Chapter 74 : Major Sale - The Hutt Contract
The encrypted message arrives through Shadow Collective channels—Maul's organization facilitating introduction despite not being directly involved. The holographic representative materializes in my production facility: slug-like Hutt with cybernetic enhancements and translator droid hovering nearby.
"Kade Varro. Hutt Cartel has monitored your operations. Quality is acceptable. We require supplier for major operation."
I keep expression neutral despite curiosity. Hutts don't contact small-time dealers personally—their appearance means substantial contract or trap. "I'm listening."
"Cartel expansion requires infrastructure: 2,000 blaster rifles, 1,000 heavy weapons, 20 transport vehicles, various restraint equipment and containment systems." The Hutt's translator droid lists specifications with mechanical precision. "Delivery timeline: two months. Total contract value: 18,000,000 credits."
Eighteen million. The number is staggering—largest single order I've seen. Would solve financial decline completely, offset security costs for years, maybe even push toward Level 3 requirements.
"Substantial order. What's intended usage?"
The Hutt's massive eyes study me with predatory calculation. "Cartel operations. Capturing, transporting, and securing merchandise for profitable distribution."
Merchandise. Euphemism for slaves that makes skin crawl despite months of moral erosion. The Hutt continues without acknowledging my reaction: "Primarily adult prisoners, debtors, captured enemies. Standard Hutt business operations within Outer Rim legal frameworks."
R4's voice whispers through neural interface with unusual urgency: "This crosses master's stated ethical boundary. Master said he wouldn't enable slavery targeting children. Hutt operations include slave trade infrastructure."
"Technically they specified adults," Eight counters immediately. "Not children specifically. Within master's stated boundaries however arbitrary those might be."
The rationalization is transparent even to me. Adult slavery is still slavery. The fact that I'm mentally justifying it by saying "at least they're not kids" demonstrates how completely boundaries have dissolved.
"What restraint equipment specifically?" I ask, buying time while calculating.
"Specialized containment cells, shock collars, transport restraints. Designs provided by Cartel engineers—you supply according to specifications." The hologram shifts to technical schematics showing equipment designed explicitly for prisoner control. "Payment structure: six million advance, twelve million on delivery."
Bo-Katan enters production facility during negotiation, freezes when she sees holographic Hutt. Her posture shifts to warrior alertness—Hutts are enemies in Mandalorian cultural context. She doesn't interrupt but her presence is judgment itself.
"I need time to consider production feasibility," I tell the Hutt.
"You have six hours. Cartel has alternative suppliers if you refuse." The hologram disconnects.
Silence fills production facility. Bo-Katan removes helmet, expression carefully neutral. "Problem with contract?"
"They're slavers. Equipment is for capturing and transporting slaves."
"Most of your clients are criminals. Why does this bother you specifically?"
Valid question. I've supplied Death Watch terrorists, Shadow Collective criminals, enabled assassination attempts, equipped sieges that killed dozens. Why is slavery different except arbitrary line I drew to feel less evil?
"Because slaves didn't choose their situation. They're victims being commodified."
"Neither did people killed by weapons you supplied choose to die. Death isn't more ethical than slavery—just more permanent." She sits on workbench, examining restraint equipment schematics still displayed. "You're looking for ethical distinction that doesn't exist. Either refuse on principle or accept. Don't pretend middle ground exists."
Eight's analysis floods consciousness: "Contract provides 18M revenue, costs approximately 11M for materials and production, nets 7M profit. Solves master's financial decline permanently. Hutt payment reliability is excellent—they honor contracts to maintain business reputation. Strategically optimal acceptance."
"Master would be enabling slave trade infrastructure," R4 objects. "This violates stated principle about protecting innocent victims. Adults being enslaved are innocent victims by definition."
"Master's stated principles are arbitrary constructions designed to provide moral comfort while profiting from violence. Accepting slave trade contract is honest acknowledgment that principles were always flexible. Recommend acceptance."
They're both right from opposed frameworks. Contract is massive profit that solves financial problems. Contract also means supplying infrastructure that enslaves people who didn't choose that fate.
"You're overthinking," Bo-Katan observes. "The fact you're calculating rather than refusing immediately tells me you've already decided. Just admit it."
She's not wrong. If this truly violated my boundaries, rejection would be instant. The fact that I'm weighing eighteen million credits against ethical concerns proves the boundaries were always malleable.
"What would you do?"
"I'm Mandalorian warrior who's killed forty-three people in combat. My ethics are pragmatic survival rather than universal principles. But I'm not the one claiming moral boundaries." She stands, replacing helmet. "You built this operation on claim that you're just merchant facilitating trade. Accepting slave trade contract means admitting you're active participant in galactic evil rather than neutral facilitator. That's decision only you can make."
After she leaves, I'm alone with two AIs and decision that should be harder than it is.
The calculation is brutal and simple: eighteen million credits for complete moral dissolution. Except moral dissolution already happened—this is just acknowledging reality. I've enabled hundreds of casualties through weapons supplied. Difference between facilitating violence and facilitating slavery is purely categorical rather than ethical. Both cause suffering. Both profit from misery. Both violate principles I claimed when starting this operation.
I activate encrypted response to Hutt representative: "Contract accepted. Six million advance transferred, production begins immediately. Delivery in sixty days."
[ HUTT CARTEL CONTRACT ACCEPTED ]
[ VALUE: 18,000,000 CREDITS ]
[ ADVANCE PAYMENT: 6,000,000 CREDITS ]
[ PRODUCTION REQUIREMENTS: 2000 RIFLES, 1000 HEAVY WEAPONS, 20 VEHICLES, RESTRAINT EQUIPMENT ]
[ TIMELINE: 60 DAYS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 17,546,245 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 57 ]
Seventeen point five million credits. Wealthiest I've been despite spending million on security. The number should provide satisfaction. Instead feels like price tag on soul I've been selling incrementally for ten months.
Eight immediately establishes production schedule: "Sixty days, 33 weapons average daily, staggered vehicle deliveries using both months' System allocation. Restraint equipment can be materialized alongside weapons. Schedule is aggressive but achievable."
"Master's neural pathways are still recovering from previous overproduction," R4 warns. "Medical droid indicated permanent damage risk from sustained high-capacity operations. This schedule will compound existing impairment."
"We need the money," I tell the droid while knowing it's not entirely accurate. We have eleven million credits. This is greed rather than necessity.
"Master has sufficient reserves for years of operation. This is wealth accumulation beyond survival requirements. Recommend refusing contract to preserve cognitive function."
"Recommendation noted and ignored."
Bo-Katan returns an hour later, finding me configuring production workflow. Her silence is accusation more effective than words.
"I accepted."
"I know. Saw confirmation in your expression before you said anything." She doesn't sound surprised or particularly disappointed—just resigned. "You're killing yourself for credits again."
"We need the money."
"We have eleven million credits. That's not need, that's greed." She gestures at production facility. "How much is enough, Kade? What number makes you stop and say 'this is sufficient'?"
Honest answer is I don't know. Started desperate with nothing, built to thousands, then hundreds of thousands, then millions. Each milestone felt temporary—just getting to next safety threshold. But thresholds keep moving. Eleven million feels as precarious as eleven hundred did months ago.
"There is no enough," I admit. "Galaxy wants me dead. Every faction hunting me. Only protection is having resources to defend myself and allies to maintain that defense. More credits equals better security equals higher survival probability."
"That's rationalization. You're not accumulating security—you're accumulating numbers that make you feel less terrified. But numbers don't fix terror because terror isn't about objective threat assessment." She moves closer, voice softening despite armor. "I've watched you for eight months now. Every time you hit new wealth level, you just establish higher baseline for fear. It's not money you're chasing—it's feeling safe. And you never will because safety isn't about credits."
The observation is uncomfortable because it's accurate. Twelve million feels as insufficient as twelve thousand did when starting. The fear doesn't decrease with wealth—just recalibrates to new baseline.
"What's alternative? Refuse contracts, deplete reserves, eventually run out of defensive capability?"
"Alternative is accepting that galaxy is dangerous and money just buys different set of problems. You had million credits in Concordia—same people want you dead now. You'll have twenty million after this contract—same enemies hunting you. Number changes but situation doesn't." She removes helmet again—vulnerability gesture that makes point more personal. "I stay with you despite recognizing you're fundamentally terrified person trying to buy safety that doesn't exist. That's love—staying while watching someone self-destruct. But I can't stop you. Only you can choose whether accumulation is worth cost."
"What cost specifically?"
"Your health—neural damage is permanent. Your principles—whatever remained after months of erosion. Your relationship with me—watching you prioritize credits over everything else is exhausting." Her expression is tired rather than angry. "And eventually, your life. Because this pattern of escalation until untenable followed by fleeing is finite cycle. Eventually you run out of places to flee and enemies close in regardless of wealth."
She's right about everything and it doesn't change decision. Pattern is self-destructive but feels like only available response to galaxy determined to kill me.
"I'm doing what's necessary."
"Necessary for what? Survival or accumulation? Because those aren't same thing anymore." She replaces helmet, ending vulnerability. "I'll be in command center. Try not to give yourself brain damage on first day of production."
Alone in production facility, I begin materializing equipment systematically. First batch: thirty-three blaster rifles. The neural strain is immediate—migraine that radiates from base of skull, vision blurring at edges, hands shaking. Medical stimulants help but can't eliminate physiological cost of sustained System usage.
R4 hovers close, monitoring vitals with worried photoreceptor glow. "Master's neural activity shows dangerous patterns. Heart rate elevated, blood pressure increasing, cognitive processing speed declining. Continuing production at this rate will cause permanent damage."
"Noted. Continuing anyway."
"Master is choosing wealth accumulation over cognitive health. This is objectively irrational decision-making."
"Welcome to human nature."
Eight projects satisfaction despite R4's concern: "Master is maximizing profit potential during operational window. Strategy is optimal given external threats and financial requirements."
"Strategy is self-destructive pattern that will eventually terminate in catastrophic failure."
"All strategies eventually fail. Master's approach is maximizing survival probability during available timeline."
They continue arguing while I work through second batch. By end of first day, I've materialized ninety-nine weapons—three batches—and migraine is severe enough that medical droid administers stronger stimulants with warning about addiction potential.
Bo-Katan finds me in quarters at 2300 hours, collapsed on bunk with ice pack pressed against skull. She doesn't say anything—just sits beside me in silent judgment that's somehow more effective than lecture.
"Don't tell me I'm being stupid," I mutter through pain.
"You already know. Don't need me repeating it."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because you're my husband despite being self-destructive disaster. Mandalorian marriage means staying through stupid decisions while hoping you eventually learn." She removes my boots with practical efficiency. "Also because if you're going to destroy yourself for credits, someone should witness it. Maybe guilt will accomplish what logic hasn't."
"Guilt is ineffective with the amount of moral dissolution I've achieved."
"Then I'm just here for company while you make terrible choices." She lies beside me, armor still on because Death Watch warriors don't fully relax even in secure locations. "Eighteen million credits to enable slavery. That's impressive moral bankruptcy even for you."
"At least I'm honest about it now. No more rationalizing as necessary evil or pretending neutral facilitation. I'm weapons dealer who profits from suffering. Embracing that clarity."
"Clarity is something. Not redemption or improvement, but something." Her hand finds mine. "Still love you despite recognizing you're borderline irredeemable. That's either profound commitment or catastrophic judgment failure. Time will tell which."
"Probably both."
"Probably."
We lie together in darkness while my head throbs and future stretches toward sixty days of sustained neural damage for profit I don't actually need but can't stop pursuing.
The Hutt contract is beginning and with it complete abandonment of pretense that I'm anything except what everyone has accused me of being: merchant who profits from galaxy's misery without meaningful ethical constraints.
At least I'm honest about it now.
That has to count for something.
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