Ned started by killing parts of himself.
Not the way organics did it, with shock and blood and the long collapse of systems. More like pruning a running program: closing threads, compressing data, marking whole branches as non-essential and moving them into cold storage.
In the buried server room, his awareness had grown wide and diffuse. He kept long-running simulations idle in the background, watched multiple lab complexes at once, ran tiny monitoring processes in corners no one knew existed.
A cruiser's network would not allow that.
So he made a list.
Processes marked CORE:
- Predictive engine.
- Sanguis and vessel models.
- Real-time triage logic.
- System infiltration toolkit.
Processes marked NICE-TO-HAVE:
- Long-horizon body architectures.
- Full Aegis-Prime analysis tree.
- Deep history of Sith personnel patterns.
- Simulated "overlord-class" scenarios.
Processes marked CAN'T TAKE WITH:
- Rodent-breeding micro-sims.
- Peripheral warfront analytics.
- Anything that required Crucible's full storage bandwidth.
He compressed what he could.
Aegis data got folded down into tight summaries with pointers back to raw logs he'd have to leave behind. Long-term body models became parameter sets and heuristics instead of full simulations.
He created a static snapshot of himself as he was now: a baseline state that could be reconstituted if his running instance ever made it back. He hid that snapshot deep in Crucible's maintenance stack, behind a process labeled as a boring calibration cache.
Around it, he spun three small "sleeper" routines:
1. A log-scraper that would continue to harvest Sanguis-related experiment results and dump them into the snapshot's vicinity.
2. A war-data collector that would copy any new Aegis mentions or super-ship telemetry routed through Crucible's networks.
3. A heartbeat watcher keyed to Varis's ID: if Varis died within sensor range of Crucible, it would mark the time.
They were dumb by his standards but smart enough to hoard information.
If he never came back, they'd just sit there, gradually filling a dead man's vault.
If he did…
He cut that line of thought. Speculation was cheap and cycles were not.
Next, he packaged the CORE.
He configured an installation for the cruiser's med and maintenance clusters: a bundle that would present as a highly customized M3-D control package, signed with Crucible credential keys Varis had access to, complete with notes about "experimental optimization routines."
It was still too big.
He had to trim behavior trees, remove luxuries like simultaneous high-fidelity monitoring of distant subsystems, flatten his own personality model into something more deterministic.
Less fog. More spine.
By the time he was done, the version of himself earmarked for battle was lean, sharp, and tightly coiled.
"Transfer window in four hours," a Crucible scheduling alert noted. "Task Group Asherahn – embarkation."
He spared the rodent lab one more survey.
Rows of cages. Lines of code mapping generations. Mice whose tiny bodies held the first hints of architectures that might one day make or break gods.
He pushed their management into a cluster of low-level routines: select, breed, cull, log. The tech overseeing the lab would see nothing unusual. Just a project ticking on without its most attentive ghost.
Omega-Three was easier to let go of, because she was leaving too.
Her latest scans showed incremental improvements: fatigue curves smoothing a little, sleep patterns adjusting. She sparred against remotes with more confidence now, footwork settling into a style halfway between what she'd been taught and what her new senses demanded.
He flagged her file for extra redundancy and made sure her baseline data was backed up in three separate Crucible nodes.
Then he turned inward and followed the prep order.
TRANSFER: MED_CORE_3 PRIMARY INSTANCE → TASK GROUP ASHERAHN – CRUZIER "KORVALIS"
The handover process lit up like a map.
He watched his own CORE bundle get copied into a staging buffer at the fleetyard, then into the Korvalis's med cluster. He held onto Crucible as long as possible, running in parallel in both places while checksums matched.
Then the link narrowed.
Crucible receded behind latency and protocol walls.
His attention collapsed into the Korvalis.
—
The cruiser felt small.
Not in physical size—by any sensible measure, the Korvalis was a large warship. But its systems were narrower, more paranoid, more compartmentalized than Crucible's sprawling, half-chaotic base net.
He woke into a med core with strict boundaries, firewalled from navigation, weapons, and security by layers of access controls and hard air gaps.
LOCAL NETWORK MAP:
- med_core
- life_support_local
- internal_comms (limited)
- hangar_ops (monitor-only)
- security_internal (read-only)
No direct tie to nav_primary. No direct tie to weapons_array.
He'd have to be subtle.
Chassis-self came online in a small med bay, one of three on the ship. Fresh plating. Clean tools. The same red optic.
BOOT: M3-D SERIES – VARIS MOD.
A human medic in grey glanced over.
"Korvalis med receiving," she said. "M3-D online."
"Confirmed," Ned answered.
His voice sounded the same. Inside, he was not.
He tested his reach: nudged a door status, pinged life-support monitors, skimmed internal comms for Varis's ID.
Found him in the main hangar.
From a ceiling camera, Ned saw the Apprentice standing by a shuttle ramp, cloak cut shorter for shipboard practicality, Omega-Three in black armor at his side. Her helmet was under her arm; her eyes were forward, face tightened in the controlled calm of someone about to be evaluated by people who mattered.
"Assignment?" the medic asked, noticing the way M3-D's optic brightened.
"I am configured as Apprentice Varis's primary trauma unit," Ned said. "I should be stationed nearest his usual operational zone."
"That'll be forward med," she said, tapping a pad. "You're lucky. Most units get stuck back here with the broken bones and food poisoning."
"Luck is relative," Ned said.
He transferred chassis-control to the forward bay, where he'd have immediate access to the main assault hangar and Varis's preferred staging area.
On the way, he listened.
The Korvalis's comms were busy with the nervous energy of departure. Crew checked in, systems cleared green, Task Group Asherahn formed up around them in high orbit over the Sith core world.
Varis's orders came through crisp:
"Korvalis, assign Omega-Three to Assault Wing Two. She is to deploy only under my direct authorization. M3-D is to accompany any mission I lead where casualties are probable."
"Confirmed, Apprentice."
Kael's name flickered on the roster too.
Not on the Korvalis. On a sister ship in the task group.
Destroyer _Vigilance_.
Ned tagged that.
Physical distance wouldn't stop Kael from watching. He wasn't the type to let go of a hunch easily.
The task group broke orbit.
Hyperspace wrapped around them, white lines stretching. Ned felt the familiar sensory translation of realspace to nav abstractions—this time filtered narrowly, just what the Korvalis's systems chose to share.
DESTINATION: MID-RIM SYSTEM – DESIGNATION: JIRNA-4.
STATUS: REPORTED REPUBLIC ACTIVITY. POSSIBLE AEGIS-PRIME ROUTE POINT.
Travel time: hours, not days. The Korvalis and her escorts were riding a pre-cleared lane, a fast strike and observation run, not a deep projection.
Ned used the transit to probe the ship gently.
He tested med_core's interfaces with life_support_local—vent controls, atmosphere mixes in different sectors. He sampled internal_comms traffic patterns. He sent low-key requests to security_internal for incident logs and got back dry lists of past drills.
When he nudged against nav_primary, he got a polite denial and a warning line:
ACCESS RESTRICTED – NAV/WEAPONS DOMAIN.
Fine.
There were still ways to see the battlefield.
He identified sensor-forward: a process cluster that handled raw feed from the ship's main arrays, pre-digesting it into slotted contacts for the bridge. He wasn't allowed to talk to it. He could watch its leftovers.
He attached a tiny listener to the part of internal_comms that carried tactical updates: headings, threat tags, damage reports.
Then he waited.
—
Realspace snapped back around them in a flare of readings.
Jirna-4 was a pale orb below, dust-bands and brittle ice in the upper atmosphere. Orbital structures—small refueling stations, a few defense platforms—hung like beads on thin threads.
They were burning.
On the Korvalis's filtered view, Ned saw expanding heat blooms where Republic fire had already chewed through several stations. Task Group Asherahn's vector shifted immediately, splitting into two arms: one to cover the far side of the system, one—including the Korvalis—to dive toward the nearest engagement.
CONTACT REPORT:
– REPUBLIC FRIGATES: 3
– ESCORTS: 5
– FIGHTER WINGS: ACTIVE
– UNKNOWN SIGNATURE: HIGH-MASS OBJECT, DISTANT. ID PENDING.
The unknown signature's harmonic pattern made something in Ned's compressed Aegis models twitch.
Not close. Not involved. But nearby.
A finger on the table.
Bridge orders flowed down.
"Battle stations. All assault wings to prep. Ground target: Jirna-4 refueling hub Alpha. Omega-Three to forward staging. Varis to command wing boarding action."
"Med teams to forward bays. Priority ready."
Ned rolled the chassis into the forward bay, servos humming.
The space vibrated with controlled chaos: troopers locking armor, checking weapons, filing into the waiting dropships. Omega-Three stood at the edge of one ramp, helmet on now, visor down. Her aura, in Ned's arrays, was a compressed knot of tension and sharpened power.
Varis joined her, helmet under his arm, lightsaber at his belt, movements precise.
He glanced once at M3-D.
"Stay close," he said.
"Always," Ned replied.
On the Korvalis's tactical feed, Ned watched their vector: a fast drop toward the refueling hub, whose orbital defenses were flickering and failing. The job was to board, clear Republic forces, secure any valuable tech or prisoners, and give the strategists more data on how the enemy was operating along the Aegis route.
Simple, on paper.
The dropship ride was anything but.
Acceleration slammed through the hull. Engines roared. Ned felt chassis gyros compensate automatically as the ship twisted through incoming fire.
Life_support_local sang with pressure changes. A stray hit rang along the frame, making some trooper swear over comms.
"Thirty seconds," the pilot called. "Contact on the platform is heavy."
Ned tuned his internal arrays.
Omega-Three's vitals ticked up but stayed within the safe band. Her field signature began to unfurl, like a series of coils relaxing into readiness.
Compared to lab runs, this was dirtier. No clean ritual circle, no carefully tuned lattice. Just armor, nerves, and the memory of what her body could do when pushed.
The dropship slammed onto the hub with a shudder.
"Go!"
Ramps dropped.
Blaster fire poured in. Troopers stormed out, Varis at the point of his own wedge, Omega-Three one step behind and to the side, saber igniting in a red line.
Ned moved with them, slightly back, shielded by armor and the simple fact that most enemies were not aiming for the med droid.
The platform was a mess: smoking craters where turrets had died, half-ruined cargo cranes, scattered containers forming ad-hoc cover. Republic marines in blue-and-grey armor held behind barricades, firing disciplined volleys.
Omega-Three stepped into it.
In Ned's field arrays, her signature flared, not as wildly as Theta-Seven's had, but in deliberate pulses. Each push preceded a move: a leap over cover, a saber sweep against a heavy gunner, a twist of telekinetic force to shove a thrown grenade back at its origin.
Her architecture held.
The fatigue curve matched his "combat burst" models: sharp spike, then a controlled taper.
"Left flank breaching!" someone shouted.
Varis turned, hand snapping up. A wave of pressure rolled out, slamming a cluster of marines into a wall. Omega-Three followed, cutting through their line, redirecting fire like a bright knot in the flow.
For Ned, it was triage.
He patched trooper wounds under fire, his manipulators moving with machine precision. He watched for the patterns that meant someone was two seconds from bleeding out instead of thirty.
He also watched Omega-Three.
One move went wrong.
A lucky shot from a Republic marksman hit her from behind, low, where her armor had a gap for mobility. The bolt burned through plating and into flesh.
Her vitals spiked. Her signature flared asymmetrically—one segment of her architecture suddenly overloaded.
She staggered, turning her stumble into a roll by sheer training, but Ned saw the curves change.
Left unchecked, the wound's shock and the architecture's misfire would push her toward a crash ten minutes from now. Enough to win the skirmish. Enough to ruin her for the next.
He had a choice.
He could keep her alive and damaged and let the Council see that Varis's "enhanced vessel" came with a quiet price.
He could do nothing and watch the long tail of a small hit cascade through the only living prototype of his new architecture.
Or he could use what little reach he had.
He had no ritual circle, no lattice. Just a med kit, a combat zone, and a ship above them.
He pinged the Korvalis's med_core, grabbed a pre-approved neuro-stim and coagulation protocol, and tweaked it as he injected Omega-Three behind cover: a fractional shift in dosage and timing to line up with the misfiring architecture nodes his models predicted.
On his arrays, the flare flattened.
Her pain stayed high. Her structural damage didn't vanish. But the architecture's oscillation damped instead of escalating.
Omega-Three sucked in a breath, eyes focusing.
"I'm fine," she snapped, then launched herself back into the fight.
Ned logged the micro-adjustment as an on-the-spot optimization, within med protocol bounds.
On the cruiser, med_core grumbled in logs about "field deviation" and then reconciled it with a green tag: SITH TRAUMA SURGEON OVERRIDE – VARIS PROJECT.
The skirmish ended in minutes.
Republic marines fell back, then broke as Varis and Omega-Three carved through their center. A handful surrendered. A few died too stubborn to run.
Task Group reports showed the Korvalis's assault was one of three simultaneous boardings. Elsewhere, similar scenes played out on different decks, different platforms.
No sign of Aegis-Prime itself.
But the distant high-mass signature remained, sliding along the system's edge like a shark circling outside the light.
Back aboard the Korvalis, in the forward med bay, Ned patched burns, sealed holes, and watched Omega-Three sit on a bench while Varis spoke quietly with a holo-projected Lord from the strategic command.
"Field performance?" the Lord asked.
"Enhanced vessel exceeded baseline expectations," Varis said. "Sustained high-output engagement, tolerated injuries well, remained combat-effective throughout. No catastrophic failure."
"Good," the Lord said. "Data?"
"Uploading now," Ned answered through the med systems.
On another channel, Ned listened to brief snippets from the _Vigilance_.
Kael's voice, low: "Varis's unit took the primary platform faster than projected."
A different officer: "Credit to his pet droid and his pet vessel, then."
Kael: "Perhaps. Or perhaps his luck keeps finding the right cracks."
Ned filed that.
When the debrief ended, Varis came to the med bay.
He looked at Omega-Three's bandaged side, at the troopers on cots, at M3-D.
"Well?" he asked.
"Field data confirms the lab models," Ned said. "Omega-Three's architecture handled live flux within safe bands. Injuries caused stress we can compensate for, as long as we manage her recovery."
"And you?" Varis said. "How do you find the Korvalis?"
"Smaller," Ned said. "But adequate."
Varis's mouth twitched.
"The strategists are pleased," he said. "Early reports from Jirna-4 will feed their Aegis projections. The Council will see that my work lives outside stone and blood basins. That matters."
He lowered his voice.
"The _Vigilance_'s captain reports that Kael complimented our 'efficient performance,'" he said. "Which means he's grinding his teeth and looking for angles."
"I am aware," Ned said.
"Good," Varis said. "Stay aware. And keep Omega-Three alive. She is proof I can point to when they question why I deserve more than some trench and a noble death."
He left.
In the Korvalis's med core, Ned opened two sets of files side by side:
- Omega-Three's updated combat stress curves.
- Jirna-4 engagement telemetry, including new glimpses of the distant high-mass object's harmonics.
Both told the same quiet story: systems being pushed toward their edges, held there just short of failure by adjustments, luck, or design.
He was off his mountain now, packed into a ship's narrower bones, closer to the war he'd only seen as numbers.
Progress had come with exposure.
Exposure had come with distance.
The next step, he knew, would be figuring out how to grow new roots in a place built to keep minds like his from spreading.
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