By the time I returned to the base, I was changed. Calm, measured, yet with that simmering edge honed by Malachor and Darth Nox. I visited Ahsoka first, confirming she hadn't noticed anything unusual. The Gauntlet works, I thought. Very well indeed.
With the arrival of new equipment and additional supplies, the pace of construction noticeably accelerated. Yesterday, after sketching a rough plan, I had assigned the work. An area roughly eight by eight kilometers was cleared. Along the perimeter, walls at least four meters high were rising, reinforced with seven-meter defensive towers bristling with captured turbolasers and topped with missile launchers.
Remembering the tactics I had faced in countless battles, I wasn't entirely confident about high walls and towers. Still, the local plastoconcrete was far stronger than any Earth brick, and even the formidable Brest Fortress—built from it—had withstood a month-long siege despite overwhelming numbers. I decided not to interfere with the engineers' plans. But around the base itself, I planned to deploy a fortified inner perimeter: full-profile trenches, pillboxes, dugouts, and other defensive measures. A compromise, if you will.
Inside the walls, barracks, warehouses, workshops, canteens, and critical structures like communications centers and a hospital were rising. At the center, a massive landing pad could accommodate the *Terminus* and three other capital ships. The ground base Ethan developed resembled the Skynet Colorado installation, equipped with salvaged hardware and repurposed quad turbolasers from destroyed Separatist ships.
Orderly chaos reigned. Troopers bustled with purpose, yet without confusion.
The chief engineer caught my attention.
"Good morning, General!" he said cheerfully.
"There's no such thing as a good morning," I snapped.
"I can't disagree," he replied, smiling, then continued. "Sir, I have two pieces of news for you."
"Good and bad?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. Which first?"
"Bad," I waved.
"We won't be able to reprogram the B-2 series droids. Their security protocols are too sophisticated, too deeply embedded. Our equipment simply isn't sufficient."
"Damn," I muttered.
"And the good news?"
"We managed with the B-1s. Straightforward enough. Additional security protocols installed. Here," he said, handing me a datapad. "Your approval is required."
"And the technical schematics?"
"Yes, sir. The DUM and other repair units had fairly detailed cores. Everything we need is accessible."
"Excellent. Let's head to the command post. I have plans to implement."
As we walked, I updated authorizations, listing only myself in the "command priority" column.
"So," I said, "here's what we'll do:
"First, upgrade the AT-TE tanks—install droidek deflectors for frontal protection and reinforce the pilot cabins. Shield generators on speeders, as many as possible. Paint B-1 droids green, organize them into companies and battalions, and distribute them to commanders to cover critical sectors. Base guard and counter-boarding teams will be composed of them. Repair all AATs, weld troop brackets to their hulls. Modify MTT transports: remove ramps, add twelve to sixteen blasters and, if feasible, missile launchers. Mark all equipment and droids with our legion's insignia."
"That's doable, sir. But painting the droids green—"
"What options do we have?" I interrupted.
"Red and white. Lots of it," the engineer replied, grinning.
"To hell with it. White with red stripes. At least they'll be identified as ours."
Ethan began salvaging B-2 droid bodies, weapons, and armor for further adaptation.
Of course, the fleet's white-and-red colors were functional enough, but camouflage would have been more logical. I considered ordering paint supplies from off-world, but selling a few hundred thousand blasters and rifles for a few hundred million credits would have drawn attention. And if the Jedi Order or Senate discovered it… well, prudence dictated restraint.
Even so, the Confederate droids' inefficiency was staggering. Packed in the open and unable to adapt to changing conditions, the operations could have dragged on for weeks. Jokes aside, the software seemed written by ideological followers of Microsoft: "Your resources will never be enough!" Their programming lagged even under heavy fire, and even a mechanical calculator outpaced many of these units.
The first reports trickled in from the "trophy" teams, streaming across the command post screens. I observed quietly, noting both surprises and disappointments.
We recovered only twenty heavy artillery systems. Still, these were J-1 proton cannons: massive, autonomous weapons, requiring only three B-1 droids to operate—one gunner, two loaders. Remarkably, only six of these guns had ever held off Master Windu's Ryloth landing, shooting down one of his ships in the process.
Even more surprising were 28,500 DUM-series pit droids, still operational, tirelessly repairing comrades and salvaging equipment amidst the chaos.
The rest included roughly a thousand repairable AAT tanks, fifty MTT transports, several PACs, twenty-five and a half thousand B-1 droids (some not yet activated), a couple thousand B-2 droids, hundreds of laser cannons, generators from droideks, piles of E-5 carbines, handheld rocket launchers, and several dozen tons of mixed ammunition—mostly rockets. Armor plates, spare parts, and scrap from both sides were abundant.
While I was still reviewing the numbers, the chief engineer approached with an R-series droid trailing behind.
"General, may I speak with you?"
"Go ahead."
"Why are we collecting all this... junk?"
"It's not junk," I said. "It's military trophies. Reinforcements won't arrive soon. We'll face another battle before long, and I intend to use everything at my disposal."
"I see, sir."
"How's progress?"
"On schedule. Most trophies are already at camp or en route. We haven't pushed far—enemy scouts remain a threat."
The R-series beeped something. The engineer translated:
"I'll need your authorization to reprogram the repair droids. They're invaluable for transport, maintenance, and adapting captured tech. Only you can approve it."
"Just the repair units?"
"For now. Combat models need classified protocols. DUM and BLX series are accessible and straightforward."
"All right. Send me the request."
The datapad displayed:
**Reprogramming request:** DUM-series droids, model R-45L/i. Quantity: 8,545 units. Status pending.
I entered the necessary authorizations:
**Affiliation:** Grand Army of the Republic
**Assignment:** *Terminus*, Acclamator-class military assault ship
**Subordination:** Engineering Service, Repair Corps
**Priority of orders:** Dagon Marek.
The engineer nodded. "Orders received, sir."
I allowed myself a small smile. The troops, the machines, the base—they were all falling into place. Absolute loyalty, unquestioning efficiency, and organized chaos: that was the true strength of our legion.
And, more importantly, they would see me not just as their commander, but as the architect of victory itself.
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