War Child--Rogue One

XIX

After a long night of tossing and turning, a loud wailing sound fills the camp.  I can hear the sounds of other people getting up, so I do, too.

In the pile of clothes are pants, a shirt, some undergarments, and three cloths.  The cloths are about thirty centimeters on each side.  I don't know what to do with them, but I stuff them in my pocket nonetheless.

The doors buzz a moment before opening with a click.  I step out cautiously and am almost bowled over by a Mon Calamari man.  He scowls and shoves me into the wall.

I right myself and follow the stream of men of all species and races down the hall.  We come to a huge mess hall, where stormtroopers funnel us into three lines for a meager serving of grey slop.

There are about eight dozen tables around the room. I walk over to one and sit down.

I really hope that I didn't just take someone's seat.  These people look violent.  That's why they're in prison.  That, and they don't like the Empire.  So maybe an enemy of an enemy is my friend.

I don't think it actually works that way, but one can only wish.

A human man sits down across from me, slamming his tray down with a clatter.  I look up.  He picks up his spoon and plays with the gruel, dropping it back in and cursing when the spoon is submerged.

The man looks at me.  "Sorry.  Those words shouldn't be heard by such young ears."

I snort.  "I've heard and said worse."  It seems like the right thing to say.

He roars with laughter.  "Good one, kid.  What 'you in here for?"

"Hiding a fugitive."

"I took down a whole squadron."

"By yourself?" I ask in disbelief.

"No," another man says, putting down his own tray.  "He had help.  A lot of it.  There were eighty of us.  There's three left.  Him.  Me.  My wife."

"I'm sorry," I say, remembering everyone I've lost, which totals around probably six or seven (depending on if I'm counting Tenielle), not quite the seventh-three he lost.

He lifts and drops his shoulder as he takes a bite of his slop and grimaces.  "All in the name of the rebellion.  Say, kid, how long ago did you get captured?"

"I don't know, maybe eight months or so."

"So no word on the Rebellion?"

"Well, my own rebellion, yeah."

"No, the Rebellion."

I blink and shake my head.  "Sorry, I don't get what you mean."

"There's an organized rebellion now.  Some say it's led by Bail Organa, others by Mon Mothma or Admiral Akbar.  They have a fleet and plans and everything."  He shoves another bite in his mouth, forcing it down before continuing, "If I ever get out of here, in running straight to Yavin IV."

"Is that where they are?"  I lean forward.

"That's what I've heard, kid.  But keep it on the down-low.  You don't want to tip them off to the Empire."

"Yeah, no, of course not."

"You may want to eat your food, kid.  There ain't much out there in the dust.  Not until lunch just after noon."

I nod, take a bite, and force it down.  "I'm no kid."

He looks up at me.  "Of course you are.  You're younger than most of us, aren't you?"

"Yes.  But I've seen more things than any old man should see in his life.  I've long outgrown 'kid'."

He tilts his head.  "Well, kid, what do you want me to call you?"

"My name's Cassian.  Cassian Andor."

He extends a hand.  "Gaspard Dimitri."

I shake it, and turn to the first man, who's been staring at his food.

He glances up, ignoring my hand.  "Erwan Gaël."

A bell rings, signaling that breakfast is over.  I glance at the schedule on my wrist.  I need to go to gate 74B.

I ask Erwan and Gaspard where it is, and it just so happens that Gaspard is assigned to that very gate.  He walks with me, pointing out various landmarks.

"That's the women's block, there's the infirmary, all along this wall are the gates, each with a tunnel that lets out further along the plain, so nobody really knows how close or far away they are.  They like to keep us in the dark about it all."

"What planet are we on?"

Gaspard shrugs.  "We're in the dark about that too."

"Talk about high security."

"Yeah.  Look up."

I follow his gaze to a shimmering sky.  Unless I'm mistaken, skies do not usually shimmer.

"What is it?"

"A forcefield of some sort.  Probably magnetic.  It's created by those towers there, so there's nothing out in the desert where we work."  He dodges a swinging tool.  "It's smart, really.  There's only about five percent of the prison's population out there at a time.  No huge prison breaks.  They're virtually impossible.  Unless," he drops his voice, "the Rebellion were to send someone with plans to get us out of here."

I scoff.  "Who in here would they want to break out?"

"Revolutionaries like you and I.  Rebels."

I shake my head and follow him onto a huge tank, where he locates a tool for me and tosses it over.  I sit next to him and eye a stormtrooper nearby.

"Aren't they afraid someone will try to break out?" I whisper.  "I mean, there's more of us, even if we do just have shovels."

"They have guns.  And this can only be opened from the outside, so if we did manage to kill them inside of a sealed chamber where the bolts from their blasters bounced around until they hit someone, we'd definitely starve to death and then they'd just pull out our bodies and put them on display as a warning not to mess with them."  He says it so nonchalantly, as though he were describing the inner workings of some sort of simple machine, not the strategy for stomping out a prison rebellion.

The door is sealed and the tank jerks to life.  I hit my head against the wall and hiss involuntarily.

Gaspard laughs. "You'll get used to that."