He saw no one in the landing area and the only way out—a pair of double doors leading into a long corridor beyond—were open. Everyone must have evacuated.

Both of the Imperial shuttles had their landing ramps down. The drop ship did not and the canopy of its cockpit was dimmed, as opaque as dirty water.

“Tee-seven, I need you to crack open that Dragonfly. Right now.”

The droid beeped agreement and wheeled toward the drop ship’s rear door. Zeerid looked to Aryn and gave it another try.

“Reconsider, Aryn.” He stood directly before her, forcing her to see him, to hear him. “Come with me. Please.” He smiled, trying to make light. “We’ll start a farm on Dantooine, just like I said.”

She smiled, seemingly amused by the thought, and he was pleased to see it. “I can’t, Zeerid. You’ll make a good farmer, though. I’m going to find the Twi’lek and—”

She stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes fixed on something over Zeerid’s shoulder.

He whirled around to see the Twi’lek descending the near shuttle’s landing ramp, a rucksack thrown over her shoulder. Two Imperial soldiers in plasteel breastplates flanked her to either side. Each had a blaster rifle slung over his shoulder. All three wore breathing masks. They had not left their ship when the alarm sounded, had instead just donned masks. Perhaps there was something on the shuttle they were unwilling to leave unguarded. Everyone froze, and for a moment no one moved.

Then all at once everyone moved.

The Twi’lek dropped her rucksack, her eyes wide behind the lens of her mask, and went for her blasters. The soldiers cursed in muffled tones, unslung their rifles, and tried to bring them to bear.

Aryn ignited her lightsaber.

Zeerid, one of his blasters still in hand, fired at the soldier on the right. Two shots screamed into the soldier’s chest. Armor ablated in a puff of smoke and the force of the impact knocked the man from the ramp, turned his mask sideways on his face. He hit the deck and lay there, scrabbling for cover. Zeerid fired again, and a hit to the man’s midsection made him go still.

The Twi’lek got her blasters clear and fired two, four, six shots at Zeerid. Aryn slid before him and her blade deflected all of the shots, two of them back at the other soldier, which opened small holes in the soldier’s mask. He fell forward onto the ramp, dead.

“Get out of here, Zeerid,” Aryn said over her shoulder. She started walking toward the shuttle, toward the Twi’lek.

“Aryn,” Zeerid called, but she did not hear him. He imagined she heard only the voice of her dead Master now.

Zeerid realized it was no longer his fight. He holstered his blaster and watched. There was nothing else he could do.