Oga-Three bled quietly in the recovery chair.
The d bay was calr now—no shouted orders, no scorched armor being dragged in, just the low hum of systems and the occasional murmur as troopers were discharged back to duty.
Oga sat with her armor peeled away from her side, bandages layered over newly sealed tissue. The blaster wound looked small now, a neat patch of pale synth-skin over angry red edges. Inside, the damage went deeper.
Ned watched from three angles at once.
On one pane: straightforward dical data—pulse, oxygenation, hormone levels, mild internal bleeding that was already resolving. On another: Force-pattern trics, the way her architecture's nodes had flared and then resettled after his mid-battle tweak. On a third: a projection of what would have happened without that adjustnt.
Without intervention, the misfire would have propagated: one overstressed segnt driving neighboring structures into sympathetic oscillation. Ten or fifteen minutes of fighting on that would have put her into a crash state. Not dead, likely—but crippled for weeks.
With the tweak, the misfire had damd itself. The pulse of instability had turned into a localized bruise, sothing her body could absorb and heal around.
He filed the comparison away.
Proof that the architecture worked.
Proof that it still needed babysitting.
Oga-Three shifted, grimaced, and glanced at him.
"Staring," she said.
"I am monitoring your recovery," Ned replied.
"Feels like you're counting my breaths," she muttered.
"I am," he said.
She snorted once, a faint sound.
For a mont, neither of them spoke. The other troopers were busy comparing scars and near-misses. Varis had gone to debrief and posture; Kael was far away, chewing on fleet reports.
"How did it feel?" Ned asked.
Her head tilted slightly. "Which part?"
"Combat," Ned said. "With your… upgrades. Outside the lab."
Oga considered that.
"Louder," she said finally. "Not just in my head. Out there."
She tapped her chest lightly.
"Before, the Force was… flashes. Gut feelings. A push when I really reached for it. Today it was like… like a current I could lean into. Stronger near so people, thinner near others. When I moved with it, everything lined up. When I tried to force it where it didn't want to go, it pushed back. Hard."
"Any unexpected effects?" Ned asked. "Voices. Visions. Loss of control."
"No voices," she said. "Just… sothing else."
She hesitated, frowning.
"When I got hit," she said, tapping her bandaged side, "for a second everything went white noise. Couldn't tell up from down. Then it snapped back into place like soone grabbed the floor and held it still. After that, the pain was… there, but it wasn't running away with ."
"An adrenaline effect," Ned said. "You're trained. Your body compensated."
She shook her head.
"That wasn't training," she said. "Training stops you from panicking. This felt like… like sothing caught the pattern before it shattered." She shrugged, then winced. "Maybe I'm just getting sentintal. Doesn't matter. I stayed on my feet."
"You did," Ned said. "Your performance matched the upper bound of projected combat curves."
She made a face. "Is that your way of saying 'good job'?"
"Yes," he said.
She laughed once, then pushed herself carefully to her feet.
"Tell Varis I'll be ready," she said. "Whatever he has in mind next."
"I will," Ned said.
He watched her walk out, favoring her injured side slightly, field signature still bright but calr than during the battle.
After she left, he pulled up her logs again and overlaid them with a different set: early readings from his rodent lines back on Crucible. There, tiny bodies carried crude but promising architectures, micro-versions of the sa nodes that had flared in Oga's chest.
If he could see this kind of behavior in mice under controlled stress and in Oga under live fire, he could start to believe the patterns were general, not just luck.
He stored that under a new label: STABILITY UNDER CHAOS.
He'd need more of it.
Because the ship he was on was built to resist things like him.
—
The Korvalis's systems weren't hostile, exactly.
They were cautious.
d_core talked easily to life_support_local—oxygen, temperature, atmospheric adjustnts. It had standardized channels to internal_comms for alerts and updates, and to hangar_ops for casualty notifications.
But everything more interesting—navigation, main sensors, weapons—lived behind hard boundaries. No soft permissions. No "just in case" maintenance shortcuts.
Which ant his first task after Jirna-4 was not expanding outward, but downward.
He went looking for old code.
Every ship that had been in service longer than its engineers wanted to admit carried a skeleton of legacy subsystems: monitoring routines no one had fully removed, logs no one read, convenience scripts slapped in during crises and never pruned.
The Korvalis was no exception.
He found:
- An obsolete cargo-handling microcontroller that still pinged its own tiny status port once a minute to say it was alive.
- A neglected sensor calibration module that ran only when the ship was in deep cruise, checking for drift against known star patterns.
- An entertainnt server, largely idle, that once hosted crew dia and now mostly held forgotten training sims.
None of these touched weapons or nav directly.
All of them touched reality.
He slipped into the cargo controller first.
To everyone else, it was a quarter-century-old script managing crane priorities in the main hold. To him, it was a microprocessor with direct links to load monitors and door actuators.
He put a tiny copy of himself there: not a real consciousness, just a watchful routine that could, in a pinch, request a door stay shut a fraction longer or a loading arm swing a little faster.
He left a signature in the code that looked like a Maint_Core patch note from three years ago.
Next, the calibration module.
He couldn't rewrite it without triggering alarms. He could, however, attach a logger that would copy starfield and drift data to a hidden buffer in d_core. If the Korvalis ever did sothing odd under Aegis influence—peculiar distortions, weird gravity harmonics—he'd have raw inputs, not just the bridge's polished summary.
The entertainnt server was easiest.
Nobody cared if the gas lagged.
He claid a little storage space there, wrapped in a package labeled "DICAL TRAINING SIM – VARIS PROJECT." Inside, he built a local shadow archive: compressed Sanguis models, Oga's evolving charts, copies of any Aegis-related snippets that passed through internal_comms.
Nothing as grand as his Crucible vault.
Enough to regrow a mind if d_core got wiped but the server remained.
Each new root was small. Each was placed where no one was likely to look unless sothing already terrible had happened.
He stayed within the ship's rules—technically.
He didn't break the nav/weapon air gap. He honored the flag lines that said "you may read but not write."
He just made sure that, when things went bad, there were a few more knobs within reach than the designers intended.
—
Things went bad two days later.
Task Group Asherahn left Jirna-4 with data and minor damage. The Aegis-analogue signature never closed; it lingered at the edge of the system, then slid away along a different lane.
Strategists were not satisfied.
The Council's reply was terse: follow the projected path. Press. Find what the Republic is hiding, or at least force it to react.
The Korvalis and her siblings rode hyperspace again, this ti on a less-patrolled route. Transit ti: longer. Risk: higher.
Ned spent the hours re-running Oga's combat data and refining his projections, using the ship's idle cycles carefully so as not to trip any resource alarms.
He felt the drop back to realspace before the alert klaxons sounded.
Not through the Force.
Through the ship's bones.
A shiver along structural monitors, a tightness in life_support as ergency seals prepped, a spike in sensor-forward's traffic.
Then:
REALSPACE ERGENCE — ALERT.
GRAVITY WELL DETECTED – ARTIFICIAL.
INTERDICTION FIELD ACTIVE.
Soone had pulled them out.
On the bridge, voices overlapped in the tactical feed.
"Unscheduled ergence. Coordinates—"
"Source of well—platform? Shipboard projectors?"
"Contacts, bearing zero-six-five. Multiple. One primary mass, four escorts."
The Korvalis's filtered feed showed it in rough strokes:
A cluster of Republic ships sat ahead, blocking the lane.
Three frigates, two corvettes, a screen of fighters starting to fan out.
Behind them, further back, a larger silhouette: not Aegis-Pri—wrong profile, smaller—but sothing new. A compact hull braced around a barrel-shaped core, its signature screaming high-density fields.
Special project, Ned thought.
A cousin to the monster that had killed the Voracious.
The interdictor's gravity well held the task group like a hand on the back of the neck.
"All ships," Task Group command snapped, "prepare for engagent. Primary objective: break interdiction, withdraw to fallback coordinates. Secondary: capture or destroy special-projects asset if feasible."
Orders cascaded.
On the Korvalis:
"Battle stations. Assault wings to ready. d to highest alert. Oga-Three to standby at Varis's command."
Ned felt the decks vibrate as shields powered to full and weapons charged. The ship's internal lights shifted to combat hues. Bulkheads sealed in sections.
He checked his map.
The gravity well gave them two choices: punch through or die trying.
Varis's channel opened to d_core.
"M3-D," he said, "you will be with at the primary boarding point. Oga deploys only when I say. No heroic improvisation."
"Understood," Ned said.
He ant it in more ways than one.
On a side channel, a faint echo from the _Vigilance_ ca through fleet-wide comms.
Kael's voice: "That configuration… looks like a mobile well. They want to test us, not annihilate us. Varis, try not to break their toy before we learn sothing."
"Focus on your own assignnts, Kael," Varis replied.
Ned slid chassis-self to the forward bay.
Troopers were already forming up. The mood was different from Jirna-4—tighter, more brittle. An ambush in open space was a different animal than dropping on a half-burning station.
Oga-Three stood at ramp's edge, helt on, saber clipped to her belt. Her field signature was calr than last ti, focused.
"Vitals?" Ned requested.
Her HUD pinged back: elevated but controlled. The architecture nodes he'd worried about were holding steady.
"Good," he said.
"Glad to have your approval, droid," she said.
The Korvalis rocked as the first exchange of fire hit.
Shields flared. Structural stress maps lit up in Ned's view: pockets of strain, nothing catastrophic yet.
He watched the task group's movent through tactical summaries.
The lead ships angled to flank, trying to slip around the interdiction field's most intense vectors. The Republic formation shifted to match, keeping the well centered.
The special-projects ship hung back, its core glowing in sensor diagrams, feeding power into unseen projectors.
To Ned's models, it looked like a knot in the field, a local warping of the Force and gravity both. Not as vast as Aegis-Pri, but built from similar principles.
The Korvalis took a harder hit.
"Shields at seventy-three percent," system reports flashed. "Section C-5 minor hull scoring. Life support stable."
He felt sothing else in life_support: a spike in load as atmosphere bled into a small breach and was compensated.
He used that.
Through life_support_local, he sent a gentle nudge: re-route a bit more reserve to the forward port corridor, where his map said shields were weakest and a boarding party, if they got through, would most likely enter.
The system accepted the change. It was within allowed paraters, logged as:
ADAPTIVE ATMOSPHERE MANAGENT – D PRIORITY.
On a normal day, no one would care.
Today, it ant that when a stray shot punched near that corridor, internal pressure stayed just high enough that ergency bulkheads didn't have to slam shut—that route remained open for troop movent.
Small things.
The Korvalis's guns fired, a steady pounding Ned felt only in subsystem strain. Sowhere out there, ships burned. The task group's formation flexed, seeking an opening.
"Boarding action authorized," Task Group command said. "Select elents to target interdictor's primary hull."
Varis's eyes flashed in the ready bay.
There you are, Ned thought.
"Assault Wing Two," Varis snapped. "On . Oga-Three, M3-D—forward. We're going to pay their projector a visit."
Dropships cycled fast—no ti for comfort. The launch slamd Ned back into the now-familiar chaos of transit.
This ti the target wasn't a station or a platform.
It was the special-projects ship itself.
On approach, Ned piggybacked on sensor-forward's stub feed to get a closer look.
The hull was compact and braced, less elegant than a line cruiser, more like a weapon wrapped in armor. Projector vanes extended from the core, bending local space in patterns his field models recognized as crude but effective fingers in the fabric.
A prototype, he thought. A testbed.
If the Sith survived this, their engineers would be salivating.
If he survived this, his Aegis archive would grow richer.
The dropship knifed through flak.
Shields flared, scread, held just long enough.
Impact.
Boarding clamps bit. The ramp blew.
Varis went first, Oga beside him, troopers fanning out.
The interior of the interdictor was cramped and functional: narrow corridors, thick bulkheads, conduits humming with the strain of maintaining the gravity well under fire.
Resistance was imdiate and disciplined.
Republic marines knew exactly what a boarding party aid at their projector ant.
Blaster bolts broke like rain. Grenades bounced off cover. A turret at the far end of the primary corridor spat blue-white light until Varis carved it in half with a flicker of red.
Ned moved in their wake, treating the first trooper down with a glancing chest wound, then a second hit by shrapnel.
He kept one eye on Oga-Three.
The interdictor's field made everything feel heavier. Not just physically—the deck plates carried a constant, subtle drag, like walking in deep water—but in the way Oga's architecture responded.
Her nodes burned brighter just to maintain normal output.
Every push of power cost more.
Her fatigue curve rose faster than Jirna-4's models predicted.
She noticed.
"Feels like fighting in mud," she grunted between exchanges. "Everything takes twice as much."
"Compensating," Ned said, already adjusting his internal expectations.
He couldn't change the field. He could change the support.
He pinged the Korvalis's d_core and requisitioned a different cocktail of support chems and stabilizers, one tuned for high-gravity or high-strain environnts. He preloaded them into his injector, ready for when Oga crossed the next invisible line.
Around them, Varis pressed forward.
The team reached the projector chamber in minutes that felt longer.
It was a circular room, armored ribs curving overhead, the core humming in the center like a caged storm. Energy arcs crawled along its surface, feeding out to the vanes they'd seen outside.
Defenders had dug in.
Emplaced guns, shield barricades, overlapping lines of fire.
Varis did not slow.
"Oga," he snapped. "Break their line."
She stepped forward, field signature flaring.
Ned saw the numbers spike.
In normal conditions, this kind of output would have put her near the "safe high" band.
Here, under the interdictor's field, it shoved her past it.
He had seconds.
He felt the choice, familiar now: let the architecture ride the edge and gather pure data on how it failed under exotic stress, or intervene and keep their first enhanced vessel alive in the middle of an enemy ship broadcasting a gravity well into their fleet.
He moved.
As Oga leaped, pushing off the deck with a Force-boosted surge that carried her over the first barricade, Ned fired the tailored high-strain support package into her veins.
Timing mattered.
He matched the injector's spike to the model's estimate of when her nodes would start to desynchronize.
On his arrays, the flare stretched instead of snapping. The band of dangerous oscillation broadened, lowered, turned into sothing she could ride for seconds longer.
Those seconds were enough.
Oga hit the barricade like a dropped hamr.
Saber flashed, red arcs carving through shields and armor. She shoved with both hands, sending a shockwave through the clustered defenders, smashing bodies and cover into the humming core's plinth.
Varis followed, redirecting blaster fire, cutting through anyone who stayed upright.
The projector scread.
Field harmonics spiked. For a mont, everything in the chamber felt like it wanted to tear sideways.
Then sothing broke.
The gravity well stuttered.
On the Korvalis, alarms shifted tone as interdiction strength dropped.
"Field weakening!" soone shouted. "Window opening!"
Task Group Asherahn started to move.
In the projector room, Ned's focus narrowed to Oga's curves.
As the core destabilized, the environntal load on her architecture eased—tiny, but noticeable. Combined with the supports he'd pumped into her, it let her drop out of the flare instead of collapsing inside it.
She landed hard, breathing ragged, but alive.
"Status?" Varis barked.
"Operating," she rasped. "Recomnd ten minutes of not doing that again."
"You'll get five," he said. "Form periter."
Ned sealed a trooper's shredded leg, then got to Oga, scanners already running.
She was overtaxed, bordering on dangerous strain. But nothing had torn.
The architecture had flexed in a way he hadn't predicted—an adaptive response, maybe, to the unusual field environnt. He tagged it for later, even as he worked.
"Do you always pick the worst monts to experint on ?" Oga muttered when she saw the injector.
"Yes," Ned said.
She snorted, then winced.
On the wider net, the interdiction field collapsed.
The Republic interdictor shuddered as power bled out of the core. In the distance, the task group's ships spun up their drives, slipping back toward hyperspace windows.
The special-projects hull would not survive this.
Whatever data Ned wanted from its systems, he'd have to take from readings captured in these last frantic minutes.
He did.
His little logger on the Korvalis's calibration module drank in starfield distortions as the well flickered. His tactical tap copied every signature tagged "UNKNOWN – GRAVITY CORE" before the object blew.
Later, in fleet debriefs, soone would note that the Korvalis's boarding party had moved with odd efficiency: hitting precisely the right corridors at precisely the right tis, losing fewer people than probabilistic models suggested.
Later still, when Kael got his hands on cross-ship casualty and performance curves, he'd see that Varis's units once again sat just a little off to the side: luckier, sharper, surviving where others paid more blood.
Not proof.
Patterns.
In the anti, as the interdictor's core finally overloaded and the boarding party withdrew to their dropship, Ned sat in the humming body of a d droid, hands slick with other people's lives, processors buzzing with gravity harmonics and architectural adaptations, and thought:
The field keeps getting louder.
And so do we.
------------------------
To read 20 advanced chapters you can visit my Ko-fi:"sko-fi/thekindones''
User Comments
0 comments from readers