“A hyperspace transmission?
That means intelligent life, and a space-faring one at that!” Daemon was stunned.
“Mainframe!
Pinpoint the coordinates of that signal immediately.
Alert all active security forces to seal off the zone.
Governor Graham, coordinate the perimeter from the ground!”
Acknowledged.
A utility transport loaded with a full security squad roared into the sky, banking sharply toward the coordinates provided by the Mainframe.
“Administrator, you still look incredibly pale.
You should return to the mothership,” one of the female colonists said, watching him with genuine concern.
“I am fine,” Daemon replied, his expression dark and severe.
He turned toward his towering guard.
“Let’s go, T-850.
We need to secure the individual who sent that transmission before they can slide away.”
He walked briskly toward the landing pad, where an empty transport had just finished offloading its cargo.
Following the tracking telemetry fed directly from orbit, Daemon, the T-850, and a small detachment of security personnel quickly arrived at a barren, rocky ridge on the outskirts of the valley.
The initial vanguard transport had already landed near the entrance of a concealed cave.
Over a dozen security officers had set up a tight blockade, occasionally firing bursts from their weapons into the dark opening to suppress the occupants.
The security forces were armed with Type-21 assault rifles.
While the weapons featured a heavy, industrial design, they felt completely archaic in a space-faring setting.
To put it bluntly, when the rest of the galaxy was firing high-energy plasma, relying on old-fashioned combustion kinetics was a massive disadvantage.
“What is the situation?” Daemon asked, approaching the squad leader.
“There are three individuals inside, sir.
They have dug themselves deep into the cave and refuse to surrender.
Their language is completely unintelligible, making a non-lethal capture exceptionally difficult,” the officer reported.
Daemon turned his head slightly, wanting to gauge the exact capabilities of his personal asset.
“Take them down.
I want them alive.”
The T-850 did not say a word.
He stepped into the rear cargo bay of the transport, hoisted a massive, industrial metal shipping crate with one hand, and slammed it onto the dirt.
Pushing the heavy container ahead of him like a mobile blast shield, the machine marched toward the cave mouth at a surprisingly brisk pace.
A volley of frantic, alien shouting echoed from the depths of the cave, followed instantly by a barrage of crimson blaster bolts.
The high-energy bolts slammed violently against the metal container, melting the outer layers but failing to pierce through.
The moment the T-850 crossed the threshold, Daemon gestured for the security team to follow, keeping his position safely behind the armored officers as they swept into the cavern.
The cave was a heavily fortified smuggler cache, excavated deep into the bedrock with a meticulously masked entrance, which explained why the initial orbital scans had missed it.
The interior was packed with black-market crates, survival supplies, and a localized long-range communications array.
Three individuals dressed in rugged, worn space-farer gear were hunkered down behind a row of supply boxes, firing wildly while shouting desperately.
They carried the unmistakable air of hardened mercenaries.
Suddenly, the T-850 stepped out from behind his cover.
He gripped the edges of the massive, ton-weight shipping crate, hoisted it completely over his head, and hurled it across the cavern with terrifying force.
A deafening crash reverberated through the cave.
Rock shards and fragmented cargo exploded outward in a violent spray, the impact mirroring the detonation of a fragmentation grenade.
The sudden show of absolute, inhuman strength brought an immediate end to the conflict.
The three smugglers dropped their weapons, threw their hands into the air, and dropped to their knees in a perfectly synchronized surrender. This chapter was taken from g.com without permission.
Daemon almost wondered if they were trained to surrender on instinct.
“Disarm them and transport them to the mothership’s holding cells.
Have the Mainframe begin processing and translating their language,” Daemon ordered, rubbing his temples as the ringing in his ears faded.
“Clear out this cache and catalog every piece of functional tech inside.”
The security officers moved in like starved predators, slamming the three prisoners into the dirt and binding their hands.
Daemon walked over to one of the discarded blaster pistols lying on the rocky floor.
Remembering the bizarre sensation from a few minutes prior, he raised his hand and focused his mind entirely on the weapon.
A sudden, surreal phenomenon unfolded.
The heavy metal blaster twitched against the dirt before lifting entirely into the air, drawn toward him as if caught in an invisible current.
However, his control slipped; the weapon veered wildly off course, sailing through the air until it smacked directly against the T-850’s reinforced metal forehead before dropping to the ground.
The three prisoners stared at Daemon, their eyes widening in absolute terror.
They quickly lowered their heads, shifting their gaze away, completely terrified to look him in the eye.
As the squad escorted the prisoners out of the cave, a small gathering of Ewoks crossed their path, drawn out from the dense brush by the sound of gunfire.
Daemon pointed a finger toward the short, furry bipedal creatures, looking directly at the lead smuggler.
“Ewoks?”
Even across a language barrier, proper nouns and planetary designations rarely lost their phonetic structure.
The lead smuggler nodded frantically, his head bobbing up and down as if terrified that a slow response would trigger another demonstration of invisible power.
Daemon then pointed down toward the emerald grass beneath their boots.
“Endor?”
The prisoners nodded rapidly once more.
Realizing that Daemon was mapping out their coordinates, the lead smuggler pointed toward his own chest, speaking a single, distinct word.
“Corellia!”
He then traced a wide arc through the air with his finger.
“Tatooine!”
Finally, he traced a final path, pointing directly down at the soil.
“Endor!”
So their route started in Corellia, cut through Tatooine, and ended right here on Endor, Daemon thought, his mind racing.
Though as far as he was concerned, Endor was now named Planet Dawn.
There was no more time to waste admiring the local scenery.
Now that he had absolute confirmation of the universe they were in—and a few local prisoners to interrogate—he needed to return to the mothership immediately.
Back aboard the mothership, the three smugglers were secured in the detention block while the Mainframe initiated its linguistic analysis protocols.
Daemon returned to the bridge, settling into his command chair in deep thought.
He pulled up the personnel directories once more; he desperately needed an inner circle to help shoulder the administrative weight.
Navigating through the elite-tier archives, he noticed several profiles were now cleared for awakening.
Among them were a handful of specialized biologists whose revival conditions were remarkably practical: access to a habitable world with a functional ecosystem for field research, a standard laboratory setup, and residential quarters slightly better than basic labor bunks.
Familiar with the interface now, Daemon authorized their revival, clearing them to report to the medical wing for standard clearance before heading to the bridge for briefing.
Within hours, the team was loaded onto a transport packed with scientific gear, descending toward the surface.
The biology division would immediately begin mapping the local food web, determining which of the mothership’s terrestrial crops could take root in the native soil.
If the local soil composition rejected their seeds, they would have to isolate and cultivate indigenous vegetation for agriculture.
Furthermore, they needed to test whether their livestock specimens could adapt to the environment and identify which native fauna were safe for human consumption. This chapter was taken from novelping dot com without permission.
The operational backlog was immense.
Realizing he could not manage the logistics alone, Daemon scrolled back through the elite directories, searching for an expert in structural logistics and civil governance to serve as his primary assistant.
Shortly after, a composed woman in her mid-thirties stepped onto the command deck, delivering a precise salute.
“Good morning, Administrator.
I am Daphne Clement.
Following your directive, I will be overseeing the civilian expansion and infrastructure management of our surface settlements.
Please allow me a brief window to review our current logistical assets, after which I will deliver a comprehensive expansion schedule.”
According to her service log, Daphne Clement was a veteran of large-scale refugee relocation and post-disaster reconstruction.
She had previously managed the complete rehabilitation of a major industrial territory that had been entirely leveled by a category-five hyper-cyclone.
Her team had worked around the clock, establishing emergency grid housing, organizing resource distribution lines, and transitioning temporary camps into fully functional, self-sustaining municipalities.
Her revival prerequisites were exceptionally reasonable: a steady supply line and an adequate workforce.
It was a consistent pattern: standard-tier colonists required virtually nothing, elite-tier specialists required baseline operational materials, while master-tier luminaries required a massive, specialized infrastructure before they could perform.
Space colonization was an exercise in building from the ground up; experience had to be adapted from parallel fields, and Daphne was perfect for the role.
“Thank you, Director.
You may begin immediately,” Daemon said, offering a small smile.
“I am granting you executive clearance over all standard-tier civilian revivals.
Any workforce adjustments under one hundred personnel no longer require my direct signature.
Consider yourself our first Chief of Civil Administration.”
“Understood, sir,” Daphne replied, her posture sharpening.
“My core administrative team contains several key specialists.
I request authorization to clear them for revival immediately to streamline our operations.”
Daemon waved his hand dismissively.
“As I said, any collective revival under one hundred personnel is entirely at your discretion.
Furthermore, the five administrative clerks currently stationed on the bridge are now transferred to your department.
Use them to form the foundation of our Ministry of Administration.”
“Understood, Administrator.”
Once Daphne left the bridge to assume her duties, Daemon leaned back into his seat.
He commanded the Mainframe to bring up an empty, editable holographic interface.
He drew a single, clean vertical line down the center of the display, mapping out several distinct phases from top to bottom.
At the absolute peak of the timeline, he noted the ancient conflict between the old Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire.
Beneath that lay an immense, stable stretch where the Republic maintained absolute dominion over the known galaxy.
Continuing downward, he marked the fracturing of the Republic and its clash with the Confederacy of Independent Systems—the Clone Wars.
He labeled this section as the First Galactic Civil War.
Below that, he crossed out both the Republic and the Separatists, replacing them with a single, dominant entity: the Galactic Empire.
At the very bottom of the axis, he sketched the fracturing of the Empire and the rise of the Rebel Alliance—the Galactic Civil War.
He drew a small circle representing Endor, the very world beneath his feet, and stamped a massive red cross over it.
The flashpoint of the galactic endgame.
He stared at the comprehensive chronological layout of the Star Wars timeline, drawing a massive, glowing question mark right beside the current marker.
Since the space surrounding Planet Dawn was entirely clear of capital ship debris, they were safely positioned somewhere prior to the climactic Battle of Endor.
Yet, that window still left an incredibly vast era of history unaccounted for.
Daemon took a slow, deep breath, his eyes narrowing as he locked his gaze onto the timeline.
Where exactly are we on the clock?