Daemon spent the next few hours fully immersed in the colonial databases.
The vast ocean of data and administrative logic quickly fused with the memories that had been implanted in his mind during hibernation, shifting from raw information into actual, instinctual knowledge.
Yet, reading files on a monitor could only take him so far.
Theory meant nothing without practical application.
“Mainframe, prepare a transport,” Daemon said, closing out the interface.
“I am going down to inspect the surface settlement.”
Understood, Administrator.
Given that you will be operating outside the secured confines of the mothership, it is highly recommended that you deploy alongside your personal security detachment.
“I have a personal bodyguard?
Send him in.” Daemon felt a brief spark of curiosity.
The heavy blast doors of the bridge slid back, and a massive, imposing figure stepped onto the command deck.
The man wore a standard military uniform that stretched tightly over a flawless, hyper-muscular physique.
His face was a mask of cold, chiseled stone.
Daemon stared at the newcomer, his mouth falling open.
“You…
you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“From this moment on, I will serve as your personal security detail.
You may refer to me as T-850.” The man stood perfectly rigid, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his gravelly, monotone voice vibrating through the room.
“You’re a Terminator?!” Daemon blurted out.
Although the pristine military uniform didn’t quite match the leather-clad image in his mind, the facial features were an unmistakable, flawless match for Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“I am a T-850 cybernetic combat model.
The term ‘Terminator’ does not exist within my primary data banks.
Please clarify,” the machine replied, its eyes locked forward, completely expressionless.
Daemon turned sharply toward the central terminal.
“Mainframe, do we actually possess the technology to manufacture these models?”
The T-850 unit is a specialized asset assigned exclusively for the protection of the Administrator, the Mainframe answered.
His combat matrix includes exhaustive protocols for high-value asset protection, tactical extraction, and multi-theater engagement, ensuring absolute mission success.
“No, I mean can we mass-produce them?
Can we build an army of these?”
The T-850 platform is technically manufacturable, but the internal chassis requires a specialized tantalum alloy that is exceptionally rare.
Our current reserves are minimal.
Furthermore, tantalum is a critical component required for starship hull construction.
Mass production is heavily discouraged.
Substituting standard industrial steel would introduce severe structural defects into the machine’s mechanical joints, compromising its rated performance.
Daemon looked back at the iconic face he had seen across countless movie screens in his past life.
He gave a slow nod.
“Grab your gear.
You’re with me.”
The atmospheric transport touched down smoothly on the cleared durasteel landing pad of the surface settlement.
Daemon stepped down the ramp, the towering form of the T-850 following a precise step behind him, as teams of laborers immediately began unloading heavy crates from the cargo bay.
The workers wore heavy-duty engineering exoskeletons.
Designed strictly for industrial labor, the rigs were relatively simple, consisting of exposed mechanical frames clamped to their limbs.
Despite their basic appearance, the suits were equipped with built-in plasma cutters and pneumatic tools, allowing a single laborer to lift up to five hundred kilograms with ease.
The foundation of the colony was already beginning to take shape.
Over a dozen two-story pre-fabricated residential units stood in a neat row, and the supporting infrastructure was being assembled nearby.
Down by the edge of the lake, Daemon could see several colonists setting up open-air hydroponic trays, preparing the first local harvest.
Every colonist who caught sight of Daemon immediately paused their work, bowing with immense respect and offering a warm greeting.
“Welcome to the surface, Administrator.
I am Graham, elite-tier administrative logistics,” a young man with brown hair said, stepping forward eagerly to shake Daemon’s hand.
“I was deployed to the surface immediately after your authorization, so I missed the opportunity to greet you on the bridge.
I was just regretting that when you arrived.
It is an honor to have you inspect our progress personally.”
Daemon clapped him on the shoulder, keeping his tone encouraging.
“You’re doing excellent work here, Graham.
I will be monitoring this settlement closely.
If you run into any resource bottlenecks, report them to me directly.”
“The honor is entirely mine, sir!
You granted me a place on this voyage and entrusted me with this settlement.
I will not fail you,” Graham said, his face flushed with excitement before he quickly reined in his emotions to focus on business.
“An urgent matter has come up, Administrator.
During our initial clearing operations, our teams encountered a group of indigenous lifeforms.
They appear to possess primitive intelligence.
How do you wish to handle them?”
“Local natives?” Daemon’s brow furrowed.
“Right over there, sir,” Graham said, pointing toward the tree line of the massive, ancient forest bordering the valley.
A few small, shifting silhouettes were visible through the dense brush.
Daemon pulled a pair of macrobinoculars from his belt and focused on the tree line.
Through the lenses, he saw a group of short, bipedal creatures that resembled small, furry bears.
They stood barely a meter tall, clad in primitive animal skins and clutching stone-tipped spears.
They were pointing toward the colony with immense curiosity, chattering wildly among themselves.
A few of them were jumping and cheering at a transport flying overhead, while others had propped their spears against the trees and were kneeling in absolute worship.
The blood drained from Daemon’s face, and his hollow smile vanished entirely.
As a massive fan of the franchise in his past life, the memory banks in his mind unlocked instantly, and he recognized the creatures without a shadow of a doubt.
“Ewoks,” Daemon whispered, his voice dropping into a cold dread.
“They’re Ewoks.”
No wonder the landscape had looked so hauntingly familiar.
A massive green moon orbiting a smooth, pale blue gas giant was an exceptionally unique astronomical configuration.
Before he had arbitrarily named it Planet Dawn, this world already carried a legendary name in galactic history.
Endor.
The Forest Moon of Endor.
The realization sent a chill straight down his spine.
Endor was one of the most critical coordinates in the entire Star Wars mythos—the absolute flashpoint where the Galactic Empire and the Rebel Alliance would fight the war that decided the fate of the galaxy.
It was absolute, undeniable confirmation.
He was in the Star Wars universe.
Of all the worlds in the galaxy, we had to land on a primary battlefield, Daemon thought, rubbing his temples as a wave of anxiety washed over him.
The Kushan mothership was a technological marvel, but at its core, it was a civilian colony vessel, not a dedicated dreadnought.
If a modern Imperial fleet dropped out of hyperspace right now, they would be obliterated.
The burning question now was the timeline.
Looking up at the clear sky, there were no visible orbital ship graveyards or burning capital ship husks, meaning the historic Battle of Endor had not yet taken place.
But where were they on the galactic calendar?
Had the Republic already fallen?
Was the Clone Wars raging across the Core?
Was the Empire already tightening its iron fist around the Outer Rim?
He forced his mind back to the immediate situation, turning to face the young governor.
“Notify the mothership.
Have the next transport bring down several crates of refined sugar rations alongside a dozen heavy repeating blasters.
These natives are primitive and generally non-aggressive unless provoked.
Attempt to establish peaceful contact using the food rations, but do not drop your guard.
Construct fortified watchtowers along the perimeter and keep them under constant surveillance.”
“Understood, Administrator.
I will see to it immediately,” Graham replied.
Daemon clapped his shoulder once more.
“Keep it up, Graham.
Managing a settlement of a few hundred people is just the first step.
I expect to see you running towns, massive industrial sectors, and entire planetary systems before our work here is done.”
“Yes, sir!
I won’t let you down!” Graham’s eyes blazed with newfound ambition.
He snapped into a sharp salute and turned back to the construction site with double the energy.
He hoisted a massive steel structural crate by himself, ditching his mechanical exoskeleton entirely as he jogged toward the wind turbine foundations to join the workers.
Daemon let out a slow breath, walking a few paces away from the camp to stare out at the pristine, emerald wilderness stretching toward the horizon.
A gentle stream bubbled nearby, feeding into the crystal-clear lake.
Flocks of exotic birds drifted through the upper canopy, while herds of native herbivores dashed across the plains, keeping a wary eye on the predators lurking in the tall grass.
In the distance, towering trees that stretched hundreds of meters into the sky met the jagged peaks of an endless mountain range.
A thin layer of grey clouds was beginning to gather overhead, hinting at a light evening rain.
If it weren’t for the bizarre alien flora and fauna, Daemon could have easily mistaken the landscape for a vibrant spring morning on Earth.
The sheer, overwhelming vitality of the world finally began to chase away the lingering shadows in his mind.
He closed his eyes, taking a deep, clean breath of the crisp air.
“Administrator!”
“Administrator, please wake up!”
A chorus of panicked, urgent voices snapped Daemon back to consciousness.
He opened his eyes, realizing with a jolt of confusion that he had somehow fallen asleep while standing perfectly upright on the grass.
“What’s going—” Before Daemon could finish the question, a series of heavy thuds echoed through the air.
A dozen heavy supply crates dropped simultaneously from a height of several meters, slamming into the dirt and scattering their contents across the landing pad.
“Report,” Daemon demanded, turning sharply toward the T-850, who stood like an unmoving sentinel beside him.
“What happened?”
“Precisely three minutes ago, the local matter within a six-meter radius of your position lost gravitational alignment and began to levitate in an erratic pattern,” the T-850 reported flatly.
“Your internal biometric scans indicated an immediate transition into a deep sleep state, though your physical posture remained vertical.
Your vital signs remained within optimal parameters.”
“I fell asleep standing up, and the crates started floating?” Daemon looked toward Graham, who was standing a safe distance away, his face entirely pale.
“Yes, sir,” Graham stammered, still visibly shaken.
“None of us dared to approach you.
Your security detail assured us that your life signs were perfectly stable, so we held our positions.”
A sudden realization struck Daemon like a physical blow.
A cold sweat broke out across his neck as a single, defining concept flashed through his mind.
He needed absolute confirmation, and he needed it immediately.
“Clean up this mess,” Daemon ordered, keeping his voice tight and controlled.
“I am returning to the mothership on the next transport.
Prepare a full-spectrum medical scan for me the moment we dock.”
Before anyone could move, a sharp chime rang out from the comm-link on Daemon’s wrist, and the Mainframe’s elegant voice cut through the air.
Administrator, I apologize for the interruption, but an emergency encryption has just been registered.
Precisely two minutes ago, the mothership intercepted a localized hyperspace transmission.
The signal originated from the surface of Planet Dawn.
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