“I understand now…
it was this massive ship that caused the gravitational anomaly, and their local jamming field fried our hyperspace shunt,” Quinto muttered, staring at the telemetry on the screens.
“I have never seen a vessel this gargantuan in my entire life.
Is this even a ship?
Or is it a full orbital station?”
“The real question is why a super-capital ship is parked right outside Endor,” Velas said, her tone border-line frantic.
“If they caught us in an interdiction web, what happened to Kenneth and the others?”
“Our long-range comms are completely dead,” Spard noted from the rear of the flight deck.
“Of course they are.
Look at the energy output of that monster compared to ours.
A baseline electromagnetic pulse from a hull that size is more than enough to turn us stone-deaf and blind,” Quinto said, completely giving up as he collapsed back into his pilot’s seat.
Outside the viewport, a massive hangar bay door on the flank of the curved leviathan slid back, releasing a full squadron of small starfighters that altered their trajectory to intercept the light freighter.
“They didn’t obliterate us on approach, which means they want to talk.
We surrender the moment they make contact,” Quinto decided, rubbing his face.
“A faction capable of fielding a capital ship this size isn’t going to waste time torturing petty smugglers like us.
Just listen to me: when we go down, keep your heads held high.
Don’t let them rattle you.
We need to make them think we have backing, that we aren’t completely helpless.”
“Don’t worry, I know how to handle myself,” Velas whispered.
Guided by the closing starfighters, Velas guided the freighter into the yawning mouth of the hangar bay.
The interior clearance was so immense that she couldn’t help but stare blankly at the flight deck.
“This hangar could easily shelter a heavy cruiser from the Judicial Fleet.
The sheer wealth required to build this is insane.”
The light freighter touched down, its engines whining to a halt.
The moment the boarding ramp lowered and the crew stepped onto the deck, they found themselves facing a heavily armed security detachment waiting in perfect formation.
The officers were burly, their eyes cold and sharp, bearing the unmistakable discipline of a true elite vanguard—miles apart from the loose, undisciplined conscripts Quinto frequently encountered across the Galactic Republic.
Seeing the three smugglers descend, the security forces racked the bolts of their rifles in a sharp, synchronized motion.
It was an explicit, unvarnished threat.
Velas flinched at the sound, her knees buckling as she immediately dropped to the floor with her hands raised.
She glanced back, only to find that Quinto and Spard had beaten her to the deck, both already locked into a textbook surrender posture with their hands clasped firmly behind their heads.
Monitoring the holding cells from the bridge, Daemon Kane watched the three smugglers kneeling in absolute compliance, a bead of cold sweat running down his temple.
He turned toward his chief of staff.
“I am going to venture a guess that these three belong to the exact same crew we secured in the cavern earlier.”
“They carry the classic look of Outer Rim smugglers.
Individuals like this have likely left a long trail of black-market violations and border crimes across the Rim.
Putting them against a wall wouldn’t be an injustice.”
“Bring them up for a baseline inquiry.
I have a few specific questions regarding local trade routes,” Daemon instructed.
Flanked by armored security officers, the three captives were escorted onto the command deck, where Daemon utilized the Mainframe’s partially mapped translation droid to initiate communication.
The yield of the interrogation was relatively thin; the mercenaries held zero interest in galactic governance or senatorial policy, their attention fixed entirely on their credits.
The middle-aged human, Dubrak Quinto, served as the operator for their small smuggling ring, while the woman beside him, Rianna Velas, acted as his primary pilot and partner.
Their operations were centered out of Tatooine, running logistics under the payroll of the local Hutt syndicates.
They made frequent runs out of Endor, harvesting primitive beast pelts and raw planetary gemstones to liquidate back in the Core.
“The Hutts,” Daemon muttered, tapping his fingers against the armrest as a wave of friction settled in his thoughts.
The Hutts were an incredibly ancient and resilient species, resembling massive, hyper-dense gastropods.
Despite their grotesque appearance, they carried the legacy of the old Hutt Empire, possessing a massive industrial footprint and maintaining a considerable independent fleet capability.
Following the nominal annexation of their historic territories into the broader framework of the Galactic Republic, the Hutt clans had systematically transitioned their vast wealth into the galactic underworld.
To put it simply, every prominent Hutt was a high-tier cartel lord backed by billions of credits.
Daemon waved his hand, signaling the guards to escort Quinto and his crew back to the lower cells to continue the linguistic data harvest.
He pulled up his digital timeline projection and logged The Hutt Cartels into the regional power directories.
Before he could close out the terminal, the Mainframe’s chime rang through the deck.
Administrator, our current infrastructural footprint has officially satisfied the foundational prerequisites for a Legendary-tier asset.
The file is cleared for immediate physical revival.
“A Legendary asset?
We cleared the requirements already?” Daemon was taken aback by the sudden notification.
He pulled up the directory interface.
Sure enough, a single name within the Legendary tier had shifted from a locked red code to a vibrant, accessible blue indicator, signaling absolute compliance to Daemon’s executive authority.
“Designation: Trent,” Daemon read aloud, reviewing the profile logs.
“Profession: Freelance Explorer and Deep-Space Operator.
Specialized competencies: Interpersonal Negotiation, Black-Market Logistics, Starfighter Aviation, and High-Yield Chassis Retooling.
Revival Prerequisites: A grand stage for expansion and a high-tier flight frame.”
The conditions were remarkably flexible, acting as a direct reflection of the individual’s psychological makeup.
The parameters indicated that Trent cared little for personal luxury or political titles; the only metric he required was the promise of boundless adventure.
Though the historical data log was brief, Daemon recognized the profile instantly.
The legendary pilot from Freelancer.
“Authorize the revival process and clear him to report to the bridge the moment he stabilizes,” Daemon commanded, before pausing to adjust his coat.
“Disregard that.
I will meet him in the medical wing personally.”
He walked down to the primary medical sector, where a broad-shouldered man clad in a rugged leather jacket was undergoing standard post-hibernation biometric tracking.
The man possessed a neat crop of blond hair, a sharp, handsome jawline, and a light trace of stubble—carrying the unmistakable look of a veteran survivor who had navigated countless close calls across the stars.
Catching sight of Daemon, Trent offered a relaxed, familiar wave from the medical bed.
“Hey there, Administrator.
Coming down to welcome me back to the waking world yourself?
I am honored.
The name is Trent.
Looks like our colony is holding its own under your watch.”
“We are positioned within an exceptionally volatile and dangerous universe, Trent,” Daemon replied, stepping forward to offer a firm handshake.
“We are surrounded by thousands of advanced alien factions and a heavily gridlocked political system.
I cannot afford to lose momentum, which is precisely why I cleared your file.
I recently secured a local Corellian light freighter.
From this moment on, the ship belongs to you.”
“Haha, I already caught the telemetry files the Mainframe pushed to my terminal,” Trent laughed, his eyes flashing with genuine excitement.
“She’s a clean little ship.
I can’t wait to see what kind of horizon this galaxy is offering.”
The pilot carried an effortless, instinctual charisma that made him incredibly approachable.
After a brief, professional conversation with Daemon regarding their current sector coordinates, Trent smoothly shifted his focus toward the young nurse attending to his monitors, his sharp wit and easy humor quickly leaving her completely flustered and giggling at his jokes.
Daemon paid little attention to the pilot’s social charm, his mind racing with immense satisfaction.
While Trent might not carry the grand galactic name of a Core politician, his operational capability was undeniable.
As a citizen of Britannia in his own setting, he had single-handedly broken the back of the alien Nomad incursion, rescuing the entire Sirius Sector from absolute annihilation.
He was a pilot who had wandered the deep dark alone, building operations from raw scraps, navigating total wars, and dismantling multi-tier deep-state conspiracies.
He had flown a single starfighter into the absolute heart of an apex alien hive to extract their core matrix—effectively waging a personal war against an entire interstellar species.
In terms of flight handling, tactical intuition, raw courage, and the absolute leverage required to balance competing political factions against one another, the man was the definitive definition of a legend.
With his integration finalized, the immediate operational goals Daemon had mapped out could finally be executed.
Following a brief observation period to ensure his physical systems had suffered zero degradation from the cryogenic suspension, Trent finalized his clearance logs.
After offering a respectful nod to Daemon, the pilot headed straight for the lower engineering hangars to inspect his new YT-1000 light freighter.
The moment that ship had crossed the threshold of the mothership’s hangar bay, its ownership had permanently shifted to Daemon Kane—and Daemon had immediately placed the keys into the hands of an absolute ghost.