Unit 1555 steps into the drop pod with a sense of weary finality flowing through its code. The abnormally spirited droid locks itself into drop configuration, magnetic restraints keeping it from moving around during the drop. Two Imperial Mk-II droids join it within the pod. The black droids folding into neat boxes before restraints lower and lock them into place as well. The Spirit shudders against the constricting grip of gravity and the upper atmosphere of the moon. The long-abandoned research station is buried under a mountain with its own contingent of maintenance droids to keep the stasis fields functioning and the geothermal power plant supplying.
However, four thousand years of erosion and the presence of foreign entities makes finding anything of use an uncertainty. So, Lord Carnan has begun taking steps to minimize the risk to his ship and the droids on board not knowing when replenishment will be possible. The Spirit has a few features that other Harrower-class dreadnoughts lack. Namely the droid drop-pods mounted in her belly that take the place of several storage rooms and a pair of missile batteries. Capable of dropping either five Imperial Mk-II droids or two Mk-IIs and one C-series war droid from low orbit with pin-point accuracy to secure drop zones quickly for reinforcements or heavier units.
The nature of the pods and their occupants allow them to make truly wild maneuvers to avoid hostile AA fire. Vector thrusters and anti-gravity plating combined with layers of armor and shield unit supplied by an experimental and expensive power cell make it a durable and tricky piece of gear. And the pods are recoverable.
There is no need for a countdown to be broadcast over the interior intercom. They're droids and they maintain timetables like no organic could ever dream of. Magnetic rails propel the pods from zero to holy-kriffing-shit in less than a second. The Spirit lifts away from the moon on whining repulsor engines, a ventral cannon firing a pair of parting shots to disable a trio of grav-tanks that the Separatists had already landed.
If it had been possible Unit 1555 would have scoffed. Foolish substandard models should have just surrendered the moment the Spirit won the orbitals. Now they deal with true war droids.
((-))
Lord Carnan tastes the heavily recycled air of the assault shuttle as Rennow guides it down through orbit. The smuggler might not be the most experienced pilot to ever sit behind the Sith's personal shuttle's controls but even he can't crash it. The heavily modified shuttle carries twice the armor and shielding than the standard model used by the Empire millennia ago while also integrating a more powerful inertial dampener to make the ride smoother and allow the craft to perform maneuvers that shouldn't be possible for a ship its size and weight.
Armed with two heavy laser cannons and two missile batteries armed with either cluster munitions or armor/shield piercing missiles it has the firepower to clear a landing zone or board an enemy ship with just a change of missile loadout. The shuttle plunges through the thin atmosphere of the moon with ease, barely a vibration to mark their passage. Carnan stands in the troop bay with a hand locked around one of the handholds hanging from the ceiling unbothered by thoughts of the fighting to come. It will be as easy as breathing for him.
His only concern is limiting his losses for now. The Spirit lacks droid construction facilities that he can use to replace his losses, so every unit lost is a unit that stays lost. If he could have afforded it, he would have bombarded the site from orbit with ion-cannons before landing his own forces, but he has no idea if the shielding of the facility is intact enough to resist the charged particles. The information stored within those archives could be vital to him rebuilding the Empire; ship schematics, experimental weapon designs, new droid models, infantry equipment, and locations of yet more hidden facilities that might still be functioning.
The Spirit's own archives are expansive, but they are still limited by the last time they were connected to the Empire's networks. He sighs behind his mask and puts aside his thoughts of the future. Now they have to force entrance against the defending Separatist droids. A misstep can still kill him. A press of a hidden stud beneath the lip of his mask seals it against his skin protecting him from the weak atmosphere to be found on the moon and drawing on his suit's oxygen reserves. The expanded tanks attached to his back should allow him an hour of air in conjunction with the scrubbers built into the respiration unit.
His hand caresses the hilt of his lightsaber beneath his black robes subconsciously as if to check that it is still there. Being deprived of it led to his imprisonment. It is the last time that he allows someone to get so close to him, a weakness that is purged and sealed in a prison by his fury. Never again will he be disarmed by a friend. The weapon seems to hum beneath his touch in agreement.
"Five minutes my Lord. The advanced force reports no resistance to their landing," Rennow reports from the cockpit.
"Thank you Rennow. Stay with the ship. HK and I will deal with the squatters then you can join us. Don't forget your data sticks."
"Statement: I am eager to test this platform Master. The inferior models shall make excellent test subjects," HK remarks while his hands manipulate the heavy blaster that seems too large for the lithe droid to handle with such ease. The large weapon hums angrily like a hive of disturbed insects as the oversized power cell is slapped home.
"I as well HK." Rennow leans through the open door to the cockpit.
"Equalizing pressure in the compartment my Lord, check your seals unless you want to be on thin air."
"I know Rennow. Begin equalization."
The door seals and pumps hiss sucking out the atmosphere to match that of the moon. Standard procedure on such landings to prevent loss of precious oxygen and the explosive decompression that can occur in rare cases. The shuttle settles against its landing skids and the ramp drops sharply. The Sith and his droid charge from the troop bay, the hiss of his lightsaber igniting strangely muffled through his helmet and the reduced atmosphere. The droids that dropped to secure the landing zone are joined by yet more droids from the Spirit emerging from more shuttles.
The droids seamlessly insert themselves into the perimeter defenses. Shuttle engines ramp back up the moment the last droid emerges and sets foot on dirt. The blocky craft lift off and scream into the distance to avoid any potential AA fire and preserve themselves to evacuate the assault force.
Lord Carnan savors the slight hike in adrenaline that surges through him with the proximity of battle. But at the same time, he restrains himself allowing the droids to go first. A reckless Sith is a dead one.
"All droid units advance on the facility."
((-))
The Intelligence flickers to life with a hum of ancient electronics and stirring generators. Time has eroded at the surveillance abilities of the ancient AI. Entrusted with the safety of the facility it has rarely had a purpose for awakening from its stasis sleep. Strange new droids with long faces and fragile bodies are infiltrating the outer layers of the facility. Only a quarter of the hundreds of cameras remain functioning even with the maintenance droids working near constantly to keep them operational. That is to say nothing of the remnants of the garrison security droids.
Seven of the once lithe and deadly droids remain in operation and are currently deployed to defend the main lift into the lower levels of the facility. Defensive turrets read as eighty-percent functional. Something like satisfaction thrums through the Intelligence's coding.
((-))
Unit 1555 stomps forward at the head of its fellows. Cannons spit crimson fire into the packed ranks of lesser models while their return fire, inaccurate and weak by the standards of the Sith Empire, splashes against its shields for no tangible damage. Return fire fries the B1 droids by the dozen and before long Unit 1555 is striding over the shattered chassis of its foes. More of the small droids emerge from the target facility only to be cut down with ease.
The Master advance behind the lines of droids, blade humming and ready at his side. Unit 1555 places itself between the Master and any enemy fire as per its programming. It doesn't register the slight annoyance the organic fighter exudes at the lack of targets for him to dispatch. It takes exactly fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds for the Sith droids to secure the facility's entrance and allow the smaller models to swarm past and into the facility proper.
Mk-II droids swarm forward like a herd of colicoids laying down a blistering wall of fire with their twin arm mounted blasters. What few lesser models remain intact within are swiftly obliterated. The Master is silent as he strides past the droids to the barely functional lift at the end of the rotted and now destroyed reception area. His blade hisses back into dormancy and he pulses a subharmonic command.
'Guard detail post. Escort one-nine follow.'
((-))
Unit 1555 and two Mk-II droids stomp into place in the lift forming a wall of durasteel and alloy between him and what threats await below. He knows that Sith installations are rarely a safe place to be and the protection protocols are well warranted. Doesn't make it any more comfortable to be sharing a small lift with almost two tons of war droid. The lift grinds down the shaft for the first time in millennia with a screech of tortured metal and buzzing barely functional magnetic propulsion units.
The lift studders to a stop after a hair-raising drop into the bowels of the earth. The lift doors screech open painfully making him cringe in discomfort. The droids storm forward in an avalanche of unfeeling legs and primed blasters to secure the immediate entrance. The whine of yet more weapons coming to full charge sends him surging to the front, blade already clutched in his fist.
Ancient, rusting droids. Imperial droids of the kind commonly used as security models for Imperial research centers. Something approaching hope blossoms in his heart. A low whine of activating electronics left too long without maintenance precedes the appearance of a flickering shape. The ancient holoprojector technology used by the old Empire was created to last with little to no care for its delicate internals. That it is this degraded is a sobering reminder of just how long it has been.
The flickering light eventually coalesces into the shape of a woman in an Imperial uniform devoid of rank pins or medals. Feedback screeches from the hidden speakers for a moment before the program adjusts.
"Greetings, Scion of the Empire, to installation Theta-Major. I am Imperial Intelligence Aurubesh-Nine-Nine-Six, Imperial-class artificial intelligence attached to the Ministry of Preservation."
"What was the Ministry of Preservation?" Carnan inquires. There were many different ministries and spheres within the Empire devoted to one facet of their governance or another. It was not unheard of for there to be several that are never mentioned by any but the Dark Council or whatever head of the Greater Spheres they fell under.
"The Ministry of Preservation was tasked with the preservation of as many Imperial relics and technological advancements as possible for the future use of any who would survive a collapse of the Empire. The odds of a Sith Empire collapsing under the weight of its own decadence, the constant infighting, or any other of the many factors which may have led to their downfall were judged to be absolute." The Sith smirks beneath his mask.
"Is that your judgement based on reasoning or the reason given to you by your creator?"
"Both."
Lord Carnan grunts and steps forward into the base proper.
((-))
Six Months Later
The armories of the Vengeful Spirit are swollen with the results of Lord Carnan's labor. Suits of armor never before worn forged in an advanced composite promising an eighty-percent increase in blaster resistance. Skinsuits designed to be worn in vacuum beneath armor or normal clothes. Heavy blasters more powerful and efficient than most anything seen on either side of the conflict.
Memory banks are clogged with designs for new vehicle mounted weapons, the vehicles to mount them. Starfighters, capital ships and escorts. Completed designs and fragments that could be pieced together to form variants suited to obscure tasks. Whole armories devoted to overcoming the unique challenges of a single planet codified in digital code and saved on the massive banks of servers and storage crystals.
So much knowledge of warcraft stored within the durasteel walls of the Spirit. The Sith in him craves yet more. The Lord in him says that it is time to begin his work in earnest. Thus, their arrival over a dying world. The black world sedately spins on its axis ignoring the torturous conditions of the surface. The black mark of a civilization gone wrong evident in the near lifeless planet's regressed ecosystem, supremely powerful storms raging across the surface and near constant tectonic instability.
The few places where the powerful scopes and sensors of the Spirit managed to pierce the charged particles and insanely dense storm systems paints a grim picture of the few inhabitants left alive. Trains of nomads eking a living off the rocks and ruins of their predecessors, fighting between tribes over the few scraps of ore and food that they have. A harsh world that tolerates no weakness.
The perfect world to begin training a new crop of Sith or even special operations troops. But a place to find a Force Sensitive where the Force is near nonexistent? He never would have thought.
"Prepare a shuttle. We're going to meet the natives."
A/N: Howdy, been a while hasn't it. Some crazy stuff happening and I' sure you can appreciate the madness has even affected the military. The only reason this took so long is that I had NO INTERNET! So enjoy, like, comment, and subscribe or whatever...