The Ruins of Dantooine by Voronica Whitney-Robinson

flee.
    Dusque was not so reserved. She sprang to her feet and started to shove her way through to reach him. But those who had recovered their footing were backing away collectively from the tableau in front of them. Some tried to run for the exits, while others crouched and cowered fearfully. Dusque was in a state, her emotions making her rash. First she knocked down a small Bothan woman holding a basket of fruit, then she ran up against a newly formed wall of spectators. She grabbed a Rodian by the shoulders and tried to yank him aside. But the crowd had bunched up and there was nowhere for Dusque to move him. He turned angrily and looked at her coldly with his multifaceted eyes.
    “Watch what yer doin’, woman,” he yelled at her.
    “I’ve got to get to him!” she cried and strained to see past the gawkers who were now riveted by the scene.
    “No, you don’t,” he warned her, “trust me on that. They’ve got a warrant for the Hammerhead’s arrest and execution.”
    “What?” Dusque demanded. “What has he done? What’s going on here?” All the while, she was tryingto force her way closer, to no avail. Almost sensing the impending danger, the crowd was no longer trying to move away. Another line of stormtroopers moved into formation, creating a solid line in front of the spectators, this time to keep them back.
    “I heard someone up front say he was a traitor,” the Rodian replied distractedly. “Sold some information or bought some. Who knows?” He turned to get a better look.
    Horror-stricken, Dusque saw that the Imperial officer was putting away his datapad, his pronouncement finished. He signaled to three of the troopers, and two of them seized the Ithorian by his long arms. He made no move to struggle as the two dragged him toward an open section of the spaceport, followed by the third, who was brandishing an E-11 blaster rifle.
    “Nooo …,” she moaned quietly. She tore at the shirts and sleeves of those around her in an effort to burst free. But the more she pushed, the more she was shoved back. At one point, she was certain that Tendau saw her. He shook his domed head sadly and let it hang down. She cried out to him, freeing one hand between the troopers to wave imploringly. He raised and lowered his hand, signaling for her to stop: death ahead, it meant in their private language.
    Her fear and rage made her reckless, blind to the imminent danger all around her. “You don’t understand,” she screamed at the officer. “You’re making a terrible mistake!”
    The officer glanced over in her direction. He cocked his head and tried to find out who exactly was screaming at him. His hand dropped to his sidearm, and Dusque was too frenzied to notice the implied threat in his actions. She was starting to scream again when a strong arm wrapped itself around her waist and yanked her backward, nearly off her feet. She twisted wildly against whoever was pulling her away from the front of the crowd, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Tendau.
    The two stormtroopers who had pulled him toward the far side of the shuttleport now stepped away from him, although they kept close enough in case he tried something. But the Ithorian simply raised his head to look at the sky. The third trooper faced him from three meters away and drew a sight on him with his blaster.
    “Ready,” the stormtrooper said, not really asking a question.
    Dusque grew limp and found herself using the arm that still held her as support, instead of struggling against it. “No,” she whispered, her eyes wide with disbelief.
    “Now,” the officer ordered. The crowd had grown deafeningly quiet.
    The Ithorian dropped his gaze to look directly at the soldier, then spread his arms wide in an almost welcoming gesture. The stormtrooper fired his blaster rifle once, the red beam slicing through the morning air with a deadly whine. It struck Tendaudirectly in his chest. He convulsed inward and crumpled to the cold stone. He twitched once