The Job

The cantina wasn’t as dirty as some of the other dives Quinel had frequented. Dim lighting cast everything in shadow, and smoke hung thick in the air—the kind that never quite cleared no matter how many ventilation cycles ran. The stench of unwashed spacers—human and otherwise—mixed with the haze, but he’d been here three hours and hadn’t seen a single body dragged out by the bouncer droids at the doors. Definitely a plus.

“The medical supplies job paid adequately,” Dez said amicably from his right.

“Well enough.” Quinel automatically sipped the drink he’d ordered two hours prior, barely tasting it anymore. “Even if it hadn’t though, I wouldn’t have minded too much. Colonies like these don’t get much in the way of medical supplies. Certainly nothing from the Empire.”

“Be that as it may, we now have enough to keep us in the black for at least another two months. Longer, if we’re careful.”

“Worried, Dez?”

“Worrying is an emotional response, Captain. I am merely stating facts.”

Quinel nodded, humming in reply.

Turning his attention back to the cantina, he was amazed at just how many people had retreated to this forsaken end of the galaxy. It shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise, not really. Ever since the Empire had replaced the Galactic Republic as the governing body a few long years back, more and more people seemed to be moving further away from the Core Worlds. No one would say it out loud—not with Imperial probe droids and stormtroopers keeping watch—but people were afraid these days.

Once upon a time, most people were safe to go about their day-to-day lives without living in fear of getting blasted or worse. Now anti-alien sentiment was on the rise, local Imperial garrisons ruled with an iron fist, and any dissension spoken against the Empire was met with a sudden disappearance.

Worse, the Jedi Order that had stood for a thousand generations was no more, labeled as traitors to the Empire and not so silently snuffed out of existence. These were dark times, no question.

Some said things were looking up since the end of the Clone Wars. Maybe they were, for the upper class all cozy in their lofty towers on the newly christened Imperial Center. For the rest of the galaxy though, times were scary.

“So what’s our next move?” Dez asked.

Quinel shook off his dark thoughts. Witnessing the less-than-decent standards people on these small colony worlds were forced to live in made him think too much. Always tended to remind him what life was like back on Corellia. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll drop Mazic a line, see if he’s got any work for us.”

“That pirate? You do remember that he’s not exactly on the legal side of the law, yes?”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s usually got leads on good honest work for semi-straight folk like us.”

“I should point out that I find him to be untrustworthy.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re my bodyguard. I programmed you not to trust most of the people we meet.”

“Well played. Though I would suggest your efforts would be best spent contacting your Twi’lek friend on Bespin.”

“Garrath?” Quinel pondered aloud. “I guess it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

Movement suddenly caught Quinel’s eye as the cantina doors swung open, admitting a gust of outside air as three figures entered through the smoke. Two average build, one much smaller between them. Beyond that, the dim lighting and haze made it impossible to pick out details.

“Hey Dez, look toward the door. What do you think their story is?”

Dez swiveled his head toward the entrance, the green of his optical sensors flashing briefly as his vision zoomed in on the trio.

“Interesting,” the droid said, tone sounding intrigued. “Two Zeltrons and a human.”

Quinel watched the trio pause just inside the entrance, looking around. It was hard to tell much from this distance given the perpetual haze in the air, but they seemed to be searching for something. Or someone.

“What’s so interesting about them?” Quinel asked, leaning forward as if moving a foot and a half would dispel the smoke clouding his view.

One of them—the taller one—approached a serving droid near the bar. He leaned in close, said something just before the droid’s photoreceptor angled toward the back of the room, then gestured in their direction.

“Well, one of the Zeltrons appears to be a young girl. A child, in fact,” Dez stated matter-of-factly. “Moreover, the three seem to be heading in our direction.”

“What?” Quinel swiveled his head to face his companion sharply.

“Affirmative, Captain. Directly toward us.”

“Why would they—”

“Perhaps because the serving droid provided them directions?” Dez said, stating the obvious. “Ah, and here are our guests now.”

Quinel swung his head back around to see the trio suddenly now standing on the other side of their table. At this distance, Quinel was able to make out a lot more of their appearance.

Both adults wore dark hoods that obscured their features, but from their builds he could tell the one on the left was female. The child stood between them, her purple and blue highlighted hair tied up in two braids that hung to either side of her pink-skinned ears.

The little Zeltron gazed at him from behind light purple eyes, her face no more readable than the obscured faces of the two adults accompanying her.

“Hello there,” Quinel said jovially. “What can I do for you?”

“Are you the captain of the freighter called The Misfit Stray?” the male asked in a gruff voice.

Quinel glanced at his companion before nodding with a smile. “That would be me. Quinel Neviden, at your service.” He gestured to the droid beside him. “And this bucket of bolts here is my partner, Dezmyn. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

“Potential clients,” the female said while pushing back her hood as she pulled out a seat and sat down. She was definitely Zeltron, with similar features to the young girl. The mother, perhaps?

Quinel noted that the male chose to remain standing, though the little Zeltron girl took a seat next to the female.

“Clients?” Quinel leaned back, hands behind his head, ankles crossing under the table. “I like clients. What do you need?”

“We need passage off-world. Two adults and one child. No questions asked.”

Quinel shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask questions. Risk assessment, you see.”

The woman glanced to her left at the male, who nodded after a brief pause. “Fine. What do you need to know?”

“Three things,” Quinel said evenly. “First, who told you about me?”

“The mechanic at the docks. He said you were a freighter pilot and gave us the name of your ship. Told us where we could find you.”

Quinel nodded. Kybuss must have sent them. The Sluissi was a methodical sort, but he knew good people when he saw them. “Well, that answers that. Next question—any contraband I need to know about?”

“No. It’s just the three of us.”

Quinel nodded again. “That’s good to know. Just one last question.” He glanced around the room before unfolding his hands from behind his head and resting them on the table as he leaned forward. “Are you running from anyone?”

He watched them carefully. The woman waited for the male, who gave an almost imperceptible head shake.

“No,” she said. “We’re just looking to leave this rock. Give our daughter a better future than what a colony world offers.”

Quinel sighed. They were lying. Badly. He knew it, they knew it, they knew he knew it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t take you.”

“What? Why not?” the female asked heatedly.

“Because I don’t smuggle people, and I don’t need the Imps sniffing around my boat.” He leaned back in his seat. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I fly a clean ship. I never get involved in Loth-cat and Loth-rat games, and I don’t take on contraband cargo if I can help it. I hope you can understand where I’m coming from.”

“We have money,” the gruff voice of the male spoke up suddenly. “Thirty thousand credits now. Another thirty thousand when we get there. You can even pick the destination.”

Quinel raised an eyebrow. That was serious money. Way more than passage was worth. Which meant they were in serious trouble.

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I really am. But the answer’s still no.”

“I saw your ship.”

The voice was young, sweet, and entirely unexpected. Quinel’s gaze shifted to the little Zeltron girl who was now looking at him with those light purple eyes.

“You did?” he asked, genuinely curious.

She nodded enthusiastically. “When we were asking about pilots at the spaceport. I saw it in the hangar. It’s blue and purple! I didn’t know ships could be blue and purple. Why is it blue and purple?”

Despite himself, Quinel smiled. “Because I painted her that way.”

“But why?” She leaned forward, genuine interest radiating from her small frame. “Don’t most ships just stay silver or gray or whatever color they were when they were made?”

“Yeah, most do. But I thought mine deserved to be special.”

“That’s so cool!” Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Does it fly good? I bet it flies really good if you took the time to paint it. You must really love your ship.”

Quinel found himself chuckling. “She flies just fine. And yeah, I do love my ship.”

“The Misfit Stray.” She smiled, testing the name out. “That’s a really good name. I like it. I bet she’s fast too, right? She looks fast. Well, I didn’t see her fly or anything, but from the look of her engines and stuff, I bet she’s really fast.”

“She’s fast enough when she needs to be,” Quinel admitted, still smiling despite himself. The little girl beamed at him, then looked up at the hooded woman beside her. “See? I told you his ship was the prettiest one at the spaceport.”

Quinel glanced at the two adults, who were watching the exchange with something that looked like hope. He felt his resolve crumbling. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. People smuggling was the fastest way to get Imperial attention, and he’d worked hard to keep his ship and his reputation clean. He had a policy for a reason.

But those purple eyes were looking at him with such genuine enthusiasm, and her words about his ship—the prettiest one at the spaceport—rang in his ears. When was the last time someone had appreciated the Stray like that?

“How old are you?” he asked the girl. “Nine,” she said proudly. “I’ll be ten in four standard months.”

Nine years old. Just a kid. Running from something bad enough that her parents were willing to pay sixty thousand credits for passage to anywhere.

Quinel closed his eyes and sighed deeply. Frack it all, he was going to regret this.

“Five thousand credits. Each,” he said, opening his eyes to look at the adults. “Fifteen total. Not sixty. For passage to Cloud City on Bespin. That’s where I was heading next anyway.”

The male started to speak, but Quinel held up a hand.

“I’m not taking your money because I believe your story about just wanting a better life. I’m taking it because that little girl thinks my ship is pretty, and I’m apparently a fracking idiot.” He leaned forward, his tone serious. “But let’s be clear—I don’t want to know what you’re running from. I don’t want to know who’s after you. And if the Imps come sniffing around, I never met you. Understood?”

The woman nodded quickly. “Understood. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me until we get there.” He stood, Dez rising smoothly beside him. “Meet us at Hangar D7 in two hours. Don’t be late, and don’t bring anything that’ll get us all killed.”

“We won’t,” the male said, his gruff voice holding a note of genuine gratitude. “You have our word.”

“Right.” Quinel gestured toward the door. “Two hours. Hangar D7. Don’t make me regret this more than I already do.”

As two of the three figures stood and made their way toward the exit, the little girl looked back over her shoulder and waved at him. He found himself waving back despite everything.

When they were gone, Dez turned his optical sensors on Quinel.

“That was monumentally stupid, Captain.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We have a policy regarding people smuggling.”

“I know.”

“They are clearly fleeing something. Probability suggests something of the Imperial variety.”

“Dez, I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because she said my ship was pretty!” Quinel snapped, then immediately felt stupid for saying it out loud. He dropped back into his chair and ran a hand over his face. “Because she’s nine years old and scared, and her parents are desperate enough to offer sixty thousand credits for passage to anywhere. Because…” He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

Dez was quiet for a moment. Then: “Because despite claiming otherwise, you are in fact a better person than you want to admit to being.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are. It’s one of your most annoyingly inefficient qualities.”

Quinel smirked. “Thanks, I think.”

“You are most welcome. I will attempt to keep us alive when this inevitably fails.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You should.” Dez’s optical sensors flickered. “For what it is worth, Captain, I calculate that the girl’s enthusiasm was genuine.”

“I know. That’s what worries me.” Quinel stood again, tossing a few credits on the table to cover their drinks. “Come on. Let’s get back to the Stray. I want to make sure she’s ready to fly the second they board.”

“Pessimistic.”

“Nah,” Quinel replied. “Realistic.”

“If you say so, Captain.”

As they made their way toward the cantina doors, Quinel couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just made a decision that was going to change everything. He’d broken his own rule. Taken on passengers he knew were trouble.

But when he thought of that girl’s smile, her genuine excitement about his ship being blue and purple, he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

Not yet, anyway.

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