The CF/A-17 Ghost starfighter was the backbone of the Terran Dominion’s atmospheric and orbital aviation forces in the Starcraft universe.
Reviewing the active tech trees, Daemon realized that the current schematics represented the early production model, meaning it lacked the structural hardpoints required to mount standard pulse lasers for ground-bombardment missions.
Regardless of that limitation, the Ghost remained an exceptional multi-role flight frame, fully capable of seamless transition between planetary atmospheres and the vacuum of space.
Its tactical viability had been thoroughly proven across the sweeping interstellar campaigns against both the highly advanced Protoss and the hyper-evolutionary Zerg.
Furthermore, advanced iterations of the chassis feature integrated active cloaking matrices, transforming the starfighter into a terrifying, unseen predator in the void.
While the mothership’s native infrastructure belonged to the Homeworld technological index, meaning their research teams would have to systematically dismantle and bridge the scientific barriers between the Homeworld and Starcraft engineering systems, Daemon knew this hurdle was non-negotiable.
It had to be cleared.
Since both systems were rooted in human industrial design, breaking down and adapting the Terran technology tree should require a manageable volume of materials.
Seeing that the Administrator had locked in his directive, Chief Jenson did not push the matter further.
As a subordinate officer, his operational duty was to offer his objective analysis and outline immediate structural liabilities; the final decision belonged exclusively to Daemon.
From this point forward, his only task was absolute execution.
Daemon summoned Daphne Clement back to the bridge.
“Director, do we retain pre-fabricated modular components for engineering research facilities within our primary cargo bays?
If so, what is the operational scale?”
“Given the inherent volatile risks of high-energy engineering research and the substantial physical clearances required for structural testing, the mothership carries a fully modular orbital research station,” Daphne replied.
“The internal facilities can comfortably accommodate a core staff of twenty engineering specialists.”
“Issue immediate directives to the engineering department,” Daemon commanded.
“Have them deploy and assemble the orbital research station immediately.
I want the facility pressurized and functional before the day ends.”
“Understood, sir.”
Daemon accessed the personnel databases, filtering the dormant files to identify the necessary talent.
Moving through the elite-tier index, he isolated three prominent engineering specialists, authorizing their immediate revival and clearing them to report directly to the bridge.
The team consisted of two women and one man, all appearing to be in their mid-to-late thirties.
They approached the central chair, offering respectful salutes.
The leading female specialist stepped forward.
“Good morning, Administrator.
I am Dr.
Susan Lin, energy systems specialist.
To my left is Dr.
Walter Vance, mechanical engineer, and Dr.
Arthur Sterling, materials scientist.”
Daemon didn’t waste time on pleasantries, cutting straight to their assignments.
“I am establishing two parallel research lines under your oversight.
The first is the isolation and weaponization of infrared laser systems.
The second is the adaptation of this specific flight frame: the CF/A-17 Ghost starfighter.
Draft your immediate structural and labor requirements; I will see that our supply lines accommodate them.”
“Isolating basic infrared laser technology requires a dedicated physics laboratory.
I will need a core staff of at least twenty personnel trained in high-energy physics.
As for this starfighter chassis…”
She transferred the terminal data to her colleague.
“What is your assessment, Walter?”
Walter Vance adjusted his glasses, scanning the structural readouts of the Ghost before offering a subtle shake of his head.
“The underlying industrial design features several foundational scientific principles completely foreign to our native manufacturing blocks.
It is not an insurmountable problem, but the translation layer will require a significant window of time.
Dr.
Sterling and I will manage this line together.
We can initiate the preliminary data mapping with a limited team—five specialized mechanical technicians will suffice for now.
I will submit comprehensive resource and labor requisuits as our analysis scales.”
“What are your projected timelines?” Daemon asked, his gaze fixed on the engineers.
“The foundational datasets for the infrared lasers are entirely complete,” Dr.
Lin answered.
“Transitioning that technology from theoretical models to functional weapon assemblies should be fully realized within a standard month.”
“The starfighter is a far more complex equation,” Walter Vance admitted.
“Even with complete structural diagrams, reverse-engineering the frame into a reproducible blueprint that conforms to our active manufacturing lines will require at least a standard year.
The process would accelerate dramatically if we had a master-tier engineer to direct our division.”
“I will prioritize your material allocation and clear the necessary labor,” Daemon noted, nodding to the team.
“Initiate the preliminary phases.
Thank you for your commitment.”
“The privilege is ours, Administrator,” Arthur Sterling noted with a smooth, professional smile.
“You steer the ship, sir; our only duty is to ensure the gears turn smoothly.
It is we who owe you our thanks.”
“I will formalize our logistics log within the hour,” Dr.
Lin added.
No matter the universe, high-level scientific research remained an incredibly exhausting, resource-heavy, and time-consuming endeavor.
Watching the massive list of required materials and laboratory equipment populate his terminal screen, Daemon maintained a steady, encouraging smile, though his heart sank at the projected material costs.
The surface settlement had only just begun to stabilize, building a modest reserve of raw materials, and now a massive chunk of those assets was being diverted straight into the research division.
The Outer Rim.
The Moddell Sector.
“Reverting to real-space in precisely three minutes.
Clear your head, darling,” a human woman noted, adjusting her grip on the yoke of a saucer-shaped Corellian YT-1000 light freighter.
The man dozing in the co-pilot’s seat rubbed his face, letting out a heavy yawn.
“I am already dreaming of a cold Corellian stout.
The moment we finalize this contract, I am locking myself in my bunk for at least three full days.”
“The Corellian system is no place for working-class folk like us anyway, Quinto,” the woman replied, leaning over to press a brief kiss against her partner’s temple.
“I prefer the frontier.
Complete freedom, zero bureaucratic oversight.”
“That miserable tracking module is acting up again!” a rough voice shouted from the rear maintenance bay, followed instantly by a heavy metallic thud—the unmistakable sound of someone kicking a piece of hardware.
A moment later, a tall Rodian stepped onto the flight deck.
The Rodian featured the characteristic features of his species: large, lidless multifaceted eyes, a prominent snout ending in a flexible spout, and tapir-like skin.
Born of a proud hunting culture, even as their people integrated into the wider galactic society, many found their calling as mercenaries and bounty hunters.
“What went down back there, Spard?” Quinto asked, turning around in his seat.
“Nothing lethal, assuming you don’t mind dying in the vacuum.
Velas, you might want to look at your primary console.
The seventh indicator light on your port grid is flashing an error code,” the Rodian noted dryly.
The woman checked her readouts, her eyes widening.
“What?
The hyperspace shunt is completely unresponsive!
How is that possible?!” Her fingers danced across the control panel, attempting to cycle the emergency overrides, but the indicators remained dead.
“Excellent.
Now we simply have to pray the physical friction doesn’t shred the hull down to the rivets when we hit real-space,” Spard noted, crossing his arms and sliding down against the bulkhead, thoroughly resigned to his fate.
“The hyperspace shunt functions as a specialized stabilizer, preventing gravity wells from shearing the hull apart upon reversion.
If the module suffered a structural failure prior to activation, the navicomputer would have blocked the jump entirely.
Unless our luck finally ran out in the middle of transit, this isn’t a mechanical failure, it’s…”
Quinto’s voice trailed off as the starlight outside the cockpit window snapped from elongated blue lines back into fixed points of white light.
The light freighter emerged into real-space, its hull groaning under a violent, shuddering deceleration.
As the guidance thrusters stabilized the ship’s orientation, Quinto stared out through the macro-glass viewport, his voice dropping into a breathless whisper.
“…it’s an artificial interdiction.”
“By the ancestors…” Velas whispered, her hands freezing over the controls as she stared at the silhouette dominating the void ahead.
“What is that thing?”
The primary sensor array painted a terrifying picture.
A colossal, crescent-shaped leviathan was anchored in a low synchronous orbit above the green moon below.
The vessel was so incomprehensibly massive that as they drifted closer, the viewport of their small YT-1000 freighter could no longer frame its entire chassis—looking out, they saw nothing but an endless, looming wall of dark metal.
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