44-46

*Chapter 44: Arms Deal * 

43. Arms Deal 

On the planet Tatooine, in a desolate stretch of desert outside the northwest district of Mos Eisley. 

“We’ve got the lay of the land,” Yuri Orlov said, expertly handling a Type-21 assault rifle. His sunglasses glinted under Tatooine’s blistering suns, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “That crew of Bothans in the cantina? They’re with Broderick Gravel. Yesterday, he was running around trying to buy heavy blasters, but no one would sell to him.” 

“Yep, he’s definitely getting squeezed out around here,” Vitaly Orlov added, also sporting shades and sipping a green, fizzy drink. “You’re not worried that if we sell to him, his enemies will come knocking?” 

“If his enemies show up, I’ll just have a nice chat with them about the price of this M-427 general-purpose machine gun,” Yuri said, taking a drag and kicking the T-850 behind him. The droid held a compact, lightweight 12.7mm machine gun. 

“I don’t think they’ll be in the mood to talk,” Vitaly said, shaking his head. 

“Vitaly, Vitaly… that’s your problem,” Yuri said, waving his cigarette between two fingers. “You ever see someone sell weapons to just one side? Sure, it happens—but those guys are all in the Sarlacc pit now. Sell to one side, the other has every reason to blast you. But sell to both? Heh…” 

“Then both sides have every reason to blast you,” Vitaly shot back. 

Yuri fumbled, dropping his cigarette onto his pants. He frantically brushed it off, but not before it burned a small hole in the fabric. 

“Kriff you, Vitaly! Now go get that guy! Right now, this second!” Yuri cursed, snatching the drink from Vitaly’s hand and chugging it. 

“Me? Alone? To talk to those Bothans?” Vitaly was floored. “It took me half a day to wrap my head around the fact that these weird-looking guys are ‘people’ too! Now you want me to go negotiate with a pack of upright porgs? Give me a T-850!” 

“You joking? You want to bring a combat droid to a business meeting? Who’d deal with you then? Look, we do this like always—teamwork. You bring the guy, I sell the blasters. Every ten rifles comes with a crate of power packs, nine percent off for repeat customers. I’ll even throw in a glass of that glowing blue bantha milk. Done.” 

“No way! Kriff you, Yuri! You’re throwing me to the rancor!” 

Yuri sighed, walked over, and slung an arm around Vitaly’s shoulders, shoving the half-empty drink back into his hand. “Listen, Vitaly. We boarded this mothership for a fresh start, and the Administrator gave us that shot. Now, hear me out—war’s sweeping the whole galaxy! How many beings are in this galaxy? Even if just one percent of them buy our weapons, what’s that mean? Everything we did before? Total bantha fodder.” 

“I get it, but…” 

“If we don’t move forward, we’ll never know what’s next. Right, my brother? Brothers in arms…” 

“Brothers in arms…” Vitaly gave Yuri’s shoulder a light punch. “Fine, fine, I’ll try. But you better have my back!” 

“Always.” 

Vitaly downed the rest of his drink, steeled himself, and headed toward the chaotic shantytown. The Bothans were under a tattered tent, guzzling drinks and cursing loudly in their language. Everyone around gave them a wide berth, wary of catching the wrong kind of attention from these desperados. 

Vitaly approached cautiously, putting on his best harmless vibe, rubbing his hands together and stumbling through Galactic Basic. “Uh, guns! Big guns! I got ‘em!” 

“Get lost, you useless pink-skinned monkey! One more second, and I’ll twist your head off and stuff it up a bantha’s rear!” a scar-faced Bothan snarled, baring his teeth. 

Vitaly wanted to cry but forced himself to keep going. “I got guns. Only me. You won’t find them anywhere else!” 

“You mocking me?” The scar-faced Bothan whipped out a gleaming vibroblade and advanced on Vitaly. Though Bothans were shorter than humans, this crew clearly lived on the edge, their aura intimidating. 

Vitaly backpedaled, stammering, “I sell guns. Kill me, and those guns… they shoot you!” 

“You really got guns?” Scar-face eyed him suspiciously. 

“Guns! Lots of guns! If you got credits.” 

“Where?” 

“Out in the desert, not far. Come with me.” 

Scar-face grabbed Vitaly’s collar, pressing the vibroblade against his side. “Lead the way.” 

Behind a rocky outcrop in the Mos Eisley outskirts, Yuri Orlov watched through binoculars as Vitaly was escorted by the knife-wielding Bothans. He muttered, “Nice work, brother. You, stay close. You two, take sniper rifles and flank them.” 

Three T-850s nodded and moved into position. 

… 

The Bothans shoved Vitaly forward, spotting Yuri Orlov, dressed in a sharp suit and sunglasses, lounging on a stack of ammo crates. A row of Type-21 assault rifles was neatly displayed beside him, with a T-850 standing guard. 

“Looks like business has arrived! Welcome, welcome. I’m Yuri Orlov, just a humble merchant,” Yuri said, not bothering to stand, grinning around his cigarette. His eyes never once flicked to Vitaly. 

“These your guns?” Scar-face demanded, shoving Vitaly. 

“Yep. Heard you’re in the market for some firepower. Lucky for you, I’ve got a fresh batch. If you’ve got the credits, we can talk,” Yuri said, flicking his cigarette butt away. “Get that irrelevant guy outta here, and let’s do business.” 

Scar-face yanked Vitaly in front of him, dragging the vibroblade lightly across his chest. “So this guy’s just a nobody? You won’t mind if I gut him, then?” 

Yuri smirked. “Oh, I’d mind. He’s my messenger, paid to do a job. If he dies for it, that’s bad luck for me. I’m a businessman—I don’t want you dying after we make a deal either, right? So, kill him, and I’ll figure this deal’s not worth my time.” 

“How about I just gut you instead?” Scar-face pointed the vibroblade at Yuri. 

[Easter Egg Chapter Image 1: Bothans] 

[Easter Egg Chapter Image 2: Yuri and His Brother] 

Chapter 45: Our Galaxy 

“Forget that I’ve got a ton of blasters and you’ve only got a few vibroblades,” Yuri said with a grin. “Even if you take me out, what, you’re never gonna buy blasters again? Come on, I’m a businessman. Deals are what matter. What you do with my weapons? That’s your business. We both get what we want.” 

“Interesting.” Scar shoved Vitali aside with a grunt. “Let’s see your blasters, then.” 

Vitali, looking like he’d just dodged a rancor, scrambled behind Yuri, panting heavily. 

Yuri clapped him on the shoulder, signaling everything was under control, then tossed Scar an unloaded Type-21 assault rifle. With the smooth confidence of a Corellian smuggler, he said, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce the Type-21 assault rifle! Lightweight plastoid construction, waterproof, dustproof, weighs just 1.7 kilos. Fires 5.56mm rounds with a standard 30-round mag. For a few extra credits, I can hook you up with a 50-round extended mag.” 

Scar picked up the rifle, smirking. “A slugthrower? Kid, did you time-travel from a thousand years ago?” 

“Oh, a slugthrower,” Yuri mocked, mimicking Scar’s sneer. He grabbed another Type-21, racked the slide with a sharp clack, and his expression turned ice-cold. “Wanna bet I could drop all of you in two seconds with this ‘outdated’ slugthrower?” 

The Bith mercenaries tensed, two of them drawing their blaster pistols. 

Yuri glanced at the weapons in their hands and burst out laughing. “Oh, DL-18s. What fine blaster pistols. Fifty shots a minute, max range of 120 meters—if your trigger finger doesn’t get tired and slow you to twenty shots, that is. Ha!” 

Without warning, he spun around and squeezed the trigger at a nearby rock. 

Rat-tat-tat-tat! A burst of rounds tore into the stone, kicking up a cloud of dust in seconds. Yuri, caught up in the moment, laughed maniacally. “Hahaha! A thousand rounds a minute, effective range of 550 meters, with single-shot or full-auto modes! Hahaha!” 

The gunfire stopped, leaving the rock pockmarked and crumbling, a layer of it collapsing with a crash. 

“Whew!” Yuri grinned, swapping out a fresh mag. “So, fancy blasters or ‘primitive’ slugthrowers? I’ll take…” He racked the slide again with a clack. “The Type-21 assault rifle!” 

He tossed the loaded rifle to Scar. “One rifle, 400 credits. A crate of ammo, 100 credits. Buy ten rifles at once, and I’ll throw in a crate of ammo free. Oh, and I only take Republic credits—no Wupiupi nonsense.” 

Scar caught the rifle, his face darkening. He raised it, pointing it straight at Yuri Orlov. 

Yuri just smiled, lighting a cigarra and taking a slow drag. “You know, brother, right now, twenty sniper rifles are zeroed in on your head. Take me out? Sure. But your skull…” He mimed an explosion with his hands. “Boom.” 

“You know I’m just a humble merchant,” Yuri continued, unfazed. “We both get what we need, and this is a long-term business. So, let’s talk price.” 

“Ten rifles, twenty crates of ammo,” Scar growled. 

“That’ll be 5,900 credits,” Yuri said smoothly. “Per our deal, I only charged you for nineteen crates of ammo.” 

“I don’t have that much!” Scar’s face twisted with rage. 

“Then we’ve got a problem. Small business, no credit. Can’t afford it? Buy less. A single DL-18 blaster costs 500 credits, you know,” Yuri said coldly. “And let’s be real—firepower, lethality? The DL-18’s a joke. Full-auto blasters? You lot can’t afford those. Don’t kid yourself.” 

Scar’s grip tightened on the rifle, his anger boiling over, but Yuri raised a hand. A sharp crack echoed as a sniper round punched a deep hole into a nearby rock. 

Scar swallowed his rage, gritting his teeth. “Tomorrow, we’re hitting a spaceport. When we pull it off, I’ll give you 7,000 credits.” 

“What you do with the gear is your call, but one thing’s certain—you can’t guarantee you’ll make it back alive. If you don’t, who’s covering my losses?” Yuri said, unimpressed. 

“So what do you want?” 

Yuri chuckled, pulling a crate from under his seat and popping it open. Nestled in plastoid airbags were five grenades. “M-28 grenades! Eight-meter lethal radius, forty-two-meter max fragmentation range. Perfect for home defense, travel, or, y’know, wiping out your enemies. Fifty credits each. I’ll throw in two extra crates, but I’m charging interest. If you make it back, I want 8,000 credits.” 

“Deal!” Scar sneered, sealing the agreement. He tossed Yuri a bag of credit chips and jerked his head at his crew. “Go! Grab the gear!” 

Once the Bith mercenaries were gone, Yuri Orlov collapsed onto the ground, looking drained. Vitali rushed over to help him up. 

“Reminds me of the old days, when we were just starting out, huh, Vitali, my good brother?” Yuri said, sweating but laughing with exhilaration. 

Vitali sat beside him, lighting a cigarra and passing it to Yuri before lighting one for himself. He exhaled a plume of smoke skyward and said quietly, “Yeah. After that long hypersleep, I’ve forgotten a lot of the past… but some things stick with you. I just feel… well, heh…” 

He trailed off, hesitant. 

“Don’t worry,” Yuri said, clapping his brother’s shoulder. He blew his own plume of smoke into the sky, grinning. “This galaxy? It’s gonna be ours.” 

Note 1: Don’t try to apply Earth’s economic logic to the Star Wars universe. A 2,000-meter-long Imperial Star Destroyer costs about 150 million credits to build, and a decent starship might run a few tens of thousands of credits. Compare that to, say, a U.S. Ford-class aircraft carrier, which costs over 10 billion dollars. Republic credits have a purchasing power roughly 50 to 1,000 times that of a dollar—sometimes even more.  

But it’s not that simple. In Star Wars, uneven technological development means agricultural products are pricier than industrial ones. Light industry goods are dirt cheap, heavy industry is mid-tier, and agricultural products have the worst value. So when you see people in Star Wars fighting to the death over a few hundred credits, don’t be shocked—those credits can buy a lot. 

Chapter 46: Opportunity 

45. Opportunity 

Endor System, Dawn Planet synchronous orbit, Kushen Mothership Command Center. 

Ventus frowned, staring at the holographic projection of a bare-chested Munte. “So, you’re saying Quinto sold info about our mothership to someone named ‘Iron Tooth’ Kuken? And this guy’s tied to Black Sun?” 

“I sent you the recording. That’s the deal,” Munte replied. 

Ventus gave him a half-smirk. “Must’ve been tough, trading your charm for that intel. Real hard work, huh?” 

“Well…” Munte glanced back at the tantalizing silhouette under a blanket behind him, chuckling awkwardly. “Moderately tough, let’s say.” 

“Alright, I’ve got the picture. Don’t stress too much. We’re not defenseless anymore. The Blade fighters are almost upgraded, and we’ve got escort frigates prepping for active duty. Since things are heating up on Tatooine, you should head back—it’s safer here,” Ventus said. 

“Got it, Boss! I know the drill. Don’t worry!” Munte flashed a two-finger salute. The woman behind him stirred, about to wake, and he quickly cut the comm, probably rushing to soothe her. 

As Munte’s hologram flickered out, Ventus mulled things over, muttering to himself, “A Hammerhead-class cruiser… I know the Hammerhead, but that’s the corvette from Rogue One, right? Munte definitely said cruiser though.” 

He pondered further. “Must be the older model. If I’m remembering right, those were cruisers built during the wars between the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire. If that’s the case, there might be a way out of this…” 

Standing, he summoned Chief of Staff Qi Jian and briefed him about the incoming Hammerhead-class cruiser. 

“A cruiser?” Qi Jian’s face was grim. “Any more specific intel?” 

“Not yet. We only know it’s a model from one or two thousand years ago. But here’s the thing—even back then, the Republic and Sith Empire were fighting interstellar wars. Those ships, old as they are, are still a deadly threat to us,” Ventus said, adding, “Thanks to the Ruusan Reformation, the Republic mostly dismantled its powerful fleets, so ship tech hasn’t advanced much in the last couple millennia.” 

“And if I’m guessing right, this cruiser—unlike those bounty hunters before—could actually cripple our mothership, couldn’t it?” Qi Jian asked, his expression heavy. 

“Exactly. Last time, with the bounty hunters, we could just hunker down behind the mothership’s shields—they’d never break through. But this? A warship, hundreds of meters long? It might take time, but it could absolutely do real damage,” Ventus confirmed. 

“Should we push the research team to speed up the Ghost fighter project?” Qi Jian asked. 

Ventus shook his head. “No, don’t pressure them more. Professor Chi knows what he’s doing. He understands what’s at stake.” 

Qi Jian sighed. “I’ll start working on a strike plan, but even with the Blade fighters now equipped with infrared laser weapons, small fusion engines, and basic energy shields, they’re still not enough to threaten a cruiser. Our bottom line is fitting Gemini air-to-air missiles on the Blades. Without those, we might not even have a chance to scratch that cruiser.” 

“Understood. Get it done,” Ventus nodded. 

As Qi Jian turned to leave, he paused, looking back with resolve. “Administrator, I think… we could load the Blade fighters with trigger-type nuclear warheads… and have our pilots…” 

Ventus’s face darkened, but he gave a slow nod. 

“This is my call. If it comes to that, I’ll take responsibility and step down after the battle,” Qi Jian said, saluting sharply before striding away. 

Ventus watched him go, exhaling heavily. Sending his soldiers to their deaths was a bitter pill to swallow, especially from his position. 

[Administrator, the medical department reports that the injured patient has regained consciousness,] the Mainframe’s voice chimed in. 

Semid? Ventus nodded. “If the patient’s stable, set up a completely secure room. I want to talk to this guy alone.” 

[Understood. I’ll prepare Meeting Room 003. A reminder: two T-850 units are hidden in a compartment under the meeting room table, on standby.] 

“Take me there.” 

Ventus followed the directions to a meeting room. Inside, a Muun, still wrapped in bandages, sat slumped on a couch, looking weary. 

When Ventus entered, the Muun struggled to his feet, bowing respectfully. “Greetings, honored sir. You must be my savior. I offer you my deepest gratitude.” 

Ventus studied him. The Muun had the species’ characteristic lanky frame—everything elongated, from his head to his limbs. His protruding forehead and hairless scalp gave him a gaunt look, and his long arms ended in hands with an index and middle finger twice the length of the others. Sunken eye sockets lent him a slightly sinister air. 

“Semid, right? You realize how much risk I took saving you,” Ventus said. 

Semid nodded. “Believe me, no one knows the terror of Hego Damask II better than I do. That’s why I’m endlessly grateful for your rescue from under his nose. Whatever you ask of me in return, I’ll agree to without question.” 

“Tell me what you took from Makem Te,” Ventus pressed. 

“The Tonith family’s import-export ledgers,” Semid answered without hesitation. “The Tonith family is one of the most powerful among the Muun, rivaling even the Hill family. Both have been vying for the co-chair position of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.” 

Ventus gestured for him to continue. 

“Seventeen years ago, Lars Hill, a director of the Banking Clan, was assassinated. Since then, Ford Tonith has held the co-chair position. But Hego has been backing Lars’ son, San Hill, to interrupt Ford Tonith’s re-election and take the next co-chair seat,” Semid explained.