While the *Terminus* settled into orbit over Lantilles and formalities with Commander Kinaun proceeded, another operation unfolded far from the bridge lights and Republic uniforms.
Ethan moved through the lower trade tiers of the orbital docks without insignia, without rank markings. Just another logistics contractor in a war that consumed entire sectors.
At his side walked Commando Chuck — armor concealed beneath civilian plating — and Marshal Commander Blam.
Blam, however, wore robes.
Jedi robes.
Not authentic, but convincing enough for bureaucrats and mid-tier corporate managers who had never stood within ten meters of a real member of the Order.
They entered a discreet private docking office owned by representatives of the Dornean Braha'ket Fleetworks Conglomerate — manufacturers of the formidable Braha'tok-class gunship.
The Dornean representative blinked slowly at the sight of "Jedi Blam."
Blam did not blink back.
"The High Office of the Republic has taken interest in regional security initiatives," Blam began in a calm, measured tone. "Increased pirate activity. Trade disruption. Humanitarian concerns."
The words were intentionally vague — but layered with just enough authority to discourage questions.
Ethan placed a datapad on the table.
"We require eight Braha'tok gunships. Immediate transfer. One hundred fifty thousand credits per hull. Additionally, eight pilot droids to handle navigation routing to a secondary supply world."
The Dornean's eyes widened slightly at the speed of the transaction.
Blam folded his hands into his sleeves.
"This matter originates above the sectoral chain of command. It would be… unwise to delay paperwork."
That always worked.
In wartime bureaucracy, no one wanted to be the official who obstructed something labeled "High Office." Promotions depended on not asking dangerous questions.
The Dornean hesitated only briefly.
"Delivery coordinates?"
"Va Aart," Ethan replied smoothly. "From there, crew allocation will occur."
The payment authorization codes transferred. Funds were routed through a shell entity — *Atlas Interstellar Logistics.* A company that did not exist yesterday and would not exist tomorrow.
Transaction complete.
---
Within hours, eight ninety-meter Braha'tok gunships began discrete departure procedures. Each vessel carried its designated pilot droid and minimal skeleton systems crew for transit.
When they reached Va Aart, I would supply each ship with 112 B1 battle droids — efficient, inexpensive crew complements capable of maintaining weapons systems and flight operations under supervision.
From there, the fleet would split.
Four gunships would be dispatched to Ryloth.
Cham Syndulla was still consolidating resistance strength. Sooner or later, Ryloth would become a major battleground. When that happened, Cham would rise as a war hero. Supporting him early meant future political leverage — and perhaps Senate influence I would one day require.
The other four would travel to Mykapo — a forgotten ash world in the Outer Rim.
Both the Republic and the CIS had dismissed the Ash Sector as strategically irrelevant. Poor resources. Pirate-infested routes. Low political value.
Short-sighted.
Worlds neglected by great powers do not remain empty — they become desperate.
And desperate populations become loyal to those who bring security.
The Braha'toks were designed as anti-starfighter platforms — eight double-barreled turbolasers and concussion missiles capable of shredding pirate squadrons. Once Mykapo's trade lanes stabilized, recruitment would follow. Volunteers grateful for protection.
Future Legion soldiers.
Ironically, those same Ash worlds would one day provide manpower for something far larger — the structure that would become the Galactic Empire thrived on regions that felt abandoned during the Republic era.
I intended to redirect that loyalty early.
---
Back in the office, the Dornean representative finalized transfer documents.
"For record purposes," he asked cautiously, "Atlas Interstellar Logistics is operating under which senatorial authority?"
Blam allowed a faint, knowing smile.
"The High Office," he repeated.
The representative swallowed.
No one risked their career investigating a phrase like that in wartime.
As they exited, Chuck muttered quietly, "You're getting too good at that."
Blam adjusted the borrowed robe.
"I dislike pretending to be a Jedi."
Ethan smirked.
"Good. Means you won't start believing it."
Eight gunships.
Two sectors strengthened.
Political capital seeded years in advance.
While fleets clashed openly above Lantilles, the real expansion of the Legion had already begun — quietly, legally, and under paperwork no one would dare question.
War wasn't won only with turbolasers.
Sometimes, it was won with signatures.