Black Sun Rising

The streets hadn’t gotten any more pleasant in the near half-hour they’d spent in the cantina. If anything, the crowds seemed thicker now, bodies pressing together in the narrow thoroughfare as beings of every species imaginable pushed and shoved their way through the perpetual twilight. Smog hung heavy and hazy overhead, filtering what little natural light managed to reach the surface into a sickly glow that made everyone look half-dead.

Quinel kept his hand on Tammea’s shoulder as they walked, steering her through the press of bodies while Dez maintained position slightly behind and to the right. Her skin had faded back to rose now, the deep violet finally receding after they’d put distance between themselves and that fracking cantina. She still looked worn though—shadows under her eyes, rubbing her temples occasionally like she couldn’t quite shake a headache.

“How you holding up?” he asked quietly.

“Better.” She glanced up at him. “It’s still loud here. All the feelings. But not as bad as in there.”

“We’ll be back at the ship soon. Just a few more blocks.”

A Rodian suddenly shoved past them, nearly knocking Tammea off balance. Quinel steadied her, shooting a glare at the alien’s retreating back. The Rodian didn’t notice—or didn’t care. More than likely the latter. On this moon, you looked out for yourself and no one else.

They turned onto a side street, marginally less crowded. The buildings here were older, rust streaking down their facades like dried blood. Neon signs flickered and buzzed, advertising everything from cantinas to pleasure houses to pawn shops willing to take anything—no questions asked. The smell wasn’t any better either: industrial pollution mixed with organic decay and the ever-present stink of too many beings packed into too little space.

“Captain,” Dez said from behind them. His tone was casual, conversational. “Do not react to what I’m about to tell you.”

Quinel’s hand tightened fractionally on Tammea’s shoulder, but he kept walking, kept his pace steady. “I’m listening.”

“We are being followed.”

Every instinct screamed at him to look back, to scan the crowd, to identify the threat. He forced himself to keep his eyes forward. “You sure?”

“Affirmative. Two individuals, cloaked and hooded. They have been maintaining a consistent distance behind us since we departed the cantina.”

“Could be coincidence. Same direction.”

“Unlikely. They alter their pace to match ours. When we slow, they slow. When we accelerate, they do likewise. They are deliberately trailing us.”

Quinel resisted the urge to swear. Of course they were being followed. Nothing about this job had been straightforward—why would leaving the meeting be any different?

“Can you make out any details?” he asked quietly.

“Negative. They are skilled at remaining concealed. They use the crowd for cover, stay in shadows when possible. These are professionals, Captain. Not common thugs or opportunistic muggers.”

Professionals. That was worse. Much worse.

“How about you, kid,” Quinel asked, keeping his voice even. “Can you sense anything? Anyone following us?”

She frowned, concentrating. After a moment, she shook her head. “It’s too loud. Everyone’s emotions blur together. I can’t pick out just one or two people from all of this.”

He nodded. Made sense. Empathy wasn’t the same as reading minds. Quinel guessed that in a crowd this dense, with this much emotional noise, picking out specific individuals would be like trying to hear a whisper in a cantina full of shouting drunks.

“Keep walking,” he said. “Stay between me and Dez. If anything happens, you get behind cover and stay down. Understand?”

“Yeah.” Her voice was small but steady.

They continued through the streets, working their way back toward the docking bays. Quinel’s awareness had sharpened, every sense on high alert despite his casual pace. His hand hovered near his blaster—not obviously, just close enough to draw fast if needed. Around them, the Smuggler’s Moon went about its business: deals conducted in shadowed alcoves, arguments escalating to violence, the constant flow of credits and contraband that made this place the criminal heart of the Outer Rim.

As they rounded a corner, he caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision. A figure in a dark cloak, hood pulled low. They were about thirty meters back, partially obscured by a group of Weequays. As Quinel glanced that direction—subtle, just a flick of his eyes—the figure turned slightly.

For just a second, their eyes met.

Quinel couldn’t make out features under that hood, couldn’t determine species or even much about build. But he could feel the weight of that stare, calculating and cold. Then the figure’s head turned away, disappearing back into the crowd.

His pulse kicked up a notch. Dez was right. These weren’t opportunistic tails. Someone was keeping tabs on them, and they were good at it.

“They’re still there,” Dez confirmed. “Both of them. Maintaining distance.”

“Could be the client,” Quinel said, thinking out loud. “Making sure we’re heading back to the ship like we’re supposed to.”

“Or preparing to ambush us.”

“Such a cheerful thought.”

“You did not program me for optimism, Captain.”

They turned onto the main thoroughfare leading to the spaceport. The crowds were even thicker here—this was the primary route for spacers heading to and from their ships. Quinel pulled Tammea a little closer. If a firefight broke out in this mess, it would turn into a bloodbath fast. Panicked crowds, trigger-happy smugglers, stray blaster bolts hitting innocent bystanders—the kind of chaos where more people died from the stampede than the actual fight.

“Dez, if this goes sideways—”

“I am prepared to engage hostiles. However, I would strongly advise against combat in this location.”

“Wasn’t planning on starting anything. But good to know you’re ready.”

“I remain, as always, dedicated to ensuring we all survive.”

Despite the tension, Quinel felt his mouth twitch toward a smile.

The spaceport entrance loomed ahead, its security gates standing open to allow the constant flow of traffic. A security droid scanned passing beings with its photoreceptors but didn’t stop anyone—it was purely for show. Nar Shaddaa’s spaceports operated on a simple principle: pay your docking fees, don’t blow anything up, and we don’t care what you do.

They passed through the gates.

“Quinel,” Dez said. “The individuals have broken off pursuit. They are no longer following us.”

Quinel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Stopped at the entrance?”

“Affirmative. They remain outside the perimeter.”

So. Not planning to jump them, then. Just making sure they went where they were supposed to go. Surveillance, not ambush. That should have been reassuring.

It wasn’t.

“Come on,” he said as he quickened his pace. “Let’s get back to the ship.”

---

The Stray sat exactly where they’d left her, her blue and purple hull standing out among the grays and browns of the surrounding vessels. Home. Safety. The only place on this entire fracking moon where Quinel felt like he could breathe easy.

Tammea made a small sound of relief as they approached, her shoulders dropping as tension visibly drained from her frame.

Three figures emerged from the shadows where Quinel remembered seeing them last. The thugs from before—two humans and the Weequay who’d shaken them down on arrival. The Weequay, the one with the scar across his leathery snout, approached with his hand extended.

“Leaving already?” he asked, that same unpleasant grin splitting his leathery face.

Quinel reached into his coat, pulled out a credit chit, and tossed it to him. “That’s the other hundred-fifty we agreed on.”

The Weequay caught it, checked the amount, then nodded with satisfaction. “Pleasure doing business. Try not to get killed on your way out of the system.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The three thugs sauntered off, credits in hand and apparently satisfied with their score. Quinel watched them go, then headed for the boarding ramp.

---

The Stray’s common area was a relief after the streets outside. Enclosed. Safe. The door sealed behind them, cutting off the worst of the spaceport noise. Tammea immediately dropped onto the couch with a sigh, her shoulders sagging.

“I can’t wait until we leave,” she said.

“Makes two of us, kid.” Quinel leaned against the galley counter, arms crossed. “Soon as they get here with the cargo, we’re out.”

He turned to the droid standing near the boarding ramp. “Dez, what do you think that was about back there?”

“Insufficient data to form a reliable conclusion.” The droid’s optical sensors flickered. “Given the number of active criminal elements on this moon, there are numerous possible explanations. Surveillance by the client to ensure compliance. Rival organizations monitoring the client’s operations. Law enforcement—”

“Nar Shaddaa doesn’t have law enforcement.”

“Technically, it has a security force. Whether they qualify as ‘law enforcement’ is debatable.”

“Fair point.”

Tammea was rubbing her temples again, but she managed a small smile. “At least nothing gets boring traveling with you two.”

Quinel started to reply, but a heavy pounding echoed through the ship—someone hammering on the cargo hold’s external loading ramp.

“And that would be our guys.” He pushed off the counter, loosened his blaster in its holster. “Stay close. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

He headed down the stairs to the cargo hold, Dez and the kid following. The hold was empty and echoing, ready to receive cargo. He hit the control panel and the loading ramp began to descend with a hydraulic hiss.

Four men stood outside on repulsor pallets loaded with large crates. They were dressed like standard delivery workers, but it was clear these men were muscle, pure and simple, with the kind of casual stance of people who knew they were dangerous and wanted everyone else to know it too.

Behind them stood another figure that made Quinel’s jaw tighten. This one was different. Well-dressed in expensive clothes that looked Core World tailored—dark, understated, professional. His hands were manicured, his bearing cultured. Everything about him screamed money and power.

Next to him stood a heavily armed Gamorrean, massive and scarred, with the kind of alert watchfulness that marked him as a bodyguard.

Quinel shared a glance with Dez. The droid’s optical sensors had gone solid green—full combat assessment mode.

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” Quinel kept his tone light, easy. “Nice day for a delivery. Assuming there’s such a thing as a nice day on Nar Shaddaa.”

The well-dressed man’s expression didn’t change. No smile, no acknowledgment of the attempt at humor. Just cold assessment. “Mr. Neviden. I trust you’re ready to receive your cargo?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be.” Quinel gestured at the empty hold behind him. “Plenty of room.”

“Good.” The man’s smile was thin and didn’t reach his eyes. “These gentlemen will handle the loading. I’m here to ensure everything proceeds smoothly.”

Beside him, the kid had gone very still. She was rubbing her temples again, her free hand clutching at his sleeve. Quinel glanced down at her—her skin had darkened slightly, not the deep violet from before but definitely more than rose.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, but didn’t look alright. “Just… they feel wrong. Like the ones in the cantina.”

The well-dressed man was watching them with cold calculation. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem.” Quinel kept his voice level. “Just making sure my crew is comfortable with the loading process.”

“I assure you, we are professionals.” The man gestured to his workers. “These crates contain delicate merchandise. My men will handle them.”

The four men began moving the repulsor pallets toward the loading ramp. Quinel stepped aside to let them pass, keeping himself between them and the kid. As the first crate floated by, he got a good look at it.

Heavy-duty shipping container, sealed with industrial locks and magnetic clamps. The kind of packaging you used when you wanted to keep something very secure. There were markings on the side, labels indicating “organic spices” and “perishable goods” and a bunch of customs codes that probably meant nothing.

But the weight was wrong. Spices were light. These crates moved like they were hauling something much heavier.

“Dez,” Quinel said quietly. “Take the kid back up.”

“Acknowledged.” The droid placed a metal hand on Tammea’s shoulder and began guiding her toward the stairs leading up to the common area.

Quinel turned his attention back to the loading operation, watching as the four men maneuvered the crates into his hold. They worked efficiently, professionally, stacking the containers with practiced ease. They were most certainly not delivery workers. These were enforcers playing at legitimate work.

The well-dressed man watched the whole operation with that same calculating expression, his Gamorrean bodyguard a silent presence at his side.

“So,” Quinel said, trying to fill the silence. “Where exactly are we taking this cargo?”

“Taris.”

The word hit him like a punch to the gut. Taris. Of all the fracking planets in the Outer Rim, it had to be Taris.

He must have reacted—some flicker of expression he couldn’t quite suppress—because the well-dressed man’s eyes sharpened with interest.

“You have an objection, Mr. Neviden?”

Quinel’s mind flashed back unbidden: running through lower city streets, bounty hunters on his tail, desperate and terrified and barely eighteen years old. The rust-stained buildings, the perpetual smog, the sense of being hunted every single moment he’d spent on that cursed world. He’d sworn he’d never go back.

“No,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “That’s not a problem at all.”

The man studied him for another moment, then nodded. “Good. There is a deadline for this delivery, Mr. Neviden. Our clients are… eager to receive their merchandise. I trust you understand the importance of timeliness?”

“I understand.” Quinel watched another crate float past. “How eager are we talking?”

“Very.” The man’s pleasant mask didn’t shift, but something cold entered his eyes. “Delays will not be tolerated. Neither will detours.”

“Straight shot to Taris. Got it.”

One by one, the crates disappeared into his hold. Four. Five. The last one was being maneuvered up the ramp now. One of the enforcers guided the repulsor pallet, his hands steady on the control interface. But as it crossed the threshold into the hold, something caught. The pallet lurched.

The docking crew-dressed enforcer lunged forward to steady it, leaning over the crate to keep it from tipping. His jacket collar pulled back with the movement.

There, just visible on the side of his neck for half a second before his collar settled back into place, was a tattoo.

Black and distinctive. Unmistakable.

A sun. Black Sun.

Quinel felt the world narrow to that single detail. That symbol. That tattoo.

Black Sun.

What the frak was Black Sun doing on Nar Shaddaa?

The enforcer secured the crate and stepped back with the others, their work complete. They moved with the synchronization of a unit that had worked together before—military precision disguised as civilian labor.

The well-dressed man reached into his jacket and pulled out a credit chit. He held it out to Quinel. “The first half of your payment, as agreed. The second half will be provided upon successful delivery to our representative on Taris.”

Quinel took the chit, checked the amount. It was all there—exactly what had been promised. “And if we get there quickly enough?”

“Then you will be compensated for your efficiency.” The man’s smile returned, thin and meaningless. “But I would not recommend testing the limits of our patience.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The man turned to leave, his Gamorrean bodyguard falling into step beside him. The four obvious enforcers followed, their job apparently done. Quinel watched them go, his mind racing.

This was Hutt space. Hutt territory. The Hutt Cartel didn’t take kindly to other syndicates operating in their backyard. For Black Sun to be here, conducting business right under the Hutts’ noses…

Either this was an incredibly bold move, or someone had made a dangerous alliance.

Neither option was good.

The man and his crew disappeared around the corner of a neighboring ship, leaving Quinel alone in the cargo hold with six large crates and a rapidly growing sense of dread.

He stared at the cargo. At the heavy-duty containers with their innocuous labels and the locks that were far too secure for cooking spices.

They’d been forced into accepting a job from Black Sun. One of the most dangerous criminal syndicates in the galaxy. Operating in Hutt territory. Transporting cargo to Taris with strict deadlines and zero tolerance for deviation.

“What the frak have we gotten ourselves into?” he muttered.

The crates sat silent and ominous, offering no answers.

---

The couch was soft and familiar beneath her. Tammea pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them, and tried to steady her breathing. Away from those crates. Away from that awful sick feeling that had made her stomach churn and her head pound.

It was better now. Not gone—she could still feel the faint wrongness radiating up from the cargo hold below—but muted. Manageable.

Dez stood nearby, his green optical sensors trained on her.

“Is the small organic experiencing discomfort?” he asked.

“I’m okay.” Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “Just… those men out there. And the crates.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away the lingering headache. “They felt like the ones we met in the cantina, only worse.”

“Worse how?”

Tammea looked up to find Quinel standing in the doorway to the cargo hold. He looked… troubled. She could feel it radiating from him—worry, tension, something sharp and anxious underneath his casual tone. He crossed to the chair across from her and sat down.

“The same sick feeling,” she said. “Like they were contaminated with something. But stronger. And those crates…” She shuddered. “Being near them made me feel sick. Made my head hurt. There’s something in them that feels wrong. Really wrong. Even through the seals.”

“Yeah, well I’ve got something much worse than that to add to things,” Quinel replied as he leaned back in his chair.

Tammea sat up straighter. His emotions had shifted as something dark and worried flooded through him. “What do you mean?”

“I think I know who we’re muling for.” He met Dez’s optical sensors. “I saw a tattoo. On one of the loading crew. Black Sun marking.”

Dez went very still. “You are certain?”

“Positive. Right on his neck. Only visible for a second when his collar shifted, but I saw it. No mistaking it.”

“That is… problematic.” Dez’s tone suggested he was running calculations. “Black Sun involvement reduces our probability of a complication-free delivery to less than 4%.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“I don’t understand.” Tammea looked between them. “What’s Black Sun?”

Quinel rubbed his face. “They’re a criminal organization. A big one. Second only to the Hutts in terms of power and reach across the galaxy.”

“Dangerous, organized, and ruthless,” Dez added helpfully. “They specialize in spice trafficking, weapons dealing, assassination, extortion, and various other illegal enterprises. They operate with corporate efficiency and have resources comparable to a planetary army.”

“Not people you want to cross,” Quinel finished. “Ever.”

Tammea tried to process that. Black Sun. A criminal organization. Dangerous people. The kind Quinel clearly didn’t want to be working for.

Something was nagging at her though. Something he’d said earlier, back when they were first flying here…

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Isn’t this… I thought you said this moon was in Hutt space? When we were coming here?”

Quinel’s expression shifted—encouragement, maybe? “Yeah. It is. Why?”

“So…” She frowned, trying to work through the logic. “If the Hutts control this space, and Black Sun is a different criminal group…” She looked between Quinel and Dez, uncertain. “Wouldn’t they be… I don’t know. Against each other? Or something?”

Something shifted in Quinel’s emotions—surprise, and something that felt almost like approval.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Black Sun shouldn’t be here. This is Hutt territory—has been for centuries. The Cartel doesn’t take kindly to other syndicates conducting business in their space.”

“So either Black Sun is making a very bold move,” Dez said, “or there is some form of arrangement we are not aware of.”

“Neither option is particularly comforting.”

Silence fell over the common area. Outside, they could hear the ambient sounds of the spaceport: ships landing and taking off, the beep of droids, the distant shouts of crews loading cargo. Normal spaceport activity. Nothing to suggest the magnitude of the mess they’d just walked into.

“Do you think Garaath knew about this?” Tammea asked softly.

Quinel was quiet for a moment, thinking. She could feel his emotions shifting—consideration, uncertainty, then something settling.

“I don’t think so,” he said finally. “This job came from a client Garaath was already doing business with. The client seemed nervous to him, off somehow. Didn’t want to reveal the destination until we picked up the cargo.”

“Affirmative,” Dez confirmed. “Garaath expressed concern about the client’s behavior when offering us this job. He advised caution.”

“Garaath doesn’t deal with Black Sun if he can help it.” Quinel shook his head. “It’s not his kind of business. Too dangerous, too likely to blow back on him. No, I’d bet good credits he’s as clueless about this as we were.”

“Were?” Tammea asked. “We’re still going to do it?”

Quinel’s gaze settled on her, steady and assessing. She felt exposed under that look, knew he could see her fear even without empathy. But she’d asked the question.

“We don’t have much choice,” he said quietly. “We’ve already been paid. We’ve got the cargo in our hold. And both contacts made it pretty clear—delays won’t be tolerated. Neither will backing out.”

“What would they do if we tried to return the cargo?” Tammea asked.

“Nothing good.” Quinel’s voice was flat. “Black Sun doesn’t accept refunds, kid. You take their job, you complete it. That’s how it works in the underworld. You back out, you become a liability. And liabilities get eliminated.”

“I calculate our survival probability at less than 15 percent if we attempt to renege on this agreement,” Dez added. “Black Sun has extensive resources and does not tolerate failure or betrayal.”

Her skin flushed hot with anxiety. “So we’re trapped.”

“Not trapped,” Quinel corrected. But something in his emotions felt uncertain, like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. “Committed. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

He didn’t have a good answer for that.

“What is our destination?” Dez asked.

Quinel’s jaw tightened. Tammea felt a spike of tension from him—sharp and immediate. “Taris.”

Dez’s optical sensors flickered, processing. “Taris. Ecumenopolis in the Outer Rim. Heavily bombed during the Jedi Civil War approximately four millennia ago. Currently experiencing ongoing but gradual reconstruction now under Imperial oversight. Notable for layered city structure and highly polluted atmosphere.”

“Yeah. I know.” Quinel’s voice was flat. His emotions had gone tense, guarded. The emotional resonance of old memories, Tammea realized. Bad ones.

“You know it?” she asked quietly.

“Been there before. Long time ago.” He didn’t elaborate. “Didn’t go well.”

Dez tilted his head slightly. “May I inquire—”

“No.” The word came out harder than Quinel probably intended. He took a breath. “Just… not a place I ever planned on going back to in this lifetime. But here we are.”

“And now we’re heading straight for it,” Tammea said softly. “With cargo that’s probably illegal and definitely dangerous.”

“With a deadline,” Dez added. “And consequences for failure.”

“And Black Sun watching to make sure we deliver.” Quinel opened his eyes, looked at his crew. “So yeah. Outside of Imperial involvement, this is pretty much the worst case scenario we could have landed in.”

Tammea went quiet, feeling the weight of Quinel’s emotions. Fear. Frustration. Resignation. Anger simmering underneath. All of it tangled together, coming from him in waves she couldn’t quite block out.

Finally, she spoke. “So, we’re doing the job?”

Quinel was quiet for a long moment. She could feel him turning something over, weighing options, all of them bad.

“We’re doing the job,” he said finally. “We’re going to fly to Taris, deliver the damn cargo, get the second half of our payment, and then we’re going to put as much fracking distance between us and this mess as possible.”

“And if something goes wrong?” Tammea asked.

“Then we deal with it.” Quinel stood. “But right now, the best move is to play this straight. Do the job, take the credits, move on. The more we complicate this, the worse it gets. One way or another though, we’ll fly through this.”

Tammea’s stomach knotted. This was her first real job as crew. Her first time being part of something like this. And it had already gone so wrong. She wanted to ask if there was another way, wanted to know they’d be safe, but she could feel Quinel’s certainty—not that this would work, but that they were out of choices.

She wasn’t sure which scared her more.

“Besides,” he added, turning to Dez with an attempt at a lighter tone. “It’s not like we haven’t dealt with sketchy cargo before. Remember that crate of ‘medical supplies’ that turned out to be black market cybernetics?”

“That was different,” Dez said. “We were not transporting contraband for one of the galaxy’s most dangerous criminal syndicates.”

“Details.”

“Critical details.”

A crooked grin tugged at Quinel’s mouth—dark, but genuine. “Look, I’m not saying this is ideal. It’s not. But we’ve flown through worse. We’ll fly through this too.”

Tammea looked at him for a long moment. Her empathy picked up everything he was trying to keep under control—the fear, the determination, the doubt he was pushing down. But underneath all of it, she could feel something solid. He meant what he said. He’d get them through this if he could.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “I trust you.”

For just a second, something warm flickered through his emotions. Then it was gone, buried under pragmatism.

“Alright then.” He stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Dez, start warming her up. I want to be well away from this damn moon before the hour’s out.”

“Acknowledged.” The droid headed for the stairs, his heavy footsteps echoing as he climbed toward the cockpit.

Quinel glanced toward the doorway leading down to the cargo hold, then back at her. “You come on up too, Kid. Time to see what you remember about pre-flight.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Best time to learn is when it matters.” His tone softened slightly. “Besides, beats sitting down here worrying about what’s in those crates.”

He had a point. Tammea pushed herself up from the couch, her legs a little unsteady. She followed Quinel up the narrow stairs to the cockpit, her hand trailing along the wall for balance. The blue and purple paint job continued even here—this was Quinel’s space, his sanctuary, and he’d made it his own.

Dez occupied his station, running diagnostics. Quinel settled into the pilot’s seat and popped his knuckles with an audible series of cracks. “Alright, kid. Talk me through it. What’s first?”

Tammea moved to stand between the two, her hand resting on the back of Quinel’s seat as she looked down at the bewildering array of controls and displays. She’d watched him do this before. Had listened when he explained things. But now, with him waiting for her to remember…

“Power systems?” she tried.

“Good start. Keep going.”

Tammea took a breath and started listing the pre-flight sequence, Quinel listening and occasionally correcting, preparing to take them away from this cursed place and into whatever trouble waited among the stars.

---