51-53

Chapter 51: Chaos and Shadows 50: Chaos and Shadows 

The attacking Trandoshans were ferocious and well-trained, each clutching a DC-15A blaster rifle. With the rifles’ rapid-fire capabilities, they unleashed a barrage that pinned down the Nikto guards, leaving them unable to return fire. 

Leading the pack was a Trandoshan with a jagged scar across his face. He stormed into the spaceport, raised his blaster, and cut down a guard who’d just hoisted a blaster cannon, turning him into a smoking heap. Then, with deadly precision, he lobbed two thermal detonators, which exploded inside two buildings where guards were hiding. 

In moments, the spaceport’s defenses were either wiped out or cowering, too scared to move. Trandoshans flanking from both sides mopped up the survivors with ruthless efficiency. 

Seeing resistance crumble, Scarface waved a clawed hand and barked, “Move it! Grab everything worth a credit and get out! Now!” 

The Trandoshans poured in, blasting open the warehouse doors with a single volley and hauling out the goods inside. Two of their own had fallen in the firefight, their bodies unceremoniously tossed onto a repulsor truck to be carted off. 

A Nikto mercenary, gut shot and bleeding out, struggled to raise a trembling hand. With his last strength, he gasped, “You… you’re dead men! This is… Jabba the Hutt’s… spaceport!” 

“I know exactly whose turf this is,” Scarface sneered. He strode over to a hidden turbolift entrance, tapped it twice, and the doors slid open. 

The mercenary’s eyes widened in horror. “You’re… after Jabba himself!” 

“Bingo. Your prize? A thermal detonator.” Scarface yanked the pin from a detonator and shoved it into the gaping wound in the Nikto’s abdomen. 

“No one… messes with the Hutts… in Hutt Space… except… the Hutts…” The mercenary’s words faded as he drew his final breath. 

As the detonator exploded, Scarface and his crew were already descending in the turbolift. From the underground passage ahead came the blare of alarms and the clatter of guard boots. Scarface sealed three blast doors in quick succession, then turned to his team. “Hurry up! Everything down here’s prime loot!” 

“You got it!” one of his crew shouted, scrambling to haul out the goods. 

Scarface’s gaze landed on two cylindrical crates, each over three meters long, stacked nearby. A cruel grin spread across his face. “Take those too. They’ll cover our debts nicely.” 

… 

In a seedy cantina in Mos Eisley, Murte was living it up in a private room with two Twi’lek women, indulging in a haze of excess. 

Scattered across the floor were lacy garments, half-eaten plates of food, and empty bottles of Corellian brandy. The air was thick with the stench of liquor, perfume, and other unnameable odors. 

Murte had been cozying up to a Twi’lek named Taya, who’d brought along her sister, Suya. The three had been drinking all night—and doing plenty else that didn’t need detailing. 

Taya clung tightly to Murte, but Suya wasn’t about to be outdone. The sisters started bickering, each vying for his attention. 

Sensing the moment was ripe, Murte leaned into the liquor-fueled haze and said, “So, Suya, didn’t you used to run with some navigator?” 

“Don’t remind me of that bantha-brained idiot,” Suya groaned, swirling her bottle. “Things were decent for a couple of months when I first hooked up with him. Turns out, he’d made a big score with Kuken’s crew back then. But when Kuken’s luck ran dry, so did his. Guy’s broke now. Total waste of time.” 

“What’s the deal? Their Hammerhead-class corvette not cutting it?” 

“Cutting it? That ship’s a relic from the High Republic days. No amount of refits can save it. Can’t catch prey, can’t outrun a Judicial Fleet patrol. If they get spotted, they’re done. What’s the point?” Suya took a long swig from her bottle. “You’re way better, darling. One trip, and you’re pulling in 100,000 credits! That’s a whole ship’s worth!” 

Murte yanked Suya into his lap, blowing a teasing breath against her ear. “Wanna know why I make bank? I’ve got a connection to a big-time Muun boss.” 

Suya gasped, then giggled. “No wonder you’re such a hotshot! A Muun? Is he with… the InterGalactic Banking Clan?” 

She clapped a hand over her mouth, too spooked to say the rest. The Banking Clan’s name carried serious weight. 

“Yep,” Murte said, playing it cool. “This boss is moving into the ship business, planning to fund a new orbital shipyard. Problem is, he needs specs for a large ship to cross-reference, and it’s not like capital ships are just lying around. He’s offering me 50,000 credits to make it happen, but…” He sighed dramatically. 

Suya’s eyes lit up. “I can help! Darling, I’ll track down that idiot navigator and get Kuken’s ship specs. Their ship’s a cruiser, right? That’s gotta work!” 

Murte shook his head. “Nah, that Hammerhead’s too old. The Muun won’t go for those specs.” He fake-stumbled, collapsing onto the bed. “Ugh… 50,000 credits, gone just like that…” 

Suya shot Taya a frantic look. Taya nodded, and the sisters flanked Murte, pressing close, their soft whispers and teasing touches filling the air. 

“Come on, darling,” Taya cooed. “You’re tight with that Muun, right? Talk to him…” 

“Yeah,” Suya chimed in. “Kuken’s ship’s been modernized. Those specs are solid. Please, let us help you score that cash!” 

Murte ran a hand along Suya’s side, smirking. “Problem is, that ship’s not yours. All this talk’s pointless.” 

“Who says?” Suya scoffed. “I haven’t let that loser touch me in two months. I snap my fingers, and he’ll crawl over to polish my boots. That ship’s basically Kuken’s casino and cantina—people come and go all the time. I can waltz in whenever I want.” 

Murte’s smile widened. He leaned in, voice low. “Think you could get me on board? I’d love to take a tour of that cruiser.” 

“Easy, darling,” Taya purred, and both sisters planted a kiss on his cheeks. The room dissolved into a haze of flirtation and scheming. 

{Note 1}: Hutt Space is a lawless region in the Outer Rim, spanning thousands of star systems. It’s the heart of Hutt territory. After the ancient Hutt Empire fell to the Galactic Republic, the region’s remoteness allowed the Hutts to maintain near-total autonomy, complete with a sizable fleet. In Hutt Space, the Hutts are the undisputed overlords. 

[Easter Egg Note 1: Twi’lek Women] [Easter Egg Note 2: DC-15A Blaster Rifle] 

Chapter 52: Stirring Up Trouble (Part 1)  

In a rundown shack in the northwest slums of Mos Eisley, Yuri Orlov bolted upright on a bed of tattered rags. Shirtless, with only a tie dangling around his neck, he glared at the two suns blazing in the sky and let loose. “This blasted place is… fucking… hotter than a supernova!”  

Vitaly Orlov, already up and sipping water at the bedside, was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. But he seemed unfazed, calmly saying, “Chill, brother. We’ve probably trudged through deserts before, even if we don’t remember it. Have some water.”  

He tossed a water bottle over.  

“But those places didn’t have two freaking suns!” Yuri snapped, fumbling for the bottle. Instead, his hand closed around a wriggling stinkbug, and he lost it.  

“I’m done with this hellhole! How much longer do we have to wait?!” Yuri leaped up, cursing a blue streak.  

“Hold up!” Vitaly squinted into the distance, where a cloud of dust was rising. “Someone’s coming!”  

Yuri scrambled to the window, grabbing binoculars. Sure enough, a gang of Bando Gora was speeding toward them in hovertrucks.  

“Oh, my sweet credits, you’re finally here…” Yuri tugged at his tie. “Looks like they pulled it off. They’d better have enough to pay up—wait…”  

He spotted a larger dust cloud behind them. Adjusting the binoculars, he froze. A dozen speeder bikes were in hot pursuit!  

“Holy kriff! Fuck! They’ve stirred up trouble! Big trouble! Vitaly, get ready to bolt! You three, grab the gear!” Yuri stumbled down, frantically calling back their three T-850 units on lookout.  

They scrambled to load weapons and ammo onto their truck. Thank the stars the T-850s were strong as banthas—they got everything packed just in time.  

Before Yuri could dig his shirt out of the pile of rags, the roar of engines hit. The Bando Gora’s hovertrucks screeched to a stop.  

The leader, Scar, didn’t even get out. Grinning wickedly, he shouted at Yuri, “Your guns worked like a charm, merchant. Name’s Megtan-Scar, brother to Broderick-Gravel. Just call me Scar! Here’s your payment—catch you next time, hahaha!”  

His crew shoved two massive crates, over three meters long, off the truck, then peeled out, kicking up a storm of sand that coated Yuri head to toe.  

He wiped his face, ready to curse, when pew pew pew—blaster bolts zipped past, kicking up dirt!  

The pursuers had mistaken Yuri for Scar’s crew and sent a few speeder bikes after him!  

“Kriff! Kriff! Hold them off! Get the crates on the truck—move, move!” Yuri, nearly wetting himself, dove behind the crates on the hovertruck.  

Vitaly vaulted into the driver’s seat, yelling, “Forget the crates! We gotta go!”  

“No way! That’s my payoff!” Yuri snarled, crawling to the passenger side, grabbing an assault rifle, and unloading wildly at the pursuers.  

Two T-850s hauled the crates while the third hefted a machine gun, opening fire on the speeder bikes. Dakka dakka dakka! The gun spat 12.7mm rounds like a hailstorm. With precise bursts, the T-850 took out the two lead bikes, forcing the rest to scatter.  

Blaster bolts hit the T-850, scorching its synthskin and chipping its armor, but it stood firm, a war god in the wind, gun blazing.  

The crates were loaded. Vitaly floored it, and the hovertruck roared off. The three T-850s stood in the back, each wielding an M-427 machine gun, spraying a wall of lead at the pursuers.  

Say what you will—slugthrowers or energy weapons, if it kills, it works. On a backwater like Tatooine, military-grade shields were rare. Solve the ammo issue, and slugthrowers could outshine single-shot blasters. The M-427s were absurdly powerful. The pursuers’ DL-18 blaster pistols packed a punch per shot, but against machine guns spitting 1,000 rounds a minute? No contest.  

The speeder bikes fell back, scattered by the onslaught, unable to keep up for now.  

Scar, not far off, saw the chaos and roared with laughter. “Hey, merchant! Those big guns of yours? I want more next time! Have ‘em ready, hahaha!”  

In Tatooine’s outer orbit, aboard the Iron Fang—Kuken’s Hammerhead-class cruiser.  

Trent, disguised as a janitor, moved through the grimy ship. Suya and Taya, the sisters, had charmed Kuken’s navigator, wrapping him around their fingers. He’d spilled everything, and now the cruiser’s full specs were stored on Trent’s device.  

But Trent wasn’t done. He prowled the filthy pirate ship, sniffing out more opportunities.  

Passing the mess hall, now a makeshift cantina, he saw Suya cozying up to the navigator, giggling. Spotting Trent, she shot him a subtle wink, then kept laughing.  

The navigator, thinking it was for him, grinned like a fool and drank himself into a stupor.  

Trent had mapped the cruiser’s layout. It was a mess, but it was still a pirate ship—key areas like the armory, bridge, mainframe, and engines were locked tight.  

That wasn’t his target, though. He knew exactly what to do to this cruiser before it attacked the Fourth Civilization’s mothership.  

Point-defense systems. And starfighters.  

The Fourth Civilization’s main force was still the upgraded Blade fighters. The biggest threat to them wasn’t the cruiser’s main guns—it was the point-defense turrets and its own fighters.  

The cruiser had eight point-defense turrets scattered across its hull. Trent casually wandered by, discreetly sabotaging six of them. He didn’t touch the main power lines—those were too well-hidden, and cutting them would trigger the weapons’ self-diagnostics.  

Bonus Chapter Image 1: Hammerhead-class Cruiser 

Chapter 53: Stirring Up Trouble (Part 2) 52: Stirring Up Trouble (Part 2) 

Murte slipped through the Hammerhead-class corvette, blending in effortlessly. The pirates aboard were too busy drowning in spice and booze to notice him, their guard laughably lax. 

He casually made his way to the point-defense turrets. Some of the turrets were clearly aftermarket add-ons, shoddily installed—one was even parked next to a refresher, practically ignored. No one batted an eye as he poked around. 

Murte played it smart. He didn’t go for anything flashy. Instead, he slyly severed the power conduits to the turrets’ rotation mechanisms. The guns could still aim and fire, but they’d jam the second they tried to swivel. Useless scrap, just like that. Best part? The ship’s security systems wouldn’t even ping the sabotage—too minor to trip any alarms. 

His memory was fuzzy, but Murte was dead certain he’d spent a lifetime tinkering with ships before ending up on the mothership. Different models, same principles. Most ships followed the same logic, and he knew their weak spots like the back of his hand. 

With the turrets handled, he sauntered into the hangar. A few packs of death sticks handed out to the oblivious mechanics, and he was laughing and joking with them like old pals. When no one was looking, he dumped a fistful of Tatooine’s finest sand into the starfighter fuel canisters. Good luck getting those engines to purr. 

Smirking to himself, Murte figured it was time to slip out. 

He headed toward the cantina to give the Suya sisters a quick wave, planning to make up some excuse to bounce. But as he stepped in, a group of roughnecks shoved him aside, nearly knocking him over. His heart raced—had he been made? 

“Get outta the way, janitor!” a raspy voice snarled. The cantina went dead silent. Music cut off, chatter stopped, glasses froze mid-clink. 

Not busted. Not yet. Murte played the part, scrambling to the side in fake panic, tugging his cleaning crew cap low to hide his face. He snuck a glance at the newcomer from the corner of his eye. 

It was a human—a grizzled, filthy old man whose face looked like it had been melted with acid, beaten to a pulp, and patched up with a botched skin graft. His jagged, metal-capped teeth gleamed with a foul stench, half his real ones missing. 

This has to be ‘Iron Tooth’ Kuken, Murte thought, his stomach sinking. 

Sure enough, the old man planted himself in the doorway and bellowed in a voice like grinding gears, “You lot look way too cozy! I told you we’ve got a big job coming up, and here you are, guzzling ryll and chasing tail! Listen up—you’ve got ten minutes to clean this ship up! We’re moving out this afternoon for a big score!” 

Wait, what? Murte’s mind raced. Weren’t they supposed to move in a few days? He stole another glance and spotted Qunto and Ferasi, bound and gagged, being dragged behind Kuken. Those kriffing idiots! 

Qunto, face swollen and bruised, mumbled through a busted lip, “Boss Kuken… we’ll get slaughtered if we go now. That ship’s a monster—a colossal freighter. Gimme a few days to call my brothers. They’re working on that ship. We can hit it from the inside—” 

“Inside, outside, shut your exhaust port!” Kuken snapped, smirking coldly. “I’m making this deal, and no one’s stopping me. I’ve got a cruiser, you hear? A cruiser! Taking down some unarmed freighter’s nothing!” 

Kuken’s hawk-like gaze swept the room, landing on the navigator and the Suya sisters. He stomped over to the navigator, who was sweating buckets, too terrified to even cop a feel on the Twi’lek next to him. He stood there, trembling like a leaf. 

“Sari… my trusty navigator…” Kuken’s grin was pure menace. In a flash, his mechanical arm shot out, clamping onto Suya’s lekku. 

“Argh!” Suya screamed, writhing in pain. 

That wasn’t a hand—it was a cybernetic claw. 

“I seem to recall you being flat broke, Sari,” Kuken growled. “Told you to ditch this Twi’lek creditsink, but you didn’t listen. So I’m real curious why this money-grubbing dancer’s suddenly all over you today, when she knows you’re tapped out. Care to explain?” His laugh was a grating cackle. 

He yanked Suya’s lekku, dragging her face close to his. “I’m asking you. Why’s it so convenient? Someone tips me off about a big score in the Endor system, and now you’re cozying up to my navigator. Spill it.” 

“I… I don’t know!” Suya wailed, tears streaming as she panicked. “There’s a Muun! A Muun from the InterGalactic Banking Clan, doing a deal…” Her voice broke into sobs. 

Desperate to save herself, she almost ratted out Murte but realized she didn’t even know who he really was. So she threw out the Muun story he’d fed her, hoping it’d scare Kuken off. 

It worked—sort of. Kuken’s face twitched. “The Banking Clan? A Muun?” 

“Y-yeah!” Suya latched onto the lifeline. “He told us to get your ship’s specs… he’s got a business deal…” 

“Ha… hahaha!” Kuken’s cackle turned manic. His mechanical grip tightened, and Suya’s screams grew shrill. 

With a sickening rip, he tore her lekku clean off. Blue blood sprayed everywhere. 

“Can’t let you stick around, then,” Kuken sneered. He drew a blaster and shot Suya point-blank as she writhed on the floor, killing her instantly. 

His gaze shifted to Taya. “And you?” 

Taya collapsed, too terrified to speak, staring blankly at Suya’s corpse. 

“She’s… just some singer I brought from the cantina,” the navigator stammered, maybe out of a shred of decency—or because he still had his eye on Taya, now that Suya was out of the picture. He didn’t sell her out. 

“Singer, huh?” Kuken eyed Taya up and down, then let out another raspy laugh. “Fine. Sing! Get on that stage and sing your heart out! Make it cheerful! Hahaha!” 

The navigator shoved Taya forward. She stumbled onto the stage, her voice cracking with sobs as she started to sing. Honestly, she sounded awful, barely holding it together. 

But Kuken was eating it up. He stood in the doorway, grinning like a madman, and roared, “Listen up, you scum! There’s a massive score waiting in the Endor system! A freighter, hundreds of meters long, colonizing out there. And get this—it’s an unarmed civilian ship!” 

“Woooh!” the pirates roared. 

“Hahahaha!” The cantina erupted into a frenzy, like a pack of wild nexu. 

[Easter Egg Note 1: Hammerhead-class Corvette Bridge]