Star Wars: Rebel Rising(40)
Jyn was alone.
IMPERIAL DETENTION CENTER & LABOR CAMP LEG-817
LOCATION: Wobani
PRISONER: Liana Hallik, #6295A
CRIMES: Forgery of Imperial Documents, Resisting Arrest, Possession of an Unsanctioned Weapon, Aggravated Assault
Eat a ration cube.
Collapse into bed.
Wake to the alarm.
Eat a ration cube.
Rush to dress and stand by the door.
Accept the heavy cuffs.
Trudge to work assignments.
Board a turbo tank.
Rattle over the planet’s rocky landscape to the work assignment.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Work.
Eat a ration cube.
Work.
Rattle back over the planet’s rocky landscape to the prison cells.
Eat a ration cube.
Collapse into bed.
The days drifted one into another, the only difference being what the day’s labor assignment was and, occasionally, new faces in the crowds. Some she recognized. Working with Saw meant that she had been exposed to various partisan groups throughout the galaxy, and it wasn’t that surprising that anyone with rebellious intentions wound up there.
Jyn never tried to reach out to any of the people she recognized. There was little point. She saw them in passing, maybe shared a day’s labor with them. But the Empire’s system of varying whom people worked with ensured that no attachments could be made or exploited. Jyn spent whole days without saying a single word. Zorahda had begun withdrawing into herself and didn’t respond on the few days when Jyn tried to make conversation.
“Another day,” she said as she and her cellmate stood by their prison door, waiting for cuffs.
Zorahda grunted at her.
At work assignment, Zorahda was sent to the farms and Jyn was sent to transport loading. It was monotonous, but it was by far not the worst possible position at the camp. Droids oversaw the main shipping placement, and Jyn and the others in her group operated the repulsorlifts that shifted the crates of ore into position. The Empire could have had droids do the entire operation, which just added to the insult of making prisoners complete the tasks.
A door opened near the hangar as Jyn moved the latest crate from the mines into position on the loading line. She caught a glimpse of the warden and looked quickly away. Her eyes met another prisoner’s, and she shared a momentary look of worry with the Rodian. Wherever the warden was, nothing good could happen.
“As you can see,” the warden said, his voice carrying across the floor, “we have an excellent production cycle.”
Jyn dared a glance up as she lifted her crate. A man in an Imperial admiral’s uniform surveyed the transport loading line, looking down his long nose. He had dark skin, shaved hair, and eyes that were more black than brown. He was clearly an Imperial soldier down to his bones, but he wasn’t the man who had killed her mother, so Jyn ignored him.
The warden and his Imperial guest walked along the perimeter of the catwalk, then down the stairs and onto the floor. The admiral didn’t seem to be very keen on being among the prisoners and dust, but the warden was overwhelmed with pride. He prattled about production rates and the low cost of the labor. He’s nervous, Jyn realized. This Imperial officer made the warden nervous.
“It is not as efficient as it could be,” the admiral said, cutting through the warden’s ceaseless talk.
The warden’s river of words dried up. “We have, of course, experimented with longer work hours. We’ve found that fifteen standard hours of labor a day gives the ideal combination of efficient, mistake-free labor and little chance for any seditiousness to grow.”
The admiral put up a hand. “Droids can work longer than fifteen hours a day. And they need less…maintenance.” The admiral’s eyes drifted to a man who was missing an arm, struggling to operate both the directional and repulsor controls at the same time.
“Any worker who falls behind production for more than three marks is sent to top level,” the warden said immediately.
The admiral made a sound of mild approval, and the warden’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Jyn kept her head down. The top level was whispered about throughout the cells. A few weeks before, Jyn had witnessed the youngest member of the Ociock family a few cells down from hers being taken away. She hadn’t known what the top level was, but when the stormtroopers reached for the little girl, who was sobbing so hard that her tears and snot smeared on the downy feathers of her face, the other Ociocks on her level had screeched a blood-curdling cry of sorrow and alarm, their beaks open wide and pointing straight up. They flew at the stormtroopers, clawing at their armor uselessly with long taloned fingers. Jyn had been pushed into the fray in the chaotic hallway, and she tried to help, tried to give the little girl one last hug from her mother.
She’d been given an extra charge of aggravated assault and a mark for top level for her trouble. She’d gotten another mark for her improvised knife, but the stormtroopers hadn’t bothered informing her of it as they’d beaten her.
Jyn never saw the Ociock girl again. Her family’s talons had been clipped off, cut to the quick, and then they had been sent back to work in the mines.
“And yet,” the admiral said, strolling past Jyn’s line, “I feel like more could be done within those fifteen hours of labor.”