"So you have proof of the Mandalorian's death?" asked Gallia Varro.
Without a word, Din stepped forward and placed the whistling bird, stained with his own blood, on her desk.
"That's all? It's not very impressive," she said. "From what I understand of Mandalorian weaponry, these little missiles always hit their mark."
"I suppose not always." Din shrugged. "There wasn't much left of him. I had to move quickly. I caught sight of this in a pool of blood."
"You call Ms. Varro MA'AM when you speak," said Merrix sharply. Din suppressed his urge to shrug again. Acting deferential was not coming naturally to him.
"It's all right, Cole." She picked it up and studied it, then placed it in a small receptacle to the side. She tapped on the controls, then looked at the result. "It matches his employment bio signature," she said at last. "What a shame. I had hoped we could retrieve him and learn more from him. We will have to conduct a search for his armor."
Sarge and Din stood at attention in her office, a massive round room with walls made completely of transparasteel. The prison was a vast, multi-level silo with control rooms, guard quarters, and offices for Varro and Merrix in the center tower. Many levels of workshops and cells stretched up above and below, linked by clear tunnels to the central tower. The top of the silo was open to the sky. Every level had more windows than walls, revealing prisoners laboring on factory floors. On other floors, prisoners attempted to sleep or eat in stark white cells. Even when relieving themselves or showering, they had absolutely no privacy.
Din found it all dizzying and overwhelming, beyond his wildest imagination. The amount of transparasteel and glass alone cost more than a planet. The size and sheer scope of its cruelty made other Imperial facilities he had seen look trivial by comparison and rivaled Gideon's base on Mandalore.
What have I gotten us into?
"Give me a few good men," said Merrix. He lounged on a couch across the room. "We'll shake that place upside-down."
"No," said Varro. She stood and paced over to one of the windows. She wore a plain cloak today and long, slim boots, expertly crafted to disguise thick protective soles. Certainly not as ugly as the Stompers worn by the guards. "We'll have to use the energy field high setting. We can't waste time on your games."
Merrix sat up, looking horrified. He was out of hunting gear and in a luxurious robe, as well as similar boots. "But that will kill every inmate in the Arena!"
"Yes. That's the whole point. I only agreed to your absurd tourist attraction with the fail-safe option."
"It took us a long time to gather all those freaks. We'll have to start from scratch!"
"Cole, dear, the galaxy has no shortage of non-humans to populate your arena. We'll discuss this in private." Then she returned her attention to Din and Sarge. Din could not see Sarge's expression under his helmet, but he trembled visibly.
Both Din and Sarge had been required to leave their own Stompers at the door. Their bare feet looked vulnerable and almost obscene against the dark metal floor. Every floor in this prison was made of the same material.
Din tried very hard not to look at his own pale and calloused feet. There was the scar from when the Twi'lek stabbed him in the right foot years ago. There were the bruised, blackened toenails on his left foot, still not grown out after the Battle for Mandalore.
He felt naked. This was almost as bad as showing his face.
"Four men lost on a six-man mission," mused Varro. "No armor. Tell me. What motivates the prisoners here, Sergeant?"
Sarge swallowed audibly behind his helmet. "Rewards. Better food. Better jobs. And a few of us get to be promoted to guard. Like Jonas here. And me."
Din kept perfectly still.
"Yes, yes," said Varro with a dismissive wave. "But what keeps them in line? What truly motivates them?"
"The…the floor," whispered Sarge.
Varro nodded. "Exactly right. The floor. The most productive shifts and managers receive rewards. The least productive shifts and managers receive a taste of the floor. The fear of pain is ultimately a greater motivator than any paltry reward. This potent combination of reward and punishment is wonderful, because the prisoners are so focused on competition with each other that disobedience, let alone true resistance becomes unthinkable. As an added benefit, judicious use of the floor prevents prisoners from visiting violence upon each other. I'm afraid we all know the ugly things that can happen prisons. Not here."
Sarge swallowed.
She walked over to the wall of windows and looked out. "The Empire attempted this level of sophistication before." Varro placed one gloved hand against the window. "But here in the Panopticon we have perfected it. Avoided earlier mistakes. Here in the central tower, we see all and control all. No hiding for the inmates. No secrets. No hand signals. Listening devices are everywhere. The cells are spaced apart and do not face each other, but instead face outward. And we may see in the one-way windows, while they cannot see out. And why do we do this?"
Din and Sarge were silent at her rhetorical question.
"The qualities that make humans the superior species and natural rulers of this galaxy also make humans the perfect slaves. Even more so than droids." She turned back to them and smiled apologetically. "The human male is especially, exquisitely receptive to this conditioning. Decades of experiments have proved it. But do you think this only applies to prisoners?"
"No," whispered Sarge.
"No," agreed Varro. She stretched out her right hand. The robe fell back, revealing a black vambrace and wrist guard. With delicate fingers she pressed a control on one side of the vambrace.
The agony was instant and overpowering, originating in Din's feet but reaching every part of his body. He felt every muscle seize and contract, every nerve ending explode. It made what he felt on Mandalore and even back at the Arena fade. He fell to his knees, then his side. Someone screamed. It might have been Sarge, or it might have been him. Hard to say.
Then it ended.
Next to him, Din heard the Sarge moan and slobber. He did not feel much better. His mind felt cloudy, his breath rapid and shallow, his heart racing. A foul smell reached his nose even through the helmet—the other man had clearly lost control of his bodily functions. Din had at least not disgraced himself that way, but other than that, he was not much better off. Tears, saliva, mucus, and sweat coated his face and soaked the inside of his helmet.
Some dim, animal part of Din's brain said that he must do anything to avoid this pain ever again, accept any degradation or humiliation. No. This is how this place, this conditioning works, he thought. To inflict despair and pain. To steady himself, Din sought the words of the Creed, pictured Grogu's face, remembered Omera's voice. I am Mandalorian still. No matter what I endure, I will not succumb.
"That was level five," said Varro. "It goes to ten. Remember that."
"Sorry, boys," said Merrix complacently. "But discipline is everything."
"Return to duty," said Varro. Her elegant nose wrinkled. "After you…clean up."
###
Sarge and Din did not speak or glance at each other as they put the Stompers back on and left Varro's office.
Fortunately for Din, navigating the prison was easy for guards and staff. Corridors and rooms were well-labeled. Guards had primitive comms vambraces with their identification numbers, access codes, schedules, and checklists. Din would rather face a direct firefight than do all this pretending, but he had no choice but to take on the identity of Jonas, who hasn't exactly been a well-liked man. And that was saying something, given the company he kept.
But why should he be surprised, given the quality of people Merrix recruited? Thugs and human-first types, and now it turned out that some guards were former prisoners. And there was little danger they tell anyone else about this place. The punishment would be swift.
"This isn't going to work," muttered Sarge.
"It will if you stay cool," said Din.
"How are we going to keep hiding that armor, much less smuggle it out of here?"
This question bothered Din as well, but he was starting to get an idea. "We're scheduled to go back and supervise maintenance of that transport at 0400, right? When we crate up the spare boots for refurbishment, we put in the armor in it. Then we make a detour."
"You make it sounds so simple."
"Give me your access code," said Din.
"Why?"
"I told you. I need your access to plans and schedules. You're an officer. I'm not."
"You better not be planning to double-cross me," said Sarge.
"Why would I risk getting a dose of the floor again?" asked Din. They turned a corner and finally they were in the guard quarters sector. "We need each other. If I double-cross you, you'll turn me in. Like I said. Trust mutually assured destruction." Sarge nodded, and touched his vambrace. A new code appeared on Din's own small display. "See you at the ship at 0400." Din touched the code to his own door and at last was alone.
Life for guards here was fairly basic, but at least their tiny quarters had privacy and seemed to have no surveillance. Besides the 'fresher and mirror there was a simple entertainment and data terminal next to a food dispenser. Din had seen a small canteen and some conference rooms but gatherings for the most part seemed to be discouraged, reflecting the distrust this company placed in its own people.
Din pulled off the hated helmet and looked at his face for the first time in quite a while. Pale, dark circles under red eyes, badly in need of a haircut and shave. He washed his face and wished he could do the same for the helmet. Mandalorian helmets were designed to be easy to clean and care for. If he tried to clean this piece of junk, it would be damaged for good. Then he drank a lot of water and devoured the unpleasant, sour stew dispensed from the food station as if he would never see food again. Always a possibility.
Immediate bodily needs met, Din studied the little room and the prison plans available on the terminal with Sarge's code. High on the ceiling, sure enough, was a covered vent. The plans showed intricate ductwork from the top of the silo structure reaching through the center tower and on the bridges that ran out like the spokes of a wheel to the cells and factory floors.
The Panopticon was clever, Din had to admit. Kino Loy had spoken of insurrection and escape on Narkina 5. Here, the constant monitoring made it much harder for conspirators to plan a revolt. The bridges could be retracted to cut off escape. The hangar was only accessible through the tower.
The ducts and vents were perfectly Grogu sized.
Din thought about Grogu waiting in the hold of that ship. Water and a plentiful supply of krill bars had been stashed in the bag, but time had passed. Too much time. He was probably getting bored, tired, hungry, and worried.
Yet Din had a feeling that his boy was all right. He certainly had no powers but he felt the boy's presence and well-being deep in his gut. Maybe it was some kind of Force thing. Maybe it was a fatherhood thing. Coming for you, he thought, wondering if Grogu felt him much in the same way.
###
Din's heart sank when he saw Sarge had made it back to the ship first, but fortunately he seemed to be waiting for Din before going in. After their ordeal in Varro's office, his body language was subdued. He was taking the mutually assured destruction threat seriously. And greed was a motivator almost as powerful as pain.
"Let's do this quick, Jonas," Sarge muttered. The gangplank lowered and Din led the way to the boot locker.
"Get the crate," said Din. Sarge's body language said he was tired of taking Din's orders, but he went to the corner and retrieved one of the antigrav crates stacked in the corner. The hatch containing the boots rose and Din seized the bag of armor.
"You are real secretive about that bag," Sarge said as they packed the boots. "I want to see what's in it."
"I showed you."
"No. I want to see it all."
Din sucked in a breath. "Fine." He opened the bag. "Take a look. But I'm not emptying it all right here. Someone could see."
Sarge peered into the bag and reached in. "What do you call this again?" He pulled out the pauldron with the mudhorn and studied it.
"A pauldron," said Din.
"Look at this helmet." Sarge picked up the helmet and turned it around in his hands admiringly. Din felt as if we would jump out of his skin. Sarge looked back in the bag and frowned. "What's this…bundle?"
"Cloak. Clothes. I took everything," said Din.
Sarge seemed as if he was about to pick up the bundle and unwrap it. Din felt his fingers twitch on the holster of his blaster. Suddenly the air seemed thick, clouds and confusion on the edge of his thinking. He felt sleepy. Was Sarge feeling it too? The man hesitated, his hand trembling.
"You don't need to look any more," Din found himself saying. "You've seen enough."
Sarge took his hands away from the bundle. "I've seen enough."
"We need to get going."
Sarge closed up the bag. "We need to get going," he said in a crisp, decisive tone. Din lifted the bag—was there a slight wriggle inside?—and stashed it inside the trunk next to the boots.
###
In his newly cooperative state, Sarge readily agreed that "Jonas" should hide the bag in his own bunk while he took the boots down to for refurbishment at the quartermaster sector. Din actually felt a little bit sorry for the man…a very little bit. They stopped by the guards' quarters with the trunk, giving Din time to swiftly lift out the bag and duck inside his little room, shutting the door behind him. Sarge went on to drop off the boots.
At last this shift was ended. Din exhaled in relief and shut his eyes for a moment, leaning against the wall. He opened them to find Grogu holding on tightly to his leg.
"That was close, buddy," Din said. He bent over and picked up Grogu. "He was this close to finding you. Did you do that? Make him…lose interest? Be more cooperative?" Add this to the list of things Grogu was learning.
"Pahtu." The boy studied him with round eyes. He must have sensed that Din felt the lingering effects of the floor and seemed just as worried about Din as Din had been about him. Yet even here in the heart of this evil place Grogu did not seem particularly frightened as long as they were next to each other.
"I'm all right." Grogu frowned skeptically but allowed himself to be placed on the bunk. Din sat heavily next to him and studied the floor of the tiny room. It was not dark metal, but the same thick, spongy material that made up the soles of the Stomper boots. "Just…do not, do NOT touch the floor here, except in this room. Even then, not much." Grogu nodded. "Now we just have to hide the armor."
Both of their gazes traveled up to the vent above them.
Soon, thanks to Din's set of small tools tucked in his vambrace and Grogu's help, they had the vent cover off. Din marveled that in this sophisticated, over-engineered facility, no one cared how easy it would be for someone small to make use of the duct system. But evil always did suffer from a failure of imagination, didn't it? Then Din lifted up the bag and Grogu, sitting on his shoulders, used his powers to push it further down the vent and out of sight. "Does it all fit? It won't get stuck?" asked Din anxiously. Grogu shook his head.
While Grogu ate stew from the food dispenser, Din searched through prisoner records with Sarge's access code on the terminal. The records were spotty—after all, this place was off the books with no hope of release until death, or promotion. How many guards here were former prisoners, anyway? There were no names, just images and numbers. He recognized a few faces from the information IG had compiled.
He looked up what he could about Jonas, to know who exactly he was supposed to be playing. The truth was depressing. Jonas was a small-time pimp who directed his stable of prostitutes to rob or blackmail clients. He had been convicted of extortion and only recently promoted to guard. Wonderful, Din thought. I get to pretend to be a pimp. I guess I froze enough of them in my time.
Then he looked up Sarge. The truth here was even more depressing. Sarge was actually Jase Derask—IG had interviewed his distraught and weeping father back on Nevarro. It seemed a lifetime ago that Din had seen the holo, had pitied the man. This was miserable no matter which way you thought about this. Although he had been a guard for some time, with privileges to communicate and travel, Jase had not bothered to tell his father. An ungrateful and cruel son. But Din had to wonder how he got that way, because didn't a father shape his child?
It was all too complicated and upsetting to think about. Time to focus on the main reason for being here. Din's search continued.
Just as he was beginning to despair, he finally found him: Balding head, snub nose, pugnacious face, reddish-gray stubble. Unlike the image on Sorgan, out in the sunlight near the krill ponds with Winta, he looked terrified, pale, and exhausted.
Level 6, Group B, Subgroup 7, Cell 8.
At least he hadn't been promoted to guard. Din wasn't sure what he would do if that had happened.
"This is our friend Migs." Grogu put down his stew and peered at Mayfeld's face, then gave Din a dubious look. "Yeah. He was maybe not the nicest guy when we first met. But he helped me find you, and he behaved more honorably than I expected. And our friends Omera and Winta…care for him. So we'll get him out of here, and we'll get word to Captain Teva. We need help." Grogu gave one, big, sleepy blink. He must have been awake and tense the whole time hiding on the ship. Din looked around at the bare, harsh room. He thought about their simple home back on Nevarro, and with a pang he thought about the Razor Crest. "More rotten accommodations I've dragged us to. Sorry, buddy. Try to sleep."
Din retrieved his own bowl of stew even though Grogu wasn't quite asleep. He stared at the bowl, hungry again and exhausted to his bones, memory of pain still lingering. He lifted up the hated Imp-designed helmet over his mouth, but of course it was too awkward to manage. Not like his own exquisitely crafted helmet, light and strong, designed to fit his face and head perfectly, easy to shift up if needed.
He sighed.
"Oh, what the hell," he said.
He took the whole helmet off and ate.
When he looked up from his food, Grogu was wide awake and staring at him. "I broke with the Creed the moment I took off my own helmet," Din explained. "I can't eat or sleep in this piece of trash. Not like I can in mine. It's just…it's not worth it. We're family now. The most important thing is getting out of here safely with Migs. Then we'll figure out what to do about…" He pointed a little helplessly at his head. "…this."
Grogu scooted next to him on the bench and beckoned Din to lean down. His curiosity was only natural. Grogu had only really seen him like this once, not counting the times he used his powers. The little boy tentatively patted Din's cheek with one miniature hand.
"It's just me, Grogu," Din said, his voice rough.
More boldly Grogu ruffled Din's not-so-clean hair, one claw briefly snagging in a tangle. Then, with intense curiosity, Grogu felt the texture of the stubble on Din's chin and the unkempt mustache above his lip. Din couldn't help but grin.
"See? Just me. Father. Buir. Remember that word, buddy?"
Grogu just blinked.
No wonder he can't really speak yet, Din thought with dismay. After being neglected for untold years, Grogu was now learning how to talk from someone who never showed his mouth. No surprise that Mandalorians had a reputation for being taciturn. Din had tried to teach Grogu some Mando'a words and phrases, but without much success. After spending most of his life on his own, Din's own spoken Mando'a was sadly not as fluent as it once was, even though he was proficient in other languages. The tongue he had spoken as a little child on Aq Vetina sometimes came back, but only with great effort. When Grogu spoke to Din with his powers, it was thought, not spoken language.
Din was going to have to work harder at this. No time like the present, even though they were weary and surrounded by enemies. He tried to exaggerate the way his lips formed the word. "Buir."
Grogu nodded. "Boo," he said in his tiny, croaking voice.
Din's eyes widened with surprise and delight. He forgot his pain and sorrow and anger, forgot the hateful reality outside this room. "Grogu!"
"Grogu," repeated Grogu easily. He pointed to his own chest, as if Din might be a little slow on the uptake. "Grogu."
Maybe he thinks he's teaching me.
Maybe he's right.