Chapter 16: TERMS OF PARTNERSHIP
The stars outside the viewport hadn't changed, but everything else had.
I ran through the post-flight checks on autopilot, fingers moving across controls that were becoming familiar. The Requital's systems hummed with the steady rhythm of a ship in stable orbit. Below us, Nevarro rotated slowly—rust and char and volcanic smoke, the first world I'd known in this galaxy.
"You're avoiding the conversation."
Vex'ila's voice cut through my focus. She was still in the co-pilot's seat, watching me with those calculating eyes that had probably catalogued every tell I'd given since we met.
"I'm running diagnostics."
"The diagnostics finished two minutes ago. You're stalling."
She was right. I closed the system panel and turned to face her.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. But I'll start with the basics." She leaned forward, lekku shifting with the movement. "Those items that appeared in your hands during the fight. The blade. The credit chip. The detonator. How?"
I'd been preparing this explanation since we broke atmosphere. The truth, but not all of it. Enough to build trust without exposing every vulnerability.
"When someone touches me—skin to skin contact—something transfers. One of their possessions appears in my hand. I don't control what gets taken. I don't choose the item. It just happens."
"Every time?"
"Every time there's contact. Without exception."
Vex'ila processed this. Her expression remained neutral, but I could see the calculations running behind her eyes.
"So the gloves..."
"Block the effect. As long as there's a barrier between my skin and theirs, nothing transfers."
"But your gloves tore during the fight."
"Yes."
"And that's when the items appeared."
"Yes."
She was quiet for a long moment. Outside, Nevarro's terminator line crept across the planet's surface—dawn approaching the settlement where Telos was probably still hiding behind locked doors.
"Every handshake," Vex'ila said finally. "Every brush in a crowd. Every accidental bump."
"Every single one."
"That's why you never touch anyone. Why you flinched when I reached for you in the tunnels."
"Partly."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Partly?"
"The rest is complicated."
"We just killed four people together. I think we're past complicated."
Fair point. But there were limits to what I could share. The active selection—the ability to choose specific items, to steal intentionally—that stayed hidden. She'd seen passive theft in action. That was enough for now.
"Some things I'm still figuring out myself," I said. "The ability... it's not something I was born with. It appeared recently. I'm learning the rules as I go."
"Recently." She tested the word. "How recently?"
"A few weeks."
"And before that?"
"Before that, I was someone else."
The answer was true in ways she couldn't understand. Cole Morgan, Army captain, security consultant, father—that man had died in a hospital bed on a planet she'd never heard of. What remained was... something new. Something still taking shape.
Vex'ila studied me for a long time.
"You're not going to tell me everything."
"No."
"But what you've told me is true?"
"Yes."
"And you can control it? Keep the gloves on, keep the stealing stopped?"
"As long as the gloves hold. As long as I'm careful."
She leaned back in her seat, decision made.
"Then we can work together. Keep your gloves on around me. We do business through datapads when possible. Physical contact only when absolutely necessary, and always with barriers."
"That works for me."
"Good." She reached for the hard case she'd been protecting since the tunnels. "Because what I'm about to show you is worth more than either of us realized."
The holographic display filled the space between us with financial data.
Numbers, transaction codes, account identifiers—a waterfall of information that would have been meaningless to most people. But Vex'ila navigated it with the ease of someone reading their native language.
"Draven's syndicate moves roughly forty thousand credits per month through legitimate businesses," she said, highlighting a cluster of transactions. "Protection fees, smuggling cuts, the usual local operation."
"That matches what I observed."
"Right. But look at this."
She expanded a different section. The numbers jumped by an order of magnitude.
"These are the Imperial transfers. Quarterly payments, always from the same source code. Two hundred thousand credits. Per quarter."
Eight hundred thousand credits per year. For a local crime boss on a backwater volcanic planet.
"That's not protection money," I said.
"No. That's operational funding. Someone is paying Draven to maintain infrastructure." She pulled up another file. "Safe houses. Supply caches. 'Asset acquisition assistance'—their words, not mine. Whatever the Imperials are doing on Nevarro, Draven's syndicate is their local support network."
The pieces clicked into place. Not just any Imperials—the Client. Moff Gideon's operation. The hunt for Grogu.
I couldn't say any of that. Couldn't explain how I knew what this data represented. But I could steer the conversation.
"Imperials don't spend this kind of money without a specific objective. They're hunting something. Or someone."
"That's what I thought." Vex'ila highlighted a transaction dated three weeks ago. "This payment was flagged 'priority asset—imminent acquisition.' Something's happening soon."
Grogu. The bounty. Din Djarin.
The timeline was live. Events from a show I'd never watched were unfolding right now, and I was sitting in the middle of them with stolen data and a curse I barely understood.
"If we can figure out what they're after," I said carefully, "we have leverage beyond Draven."
"Agreed. But that's a dangerous game. Imperial Remnant doesn't forgive compromised operations."
"Neither does anyone else in this galaxy. The question is whether the risk is worth the reward."
Vex'ila smiled thinly.
"You sound like you've done this before."
"Different context. Same calculation."
Counter-insurgency. Hearts and minds. Playing factions against each other.
Three years in Afghanistan had taught me how this game worked. The players changed, but the rules stayed the same. Information was currency. Leverage was power. And everyone—everyone—had something they wanted to protect.
"What's your proposal?" Vex'ila asked.
"We go back to Nevarro. Use the data to approach Draven from a position of strength. We're not threatening him—we're offering partnership. His syndicate gets better technical capabilities. We get access to his Imperial contacts."
"And we spy on everyone while getting paid to do it."
"Essentially."
She considered this. The holographic data flickered between us, casting blue shadows across her features.
"It could work. But Draven will be suspicious. I stole from him."
"Which is why we frame it as a gesture of good faith. You came to me. I'm returning you—and the data—in exchange for legitimate partnership. Everyone saves face. Everyone profits."
"Except the Imperials, when we eventually expose their operation."
"That's a problem for future us."
Vex'ila laughed—short, surprised, genuine.
"You're either very smart or very stupid."
"The jury's still out."
She closed the holographic display and stood.
"I need to decrypt the rest of these files. There's more here than I initially realized. Names, dates, shipment manifests. If we're going to play this game, we need every card we can get."
"How long?"
"Few hours. Maybe more."
"I'll start plotting an approach vector. We should land outside the city—somewhere we can control the meeting conditions."
Vex'ila paused at the cockpit door.
"Cole."
I looked up.
"When this is over—if we survive—I'm going to want the rest of the story. The parts you're not telling me."
"If we survive, you'll have earned it."
She nodded and disappeared into the ship's main hold.
I turned back to the viewport. Nevarro filled the view, volcanic and hostile and somehow becoming familiar.
First crew member. First partnership. First step.
The co-pilot's seat wasn't empty anymore. Someone else was flying this ship with me, watching my back, sharing the risk.
Some skills really did transfer across universes. Two-pilot operations. Trusting your wingman. Building something bigger than yourself.
I adjusted the flight controls and began plotting our descent.
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