Massacre

The alley opened onto a side street that looked like it had been through a war.

Which, Quinel supposed, it had.

He pressed himself against the wall, Dez mirroring his position as they took in the scene. Smoke hung thick in the air, turning the afternoon sun into a sickly orange haze. The acrid smell of burning plastics mixed with something worse—something organic that made his stomach turn.

He’d smelled that before. On Felucia. Burning flesh had a particular stench you didn’t forget.

“The fighting has moved,” Dez observed, his optical sensors sweeping the street. “Sounds like it’s concentrated further west.”

Quinel listened. Blaster fire echoed in the distance, punctuated by the occasional explosion. Screams carried on the wind. Somewhere overhead, TIE fighters screamed past, their distinctive twin-ion engines a constant reminder of just how fracked this situation was.

“Town hall’s not too much farther,” Quinel said. He pushed off the wall, staying low. “Let’s keep moving.”

They kept to the edges of the street, ducking into doorways when the sound of boots on pavement got too close. Once, a squad of stormtroopers marched past the intersection ahead, their white armor splattered with dirt and what looked like blood. Quinel and Dez waited in the recessed entrance of a shuttered shop until the patrol moved on.

The bodies started appearing about a block from the town hall.

Colonists, mostly. Some had blasters still clutched in their hands. Others looked like they’d been running when they were cut down. Quinel tried not to look too closely at their faces. Tried not to think about the fact that just a few hours ago, these people had been going about their lives. Working. Eating. Laughing, maybe.

Now they were just obstacles in the street.

“They did not stand a chance,” Dez said quietly.

Quinel nodded, not trusting his voice. He’d seen plenty of death during the Clone Wars—hell, he’d caused some of it himself—but there was something about the sheer waste of it that made his chest tight. These weren’t soldiers. They were shopkeepers and farmers and mechanics. People just trying to survive in a galaxy that kept getting darker.

The Empire didn’t care. That was the worst part. They didn’t see people anymore. Just obstacles. Just examples to be made.

He spat in the dirt and kept moving.

The town hall came into view around the next corner, and Quinel felt what little hope he’d been nursing die in his chest.

The building was still standing—barely. A few fires burned on the upper floors, flames licking out of blown-out windows and sending columns of black smoke into the sky. The front entrance was a disaster zone. Doors hung off their hinges, twisted and blackened. Bodies littered the steps and the plaza beyond—colonists and stormtroopers both, though the ratio was heavily skewed toward the locals.

Speeders that had been parked nearby were nothing but slag now, melted and twisted from the heat of whatever had hit them. Scorch marks from blaster fire and thermal detonators marred the permacrete walls. Blood pooled in the cracks between stones, dark and congealing.

“Looks like they tried to make a stand here,” Quinel said. His voice came out rougher than he’d intended. “Put up a hell of a fight by the looks of it, until the TIE fighters got involved.”

Quinel could see the strafing patterns—long scorch marks where laser cannons had raked the plaza, the collapsed section of wall where a direct hit had punched through the building’s reinforced structure. The colonists never had a chance. Not really. But they’d fought anyway.

“We should go,” Dez said. “There is a high probability that if they came here, they’re likely already—”

“We check,” Quinel cut him off. “We came this far. We check.”

Dez’s optical sensors flashed in what Quinel had learned to recognize as exasperation, but the droid didn’t argue. He just took point, his heavy frame moving up the steps with surprising grace. His arms folded back with a mechanical whir, revealing the double-barreled heavy repeater blasters built into his forearms.

“No shooting unless absolutely necessary,” Quinel reminded him.

“Define necessary.”

They stepped through the shattered entrance into the building’s atrium, and Quinel had to fight the urge to be sick.

A thermal detonator had gone off in here. Maybe more than one. The walls were cracked and blackened, desks and terminals overturned and scattered like a child’s toys. Small fires still burned in corners where the flames hadn’t quite died. And the bodies—

There were so many bodies.

Colonists mostly, caught in the blast or cut down by blaster fire as they tried to flee. A few stormtroopers too, evidence that at least some of the locals had managed to fight back before the end. But the Empire had numbers and training and air support, and the colonists had desperation.

Desperation wasn’t nearly enough, though.

“This was a slaughter,” Dez said. His digitized voice holding an edge Quinel rarely heard. “It is highly improbable that there are survivors present in this location.”

Quinel stared at the carnage, his mind churning. Would they have really come here? Was he too late? Maybe they’d made their way to the ship. That would’ve made more sense, actually. Get to the hangar, get to safety, get the hell off this rock before the Imperials could—

No. He’d told them two hours. They wouldn’t risk going to the hangar early, not with stormtroopers everywhere. They’d hide. Blend in with the crowds. Try to wait it out.

And crowds had come here.

“We keep looking,” he said.

They moved deeper into the building, following the path of destruction. Every office they passed held more bodies. Clerks dead behind their terminals. Families huddled in corners where they’d tried to hide. The Imperials had been thorough. Systematic.

Quinel’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Bastards,” he muttered. “These people never had a chance.”

The second floor was less damaged, though still a wreck. Smoke hung thick in the air here, making his eyes water. Bodies lay in the hallways—fewer than downstairs, but still too many. Some of the office doors stood open, revealing scenes of violence Quinel tried not to catalog.

They were halfway down the corridor when Dez suddenly stopped.

“Captain, I’m detecting life signs ahead,” the droid said suddenly.

Quinel’s heart kicked. “You sure?”

“Approximately sixty-seven percent certain. The interference from the fires and structural damage makes it difficult to get a clear reading, but…” Dez tilted his head. “Two humanoid signatures. Maybe three.”

They hurried down the hall, Dez still in the lead, his weapons trained forward. The corridor ended at a heavy blast door—the kind you’d find in an armory. Scorch marks covered the door and frame where someone had tried to blast their way through. Tried and failed, by the looks of it.

Quinel stepped up to the door. Took a breath.

“Hey!” he called out. “Anyone in there?”

Silence.

He pounded on the door with his fist. “I’m a friendly! Not here to hurt anyone!”

Still nothing.

Quinel glanced at Dez, then back at the door. “I’m looking for two Zeltrons and a human. Family of three. They hired me to get them off this planet, and right about now seems like a good time to get gone, unless you want to stay here and get shot. Or worse.”

He waited. Counted to ten in his head. Nothing.

One more try.

“Look, this is your last chance. I’m heading back to my ship—the pretty blue and purple girl—and I’m leaving. With or without you.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door’s locking mechanism disengaged with a heavy clunk.

The door swung open to reveal the human male from the cantina, hood down now, face hard with suspicion and fear. Two heavy blaster pistols were leveled directly at Quinel’s head.

Dez’s arms snapped up, his repeater blasters targeting the man in a microsecond.

“I am quite sure that you want to consider lowering your weapons,” Dez said, his tone almost conversational. “You have until the count of three to do so.”

Quinel took a step back, hands raised to show he was unarmed. “Whoa, hold on now. Is that how you treat the guy giving you a lift?”

The man didn’t lower the pistols. His eyes were hard, the scar running down the left side of his face standing out stark against his skin.

“Did you tell them anything?” the man demanded. “Anything at all?”

Quinel shook his head slowly. “No. Nothing.”

“One,” Dez’s optical sensors flashed as the droid began his countdown.

“I’m not screwing around, spacer.” His voice was tight, dangerous. “Did. You. Tell. Them. Anything?”

“Look, let’s just all—”

“Two,” Dez announced.

“Dammit, Dez, you’re not helping.”

The Zeltron woman appeared behind the man, reaching out to touch his arm. Even through the fear and tension radiating off her, she moved with a strange grace. “Deklaen, lower your guns. They’re not here to harm us. Trust me.”

Quinel kept his hands up, his attention split between the blasters pointed at his face and Dez’s countdown. “You might want to listen to the pretty lady. My friend here’s a mite bit twitchy right now, and I don’t want your little girl to see any more unnecessary violence today.”

“Deklaen!” The woman’s voice held command now.

The man held his position for another heartbeat, then lowered the pistols with a curse and holstered them. “Get the hell in here before I change my mind.”

Quinel looked at Dez and shook his head. The droid’s arms retracted with a whir, the repeater blasters disappearing back into their housings. They stepped through the doorway into what was clearly a security center as the scarred man closed the door behind them with a heavy clunk—banks of terminals and monitors lining the walls, most of them dark or flickering. The air was clearer here, the heavy blast door and busted out windows having kept most of the smoke out.

And there, curled up against the back wall with her knees drawn to her chest, was the little Zeltron girl. She looked terrified, which—given everything Quinel had seen in the past hour—was completely justified.

The Zeltron woman was already moving to apologize, her hands fluttering in what looked like a nervous gesture. “I’m sorry about my partner’s behavior. We’ve been—”

“Running for your lives?” Quinel finished. “Yeah, I got that.”

Deklaen had returned to one of the few functioning terminals, his fingers flying over the controls. But Quinel noticed how the man kept him and Dez in his peripheral vision. Smart. Paranoid, but smart.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut.

Quinel glanced around the security center, taking in the scattered equipment, the flickering screens, the general state of barely-controlled chaos. “Cozy space to spend your last moments,” he observed.

The woman moved to stand beside Deklaen at the terminal. “We came here to activate the city’s automated defenses. What few they have. The Empire completely overlooked them—probably didn’t think colonists would be competent enough to use them. It’s the only defense left at this point.”

Quinel thought about the bodies in the streets, the burning buildings, the systematic slaughter. “The colonists never had a chance. Once the Empire took notice of them, it was game over.”

Dez had taken up position near the door, his stance suggesting he was watching the room but wouldn’t take action unless necessary. Good. They needed these people calm, not more wound up than they already were.

“Yeah, well, that’s our fault.” Deklaen’s voice was bitter. “We stayed here too long. Should have been out of here weeks ago.”

She glanced at him, and something passed between them—an old argument, worn smooth from repetition. “We couldn’t just leave them. They needed supplies, and we have more money than we could ever use in ten lifetimes.”

“And now we’ve gotten them all killed,” Deklaen shot back.

“Okay.” Quinel held up a hand. “Let’s just slow down for a moment. Start from the beginning. Just who the hell are you people, and what have you got me and my ship mixed up in?”

The woman started to answer, but Deklaen cut her off. “Damika, we can’t trust them. I’ll give you we need a ride off this damned world, but don’t go making this worse for us. You’re too trusting.”

“And you’re not trusting enough, Deklaen.” She tapped her temple with one pink finger. “Remember, I can read his emotions. And right now, he’s more concerned with getting us out than making a credit off of us by turning us in.”

Quinel moved to stand next to Dez, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets. He met Deklaen’s suspicious glare with a steady look. “She’s right. I didn’t come all this way through that hellscape out there just to hand you over to the Imperials.”

“I have no emotions about this situation whatsoever,” Dez announced flatly.

Despite the tension, Quinel almost smiled. “He’s lying. He’s very invested in keeping me alive.”

Deklaen shook his head and sighed, the fight seeming to drain out of him all at once. “Fine.”

Damika moved back to the terminal, standing beside Deklaen. “We served in the Republic Slicer Corps during the Clone Wars. Both of us.”

“Cyber warfare specialists—Special Operations Division to be exact,” Deklaen added, not looking up from his work. “We were in the same unit. Got together during the war.”

“And then the supposed Jedi coup happened,” Damika said quietly.

Quinel nodded slowly. He knew exactly what they were talking about.

“We saw it all firsthand.” Deklaen’s voice was hard. “We watched the clones turn on the Jedi like someone had flipped a switch. Like they’d been reprogrammed overnight.”

Quinel had seen it too—though from a different angle. For just a moment he was back on that Republic frigate as he was being held for questioning, watching through the viewport as Republic ships opened fire on Jedi starfighters. The clone trooper’s filtered voice, cold and mechanical: “The Jedi are traitor scum and now the enemy.” The wrongness of it had twisted in his gut then, still did now when he let himself think about it.

“We knew the truth,” Damika continued. “The Jedi didn’t betray anyone. But saying that out loud these days…”

“Gets you disappeared,” Quinel finished darkly. “Yeah. I know how it works.”

“So we did what we do best.” Deklaen’s fingers moved over the terminal keys with practiced ease. “Cyber warfare. We started with their bank accounts, knocked out some Imperial data centers, that sort of thing. It wasn’t much, but it made us feel like we were doing something.”

“Even if it was pointless,” Damika added. “You can’t even begin to imagine how much money the Empire has.”

A look passed between the two slicers. Then Deklaen straightened slightly, and there was something almost defiant in his posture. “No matter how much we took or how many headaches we caused them, it still wasn’t enough. So, we escalated things. It took us some time but we managed to get into Kuat Drive Yards’ systems.”

“The shipbuilding facility,” Damika clarified. “We sabotaged three Star Destroyers under construction by injecting a malware package we designed to overload their hyperdrive reactor cores, causing them to go critical while still in drydock. Caused…” She hesitated. “Hundreds of billions in credits worth of damage.”

Quinel let out a low whistle. “I remember hearing about this. It was all over the holonet a few years back. I remember the Imperials being quick to point out that the hyperdrive malfunctions were the result of faulty drive cores.” Quinel shook his head. “Of course I suppose they wouldn’t want it getting out that they were sliced.”

“We set their expansion plans back by months,” Deklaen said, and there was savage satisfaction in his voice. “Maybe more. Made them look incompetent.”

“Unfortunately though, we were sloppy and got overconfident. It didn’t take them long to pick up our trail and now they want to make an example of us,” Damika said quietly. Her eyes finding her daughter across the room. “We’ve been running for the past three years, but we got careless. Stayed in one place for too long. Got too comfortable helping the people here.” Her voice dropped. “And now our daughter might pay the price for it.”

Quinel followed her gaze to the girl, curled up against the wall, trying to make herself small. It all made sense now—why there were three Star Destroyers in orbit, why the Empire had deployed such overwhelming force.

These two hadn’t just annoyed the Empire. They’d humiliated them. Bloodied their nose and cost them real money. Made them look a little less untouchable.

The Empire would burn this whole planet to ash just to make their point.

---

Tammea pressed herself harder against the wall, trying to make herself as small as possible.

The emotions in the room were overwhelming. Fear and anger and desperation crashed over her in waves, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. She wanted to close her eyes and cover her ears, but that wouldn’t help. Empathy didn’t work like that.

Her mother’s fear was the loudest. It always was—sharp and bright and terrible, focused entirely on Tammea herself. The terror of a parent watching their child walk toward danger and being powerless to stop it.

Dek’s emotions were more chaotic. Love mixed with anger mixed with guilt mixed with a fierce, desperate protectiveness. He blamed himself for staying too long, for bringing them here, for all of it. She could feel it radiating off him in jagged bursts.

And there was so much negativity everywhere. The whole city felt wrong, like a wound in the air. Death and pain and fear so thick it made her skin crawl. She wanted to get away from it, wanted to be back on Zeltros where emotions were bright and joyful and safe.

She had always known about what her parents had done—why they were on the run. Her mother had never kept secrets from Tammea, and Dek had always been straight with her, even when it made him uncomfortable to do so. Though she appreciated their honesty, she sometimes resented the fact that she had been taken from Zeltros. Her mother had said it was because they feared the Empire might try to use her against them—which made enough sense, but she sometimes wished she could go back to Zeltros, where people didn’t sleep with blasters every night. Where she could run through the markets and fields without fear of something happening to her or her parents.

She missed her cousins and all of her extended family. Missed the art and the music and the laughter. Missed feeling happy without having to work at it.

The past few years had been nothing but running and hiding and fear. Always afraid. Always looking over their shoulders. And her parents tried so hard to make it normal, to make it okay, but she could feel their terror even when they smiled.

Living like this was killing them all slowly.

The spacer—Quinel—his emotions were different. Complicated. She could feel determination there, solid and unwavering. He meant what he said about getting them out. But there was guilt too, old and heavy, like scars that never quite healed. And underneath it all, something protective. Genuine.

He was a good man. She could feel that. Whatever he’d done, whoever he’d been, right now he wanted to help them. Really help them.

She didn’t understand why she felt so drawn to him. Getting a clear read on anyone in all this chaos and negativity was hard—her empathic abilities were good, but she didn’t have her mother’s level of control yet. But there was something about him that felt… safe. Like an anchor in a storm.

The droid registered as nothing to her empathic senses. She’d always found that fascinating. Droids didn’t have emotions for her to read, just emptiness where feelings should be. It used to unsettle her when she was younger, but now she found it almost peaceful. A quiet spot in the constant noise.

Despite Dek’s paranoia and distrust, she trusted the smuggler. Felt his intentions, clean and clear beneath all the guilt and determination.

She just wished the violence would stop. Wished she didn’t have to see any more of it. Her parents were talking about what they’d done, the Empire, all of it, but all Tammea could think about was getting somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.

Somewhere that didn’t smell like smoke and death.

She loved her parents more than anything, but sometimes—especially now—she wished they were all back on Zeltros. Where it was safe. Where they had family. Where life was supposed to be full of beauty and joy, not fear and running.

But that life was gone now. Had been gone for years.

All she could do was try to be brave and trust that somehow, some way, they’d find somewhere safe again.

---

The sound of TIE fighters screaming overhead suddenly cut through the room and their conversation.

Quinel moved to one of the blown-out windows with a muttered curse, being careful of the jagged edges, and looked out over the city. Half of it was already in ruins. Smoke billowed across the horizon, turning the sky a sick gray-orange. Fires raged unchecked in dozens of buildings. The air was hazy, thick with ash and worse.

A pair of TIE fighters swooped low over a cluster of buildings a few blocks away. Their laser cannons lit up the street below, and Quinel watched another structure collapse in on itself, sending up a fresh plume of debris and flame.

“Okay,” he said, turning back to the room. “Not to cut this party short and all, but I think we need to get moving right about now.”

Deklaen was typing frantically at the terminal, his jaw clenched. “I just need a few more minutes. This is an old system, and it’s being stubborn. Haven’t these people ever heard of keeping their damn systems up to date?”

“Here, let me help.” Damika moved to his side, hunching over his shoulder. They fell into a rhythm immediately, speaking in technical jargon Quinel couldn’t follow. But he could see the competence in the way they worked together, the way they anticipated each other’s movements. The love visible in every small gesture.

These two were good at what they did. And they cared about each other. A lot.

Quinel left them to their work and turned to Dez. “What do you think the odds are of us getting out of this one alive?”

“I couldn’t tell you even if I could calculate such odds,” Dez replied. “Remember? You told me after the Kessel incident you didn’t want me to tell you the odds of survivability again. Said it was bad for your—”

“Yeah, yeah. Bad for my morale. Right.” Quinel shook his head, almost smiling despite their circumstances.

He crossed the room to where the girl sat curled against the wall. The kid looked terrified. No—worse than terrified. She looked beyond overwhelmed. Lost.

Quinel crouched down next to her, trying to make himself less threatening. “Hey kid, how are you holding up?”

She looked up at him with those light purple eyes, and he was struck again by how young she was. Nine years old. Too young for any of this.

“I’m scared,” she said quietly. “There’s too much pain and negativity here. I want to get away from it.”

Right. Like her mother reading his emotions earlier. Zeltrons were empaths, weren’t they? She was probably feeling everyone’s fear and pain, magnified by the violence all around them.

“I’m scared too,” he admitted. No point lying to someone who could probably feel it anyway. He paused, then offered a small smile. “What’s your name?”

“Tammea.” Her voice was soft but steady.

“Tammea,” he tested the syllables on his tongue. “That’s a very pretty name. Well, Tammea.” He kept his tone gentle. “I know things seem pretty bad right now, but I promise we’re going to get through this.”

She studied him for a moment. “I can feel your determination. You really mean it, don’t you? About getting us off the planet?”

“I do.”

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

Quinel nodded. “Run a few blockades in my time. Though it’s been a couple years.”

“In your ship?” She leaned forward slightly. “The same one we’re going to?”

“The very same one.”

He tried to offer up what he hoped was a reassuring smile and reached out to place a hand on her small shoulder. “Listen, one way or another, I’m getting us out of here, okay? Then I’ll give you a full tour of the Stray.”

Tammea’s eyes brightened a fraction. “Really?”

“You bet.”

She smiled then—small and tentative, but real—and reached up to touch his hand where it rested on her shoulder.

The sensation hit him like a physical wave. Warmth spread through his chest, a feeling of peace and contentment so sudden and powerful it took his breath away. For just a moment, everything else fell away—the smoke, the fear, the bodies in the streets. There was just this moment, this feeling of rightness.

Zeltron pheromones. He’d heard about them but never experienced them firsthand.

Quinel closed his eyes and let himself feel it. Her trust, pure and simple and honest. It washed over him like a tide, and when it receded, his determination had crystallized into something harder. Stronger.

He was going to protect this kid. Whatever it took. Even if it cost him his life.

He’d failed too many people. Made promises he couldn’t keep. Watched people die when he’d sworn to protect them.

Not this time. Not this kid.

“You have my word,” he said, opening his eyes. “I promise.”

Tammea lowered her hand, the pheromone euphoria fading but not disappearing entirely. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Like I told your parents earlier, I haven’t gotten you to where you’re going.”

“You will though,” she said with a certainty that made his chest tighten. “I know it.”

Quinel patted her shoulder once more and stood, the weight of his promise settling on him like armor. “I’ll do my best.”

“I got it!”

Deklaen’s triumphant shout pulled everyone’s attention. Quinel moved back to the terminal where the two slicers were grinning at the screen.

“Defense grid’s online,” Deklaen said, pointing to a network display. “All I have to do now is enter the last command, and the Imps are going to have a slightly more headache-inducing day.”

Quinel studied the schematic. Automated turrets around the spaceport perimeter, basic air defense systems, the whole security network integrated and active. It wouldn’t stop the Empire for very long—nothing was going to stop the Empire at this point—but if they were lucky, it might buy them a little more time they needed and maybe give them a window of escape to slip through.

“Do it,” he said.

Deklaen entered the final command with a satisfied, feral grin. On the screens, defense turrets activated across the spaceport. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Damika suddenly touched Quinel’s shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

He nodded, and they stepped to a corner of the room, away from the others.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “This might be a bit overwhelming, but I need you to understand.”

“What—”

She reached up and placed her hand against his cheek.

The world suddenly shifted.

It wasn’t like the pheromones—this was something else entirely. Emotions flooded through him, raw and unfiltered. Her terror for Tammea, so fierce and sharp it was almost physical. The sense that this was never supposed to go this far, that they’d made mistakes and their daughter was paying the price.

The desperate, aching understanding that living on the run was no way for a Zeltron child to live. Her emotions told him that Zeltrons needed stimulation, experience, community, joy. They needed art and music and laughter and connection. Not fear. Not hardship. Not constant running.

Damika’s voice came from far away, overlapping with the torrent of empathic impressions. “If anything happens to us—you have to promise me—you’ll protect her, keep her safe. Please. She doesn’t deserve any of this.”

Quinel felt her love for her daughter like a living thing, brilliant and terrible and all-consuming. Felt her fear for what might happen. Felt her desperate hope that this stranger might be the answer to prayers she hadn’t dared voice.

And underneath it all, he felt her reading him. Feeling his own ghosts, his own failures, the scars he carried.

When she pulled her hand away and broke the connection, he gasped for air as he blinked to clear his vision. His heart raced as his hands shook. He tried to process what he had just experienced. She hadn’t passed her thoughts to him—empathy wasn’t like telepathy—but he had felt her emotional intent as though it was his own, maybe even more viscerally. It was quite the disconcerting experience.

He knew what she was asking, though, and part of him wanted to refuse, wanted to explain that he wasn’t good at keeping people alive, that everyone he promised to protect ended up dead or broken or worse.

But then he remembered a pair of emerald-green eyes staring up at him from a filthy cot. He remembered making another promise, one he couldn’t keep.

He wasn’t going to let that happen again. Not if he could help it.

“You have my word,” he said, his voice rough. “And I never go back on my word if I can help it.”

Damika smiled, though her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Thank you.”

“Hey.” He managed something close to a smile. “It’s not the end yet. Right now that kid needs you alive, so try not to disappoint her, yeah?”

She straightened and squared her shoulders. “You’re right. Just… please, if something happens—”

“You have my word.”

Damika leaned forward and kissed his cheek, soft and quick. “Shame we didn’t meet under better circumstances. We might have had a lot of fun together, you and I…”

She turned and walked back to her family, leaving Quinel standing there with his mouth hanging open.

Damn Zeltrons anyway.

Dez moved up beside him, and Quinel could have sworn the droid was amused. “Why Captain, I believe her behavior and mannerisms indicate that she is physically attracted to you.”

“She has a partner, you idiot.”

Dez tilted his head slightly to one side. “I was under the impression that Zeltron culture normalizes polyamorous relations. Is my information not correct?”

Quinel felt heat creep up his neck. “Oh, come on, Dez. Like this is the right time to be thinking about this.”

“I wouldn’t know. As an autonomous weapons platform, the subject of mating rituals between organic beings is not something I possess much data on. I’m simply pointing out the potential of your options—if we weren’t in an active warzone, of course.”

Quinel flipped him a very specific finger gesture and walked back toward the family.

He caught sight of Damika crouched in front of her daughter, their foreheads pressed together in what looked like an intimate moment. Damika’s hand moved, pressing something into Tammea’s palm. A necklace of some kind. Tammea nodded and clutched it to her chest.

Family heirloom, probably. Something to remember them by if the worst happened.

Quinel looked away, giving them their privacy.

Deklaen straightened from the terminal. “Right. We should link comlinks. In case we get separated.”

“Good idea,” Quinel said. He pulled his comlink from his belt and keyed in the frequency Deklaen rattled off. A moment later, Damika did the same from where she sat with Tammea. A quick test confirmed all three units were synced.

“Alright, we got half-a kilometer to get to the spaceport,” Deklaen said as he moved to the door. “We keep Tam in the middle, keep our heads down and move fast, staying in cover as much as possible. Sounds like most of the fighting has died down out there. If we’re careful and really lucky, we might avoid running into any Imperials.”

Quinel doubted it would be that easy. It never was. Still, Deklaen was right about things sounding calmer out there—not a good sign for the colonists, but Quinel didn’t say that part out loud.

Damika helped Tammea to her feet, and the three adults and one droid formed a loose box around her.

Dez checked the corridor first before declaring it clear.

It was time to move.

Quinel followed the group out into the hall, wishing for the hundredth time today that he had his damn blaster.

It was time to see if he could keep his promise.

For once.

---