Chapter 2
The cargo was heavier than it looked.
Buck stared down at the small box in his hands—smooth, polished Beskar, Mandalorian steel, that gleamed faintly under the pale cabin lights of the shuttle. Its surface was pristine, cold to the touch, and reflected distorted specters of Buck's face back at him. There were no labels on it, no signs of what lay inside, but Buck knew enough about the galaxy's underworld to understand that something encased in Beskar was something dangerous. Something worth killing for.
He sighed and leaned back in his seat, the shuttle's hull humming softly as it powered up for takeoff. The small craft, a Sacul StarCom 2000, was far from luxurious. It was built for function, not comfort—compact, with a narrow aisle flanked by rows of hard, utilitarian seats bolted to the floor. The walls were a dull, metallic gray, punctuated by sickly yellow lighting that flickered occasionally with the subtle vibrations of the engine. The air inside was cool but stale, carrying a faint smell of lubricants and metal shavings. Typical.
Outside the viewport, the ferrous soil of Candor stretched out beneath him like a sea of blood, its jagged rocks and craggy mountains framing the sanguine view . The sun hung low, casting long shadows that made the landscape look like an open wound. Candor was an unforgiving place, its dusty plains and scorched deserts reflecting the brutality of the criminals who called it home.
The shuttle jolted as it powered up, its small thrusters groaning in protest as it lifted off from the dirty landing pad. Buck could feel the vibrations rumbling through the floor, the low hum of the engines settling into his bones. He leaned back in his seat, feeling the uncomfortable press of the thin cushions digging into his spine, and closed his eyes for a moment. The shuttle lurched forward, fighting against the planet's gravity, and he could feel the familiar sensation of being pulled backward, leaving Candor's harsh surface behind.
Finally.
He opened his eyes again, glancing over at the RX-series droid piloting the shuttle from the cockpit. The droid, a clunky, cylindrical thing, hummed quietly as it adjusted the flight path. Its head swiveled back and forth with mechanical precision, checking the instruments, but it said nothing. Buck was alone with his thoughts, as he so often was these days.
Alone, except for the box.
The hum of the engines filled the silence, a faint, monotonous sound that made the shuttle feel like it was drifting through a vacuum, cut off from everything else. Outside the viewport, Tira Vul—the massive space station orbiting Candor—loomed larger in the distance, its structure a set of colossal rings suspended against the backdrop of space. The outer ring was the heart of its industrial operations, lined with sprawling docking bays and cargo holds, each one busy with ships coming and going like worker bees around a hive.
The inner ring, closer to the station's core, housed the promenade—a vibrant hub of shops, hotels, cantinas, and trade posts. It was where the traders, smugglers, and travelers mingled, negotiating deals over greasy tables in dimly lit dives, or spending hard-earned credits in the more reputable establishments. The soft glow of neon lights illuminated this inner ring, casting the promenade in a spectrum of colors, while faint wisps of atmospheric vapor vented out, giving the whole structure a faint, ethereal shimmer.
Bridging the inner and outer rings were vast spokes—massive arms that connected the two sections. Together, the rings and spokes formed a self-sustaining city in space, a mechanical oasis orbiting the desolate world of Candor far below.
Buck sighed and leaned back, letting the familiar rhythm of the shuttle's movements calm the gnawing anxiety in his chest. He glanced down at the Beskar box again, running his hand absentmindedly over its cool surface. It was strange, possibly holding something so valuable—something that might, in the wrong hands, could topple entire empires. And here he was, a down-on-his-luck smuggler with a past full of mistakes, trusted to deliver it to the galaxy's most dangerous criminals.
How did it come to this?
He closed his eyes again, letting the question settle, and thought back to the string of bad decisions that had landed him in Roff's bloodstained clutches. Buck hadn't always been in this deep—there was a time when the galaxy had seemed full of opportunities. A time when he was flying for the thrill of it, not because his life depended on it.
He chuckled bitterly at the thought.
There had been that job on Taraath Prime, a bustling, neon-lit world in the Outer Rim. Buck had been younger then, and considerably cockier. He remembered the thrill of his freighter skimming just above the atmosphere, evading Imperial patrols as he smuggled contraband into the lower districts.
The stakes had been high—a shipment of high-grade spice for a Hutt cartel—but he'd been on top of the world. Invincible, even.
Until he'd stopped for a game of sabacc.
It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out delivery. No distractions. Get the spice, collect the credits, and move on. But Buck never could resist the pull of the sabacc tables. Just a few hands, just to see how his luck was running. Except his luck, as it so often did, ran out.
He could still picture the dim, smoke-filled room where he'd sat down at that table, facing off against some of the Outer Rim's most dangerous gamblers. His palms had been sweaty, his heart racing, but the thrill had been intoxicating. He'd been on a winning streak, stacking credits higher and higher, feeling like he couldn't lose. But then he got greedy. He pushed too hard, betting more than he could afford.
And just like that, it was gone. Everything.
When the dust settled, he was broke, his ship impounded, and the Hutt he was supposed to deliver to was breathing down his neck. It had taken every bit of charm, fast-talking, and a few promises he didn't intend to keep to get out of that mess alive. And even then, the Hutts had made sure to remind him that no one crossed them without consequence.
Buck shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His hand brushed against the jagged surface of the rusty seats, grounding him. That had been the start of the downward spiral—when he'd stopped being the fast-talking smuggler who could charm his way out of anything, and started becoming the man running from one disaster to the next.
There was another memory—this one more recent. Yarana, a backwater moon known for its illegal mining operations. He'd been running a job for a small-time crime syndicate, moving stolen mining equipment from Yarana's surface to one of the fringe planets. The job had seemed easy, routine. Buck had done a hundred like it before.
But Yarana's surface was treacherous, and the weather even worse. The atmospheric storms were like nothing he'd ever seen, tearing across the desolate landscape with lightning strikes that could fry a ship's systems in an instant. Halfway through the delivery, the storms hit harder than expected, and Buck's freighter had taken a direct hit to the hull.
He'd barely managed to land, his ship battered and sparking, stranded in the middle of nowhere. The cargo—valuable equipment that was supposed to make him a tidy sum—had been torn to pieces in the chaos. By the time he'd repaired enough of the ship to limp back to civilization, the job had been blown, the payment long gone.
That time, he hadn't been able to talk his way out of it. The crime syndicate had sent bounty hunters after him, and Buck had spent the better part of the year dodging them, always looking over his shoulder, always wondering if today was the day he'd get caught.
It hadn't been yet. But those were the kinds of jobs that stuck with him, the ones that left scars.
Buck opened his eyes again, staring at the Beskar box with a weary gaze. What's one more risky job? He tried to brush off the feeling of dread creeping up his spine, but something about this run—it felt different. More final. Like this wasn't just another in a long string of disasters. This could be the last one.
The shuttle jolted again, and Buck realized they were breaking through the atmosphere into open space. The stars blinked into view—cold, distant, and endless. Far ahead, the massive structure of Tira Vul grew larger, dominating the view from the viewport. Ships came and went, traffic buzzing around it like a swarm of insects.
The RX droid made a few adjustments, its head swiveling as it guided the shuttle closer to the station's outer docks. Buck sat forward, his mind starting to sharpen as they approached. The dull hum of the engines had been almost soothing, but now there was a prickling tension in the air.
The shuttle banked slightly, aiming for one of the larger docking bays, and Buck took a deep breath, trying to shake off the weariness that clung to him like a second skin.
As the shuttle neared the docking bay, the box of Beskar beside him seemed to grow heavier, as if it, too, sensed the weight of the task ahead. Buck stared out at the approaching station, his mind racing with possibilities, dangers, and a creeping suspicion that whatever it was going to change his life. One way or another.