Arrival

The port stabilizer whined like a dying gundark every time Quinel adjusted the coupling. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of grease across his temple, and went back to work with the hydrospanner.

He’d been working on repairs for most of the jump, and he was still finding new problems. The sensor array had taken a beating from debris during their escape—half the forward sensors were degraded or dead entirely. The shield emitter housing had a crack running through it that made him wince every time he looked at it. And the climate controls were shot to hell, leaving the ship about ten degrees too cold.

He could jury-rig temporary fixes for most of it. The stabilizer just needed the coupling tightened and the pressure adjusted—wouldn’t be pretty, but it’d hold until they reached Cloud City. The shields would work, just not at full strength. The sensors… well, those would need professional attention.

The Stray would fly. That’s what mattered.

Quinel sat back on his heels and stared at the exposed components. His mind kept drifting back to Ghauba. Bodies in the streets. TIE fighters screaming overhead. Damika pressing something into Tammea’s hand in those final hours—

He shut his eyes and forced the memory away.

The girl was in the common area where he’d left her hours ago, wrapped in a blanket on the couch. She’d been sleeping when he’d gone aft to work. At least, he thought she’d been sleeping.

How the hell was he supposed to take care of a kid?

He’d promised Damika. Given his word. And he meant it—every word of it. But that didn’t change the fact that he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He’d never been around children. Never really got to be one himself, if he was honest. Everything he knew about raising a kid could fit in a shot glass with room left over for whisky.

Garaath would help. The old Twi’lek had been pulling him out of scrapes since before the Clone Wars—longer than anyone else in Quinel’s life had stuck around. If anyone knew what to do with a traumatized nine-year-old, it’d be him.

The comm unit on the wall chirped. Dez’s flat mechanical voice cut through the engine room. “Captain, we are approaching Bespin. Arrival in thirty minutes.”

“Copy that,” Quinel said, wiping his hands on a rag. “I’ll be right there.”

He grabbed his coat and headed forward. Time to see if the old Twi’lek could work his usual magic.

The common area was dim, the overhead lights set to their lowest setting. Tammea lay on the couch exactly where he’d left her, the gray blanket pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were open.

Quinel stopped mid-step. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” Her voice was quiet, distant. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

He hesitated, then crossed to the chair across from her and sat down. The cushion wheezed under his weight. “Did you get any rest at all?”

“I couldn’t.”

A knot of concern tightened in his chest. She hadn’t slept since before Ghauba—that had to be close to twenty-four hours now. Maybe more. He tried to remember what you were supposed to do when someone couldn’t sleep and came up empty.

“We’ll be landing on Cloud City within the hour,” he said, keeping his voice gentle. “I’ve got an old friend there who can help us out. We’ll get a decent meal, get the ship looked at, and you can get some proper rest tonight. Somewhere that’s not a couch in a freezing ship.”

Tammea’s lips curved into something that might have been a smile. “That sounds good.”

The expression didn’t reach her eyes.

Quinel felt something twist in his gut. He had no idea how to reach her. No idea what to say that wouldn’t sound hollow or useless. So he went with simple and direct.

“The view from the cockpit is pretty spectacular when we drop out of hyperspace. Want to come see?”

She nodded and sat up slowly, the blanket sliding off her shoulders.

“Come on, then.” He stood and tried to put something like confidence into his voice. “You’re gonna love this.”

---

Dez was already at the auxiliary controls when Quinel dropped into the pilot’s seat. Tammea stood behind him, one hand resting on the back of his chair.

“Garaath sent us coordinates and clearance codes,” Quinel said, pulling up the navigation display. “Shouldn’t have any trouble getting in.”

“It has been some time since our last visit,” Dez observed. “One point three standard years, to be precise.”

“Yeah, I really should try to keep up with the old man more.” Quinel punched in the final approach vector and sat back.

“Who is Garaath?” Tammea’s voice came from behind him, barely above a whisper.

“Old friend,” Quinel said. “Contact I’ve known for years. He’s a retired smuggler—ran the Outer Rim back in his day. Now he operates out of Cloud City, arranging jobs and keeping his ear to the ground. He’s gotten us work, information, spare parts… pretty much anything you need if you know how to ask. Good man. You’ll like him.”

The console beeped. Quinel’s hand moved to the hyperspace controls. “Here we go.”

The Stray dropped out of hyperspace.

Bespin filled the viewport—a massive gas giant painted in swirling bands of orange and brown, its atmosphere churning in eternal storms. And there, suspended above the clouds like a jewel, was Cloud City. The floating metropolis gleamed in the light of the distant sun, its white towers and platforms stark against the planet’s turbulent surface.

Tammea gasped.

Quinel glanced over his shoulder and saw her leaning forward, eyes wide. For just a moment, the weight of the past day seemed to lift from her, replaced by simple wonder at something breathtaking.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

He smiled. “Yeah. It is.”

She stared for another moment, then her gaze drifted to the ships hanging in orbit. “The Empire is here?”

“Yeah.” Quinel’s smile faded. Mixed in with the corporate transports and civilian freighters were the unmistakable wedge-shaped silhouettes of Imperial cruisers. Not Star Destroyers, thankfully, but still a visible reminder. “They’re everywhere these days.”

Tammea’s hands tightened on the back of his chair.

“But I doubt they’d think to look for you here,” Quinel said, gentler now. “Too much traffic. Too many people coming and going. And honestly…” He hesitated. “I don’t think they’re tracking you down specifically. They got what they wanted.”

She didn’t say anything, just kept staring out at the city.

The console beeped, breaking the moment as Cloud City flight control pinged them. Quinel keyed the comm. “Cloud City flight control, this is the freighter Misfit Stray requesting permission to land. Transmitting clearance codes now.”

He sent over the authorization Garaath had provided. A few seconds passed, then the comm crackled to life.

“Misfit Stray, you are cleared for approach. Proceed to Landing Platform 3-7-7-Delta. Transmitting coordinates now.”

“Copy that, flight control. Proceeding to 3-7-7-Delta.”

Quinel guided the Stray into the approach lane, falling in behind a massive bulk freighter and ahead of what looked like a luxury yacht. The city grew larger as they closed in, its industrial beauty becoming more apparent—catwalks and landing platforms, antenna arrays and exhaust ports, all of it suspended thousands of meters above Bespin’s clouds.

The Stray settled onto the landing platform with barely a shudder. Quinel powered down the engines and sat back with a long exhale.

“Alright,” he said, standing. “Let’s go find the Dancing Jawa.”

---

Cloud City’s spaceport bustled with the usual mix of pilots, mechanics, merchants, and tourists. Quinel walked beside Tammea, acutely aware of the DL-44 blaster at his hip under his coat. He’d learned his lesson on Ghauba—next time Dez suggested he bring his blaster “just to set up repairs and get a drink,” he’d listen.

Dez took up position behind them, his heavy footfalls a steady rhythm on the platform’s deck plating. A few people glanced at the combat droid and quickly looked away.

“Cloud City was originally just a mining colony,” Quinel said, falling into the role of tour guide as much to fill the silence as anything else. “Independent operation, built by someone who saw the profit potential in Tibanna gas. Over the years it’s grown into what you see now—part industrial facility, part luxury resort, part smuggler’s haven.”

Tammea walked beside him, her eyes tracking the crowds, the ships, the city’s towering structures. She was listening, he thought. But there was something distant in her gaze, like she was seeing everything through thick transparisteel.

“Pretty place, huh?” he tried.

No response.

He glanced down at her. She was moving, following along, even nodding occasionally when it seemed appropriate. But she hadn’t said a word since they’d left the ship. Just… silence.

The knot of concern in his chest pulled tighter.

They made their way through the spaceport and into the city proper. Cloud City was cleaner than most stations Quinel frequented—polished floors, well-maintained lighting, even a few potted plants in the public areas. Money bought a lot of things, including the illusion of civilization.

---

The Dancing Jawa sat in a quieter section of the entertainment district, its exterior marked by a holo-sign showing a robed Jawa doing an improbable cartwheel. Quinel had always liked the place. It wasn’t fancy, but it was honest. Spacers and smugglers mixed with off-duty miners and the occasional tourist looking for “authentic” atmosphere.

The bouncer droid at the entrance—a battered protocol unit with military-grade restraining bolt modifications—scanned them as they approached.

“We’re here to see Garaath,” Quinel said. “He’s expecting us.”

The droid’s photoreceptors flickered. “Quinel Neviden and companions. Please proceed to booth seven. Garaath will join you shortly.”

They stepped inside. Music drifted from speakers mounted in the corners—some Bith jazz number Quinel didn’t recognize. The main floor was about half full, the crowd a typical mix of people trying to forget their problems at the bottom of a glass. A few glanced at the group, noticed Dez, then quickly looked away.

Tammea’s posture had gone rigid. Her eyes darted from face to face, table to table. Her breathing came quicker.

“You alright?” Quinel asked, keeping his voice low.

She nodded but didn’t meet his eyes.

Booth seven was tucked in the back corner, offering a clear view of both the entrance and the exits. They slid into the booth—Quinel on one side, Tammea beside him, Dez standing at the end like a particularly menacing statue.

They didn’t have to wait long.

Garaath emerged from a door marked “Private” behind the bar. The old Twi’lek moved with the kind of casual confidence that came from decades of staying alive in a dangerous business. His skin was a deep blue-gray, scarred lekku draped over his shoulders. He wore clothes that had once been expensive—maybe twenty years ago—but were now faded and comfortable. The eyes, though. Those were still sharp as vibro-blades.

“Well, well,” Garaath said, his voice a gravelly rasp softened by genuine warmth. “Look what the nexu dragged in.”

Quinel stood and clasped the Twi’lek’s forearm. “Good to see you, Garaath.”

“You too, kid. You too.” Garaath’s gaze flicked to Dez. “And good to see you as well, Dez. Still running with this sorry son of a sarlac, I see.”

“I remain profoundly unimpressed by his continued survival,” Dez said flatly. “Yet here we are.”

Garaath barked a laugh. “There’s that droid charm I remember.” His attention shifted to Tammea, and his expression softened. “Well, what do we have here?”

Quinel glanced at the girl. She sat very still, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast. “Part of what I needed to talk to you about. You got somewhere we can speak in private?”

“Of course.” Garaath gestured toward the door he’d come through. “This way.”

Garaath’s office looked exactly like what it was—a retired smuggler’s combination legitimate business front and underworld operations hub. The desk was neat, the filing system meticulous, but the old blaster rifle mounted on the wall and the heavy-duty safe in the corner told a different story. This was a man who’d made his fortune in dangerous places and never forgot where he came from.

“Take a seat,” Garaath said, moving to a small cabinet. He produced a tea service—pot, cups, the works—and began preparing it with practiced efficiency. “Got some Chandrilan tea here. Managed to get my hands on a crate of the real stuff—not that synthetic banthashit they try to pass off these days. I know a trader who owed me a favor. I was about to have some when you arrived.”

He poured three cups and offered them around. Quinel accepted gratefully. Tammea took hers but didn’t drink, just held it in both hands and stared at the steam rising from the surface.

Garaath settled into his chair and fixed Quinel with that sharp gaze. “Alright, kid. What’d you get yourself mixed up in this time?”

Quinel took a breath and told him. Everything. From the cantina on Ghauba to the approach in the hangar, from the promise to Damika to the escape through the streets. The town hall, the parents’ deaths, the TIE fighter gauntlet, the Base Delta Zero that turned an entire colony into molten slag.

He kept it as brief and respectful as he could, but there was no way to make any of it sound less awful. When he mentioned her father being shot, Tammea flinched. When he described her mother’s sacrifice, she went very still, her hands shaking slightly around the cup of tea.

“I gave my word to her mother,” Quinel finished quietly. “Promised I’d get her out, keep her safe. I’m all she has now.”

Garaath was silent for a long moment. His expression had gone from curious to grim to something that looked almost like approval.

“You’ve got a good heart, kid,” he said finally. “Didn’t think I’d see the day you’d take someone on. Not after…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “But I’m glad you did. She needs someone, and you need… well. Maybe you need someone too.”

Quinel felt his face flush. He covered it by taking a drink of tea.

Garaath rose from his chair and crossed to where Tammea sat. He crouched down so they were at eye level, his movements careful and unthreatening.

“I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through, little one,” he said gently. “I know he doesn’t look like much—too scruffy, questionable taste in ships, worse taste in coats—but he’s solid. His heart’s in the right place, and he always tries to do right by people. I’ve known this one for a long while now, and I’ve seen him prove it time and again.”

Tammea’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry. She just nodded.

Garaath straightened and returned to his desk. “Now then. Let’s talk about what happens next.”

“The ship needs work,” Quinel said. “Sensor array’s degraded, stabilizer’s jury-rigged, shield emitter’s cracked, and the climate controls are shot. I can make temporary fixes, but we need a professional to really get her running right.”

“I’ve got mechanics I trust. They’ll give you a steep discount—call it a favor for old times. I’ll also have my people run a deep sweep for trackers, just to be safe.” Garaath drummed his fingers on the desk. “As for the Empire… my read is they’re not actively hunting the girl. They got what they came for—made their example, eliminated the targets. Sixty thousand dead sends a hell of a message. They probably assume everyone connected to those slicers died in the bombardment.”

“You think we’re safe?” Quinel asked.

“Safe is a relative term these days. But yeah, I think you’re off their radar. Still, I’d suggest laying low for a bit. Take indirect routes, avoid Imperial checkpoints where possible. Give it time for the heat to die down completely.”

Quinel nodded. “Fair enough. You have any work we could pick up while we’re here? The repairs are going to eat into our funds.”

“I might have something for you. Let me check with a few contacts, see what’s moving.” Garaath’s expression softened. “But first things first. You all need rest. Especially her.”

He pulled a keycard from his desk drawer and slid it across to Quinel. “Mid-tier apartment in the residential sector. I keep it available for business associates passing through. Two rooms, common area, kitchen, nice view. No one will bother you there. Eat, get some sleep, and we’ll talk business tomorrow.”

“Garaath, I can’t—”

“You can and you will. Consider it my way of honoring her parents’ sacrifice.” The Twi’lek’s voice was firm but kind. “You did right by them, kid. You kept your word. Let me help you keep it a while longer.”

Quinel took the keycard. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Garaath stood and walked them to the door. “Get some rest. I’ll have my people start on the Stray tonight, and I’ll send some food up to your apartment in about half an hour—you’re all exhausted and need a proper meal. We’ll talk again tomorrow once you’ve all had a chance to breathe.”

---

The apartment was modest but comfortable. Two bedrooms off a central common room, a small kitchenette, a refresher that looked like it had been updated within the last decade. The windows offered a spectacular view of Cloud City’s towers and the endless orange clouds of Bespin beyond.

Tammea stood at the window, staring out at the view. She hadn’t said more than three words since they’d arrived. Just moved where Quinel directed, sat where he indicated, followed along like a ghost.

The despondence radiating from her was almost physical.

“Food’s on its way up,” Quinel said. “Should be here in about ten minutes. After we eat, maybe you should try getting some rest?”

“Okay,” she said quietly.

He wanted to say something. Wanted to reach her somehow, pull her back from wherever she’d gone inside her own head. But every time he opened his mouth, the words died before they could form. What was he supposed to say? It’ll be okay? That was a lie, and she’d know it. I’m here for you? She knew that already—he’d proven it when he’d kept his promise.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable.

Dinner arrived right on schedule—some kind of nuna stew with fresh bread and steamed vegetables. Smelled amazing. Quinel’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since… when? This morning? Yesterday?

They sat at the small table. Dez stood by the door, powered down but systems on alert. The droid had positioned himself where he could see both the entrance and the common room—protective even in standby mode.

Quinel ate. Tammea picked at her food, moving it around her plate more than actually consuming it. She took a few bites when he glanced at her, but her heart wasn’t in it.

“You should try to eat,” he said. “Keep your strength up.”

“I’m not very hungry.” Another automatic response.

That knot of anxiety in his chest pulled tighter. Something felt wrong. Not just the situation—that was obviously awful—but something else. A wrongness he couldn’t quite name, pressing down on him like a physical weight.

He forced himself to finish his meal. Tammea gave up halfway through and pushed her plate away.

“I think I’ll go to my room,” she said.

“Alright.” He tried to sound encouraging. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She nodded and disappeared into one of the bedrooms, the door sliding shut behind her.

Quinel sat alone in the common room, staring at the half-eaten plates of food. The anxiety kept building—a low-level hum of wrongness that made his skin crawl. He didn’t understand it. They were safe. They had shelter, food, help. Garaath would get the ship repaired, they’d find work, they’d keep moving. Everything was as under control as it could be given the circumstances.

So why did he feel like he was standing on the edge of a cliff?

He stood and moved to the apartment’s small wet bar, pulling out a bottle of Corellian whisky. Not the good stuff—the cheap, harsh variety that burned going down and left you regretting it in the morning. He poured two fingers and downed it in one swallow.

Dez’s photoreceptors flickered to life. “You are drinking.”

“Yeah.”

“That indicates significant emotional distress.”

“Yeah.”

“I calculate an eighty-seven point three percent probability that you will regret this decision in approximately eight hours.”

Quinel poured another drink. “Noted.”

A pause. “She will require time.”

“I know.” Quinel stared at the amber liquid but didn’t lift it. “I just… I don’t know how to help her, Dez. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You are doing what you can. That is sufficient.”

“Is it?” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m a fracking smuggler who can barely keep his own ship running. What do I know about taking care of a traumatized kid? About helping someone through…” He gestured vaguely toward Tammea’s closed door. “Through that?”

“More than most,” Dez said. “Statistically, you did not abandon her when the optimal strategy was immediate departure. This places you in the ninety-eighth percentile of potential caregivers.”

“Great. I’m barely better than nobody.”

“It is significantly better than nothing.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“No Captain. It is a statistical fact. Comfort is an emotional response. I do not—”

“Have feelings. You’re a droid. I know.” Quinel downed the second drink and set the glass aside. “You’ve been saying that for going on nine years and you still sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me.”

Dez’s optical sensors flickered slightly. “…I have no response to that observation.”

The wrongness hadn’t faded. If anything, it was getting worse—anxiety building in his chest like a trapped animal looking for escape.

In her room, Tammea was probably lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She wasn’t sleeping. He’d bet every credit he had on that.

“I hope I can do right by her, Dez,” he said quietly.

“You will,” Dez replied. “Or you will fail attempting to do so. Either way, you will try. Statistically, that is what matters most.”

Quinel couldn’t tell if that was meant to be comforting or just honest droid pragmatism. Probably both. With Dez, it was always both.

He stood there in the common room, drinking cheap whisky and feeling the weight of a promise he had no idea how to keep, while a nine-year-old girl lay sleepless in the next room.

---