Din had two hours and thirty-seven minutes before the ship left. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes to remove his own armor and clothing, then change into everything he had scavenged from the guards. It would have been nice to do this back at the safe room, but Din had to make do with an interior room of what must have once been a great mansion. A few shattered pieces of furniture remained stacked in one corner. Painted tiles, now cracked and faded, covered the floor.
Fazzakkaar and Chahras stood watch outside. From time to time Grogu peered around the corner. The guard's armor made the armor Din had worn on Morak seem luxurious by comparison. He hated everything: the itchy, poorly cut trousers and shirt; the cheap boots that rubbed his heels while pinching his toes; the shoddy, brittle armor; the thoughtlessly designed helmet. He especially hated the disgusting smell of someone else's hair and sweat.
Most of all, he hated the way he felt.
On Morak, Din had been driven by rage, adrenaline, and single-minded focus on retrieving Grogu. It helped him shove aside his horror and shame at removing his helmet, helped him steadfastly ignore Mayfeld's annoying prodding. Killing Imps and threatening Moff Gideon had also soothed his conscience and kept him from dwelling on his humiliating performance in that canteen.
The disgrace had been his own fault for being in a situation where he had no choice but to remove his helmet in the first place. Moff Gideon had the kid because Din's poor decisions and reckless actions put Grogu at risk.
Now here he was again, in the same situation. His son had assured him he was on the right path. Din agreed, theoretically, but it didn't make it any easier.
With a last tug at the right boot, Din stood. He left the tight gloves off for the moment. "All right. I'm done."
Grogu came to stand in front of him. Din had considered sheltering Grogu in the safe room while he infiltrated the prison, but how long would Grogu be trapped there alone? There was a limit to how long the Wookies would protect Grogu if something happened to Din.
No, father and son had to travel this road side by side.
Grogu looked Din over critically and his nose wrinkled. "Urp."
"Yeah, I know. But do I blend in?"
"Urp."
"I agree wholeheartedly." He inhaled through his mouth, hoping he would get used to the smell soon. "Are you ready?"
Grogu raised his arms. As Din picked him up, his glance fell on the furniture scraps piled in the corner. A flash of light and shadow caught his eye—a scrap of a mirror, the old glass kind. He saw the ugly black matte armor juxtaposed with the familiar sight of Grogu's robe and the back of his head, and the slightly less familiar sight of his own bare hands.
It reminded him of why he was here. It reminded him of the first time he had visited Sorgan—and Omera.
###
In the loft, Din shut the crate, running over everything once more in his head. Food, fresh water, weapons, clean clothes and blankets for the kid, even a few toys. Focusing on physical logistics helped him push down the new, strange worry that was building in his gut.
He had dreaded saying goodbye to the kid, even though he knew it was for the best. Now that he had resolved to bring the kid with him, Din had a new dread that he didn't understand.
A light knock on the door. "Come in," he said.
Omera came in tentatively. "Almost ready?" she asked.
Din nodded, hoping she would leave. Hoping also that she might stay. "Yes."
"I have a last gift," she said.
"You've given us more than enough. The kid has everything he needs."
"No. This is for you." She brought out a small bottle. The spotchka within glowed. "This is the reserve batch. The best we make."
"Thank you," said Din. "That's kind of you. But I don't drink on my ship. It leads to carelessness and bad choices."
Omera's lips quirked in a slight smile. "Well, that's one way of looking at it. It also tastes good and gives you pleasure. Save it for a safe place, then. After the little one goes to sleep. You deserve to enjoy something once in a while."
Din shrugged. He had betrayed the Guild, caused the Covert to reveal itself, and led bounty hunters to a quiet village. Now he was taking an innocent child away from a happy life on a shabby ship.
He certainly didn't deserve to enjoy anything.
Omera's face grew more serious. "I did want to say one thing before you go."
Din waited.
"Forgive me for suggesting you remove your helmet. I was presumptuous."
"Don't mention it," said Din.
"I don't know anything about your people beyond what you've told me. I understand about your commitment to wearing the helmet. But is it customary to keep it on even around children?"
"The Creed says no living thing. Last I checked, children were living things."
"Even your own child?"
"He's not my child," Din said quickly. "My duty is to protect him and maybe return him safely to his own people."
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself of that. It may take a long, long time to find his people, and what if you can't? I mean, when you were young, did your parents never take off their helmets?"
"My parents were killed when I was very small," said Din, wondering why he was even engaging in this conversation. What was wrong with him?
Omera's hand flew to mouth and her eyes instantly teared. "Oh, no. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"It's all right. I don't really remember them," Din lied. "They weren't Mandalorians, so no helmets. Then Mandalorians took me in as a Foundling. I had a series of foster parents, but I wasn't formally adopted. They were good to me, but they never removed their helmets."
"That sounds like a hard way to live."
"Yes, it is," agreed Din. "The Creed is hard. That's the point."
"And is it like that for all your children?"
"Children are very important to us. But we're hunted. We live in hiding." Briefly he wondered where the people of his Covert had fled. "It's too dangerous for us to have…regular families. The galaxy keeps churning out a constant supply of orphans and lost kids. So now we see Foundlings as our future. Those we can't reunite with their people usually choose to stay and take the Creed. Like me."
Where did this new need to explain come from? He had deflected so very many stupid, intrusive questions and comments about Mandalorians over the years, in bars, cantinas, ships, even on the job. How do you eat/drink/bathe/brush your teeth/sleep? Doesn't that get in the way? As if they had delivered some amazing insight he had never considered before. You're right! I should have been taking off my helmet to brush my teeth this whole time! Thanks for the tip! He usually just responded with stony silence, or, if feeling expansive, just like you.
And then there were the more lurid questions and whispers. Usually that got the silent treatment as well. But there were exceptions, like that one time on Tatooine when some drunk wiseass asked Din the inevitable question: My buddy and me got a bet. How do y'all manage fucking with all that on? Grouchy and tired after an unsuccessful hunt, Din had answered, I don't know. Let's ask your mother. The brawl resulting from this witticism had literally flattened the building.
But here he was, talking about private Mandalorian matters with Omera. There was something about her that invited confidence. She was seated near him now, her attention totally on him, and he could feel the warmth of her intelligence and compassion like a campfire on a cold morning. Din realized with shame that he knew little about her. Too late now.
"Winta is…a great kid," he managed to say. "Kind, helpful, brave." Like her mother. She rewarded him with a smile. "How do you do it?" He found himself matching her posture, his attention complete. Everything seemed to hang on her answer.
Omera was silent for a moment. "I wish I knew. My husband died in a logging accident when Winta was just a baby. I wanted to withdraw from her. I wanted to stay in bed the rest of my life. But I kept going, one day at a time, no matter how much I wanted to stay in this little shell of my own grief. Nothing was more important than her. I really relied on the people of this village, too. Everyone pulled together to take care of us."
Din stared at his feet. After a long pause he blurted, "Was your husband the one who taught you to shoot?"
She smiled. "I taught him."
"Not surprised."
"This is what I came to say to you. You'll be like a father to that little boy, even though you don't feel like you are," she said. "So you'll have to come out of your own shell a bit. It's not just about making sure he's clean and fed and safe. He needs your attention and affection. And it will be hard on him if he never sees your face or feels your touch, no matter what your Creed says." Her eyes rested on his hands. "Can you take your gloves off sometimes, at least?"
"Sure," said Din. "We're not that impractical." He pulled one off his left hand and waggled his fingers as if proving a point, then rested his palm on his knee. Omera gently took his hand between her own. The touch of her bare skin was disorienting. Her warm hands were small but strong, calloused, blue-tinged around the nails from her work in the krill ponds. His own hand looked huge, pale, and ugly in comparison, scarred and knobby after many broken bones over the years. He swallowed. "I need to go," he said. But he didn't move.
"You'll be a good father," she said softly. "Because you're a good man."
"You say that because you don't really know me."
"I think I do." She released his hand.
Then he left.
He never ended up drinking the spotchka. It was destroyed along with the rest of the Razor Crest before he had a chance to try it.
###
Now Din looked at himself briefly in the shard of glass. He stroked the back of Grogu's head, fuzzy and warm against his bare fingers. He had listened to Omera's advice, to an extent. Then he shifted the boy so they could look each other in the eye. And Din knew that Grogu could see into his heart, helmet or not.
"This is going to be hard. But I'm not leaving you behind. There might be times when we won't be next to each other but I won't be far away and I'm always thinking about you. You'll be safe. Okay, buddy?"
Grogu nodded and patted Din on the side of the helmet, a jaunty "good to go" gesture.
"Good boy. But there could be some ugly things happening. Things I don't want you to see. When I say don't look, don't look. For real. Understand?"
"Ahwua."
He set Grogu inside his helmet as if it were a pram. Grogu giggled in delight as if this were a dream come true. Then Din wrapped both Grogu and helmet very carefully in his worn cloak—it was basically a rag by now but soft and Din hoped it might be comforting. Soon only Grogu's eyes peered out. Then Din pulled over the canvas bag that now contained all of his possessions. Gently he placed the Grogu/helmet bundle on top of armor, jetpack, boots, clothing, and weaponry. Next he arranged the pauldrons around where he thought Grogu's head might be, just a little more protection.
"Breathing ok?"
"Eh ya."
Then he lifted the bag experimentally. Not bad. The bag seemed to hold—it was scavenged from the safe room and was probably only meant for laundry. True beskar armor was quite light, one of its many miraculous qualities. His boots were the heaviest items, but no way would he leave those behind. It took a lifetime to break those in.
One last thing.
From a pocket he removed a tiny, precious splinter of beskar—a whistling bird. He always tried to recover a few when he could, and the Armorer had created some extras around the time she had made Grogu's rondel. He rolled it between his fingers for a moment, then jabbed it swiftly into the pad of his little finger. When a bright drop of blood appeared, Din rolled the whistling bird in it. Then he put it back in the uniform pocket.
"We're going," he murmured. Grogu made a small clucking sound in response. Then he slung the bag over his shoulder, drew the blaster, and headed towards the transport.
By the time Din reached the square, the sun had reached its apex, baking the dusty ground. Two sentries remained near the ship and they startled at Din's approach, but lowered their weapons when they saw his armor.
"Jonas," said one. "Where's Bestin?"
"Dead," said Din.
"What's all that?"
"The Mandalorian's armor and gear," said Din. Fortunately, the cheap modulators on these helmets helped everyone's voices sound the same. Din's soft, raspy voice sounded nothing like the real Jonas.
"You got it all?" asked the second sentry.
Din adjusted the bag on his shoulder. "They wanted proof of death, didn't they?"
"So he's dead?"
"You think he'd let anyone take all this if he was alive?"
"Probably not," said the second sentry. No one seemed very broken up about Bestin. "What about the weird little green thing?"
"Dead too," said Din calmly.
"Bestin didn't do that fingernail thing again, did he?"
Din shrugged. He hoped Bestin was having a pleasant time out there in the arena. "Where are the others?"
"Overdue," said the first sentry.
"Is there really beskar armor in there?" asked the second. "Lemme look."
Din stepped back. "Not so fast. This is my reward."
"Hey, man. We all get a share of that."
"That's not what I heard," said Din.
"If it weren't for us, you wouldn't have that," said the first sentry.
"Explain that to me," said Din. "I'm the one who killed him and stripped him."
"We're a cohort. We're a team." He put his hand on the holster of his weapon. Din did the same. Nice team, he thought. The sound of blaster fire from about a kilometer away—maybe closer—interrupted this annoying conversion. Din was almost relieved.
Come in, Scout 5 said a voice on the com.
The first sentry lowered his weapon and answered. "Where are you?"
Coming in hot. The freaks are real pissed off this time. They— The voice broken off, replaced by static. More blaster fire, coming closer.
"They won't make it," said Din, counting on a lack of team loyalty. Around them he sensed stealthy movement. "We need to get out of here. Now."
"I think you're right," said the second sentry. "Sarge, we better go."
"No," said Sarge, who was obviously whatever passed as team leader. Din now noticed the officer bars on one pauldron, just below the Merrix logo. "I'm gonna have to do a lot of paperwork to explain three casualties. Miss Varro might even call me in. Jonas, get that bag on the ship and go with Griz to help the others."
"Oh no way," said Griz. "You just want this shit for yourself." Rifle fire hit the side of the ship. Griz yelped and pulled out his own weapon, but the next shot hit him square in the chest. He toppled, unprotected by his pointless armor.
"Don't move." It was the Kaltraxian again, approaching with a weapon pointed directly at Sarge. He seemed to have a limp but otherwise recovered from whatever Grogu had done to him. Was Burg still sleeping it off somewhere? More convicts poked their heads up from surrounding doors and windows, the barrels of weapons glinting. Arming convicts for sport, Din thought. Unbelievable. "You're going to disable that energy field and get me and my crew off this planet. You're surrounded."
"Don't be stupid," said the Sarge. "You think they're gonna let any of us out of this place alive? You think Merrix cares about guards any more than prisoners? They'll shoot us of out of the sky if they even think anyone's escaping." Din had to hand it to him—he was pretty calm. "I'm dead either way. Maybe we can make a deal." He pointed at Din's bag. "The Mandalorian's armor can come in handy."
"Absolutely not," said Din.
More rifle fire came, but from another roof, and aimed not at the guards but at the Kaltraxian. He looked up, startled, tentacles flailing. "Who's that?" he bellowed.
The Wookies were still holding up their end of the bargain. Din stepped on the gangplank. "What are you waiting for?" he yelled. Sarge backed up the gangplank after Din. It closed after them, rifle and blaster fire now pinging harmlessly off its hull. Din looked briefly around—it was a simple but heavily armored small transport, grubby and cluttered. Nothing he couldn't handle. Sarge sat down heavily in the pilot's seat, then paused. "What are you waiting for?"
"I lost four men," said Sarge. "I'm gonna be in huge trouble."
Fine time to start acting professionally. "Soon it will be six if we don't just get out of here. Fewer to share the beskar," Din added, hoping he struck the right note of greed. That seemed to work. The engines roared to life and the ship began to rise. Din looked in vain for a control to disable the energy shield, but then he remembered the trip here. These ships had a shielding of some kind that could break the barrier without deactivating it. Soon he heard the distinct crackle as they passed through and rose above the rooftops and alleys that made up the arena. Mentally he renewed his promises to Kino Loy, and to Fazzakkaar.
The ship headed towards the gray mountain range, about 40 kilometers to the planet's north. Outside the walls of the arena the surface was dry, with occasional tufts of green forming around small oases. Not as bleak as it first seemed, but not easy going either. From time to time Din could spot the remains of a rough road, perhaps once leading from the town to the mines when this was a thriving colony.
"Here's how this is going to go," Din said. He rose from his seat and came to stand behind Sarge. "We'll tell them we found the Mandalorian dead, and the convicts were the ones who killed him and stripped his armor."
"We don't exactly come out of this covered in glory."
"Do you really care about glory?" asked Din, trying and failing to keep contempt out of his voice. "We give them proof, then we hide the gear somewhere secure until we rotate off planet."
"That might not be for a while," muttered Sarge.
"Where's a secure place we can hide this until then?"
"Jonas, everyone knows you're the least trustworthy womp rat in the company. Why should I trust you? Why do you need me?"
"You're an officer. You have access to places and information I don't. Don't trust me? Fine. I don't trust you. Trust mutually assured destruction. If you try anything, I'll turn you in to Varro. The same goes for me."
A pause, then Sarge nodded. "All right. I have an idea. We can put in the Stomper locker under the floor." What the hell was the Stomper locker? "But I want to damn well see that beskar. And what are we gonna give as proof of death?"
In answer, Din reached into the bag and pulled out one pauldron, giving Grogu a small pat while he did so. Instinctively Sarge reached for it. "Nope," said Din. He replaced the pauldron in the bag. Then he pulled the whistling bird coated in blood from his pocket. "There was a lot of blood on it," Din said. The company probably had Din's genetic material on file with his (now terminated) employment agreement.
The dark mountains grew closer and closer, tumbled foothills changing into fierce peaks. Ice glinted in high crevices sheltered from the sun. The ship made a sudden turn into a deeply shadowed gorge, sheer walls on either side. Din could barely make out a small creek winding far below, lost in permanent night. No sunlight could never reach here.
Another bend, and gray metal structures now came into view, jutting out of the cliff. Some looked like the remains of old mining installations, but others looked quite new. All of it had the same stink as the Imperial bases Din had seen on Nevarro, Morak, and Mandalore. Imps did love their caves.
Soon they reached several massive hangars cut into the mountain. They mostly seemed designed for freight, but Sarge aimed for a smaller gate flanked by gunner stations and control towers. They maneuvered inside, the instructions of controllers now audible over the transport's comms.
Inside the hangar, squads of guards swarmed but were far outnumbered by groups of men in white coveralls. Some of them loaded and unloaded machines and crates from a long row of cargo transports. Many others performed maintenance tasks: mopping floors, refueling ships, repairing machinery. Not a droid was to be seen beyond the most basic automated cranes, lifts, and tractors. The Merrix logo hung above near a main control tower, but otherwise this place looked indistinguishable from the other Imperial facilities Din had seen—functional, hard, gray, efficient. Some guards here wore black armor, but many wore the dark, sleek uniforms and pompous caps of Imperial officers.
Din hoped fervently that it would be considered normal for him to leave his armor and helmet on. At least Sarge seemed to be keeping his on.
The bag of armor had been resting in a chair for the flight here. It now squirmed almost imperceptibly. As Sarge landed, Din edged over to the bag and patted it where Grogu was bundled. He didn't think Grogu could hear his thoughts, but he tried to send them to him anyway, tried to project reassurance and courage.
The engines shut off. "Time for the Stompers," said Sarge with a sigh. He pushed a button and a hatch door in the deck retracted. A platform rose out containing a row of massive boots with outrageously thick soles of some soft gray material. Din looked at them, then looked out the viewport at the people outside.
The Merrix guards and officers all wore these boots. The workers in white coveralls, obviously prisoners, were all barefoot.
Sarge removed his black combat boots and exchanged them for the Stompers. After a moment's hesitation Din did the same. "Leave the armor bag here," Sarge said. "We'll have to come back and replace the boots later anyway, after we report in. We'll get the bag then. I'll set the hatch to be unlocked on my code, so maintenance doesn't get in."
"We go back for it together," said Din.
"Sure," said Sarge with a shrug.
Sarge walked to the opening gangplank. Din tucked the bag among the boots. "Listen," he whispered. A rustle in response. "Remember what Kino Loy said. Do not touch the floor in this place. Ever. Coming back for you. Be patient." One more rustle.
"What'd you say?" asked Sarge.
"Nothing," said Din. He pressed the button and the shelf retracted, carrying boots, bag, armor, and Grogu beneath the deck of the transport. The hatch door slid up. Din stood, turned, and followed Sarge down the gangplank and into the heart of the prison.