En Route

The blue tunnel of hyperspace streamed past the viewport, endless and hypnotic. Quinel ducked under a low-hanging conduit as he led Tammea deeper into the aft section of the Misfit Stray. She followed close behind, not needing to duck as the conduit passed well over her head. The space thrummed with power—not loud, but present. Alive. She could feel it in her chest, the steady pulse of the ship cutting through space faster than light.

“This here’s the hyperdrive motivator,” Quinel said, gesturing to a cylindrical assembly covered in what looked like organized chaos—wires, conduits, diagnostic panels all feeding into the central core. “Whole thing’s built around the hypermatter reactor. That’s what gives us the juice to punch into hyperspace.”

Tammea leaned closer, studying the way everything connected. “And if something goes wrong with it?”

“Depends on what goes wrong.” Quinel tapped a gauge, checked the readout. “Motivator fails, we drop back to realspace. Reactor goes critical…” He made a sharp whistling sound and spread his hands. “We don’t worry about it after that.”

She blinked. “That’s… not comforting.”

“Wasn’t meant to be.” He flashed a quick grin. “But she’s solid. I keep her maintained, she keeps us flying. Fair deal.”

Tammea watched as he pointed out the different components—coolant lines, power regulators, emergency shutoffs. He explained each one without talking down to her, treating her questions like they mattered. Like she was crew, not just a kid he was stuck with.

It had been like this since they left Bespin. Half a day of Quinel showing her around the ship, teaching her systems, making sure she knew where everything was. He’d been patient with her questions, treated her like she had a right to know these things. Like she belonged here.

She still didn’t quite believe it. That this was real. That she had a place here.

“You’re definitely catching on fast,” Quinel said, watching her examine a junction panel. “Faster than I did when I started, and I was twice your age.”

“Like I said, I like ships.” She traced a coolant line with her eyes, following it up to the overhead systems. “Always have. Even back on Zeltros, before everything happened.”

“It seems Kybuss taught you well,” Quinel said. “The guy really knew what he was doing.”

A small smile tugged at her mouth. “He’d be happy to know I’m still learning. He said I had good instincts for this kind of work.”

She moved across the deck, settling onto a parts crate that was strapped securely in place. The metal was cool through her trousers. Her fingers absently found the credit chip hanging against her chest under her tunic. Thirty thousand credits her mother had given her in those final moments, thinking it was payment. Insurance. A way to make sure Quinel would—

She pushed the thought away before it could finish.

Quinel noticed the gesture. He leaned against a nearby workbench, studying her with those sharp eyes that never missed much. “How’re you holding up, kid?”

Tammea’s hand dropped from the chip. She thought back to Cloud City, to what Dez had told her about Garaath’s message. The Empire had put out official word about Ghauba—called it a crackdown on insurrectionists harboring terrorists. Made it sound like the colonists had brought it on themselves. Made it sound justified.

“Dez told me,” she said quietly. “About the footage. What the Empire’s saying happened.” She looked up at him. “It’s still hard to accept. Everything that happened. How could they be that… that evil?”

Quinel’s expression darkened slightly, but when he spoke, his voice was pragmatic and gentle. “Empire doesn’t see it as evil. They see it as control. Making examples so other systems fall in line.” He crossed his arms. “Doesn’t make it right. Just makes it what it is.”

“Everyone died because my parents were there.” The words came out smaller than she intended. “All those people. Kybuss. The couple who ran the cantina. That Rodian kid who always tried to race his speeder bike through the market.” She looked down at her hands. “They’re gone because of us. If they hadn’t gone after those Star Destroyers, the Empire wouldn’t have noticed Ghauba,” she whispered. “If they’d stayed quiet…”

“They’re gone because the Empire chose to kill them.” Quinel’s tone went firm. “Not your fault. Not your parents’ fault either. The Empire pulled the trigger. Don’t let them make you carry their sins.”

Tammea wanted to believe that. She wasn’t sure she did, not completely. But Quinel believed it, and somehow that helped.

“Your parents fought back against something monstrous,” he continued. “They sabotaged those Star Destroyers because they saw what the Empire was building. What it would do.” He paused. “Best way to honor them—honor all of them—is to keep living. Make something good out of what you’ve got left. I think your mother and Deklaen would want that. So would the colonists.”

She nodded slowly. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all anyone can do.”

He straightened, crossed to where she sat, and patted her shoulder once. The gesture was awkward but sincere. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving, and I’d bet you are too.”

---

Tammea sat at the common area table, watching Quinel attempt to cook. The process was… concerning.

He’d pulled out two nerf steaks from the cooling unit—decent cuts, not bad quality—and some kind of root vegetables she didn’t recognize. Then he’d proceeded to treat the heating unit like it had personally offended him. High heat, no monitoring, just tossing things on and walking away to grab something else.

The smell of burning meat filled the air within minutes.

“How long have you had the Stray?” she asked, partly out of curiosity, partly to distract herself from the culinary disaster unfolding.

“About eleven or twelve years, give or take.” Quinel poked at one of the steaks with a utensil, as if that would help. “Won her in a… let’s call it a high-stakes negotiation.”

“You mean you stole her.”

“I mean I liberated her from someone who didn’t deserve her.” He flipped the steak. It was already blackened on one side. “Big difference.”

Tammea wrinkled her nose as smoke started rising from the vegetables. “Quinel, I think—”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“It’s burning.”

“It’s browning.”

“That’s not browning.”

Quinel glanced back at her, then at the heating unit, then sighed. “Okay, maybe it’s burning a little.”

“A little?” Tammea stood, moving toward the galley. “How have you survived this long?”

“Ration bars, mostly. And the occasional miracle.”

“That explains so much.” She gently but firmly nudged him away from the heating unit. “Sit down. Let me handle this.”

“I can—”

“Sit.”

Quinel held up his hands in mock surrender and retreated to the table. Tammea surveyed the damage. The steaks were badly burnt on one side, raw on the other. The vegetables were charcoal. But there was enough in the cooling unit to salvage this.

She adjusted the heat, pulled fresh vegetables, and started over. The nerf steaks she could trim—cut away the burnt parts, slice them thin, cook them properly. It wouldn’t be pretty, but it would be edible.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Quinel asked, watching her work.

“Zeltros, mostly.” She diced the vegetables with quick, confident movements. “I used to help my cousins in the community kitchens. Cooking was… it made people happy. Good food, everyone enjoying it together.” She smiled a little. “Felt good to be part of that.”

“Makes sense. Zeltrons and pleasure.”

“It’s not just that.” She stirred the vegetables as they sizzled. “Well, it is, but it’s more than just… I don’t know how to explain it. Creating something that brings joy. Sharing it. That’s what mattered.”

She worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the smell of burning replaced by something much more appetizing. Quinel’s eyes tracked her movements around the galley as she worked.

“After we started running,” she continued, “I kept cooking. Gave me something to do while Mom and Dek were working. Made me feel useful.” She stirred the vegetables. “Helped me feel good about something when everything else was scary.”

The common area door slid open and Dez ducked through, his sensors focusing immediately on the galley. “My sensors detected combustion and assumed the worst.”

Quinel snorted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“I have learned to prepare for likely scenarios.” Dez settled into his usual position near the table. “The probability of you successfully preparing edible food remains statistically low.”

“You don’t even eat. Why do you care?”

“My olfactory sensors can be overwhelmed by the toxins released into the atmosphere thanks to your cooking.” Dez’s optical sensors turned toward Tammea. “I also feel concern for the small organic’s health.”

“You feel concern?” Quinel raised an eyebrow. “Thought you didn’t have feelings.”

“I have no feelings,” Dez replied flatly. “I merely possess a sophisticated threat-assessment subroutine that prioritizes crew survival. The distinction is important.”

Tammea laughed, the sound surprising her. She looked for the plates in the cabinets, and Quinel pointed to the correct one. She reached in and grabbed three out of habit—one for her, one for her mother, one for Dek—before her hand froze. The weight of the missing two hitting her right in the center of her chest. She set the third plate back carefully and brought just two to the table.

Quinel tried the food and paused. “This is… actually good.”

“It’s edible,” Tammea said. “Which is an improvement.”

“Hey, I’ve kept myself alive this long.”

“On ration bars,” she pointed out.

“And miracles,” Quinel added as he took another bite. “Can’t forget the miracles.”

Tammea rolled her eyes as she took a bite of her own plate. The nerf was a little tough from the initial overcooking, but the vegetables had turned out well. “I can take over cooking duties if you want. I don’t mind.”

“I don’t want to put too much on you at once,” Quinel said around a mouthful. “You’re still settling in.”

“I want to.” She met his eyes. “Really. It’s… it makes me feel better. Doing something useful.”

Quinel studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. Galley’s yours if you want it.”

Dez shifted in his seat—the sight of a battle droid sitting at a dinner table striking her as absurdly funny. “Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to discuss the parameters of our upcoming assignment. You have not fully briefed us on the details.”

“Right.” Quinel swallowed, gestured with his fork. “Pickup on Nar Shaddaa, transport to an undisclosed location.”

“Undisclosed?” Tammea frowned. “You said that earlier. Is that normal?”

“Client didn’t want the destination known until after we pick up the cargo. Not common for regular shipments, but it happens with high-end goods. Competitors and all that.” He took another bite. “Payment’s modest but decent—enough to rebuild our funds after the repairs on Bespin. Should be straightforward transport work.”

“What’s the cargo?” Dez asked.

“Exotic cooking spices. High-end stuff for fancy restaurants, supposedly.”

Tammea perked up slightly at that. Exotic spices sounded interesting, at least.

“Garaath wasn’t entirely comfortable with it,” Quinel continued. “Nar Shaddaa’s got a reputation. Told me to be careful, watch our backs.”

“The Smuggler’s Moon,” Dez observed. “Hutt-controlled territory. Minimal law enforcement. Criminal activity is prevalent throughout. Hutt cartels take a cut from everything.”

Tammea set down her fork. “What’s it like? Nar Shaddaa?”

Quinel exchanged a glance with Dez. “Dangerous. It’s an outlaw’s paradise—whole moon covered in city, all of it Hutt-controlled. Law enforcement is basically nonexistent. Everyone there is running or running from something.”

“Entire surface is urbanized,” Dez added. “Heavily polluted. Various criminal organizations control different sectors with the Hutts on top. Violence is commonplace.”

A cold feeling settled in Tammea’s stomach. It sounded horrible. Worse than that—it sounded like the kind of place where an empath would be completely overwhelmed. All that crime, all that violence, all those emotions…

Quinel’s voice became serious. “Stay close to me and Dez when we’re there. Don’t wander off.” He leaned forward slightly. “There are worse things in the galaxy than the Empire, kid. Nar Shaddaa’s where a lot of them live.”

The warning settled over her like a weight. She nodded, trying not to show how scared she suddenly felt. What would it feel like, walking through all of that? Would she be able to handle it?

Quinel must have seen her expression change. “If it gets to be too much,” Quinel said, “let me know. We’ll head straight back to the ship. No fuss, no questions asked.”

Through his words and her empathic sense, she felt what she was beginning to know as his protective instinct—that careful, fierce determination to keep her safe. It was still strange, having someone care like that. Strange but… good.

“Okay,” she said quietly. Part of her wanted to argue, to say she’d be fine, that she wouldn’t cause problems. But she had a feeling Quinel would see right through that.

They finished dinner in silence, the weight of what was coming settling over all of them.

---

After dinner, Tammea helped him clean up the galley while Dez headed aft to his charging station. Quinel gave the droid a hard time about needing a nap, which earned him a pointed look from Dez’s optical sensors and a comment about the necessity of regular maintenance protocols for optimal function.

Then it was just him and Tammea in the common area, and the silence felt… awkward. They were still figuring this out. How to be around each other. What this new dynamic was supposed to look like.

Tammea settled onto the couch, pulling her knees up, looking around the room like she was cataloging everything. Quinel dropped into his chair, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. How did people entertain kids? He had no fracking idea. It wasn’t like he had much of a childhood himself growing up on the streets of Corellia to take inspiration from.

The kid was doing better, at least. Better than on Bespin, when she’d been running on fumes and trauma. She was eating properly now, sleeping, asking questions, engaging with the world around her. That was good.

But what was he supposed to provide for a Zeltron kid? They needed joy, stimulation, community. The Stray was a cramped freighter with one emotionally constipated man and a droid who claimed to have no feelings. Not exactly an enriching environment.

“You’ve got a really nice holonet setup,” Tammea said, breaking into his thoughts. She was looking at the entertainment system he’d installed a few years back—premium access node, good display, decent speakers.

“Yeah. Got tired of the silence. Well, tired of just Dez’s commentary.”

“There’s gotta be at least one show you like?”

Quinel shrugged. “I had it installed more to fill the quiet than anything else. Haven’t watched much.”

Tammea’s expression shifted to something like determination. She got up, grabbed the remote from the table, and flopped back onto the couch with a bounce that made him think of how young she actually was. Nine years old. Fracking stars, she was still just a kid.

She powered on the display and started flipping through the menus. “Live broadcasts won’t work in hyperspace, but you’ve got stuff stored in the ship’s memory, right?”

“Should be. System auto-records popular programs when we’re in range.”

She scrolled through options, face scrunched in concentration. Finally, she made a triumphant sound and selected something. A musical feature—bright colors, dramatic costumes, people singing about… he had no idea what.

“What is this?”

“Starlight Rhapsody,” Tammea said, like that explained everything. “It’s about this traveling performance troupe in the Core Worlds. They do these big musical productions on different planets.” She settled deeper into the couch. “Mom and I used to watch it together when we could get broadcasts.”

Quinel watched the screen, where someone in an absolutely ridiculous outfit was belting out a song about lost love or destiny or something equally melodramatic. It was terrible. Completely over the top.

But Tammea was completely absorbed, mouthing along with words she clearly knew, her whole face lighting up during certain parts. And somehow, watching her enjoy it made it… not terrible. Almost entertaining, in a way.

“That’s Lyra Solenne,” Tammea explained during a quieter moment. “She’s the lead soprano. She had to leave her home planet to join the troupe, and now she’s trying to prove she belongs there.” She pointed at another character. “And that’s her rival, Kess. He’s actually in love with her but won’t admit it because his family thinks performing is beneath them.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“It is! That’s what makes it good.”

Quinel found himself actually following the plot. Or trying to, anyway. The music was admittedly catchy, and the performances were genuinely impressive, even if the storyline was pure melodrama.

But his mind kept drifting back to the job. Nar Shaddaa. The pickup.

Something felt off, just like Garaath had said. Why all the secrecy about where expensive culinary goods were going? Sure, high-end restaurants protected their supply chains, but this felt like more than that. The client had been nervous according to Garaath—eager, paying well, but nervous.

Nervous clients usually meant complications.

Then again, maybe he was being paranoid. Maybe it was exactly what it seemed: a straightforward transport job for someone who didn’t want competitors knowing their suppliers. The Outer Rim had plenty of legitimate reasons for discretion.

They’d just have to see how it played out. If it looked dicey once they made contact, they’d walk away. Find another job. The galaxy was full of work for someone with a ship and flexible morals.

Movement caught his eye. Tammea had started dozing where she sat, her head tilting at an angle that was going to give her a hell of a neck ache if she stayed in that position. On screen, someone was singing dramatically about sacrifice while wearing what appeared to be a costume made entirely of synthetic feathers.

Quinel got up and powered down the display. The blue glow of hyperspace through the viewports provided enough light to navigate by. He moved to the couch and gently shook Tammea’s shoulder.

“Hey. Kid. Time for bed.”

She woke slowly, blinking up at him in confusion. “What…?”

“You fell asleep. Come on.”

He helped her to her feet—she was still half-asleep, stumbling slightly—and guided her down the corridor to her cabin. The door slid open and he made sure she got inside alright, steadying her when she swayed.

“G’night,” she mumbled.

“Get some sleep. We’ll be arriving at Nar Shaddaa in—” he checked the chrono set into the wall “—about ten hours.”

“’Kay.” She turned to go, then stopped. Hesitated. Looked at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read—like she wanted something but didn’t know how to ask for it.

“Something on your mind?”

Instead of answering, she stepped forward and hugged him. Quick and fierce, arms around his middle, face pressed against his chest.

“Thanks,” she said quietly. “For everything. Again.”

Quinel stood frozen for half a second, completely taken aback. Then, slowly, he returned the hug. Patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Get some sleep, kid. Need you sharp tomorrow.”

She pulled back, nodded, and disappeared into her cabin. The door slid shut.

Quinel stood in the corridor for a long moment, staring at her door. Somewhere along the line, this had stopped being a job and started being… something else. He tried very hard not to think about what.

He made his way to his own quarters, the ship humming around him. His cabin was small but functional—bunk, storage, a few personal items he’d accumulated over the years. Maintenance manuals. Tools. Things that had proven useful or meaningful enough to keep.

On the nightstand beside his bunk sat a small preservation case. Inside, perfectly maintained, was a blue and purple flower. Felucian wildflower.

He touched the case gently, briefly, then turned to get ready for bed, the familiar routine grounding him. Tomorrow they’d hit Nar Shaddaa. Do the pickup. Get the job done. Nothing complicated.

Probably.

Quinel woke to the sound of the Stray in flight—that particular vibration of the hyperdrive that meant everything was running smooth. The chrono said he’d gotten a solid eight hours. More sleep than he’d managed in weeks.

He dressed, ran a hand through his hair, and headed out into the corridor. The smell of fresh kaf hit him immediately.

In the galley, Tammea was already awake and moving with purpose. A steaming cup of kaf sat on the table, and she was working on something at the heating unit that smelled significantly better than anything he’d ever managed to produce.

“What’s all this?”

She glanced back. “I told you last night I wanted to cook. This morning seemed like a good time to start.”

“Fair enough.” He grabbed the kaf and took a long drink. Still hot, brewed strong. Perfect. “Give me a minute.”

He made his way to the refresher for his morning routine—washing up, making himself presentable, trying to convince his hair to cooperate. When he returned, Tammea had breakfast waiting. Nothing fancy—protein, some kind of grain, frozen fruit she’d somehow managed to make taste better than it had any right to—but it was plated nicely and smelled fantastic.

“I know it isn’t much,” she said, suddenly looking uncertain. “I wanted to make a few extra things, but you don’t have a lot of options in the food stores.”

Quinel tried a bite. The protein was seasoned perfectly, the grain had actual flavor, and the fruit was fresh. “This is great.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He took another bite. “You should make a list of what you need. Next time we resupply, I’ll make sure you’ve got proper ingredients to work with.”

Her face lit up. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Have you seen Dez this morning?”

“He’s already in the cockpit. Has been for about an hour.”

“Damn workaholic droid,” Quinel muttered around a mouthful. “Never takes a damn break.”

Tammea smiled, the expression reaching her eyes. She sat down with her own plate and they ate together, making small talk about the ship, about what they might see on Nar Shaddaa, about anything that wasn’t heavy.

It felt… normal. Domestic, even. Like this was just how mornings went.

When they finished, they headed forward to the cockpit. Dez was already at his station, his frame somehow looking comfortable in the seat despite being designed for war, not navigation.

“Morning,” Quinel said, sliding into the pilot’s seat.

“Your morning routine took longer than usual,” Dez observed. “I trust you are adequately refreshed.”

“I’m a joy to be around.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

Tammea laughed as she moved to stand behind Quinel’s seat. He gestured her closer. “Come here. Want to show you something.”

She leaned in as he brought up the ship’s systems on the display. “This is what you always check before dropping out of hyperspace. Power distribution, shield status, sensor array, atmospheric seals.”

“Why atmospheric seals?”

“Because if something goes wrong and we drop into atmosphere, we’ll know about it before we’re dead.” He tapped another readout. “This is the navicomputer. See that countdown?”

“Three minutes.”

“That’s when we revert to realspace. Before that happens, we want to make sure everything’s green. No surprises.”

“What if something isn’t green?”

“Then we fix it before we drop out, or we stay in hyperspace until we do.” He showed her the manual override controls. “These let you extend the jump if needed. Not ideal—uses more fuel—but better than dropping into trouble with a damaged ship.”

Tammea absorbed it all, asking smart questions, making connections. The kid really did pick things up fast.

“Captain, we’re approaching the reversion point,” Dez announced. “All systems nominal. Sensor arrays prepared for immediate active scanning upon reversion.”

Quinel settled into his seat properly, hands moving to the controls. “Tammea, stand right there and watch. See how it happens.”

The hyperspace tunnel began to collapse. Stars stretched, compressed, resolved into pinpoints of light. The Stray shuddered slightly as it transitioned back to realspace, and suddenly they were coasting forward at sublight speeds.

Directly ahead, partially shadowed by its massive parent planet Nal Hutta, was Nar Shaddaa.

“Sensors active,” Dez reported. “Orbital traffic is heavy. Multiple transponder signals. No immediate threats detected.”

Quinel studied the moon through the viewport. Even from this distance, it was a striking, ugly contrast to Cloud City. There were no white spires or billowing clouds here. Just an endless, urban sprawl wrapped in a choking layer of yellow-orange smog. The glow of millions of lights fought against the darkness, not out of beauty, but out of necessity.

Orbital traffic was thick—freighters, transports, pleasure yachts, ships of every size and configuration moving in organized chaos.

“Welcome to the Smuggler’s Moon, kid.”

Tammea stared out the viewport. Quinel watched her expression shift. Her skin darkened slightly—just a shade—as she took it in.

“It looks… loud,” she said quietly. “Even from here.”

“It is,” Quinel agreed. “Cloud City tries to hide its dirt. Nar Shaddaa puts it on display.”

He pulled up the encoded message system and sent a quick burst transmission to the coordinates Garaath had provided. The response came back almost immediately—landing coordinates in the Starport District, Docking Bay 87.

“Got our destination.” He fed the coordinates into the navicomputer and began guiding the Stray into the traffic pattern. “Let’s go see what we’re getting into.”

The Stray descended toward Nar Shaddaa, and Quinel tried to ignore the feeling in his gut that said this was going to be more complicated than advertised.

It usually was.

---