain, the chaos that had nearly destroyed me before I'd even started. "One more thing," Draven said. "My associates want to meet you. Now."
The holographic projector activated without warning.
A figure materialized above Draven's desk—humanoid, wearing a hooded robe that obscured all identifying features. The voice that emerged was modulated, filtered through multiple layers of encryption that stripped away any natural qualities.
"Mr. Morgan."
I kept my face neutral.
"I don't believe we've been introduced."
"And we won't be. Not properly. I represent parties with significant interests on Nevarro and throughout the Outer Rim. Your recent... acquisition of Mr. Draven's services has come to our attention."
"I prefer to think of it as a partnership."
"Call it what you like. What matters is capability." The hooded figure leaned forward slightly—a gesture that translated even through holographic distortion. "Your crew has demonstrated competence. Competence is valuable in our current operations."
"What operations specifically?"
"Asset acquisition. Logistics support. Security for personnel who require discretion." The modulated voice carried weight despite its artificial quality. "We're preparing for a significant undertaking on Nevarro. Multiple locations require preparation for arriving staff and contractors. Your first assignment will be to secure and equip these facilities."
Safe houses. For the bounty hunters. For the people hunting Grogu.
The realization crystallized with horrible clarity. I was being recruited into the exact operation I'd been trying to infiltrate.
"Timeline?"
"Two weeks. Possibly sooner, depending on field developments."
"Compensation?"
"Five thousand credits upon completion. Additional payments for subsequent tasks."
Five thousand credits. More than I'd made since arriving in this galaxy. The money of the Empire, filtered through crime syndicates and logistics networks to hunt a child.
I thought about the wedding ring I'd buried in that first warehouse, back when I was still learning what my curse could do. Someone's marriage, disrupted by my uncontrolled theft. The guilt had been overwhelming then.
This was worse. This was deliberate. This was choosing to help the enemy to position myself against them.
"Acceptable," I said.
"Excellent." The hooded figure produced something—a datapad, appearing in the holographic space. "Draven will provide the specific locations and equipment requirements. I trust you'll maintain appropriate discretion."
"Discretion is our specialty."
"See that it remains so. We'll be watching your progress."
The hologram dissolved.
Vex'ila didn't speak until we were back in the Requital.
"We just signed on with the Empire's remnants."
I closed the ship's hatch behind us and checked the security feeds—habit, now, after weeks of paranoia.
"Yes."
"The people who killed my brother's people. The people who—"
"I know who they are."
"Then why?"
Torren looked up from his communications equipment, sensing the tension.
"Because we're exactly where we need to be." I sat down in the pilot's chair and pulled up the datapad the Client's representative had provided. "We have access now. To their communications. To their logistics. To whatever they're planning."
"And when they figure out we're not really loyal?"
"Then we'll have gathered enough intelligence to make that discovery costly for them."
Vex'ila's expression was complicated—anger, understanding, fear all mixed together.
"You planned this. From the beginning."
"I planned to get inside their operation. The specific method was... improvised."
She stared at me for a long moment.
"You're not just a security consultant, are you? You're not just building a business."
"No."
"What are you?"
The question echoed in the cramped cockpit. What was I? A transmigrated soldier playing games in a galaxy that didn't know he existed? A man with a curse and a conscience, trying to find meaning in a life he'd never asked for?
"I'm someone who wants to understand what they're hunting," I said finally. "And when I understand that, I'll decide whether to help them or stop them."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have right now."
Vex'ila's jaw tightened. But she nodded.
"Fine. We're in. What's the first move?"
I pulled up the datapad's contents.
"We have safe houses to prepare."
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