Chapter 18: THE SOLDIER'S NEED
The cantina was neutral ground—or as neutral as anything got in Nevarro's underworld.
I'd chosen the location carefully: public enough to discourage violence, private enough for serious conversation, frequented by enough different factions that no single group controlled the space. The kind of establishment where deals got made and questions didn't get asked.
Vex'ila was positioned three tables away, datapad out, looking like any other tech worker nursing a drink. Close enough to intervene if things went wrong. Far enough to maintain the illusion that she and I were strangers.
Draven arrived with two bodyguards. The crime boss was older than I'd expected—mid-fifties, maybe, with gray threading through dark hair and the weathered look of someone who'd survived by being smarter than his enemies. His guards were younger, harder, carrying blasters with the casual ease of professionals.
"Morgan."
Draven slid into the seat across from me. His guards took positions at the bar, watching the room.
"Draven."
"I heard you killed four of my people."
"They were trying to kill me first."
"Details." He signaled the bartender for a drink. "You also took something that belongs to me."
"The slicer? She came to me. I didn't go looking for her."
"Doesn't change the fact that she has my property. My data. My leverage."
"Which is why I'm here."
The bartender delivered Draven's drink—something amber and strong-smelling. He took a sip before responding.
"You're here to negotiate. Interesting choice for a man who just made enemies of my organization."
"I'm here to offer partnership."
Draven's eyebrow rose.
"Partnership."
"Your slicer took your data. I took your slicer. Now I'm offering something better than either: a collaboration. She works for me, I work with you, your clients get better service than they're currently receiving."
"Better service." The words were flat, skeptical.
"Your operation handles local logistics for off-world clients. Protection, supply chains, information gathering. But you don't have technical capability—not real capability. Vex'ila does."
I leaned forward slightly.
"I'm offering you access to one of the best slicers in the sector. In exchange, I want legitimate work. Security consulting, asset recovery, the kind of jobs that require discretion. You introduce me to your clients, I deliver results. Everyone profits."
Draven was quiet for a long moment. Behind him, the cantina buzzed with the usual afternoon traffic—traders, hunters, locals looking for work or trouble.
"You're either brave or stupid," he said finally.
"Probably both."
"My clients are... particular. They don't like surprises. They don't like new faces. And they really don't like people who know too much about their operations."
"I understand discretion."
"Do you?" Draven's eyes were cold. "Because the data Vex'ila stole could damage more than my reputation. People could die. Important people. And the people who would do the killing don't stop until the job is finished."
Imperial Remnant. Moff Gideon's network. The Client's operation.
"I understand the stakes," I said. "That's why I'm bringing her back instead of selling the data to the New Republic."
The threat was implicit. Draven heard it.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Morgan."
"Everyone's playing dangerous games. I'm just trying to pick the one that ends with me still breathing."
Draven took another drink. His expression was impossible to read.
"I'll consider your proposal."
"How long?"
"As long as it takes." He stood. "Stay in the city. Don't cause any more problems. I'll send word when I've made a decision."
He was turning to leave when the interruption happened.
"Draven."
The voice came from behind me. Human male, tense, determined. I didn't turn—kept my eyes on Draven's face to read his reaction.
Annoyance. Recognition. Dismissal.
"Mak. I told you we don't have work for you."
"Just hear me out—"
"There's nothing to hear. You're a deserter. Nobody trusts deserters."
I turned then, finally, to see who was pressing his luck with a crime boss.
The man was my age, maybe a few years older. Military bearing—impossible to miss if you knew what to look for. Shoulders square, feet planted, eyes constantly scanning even while he focused on Draven. The stance of someone who'd spent years in uniform and couldn't quite shake the habits.
Former Imperial. Had to be. The haircut, the posture, the way he held himself like he was still waiting for orders.
"I have skills," the man—Mak—said. "Communications. Encryption. Logistics coordination. I can be useful."
"You can be a liability." Draven's voice was final. "Imperial deserters attract attention. Imperial attention. The kind that brings complications I don't need."
"I'm not—"
One of Draven's guards stepped forward. The message was clear.
I stood.
"I'll take him."
Both Draven and the deserter turned to look at me.
"What?" Draven asked.
"I said I'll take him. If you don't want him, I do."
"You don't even know what he can do."
"I know he survived long enough to get here. I know he's desperate enough to argue with you in public. And I know that communications and encryption skills are exactly what I need."
I looked at the deserter.
"Torren Mak?"
"Yes."
"Former Imperial?"
His jaw tightened.
"Former communications officer. Imperial Navy. Three years."
"Why'd you leave?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters to me."
The cantina had grown quiet around us. Conversations paused. Eyes turned toward the confrontation that wasn't quite a confrontation.
Mak's expression flickered—something between shame and defiance.
"They ordered me to purge civilian records. Colony world in the Outer Rim. The purge would have erased evidence of... actions. Against civilians. I refused."
"And they let you walk?"
"They tried not to." He touched his side unconsciously—a gesture that suggested old wounds. "I was better at leaving than they expected."
I studied him. The thousand-yard stare was there—the same look I'd seen in mirrors since Afghanistan, since the things I'd done and the things I'd witnessed. Two soldiers from dead armies, meeting in a cantina on a volcanic world.
I know that face. I've worn that face.
"You're hired," I said.
Mak blinked.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. Security work, fair payment, no questions about your past. You report to me. You follow orders. You keep your mouth shut about operational details. Those terms work for you?"
"Yes." The word came out fast, almost desperate. "Yes, they work."
I turned back to Draven.
"My crew, my problem. As you said."
The crime boss studied me with something approaching respect.
"You're collecting strays, Morgan. A fugitive slicer, an Imperial deserter. Next you'll be recruiting Jawas and Trandoshans."
"Maybe I will."
Draven shook his head slowly.
"I'll send word about my decision. Don't make me regret considering this partnership."
He left with his guards. The cantina gradually returned to its normal rhythm, conversations resuming, attention shifting elsewhere.
I gestured Mak toward an empty table.
"Sit down. We need to talk about terms."
The conversation took thirty minutes.
Torren Mak was exactly what he'd claimed: a communications specialist with three years of Imperial Navy experience. He knew encryption protocols, signal intelligence, logistics coordination. Skills that translated directly to the kind of operation I was building.
He was also damaged. I could see it in the way he held himself, the way he flinched at sudden movements, the way his eyes never quite stopped scanning for threats. Whatever he'd witnessed in Imperial service had left marks that wouldn't fade easily.
Same marks I carry. Different war, same wounds.
"Why me?" he asked finally. "You don't know me. I could be a liability, like Draven said."
"You could be. But I don't think you are."
"Why not?"
"Because you're sitting across from a stranger, asking why he'd take a chance on you, instead of taking the opportunity and running before he changes his mind."
Mak considered this.
"Maybe I'm just not smart enough to run."
"Maybe. Or maybe you're tired of running."
His expression shifted—something vulnerable, quickly hidden.
"I've been on the move for eight months. Bouncing between systems, taking whatever work I could find. Nobody trusts a deserter. Imperial side thinks I'm a traitor. New Republic side thinks I'm a spy. Either way, I'm unemployable."
"Not anymore."
"You're serious about this."
"I'm serious about building something. An operation. People I can trust. Work that matters." I leaned back in my chair. "Right now, that operation consists of me, a slicer hiding three tables away, and a ship that barely holds together. It's not much. But it's a start."
Mak glanced toward Vex'ila—I hadn't mentioned her position, but he'd identified it anyway. Good instincts.
"And what exactly does this operation do?"
"Information brokerage. Security consulting. Asset recovery. Gray-zone work that requires discretion and competence."
"Legal?"
"Mostly."
He almost smiled.
"That's more honesty than I've gotten in eight months."
"I find it saves time in the long run."
Vex'ila appeared at the table's edge, datapad tucked under her arm.
"Draven's gone. His guards swept for surveillance devices before they left."
"Anything interesting?"
"He's scared. Didn't show it much, but his vitals were elevated the whole conversation." She looked at Mak. "Who's this?"
"Torren Mak. New crew member. Communications and encryption."
Vex'ila's expression was unreadable.
"We're just picking up strays now?"
"He has skills we need. And he passed the first test."
"What test?"
"He asked questions instead of just accepting the opportunity."
Vex'ila's gaze shifted to Mak, assessing.
"Former Imperial?"
"Does it matter?"
"It matters because the data we have involves Imperial Remnant operations. If you're still loyal—"
"I'm not." The words were hard. Final. "I left because they wanted me to cover up atrocities. I don't serve that anymore."
The silence stretched. Vex'ila's expression softened slightly.
"Fair enough." She sat down. "Welcome to... whatever this is."
"Does it have a name?"
I hadn't thought about it. The question caught me off guard.
"Not yet."
"Every operation needs a name," Mak said. "Helps with identity. Helps with morale."
He had a point. Back in the Army, unit designations mattered. They gave people something to belong to, something to fight for beyond individual survival.
"We'll figure it out," I said. "For now, we have more pressing concerns."
I outlined the situation: Draven's pending decision, the Imperial connection, the need to position ourselves as useful without becoming vulnerable. Mak listened carefully, asking clarifying questions that showed tactical understanding.
By the end, he was nodding slowly.
"Infiltration through partnership. Classic counter-intelligence approach."
"You're familiar with the methodology."
"Imperial Navy taught me some things. The useful parts, anyway."
Two soldiers from dead armies. And a slicer with her own ghosts.
We were a strange crew. Damaged, dangerous, bound together by circumstance and shared desperation. Not much of a foundation for building anything lasting.
But it was what I had.
The Requital's cargo hold was cramped with three people.
Torren set up his gear in a corner—portable communications equipment, mostly, salvaged from his travels. He worked efficiently, hands moving with the muscle memory of someone who'd set up field stations countless times before.
Vex'ila watched him with the calculating expression I was learning to recognize as her processing state.
"He's competent," she said quietly, standing beside me near the cockpit door.
"That's why I hired him."
"That's not the only reason."
I didn't respond. She was right, of course. I'd seen something in Torren Mak—the same exhaustion, the same need to be useful, the same desperate hope for belonging. I'd recruited him because he was qualified. But also because I understood him.
Is that dangerous? Building a crew based on shared damage?
Maybe. But shared damage created loyalty. And loyalty was harder to buy than skills.
A chime sounded from the ship's communications panel.
"Incoming transmission," Vex'ila said. "Local source."
"Draven?"
"Probably."
I crossed to the panel and accepted the message.
The text was brief: "Terms acceptable. Meeting tomorrow. Sunset. Bring your slicer."
Partnership confirmed. The infiltration could begin.
"We're in," I said.
Torren looked up from his equipment.
"What's the objective?"
"First, we establish ourselves as useful. Then we gather intelligence on Draven's Imperial contacts. Eventually, we figure out what they're hunting—and decide whether to help them or stop them."
"And the end goal?"
I thought about the question. About Grogu and Din Djarin and events I couldn't explain knowing about. About building something in a galaxy that didn't know I existed.
"The end goal is to matter. To build something that outlasts the next crisis."
Torren nodded slowly.
"I can work with that."
Outside the viewport, Nevarro's lights flickered against the volcanic darkness. Tomorrow, we'd meet with Draven and begin weaving ourselves into his operation. Tomorrow, the game truly started.
But tonight, for the first time since I'd crashed on this planet, I wasn't alone.
Three people in a battered freighter. Three damaged souls with complementary skills. Not a crew yet—more like the raw materials for one.
It was a start.
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