WANTEN LEFT THE CELL, pleased. It had taken him too long, but he had at least found the road to breaking the boy. Mattis Banz. The name meant nothing to Wanten, who in any case paid little attention to the details in the briefings he received from the First Order. He was, after all, merely a glorified caretaker for a crude detention facility on a fetid planet in the middle of nowhere.

Wanten’s contemporaries, what few remained of them, were now officers in the First Order. But not Wanten. No, Wanten, for the greater part of his lifetime, skated from do-nothing position to do-less-than-nothing position, never given any real responsibility. He’d made one mistake, early in his career, when he was a stormtrooper for the Empire. He hadn’t even been free of his teenaged years when it happened! And still, all this time later, he was being punished for it. They told him he was irresponsible. That he had no ambition. That he didn’t try.

They were wrong. In those days, in his youth, he’d really tried hard. But the galaxy conspired against him, over and over. His eyesight was poor, so he was placed in an inferior squadron of shiftless stormtroopers. His helmet never fit correctly, and due to his Corellian nose, it was difficult to wear. His better eye was obstructed by the lenses, making him clumsy in the armor.

They sent him to Tatooine. It was hot. Wanten hated the heat. He hated breathing in his own smells in that sweaty helmet. And there was sand. So much sand. His armor wasn’t vacuum-sealed or anything, and even now Wanten could easily conjure the grinding of grit and silt in its joints. It was a constant distraction. So could he really be blamed for not being quite as attentive as perhaps he ought to have been? Nothing interesting ever happened on Tatooine anyway.

Still, he’d been punished for things that weren’t really his fault. He’d been left to make sand castles on Tatooine while he watched as his friends and peers were promoted. He missed all the good battles—Endor, Jakku. Granted, he’d probably have been killed had he been there, but that kind of action was, Wanten often thought, preferable to running border checks on a planet no one cared to visit.

His time on that desert planet had given Wanten a lifetime antipathy for Hutts. Tatooine’s crime lord ran the smuggling of weapons and spices, levied a water tax during drought, and coordinated the buying and selling of slaves, among other illegitimate businesses. There was an uneasy alliance between Jabba the Hutt’s coterie and the occupying Empire forces. The Hutt was really in control of Tatooine. The Empire maintained a presence there only as a show of power. Or maybe they were on a mission? It had been such a long time ago on a planet so far away that Wanten couldn’t remember.

One of the rare tiny pleasures Wanten took from his assignment on Vodran—a duty he’d been given, he knew, because there were no expectations of success, as well as little to bungle—was that it had, upon his arrival, been a Hutt stronghold. Harra the Hutt, another disgusting personage like all of her kind, had built a palace upon the driest land she could find (which was still too swampy), consolidated the holdings of her predecessor by banishing or enslaving the natives of Vodran, and amassed a menagerie from all corners of the galaxy. It had made Wanten smile to order his troops to kill or expel everyone at Harra the Hutt’s palace and to claim the throne room as his quarters. He still liked to look out of the high window to see the odd animal from her collection attempt to return “home.” But there was no home for those creatures. They’d been set loose to live or die in the Vodran swamps, as there was no place there for Hutts any longer. Harra had escaped with her life. The First Order called it a failure of Wanten’s leadership, but Wanten cared little. The Hutt was gone, and the palace was his. What hadn’t fled or been killed—mostly service droids—was shuttled to a nearby moon with anything else Wanten or the First Order found useless.

After that, the drudgery began. Construction was not interesting to Wanten. It was mostly math. Wanten was bored by math. The First Order had contractors who made those plans. Wanten’s responsibilities, which weren’t many, were mainly to keep the younger recruits on task, to keep the perimeter fence erect so that animals didn’t overtake the place, and to send weekly reports to the First Order. Those reports became so tedious, however, that Wanten’s superiors at first began rescheduling their holo-calls and then canceled them altogether. All of which suited Wanten. He was prepared to live out the remainder of his days—which he suspected would also not be many—moist, warm, annoyed, and bored on this squishy planet. And then arrived Mattis Banz and his friends.

It was as if Monagha Schnelle, the fabled gift-giving red she-wolf from the holiday stories Wanten had heard as a youth, had arrived upon Vodran. These were children, yes, but they were also members of the Resistance and therefore might be valuable to Wanten’s superiors. He must be careful not to present his prize to the First Order too soon, or they might claim it from under his nose and deny Wanten the credit he deserved. No, Wanten would press the children for information. He would squeeze them until their vital juices yielded something he could offer to his superiors, and then he would withhold even that! Yes, this was a wonderful plan. He’d make his own bosses bring him to the supreme leaders themselves! They would certainly promote him to a righteous place in the First Order then.

Wanten was still smiling as he made his way through the barracks, across the sodden Fold, and into the main throne room, where the Jerjerrod boy awaited him. The boy stiffened when Wanten entered. Of course the boy would be nervous. His arrival at Wanten’s compound was degrading. The Jerjerrods were among the First Order’s elite. That their progeny would be so coarsely escorted by lowly stormtroopers was an embarrassment. This boy couldn’t know that Wanten respected those old Empire families, those dynasties that had not wavered in their devotion to a better galaxy through any means necessary, from the monarchy that rose from the Old Republic to this new First Order. It would be Wanten’s job to put the boy at ease. Then Jo Jerjerrod would tell Wanten all he needed to know.

“Is Mattis okay?” Jo asked, once Wanten was seated on what used to be Harra the Hutt’s throne. Wanten had ordered the stormtroopers who arrived with him months before to make alterations so that a non-Hutt might be comfortable upon it. They hadn’t done an outstanding job; these First Order stormtroopers didn’t hold a candle to the troops in Wanten’s day, as far as he was concerned, but the addition of some cushions and blocks of wood to approximate something more chair-like was sufficient.

“Is it possible that this boy is your friend?” Wanten asked. The way he said friend made it sound like profanity. “What would your parents say? I’m pretty sure they don’t have friends. People in the Empire”—Wanten corrected himself—“in the First Order don’t have friends.”

“He was in my squadron, sir.”

Wanten nodded. Whether or not Mattis was Jo’s friend made little difference to him. Both Jo and those with whom he’d arrived were a means to an end. Wanten scanned the room and took in the two stormtroopers who flanked him wherever he went. He assumed they weren’t interested in his conversation with his captive.

“He wasn’t helpful to me, if you were wondering,” Wanten said playfully.

“He wouldn’t be,” Jo replied. “He’s too well trained to tell you anything right away.”

Wanten nodded for Jo to continue.

“Mattis, Lorica, and Aygee-Ninety may be new recruits, but the Resistance isn’t so ineffectual that they wouldn’t train their people for this contingency. They’ll keep quiet for a while, sir. They’ll try to figure out a way to escape or to contact the Resistance for rescue.”

“Luckily,” Wanten said, “I have you.”

Jo shook his head and looked disappointed. “I can’t help you,” he said.

“What can you possibly mean?”

“Mattis and the others? They know more than I do.”

“You were in their squadron, weren’t you? You say you were.” Wanten narrowed his eyes.

“I was,” Jo said. “But they didn’t trust me. None of them did, not even the Resistance commanders. So, I know some things—rules of conduct, a few names—but they know more.”

“And they won’t tell me anything today,” Wanten confirmed.

Jo nodded. “Nor tomorrow, sir.”

“Do you recommend a course of action, Mr. Jerjerrod, to circumvent the Resistance’s training?” Wanten asked. He really was curious. Jo came from an Imperial dynasty. Would he possess the same cunning, strategic mind as his parents and grandparents?

Jo said, “Put them in a cell together. All three of them. They’re not good soldiers; though they know some of the protocols, they’re undisciplined. They’ll talk amongst themselves, as long as they’re relatively unguarded.”

“Are you suggesting I leave my prisoners unregulated?”

“No, sir. Just…have your guards maintain some distance. Allow Mattis and Lorica and Aygee to feel comfortable enough to talk. Maybe…How big are your cells? I mean, how many can they hold?”

“Some hold four prisoners.”

“You could place a fourth in with them. Someone they’ll feel relaxed enough to be candid in front of but who will, out of self-preservation, report back to you.”

Wanten nodded. It was a good plan. But Wanten wasn’t stupid, and he didn’t completely trust this boy.

“I will place them in a cell together,” Wanten told Jo. The boy seemed pleased. That wouldn’t last another moment, if Wanten had his way. These people had to be reminded who their commander was. “Just the two,” Wanten added. “Eliminate the droid.”

“Eliminate?” The boy sounded shocked.

“Like the rest of the service droids and dregs that Harra the Hutt left behind, this machine, which was for some reason allowed into the Resistance, will be jettisoned from this mud planet,” Wanten said in a voice that dared Jo to question him.

Jo did. “With all due respect, sir,” he said, “Aygee-Ninety was allowed in the Resistance as a recruit, not just a service droid. It’s possible there was a reason for that.”

Wanten rolled his eyes. “It’s possible,” he said. “But I don’t care. I don’t care for droids, especially droids who act above their station. Your droid seems that type.”

“He isn’t my droid, sir,” Jo sniffed. “In fact, his owner is far from here, having fled the planet without a look back. His owner was a quality mechanic.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Jerjerrod?” Wanten was impatient with the boy.

“There might be value in the droid, sir. I don’t mean to be impertinent or question your decision.”

“And yet, you’ve done both.”

Jo tried again. “Let it be my pet project,” he said. “Allow me to reprogram Aygee-Ninety. Perhaps I can make a First Order soldier of him. If I can devise a quick and efficient way to do that, wouldn’t the First Order want to reward my commander for allowing me the opportunity?”

Wanten laughed without smiling. “You’re not as cunning as you think you are, young man. You’ve spent some time with this droid and wish to continue to do so. But, yes, your notion intrigues me. Reprogram the droid. Make him one of ours. Maybe he’ll be the spy in that cell!”

“Programming the levels required for deception is beyond me, I’m afraid. Mattis and Lorica would know right away.”

Wanten deflated. “I suppose if I can’t be tricky, I can at least be cruel. It would be funny to make the reprogrammed droid their guard, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. It would.”

“Good, then! I’ve made a wonderful plan.” Wanten clapped his hands together. The smacking sound was loud in the echoing throne room, empty but for the few stormtroopers, Jo, and Wanten. “You there.” Wanten motioned to one of the stormtroopers. “Take Mr. Jerjerrod and collect that droid, then take them both to the Garage.”

“Yes, sir,” the stormtrooper agreed, and started out.

Before Jo could exit the room, however, Wanten stopped him. “Mr. Jerjerrod,” he said. Jo turned back. “You’ll have supper with me tonight, I hope? It’d be a treat to hear some of those insignificant details about the Resistance with which you are acquainted.”

Jo nodded dutifully. “Yes, sir. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Very good,” Wanten said. “Your hard work spying for the First Order will finally come to fruition, boy. And we’ll both be thanked for it.”

Jo turned on his heel and left. Wanten looked around the throne room. Unable to find anything else with which to occupy his time, the detention center commander clasped his fleshy hands together and stared into the middle distance.