With his active directives fully integrated and the administrative framework securely placed in the hands of Director Clement, Chief Jenson, and Graham down in Dawn City, Daemon Kane headed directly to the mothership’s primary hangar deck to locate Trent.
The pilot was deep inside the staging bay, meticulously calibrating the newly re-christened freighter.
Catching sight of Daemon approaching, Trent leaped down from the mechanics’ scaffolding.
“Hey, boss.
I’ve pretty much dialed in the sub-light configurations on this bucket, and my Galactic Basic is smooth enough to get by.
I was actually about to log my departure coordinates and head out into the deep dark.
If there’s an operational file you need cleared, just name the target.”
“You’re tracking down Quinto and his crew, and setting a course for Tatooine,” Daemon replied.
“The socio-political layout of that sector is exceptionally messy, making it a perfect territory to establish a presence under the radar.
But we are completely blind to their local grid; we require a navigation layer.
Quinto will serve as your guide; he has a black-market manifest to liquidate there anyway.”
“Understood, boss,” Trent said, offering a sharp thumbs-up.
“Any secondary directives?”
“Just one,” Daemon said, his voice dropping into a firm, unyielding tone.
“I am joining the flight.
I have immediate business to conduct on Tatooine.”
Trent’s easy composure fractured instantly.
“With all due respect, Administrator, absolutely not!
You are the executive axis holding this entire civilization together.
You can’t just drop your command chair and wander onto the frontier.
We have zero telemetry on this galaxy’s high-threat vectors.
If you run into a catastrophic variable out there, the entire colony falls apart without a leader!”
“First of all, my baseline understanding of this galaxy’s structural factions is far more complete than you realize,” Daemon explained, keeping his posture steady.
“Second, I possess a critical operational mandate for this flight.
Specifically, I am locating an individual—a specific variable whose existence will dictate the layout of the coming total war.
While our domestic footprint remains small and localized, I need to secure an asset before the canvas shifts.
I have zero intention of sitting in orbit waiting for the fire to find us.”
“If it’s a standard extraction or tracking file, clear it through my terminal and I’ll secure the asset for you,” Trent pressed, his brow furrowing.
“Why treat this like a desperate gamble?”
“The unique biological parameters, psychological traits, chronological destiny, and situational variables surrounding this asset are impossible to map out onto a data pad for you, Trent,”
Daemon answered grimly.
“Furthermore, the galactic war destined to ignite in a decade cannot be resisted by a single, unmapped sector.
Planet Dawn sits directly on a primary vector of that conflict.
Passivity is the definitive definition of failure.”
“A seer in a uniform,” Trent murmured, a slight grin returning to his face.
“Fine.
If your mind is locked in, I’ll clear your passage. Find the original chapter at g.com.
Just remember to keep your head low.
Out there, we are just another run-of-the-mill smuggling crew.
A sector like that sees ten thousand black-market freighters cycle through its ports on any given local rotation.”
“That fits my parameters perfectly.”
Daemon was acutely aware that his greatest strategic leverage in this universe was his absolute knowledge of the Star Wars timeline.
Consequently, he needed to engage the outer systems.
He could not simply print out the entire galactic narrative for his staff; the sheer data volume was too massive, and more importantly, that knowledge represented his absolute leverage and survival core.
Their destination was Tatooine, an exceptionally iconic world in galactic history.
Its value stemmed not merely from the continuous corporate and cartel shadow plays defining its sectors, but from a singular, defining entity currently trapped within its borders:
Anakin Skywalker.
The Chosen One.
The definitive axis of the Clone Wars era, an individual whose choices would literally reshape the Force and decide the fate of trillions.
Daemon needed to secure a vector to him.
On one hand, it allowed him to establish a direct pipeline to the most powerful force-sensitive anchor in the galaxy; on the other, it served as the ultimate field verification to confirm whether this reality mirrored the exact narrative path of his past knowledge.
The Outer Rim.
The Arkanis Sector.
The Tatoo System.
Mirroring the astronomical configuration of Endor, the Tatoo system was anchored by a binary star network, featuring two massive suns designated as Tatoo I and Tatoo II orbiting a shared barycenter.
Seven distinct planetary bodies ringed the core stars.
Among these seven worlds, only the planet nearest to the binary suns maintained a stable crustal environment.
The planet measured 10,465 kilometers in diameter, with a local rotation cycle of twenty-three standard hours and an orbital path spanning 302 standard days.
Exposed to the continuous, unyielding thermal radiation of twin suns, the world’s surface had completely degenerated into a seamless, arid desert.
This was Tatooine.
Positioned precisely at the intersection of the Triellus Trade Route and the Corellian Run, the desolate desert world functioned as a critical logistical junction for deep-frontier transport lines.
Yet, because its coordinates sat firmly within the autonomous domain of Hutt Space, the bureaucratic regulations of the Galactic Republic held zero sway over its borders.
As a direct result of this political vacuum, Tatooine had devolved into a lawless sanctuary where mercenaries, syndicates, and pirate cartels operated with absolute impunity.
Following three successive hyperspace jumps along the Triellus Route, the Corellian-built YT-1000 light freighter reverted to real-space along the outer atmospheric fringe of the desert world.
Seated at the primary helm, Trent’s fingers moved across the control array with smooth, practiced familiarity, stabilizing the ship’s thrusters following the hyper-deceleration.
He glanced back at Quinto, who was seated in the secondary co-pilot terminal.
“Alright, border runner.
You’re on the comms.”
Quinto looked bitterly at the captain’s chair that used to belong to him, before letting out a defeated sigh and activating the localized transmission grid.
“Mos Eisley port authority, this is the YT-1000, Cheap Hunter requesting—”
“The registration has been updated to the Freelancer,” Daemon interrupted calmly from the passenger bench behind him.
“Now that carries a proper tone,” Trent noted with a light chuckle.
“Fine…” Quinto muttered, correcting his broadcast channel.
“Mos Eisley tower, this is the YT-1000 Freelancer entering your atmospheric grid.
We require immediate refueling logistics and freight offloading.
If anyone has an open bay that isn’t packed with scum, call the coordinate.” Read this novel at g.com for the best experience.
Static hissed through the flight deck speakers before a series of gruff, localized voices responded to the broadcast, uploading seven distinct landing bay vectors directly into the freighter’s navicomputer.
Quinto deactivated the channel, glancing back at Daemon.
“Tatooine operates under absolute personal leverage.
There is no sovereign state, no official military grid, and zero civil administration.
Everything is privatized.
Remember that when your boots hit the sand, because if a local cartel cuts your throat, no authority is coming to enforce the law—you protect your own skin.”
He selected a specific landing vector on the monitor.
“We are locking in Bay 94, managed by Old Truda.
He operates directly under Jabba’s local enforcement grid and handles my standard maintenance.
It’s secure.”
The light freighter broke atmosphere, diving through the perpetual haze of yellow sand and jagged desert rifts, steadily scrubbing its airspeed as it approached the perimeter of a sprawling, sand-scoured settlement.
The architecture of the city consisted primarily of sunken, dome-shaped structures built from sun-baked clay blocks.
Outside of a few reinforced comm-towers and localized moisture processing structures, virtually no building exceeded three stories in height, flanked by rows of tattered fabric awnings and makeshift vendor tents.
Yet, the subterranean streets were packed with an immense, bustling crowd of diverse alien species.
The Freelancer settled smoothly onto the packed dirt floor of the docking bay, its landing struts groaning against the weight.
As the repulsorlifts whined down, an elderly Nikto stepped out from the garage alcove.
His facial scales had turned thick and weathered, and several of his prominent cranial horns were worn down to smooth ridges—the definitive biological markers of advanced age for his species.
He slammed a heavy hydro-wrench against the structural frame of the bay door, his voice booming over the engine hum.
“Move it, you lazy runts!
Get the plasma lines connected and hook up the water purification filters!”
A trio of small, boxy pit droids that had been folded up along the wall instantly snapped to life, skittering across the dirt with a flurry of tools and fuel hoses as they expertly swarmed the freighter’s landing struts.
Quinto descended the boarding ramp, offering a familiar pat to the Nikto’s shoulder.
“It’s been a minute, Truda.
How’s the trade treating you?”
“My margins aren’t your concern, border runner,” Truda grunted, his dark eyes narrowing.
“What matters is that Jabba’s enforcers have been tracking your flight code.
Your scheduled drop is heavily overdue.
What throttled your line?”
“Ah…” Quinto glanced back toward the interior cargo bay, letting out a sharp, forced cough.
“The primary hyperdrive shunt suffered a localized mechanical failure.
I was dead in the void for a few rotations.
But the manifest is intact; I came straight to the port.”
Truda raised his gaze, scanning the figures emerging from the ship’s ramp.
Daemon Kane, Trent, and the massive form of the T-850 stepped onto the sand, followed by Spard, the Rodian crewman.
Daemon and his team had thoroughly scrubbed their appearance, shedding their corporate white uniforms for worn, tattered desert cloaks and scuffed spacer boots.
Outside of their remarkably clean skin, they looked entirely indistinguishable from the thousands of drift-miners and freelance explorers wandering the Outer Rim.