Authors note
enjoy this chapter
The days after the meeting unfolded in a blur of activity, both within the walls of the UNSC embassy and beyond, as Lasky and his team continued to digest the new intelligence. They had not been idle in their analysis, but it was clear that the Empire's motives remained an enigma. The deeper they dug, the more they realized just how much they had yet to understand. For now, the UNSC was caught between the relentless wheels of Imperial bureaucracy and the rising tides of Rebel insurgency—two forces that were shaping the galaxy in ways that had the potential to either bring peace or tear it apart.
Lasky sat in his office late one evening, the room dimly lit by the blue glow of a tactical hologram on his desk. The simulation in front of him flickered between images of Imperial fleets and the data gathered on UNSC ships. The stark contrast between the two was palpable. The Empire's ships were sleek, almost organic in their design—sharply angled, symmetrical, and intimidating. The UNSC's vessels, by comparison, were blunt instruments of war, their utilitarian shape more in line with their direct and no-nonsense approach.
The differences were more than just aesthetic. The Empire had mastered the art of dominating space, projecting power with every maneuver. The UNSC, by contrast, had learned to fight efficiently, relying on practical tactics and resilience rather than grace. It made them unpredictable—at least, that's how Lasky liked to think of it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
"Come in," he called, turning his chair slightly to face the door.
It was Hawthorne, her face as sharp and determined as always, though there was a weariness in her eyes that spoke volumes.
"I've just received word from the Senate," she began, stepping into the room. "The Rebels are pushing hard for us to take a stronger stance. They're talking about forming a formal alliance, one that could reshape the balance of power in this sector. They want to move quickly, but I don't think we can afford to make a decision just yet."
Lasky leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "What's their angle? They've been asking for our support since day one. Why the rush now?"
"They're feeling the pressure," Hawthorne replied. "The Empire's grip on the outer rim is tightening. There have been reports of increased patrols, more interdiction of Rebel supply lines, and a significant build-up of Imperial forces along the edges of Rebel-held territory. The last thing they want is to be crushed under Imperial boots, and they think aligning with us could tip the scales in their favor."
Lasky ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. The Rebels were desperate. That much was clear. They were always trying to pull the UNSC into their fight, to convince them that this war was one worth joining. But he knew better than to be swayed by sentiment. The UNSC wasn't here to rescue anyone. Their mandate was survival, and survival meant playing a long game.
"I'm not ready to make that call yet," he said firmly. "We don't even fully understand the Empire's intentions. We need more time, more intel. Rushing into this could lead us down a path we can't walk back from."
Hawthorne nodded, though her expression remained strained. "The Rebels won't be happy. They'll pressure us more, and if we keep dragging our feet, we risk alienating them altogether."
"I know," Lasky replied, his voice low. "But we have to think bigger than just picking sides. This galaxy is a powder keg, and the last thing we want is to be caught in the middle of a war we can't control."
He glanced at the holographic simulation on his desk again, his mind racing through the possibilities. The Rebels were an obvious choice for an alliance—they were the underdogs, fighting against the might of the Empire. But the Empire… the Empire was something else entirely. A monolith of power, entrenched in every corner of the galaxy. They weren't just a government—they were a way of life. To cross them would be to put the UNSC on a collision course with a force that could obliterate them in an instant.
Yet, the Rebels were no better. Their ideals were admirable, but their desperation could lead them to make rash decisions that could drag the UNSC into something much worse than they were prepared for. If they aligned with the Rebels, they would become enemies of the Empire—a foe that, despite all their resources, the UNSC was not ready to face.
"We'll need to keep our options open," Lasky continued. "Keep talking to both sides, but make sure the Empire knows we're not their enemies—not yet."
The next few days were a blur of meetings and reports, each one more pressing than the last. Lasky spent his mornings in conferences with Imperial officials, discussing trade, diplomacy, and the shifting balance of power in the galaxy. His afternoons were spent with Rebel representatives, navigating their tangled web of demands, hoping that each conversation would provide more clarity. At night, he retreated to his office, running the numbers and strategizing for every possible outcome. Every choice carried weight. Every decision could alter the course of history.
But it wasn't just the military considerations that weighed on him. There was something deeper at play—a moral quandary that gnawed at him when he was alone in the quiet of his office. What was the UNSC's place in this galaxy? Were they meant to be a neutral force, a stabilizing presence? Or were they going to be forced to choose between two powers, each with its own vision for the future of the galaxy?
The thought of being caught in the Empire's web, their strings pulling tighter around him with each passing day, was a terrifying one. But the alternative—the chaos of the Rebel struggle—wasn't much better. Both sides had their own agendas, their own visions of what the galaxy should look like, and neither was particularly interested in what the UNSC wanted.
The moral line between the two options was razor-thin.
One evening, after yet another round of tense discussions with Imperial diplomats, Lasky and Hawthorne stood on the embassy's balcony, overlooking the endless expanse of Coruscant below them. The city lights glittered like a sea of stars, but there was no escaping the sense of danger that permeated the air.
"You ever think we're in over our heads?" Hawthorne asked, her voice quiet.
Lasky looked out at the sprawling city below, his face expressionless. "Every damn day."
She gave a dry chuckle, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I used to think the same about Earth—how big and complicated it was. But this... this is something else. The Empire, the Rebels, the politics, the espionage..."
"It's all a game," Lasky said, his voice hardening. "And we're just players in it. The question is—how do we play it?"
Hawthorne sighed. "I don't know if we can win this one, Admiral. Not if it's just a choice between two sides that don't care about us."
Lasky turned to face her, his gaze sharp. "That's why we need to stay focused. We're not just picking sides. We're carving out a place for ourselves, one where we can make the rules."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain. Below them, Coruscant thrummed with the pulse of the Empire, its heart beating like the drum of war.
And for the first time in a long time, Lasky couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a struggle for control—it was a fight for their very survival in a galaxy that didn't play by any rules they understood.
Either way, The settling of the ten worlds surrounding the portal back to the milky way should be underway by this point, that should provide them with a solid base of operations most of the world were rich in resources and were surrounded by mineral rich asteroids ripe for mining
he sighed and looked off into the distance
Rebel High Command
The war was complicated, but one thing was clear: the Rebel Alliance couldn't afford another complication. And yet, there it was, on the fringes of their attention—something they had only heard whispers about, the Terrans. The UNSC.
Admiral Ackbar's image flickered on the holoscreen, his monocle gleaming under the cold light of the strategy room. His tone was cautious, measured, but even his calm was strained.
"Reports are clear. These Terrans... they're not like anything we've encountered. They're organized, well-armed, and unlike us—they don't fight with ideals. They fight to survive. And we need to decide how to approach this."
Sitting at the back of the table, Hera Syndulla's green eyes narrowed as she listened. She had seen firsthand how quickly this kind of force could tip the scales, but she wasn't one to jump to conclusions. She had seen countless military factions come and go, and the UNSC, with their highly regimented tactics, was a wildcard. She trusted the Force, but even it didn't give her a clear read on them.
"It's not just their ships we need to worry about," Hera spoke up, her voice steady. "It's their mentality. They may act like they don't want to be involved, but if they're here... they're here for a reason. And that reason is likely tied to survival, just like ours."
Sabine Wren, ever the skeptic, crossed her arms. "Survival, sure. But I can't shake the feeling that they're just waiting for the right moment to throw their weight around. They don't look like the type to sit on the sidelines."
"Perhaps," said Mon Mothma from across the room, her voice calm and level-headed. "But that doesn't necessarily mean they're enemies. We have to learn more about them, not react out of fear."
"What's the plan, then?" Kanan Jarrus asked, his voice low but firm. The former Jedi always took time to consider the bigger picture, and right now, he couldn't shake the feeling that this might be something far more dangerous than they realized.
"We're tracking their movements, but the fact remains that they're a military force we can't afford to ignore. The UNSC fleet is not something you dismiss," Ackbar replied, tapping a few buttons on the console. A map of the galaxy filled the screen, showing the UNSC's known movements.
Hera stood, her hands resting on the table. "We know they're trying to make contact, and Lasky—Rear Admiral Lasky, their diplomatic officer—has been steady in his position: they're here to keep things neutral for now. But I doubt that neutrality is going to last."
"You think they'll make a move?" Sabine asked, eyes flashing with impatience.
"I think they already have," Hera said. "Their fleet is here. They're not here just to watch. They're here to test us—to see where we stand, to see how we react. And they're doing it with calculated patience."
Mon Mothma exchanged a glance with Ackbar. "So, what do we do? What can we do?"
"We wait," Kanan said simply. "But we don't sit idle. We gather information, we observe, and if necessary, we make our move first. But we do it cautiously. The last thing we need is to provoke them without knowing their true intentions."
Sabine leaned forward, tapping her fingers on the table. "That sounds like a nice plan, but when do we actually do something? How long do we let them play us?"
The room fell silent. Ackbar's hologram shifted slightly, his monocle glinting again. "Patience, Commander Wren. The UNSC may not be our enemy. But we need to be prepared for that possibility. This war isn't just about the Empire anymore. The Terrans complicate matters, and we need to be sure where they stand."
Hera stood firm, her eyes fixed on the map. "I agree. But there's one thing I know for sure. We can't risk being caught off guard. Whatever their intentions, we have to be ready. If they decide to intervene, we need to have a plan."
"Agreed," said Ackbar. "But until then, we don't take risks. The Rebel Alliance has already been stretched thin, and this new power could be more dangerous than we realize. We'll need all the intel we can gather."
Mon Mothma looked to the crew. "This may be a pivotal moment for the galaxy, and the Rebel Alliance. We must remain vigilant."
The Ghost crew understood one thing above all: the war was full of unknowns. Allies could turn into enemies, and enemies could turn into allies. The UNSC was a formidable unknown, one they could not afford to underestimate.
In the silence that followed, Hera's voice broke the tension. "We'll keep our distance for now. But we'll stay close enough to watch. We'll get the intel we need, and then we'll decide what comes next."
Sabine smirked. "So, we keep our guns loaded and wait?"
"Exactly," Hera said, a quiet strength in her words. "But if they cross the line, if they give us no choice, then we fight."
As the meeting broke up, Hera watched the Ghost crew leave one by one. They were good soldiers, good people. But the path ahead was uncertain. The UNSC was not a simple enemy to defeat, nor were they an easy ally to trust. Hera knew that too well.
But one thing was for certain—the Rebels weren't backing down. And if the UNSC, or anyone else, crossed them, they would make their move.
But until then, the waiting game began.
Colonisation efforts
The ten worlds flanking the portal between the Milky Way and Andromeda were, by some miracle or twist of fate, entirely uninhabited—pristine frontiers untouched by sentient hands. No signs of civilizations past or present, no xenoarchitectural ruins, no lingering energy signatures from fallen empires—just raw, untamed planets. For the UNSC, it was a gift too valuable to ignore. After centuries of fighting for every inch of habitable ground back in the Milky Way, the opportunity to claim entire worlds, free of conflict or contest, was unprecedented.
And so, the UNSC moved swiftly—not out of desperation or conquest, but with the cold precision of an empire long-accustomed to war, reconstruction, and survival.
The colonization effort was codenamed Operation Homefront, though it was never publicly referred to as such. It began as a logistical endeavor spearheaded by fleet engineers and pathfinder teams, backed by AI-led resource analysis and projection models. The first priority was establishing infrastructure: planetary landing beacons, orbital tethers, modular command posts, fusion reactors, water filtration towers, and emergency defensive platforms. The effort was not experimental. It was industrial, scalable, and meant to last.
Each world had its designation,— Strangal, a temperate oceanic world; Kovos, a dry, iron-rich planet with mineral reserves deep enough to fuel a thousand reactors; Gladsheim, a near-Earth analog suited for agricultural growth. There was even Eventide, a world perpetually caught in long twilight due to its axial tilt, marked for long-term scientific study and terraforming experiments.
Once basic logistics were in place, the settlers came—by the thousands.
The people who stepped through the portal weren't desperate refugees or corporate stooges—they were pioneers. Many were descendants of former Inner Colonists, trained for off-world life, and hardened by history. They brought with them their families, modular homes, education pods, medical scaffolds, and even cultural archives. They didn't arrive in cryo, but awake, alert, and ready to shape something new.
Some were scientists hoping to study alien geology and planetary dynamics without interference. Others were engineers eager to construct cities from the ground up without the burden of planetary politics or broken legacies. There were even artists among them—musicians, writers, and architects—eager to shape not just function, but form. For them, these worlds were blank canvases, not only for infrastructure, but for culture.
The first cities were practical but elegant, domed settlements connected by maglev trams and suspended rail corridors. Farming collectives took root in the nutrient-rich valleys of Gladsheim. Atmospheric processors rose from the rugged plains of Kovos. Undersea habitats were slowly being assembled in the cold, crystalline oceans of Eirene. Every project was supported by UNSC resources, but driven by civilian governance. Local councils began to form, guided by AI oversight, and gradually granted autonomy by High Command. It wasn't utopia—but it was ordered, stable, and surprisingly optimistic.
For once, the UNSC wasn't at war. And for the people stepping onto these untouched worlds, it felt—for the first time in a century—like peace.
Still, this was the UNSC. Peace was never left unguarded.
Each colony had its own garrison—small at first, but well-equipped. Orbital defense platforms and MAC satellites were quietly positioned above high-value settlements. Prowlers patrolled the system, cloaked and silent. ODST teams rotated through "frontier tours" in small numbers, training in unfamiliar terrain but staying well out of civilian affairs.
Every world was integrated into the UNSC's secure relay network. Data flowed back to HighCom through tight-beam relays and encrypted jumps, monitored by smart AIs specifically assigned to assess anomalies. The colonies were thriving—but they were also being watched. ONI maintained presence under civilian cover, but their function was clear: observe, contain, and report.
Some suspected the portal might one day attract hostile attention. Though the Empire had extended formal diplomatic contact, the UNSC trusted no one entirely. These colonies were not simply expansions—they were strategic assets, supply lines, fallback positions, and gateways. The UNSC had no intention of giving them up, not without a fight.
To the Galactic Empire, the UNSC's colonization was subtle, unthreatening, and yet... troubling.
The Empire's intelligence analysts knew full well that these humans had suffered a brutal war back in their own galaxy. Their technology, while less advanced in some areas, was practical, durable, and highly effective. Their soldiers were not fanatics, nor were they untrained conscripts. The Empire saw in the UNSC something dangerous: a civilization that had clawed its way out of annihilation not by divine right or ancient power—but by sheer, grim persistence.
And now they were spreading.
No shots fired, no planets conquered, no banners raised—but one by one, these new worlds were being claimed, fortified, and shaped into something lasting. The Empire's ambassadors at Coruscant whispered caution. Grand Moffs debated whether to propose joint oversight of the portal, but it was too early for escalation. Thrawn's recommendation remained unchanged: observe, learn, wait. The UNSC was not hostile, but it was not docile either.
The Rebels, for their part, were intrigued. Some saw potential in the Terrans—especially their disdain for centralized authoritarian rule and their pragmatic military culture. Others worried that another rising power in the galaxy, indifferent to the Force and opaque to its will, could upset the already fragile balance.
Still, for now, no conflict stirred. The portal remained stable. The UNSC expanded steadily, drawing settlers from its far-reaching colonies and even from civilian populations who had tired of Earth's bureaucracy or the Covenant wars' lingering scars.
And the ten planets grew.
Each day, more ships passed through the portal, bringing tools, people, ideas, and hope. The Terran flag was raised quietly, not in dominance, but in quiet resilience. No empires toppled. No enemies declared war. But something had changed in the galaxy.
A new foothold had been claimed. Quietly. Permanently.