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As a child, Din had been made to train harder than the other children. He had spent twice as long as the others running drills, sometimes going late into the night after the other children were asleep, and picking up in the early hours before the others woke up. Everyone had demanded perfection out of him. A single mistake meant failure, no matter what, and failure was never accepted. Not for him.
He had appreciated that training more than ever while standing on top of a moving transport loaded with two tons of rhydonium. His skills were rustier than they should have been, yes. But he still remembered, muscle memory drilled into his core long ago. How to fight when the ground beneath you is moving. How to fight when you are unarmed. How to fight without your beskar to protect you. How to fight if you cannot see or hear your enemy.
He’s reached the end of what his training has prepared him for. The extremely ironic realization hits him: he has just used a lifetime of training to successfully deliver a load of fuel to the Empire, and is going to die before he gets what he needs.
How their luck is so bad that Mayfeld’s former commander is between them and the terminal doesn’t matter. How their luck is good enough that they’ve even gotten to this point also doesn’t matter. He needs to get those coordinates. The only options are success or death.
“It’s not going to work, the terminal has to scan your face. That’s how they log access. No scan, no log, no access. Let’s go.”
“Give it to me,” Din says, holding his hand out for the data stick. Mayfeld gives it. They have done everything they can to prepare for this. Just inserting the stick should automatically query for Gideon’s coordinates. It should take less than a minute.
In theory.
There’s no time for Din to explain all the reasons why this is an unfathomably dumb plan. There’s no time to list the infinite ways in which it is not going to work and it’s foolish to even consider it. There’s no time to consider that they are both going to be dead very soon unless a long line of extremely unlikely events somehow, miraculously, go far smoother than they have any right to.
“Where exactly is the terminal?” he demands.
“It’s right --”
He cuts Mayfeld off. They don’t have time. “Describe exactly where,” he hisses.
Whatever Mayfeld is thinking, he doesn’t say it. “In the back corner. Maybe five meters back, three to the left.”
“What’s the clearest path? Through whatever is between the door and the terminal?”
“What? The tables?”
“Describe it.”
“A couple tables in front of the two. Each a meter and a half apart. Straight back...four meters between the tables, three meters to the left. Terminal’s right there. Whatever you’re about to do isn’t going to work.”
He sounds confused. Worried, even. A little resigned to whatever Din is going to do. Neither of them has any chance of getting out alone. They’re stuck with each other until the end of the job, however it ends.
Din walks away.
It feels like stepping into a known ambush, some sort of glaringly obvious setup. They’re out of options and the only thing left is to just stride forward, one step after another, so that’s what Din does. He tries to ignore the sound of his own breathing, foreign in the ill-fitting helmet, and instead focus on the sounds around him. Quiet conversation. Further behind him, power tools whining in the maintenance bay. On the right, a beverage dispenser filling a glass. A chair scraping on the concrete floor.
He reaches the terminal by bumping into it. If anyone notices, it doesn’t matter. If anyone notices anything at this point, it’s over. He fumbles the data stick into the slot. The Imperial gloves are poorly designed and awkward, too thick on his fingers, broken in by a different set of hands.
The terminal beeps and throws bright light into his face.
Error. Error. Facial scan incomplete . Ten seconds to system shutdown . The machine begins a countdown. There is no time to wonder what happens if the system does shut down.
He pulls the helmet off and stares down the light from the terminal. It eclipses everything around him.
Facial scan complete .
He doesn’t allow himself to consider the ramifications of that, either. He just waits, holding his breath. His heartbeat is thumping in his ears. Is there a button he needs to press? He can’t remember. This wasn’t supposed to be his part of the job.
“Trooper!”
A pause. “Hey, trooper!”
The terminal beeps. It’s done. He grabs the stick and shoves it into his pocket, and a presence materializes beside him, draping a heavy arm around his shoulder. Din swallows his instinct to take a swing.
“Got that uploaded, captain? Sorry, sir. You’ll have to speak up a little. The captain’s had some trouble with his hearing ever since his vessel lost pressure at Tanaab.”
Mayfeld has rediscovered his confidence. Din has no idea whether it’s in time, whether it’s going to be enough to get them out.
“What’s your designation?” the officer asks. His voice is one that’s used to being obeyed.
“Imperial Combat Assault Transport Lieutenant TK-111, sir. This is my commanding officer TK-593. We all just call him Brown Eyes.”
There’s a pause and uncertainty weighs heavy in the air. “You’re the troopers that just delivered that shipment of rhydonium?”
“Yes sir.”
Din echoes, “Yes sir,” but he’s a little too slow with it. He hopes that he is looking enough at the officer’s face to avoid suspicion.
Which is absurd. If the officer suspects anything, it is that they are imposters, which is correct. Any finer details or other oddities are irrelevant.
“Well, you two managed to be the only transport today to deliver their shipment. Come with me.”
“I think I better get the captain to medical, sir,” Mayfeld says. “He got his bell rung pretty bad out there. Always tries to work through the pain.”
“Let’s have a drink. To your success,” the officer says.
Din can hear the carnivorous smile in the officer’s voice and realizes that this is the sort of man who will enjoy it if he kills them. He is suspicious, but has no cause to act yet. And as soon as Din or Mayfeld slip up, this man will relish in doing what he is supposed to.
They sit at a table. By Dins’ reckoning it’s in the middle of the room, just to the right of the door, easily visible from beyond the room. That could be an advantage. It could be a disadvantage. Mayfeld sits with his back to the door, which is not ideal. Glasses are poured. Whatever they are toasting with reeks of alcohol. Din can’t quite tell how much of it is coming from the bottle and how much from the officer himself.
“So. What shall we toast to, boys? I can blather on about to health or to success, but I’d like to do something a little less rote,” the officer says. “Where are you from, Brown Eyes?”
His brain has deleted every single location he has ever known. He is from somewhere. He is sure of it.
“How ‘bout a toast to Operation Cinder?” Mayfeld says.
There’s something in his voice and it’s not desperation. It doesn’t feel like raw anger, either.
“Now there’s a man who knows his history.”
“No. I don’t just know it. I lived it. I was in Burnin Konn.”
“Burnin Konn? That was a hard day. I had to make many unpleasant decisions.”
There is no empathy in the officer’s voice, nor regret. It’s as unemotional as a weather report.
“Yeah, you did. Entire city, gone in moments, along with everybody in it. We lost our whole division that day. Man, that was like five, ten thousand people.”
Din has no idea where Burnin Konn is or was, but it’s clearly a good topic for distraction. Mayfled himself sounds occupied with the topic. Din tries to think of a way to wrap this up and get out but his brain will not produce anything useful. There is a low, constant buzzing from the overhead lights. The flow of air is discomforting on his face. He cannot focus enough on the conversation.
“All heroes of the Empire,” the officer says.
“Yeah. And all dead.”
“Well, it’s a small sacrifice for the greater good, son.
“Depends on who you ask, don’t you think?”
The officer shifts his weight. He’s not used to having his talking points questioned. “What’re you gettin’ at, trooper?”
There’s more in Mayfeld’s voice now. Anger. Regret. Maybe more. “All those people, the ones who died. Was it good for them? Their families? The guys I served with? Civilians, those poor mud-scuffers, died defending their homes. Fighting for freedom. Was it good for them?”
Din is sitting, exposed for the galaxy to see, over drinks with an Imperial officer and Migs Mayfeld, who is defending the cause of the civilians whom the Empire, his Empire, slaughtered. It is, by far, a more absurd situation than Din could have ever possibly conceived of.
They are going to die here. He is absolutely certain of it.
“But we’ve outlasted them, son. They’re eatin’ themselves alive . The New Republic is in complete disarray, and we grow stronger.” He leans in, wafting the smell of cheap alcohol across the table. “You see, with the rhydonium you’ve delivered, we can create havoc that’s gonna make Burnin Konn just pale by comparison. And then they’re gonna turn to us once again.
“You see, boys, everybody thinks they want freedom, but what they really want is order. And when they realize that, they’re going to welcome us back with open arms.”
He raises his glass, invigorated by his own speech, empowered by the thought of the bloodshed to come. “To the Empire.”
There is a long quiet and Din can hear Mayfeld’s breathing, heavier and darker. He hears the officer gulp and swallow, toasting to his own conquest of freedom. He pictures the man’s throat, taut under his collar, larynx bobbling as he drank.
He doesn’t expect the shot.
It happens without warning, and Din remains frozen, The officer topples from his chair. Dead. There’s three more quick shots, all coming from Mayfeld. Later, Din will tell himself that part of his response is he has never heard a blaster fire without the insulation of his helmet, not since he was a small child. But there is fear, too. He has been able to fake it all day and pretend he understands what is happening, but that has run out. Mayfeld shot the officer and Din doesn’t know if it was in response to a threat or for some other unknown reason.
Finally he unsticks himself, somehow stands and pulls his own blaster as if he’s going to do anything useful with it. Center of mass , he reminds himself, one of the most basic lessons of marksmanship. If you are not sure of your shot, aim for center of mass. At close range, aim for center of mass. You will likely hit them, and it may be something vital.
“You did what you had to do. I never saw your face,” Mayfeld said.
That too feels like a total non-sequitur. Maybe he did get hit harder than he realizes. Everything feels slow and detached, like there’s some sort of time delay between his brain and his body. He’s scared in a way he hasn’t ever been before, not as an adult. His mouth tastes metallic and dry.
Something bumps his chest. Mayfeld is holding something. The helmet? It’s the helmet.
“I can’t see,” Din blurts out. “Without my helmet.”
In retrospect, long after they get out, he will almost regret that he wasn’t able to see whatever Mayfeld’s face did after that confession.
“What?” Mayfeld demands. Then he moves on. “You can still pull the damn trigger, right?”
Yes. He can do that. Spray-and-pray combat. It’s messy and ineffective, but really, all you need is a gun and a very general idea of where the enemy is, and he has that. Point the weapon in that direction and pull the trigger, repeat as needed. There is no reason he can’t do that.
Their positioning works to their advantage. The light is behind them, which isn’t good for him, but he doesn’t need that. The entry to the commons is a good bottleneck point, and he knows where that is. He points his blaster and pulls the trigger, and lets Mayfeld do any precision work. They kick out the window, and Mayfeld grabs his arm hard as they squirm out onto the ledge.
“Are you kidding me? You really can’t see?”
Din wonders how great the drop is or if it was something else that Mayfeld pulled him back from. “Light and shapes only. Not well.” The reality is more nuanced than that, but this is not the time nor place for an in depth explanation of how his damaged optic nerves work.
Mayfeld swore, colorfully, and fired off a volley in through the window. “To your right. Don’t fall.”
Din moves to the right and keeps his body hugged against the wall. Someone tries to grab him from inside the window; he stomps and hears bones crunch. He brushes up against a support pillar.
“Climb! Fast,” Mayfeld orders, and Din does. It’s easy enough to find handholds. He can hear the low thump of sniper fire but nothing comes close to him: Cara and Fennec have sighted them. He finds the roof when he runs out of handholds and grabs empty air, tumbles ungracefully onto the roof, and hears Mayfeld clamber up a second behind him.
Whatever Mayfeld says is swallowed up by the roar of an engine. Not TIE fighters, which is good, but it’s too loud for him to tell where it’s coming from. The sound echoes up off the roof surface. He has no idea which way to go.
“Gonna have to jump!” Mayfeld shouts at him, and without waiting, grabs Din’s arm and runs. Din follows, matching his steps, Mayfeld shouts out when the ledge is, but Din doesn’t quite get his foot planted where he needs it. He throws himself forward as hard as he can, reaches out and grabs only empty air.
He’s falling.
His hand slams into something hard and he grabs, slamming his fingers closed as hard as he possibly can, but he is dangling by one hand. He thinks the data stick is in my pocket and how stupid it is that his unfathomable luck would run out only now, rendering it all moot.
Before he can consider trying to throw the data stick on board, someone grabs him. Two hands wrapped around his forearm, and pull. He pulls with them, gets his other hand on the lip of the ramp, hauls himself up, stumbles over Mayfeld’s legs and ends in a heap on the deck.
“We’re in, let’s go!” Mayfeld yells up to the cockpit.
The ship is shuddering with acceleration even as the ramp raises, and for a few very long seconds Din stays on his hands and knees on the deck. The vibrations rumble through his joints like a rebirth.
He is alive.
He has the coordinates.
He is alive .
He breathes, a rapid panting yielding to a slower, more measured pattern. In and out. In and out. In, and out.
There is a shot behind him, and then an unmistakable explosion. They’re already far enough that there’s about a second before the shockwave hits, but when it does, Din knows the refinery is gone. That much rhydonium in one spot is an absurd risk: if one tank blows, the entire plant will simply cease to exist.
“We’ve got company, hang on,” Fett said from the cockpit.
“You should strap in,” Mayfeld says.
Din tries to get his feet as the ship pitches. Mayfeld is the closest thing, and he yanks Din up and shoves him into a seat. Din straps himself in.
“Is this new?” Mayfeld asks. The ramp closes. The noise dies down.
Din understands, and figures Mayfeld deserves an answer after all of that. “I was injured as a child. I have a neural implant that interfaces with my helmet.”
Mayfeld swears. Din doesn’t recognize the language, but the meaning is clear. “No one know, do they?”
“No.” Maybe a handful of people. Probably fewer and very possibly none. Maybe, now, just Mayfeld, and he will do what he wants with that knowledge.
Which turns out to be nothing. As soon as Fett takes care of the TIE fighters, Mayfeld drops something at Din’s feet. It’s the sack with his armor in it. Din ducks into the tiny cabin and strips off the useless Imperial armor, and nearly collapses in relief as he reassembles himself; he needs to sit down on the bunk for a moment as the rightness washes over him. He runs a diagnostic more from habit than suspicion anything is wrong. Everything is in perfect working order, exactly as he left it.
When they meet up with Cara and Fennec, Din fully expects Mayfeld to say something. Whether it’s about his armor or his vision or whatever else, he doesn’t know, but he’s sure that they’re not wrapping things up without some sort of barbs.
Instead, Mayfeld just sort of shrugs. “Looks like it’s back to the scrap heap,” he says.
“Thank you for helping,” Din says. He genuinely means it.
“Yeah. Good luck gettin’ the kid back.” Clearly, Mayfeld still thinks they’re all mad, but instead of any cracks, he just extends his arms towards Cara, wrists together. “All right, officer. Take me back.”
Cara glances at Din, then back at Mayfeld. She’s planning something. Din suspects he knows what.
“That was some nice shooting back there,” she says.
“You saw that? Yeah, that, that wasn’t part of the plan. I was just getting some stuff off my chest.”
Cara turns to Din again. “You know, it’s too bad Mayfeld didn’t make it out alive back there.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
Mayfeld frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“Looks to me like prisoner number three-four-six-six-seven died in the refinery explosion on Morak.”
Mayfeld looks back and forth between them. “Does that mean I can go? Because I will.” He takes a trial step backwards, away from them. Cara just watches, smiling a little. Mayfeld hesitates, giving her one last chance, maybe weighing the odds that she takes a potshot at him. He decides he likes it, laughs a little, and takes off.
Din watches him retreat into the brush. He is not sad to see him go, that he is certain of. But. He’s not as glad as he’d expected he’d be, either.
“You get the coordinates on Moff Gideon?” Cara asks.
Somehow, incredibly, amazing, “We did.”
“What’s our next move?”
He’s still not sure. They’ll need to talk it out. If he’s honest, there was probably enough doubt that none of them really considered the details of moving past this. But they have the coordinates now, and with that alone, he can see a way forward.