The squad was three days out on patrol when they lost the first member. The hellhole so awful that even the natives term for it frequently translated as “Dirt underfoot” was now seen as a place of punishment for many of the Legions, but there were still some who viewed it as a challenge.
Such a one was Sarcal-<clik>, respected Third Claw of the 87th Legion. Not only an admired leader and a feared warrior (They had led the assualt on Urpga-9 after all), but one whose exo-skeleton and mist sacs were amongst the most elegantly beautiful of their generation (though they were apporpriately modest about such things). In every respect they were a warrior to aspire to be like, resplendent in the finest, hand-polished ceramic body armour, guaranteed (so the makers claimed) to be able to resist the claws of even the “tyg’er”, though no one was too keen to put that one to the test. They had volunteered for this duty, partly out of a love of the challenge, partly out of a desire to excel… There was a Dirt-ian song which included the lyrics “If I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere” and this was being generally applied to the surivors of more than one tour of duty.
Simply having them on Dirt (There HAD to be a better name) was a source of pride for many, and relief for others (in the hope that a bad report from Salrcal<clik> would be enough to get Command to evacuate this godsforsaken planet.)
So it was a cause of great concern when Sarcal-<clik> could not be woken when it came time for their watch that night. Like any good soldier, they slept in their armour when sharing watch duty. Swiftly, an officer was called and when the visor was raised, it was not that they were dead which was the greatest shock, but the look of horror frozen on that noble visage.
The field surgeon performing the cursory autopsy could not identify cause of death beyond poison of some sort. The humans bearers on the squad hadn’t been near them, so they were in the clear, but beyond that, it was a mystery.
The prized armour was passed to the next in command, as Sarcal<clik> would have wished, and though the sqaud were not nearly as inspired as once they might have been, they continued the patrol, determined to honour their comrade’s memory. There would be poems composed of this mission on the Homeworld in Sarcal<clik>’s honour, and their behaviour would reflect on them all in the telling.
It was not long, however, before the second in command convulsed and collapsed. Not as stoic as Sarcal<clik> their death was just as horrific, but less restrained and though the surgeon was still not able to identify how such a powerful neurotoxin could have entered their system.
There was some understandable reluctance on the newly appointed second in command to take on the armour. it may have been beautiful and gleamed in the even the unpleasantly yellow Dirt-ian sun, but it now had a reputiation.
And it was one that was well earned. The scream of the dying soldier was heard by all. They took longer that the previous victims, and their last contorlled movement was to point to their hindfoot, but the armoured boot was perfectly intact.
After that no one would go near the armour, it had a bad reputaiton, it would be boxed up and returned to the Homeworld for display in some museum or other. Thus is was only two human bearers cleaning it before transport who were present when the small shape fell out of the toe of the boot.
“Careful matel! Funnel web!”
“Dead now. That explains a lot though. I guess tiger proof doesn’t mean spider-proof, and they LOVE dark spaces to hide in. Doubt the bite would show up on mottled skin like theirs.”
”Should we tell our high and mighty masters in case there are any more about?”
They exchanged a gleefully malevolent look and shared a smile.
“Why trouble them with such a trivial little matter.”
They saluted the remains of the spider as they left. If they noticed the egg sac that was hidden in the depths of the boot as they put it into the transport, they said nothing.
