Simon stared out a viewport, taking in the Galactic Core, No, not Couroscant, or the asteroid field at Byss, beyond that. They said no sentient being had ever seen the galaxy's center, yet there Simon was, gazing at the massive black hole in the galaxy's center. Just because no government sanctioned mapping crew made an expedition, didn't mean people didn't go there. Smugglers, Pirates, and the Galaxy's undesirables, had been finding "Safe Zones" in the galaxy's hazards since hyperdrive engines were first conceived. Hell, anyone with enough balls, or loose screws with the law at their backs could do just about anything. These days it didn't matter who was chasing you, Imperial or New Republic, Inmates had a funny way of turning into a carbonite block. An experience, but in this line of work, a necessary one. Not because it was pleasurable, but because it served as a constant reminder to what would happen if you got caught.
Simon had spent 28 years of his life encased in carbonite, although his body didn't age, his thoughts persisted, eventually going insane with nothing but his thoughts and the dark to keep him occupied. Simon scratched the skin around a quarter inch sized piece of metal embedded in his neck another unpleasant reminder of what happens when you get nicked. For all of it's talk, the New Republic didn't seem too far from the Empire. Unfrozen and 3 suicide attempts later, they slapped a now defunct re-educator on him. A painfully excruciating process, made even more painful by the Arkanian, a fugitive back ally cybernetics dealer on Nar-Shadda, who deactivated it. It a risky, yet brutally simple procedure that, if done by the wrong person, left half of it's patients, if not more, with some measure of brain damage.
However, with a painful past, and in a life ruled by violence, paranoia, and constant worry, Simon always felt oddly at peace when looking at the plethora of colors around the black hole, the most interesting thing was the blue vapor trails it seemingly spat out. How rotten did you have to be that a black hole didn't want you? Simon could sympathize, The Empire, the Republic, hell Even the Hutts, were just one huge black hole, sucking in and destroying everything and anyone around them. Simon? He was spat out too. After a man's been forced into a life of crime, then constantly brutalized by every side, how could they expect him to just simply go back and lead a normal life? Fuck that. As long as he drew breath Simon would fight all.
The spot they were in, wasn't like jumping to some planet along the Hydian. It was more like crossing the gap between two Couriscanti Skyscrapers attached by a thread, on a unicycle. Nearly Impossible, but once you did it the first time, and time again after that, The fear left. His Captian, Zax Mantor, had given him the Coordinates, how he got them? Simon didn't know, but he guessed that a now deceased, or extremely rich Smuggler or pirate in the galaxy had something to do with it.
Simon's thoughts soon drifted to his shipment. The Action IV frieghtor he'd just starjacked from some Company fronting for the Tenloss Syndicate a few hours ago in the Cademimu sector, held a variety of top grade Military spec. weapons. Everything from E-11's to Proton Torpedoes were still in their cases down in the cargo hold. The best thing though, were the DXH-6 Disruptor rifles, a weapon that was capable of turning the tables in a Firefight in the user's favor. Most of the men Simon ran with picked one up, Simon himself couldn't resist. However they were also the most problematic, strictly regulated, to the point where simply owning one would grant him an automatic death sentence, and although he had a permit to land at any Imperial World, It wasn't like Simon could simply dock at Firro and sell off a couple hundred without any unnecessary Imperial Entanglements. Entanglements, that suddenly got a real hard on for busting up organized crime. They're usual fence, a Ballaz faction associate, had been busted during "Operation Hollow Destiny" It's orchestrator, Some cocky Core World Senator, Has started to become a real thorn in the sides of many criminal Organizations, but after the most recent development, this Gubhar Bawet guy would have a lot more to worry about then a group of thugs.
Of course he could always go back to the Hutts. But business conducted on the business end of a blaster wasn't really business at all. Even with Simon's silver tongue, selling product to the Hutts was like transporting an unescorted frieghtor loaded with credits through the Phaeda-Ithor Corridor, or through the Maelstrom. Only difference is, the Hutts may give him a few Credits to cover the docking fee and if he was lucky, he might get a full night at a bar out of it.
There were a bunch of Trigger happy mercenaries out there, but Simon wasn't running a weapons market, The amount of disruptors he was sitting on would take far too long to sell to each individual Mercenary or Bounty Hunter that passed by. He needed to offload them all at once, and the sooner the better, each second he sat doing nothing, was each second the Law used to get closer on his trail, more importantly, he was loosing Credits by sitting here doing nothing with these rifles. Giving in, he shot one of his contacts a text. Hoping he haddn't gone completely legit yet.
Simon's datapad beeped. So, Patrick Swayze came through after all. Swayze, who'd just gotten sprung from a prison ship somewhere, always had his fingers seated deep in the workings of various Mercenary groups. But, the information broker had a dark secret, he liked to dance. His method of dancing was provocative, one might almost call it "Dirty" Not like Twi'leki Strippers, but how one would truly express passion to a lover. Since he'd gotten out of prison, this new style of Dancing had made him become an up and coming holostar, with his own show, a musical soap opera, "Time of my life."
Of course if it wasn't for Simon, Swayze wouldn't be doing much dancing at all. No, he had no part in teaching him the basics of the Calrissian 2-step, or the Dark Side jig. But he did manage to talk an angry mercenary from burning Swayze's legs off with an E-11, and kept the fact Simon seen Swayze in a 1 piece leotard a secret.
Contact this number: 01-821-36234125. It's Silver Infinity Network's owner's personal com.
This is the last favor I'm doing for you Basai.
PS: Remember our secret.
Silver Infinity Network. A rising group of Mercenaries Simon was kinda familer with, They were much to Idealistic to the Federation's goals for his liking. But they had a good rep for business and if they had credits, Simon would gladly sell to them. He stepped back from the viewport, pulling out his comm, and put a link through to Endivain.
"Ms. Endivain." Simon started when the other line picked up. "This is..." Simon paused as he thought of a random name, as close to the core worlds as he was, it would be stupid to think someone wasn't listening. "Trent Braxton." Simon rolled his eyes. Really? That's the best he could come up with? It beat something cliche like 'Mr. X' or 'Mr. Smith' though. It didn't matter, if it went well, she'd know his real name upon meeting face to face.
"I'm sitting on a Nicely dressed shipment here, Dressed to the Nines in fact. A friend of ours told me you were a stylish kinda girl." Simon said. Everyone in the underworld now a days tried to be all illusive and mysterious, he'd much rather come right out and say "I have a large shipment of Weapons, with Disruptors, and a mutual associate told me you might be interested." but the skin around the "reminder" on the back of his neck began to itch again.
Simon chuckled to himself as he waited for Luciana's repy. If anyone was listening, they'd already started tracking him, He'd show up as the frieghter now known as Bite Me, the Changed IFF Transponder was a testament in the Pirates weird sense of humor, as a blip In the galactic core, where a black hole is supposed to be, as clothes salesmen, tempting to sell the latest Fashions to the owner of a known Military Contracting Company, who apparently likes to wear this season's heels when she's knee deep in the dead.
Fortunately though, his location would most likely be written off as interference, or some counter measure. Besides, Deal-slang was a hard habit to break.