**Echoes from the Edge **
**Scene 1: Coruscant Moon – Centax 2 Shipyards**
Looking at the documents, Captain Call Amos realized that he was clearly having a bad day. "What the… crap is this?" After a brief moment of thought, the captain finally found the right word.
"The ship's refit plan," First Lieutenant Bintagr smiled.
"Are they out of their minds at headquarters?"
"You wouldn't say that, sir," Second Lieutenant Cresell waved his hands. "It's a very interesting combination."
"I've seen such combinations… Cut the air wing in half. In half! And what are these structures that take up almost the entire main flight deck? Some kind of bulkheads, ceilings, supports…"
Aemos had only been captain of the *Ominanta*, a Venator-class vessel, for a week, but he'd already grown accustomed to his new ship. And these kinds of changes jarred on his soul. No turning his… his beauty into something incomprehensible—that was a real crime.
"I think these are the gun mounts," said Greg, the ship's chief engineer. Pointing his finger at the diagram, the clone major pointed to the appropriate locations. "Judging by the size, this is where the laser beam cannons with SPHA will be mounted. And their reactors will be in the side hangars. The entrances to the bays will be covered with patches, leaving only openings for the cables, which will also be covered with armor plates… Yes, exactly. There will be three barrels in a row, and then a ladder, five steps in total. That's fifteen cannons in a salvo."
"Fifteen?" Bintagr whistled. "That's… That's…"
"An argument," the captain interjected.
"It's hard to find words these days."
"But to fire, we'll have to open the main hangar doors."
"If you're shooting from a distance, it's quite safe. Then again, there'll be extra armor inside. How much is there?"
"Yes, about eight hundred tons, if I'm not mistaken in my calculations."
"Exactly. Armor, and shooting from long range—it's perfectly safe. And the enemy won't expect that from us."
"Not if he doesn't find out," Alsik Foda, the security agent, caught everyone off guard again by approaching completely unexpectedly and unnoticed. "Therefore, gentlemen, I ask that secrecy be maintained. The official version is that the hangar is being converted to accommodate TIE vehicles…"
The Centax 2 shipyards buzzed with activity. Massive gantries and docking arms extended like metallic tentacles around the orbiting *Ominanta*. Captain Call Amos stood in the observation lounge, the documents spread across a table before him. The refit plans were ambitious. Radical, even.
He rubbed his temples, staring at the schematics. The main hangar—once a proud launch bay for starfighters—was being transformed. Bulkheads, reinforced ceilings, and heavy support structures now dominated the space. The air wing was being slashed in half to make room for something far more lethal.
"Fifteen SPHA-T laser cannons in a single salvo," Greg repeated, his clone voice steady with professional pride. "With additional armor plating and reactor banks in the side bays. The main hangar doors will remain functional for launching, but the guns can fire through reinforced ports. It's a mobile artillery platform now."
Bintagr leaned closer, eyes wide. "We'll be able to support planetary assaults from orbit like never before. Or shred capital ships at range."
Alsik Foda, the Republic Intelligence liaison, stood silently in the corner, his presence a quiet reminder of operational security. "The official story is a TIE conversion. Keep it that way. The enemy cannot know what we're building."
Captain Amos exhaled slowly. The *Ominanta* was no longer just a carrier. She was becoming something new—a hybrid warship capable of devastating long-range bombardment. The Dragon's vision for the fleet was taking shape, one refit at a time.
**Scene 2: Frozen Outpost – Clone Message**
"So what's going on?" Clone Commander Art grimaced impatiently.
"Almost everything." A clone technician, bent over the table, was reassembling the memory blocks of a datapad, whose wrecked casing lay nearby. The device had suffered greatly from cold temperatures and ice, but it seemed some of the data might have survived.
"That's it, sir. Should I begin projecting the data?"
"Go ahead."
A couple of minutes of hissing mixed with interference, and a holographic recording appeared above the projector.
"I know, Big Guy, sending you messages is pointless. You don't know the alphabet anyway, but this activity is so calming. Just kidding, brother. By the way, remember how you joked that after all this training in desert conditions, one of us would definitely be sent to a water planet? Well, now I get what the joke was. Of course, telling where we are now is forbidden…. But you know, sometimes I curse that B-2 that shot me down on Christophsis. You're probably having a blast right now, judging by the reports. And I'm testing out various winter gear. But not all of it works. We have to heat the bike engines with cutting torches just to get them started. That's how it is. And yes, we also have to heat up the food with the same cutting torches—no one in command ever thought that at minus eighty degrees all the food freezes into bricks. Or maybe they just didn't bother with the thermal packaging… And who cares—but after freezing and reheating, food loses all flavor. Can you imagine, Big Guy, I'm nostalgic for that slop we ate on Kamino. It's really boring here, though. We don't have any cans, but we have target practice almost every day. What we do have in abundance are cartridges… They came in handy when those snowmen showed up. I don't know who they are. No one does. None of the patrols that supposedly encountered them returned. We searched for them, but found no one. The only thing we have is a fuzzy voice from a half-frozen camera. But you know us—we try to ignore it… Things are getting better and better for us. Lieutenant Govorun and I were checking the base's external sensors, but while we were running diagnostics, our Frico bikes froze solid. We'll try to hold out until they send us a gunboat… Stiletto, what are you doing? Oh, and this is Lieutenant Govorun… Sir, dictating a message to a friend… You idiot. You should have been asleep for half an hour already, so you'll be fresh enough to relieve me when I go to sleep… My nerves are getting the better of me, sir. Are you writing to the big guy? You're from the same batch, aren't you? And did you serve together? Yes, in the 501st. Where are they now?.. AAARGHHHHH! Your mother! Lieutenant! You bastard! Take that! /sounds of gunfire/ AARGHHHHH!"…
"This is all?"
"Yes, commander. This is all that has survived," the technician confirmed.
"So, what kind of creature is this?" the commander pointed to a fuzzy image of a furry humanoid with four eyes and a strange, proboscis-like mouth.
"According to the reference books, these look like Talz, or Talz, Telz… from the planet Alzoc Three. It's a couple dozen parsecs from here," Major Hart, part of the 1,307th Legion headquarters was as up-to-date as ever, providing the commander with the necessary information.
"What the hell are they doing here?"
"They probably migrated from their homeland. Alzok Third is rich in resources, and they even mine some kind of special pearl there. Well, they must have gotten into trouble."
The frozen outpost on the remote ice moon was a lonely bastion against the elements. Commander Art stood in the dimly lit command center, the recovered datapad's holographic recording playing on loop. The message from their lost brother—Stiletto—had been a grim reminder of the war's far-flung fronts. The Talz encounter, the desperate fight for survival in minus-eighty-degree cold, the frozen equipment and food—it painted a bleak picture.
"We need to send a recovery team," Art said finally. "If any of them are still alive…"
The technician nodded. "We'll prepare a gunboat. But the weather's worsening. This moon doesn't forgive mistakes."
The clones exchanged determined glances. They would not abandon their brothers. Not while there was still a chance.
**Scene 3: The Broader War**
The *Annihilator* continued its vigil in orbit, but Dagon's mind was already moving to the next theater. The reports from Utapau and Devaron were promising. The Republic was pressing its advantage, but the CIS was far from defeated. New Bulwark-class ships and desperate counterattacks kept the war grinding forward.
In the command center, Dagon reviewed the latest intelligence. The Hapes Cluster was mobilizing. Mon Cala remained a fortress. The Hutts were in chaos. The Dragon's campaign was reaching its climax, but the final blows would require precision.
He turned to the viewport, the stars stretching endlessly. The war was changing the galaxy. And he would shape its future.