Tomb Spyder
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Lekku. LOG-016. Bite And Burn.
🕑 Added 2025-05-16 04:29:14 +0000 UTCLOG-016. Bite And Burn.
The ship’s called the Iron Gambit, though that’s giving it too much credit.
She’s an action VI freighter. Far, far older than most of us. Hull patched in places where bulkheads used to be. Turrets bolted on where they shouldn’t fit. Scanners show a heat signature like a wounded animal, too many reactors, not enough cooling.
It dropped a spice freighter out of hyperspace four days ago. Killed the crew, dumped the nav beacon, started broadcasting for buyers. Sloppy. Loud.
We found it first.
Krayt’s Mercy drifts in tight. Silent. No active scans.
They don’t notice us until we’re breathing their air.
“Trix.”
“Already in.”
The slicer hums under her breath, fingers tapping against Mercy’s interior wall panel like a song only she knows. Five seconds later, the Iron Gambit’s lights go out.
Then the fake ones flicker on.
She loops their internal status feeds through a dummy diagnostic. Tells the pirates everything’s fine.
It isn’t.
—
The boarding ramp slams against their portside airlock.
Kedo and Torren breach first. No banter, just controlled motion. Full armour. Twin blaster carbines. Kedo takes point, Torren clears low. The first pirate stumbles into the corridor half dressed and gets a bolt to the ribs before he can scream.
I drop into the cargo hold from above.
Vent hatch. Knees bent. Blaster pistol drawn.
Four targets.
Two aiming the wrong way. One screaming for backup. One with a blade instead of a brain.
I shoot three and knife the fourth.
Lira’s in the rafters.
Sniper harness rigged against a busted crane arm. One round. Two.
The portside gunners drop before they can even swivel the turret around. She hums once and keeps crawling.
The pirates are scattered. Not coordinated. High on their own spice, maybe. Desperate enough to think they can hold a corridor with bad footing and worse tactics.
They can’t, so I lead the push to the bridge.
Two grenades. One breach charge. Ten seconds of total silence.
When the smoke clears, the captain’s slumped over the nav controls, leaking through his makeshift armour.
I step over his body and key in a command.
Engines cycle. The jump system responds.
Still works, sweet.
We clear the rest of the ship in under seven minutes.
No losses. Minimal wounds. Half the power still running.
Trix does a deep dive on the logs.
“This bucket’s held together with murder and flex tape. But…she’s got legs.”
I nod.
We keep it.
We rename it Krayt’s Fang.
Third ship. Ugly. Loud.
Ours now.
—
We’re hauling decoy crates for a Techno Union shell company days later. Crates are empty except for heat regulators and old spice filters to throw off scans. The real shipment's three systems behind us, riding clean under a fake transponder.
Our job’s the loud one.
The Fang lands hard on a dirtpad halfway up a canyon wall, dry red stone, sulfur air, bad visibility. The drop was supposed to be quick.
Five minutes tops.
Then we hear the whump of a Republic LAAT.
And everything turns to kriff.
They come down fast.
Not regular clones.
ARC troopers.
Different armour. Smarter movement. No chatter that we can hear.
They breach in coordinated bursts. First team from above. Second through the rear cargo hatch. Torren’s hit in the first volley, nothing fatal, but he’s out for a moment. Kedo returns fire with precision, drops two before they clear the ramp.
I shout for everyone to scatter and peel off into the mining compound beside the pad.
Trix is already scrambling the uplink.
Lira disappears into the shadows with her rifle.
I move low, draw my knife.
And wait.
—
The ARC that finds me is tall. Clean cut. Orange markings on his chestplate. DC-17 in one hand, vibroblade in the other.
We meet in the refinery scaffolding. Cracked durasteel. Flickering lights. Rusted fuel lines overhead.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Neither do I.
The first exchange is fast as a result.
Blaster bolts snap past my head. One clips my shoulder plate, glances off the beskar. I rush in low, slam my weight into his center mass. He stumbles, pivots, slashes with the blade.
I block it with my vambrace, counter with a boot to his knee. He grunts and shifts his stance. Controlled. Precise.
He’s literally been made for this.
But I have an invisible field of bullshit on my side.
We fight dirty.
He throws sand at my visor. I do the same.
We trade holds, break grips, roll through broken beams and fuel stained concrete. My knife catches on the edge of his pauldron. His blade finds the seam under my ribs. We both bruise, bleed, and break in our own little ways.
Then the platform groans.
A support cracks overhead. Too much weight. Too many bolts loosened by blasterfire.
The ARC looks up a second too long.
I don’t.
Instead, I drive my shoulder into his gut, slam him backward into the rail just as the structure above buckles and crashes down.
He loses his balance and drops his weapon.
Once more, I don’t.
I’m on him before he can stand.
Pin him by the throat with one arm. Knife in the other. He claws at my helmet, gouges at the visor.
I bury the blade just under the collar.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
His legs kick once, then stop.
Seconds later I’m standing over the body, breathing hard.
Blood on my gloves. Scars on the metal. The wind tastes like iron.
Above me, the LAAT retreats. The rest of his team gone or dead.
We win.
Barely.
I look down at the corpse.
He fought like a warrior.
Died like one too.
But his superiors picked the wrong kriffing cargo to chase.
—
The smoke hasn’t cleared yet.
We’re wrapping bodies. Dragging scrap. Trix has already plugged the Fang back into the pad’s busted power grid. Lira’s somewhere above, watching our six through a rifle scope. Standard procedure.
Then I hear someone shouting.
Short bursts. Distorted. Can’t be one of ours.
A clone.
I whirl and draw, but no shots follow. Just motion, arms raised, half wave, half surrender.
He steps through the dust like a ghost that doesn’t want to be chased.
More traditional clone armour, scratched to hell. Orange and white plating scorched black in places. One side of his helmet is melted inward near the jaw. He’s got an empty holster and an explosive pack strapped to his back like he’s afraid to put it down.
He’s limping. One leg dragging slightly. Not enough to stop him.
He sees me. Stops ten meters out. Then his helmet lifts just enough to show his mouth.
“Not here to fight!”
I don’t lower the blaster.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
He looks past me at the Fang, then back.
“They left?” He questions, and I assume he means the ARCs.
“You didn’t.”
“Nope.”
“ARC team was yours?”
He nods. Hesitates.
“I uh…ran support. Breaches. Payload entries. Didn’t have clearance to know the full op. Just told to follow and blow what they marked.”
I tilt my head.
“And now?”
“I want out.”
Silence.
Dust drifts past between us, curling through the heat of a burned out turret.
He holds his ground. No twitch, no flinch.
Just spreads his arms wide, desperately.
“I don’t care who wins this war. It isn’t mine.”
Trix mutters something through the comm about having eyes on him since the blast. Kedo grunts once but doesn’t raise his weapon. Lira’s still watching. I can feel it.
I study him.
“You glitched?”
His jaw tightens. “No.”
“Defective?”
“By Kamino’s standards? Absolutely.”
“...Then why aren’t you dead?”
He shrugs. “Guess they missed one.”
I lower the blaster and step forward, slow.
He doesn’t move.
“You got a name?” I ask.
“CT-four-four-seven-one-eight.”
“...That’s not a name.”
“I didn’t get one yet.”
“...Alright. Earn it.”
He breathes in sharp, like the air just got colder.
I step past him, toward the ramp.
Pause once.
“If this is some kind of spy play.” I warn without looking back. “I’ll hang you outside the hull in hyperspace and let the Force pick apart what’s left.”
Another beat of silence.
Then a nod.
“Understood.”
—
He follows me aboard.
Doesn’t ask where he’s sleeping.
Doesn’t ask for thanks.
I like that. And it feels kind of…cool. Having a version of Jango kriffing Fett walking around.
—
Our activities gain notice, and eventually proper responses.
The planet’s called Zai-Venn. It’s mostly flat scrubland, long sunsets, and one primary settlement that pretends not to care who owns the sky.
We dock in the south platform, just outside the shadow of the comm tower. No fanfare. No welcome party.
They’re already waiting.
Two shuttles. Two flags.
One bears the golden crest of the Republic, half faded by ash and plasma burns. The other bears none, just a deep green hull and the unmistakable curve of Trade Federation manufacture.
The war made it this far weeks ago.
The politics just arrived to clean up.
We disembark light. Just me, Trix, and Kedo. The clone is hidden inside, waiting for things to go awry.
Armour on. Helmets fixed into place for just that extra bit of intimidation.
I walk between them, the two envoys waiting at the edge of the clearing. Dust kicks up under my boots. I feel eyes watching from rooftops. Snipers maybe. Or just settlers wondering what mercenaries look like when they’re not killing someone.
The Republic man steps forward first.
Human. Core born by the look. Neatly trimmed hair, polished boots, with a voice like someone trained in a room with too much marble and not enough reality.
“Captain Vesk.” He salutes. “The Republic appreciates your neutrality. As you likely understand from our communications, we’d like to make it…formal.”
He gestures to a datapad.
“Protection clause. Base clearance. Advanced funding. Priority contracts. It’s all there. You’d be under our umbrella, independent still, of course. But paid. Regularly.”
I don’t speak.
The Skakoan speaks next.
His voice filters through a modulator unit built into the chest of his pressurized suit, each word mechanical and dense.
“Mercenary Krayt. The Techno Union recognizes your autonomy. We offer compensation, materials, and guaranteed access to protected lanes. You will not be required to pledge allegiance, only performance.”
He looks at the Republic envoy without blinking.
“We don’t claim to be saviors. Just practical.”
I say nothing for a long moment.
Trix shifts next to me, arms crossed, scanning both ships with lazy eyes. Kedo says nothing, as always.
I look at the datapads in both hands.
Both sides want teeth. My teeth.
And neither knows what happens when they bite the wrong throat.
“...No. Not yet.” I shake my head.
The Republic man furrows his brow. “We can adjust the terms, if-”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I cut in, calm.
Then I nod to the Separatist. “Same to you.”
He nods back. Accepts it.
They both stand there for a moment, visibly awkward now that they haven’t managed to one up each other.
We walk back to the ship without another word.
No one stops us.
But no one turns their back, either.
