Nar Shaddaa

The Smuggler’s Moon sprawled before them, exactly as ugly as Quinel remembered.

He guided the Stray through the chaos of orbital traffic—freighters jockeying for position, Hutt yachts cutting reckless paths, transports belching exhaust into the already-polluted atmosphere. The yellow-orange smog layer made everything look sickly, and the endless city lights below just emphasized how much urban decay had consumed the entire moon.

Tammea stood behind his seat, one hand resting on the back of the pilot’s chair, watching the approach with quiet fascination. Or maybe dread. Hard to tell.

Dez’s optical sensors tracked a massive Hutt yacht cutting across their path. “Orbital traffic patterns suggest minimal traffic control. Collision probability elevated.”

“Yeah, well, nobody comes to Nar Shaddaa for the safe flying.” Quinel pulled the Stray into a tighter arc, slipping between a bulk freighter and what looked like a modified Corellian corvette. “Just keep your sensors sharp.”

“Affirmative.”

The comm squawked. A bored voice—human, female, didn’t care about anything—crackled through. “Ghtroc-Seven-Twenty, this is Nar Shaddaa Orbital Control. Transmit landing clearance code.”

Quinel keyed in the sequence Garaath’s contact had provided. A moment later: “Code confirmed. Proceed to Docking Bay Eighty-Seven, Starport District. You want to transfer landing fees and port tariffs now, or pay in person?”

“Transfer’s fine.”

“Sending payment request now.”

Quinel’s console beeped. He authorized the transfer—standard fees, nothing outrageous. For Nar Shaddaa, anyway.

“Payment received. Welcome to the Smuggler’s Moon. Try not to get shot.”

The connection cut.

Tammea shifted on her feet. “She sounded cheerful.”

“There isn’t much to be cheerful about here, kid,” Quinel replied darkly. “‘Try not to get shot’ is the closest thing to ‘welcome and good morning’ as you’re going to get.” Quinel guided the Stray down through the smog layer. The city opened up beneath them—endless durasteel and permacrete, lights and smoke, ships darting through the vertical maze. Ancient refueling spires reached up like skeletal fingers, most of them corroded and barely functional.

He could see her taking it all in. The sheer scale of it. Every surface covered in city, layers stacked on layers, going down for kilometers. No green. No nature. Just urban sprawl that had consumed everything.

Quinel banked around one of those spires, adjusting their descent vector. “Remember what we talked about. Stay close, keep your head down, don’t draw attention.”

“I remember.”

Good. Because down there, in those streets, things could go wrong fast.

The Stray descended through layers of traffic, past platforms and landing pads jammed with ships of every make and model. Some legitimate. Most not. Quinel spotted the telltale signs—reinforced holds, concealed weapon ports, sensor-baffling plating. Smuggler’s marks. He’d recognize them anywhere.

Docking Bay Eighty-Seven sat in the Starport District’s mid-levels. Not the worst area. Not good either. The kind of place where you could land, do business, and leave without too many questions.

Quinel brought the Stray in smooth, repulsors humming as they settled onto the landing pad. Through the viewport he could see the bay beyond—permacrete stained with decades of fuel spills and hydraulic fluid, dim lighting flickering overhead, a few other ships scattered around. Nothing fancy.

“Docking Bay Eighty-Seven confirmed,” Dez reported. “Systems powering down to standby.”

Quinel ran through the shutdown sequence, muscle memory taking over. Sublight engines offline. Repulsors to idle. Shields to standby. The Stray settled with a faint groan—the sound of a ship that had been through too much and was grateful for the rest.

“Alright.” He turned in his seat, looking back at Tammea. Her skin had already shifted from soft pink toward rose—subtle, but he was learning to watch for it. “You remember what I said on the way here?”

She nodded. “If it gets to be too much, tell you. We head straight back.”

“Right.” He stood, checking his blaster. Holstered, visible. Nar Shaddaa wasn’t the kind of place where you hid the fact you were armed. “Stay close. Don’t make eye contact with anyone unless I do first. Don’t react to anything weird.”

“What counts as weird here?”

Fair question. “Anything that makes you uncomfortable. Anything that feels wrong.” He paused. “Actually, everything’s going to feel wrong here. So… use your best judgment.”

Not the most helpful advice he’d ever given. But what else could he say? The kid was an empath on a moon full of criminals, addicts, and people running from one thing or another. This could be rough on her.

Dez moved toward his designated corner near the engineering access. “I will retrieve additional armament.”

The droid disappeared into the corridor. Quinel heard the mechanical sounds of compartments opening, weapons being selected. A minute later, Dez returned with a compact blaster rifle mag-locked to his back plating and what looked like extra power cells secured in small storage pouches attached to his frame.

Tammea stared. “How many weapons can you carry?”

“An adequate number.” Dez performed a systems check, his optical sensors flickering. “Given his history of ‘negotiations,’ I have concluded that extra ammunition may be necessary for our continued survival.”

Quinel rolled his eyes at the droid and caught the kid’s expression—somewhere between impressed and concerned. “Dez likes to be prepared, if not a bit dramatic.”

“I am a weapons platform,” Dez said. “Preparation is logical.”

The kid almost smiled. Almost.

Quinel moved to the ramp controls. “Ready?”

Tammea took a breath, straightening her shoulders. The rose had deepened to mauve—reddish undertones creeping in as the emotional pressure built.

“Ready,” she said.

He hit the control. The ramp descended with a hiss.

---

The air hit them first.

Not fresh. Not even close. Industrial pollution mixed with cooking smells, engine exhaust, something organic and rotting, all of it filtered through humidity that made everything sticky. Quinel had forgotten how much Nar Shaddaa smelled. Like a thousand different things had died here and nobody had bothered cleaning up.

Tammea’s nose wrinkled, but she didn’t say anything. Just stayed close as they descended the ramp.

The landing pad stretched out before them—permacrete cracked and stained, a few cargo crates stacked haphazardly near one wall, lighting that flickered more than it shone. And waiting at the bottom of the ramp, three figures. Rough types. The kind Quinel had seen on a hundred worlds. Thugs who’d carved out a little piece of territory and squeezed everyone who passed through.

The leader—a Weequay with scars running down his leathery face—stepped forward. Two others flanked him. Human. One with a vibroblade on his hip, the other with a blaster that had seen too much use and not enough maintenance.

“Landing fee,” the Weequay said. His Basic was thick with accent. “Five hundred credits.”

Quinel stopped at the bottom of the ramp. Dez took position slightly behind and to his right. Tammea pressed closer to the droid, instinctive.

“Already paid the port authority,” Quinel said evenly.

“Not port authority.” The Weequay smiled. Teeth filed to points. “Protection fee. Lot of bad people around here. Wouldn’t want nothing to happen to your ship.”

“Or to your crew,” the human with the vibroblade added. His eyes drifted to Tammea. Lingered there. “Be a shame if something happened to the pretty girl.”

Quinel felt the kid tense behind him. Felt her step even closer to Dez.

He moved. Not fast. Not threatening. Just… shifted. Put himself between the thug and Tammea. His hand didn’t go to his blaster. Didn’t need to.

“Eyes on me,” Quinel said quietly.

The Weequay snorted. “Protective. I respect that.” He gestured. “Five hundred. We make sure nobody bothers you while you conduct your business.”

Standard shakedown. Quinel had done this dance before. You could fight it—maybe win, maybe not. Or you could pay the toll and move on. Time was worth more than credits.

“Two-fifty,” Quinel countered.

“Four hundred.”

“Three.”

The Weequay considered, then nodded. “Three hundred. Half now, half when you leave. That way we know you come back.”

Quinel pulled a credit chit from his pocket, loaded it with a hundred fifty, and tossed it over. The Weequay caught it one-handed, checked the amount, and grinned.

“Pleasure doing business, Captain.” He pocketed the chit. “We’ll keep an eye on your ship. Real close eye.”

The three thugs moved off—not far, just to the edge of the landing pad where they could watch.

Quinel looked back at Tammea. The mauve had shifted darker—red-violet now, almost plum. She was rubbing her temples.

“You alright?”

She nodded quickly. Didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t. But they had a meeting to get to.

“Come on.” He started across the landing pad toward the bay exit. “Stay between Dez and me. Keep your head down.”

“I will.”

They left the relative quiet of the docking bay and stepped into Nar Shaddaa proper.

---

The city hit her like a wave.

So many people.

She’d known it would be crowded. Quinel had warned her. But knowing and experiencing were different things. The streets beyond the docking bay were packed—hundreds of beings moving in every direction, a dozen species she recognized and twice as many she didn’t. Humans, Twi’leks, Rodians, Duros, Weequays, Gamorreans, things with too many limbs or eyes or neither. All of them radiating feeling.

Fear. Anger. Desperation. Greed. Lust. Paranoia.

It pressed into her empathic senses painfully—not overwhelming. Not like Cloud City when she’d lost control—but constant. Unrelenting. Every person a source of emotional noise, all of it layered and overlapping until she couldn’t tell where one ended and another began.

She tried to block it out. Tried to remember what her mother had taught her about separating herself from others’ emotions. Find your center. Feel your own heartbeat. Let their feelings wash past you like water around stone. But the technique required calm, required focus, and there was nothing calm about this place. The emotions leaked through anyway.

Angry. Someone’s angry about a deal gone wrong.

Afraid. Someone thinks they’re being followed.

Hungry. Not for food. For something else. Something chemical.

Addiction. She could feel it now, recognize the particular desperation that came with needing something so badly it consumed everything else. So many people here felt like that. Craving. Clawing. Hollow.

She pressed closer to Quinel and Dez as they moved through the crowd.

The noise was just as bad. Voices shouting in a dozen languages, most of which she didn’t understand. Speeder engines overhead and groundside, the constant thrum of repulsors. Music blasting from cantinas—harsh, aggressive, nothing like the gentle rhythms of Zeltros. Somewhere distant, sirens. Somewhere closer, someone screaming. She didn’t look to see why.

The smells kept changing. Roasting meat from a street vendor. Ozone from a malfunctioning power coupling. Something sweet and sickly that made her stomach turn. Unwashed bodies. Engine grease. Smoke. All of it mixing together into a stench that clung to the back of her throat.

Quinel’s hand found her shoulder. Squeezed once. Grounding.

She focused on that. On the physical contact. On his presence beside her—steady, watchful, alert but not panicking. She could feel his emotions too. Concern for her. Wariness about their surroundings. A thread of anger he was keeping tamped down, probably from the thug who’d looked at her that way.

But mostly: determination. The same careful, fierce determination she’d felt before.

It helped. A little.

They turned down a side street—less crowded but somehow worse. Darker. Narrower. The buildings pressed in close, durasteel and permacrete stained with years of grime. Flickering neon signs advertised things she didn’t understand in languages she couldn’t read. A few figures lurked in doorways, watching them pass with calculating eyes.

One of them—a scarred Trandoshan—stepped forward. Dez’s optical sensors locked onto him immediately, and the Trandoshan raised his hands, backing off. Smart.

Tammea’s head was starting to hurt. Not badly. Just a dull throb at her temples that wouldn’t go away. All the wrongness building up. All the negative emotions battering against her barely-formed shields.

Everyone here feels wrong, she thought. Everyone.

A figure lurched out of an alley ahead of them—human, rail-thin, skin covered in sores. Tammea felt the hit before she saw him clearly. Desperate. Hollow. Sick—but not like illness. Like something had eaten him from the inside out, leaving only a broken shell behind.

The man stumbled toward them, hand outstretched. “Credits. Just a few credits. Please, I need—”

Quinel steered her around him without stopping. The man’s emotions crashed over her like a wave—that same contaminated feeling she’d sensed faintly in the crowds, but concentrated. Amplified. It made her stomach turn.

“Spice addict,” Quinel said quietly once they’d passed. “Glitterstim, probably. Or ryll. This place is full of them.”

Tammea looked back. The man had already moved on to someone else, still begging. Still radiating that awful, sick desperation.

A fight erupted across the street. Two Gamorreans, shouting and shoving. One pulled a blaster. The shot went wild, hitting the wall above a nightclub entrance. Someone screamed. The shooter bolted down an alley, and the crowd barely reacted. Just kept moving. Business as usual.

Tammea stared. “Did you see that? Isn’t someone going to—”

“No.” Quinel’s voice was quiet. Flat. “Around here, most people learn the value in selective blindness.” Distant sirens wailed, moving away. “And selective mutism.”

She looked up at him. His jaw was tight, eyes scanning constantly. He hated this place. She could feel it under the surface—old memories, bad associations. Something had happened here. Something he didn’t want to remember.

They turned onto a street with fewer people. Quinel stopped, looked at her properly.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “We can head back if this is—”

“I’m alright.” The words came out too fast. Defensive.

She wasn’t alright. Her skin had darkened to deep reddish-purple, she could feel it. The headache was getting worse. The constant emotional assault was wearing her down piece by piece.

But she couldn’t be weak now. Couldn’t be the burden. This was her first real job as crew. She had to prove she could handle it.

Quinel studied her. She could feel his doubt. His concern. The urge to turn around and take her back to the ship where it was safe and quiet.

But he didn’t. After a moment, he nodded. Gave her shoulder another squeeze.

“When we get there, stay between Dez and me,” he said. “Don’t accept anything anyone offers you, even if it’s just water.”

She steadied herself. Focused. “I understand.”

They kept walking.

---

The cantina was exactly what Quinel had expected.

Blaster marks scarred the durasteel walls outside. Half the exterior lights were out, the other half flickering weakly. The sign above the door read something in Huttese—probably the cantina’s name, more than likely something crude. A Gamorrean bouncer stood by the entrance, tusks gleaming, small eyes tracking everyone who approached.

Quinel nodded to the bouncer and got a grunt in response. Good enough.

They stepped inside.

Blue and red tinted lighting bathed everything in sick colors. Smoke hung thick in the air—tabac and spice and things Quinel didn’t want to identify. The music hit them like a physical force, harsh and aggressive, some kind of edgy band on a raised stage. Exotic dancers moved in front of the stage, hypnotic and hollow-eyed. The crowd was rough. Criminal. The kind who’d slit your throat for looking at them wrong.

It was much louder in here than on the street.

Quinel turned back to check on Tammea. The plum had darkened to deep violet—almost indigo in the cantina’s sick lighting. She was biting her lip hard, rubbing her temples with both hands.

Then she stumbled.

Just slightly, but enough that Quinel caught her arm. She grabbed onto his coat with her free hand, fingers twisting into the fabric. Her breathing had gone shallow.

“Hey.” He leaned down to her ear, had to nearly shout over the music. “Still okay?”

She nodded quickly, but her eyes were tight with pain and she was holding onto him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning room.

He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile and gently guided her closer with his hand on her shoulder, steering them both toward Dez. The droid stood like a wall of reassurance, weapons and all.

Quinel could feel her anxiety broadcasting. Nowhere near as bad as it had been back on Cloud City. But present enough to be noticeable at close proximity. A flutter against his own nerves. Like static electricity.

He leaned toward Dez, raising his voice over the music. “We’re looking for booth thirteen. Do you see it? I can’t see frack in this lighting.”

Dez’s optical sensors swept the cantina—cutting through smoke and shadows, filtering past the crowds. After a moment, the droid pointed toward the back corner.

“Booth thirteen is located in the rear section, back wall.” A pause. “Your visual acuity must not be optimal if you could not locate him.”

“Thanks, Dez.” Quinel followed the droid’s indication, spotted the booth. “Real helpful.”

They threaded through the crowd—patrons nursing drinks, dealers making quiet exchanges, a few unconscious figures slumped in corners. The air got thicker the deeper they went, smoke and heat mixing until breathing felt like work.

Booth thirteen sat in the darkest corner, shadowed by a broken overhead light that nobody had bothered fixing. Three figures occupied the space. Two sat on the outer edge of the booth’s bench—humans, rough-looking, the kind of muscle hired to intimidate more than fight. Cheap leather jackets, visible weapons, eyes constantly scanning. Standard hired security.

But the third figure was different.

He sat deeper in the booth, relaxed and comfortable despite the dive bar surroundings. Human, middle-aged, wearing attire that probably represented more credits than most people here saw in a year. Clean-shaven, hair slicked back with expensive product, hands manicured and resting casually on the table. Everything about him screamed money and power—completely incongruous with the cantina’s grimy atmosphere.

As Quinel’s group approached, one of the security types leaned in, voice audible over the music: “—and he thinks it will be that easy? This is Hutt territory. If they—”

The well-dressed man raised one hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. His expression didn’t change—smooth, controlled, utterly calm. “I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing.” Cultured voice. The kind of tone that came from Core World education and years of giving orders people didn’t question. “Now shut up. We have guests.”

The security types went quiet immediately. Professional discipline.

Quinel stopped at the edge of the table, Tammea and Dez flanking him. He crossed his arms, trying for nonchalant. “Who, us? We’re just here for the lively atmosphere and drinks. I hear the food’s not half bad either.”

The contact studied them. Up close, Quinel got a better look—expensive attire, yes, but something was off about the man. Not obviously wrong. Just… slightly misaligned. His pupils seemed oddly dilated for the dim lighting, his movements had an unnatural fluidity, and there was a particular confidence in his posture that felt artificial somehow. Enhanced, maybe. But by what, Quinel couldn’t pin down.

And there was a smell. Faint, underneath the expensive cologne, but definitely there. Chemical. Almost metallic, like ozone mixed with something sweet and wrong. It clung to him the same way smoke clung to clothes.

The man rested his chin on the back of his hand, studying Quinel with calculating eyes. “Cut the theatrics. Are you the crew of the Misfit Stray?”

“We are.” Quinel gestured at his companions. “I’m Captain Quinel Neviden. This is my first mate and weapons expert, Dezmyn. And the kid here is my engineer-in-training.”

The contact waved the introduction away with his other hand—the one holding a drink. Expensive liquor, probably imported. “Names aren’t important. What is important is the fact that you now work for us.”

Quinel’s jaw tightened. “And who is this us?”

“Irrelevant.” The contact set his drink down with deliberate care, then reached into an inner pocket. He produced a high-end datapad—sleek, top-of-the-line, featuring a micro holo-projector that probably cost half as much as the Stray’s entire hyperdrive system. “The job is simple. Transport a shipment of exotic spices from Nar Shaddaa to a destination to be named once you are in possession of the cargo.”

He paused, letting that sink in before continuing.

“You will be paid half upon receiving the spices, the other half upon delivery. You will be under a strict deadline and will make no deviations from your course.”

The contact activated the projector. A holographic manifest hovered over the table between them—crate dimensions, weight specifications, handling requirements. And the credit amounts. Big numbers. Bigger than Garaath had mentioned.

Quinel studied the projection, doing the math. That kind of payment for “cooking spices” didn’t add up. Nobody paid that much for legitimate cargo, no matter how exotic.

He felt Tammea shift beside him, still present but clearly struggling. Her anxiety was a faint pressure against his awareness—not overwhelming, but there. She was worrying her lip, and he knew without looking that her skin had probably gone as dark as he’d ever seen it—deep reddish-purple, stress compounding on stress.

“Do you accept?” the contact asked.

Quinel stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, kept his voice casual. “I don’t know yet.” He met the man’s eyes. “Seems to me like this is a whole lot of trouble to go through for some fancy cooking ingredients. What’s the rush, and why so secretive about where we’re going?”

“All great questions.” The contact powered down his projector datapad with a smooth gesture, slipped it back into his pocket with practiced ease. “Sadly, none of the answers concern you.” A pause, then again: “Do you accept?”

“And if we say no?”

The man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Calculated. Cold. “Then this meeting is over, and we find someone else who might have fewer questions than you.” He took another sip of his drink, savoring it. “And we also put the word out that your crew cannot be trusted to handle certain tasks.”

The threat was clear. Reputation mattered in this business. Get blacklisted by the wrong people, and work dried up fast.

Tammea’s projections intensified slightly. Quinel felt that little spike of anxiety—hers bleeding into his awareness. He forced himself not to react to it.

“Again with the we stuff.” Quinel kept his voice even, conversational. “How do we know you’re not just full of bantha shit?”

“More questions, I see.” The contact leaned back, studying Quinel like a merchant appraising questionable merchandise. “No matter. I’ll give you this one.”

He leaned forward again, and the pleasant mask slipped. Just for a moment. His expression shifted—warmth draining away completely, replaced by something dangerous and utterly cold.

“Let’s just say I represent some very, very powerful friends, Mr. Neviden. Friends you most certainly do not want to have as enemies.” His voice stayed calm, almost gentle. Which made it worse. “Make no mistake—I do not bluff, and neither do the people I work for.”

The security types shifted, ready and watching.

The threat hung in the air between them—clear, direct, real.

And there it was. The complications Garaath had warned about, manifesting exactly as expected. Criminal syndicate. Had to be. The kind with reach and resources and zero tolerance for crossed wires.

High-end restaurants sometimes contracted shadier elements to get their supplies, especially when dealing with hard-to-acquire goods. But this was next-level shady. This had organized crime written all over it.

Quinel glanced back at his crew. Dez stood alert, optical sensors tracking the security types, calculating threat assessments. Tammea was chewing on her lip, looking down at the floor, hanging in there but barely.

They needed the money. The repairs on Cloud City—even with Garaath’s generous discounts—had drained them. And this guy—whoever he worked for—was offering enough to keep them flying for a couple of months.

“Fine,” Quinel said. “But I need to know if these spices carry any risk. Do I need to worry about any heat?”

“Only if you take your time and don’t move quickly enough.” The contact’s pleasant mask slid back into place. “Deliver on schedule, follow instructions, and there won’t be any problems.”

Not reassuring. But about what Quinel had expected.

“Then I guess we have no choice.”

“Good.” The contact nodded once, finishing his drink. “The cargo will be transported aboard your ship within the hour. I trust this won’t be an issue?”

“No issue.”

“Excellent.” The man settled back into his seat, clearly done with them. “You will be provided with the destination coordinates once the shipment is secured in your hold. Remember—no detours. Many hungry customers await your speedy delivery.” He gestured dismissively toward the cantina exit. “Now go. I would hate to keep you from your work.”

Conversation over. Dismissed like the hired help they were.

Quinel turned away, Tammea staying close as Dez trailed them through the crowd. He kept his hand on her shoulder as they navigated back toward the exit, steering her through the press of bodies. The violet had gone deeper than he’d seen before—stress compounding on stress.

Something really didn’t feel right about this whole job. That guy was serious—Quinel could tell by the way he spoke, the confidence in his threats. This wasn’t someone who tossed around vague warnings without being able to back them up.

The question was: who was pulling the strings, and what exactly were they transporting that required this level of secrecy?

---

They pushed through the cantina doors back into the relatively fresher air of Nar Shaddaa’s streets. The noise faded to the city’s normal chaos. Tammea took a deep breath, and Quinel watched some of the tension leave her shoulders.

“I really don’t like it here,” she muttered.

“Nobody does, kid.” Quinel kept walking, guiding her through the crowds. “That’s why it’s called the Smuggler’s Moon. The good people all left a long time ago.”

He glanced down at her. In the street lighting, he could see the deep violet starting to lighten—fading slowly back through plum toward rose as the worst of the empathic assault eased.

“You did good back there,” he added quietly. “That was rough, but you hung in there.”

She nodded, still rubbing her temples. They walked in silence for a moment, putting distance between themselves and the cantina. Dez maintained his position slightly behind and to the right, optical sensors scanning constantly.

“It was awful in there,” Tammea said finally. “Everyone felt sick. The contact and those men with him. Like something was wrong with them.”

Quinel exchanged a glance with Dez. “Sick how?”

“Not… not like the people in the crowds. That was just bad emotions—anger, fear, greed. This was different.” She struggled to find words. “Like they were contaminated with something. Like they’d been touching something that left a residue I could sense.”

Quinel frowned, thinking. The Smuggler’s Moon was notorious for its spice trade—glitterstim, ryll, all the high-end stuff that moved through the Outer Rim. And that contact had definitely seemed chemically enhanced. Dilated pupils, unnatural confidence, that particular fluidity to his movements.

“Could be spice,” he said, keeping his voice low as they navigated around a group of Rodians arguing over a sabacc game. “Nar Shaddaa’s crawling with it. Users, dealers, handlers. There was a chemical smell on the contact—faint, but there. And you felt something similar on them?”

“That guy and his people felt different from everyone else,” Tammea confirmed. “Like they’d been exposed to something specific. It wasn’t just in their emotions—it clung to them.” She paused, thinking. “That man we ran into. The one begging for credits. He felt similar. Twisted. Sick in the same way, but… worse. Stronger.”

“The addict,” Quinel said, connecting the dots. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“Interesting observation,” Dez said from behind them. “If handlers of the cargo exhibit detectable contamination, the substance itself may pose exposure risks during transport.”

Quinel hadn’t thought of that. Something toxic enough that it left empathic traces on people who handled it. Something valuable enough to pay premium credits for transport. Something that required threats instead of negotiations.

Whatever “exotic spices” they were about to load into their hold, the name was probably more literal than he’d hoped.

They turned onto a less crowded street, the one that would take them back toward the docking bays. Tammea’s skin had faded to mauve now, almost back to normal. The worst was passing.

“Are we really going through with this?” she asked quietly. “Transporting whatever it is?”

Quinel wanted to say no. Wanted to tell her they’d turn it down, find other work, stay clear of whatever criminal mess they’d stumbled into.

But they’d already committed. The contact had made that clear enough. Walk away now, and they’d be blacklisted—or worse.

“We don’t have much choice,” he said. “We already accepted. Backing out now would cause more problems than going through with it.”

“But what if it’s dangerous?”

“Then we’ll be careful.” He squeezed her shoulder. “We load the cargo, we get our coordinates, we make the delivery. Quick and clean.”

Tammea didn’t look convinced. Neither was Quinel, honestly.

Quinel scanned the street ahead, eyes moving from shadow to doorway out of habit. “We’re already in it. Best we can do now is stay sharp and get through it.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the sounds of Nar Shaddaa filling the space between them. Speeder engines overhead, distant music, the occasional shout or burst of laughter. Normal city noise, except nothing about this moon was normal.

“Those men back there,” Tammea said, still working through what she’d sensed. “The contamination I felt… it was strong. Like whatever they’d been handling, they’d been around it a lot. Like for a long time.”

Quinel thought about that. Regular handlers. People who worked with the substance frequently enough that it left permanent traces. Which meant this wasn’t a one-time shipment. This was part of something bigger.

Criminal syndicate. Had to be. The kind with supply chains and distribution networks and zero tolerance for anyone who got in the way.

And they’d just agreed to fly right into the middle of it.

“Stay close when we get back,” he said. “Once that cargo arrives, I want to load it fast and get off this damn moon. The less time we spend here, the better.”

“Okay.”

Ahead, the glow of the docking bay district was visible. Their walk was almost over. Soon they’d be back at the Stray, waiting for cargo that already felt like it was more trouble than it was worth, credits be damned.

Quinel’s instincts were screaming warnings he couldn’t ignore. Something about this job felt wrong on every level. The secrecy. The threats. The contaminated handlers. The withheld destination.

But they were committed now. For better or worse, they’d signed on.

And Quinel had a sinking feeling that before this was over, “worse” was exactly what they were going to get.

---