War Child--Rogue One

XVIII

One day, a troop of stormtroopers come around with a datapad and open certain doors to cuff and drag along various prisoners.  I'm one of them.

I have a hunch that they'll come for me, so I stand with my back to the door and my hands behind me, so they'll have less of a reason to rough me around.  Still, he finds a reason to push me around a bit before linking me to the other prisoners by a chair hooked to a sturdy loop on the prison uniform in the front.  The next person added to the line is hooked in the back.

We march this way for many twists and turns until we get back to the hangar I arrived in.

I count us silently and memorize everyone's faces as we wait for what may be hours.  There are thirty of us, six female, eight humans, and nobody I recognize.  A stormtrooper strolls up and down the line on each side, occasionally giving kicks to get someone back in line.

Finally, whatever ship they were waiting for lands and we have to wait again for them to unload the new prisoners, search the ship and clear it, and then, one at a time, unhook us, search us, and pull us roughly onboard.

I meet eyes with one of the human girls my age and try to give her a reassuring smile, but my muscles don't remember how to.  Never mind that.  It's not like I'm very reassured either.  I believe there's a saying about how nobody reassures the reassurer, and that seems to apply right now.

The girl drops her eyes and watches the bolts beneath our feet.

A few stormtroopers march in and take various positions throughout the area before the door is closed and sealed.  Before we lift off, a stormtrooper walks down the center, reading off names.

The girl across from me is Linami Marlantes.  She scowls at the stormtrooper when he says her name.  I feel like doing the same, but after the slap she received, I'm not too keen on it.

The stormtrooper finishes the role call with a surprisingly quiet Wookiee named Hewwin and takes his seat, speaking into the comlink in his helmet to tell the pilot that we are good to go.  The ship starts with a lurch and we are off.

Closest to the roll-calling stormtrooper is a red-headed man with a full beard and tired eyes.  He leans his head back against the wall and looks at the ceiling for a while.  "Since we're leaving," he says to the ceiling, "you may as well tell us where we were."

The stormtrooper cuffs him, rocking his head to his shoulder roughly.  The man winces.

"Come on, it's not like we can tell anyone but fellow prisoners anyway."

"Quiet."

Linami speaks up.  "He's right.  We should know.  Imperial citizens have rights."

"Imperial traitors do not," another stormtrooper says.

"I'm no traitor," says a Twi'lek.  "You can tell me."

"The next prisoner to speak will get a bolt in the head," the role-calling stormtrooper threatens.

Nobody speaks the rest of the ride.  The red-headed man keeps trying to engage people in silent plans, but everyone ignores him.  Most of us are too beaten down to rebel.  The others of us are smarter than that.

We land, hard, as if the pilot has no clue what he's doing in the cockpit of a starship, and all of us jerk.  Some of the older prisoners jolt awake, rubbing their heads and eyes and aching back.  My own back is stiff, and I try to twist to pop it, but my hands are behind my back, so it doesn't really work.  I stretch my neck instead.

It's a long time before they take us off the ship.  They line us up first, clipping us back together, keeping men and women separate this time.

I glance at Linami while we wait.  It just so happens to be that she is looking at me too in that moment.  I know that we are both wondering the same thing: are we facing death now?

I look around to make sure nobody's watching, then mouth, "May the Force be with you."

She exhales sharply, a wry laugh, and shakes her head.  No, it can't help us.

I know that.  I just thought it could reassure her.  I again find myself wondering who reassures the, in this case attempted, reassurer.

When the door finally opens, I see a vast expanse of dust.  Everything is dust.

The buildings are coated in it, the stormtroopers are too, huge tanks for transporting prisoners as well, even the prisoners themselves, dragging tools behind them.  It's a work camp.

Women go right, men go left.

One at a time, we're given an armband and have the schedule inked onto our arms.  Apparently, the ink will come off in about six weeks, when our existing layer of skin is replaced by new cells.  By then, we are expected to have it memorized.

From there, I'm pulled roughly down the hall to cell 1473. The stormtrooper fiddled with my shackles and frees my hands.  Before I can enjoy the feeling, he shoves me into the cell and closes it.  It clicks once.

There doesn't seem to a lock on it, so I put both hands on the door and try to shake it open.  It doesn't budge.

Apparently, the clock was it locking.  Maybe I'm here indefinitely.  Maybe they'll never let me go.  Maybe they'll starve me in here as torture and execution.

I sit down on the sagging cot and try to control the panic attack.

My wrists are chafed raw and burn in the thick air.  I pull the sleeves of my jumpsuit over them to try to protect them.

I glance around the cell.  In one corner is a pot, a downgrade from the toilet in the last cell, and in another, a stack of clothes and one blanket.

It's getting dark, so I grab the blanket and curl up on the cot.  We'll see how this all goes in the morning.