"Mount Doom" was an experiment in creating a powerful production cluster realizing virtually all types of our military technologies.
While duplicating capacities of similar enterprises were scattered across multiple Dominion systems, here everything was gathered in one place for a single reason.
"So I assume the geothermal energy output has met your requests, Lady Stark?" I inquired.
"Fully," she smiled reservedly. "We used shielding systems from harmful environments, applied at similar mining enterprises, to place the foundries inside the supervolcano we awakened. The geothermal generators produce the necessary energy volume, that's true. However, there's a nuance."
Even so.
"Speak."
"We have to artificially throttle its production by running part of the generators idle, because our extraction of molten rock from the crater has changed the substance inside the volcano," the woman explained. "The new magma is hotter, rising directly from the core due to the 'deceptive eruption' technology. Therefore, if we activate all generators as planned, we'll get an energy surplus. And we simply have nowhere to put it in that case. So we use only half the generators for their purpose. We connect the others only when taking the first line for maintenance."
"Deceptive eruption" is the process of controlled provocation of magma ejection from the volcano's depths.
But in our case, such ejections aren't vented from the crater—they're pumped through special pipes into Mustafarian-design separators, where the molten rock is purified of impurities and then separated into components.
The result—necessary mineral resources in molten state.
Which in turn saves the production cycle at several stages.
We don't need to mine solid rock, purify it, melt it for subsequent use.
Consequently—using the supervolcano's depths accelerates parts production, which ultimately positively affects the speed of finished product release here and delivery of necessary parts to sites of further use.
I focused my attention on one such conveyor.
The chamber was so spacious that an hangar with a maintenance station for several Raider-class corvettes or similar could fit here.
High duracrete partitions divided the space into several zones, each housing a full conveyor.
Molten metal was fed into casting molds, which then entered through small openings in the left wall.
From the current vantage height, it was visible that the molds moved along shiny white conveyor belts and disappeared into the next openings, where they underwent forced cooling.
And only then did hundreds of tons of blanks enter assembly shops, where droids, automats, or the few workers in coveralls processed the blanks and filled them with incoming electronic components from other conveyors.
Before my eyes, an army of modernized B-1s was being born.
Turning my head slightly, tracking the electronics inflow, I could see the conveyor assembling compact optical sensors that would then enter the droids' visual observation systems.
Eight blanks arrived on the belt, and it stopped.
Workers deftly connected cables to the blanks and stared at screens showing black-and-white images of their hands.
Then they started turning the blanks this way and that, checking sensor calibration after assembly.
One screen didn't activate. The worker disconnected the blank and placed it on a table beside the conveyor.
In a moment, the others also disconnected theirs, and the conveyor activated again, moving the remaining seven blanks to another workstation.
"Defects are inevitable," Lady Stark explained.
There was nothing to reproach her for.
Using "deceptive eruption" required production and smelting speed for parts.
"Mount Doom," in any of its production directions, worked ten times more intensively than any other single-purpose factory of the same direction in the Dominion.
Where one AT-AT was produced per day, "Mount Doom" released ten or eleven combat machines, which then went into the caring hands of military acceptance controlling the release and quality of absolutely any product in the Dominion, be it civilian commlinks or military analogs.
Upon detection of critical defects affecting functioning, the item was sent to the repair shop where the malfunction was fixed.
No bribes or kickbacks—guards overseeing enterprise operations executed on the spot for such offers.
Quality—that's the motto of state and semi-state factories.
Yes, this radically contradicts capitalism's laws stating that released goods shouldn't last too long, or no one would buy new ones.
But the planned economy of military enterprises couldn't care less about such laws.
With civilian ones, it's a bit simpler—there's direct dependence on buyer demand.
But product quality speaks for itself.
Hence, there's demand.
The same commlinks from Liinade-III, despite huge production figures, are always in short supply.
Simply because after the Dominion's involvement in the production cycle, they stopped breaking every six months, requiring a new purchase.
Considering that existing civilian factories in the Dominion are being modernized, and new ones are initially designed for dual-purpose products, goods are always in demand.
And demand for our commlinks (their civilian versions) on the galactic market is off the charts.
Not to mention that the Dominion's industry (primarily military) operates on the principle by which the USSR once filled long-term storage depots.
"We're preparing for war with the whole world. That means for each fighter, we need not one, not two rifles, but ten! Because we have to arm not only our army but allies too! And we're not just talking rifles!"
One must understand what waging war on all fronts means.
Equipment will inevitably be damaged, break down.
And if we go by norms—here's your number of tanks per battalion, take care of them, if hit, drag to the rear—we'll lose.
For every broken-down walker, tank, armored transport, blaster, armor set, we must have a replacement in stock, promptly delivered to the front.
Only this way can we avoid unnecessary losses and loss of initiative.
Damaged and faulty equipment will be delivered to the factory for repair or remelting—depending on its condition.
But units won't be left without gear and "armor" on the battlefield.
Considering that our production, agricultural, and cloning capacities fundamentally have no limit (and for fighting Palpatine and Yuuzhan Vong, we'll need not twenty-thirty assault legions but at least a couple billion soldiers alone), and production is largely automated, slashing costs manyfold, one can say the "Mount Doom" project has justified itself upon launch.
It was launched just a month and a few weeks ago, and all existing regular army and assault units are already equipped with necessary droids, weapons, walkers...
The problem is that right now, I have "under arms" just over three hundred thousand army units, including Dominion Defense Forces, and exactly ten times fewer stormtroopers.
This concerns fully trained and combat-ready units with battle experience.
Those undergoing training after cloning or enlistment in contractual service are twice as many.
But until they're "ready," it'll take considerable time.
Last year's campaign, no matter how hyped our victories were, came bloody in terms of personnel losses and the already few infantry and armored units.
And if fate, like military luck, doesn't turn from me, soon we'll face expansion of both our territories and potential fighters.
"Mount Doom" can equip a nearly half-million-strong army with everything necessary in short order.
But there's a nuance.
To win and not be destroyed, I need to multiply the armed forces many times over in the shortest periods.
Which means producing military property much more...
And the faster, the better.
"Lady Stark," I addressed the young woman. "Let's go to your office and discuss expanding the 'Mount Doom' facility."
"Yes, sir, I wanted to discuss with you the possibility of additional constructions on the planet. I think, within six months at normal construction pace, we can double the number of assembly shops. This will allow us to put the reserve generators to work, but we need to double their number for insurance in case the main generating capacities fail."
"And we'll discuss that too," I agreed. "But first, I want to discuss building several more 'Mount Dooms' in various parts of the Dominion. And I need a person who understands all processes of such production bases from the inside to head the entire 'Mount Doom' conglomerate in the Dominion metropole..."
***
"We've pulled off crazier plans," Orsan thought, looking at how he held on to the edge with just one hand.
The safety rope unclipped, and now only a tiny pebble on the very cliff slope, gripped by just five fingers, separated him from falling into the abyss.
His other hand clutched a metal hook, many of which had already been driven into this rock's surface.
He knew it was impossible, but with his right hand, he felt how cold the anchor metal was.
"Ready?" he asked the fighters.
Four clicks—one from each—and the suicidal operation began.
Let these dolts be not only slackers but extremely curious slackers too.
Gripping the hook tighter, he struck the rock with all his might.
A muffled clang spread over the cliff amid the raging elements.
The helmet camera showed utter disregard by the local guards for everything happening.
It can't be!
Orsan struck harder.
Again silence and no reaction.
His fingers holding the rock edge began trembling from strain.
Haaatt...
If these two louts couldn't even hear him, almost in their line of sight, banging metal on stones, then if one of his guys did it, waiting for a reaction could take hours.
Which they didn't have.
Very soon—in about forty minutes—a Dominion support corvette would enter the system to deliver regular fleet personnel to the base.
If they didn't make it by then, all was lost.
Grinding his teeth, Orsan smashed the rock again, sparking several sparks and sending a dozen tiny pebbles flying down the crevice.
Apparently, at that moment, nature decided to play on their side, turning down the storm's volume.
And both Republicans simultaneously shifted their gazes toward the source of the new sound for them.
Talking to each other, discussing what they'd heard, both relaxed again, evidently deeming it no more than coincidence.
Are you mocking us, rankor-spawn?!
Don't you have sensors in your armor for noise filtering?!
What are Republican taxes going to?
He had to repeat his simple trick several more times before the Republicans finally reacted.
Spotting the tiny camera Orsan held extended over the cliff edge was simply impossible.
But he clearly saw the enemy fighters talking on commlinks about something.
Why did you suddenly become so thorough?
"Plan changes," Orsan reported. "They're reporting to someone."
There was a high chance that whoever they were talking to wouldn't attach much importance to it either.
Judging by how both Republicans immediately climbed over the fence, aiming rifles at the cliff edge, garrison duty here was utterly lax.
All the better.
"Prepare," the commander whispered to the fighters.
He didn't see how they reacted to his words, but he didn't keep fools in the squad, so they should heed the warning-order.
The captain simply had no strength or time left to turn his head and check if his guys were ready.
Both Republicans approached the edge with the attentiveness of faces feigning vigorous guard activity.
The captain tensed his right arm, holding himself, and pulled his left forward, looking past the rock edge into the rainy sky.
The head of the enemy fighter appeared above him just as the raging storm birthed another lightning flash.
From the eyes of the New Republic fighter widening in surprise, Orsan understood that he'd been spotted.
"Come here, now," the captain whispered, simultaneously pressing the trigger.
The blaster hit the soldier in the face; in his death throes, he couldn't overcome gravity and the inexorable fall.
His body somersaulted, vanishing into the blackness of the coastal waves and undoubtedly smashing on the reefs.
"Brother!" came the frantic screech of the second soldier, who hadn't risked approaching the edge. "Central! ...Fell! ...yeah I know?! Maybe... slipped?! Send... droids! Now!"
As he'd hoped, the second fighter hadn't understood what happened.
The first soldier had approached the edge right over the soldiers' heads and blocked the shot moment.
The flash was taken for yet another lightning manifestation.
This was shock, and in a couple minutes, realization of the inconsistency would come.
The helmet camera showed the fighter turning his back to the cliff, arguing something to someone, and judging by his pose, quarreling with the unseen "Central."
The moment had come.
Orsan released his hand, feeling the fighter pulling both the hook and blaster after him.
All or nothing.
Both hands gripped the cliff edges.
Biceps and back muscles tensed, lifting the heavy body and all its gear upward.
It seemed to take no less than an hour to climb onto the rock.
Though only instants passed.
His trembling right hand found the sheath, and the obsidian blade was freed.
"...as alive?!" He had covered half the distance to the second fighter when he realized someone had spotted him after all.
But the Republicans, evidently, preferred to believe in the miracle of the first fighter's survival.
Orsan waved his left hand welcomingly, thanks to the intensified lightning striking the building's lightning rod.
They seemed to simultaneously illuminate him and blind the enemy to detailed scrutiny.
To hell with not seeing anyone—someone was clearly watching here.
Judging by the silhouette in the second-floor window—some lone figure.
Because the other windows, and the building as a whole, were plunged in darkness.
The Dominion hadn't chosen night for the attack for nothing.
A meter remained to the second fighter when he began turning, evidently warned by the observing figure that someone was behind him.
Orsan, arms spread in feigned joy at meeting the supposed "brother," lunged at the second soldier, knocking him off his feet by the fence.
A helmet strike to the face knocked out several teeth and broke the nose before plunging the knife into the chin.
"...stop fraternizing!" he heard a shrill voice from the slain helmet. "Get up here now, before I raise the alarm!"
Orsan unclipped the special operations blaster carbine from his backpack, recalling the burning window's direction.
Rising to his feet, he fired at the dark figure.
The observer collapsed as the window shattered from the precise hit.
"Forward!" Orsan shouted, vaulting the fence and rushing to the main entrance.
He perfectly understood he didn't have much time—the crash and clang should attract someone's attention inside the facility.
Breaking through the main entrance—too long.
And there was surely a security system.
At minimum, a pass would be needed.
From a certain distance to the building facade, the special forces operative jumped.
Grabbing the edge of the shattered floor-to-ceiling panoramic glass and hissing from the sharp glass digging into his skin and palms, he pulled himself into the room with a jerk.
Yes, this was the observation post.
And the observer, leaving bloody streaks, was crawling to his workstation.
No way, today without alarm.
Makeno overtook the enemy in one leap, knocking him unconscious with a fist to the nape.
Overdid it—the Republican observer's head gushed blood.
At the console, he quickly oriented himself, disabling all scanners and security systems.
He unlocked the main entrance, allowing the fighters to enter without hassle.
Spotting the hangar indication, he forcibly locked the airlock.
The comm equipment responded to the shutdown command, and now the impulse transmitter was inaccessible.
He glanced at the security monitors—figures in spotted armor making the special forces look just like the rock climber they ascended, were spreading across the entire first floor of the complex.
Excellent.
Very good.
And now, time to cut power to this establishment.
From the guard console, Makeno halted power supply from the reactor to consumers, plunging the facility into total darkness.
Helmet systems allowed the fighters to see at night.
So now advantage was on their side.
The same stolen Republican intelligence data gave him and his fighters the floor plans.
And now, while they cleared the bedrooms, stunning everyone they found with paralyzers, the captain himself pushed to the operations room.
Data inflow to the outpost servers should be in real time.
Thus, there had to be at least one duty officer in the server room.
And he could ruin everything by starting to destroy equipment and data stores.
Orsan collided with a man exiting the server room.
Judging by everything, he intended to find out the power outage reason.
A fist to the face forced him back into the server room, lit by emergency dark red lighting.
He instantly aimed at the sentient sitting at the main console, simultaneously kicking the first encountered employee by the door in the face, depriving him of consciousness.
The man went limp, sprawling on the floor.
"Step away from the terminal, ma'am," he ordered. "Keep your hands above your head where I can see them. Move—and I'll ventilate you."
"Who are you?" There wasn't even a hint of fear on the woman's face before the armed stranger. But she followed the order. "This is a xenarchaeological facility..."
"In that case, I'm Darth Vader," Makeno introduced himself. "Will you tell me a tale about what archaeologists are doing on a planet where no ruins have ever been found, and the locals live in a single city a hundred kilometers from here? Or suggest where to find employers who equip archaeologists on a peaceful planet with a squad of soldiers for guard and comm gear worth billions of credits? I'm sure you even have an answer for why your facility has long-range detection scanners 'illuminating' half the sector."
"Done talking?" the woman raised an eyebrow, continuing to bore into him with her gaze.
"Yes, feels better," Makeno admitted, approaching her and wrenching her arms behind her back.
A second—and plastic but very sturdy zip-cuffs appeared on her wrists.
"You'll regret what you've done," she promised as Makeno shoved her toward the prone man.
"Definitely," Orsan agreed. "But first, you'll answer my friends' questions."
***
If you wish to unlock full volumes of my crafts and read far ahead of public releases, support me on Patreon—currently there are 30+ chapters in advance:
Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/Granulan