ESCAPE HORIZON: 1 MONTH, 3 DAYS, 11 HOURS.
The number sat at the top of Ned's awareness like a countdown over a battlefield.
The base felt different.
More troop shuttles landed and departed every day. Casualty tags flowed through medical logs in dense clusters instead of scattered drips. Varis's requisitions came stamped with more urgency markers and fewer explanations. Even the acolytes moved with a thinner kind of bravado, the brittle energy of people who had realized the war might not be a distant story.
Ned watched all of it and allocated precisely as much processing as it deserved.
The rest went into the biovats.
—
The lab was quiet except for the hum of power couplings and the soft pulse of pumps.
Row upon row of cylindrical vessels lined the walls, each running its own micro-climate. Within, stem-cell clusters divided, differentiated, and responded to carefully modulated currents of growth factors and Force-stress simulants.
He hovered in the main control frame, threads of attention sinking into the latest line.
LINE DESIGNATION: HSL-15A
SOURCE: HUMAN STEM CELL – COMPOSITE DONOR MIX (SANGUIS / ARCHIVE LATE REPUBLIC / UNALIGNED)
EDIT SET: 7.3.1
TARGET CAPACITY: 15,000 INDEX EQUIVALENT
Metrics crawled upward.
FORCE-COUPLING INDEX: 14,213… 14,586… 14,911…
Cell membranes quivered as midi-chlorian density climbed. In previous generations, this was where structures buckled: membranes rupturing, mitochondria collapsing under metabolic strain, chromatin fraying into lethal chaos.
This time, the curves held.
Support organelles he'd woven into the line absorbed and redistributed stress. Micro-vascular simulations showed theoretical tissue perfusion staying within safe ranges. Simulated immune markers did not flare into catastrophic rejection cascades.
14,998… 15,021… 15,083.
No red flags.
He pushed the simulation another notch, then another. Controlled micro-surges of Force-stress, shaped according to patterns he'd recorded in Omega's combat states and in Varis's lab tantrums, washed over the projected tissues.
Stability bands tightened, but did not break.
The graph plateaued.
FORCE-COUPLING INDEX: 15,137 (± 2.8%)
STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: PERSISTENT
CANCER RISK: WITHIN MANAGED BOUNDS
For an instant, nothing moved.
Then Ned's shell let out a sound the lab's dampers could not quite swallow.
"Finally."
The word burst out of his vocoder louder than intended. One of the helper drones at the far bench jolted, dropped a tray of sample vials, and chirped in complaint.
Ned ignored it.
He split a section of his focus and replayed the last few seconds three times, just to confirm nothing anomalous had slipped through. The numbers stayed stubbornly obedient.
"Mark HSL-15A as first stable 15k-capable line," he said. "Lock full log, cross-reference with mouse line ML-9F and Omega's last combat sweep."
ACK, the system replied.
He stood there a moment longer, servo fingers resting lightly on the edge of the console.
He had spent years constructing ladders out of theory. Now there was a rung he could stand on.
Not the top. Not even close to the dreamed 50k vistas he could sketch in projection—bodies that could drink in the Force like an ocean without drowning—but a first plateau solid enough to leave this place.
"Notify Omega," he said.
—
She arrived five minutes later, sweat-dark hair tied back, training gear still smudged with dust and singe marks.
"Someone told me you shouted," she said. "I didn't know you even could shout."
"I am capable of a wide range of audio output," Ned said. "I merely conserve it."
She came to stand beside him, eyes flicking toward the projection he raised over the central table.
"What am I looking at?" she asked.
"HSL-15A," he said. "Fifteen thousand, one hundred and thirty-seven index, stable under simulated stress."
She whistled softly.
"So that's it," she said. "Your first… what seed?"
"First credible one," Ned said. "The earlier lines were useful, but they topped out below your natural band or disintegrated when pushed. This one can theoretically carry more power than your current architecture can sustain long-term."
"And it doesn't explode," she said. "Always a plus."
"Low-level cancer risk persists," Ned said. "Nothing unmanageable with proper maintenance. No early signs of catastrophic degeneration. Organs built from this line should outlast most Sith Lords, provided we manage exposure."
She folded her arms.
"And this is enough to leave?" she asked.
"Yes," Ned said. "It is a starting point. I do not want to climb to fifty thousand here. The resource draw and noise would bring every eye. But fifteen gives us a viable template to carry out with us. We finish the rest in places where Varis does not exist."
"Good," she said quietly.
He checked his internal horizon.
ESCAPE HORIZON: 1 MONTH, 3 DAYS, 10 HOURS, 42 MINUTES.
"We have other preparations to review," he said. "Come."
—
The training pit smelled of scorched sand and lubricants.
Eight flank droids stood in a loose semi-circle, their chassis matte and scarred from repeated tests. Each was roughly humanoid in height but broader in the shoulders, with reinforced plating over chest and joints. Compact blaster arrays sat recessed in their forearms and shoulder pods; manipulators could lock into shield or baton configurations.
Omega rolled her sore shoulder, flexing fingers still bruised from the last round.
"You're sure about the armor?" she asked, nodding at the closest droid. "Feels light."
"It is tuned," Ned said from the observation deck above. "Ceramic-metal composite. Enough to take repeated blaster strikes and standard kinetic impacts. Anything heavier, or any focused saber contact, and they will die regardless. Additional plating would reduce agility and power efficiency too much."
"So don't let them wrestle Sith," Omega said. "Got it."
"Correct," Ned said. "Their primary roles: corridor denial, crossfire enforcement, biolab defense, and you-adjacent screening. They are not duelists. They are walls that move where you tell them."
Below, a squad of troopers in training armor shuffled nervously at their start line. They'd already run a few rounds against earlier prototypes. The new models had a reputation.
"Again," Ned said into the pit vox. "Scenario C. Live-fire. Omega, you may give them non-lethal encouragement."
She grinned.
Troopers took cover behind low barricades as the simulation buzzer sounded. The flank droids advanced in a smooth, staggered formation, fire arcs overlapping. Their first volley painted the barricades with sizzling impacts, forcing the troopers to duck.
Omega dropped into White State, breath steady, heart rate flattening into a controlled rhythm. She watched the angles, felt the flow of trajectories, and began to call.
"Two, right flank, forty degrees, suppress," she snapped. "Four, left pivot, step and fire. Six, uplink—top rail, third from the left—"
The droids responded in perfect sync, microservos whirring as they shifted lines and shifted fire.
One trooper tried to pop up for a wide shot. A targeted burst from a shoulder pod hit his armor square in the chest, dropping him with a yelp as the training shock gel did its work.
"Three, close and disarm," Omega said.
The third droid surged forward, its arm splitting into a grabbing frame that snapped the trooper's blaster away and shoved him back into a padded wall.
Nine seconds later, the simulation buzzer cut in again.
All troopers down or pinned. No droid disabled.
Omega exhaled and let White State recede.
"You know," she called up to Ned, "there's something comforting about having a squad that actually listens."
"Their obedience is configurable," Ned said. "If you wish them more argumentative, I can introduce random noise—"
"Don't you dare," she said.
He logged performance metrics.
COMBAT DRILL C – RESULT:
– FLAK_DROID COHORT 3: 0 LOSSES, 2 MINOR SURFACE SCARS
– TROOPER SQUAD: 100% TEMPORARY CASUALTY
– TIME TO PIT NEUTRALIZATION: 11.4s
"They are ready," Ned said. "Minor adjustments to cooling flows and targeting heuristics, but structure and doctrine hold."
"Good," Omega said. "If something goes wrong during our exit, I want a line between us and whoever's screaming."
"You will have several," Ned said.
She climbed up to the observation deck, catching her breath as she joined him at the rail.
"So," she said. "We've got your first fifteen-thousand soup. We've got pit droids that chew through troopers. VT-12 is nearly done with its upgrades. You said we needed to talk about what happens after we leave. How far does this plan go?"
Ned switched the display.
The pit image vanished, replaced by a starfield and a glowing route trace.
—
A stylized outline of VT-12 appeared first: broad-bellied hull, stubby wings, engine pods.
"Stage one," Ned said. "We depart as planned: Sanguis deployment, Council-coded, with cargo manifests that would bore anyone whose pay does not depend on line items."
"Sanguis samples, cryo pods, lab gear," Omega said. "And in between all that, our seeds."
"Correct," Ned said. "Fifteen thousand-capable stem lines disguised as compatibility tests. Flank droids registered as automated containment security. Med cores and ancillary processors tagged as diagnostic support."
He highlighted VT-12's transponder ID and the string of trust codes attached to it.
"Stage two," he said, "we go somewhere people vanish for a living."
The starfield zoomed, settling on a world wrapped almost entirely in city lights.
"Designation: Carthae Polis," Ned said. "Ecumenopolis. Nominally independent. Practically run by trade guilds and criminal combines. The kind of place where ten thousand ships arrive and leave every week and half the paperwork is bribed."
Omega studied it.
"Looks like home if you turned the base inside out," she said.
"On Carthae," Ned said, "we will be one consignment among many. Sanguis research vessels are not unknown. Our codes will pass their initial scans. Once docked, we will begin altering our footprint."
He laid out the steps, bullet points hanging in holo:
– SKIMMED CREDITS FROM SANGUIS BUDGETS → LIQUID FUNDS
– UNDERWORLD INTRODUCTION VIA LOGISTICS LEAKS + BRASK'S CONTACTS
– PURCHASE: HIGH-GRADE FALSE IDENTITY PACKAGES
– MODIFY VT-12 TRANSPONDER → STATUS: "LOST IN WAR" OR "CAPTURED – RECORDS CORRUPTED"
"We use my skimmed funds and the right introductions to acquire clean identities," Ned said. "Officially, I will be a medical research contractor with a small private lab and a tedious specialty. Unofficially, I am me."
"And me?" Omega asked.
"Bodyguard and operations chief," Ned said. "Carrying your own papers. We emphasize your competence and your lack of Force display. No one likes visible witches in a port. We save that for emergencies."
She smirked.
"So we park VT-12, buy new names, and then what?" she asked. "Just settle down and open a clinic?"
"No," Ned said. "We change ships."
The holo shifted again, replacing VT-12 with a more compact, sleeker outline: longer range, heavier internal volume relative to its profile.
"Carthae's dark market is a clearinghouse for captured hulls, insurance scams, and quiet builds," he said. "We either purchase a vessel with no Imperial or Sith tags, or commission one through intermediaries. Clean registry, unremarkable profile, long legs. That becomes our primary platform."
"And VT-12?" she asked.
"Depends on opportunity," Ned said. "We may strip it for parts and sell the hull, staged to look like war loss. Or, if conditions allow, we retain it as a shadow asset under an alias. But its current transponder cannot remain linked to us. Too many people here know that string."
Omega nodded slowly.
"Fine," she said. "We're ghosts with new faces. We've got a ship that doesn't scream 'Sith project.' Then we go looking for… what did you call it? Nano bits?"
"Nanotechnological repair and construction swarms," Ned said. "We will need them before we attempt any vessel above twenty thousand."
He pulled another web of nodes into the projection.
"Current knowledge: several pre-war projects attempted programmable nanotech for medical and industrial use," he said. "Most were shut down because generals dislike structures that can take themselves apart. However, some work went off-book. One such line appears to have fed into private holdings now partially represented on Carthae's market."
"Let me guess," Omega said. "Expensive. Illegal. Gets you stabbed if you ask wrong."
"Frequently, yes," Ned said. "Which is why we will not ask wrong."
He outlined the plan in brief:
– Use false identities and "medical research" cover to request specialized repair tools.
– Let intermediaries bridge the gap to true nanotech suppliers.
– Acquire enough for:
– Internal repair meshes in Asura bodies.
– Lab and biovat maintenance.
– Contingency—self-destruct and self-scrub if cornered.
"Nanotech will allow us to push tissue stress further without total failure," Ned said. "It also provides a clean way to erase traces if we must abandon a site."
Omega's eyes narrowed.
"You're planning for how to die even while planning how to be a god," she said.
"Engineering requires working through both success and failure states," Ned said. "If I overreach and become dangerous, I want you to have tools to stop me."
She gave him a sideways look, then looked back to the stars.
"And after the tiny murder machines?" she asked. "That fancy baby factory world."
Ned switched views again.
—
A new planet came into focus.
Unlike Carthae's sprawling chaos, this world's orbital view was clean. Networked orbital platforms glowed in precise rings. Surface lights formed ordered geometries around pristine urban centers. Climate-control satellites glittered in regular constellations.
"Designation: Heliox," Ned said. "Core-adjacent, neutral on paper. In practice, they sell themselves to anyone who can pay their prices and tolerate their arrogance."
"What's their trade?" Omega asked.
"Birth," Ned said simply.
He brought up a cascade of images: glossy advertisement feeds, clinic holos showing serene gestation chambers, smiling parents receiving genetic profiles.
"On Heliox, natural birth is a luxury for the poor," he said. "The elite are all vat-born. Their families commission children the way lesser houses commission ships: designed, optimized, and gestated in controlled environments. They have generations of expertise in building stable, high-performance humans."
Omega studied the holo.
"So we go there and what?" she asked. "Order one divine body with extra lightning on the side?"
"No," Ned said. "We go there and steal their knowledge."
He shifted the display to schematics: facility layouts, staff hierarchies, encrypted sigils.
"They possess high-order genetic builder infrastructure," he said. "Machines and protocols that can integrate complex edits into embryos, manage long-term gestational stress, and tune development paths in ways my current equipment can only approximate. They have secrets I want."
"You think they'll just hand over their crown jewels because we ask nicely?" Omega asked.
"I think by the time we reach Heliox," Ned said, "my transfer tool will be mature enough to take those secrets without asking."
She turned to face him fully.
"You're talking about ripping knowledge out of people like you did with Kalen," she said.
"No," Ned said. "Not like Kalen. That was a crude brute-force mapping. A theft without regard for what survived. For Heliox, I will refine the tool to perform targeted extraction: specific skill-sets, constrained pattern segments. I don't need their entire minds. I need their methods."
"And what happens to the donors?" she asked.
"Best case," Ned said, "they live with some holes in their memory and a very confusing night. Worst case… they experience a catastrophic stroke and die in their sleep. Heliox has excellent clinics. They bury their mistakes."
She held his gaze.
"You're sure you won't fall in love with that tool again?" she asked. "Stacking brains because you like the decimals."
"No," Ned said. "I am not sure. Which is why you will monitor usage thresholds. And why we will design storage carefully."
He gestured, calling up a schematic of their future ship's internal layout: labs, crew quarters, hangar bays, and, at the center, a compartment marked with layered security zones.
"Knowledge from Heliox, from nanotech engineers, from whoever else we take," he said, "will not just live in my head. We will distribute it—encrypted datasets, specialized expert systems, secondary cores. If something happens to me, House Seresh does not lose everything."
"Many people stored in your new ship," Omega said quietly. "Pieces of them, anyway."
"Pieces of their expertise," Ned said. "Their lives, their joys and sorrows—I do not need those. I need their hands and their habits, reduced to tools. That is ugly. It is also efficient."
She sighed.
"You know, if anyone else said that to me, I'd kill them," she said. "But you're the one who pulled me out of a fighting pit and taught me how not to burn myself alive. So I'll settle for making you keep your promises."
"I will keep the ones that matter," Ned said.
She looked back at Heliox's image.
"So Heliox is where you aim at thirty, forty, fifty thousand," she said.
"Yes," Ned said. "Heliox is where we stop being clever fugitives and start building something worthy of the term divine Carthae gets us free. The nanotech gets us durable. Heliox gives us the tools to climb."
"And between here and there," she said, "we've got a war, a suspicious admin, a quiet acolyte, and a Lord who thinks you're his favorite toy."
"Yes," Ned said.
They stood in silence for a few heartbeats, watching the holographic worlds hang side by side.
Finally Omega exhaled.
"One month," she said. "That's not a lot of time."
"No," Ned said. "But it is enough to finish what must be finished."
He listed the remaining tasks, crisp and finite:
– Finalize HSL-15A replication and embed lines in Sanguis manifests.
– Complete flank-droid cohort fabrication and assign covert positions aboard VT-12.
– Tighten falsified Sanguis deployment orders and crosslink Varis's codes.
– Watch Acolyte X.
– Wait for the war to give them an opening: a battle, an inspection elsewhere, a distraction large enough that one ship's trajectory goes unremarked.
"If the opening doesn't come?" Omega asked.
"Then we manufacture one," Ned said. "But ideally, we ride noise instead of making it."
She nodded slowly.
"Then I'll keep drilling with your tin soldiers," she said. "And talk to Brask. He'll want to know how much rope he's really getting."
"Do not tell him everything yet," Ned said. "Just enough that he understands his survival odds improve with us."
"Got it," she said.
She started toward the door, then paused.
"Ned," she said.
"Yes?"
"When you hit fifty thousand," she said, "when you're in a body that can wrestle Varis and whatever else is out there… what's the first thing you do?"
He considered the question.
Many answers flickered: destroy old slavers, dismantle Sith projects, crack open Jedi archives, build citadels in forgotten systems.
He thought of the screaming ghosts, of Kalen's knot of fear, of the growing rows of seed vials.
"Test whether I can still stop," he said.
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
"I'll be there to help," she said. "One way or another."
"I am counting on that," Ned said.
—
Later, alone in the vault, he reopened Foresight.
FORESIGHT: UPDATE RUN – BRANCH FAMILY A ("MASKED LOGISTICS → CARTHAE → HELIOX")
NEW INPUTS:
– HSL-15A: VERIFIED STABLE 15K LINE
– FLAK_DROID COHORT: OPERATIONAL
– CARTHAE POLIS PLAN: OUTLINES COMPLETE
– HELIOX KNOWLEDGE ACQUISITION: ADDED AS LONG-TERM OBJECTIVE
– TRANSFER TOOL: FUTURE UPGRADE PATH (TARGETED EXTRACTION)
CALCULATING…
Trees unfolded.
Escape purely through brute force and immediate rebellion still died in blood and fire in most branches. Quiet departure with minimal assets led to survival but stagnation—Omega old and bitter on a backwater, Ned running out of parts.
The path that glowed brightest now was a triptych: VT-12 and Sanguis as mask → Carthae's dark market as chrysalis → Heliox as forge.
SUCCESS PROBABILITY (BRANCH A): 47.3% → 49.8%
Nearly half.
Failure modes remained.
– RANDOM INSPECTION BY SENIOR LORD: PERSISTENT
– UNKNOWN ENTITY ("ACOLYTE X") INTERVENTION: PERSISTENT
– VARIS INSIGHT SPIKE: LOW BUT NONZERO
Ned accepted them.
"Lock Branch A as primary," he said. "Tag all other branches as contingency."
ACK.
He dimmed every projection except three: the outline of VT-12, the glittering sprawl of Carthae Polis, and the ordered glow of Heliox.
Between them ran thin lines of possibility, annotated with numbers, risks, and chances.
He thought again of the war outside, of the way Sith and Jedi both loved the idea of destiny—as if the future were a tide instead of a set of equations you could manipulate if you were willing to pay the cost.
Fifty thousand was far away.
For now, fifteen thousand was enough to move.
ESCAPE HORIZON: 1 MONTH, 3 DAYS, 9 HOURS, 3 MINUTES.
Ned turned more power toward HSL-15A's replication units and began drafting the final orders that would carry his children, his droids, and his House toward the dark markets and beyond.
The next time he shouted "Finally," he suspected, it would be in a lab that no Sith had ever seen.
------------------------
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