Chapter 6 : Refugees and Receipts
The refugee sector is hell with better lighting.
Makeshift shelters crowd every available surface—lean-tos made from scrap metal, tents from torn cargo netting, whole families living in spaces smaller than my hab-unit. The air reeks of unwashed bodies and desperation. Children play in the dirt between dwellings, their laughter incongruous against the backdrop of misery.
I shouldn't be here. This is stupid. Dangerous. The kind of visibility that gets people noticed by the wrong authorities.
But Mira's message was specific: "Please. Raiders coming tonight. Need protection. Have 2,000 credits—everything we have."
2,000 credits. A rounding error in my current balance. Would barely cover one standard blaster pistol at market rates.
The System helpfully supplies the math:
[ STANDARD BLASTER PISTOL: 1800 CREDITS ]
[ SALE AT 2000 CREDITS: ACCEPTABLE MARGIN ]
[ CHARITY TAX: NOT TRIGGERED ]
[ HOWEVER: CLIENT REQUIRES MORE THAN ONE WEAPON FOR EFFECTIVE CAMP DEFENSE ]
I find her near the sector's edge—Twi'lek woman, late thirties, worn down by survival. Two children cling to her legs, maybe six and eight years old. Her lekku are drooped with exhaustion.
She sees me and relief floods her face. "You came."
"You said you had credits."
The hope dims slightly. "Yes. Two thousand. Our family's entire savings." She produces a credit chip with shaking hands. "The raiders—Rodian gang, they've been hitting camps every night. Demanding protection payments we can't afford. They killed three people last week."
The Appraisal function triggers when I focus on her:
[ BIOMETRIC ANALYSIS: MIRA - SPECIES: TWI'LEK ]
[ STRESS LEVEL: EXTREME ]
[ DECEPTION INDICATORS: NONE ]
[ FINANCIAL STATUS: CREDITS VERIFIED AS GENUINE ]
[ NUTRITIONAL STATUS: CHILDREN MALNOURISHED ]
[ ASSESSMENT: DESPERATE, HONEST, UNLIKELY TO BETRAY ]
The children are starving. The 2,000 credits should have bought food weeks ago. Instead, she's spending it on weapons because the alternative is death.
My throat tightens. "What exactly do you need?"
"Anything that shoots. Enough to make the raiders think twice. We have fifteen adults who can fight if we're armed."
I do the math silently. Fifteen people. Basic blaster pistols cost 1,800 credits each from the catalog. That's 27,000 credits total—thirteen times her budget. Even if I gave her a massive discount, the System's charity tax would bankrupt the transaction.
[ WARNING: SUBSTANTIAL DISCOUNT DETECTED ]
[ SELLING 15 PISTOLS (VALUE: 27000) FOR 2000 = 25000 CREDIT DISCOUNT ]
[ CHARITY TAX: 12500 CREDITS (50% OF DISCOUNT) ]
[ TOTAL COST TO SELLER: 40500 CREDITS ]
[ RECOMMENDATION: REFUSE SALE OR NEGOTIATE HIGHER PAYMENT ]
I could afford it. I have 34,070 credits. Taking a 6,500 credit loss (net after her payment) wouldn't break me. But it would set a precedent—word would spread that I give discounts to desperate people. Every refugee, every sob story, every moral manipulation would come knocking.
"You're not a charity. You're a business."
Mira watches my face, reading something there. "I know it's not much. But it's everything we have."
"It's not enough," I say, and watch her crumble. "Three pistols at 2,000 credits each would cost 6,000. Even one pistol is barely covered by your budget."
Her children press closer to her legs. The younger one is crying silently.
"Please," she whispers. "They'll kill us."
The guilt is crushing. Physical. I feel it in my chest like a collapsed lung. These are innocent people—war refugees displaced by battles they didn't choose, living in squalor because the Republic doesn't care and the Separatists want them dead.
I could help. Right now. This instant.
Instead, I calculate.
"One pistol, one vibroknife, three thermal charges. Defense and trap capability. Fair market value exactly 2,000 credits. No charity tax triggered. Everyone walks away clean."
"I can give you one pistol, one vibroknife, and three thermal charges for 2,000 credits," I say. My voice sounds mechanical even to me. "It's enough to set a perimeter trap and have one person armed for direct defense."
Mira's face shifts—not quite hope, but something less than despair. "That would... that might work. If we ambush them..."
"Exactly."
She transfers the credits. The System confirms receipt. I materialize the items one by one—each pull from the Smuggler's Hold brings the familiar headache, but I push through. Pistol. Knife. Three charges, small enough to hide, powerful enough to blow a Rodian raider into component atoms.
Mira clutches them like religious artifacts. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
I've charged a starving family their entire savings for minimal defensive equipment. There's nothing to thank me for.
"Set the charges at choke points," I say, because offering tactical advice costs nothing. "Trigger them when the raiders are grouped. Use the pistol only if they breach the perimeter."
She nods rapidly, taking mental notes. "Yes. Yes, that's smart. We can do that."
Her children stare at the pistol with wide eyes. They're too young to understand what it means. Too young to know their mother just spent their food money on survival.
I leave before the guilt becomes physically unbearable.
[ TRANSACTION COMPLETE ]
[ CREDITS RECEIVED: 2000 ]
[ ITEMS PURCHASED: -1800 ]
[ SERVICE FEE: -200 ]
[ NET PROFIT: 0 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 34070 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 5 ]
Zero profit. I broke even. Technically fair pricing—the System didn't punish me. But I watched a desperate woman hand over her family's survival fund and I took it without blinking.
The walk back to my hab-unit takes three hours because I keep stopping, staring at nothing, trying to process what I've become.
Night falls. I lie on my thin mattress and stare at the ceiling, counting cracks in the duracrete. Mira's face won't leave my mind. Her children crying silently. The relief when she thought I might help, followed by the crushing realization that help costs money she doesn't have.
I could have given her a discount. The charity tax would have applied—maybe 500 credits total penalty if I'd sold everything for 1,500. I would have lost money on the transaction, but not catastrophically.
The System wasn't forcing me. It never forces anything. It just makes kindness expensive and exploitation profitable.
"You chose profit. Own it."
I do the math obsessively: purchase cost 1,800, sold for 2,000, service fee 200, net zero. If I'd discounted to 1,500, the charity tax triggers—250 credits penalty (50% of 500 credit discount). Total cost to me: 1,800 purchase + 250 tax + 150 service fee = 2,200 credits. Meaning I'd have lost 700 credits on the transaction.
700 credits. I've spent more on rent.
Sleep doesn't come. I lie there calculating alternate scenarios, trying to find a version of events where I'm not the villain. The math keeps coming up the same: I chose credits over compassion because credits are measurable and compassion is expensive.
At 0300 hours, I give up on sleep and check the news feeds.
The headline hits like a blaster shot:
"SENATE DISTRICT BOMBING KILLS 23, INJURES 47 - SEPARATIST TERROR CELL SUSPECTED"
My hands shake as I open the article. Holo-footage shows emergency responders pulling bodies from rubble. The reporter lists casualties: senators, aides, civilians, security personnel. Twenty-three dead. Forty-seven injured. Some critical.
The bombing location matches my mental map of Wrynn's likely target. The timeline matches his urgency. The equipment matches his purchase.
My equipment. My sale. My 3,500 credits profit.
I scroll through the casualty list with growing nausea. Senator Orn Free Taa (wounded, stable condition). Aide Mya Nalle (dead, age 24). Security Officer CT-5621 (dead, age 10 - all clones are technically ten years old). Civilian contractor Jex Rynn (dead, age 31).
The names continue. Each one is a person. A life. A hole torn in someone else's existence because I sold Wrynn the tools he needed.
"He would have found another supplier."
The rationalization sounds weaker now. Maybe true. Probably true. But I didn't have to make it easy for him.
I close the news feed and pour myself a drink from the cheap bottle I bought yesterday. 0347 hours. Too early to start drinking. I pour anyway.
The System interface hovers in my peripheral vision, glowing softly blue. It displays my current balance: 34,070 credits. Five sales completed. Forty-five more until Store Level 2. The numbers are clean. Precise. They don't show the blood underneath.
My datapad pings. Message from an unknown sender: "Heard you supplied quality equipment recently. Have larger order. Interested?"
More business. More sales. More moral calculus disguised as economic opportunity.
I stare at the message for ten minutes before responding: "Available. Send requirements."
Because that's what I am now. A merchant. A supplier. A necessary cog in the galaxy's endless violence. The justifications still feel hollow, but they're all I have.
Outside my window, Coruscant's eternal night glows with billions of lights. Somewhere in that mass of civilization, Mira's refugee camp is setting traps with equipment I sold them. Somewhere, families are mourning twenty-three dead from a bombing I enabled. Somewhere, another desperate person is realizing they can't afford survival.
And here I am, in a hab-unit that costs 200 credits per month, counting my 34,070 credits, waiting for the next client.
I finish the drink. Pour another.
The System chimes softly—a reminder that I have messages waiting, potential clients queuing up, business opportunities multiplying.
I don't sleep. Just sit in the dark, watching the interface glow, calculating my next move. Because stopping isn't an option. Going back isn't possible. The only direction is forward, deeper into the compromise, stacking credits on top of consequences until either the weight crushes me or I stop feeling it altogether.
Right now, I can't tell which outcome I'm hoping for.
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