Ethan had outdone himself.
While I had been juggling fleet rosters and supply chains, he had quietly split his processing core into three auxiliary platforms—compact droid bodies built from salvaged Separatist chassis and Republic interface systems. They weren't full copies of him, not independent minds, but synchronized extensions.
"Three communication avatars online," Ethan reported calmly. "Each unit will maintain encrypted real-time contact with my primary core. One per capital ship is optimal."
"So I can speak to every vessel instantly," I said.
"Correct. Additionally, this will stabilize and expand your battle meld. Signal delay between ships will be reduced to negligible levels."
That alone made it worth the effort. Coordinating dozens of starfighters and multiple cruisers through the Force was powerful—but exhausting. With Ethan acting as a relay, translating intent into precise commands, the mental strain would be… manageable.
"Deploy one to the Terminus," I ordered. "One to the Akagi. One to whichever cruiser is running picket rotation."
"It will be done."
I was about to review supply projections when my commlink crackled.
"Sir, local natives at the east gate," Commander Blam reported. "They demand to see the chieftain."
I blinked. "I haven't been promoted to chieftain yet."
A pause. "They insist."
"I'll be right there."
A colorful procession awaited me outside the east gate.
At first glance, I almost laughed—they looked like goblins out of an old Core Worlds holo-fantasy. Short, broad-shouldered, with vivid pigments streaked across their skin and elaborate feathered mantles. Their ears curved upward in a way that would have made a sculptor jealous.
At their head stood the obvious leader: taller, draped in bright fabrics and ornaments, leaning on a carved staff. A perfectly standard Republic-issue communicator hung from his wrist.
"Great Chief Mbagongo welcomes the emissaries of the Republic!" he declared.
Well. Formalities were universal.
"I am Jedi Dagon Marek," I replied with a respectful nod. "I greet you, Great Chief Mbagongo. What brings you here?"
He struck his staff against the ground.
"Before you—planet machine!" he said, gesturing vaguely toward the remains of the Separatist installations. "Long we trade with Bomongo. Trade go bad. We stop. Now evil machine gone. We trade with you!"
So that was it. Commerce.
"What do you require?" I asked.
"Repair for machine. Our field tools broken. And guns to hunt kvvirrums. Hide strong. Spears fail. We need guns!"
So. Not savages. Pragmatists.
I considered the implications. Arming locals wasn't ideal—but refusing outright would create hostility. And we had plenty of captured E-5 blasters and surplus droid components.
"All right," I said. "We will trade."
The chief's eyes brightened. "What messenger of the Republic need? Fruit? Meat from sloms?"
The clones could certainly use fresh food.
Then another thought struck me.
"Do you have paint?" I asked.
He tilted his head. "Paint?"
"We are at war," I said solemnly. "My warriors require colors."
He grinned broadly. "Good work! My help is yours!"
Negotiations continued the next day. The natives brought samples—pigments extracted from plants and minerals, surprisingly high quality. In exchange, we transferred repair droids, spare parts, B-2 power cells, scrap metal, and approximately three thousand captured E-5 blasters.
By Republic standards, it was uneven. By local standards, it was transformative.
In return, I received ten thousand Republic credits, several tons of paint, and a six-month agreement: five tons of fresh fruit and meat delivered daily.
The clones were ecstatic.
With their accelerated metabolism, they consumed rations at alarming rates. Even standard-issue high-calorie packs barely kept up. Fresh food wasn't just morale—it was logistics.
There was another unexpected benefit.
Among the goods the natives brought were rare medicinal plants—including a strain compatible with bacta cultivation. The probability of finding viable specimens here had been negligible.
"Ethan," I said immediately, "repurpose a section of the destroyed Lucrehulk ring at the base perimeter. Convert it into controlled agricultural bays."
"Understood."
Several B1 battle droids were reprogrammed into agricultural and processing units. It was almost poetic—former war machines now tending bacta cultures and nutrient crops.
If we could scale production, bacta would become legitimate trade currency. Proper practices. Clean revenue streams.
For once, everyone benefited.
The following days were quiet.
No attacks. No orbital threats. No droid offensives.
The silence was almost oppressive.
When we were under constant assault, life had been simple: calculate, strike, survive. Now there were manifests to review, crew rotations to approve, hyperdrive maintenance logs to verify. I was expected to understand everything—from reactor calibration cycles to galley staffing schedules.
I found myself missing the clarity of battle.
To clear my head, I trained.
I had acquired several small remote training droids—the kind once used in Jedi instruction. I began with one. Then two.
Now I was up to twelve.
Blaster bolts lanced toward me from every direction as I moved through Soresu's defensive patterns, blending them with Shii-Cho fundamentals and the breathing techniques I had learned long ago. Each deflection sharpened my foresight, each motion forced my mind back into stillness.
When that wasn't enough, I meditated.
Not passive reflection—but true emptiness. The kind the Star Seers spoke of: dissolving into the current of the Force and letting it flow without resistance.
Sleep became optional. Armor removal, rare.
The lull would not last. It never did.
And when the next storm arrived, I intended to meet it with a fleet that could think as one mind, a legion that ate well, traded wisely, and carried its banners with purpose.
For now, the galaxy allowed me this fragile peace.
I did not intend to waste it.