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Chapter 21: Slaves

"Are you sure about this?" Luke asked, for probably the thousandth time.

"For the last time, yes, I'm sure." Mara was already missing the familiar weight of her lightsaber tied against her forearm, but they couldn't risk it getting confiscated.

"We could still just sneak in, kill him, and be out before anybody noticed. It'd be a lot simpler."

"We've been over this, Luke," she said, raising her head up over the edge of the rock outcropping to scan the desert in front of her. "Someone else would just take Jabba's place and it wouldn't change a thing. You were the one to point that out, weren't you?"

"Yeah, but that was before I realized that you would insist on putting yourself in danger for the alternate plan."

"Well, we don't want to kill him and let some other crime lord take over the operation, and we don't want to just blow up the whole place and take out a bunch of innocent slaves, and we haven't managed to come up with anything else in two weeks of sitting around on the outside. We need more information."

"I know. Why can't I just infiltrate as a guard, though?"

"Hey, if I don't get anywhere, you can try it. I still think our best bet is among the slaves, though, and they'll never talk to a guard."

"And girls are the only ones he consistently takes captive rather than executing. Yeah. Just be careful, all right?"

"What do you think I have you as backup for? There's the train."

"Wait, that wasn't– Mara!"

She was off running. The cargo containers flashed by, too fast to grab on to. She sped up. Up ahead, the canyon curved. They were supposed to slow down for that now, why weren't they slowing down, if they didn't slow down she'd feel so stupid... There. The Force pulsed, and she reached out, grabbed a handhold, swung herself onto the container...

The cargo train rounded the corner and sped up again, but she was safely aboard now. She lay there for a minute, staring at the suns and trying to catch her breath. Then she rolled over and shifted into a crouch among the boxes scattered across the barge.

Luke definitely had the easier job here. There were a thousand more practical ways into the palace, any of which she would've prefered, but of course she couldn't take any of them. She had to take the conspicuous route.

For all that this plan was the best one, it still had holes you could fly a spaceship through.

They were still a minute or two from Jabba's palace, which was plenty of time to prepare, if she could think of any way to prepare for being deliberately captured by the worst crime lord outside Nar Shadda. She couldn't. Meditation was a start, though.

Not, as it turned out, much of a start. She was still pretty much dreading this whole thing when the wide door to the main entrance to Jabba's palace came into view and the cargo transport slowed to a halt. Whatever security check they had didn't take too long, and then she was inside the lair of the greatest villain they could get their hands on.

This was just going to be all kinds of fun, wasn't it?

Then it was the right moment to move, and she vaulted over the side of her cargo cart and dashed along the length of the train at considerably below her top speed. A shout rang out and guards came rushing in. Seconds later, she was in the custody of the greatest villain around.

This is the plan, she reminded herself, breathing deeply. She could get away, she knew she could, as soon as she needed to. She wasn't trapped, not really. The guards weren't holding her gently, but she still could feel exactly how to break their grip, and they weren't exactly geniuses, either. A simple mind-trick would get her out immediately. No need to panic. It took a minute, but she slowly relaxed.

Of course, that wasn't the right reaction for a normal captive. They needed to think she didn't want to be here. So she twisted against their hold and kicked out randomly, being careful not to use anything like her full strength. The guards didn't even pay attention, just started lugging her through the halls. It made her feel a bit foolish about her hysterical struggling. Probably they wouldn't even notice if she stopped. She was nothing more than a slightly awkward bit of luggage to them.

...This was what slavery felt like, wasn't it? This utter disregard for her sentience? Knowing beyond a doubt that she was in the power of people who would care more for the well-being of an expensive speeder? And she was only pretending to be in their power. How much worse would it feel if she were truly trapped?

She clung to that thought as she was shoved to her knees in front of Jabba, imagining the hoplessness and despair and trying to channel it into her posture.

It was wasted effort. Nobody here paid her a second of attention, either, not even Jabba. He barely looked up from his meal before grunting at his assistant, who waved an airy hand and told them "Off to the slave pens," before turning back to some other bit of business.

It was almost embarrassingly easy to infiltrate the place.

Admittedly, the shackles they snapped on her wrists a second later would've stopped most people short. She flexed her wrists slightly. Reasonably well-made, and remarkably well-fitted for shackles they just happened to be carrying around. They'd probably hold almost anybody securely. She, of course, could think of about three ways out without even getting creative.

Still, shouldn't they have searched her more carefully or something? If they hadn't eliminated the idea of just straight up offing Jabba, she could've killed him easily, if she'd come in prepared. Or was there security she hadn't noticed?

Sure enough, on the way out she spotted discreet weapons scanners. She made a mental note about that, as well as the guards that *weren't* setting it off (surely they did have weapons?), then turned her attention to making a mental map of the palace.

They lugged her past several closed doors, down a flight of stairs, and into a shadowy hallway lined with tiny rooms. Her brow furrowed. They'd been told to take her to the slave quarters, not the dungeons, right?

It had just dawned on her that maybe there wasn't much of a difference when they reached the end of the hall and went into a large, busy room. She saw probably ten or fifteen young women of various humanoid species wandering around, wearing various levels of next-to-nothing. In one corner, three of them were busy with what appeared to be a dance lesson, and another group was going through a rack of costumes in the center of the room. The rest of the women were leaning against a wall or sitting with their backs to one of the massive pillars, wearing vacant, hopeless expressions.

Her guards shoved her out into the middle of the room, exchanged a few words with the guards flanking the doors in a grunt-heavy language she didn't recognize, then stumped out.

She was left standing in the middle of the room, still in shackles, trying to figure out what she was supposed to do now. Her plan had been to start socializing, but the only people who had noticed her so far were the ones sitting against the pillars, and their stares weren't encouraging. So she stood, feeling certain that the Jedi of old would never have let themselves into a situation this absurd.

Fortunately for her dignity, it wasn't long before one of the girls dancing in the corner noticed her and took pity on her. She came sauntering over, looking Mara up and down. "They caught us a new friend, did they?"

Mara shrugged one shoulder. "I guess so."

"I'm sorry. I remember how tough it is at first, but if you survive these weeks, you have a good chance. I'll help with anything I can, of course. What's your name?"

"Oh, uh, Arica."

"I'm Sharia. Guards! Come get this girl out of her shackles and into a collar!" She turned back to Mara. "Lovely hair, by the way, that'll give you an edge if you style it right."

Mara tried to smile in thanks, but halfway through she felt the guards reaching to put something around her neck and flinched instinctively away. Sharia laid a hand on her arm. "Don't resist, it'll anger them. It's a slave collar, and I know you won'tlike it, but it's better than an implant, isn't it?"

It was. She could disable exactly one of the two. Mara took a deep breath, and let them snap on the collar. It settled heavily on her collarbone. Then they unlocked the shackles, and she shook out her hands.

"Right, then," Sharia said. "Come on, let's go introduce you to some of the girls and find you a good outfit."

The introductions went by in a storm of names and sympathy. Catching the names was easy enough, but trying to get to know personalities in the group wasn't working out as well, especially since she was distracted by trying to chose an outfit.

She'd veered towards the most modest one on the rack, which still would've had Beru scolding her pretty hard, but the girls had all grimaced and shook their heads. There wasn't technically a dress code, they told her, and she could wear whatever she liked, but if she chose that, they gave her a better than even chance of being killed in the first five minutes. If she wore it more than once, the odds went up to almost a certainty. She was firmly steered towards a metal contraption which, to her mind, would have been excessively revealing as underwear. The only thing that kept her from flat out refusing it was the thought that though she could likely counter whatever means they used to kill her, doing so would definitely reveal her cover.

She accepted with the metal thing. It had a nice cape with it. Maybe she could use that as a toga when she was off-duty.

About halfway through the process of applying fancy makeup, Mara reflected that she'd expected to spend a lot more time poking around, and a lot less time playing dress-up.

Once it was all on and she had a moment to spare, she escaped to wander the compound. She'd spent much of the makeup time asking about where they could go, what they could do. Turned out that the palace was isolated enough that escape attempts weren't a huge problem, and so restrictions within it were lax. There was the exploding collar, and aside from that nobody cared where she went.

As she wandered, she found that the outfit and hairdo and makeup that felt so horribly conspicuous, weren't. They didn't direct attention away from her, the way she was used to disguises working, but the attention certainly wasn't on her face, and she rather suspected that none of the people that saw her would ever be able to recognize her in different circumstances.

Still, she was grateful for the cape.

She didn't find much in her explorations. Jabba's palace consisted of a hundred empty rooms and one center of activity, and both the throne room and many of the empty ones were closed to her when she was off-duty. So she explored what she could, then returned to the other slaves to talk.

"So has anybody ever escaped from here?" she asked, as soon as she saw an opening.

Sympathetic looks from everywhere. "It's best to avoid thinking that way," Sharia told her. "Those that do, end up dead, or..." She glanced at the girls sitting motionless along the edges of the room.

"But what would you do, if Jabba just died or something? Don't you have homes?"

Most of the girls looked away, or closed their eyes. Sharia didn't blink. "Not anymore, we don't. We aren't any more hopeful than they are, you know," she jerked her head at the other girls, "we just chose not to dwell on it. They think their old life was best. Well, fine, we agree. We also think that making the best of this life is superior to longing for that one. Let go, Arica. Become the best slave dancer that you can be, or fall into despair. There are no other choices, now."

"There are always choices. Always. You just have to look for them."

Sharia watched her sadly. "I hope you learn to see things our way, Arica, for your sake," she said.

"But what about–"

"I expect they'll serve something decent for supper, don't you, Riathal? There was a party last night, there should still be leftovers."

There was no help to be found in this group, Mara knew.

It was rather a relief to be called to the throne room, after that revelation. She wasn't much good at aimless chat. The throne room, though, there'd be avenues there. Excitement over the possible leads almost overcame her uneasiness about her role.

Sharia and another of the girls came along behind her, whispering advice about where to stand and who to look at and how to survive. Most of them were vague and unhelpful, and she'd heard almost all of them earlier, but she tried to pay attention anyway. Then they reached the doors and their guards stood aside. Mara pushed her shoulders back, smiled, and walked in.

Quite a few eyes were on her. Wearing as little as she was, the attention made her uncomfortable. She took a deep breath and pushed the sensation aside, focusing in on the emotions in the room around her.

It was an odd pattern. Usually the emotions in a crowd represented the whole range, perhaps leaning towards one end or the other depending on circumstances. This one wasn't like that. There was a strong undercurrent of worry, shared by almost everyone, and layered on top of that was a contentment that felt almost faked. It puzzled her for several minutes as they got situated.

Then Jabba roared at some servant's slight error, and she felt his anger color the room. The worry all around her increased tenfold, and she understood.

It was mind control, in a way. She saw now the way everyone kept at least half an eye on Jabba, even her fellow dancers, who on the surface seemed to be dancing in their own world. They were all waiting for the slightest cue from Jabba, constantly watching him for a change in emotion. Those who openly disagreed with him, even in something so trivial as whether a party was enjoyable, didn't last long, she guessed.

They were all slaves, she realized, whether they were called it or not.

She wondered whether their inital assesment, that if they killed Jabba one of his liutenants would just take over, was correct. Nobody here was a leader. The leaders didn't survive, not with Jabba still around.

Later, after she was called to the front to dance, that idea, too, was proved false.

She'd adapted her katas into a dance, not expecting anybody to be able to recognize them. It seemed to have worked, too. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the show, and there was no suspicion at all.

Then the door opened, and someone came in. She barely noticed him at first. He kept close to the walls and moved unobtrusively to a clear spot and there stopped. Just another face in the crowd.

He was watching her, she knew, but everyone was. Why should he be notable? Yet the longer he stared, the more she felt there was something different about the way he was watching her.

She closed her eyes, and reached out to brush against his mind. It was... precise. Precise and focused, and right now, he was analyzing her dance very carefully indeed. No trace of the prevalent emotions in the room.

This was no slave. Nor would he be an ally, she knew.

He would be trouble.