From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  He shouts out directions as Jordan steers, and Sunshine gallops forward.

  As Chase feared, there’s a massive cave-in blocking the way to the hangar.

  If there’s one thing Chase can count on, it’s his inexplicable certainty to mess up weapons. He grabs Jordan’s blaster out of his holster, presses all the buttons at once in a slapdash sequence, and hurls it directly at the blockade.

  “What are you—”

  The blaster malfunctions and explodes, causing the ice to shatter just enough.

  “Jump, Sunshine!” Chase shouts.

  She clears the ice and they’re free.

  The doors to the Bright Hope are closing, and the engines are already lit.

  “Wait for us, Meeks!”

  “More personnel incoming!” she says, stalling the takeoff. “Come on!”

  Sunshine dashes forward and clambers up the ramp just as it shuts. The ship’s loading bay is full of people—many of whom Chase just guided through to safety.

  The room explodes into whoops and claps.

  “We’ve made it,” Jordan exhales, as if he barely believes it.

  They dismount, and Chase pats Sunshine distractedly as Dr. Melthabi claps him on the shoulder and Poras says, “Good work, Chase.”

  Chase grins, the words from Be Your Best Self echoing through him and for the first time feeling true. You’ve always had this power in you.

  “Hey, Jordan?” Chase taps him on the shoulder.

  “Yeah?” Jordan steps closer, close enough for Chase to see the flecks of gold and green in his eyes.

  “You look like you could use a good kiss,” he blurts out. For a second, Chase thinks it might be too much, but Jordan laughs and pulls him close.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Their lips meet, and Chase thinks maybe there’s something to this confidence business after all.

  SHE WILL KEEP THEM WARM

  Delilah S. Dawson

  A tauntaun’s life has two rulers: warmth and cold. The first is a signal to wake with the sun, to hunt, to mate, to feed crop milk to squeaking taunlets, to run through the snow, nostrils huffing steam. The second is a signal to sleep, night’s fall triggering a darkness so cold on the planet Hoth that even tauntauns can’t survive it unless they huddle together, barely moving, their blood slowed to slurry. For Murra, matriarch of this herd of tauntauns, such natural rhythms have lost all meaning. She’s been captured, corralled, tamed. She can smell the shift from day to night and back again but rarely sees the sun and moons. The odd, hot, buzzing things that provide false light in the pens among the caves are weak and cloying, and they never turn off.

  She now has a third ruler: The strange two-footed creatures that control her.

  They call themselves rebels.

  For these captured tauntauns of Echo Base, part reptile and part mammal, the entire world has shrunken down to a few sections of a single cavern. Tauntauns can’t count, but Murra knows she’s with fewer animals than she once had under her care, when they lived free. Back then they often spent the night in caves like this one, sleeping so deep that nothing could wake them, their blood a heartbeat away from freezing as they piled together, their scents and bloodlines commingling. But when morning came, they crept out into the sparkling brightness, scenting the air for the reek of predatory wampas and, when finding none, snorting their pleasure and tossing snow with their horns to make sparkling rainbows against the white sky.

  That’s what Murra misses the most—freedom and high spirits, the ability to throw her head, butt horns, nudge a sister or daughter with her hip, sneak away with the bull of her choice, wiggle her tail to give the taunlets something to chase. When she leaves the caves now, she’s bound with straps, head and body no longer capable of fully rejoicing in the fresh snow. The rebels turn her neck to tell her which way to go, nudge her ribs with hard boots, and shout things that have no meaning when she makes too much noise. She knows her name only because someone said it over and over again while feeding her ice scrabblers from a bucket, and now she knows that if she hears that sound and pads over, they’ll have something else for her to eat, even if it’s generally less appetizing.

  This morning, she had a rare treat: She was taken out on patrol with her favorite daughter, Riba, and although they were both bound and saddled by the noisy rebels, they were still together in their element. The world was bright and full of smells and room to move, and they tossed their horns and bugled until the one riding Riba said, “Wow, they’re really excited today, huh, Han?” And the one on Murra’s own back yanked on her head and muttered, “Only dumb animals could get excited about this much snow.”

  Not that Murra understood any of it.

  Murra vastly prefers the female rebel with the soft voice, the one who stayed with her when she was throwing her most recent set of taunlet twins, confined to a stall, alone. It was a difficult birth—probably because tauntauns are meant to run out their labor, not to pace in a cramped corner—but the female rebel sat with her, stroking her face, murmuring comforting things, and when the two taunlets were finally out, that same rebel warned the male caretakers away, saying, “She’s exhausted. Give us a little breathing room. Goodness knows we all need it.”

  Before she was captured, Murra would’ve spit in the rebel’s face, but that night, weak from giving birth, she gently lipped clumps of fungus from her salty hands and didn’t fight when the rebel stroked the fur down her neck. When Murra pushed her head against the rebel’s shoulder, she was rewarded with a good scratch around her itchy horns.

  “I know how you feel,” the rebel said softly, right by her ear. “Always busy, always pushed this way and that. I think this is the first time I’ve been alone in months.” A soft chuckle. “Not that I’m alone, with you and the babies.” When the rebel reached down to caress the new, sleeping taunlets, Murra allowed it.

  Those taunlets are sturdy and strong now, and the rebel female sometimes visits the pens in the quiet part of night, alone, when only Murra is half awake and keeping watch over her herd. Murra is always pleased to have her horns scratched, and the rebel seems glad to have someone to talk to.

  So, yes, it was a good morning running with Riba, but their time together in the snow was all too brief. Now Murra is back in the caves and unsettled. She wouldn’t usually fret over her strong daughter being outside where she belongs, but the air tells her it’s going to be an unusually cold night, and Riba should be back by now. Riba is pregnant, although it’s early, and these will be Murra’s first granddaughters. She opens all her nostrils, scents the air, paces nervously.

  There’s no sign of Riba, but the female rebel is nearby. And even for one of her kind, she smells…disturbed. Anxious. Uneasy. Just like Murra feels. She wonders if perhaps the female rebel is worried about someone she cares for—maybe the male rebel riding Riba? Are rebels capable of such feelings? They certainly don’t rub and touch and snort like tauntauns, and the way they wrap their own bodies completely in straps and smelly cloth suggests they’re too primitive to read scents.

  Murra is at the edge of the makeshift fence, watching the rebel and puzzling at the strangeness in the air, when an unwelcome odor makes her snort. She spins, head already down, presenting her horns.

  Keelak faces her, horns ready, and squeals a challenge.

  Murra softly sighs. Keelak is the sort of upstart cow she would’ve driven away from the herd, if they were outside, where they belong. Keelak has nerve but no wisdom, belligerence without care. Her taunlets are strong but poorly behaved. She is a leader for a wilder time, but here, in the caves, the tauntauns must show restraint, or else…they simply disappear.

  The younger cow charges, and Murra is ready. She’s weathered such threats before. Their horns crash with an intensity that jars Murra’s old bones.

  They both rear back, eyeing each other.

  Kee
lak hit hard—harder than expected.

  So this is real, then.

  Keelak isn’t playing, isn’t testing her.

  Keelak wants to usurp her and take control of the herd, and she’s taken Murra’s worry for weakness.

  With a toss of her head to check the big open door one last time for any sign of Riba, Murra snorts her own rage, letting her affront and anger seep out her pores, drowning Keelak’s scent. The older cow circles with her challenger, her senses taking in every minute sniff and sound that might help her best the younger, smaller, but more motivated beast.

  Murra is the matriarch. She was the matriarch before this cave and she plans to be the matriarch long afterward, to midwife her granddaughters and great-granddaughters into the icy world outside without the strange, hot lights of the murmuring rebels and their scents of panic and fear. Keelak has no battle scars, has never made tough decisions to keep her herd safe; she only wants domination. Murra has never trusted her.

  Normally, that lack of trust would be bad for the herd, because tauntauns are bound by smell and touch.

  Now it’s good because Murra has no qualms about destroying her rival. They share neither love nor blood.

  Keelak throws back her head to bellow, and that’s when Murra attacks, ramming her horns into the smaller cow’s throat and throwing her onto her back. She saw that trick once when her own mother ruled, a bachelor challenging the lead bull, so perhaps Keelak didn’t know to be careful. Horns are to be butted, but horns have other uses.

  Twisting in the air, Keelak lands on the meat of her hip with a cry of pain and scrabbles awkwardly, trying to stand. The other tauntauns have all stepped back, forming a circle, watching the fight with intense curiosity. Their most sensitive language is one of odor, and Murra smells the crowd: concern, excitement, indignation, ferocity. Some would like to see her go; others pulse with their love for her and their need for her leadership. Empowered by their support—and enraged by those who would betray her—Murra bugles her superiority and runs for the struggling, vulnerable Keelak. Tauntauns don’t do well on their backs, especially not on the slick floors of the warm cave, with no thick, soft snow to provide cushion and grip.

  A spurt of rage emboldens her, and she lunges for the smaller cow’s exposed belly, her strong, yellow teeth bared. But before her teeth can close on that blubbery skin, a hot splash of Keelak’s saliva slashes across her eyes, blinding her. Murra paws at her face, but her claws can’t quite reach her eyes. She knows that if she turns to wipe her eyes on her haunch, she’ll leave her other side open for Keelak’s attack, and she can’t risk it. With a taunlet’s mew of desperation, she blindly lumbers into the circle of her herd, begging for help. Pombo steps back uneasily, but then a warm body swings toward her, offering fur that no longer carries the scent of snow but still smells like home. Her old friend Tova. Murra gratefully rubs her face against the familiar flank until the saliva is gone, gives a purring nuzzle of appreciation, and spins to charge Keelak, snaking her head to avoid another wad of spit.

  “Hey, now. What’s this? Murra, you’ve got more sense than that.”

  Her favorite female rebel is there, ducking under the makeshift fence as if she’s completely forgotten she’s surrounded by an entire herd of huge, upset beasts, any of whom could easily snap her in half with one hard thwack of a tail. The rebel hurries up to Murra, who’s gone still at the sound of her name. There could be food involved.

  “Keelak, cut that out. Ugh, what a smell. I swear, what is it that gets into you tauntauns? Lieutenant, put a halter on Keelak and put her in a private pen, would you? She looks like she wants to spit.”

  The female rebel has her useless little paws up, and Murra snuffles at them, hoping for some hidden tidbit. She sighs to find them empty, but then they’re rubbing her long neck, scratching around her horns and ears. It’s calming, like a mother’s barbed tongue, and Murra’s earlier rage melts at the touch. Keelak is led away, and the tension breaks, the tauntaun herd milling around as if they’ve forgotten they nearly watched a fight to the death.

  “Are you worried, big girl? Your daughter is out there with Luke. He’ll keep her safe. And she’ll keep him safe, won’t she? Riba is just like you. Strong. Capable. Careful.”

  Murra lowers her head for more scratches. She doesn’t know what the language means, but there’s something pleasant about it, something comforting. Her name and her daughter’s name, murmured together like the wind’s song. She purrs, deep in her throat, and delicately rubs her head against the rebel’s fingers. The rebel leans in, head down, her voice soft, a secret just between them.

  “Oh, Murra. Luke’s taking too long, and Han is leaving. Why can’t they both be in the same place at the same time, where I can keep an eye on them?” The rebel looks around at the other tauntauns and smiles. “I wonder if that’s how you feel when Arno and Boz are out. Like your taunlets are full-grown and you trust them, but you’d feel a lot better if you were personally watching over them?”

  Murra snorts; something caught in her second set of nostrils. The rebel keeps talking.

  “I’m worried about Luke. It’s not like him to be careless. It’s exactly like Han, but at least Han’s still here and safe. I know he’s about to leave, but…” The rebel trails off, uncertain, and sighs….“They’re kind of impossible, aren’t they? Or maybe just Han is. Or maybe I am.” She slings her arm around Murra’s neck and looks at the open door along with the tauntaun, wisps of snow curling in as the sun begins to set. “I sent Threepio to ask Han about going out to find Luke. I hope he doesn’t botch it up. Six million forms of communication and that droid still gets the wording exactly wrong half the time.”

  Hearing the word Threepio, Murra’s tail tip twitches in disgust. The shiny thing smells wretched, and it once tried and failed to communicate with her using a loud, grating squawk she didn’t condescend to return.

  “Princess?”

  It’s another rebel, some random male, and he’s carrying a bridle.

  Her rebel, the female, the leader, looks up. She smells annoyed now, as if she’s been interrupted in the midst of something very important. Murra knows that feeling.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Solo is gearing up…”

  The female unhooks her arm from Murra’s neck, a sensation the tauntaun immediately misses. But then she takes the bridle and slips it over Murra’s head, buckling it gently. “You’ll bring him home, won’t you, girl?” she whispers into a furry ear. “You’re a tough old broad.”

  Murra twitches her ear back toward her rebel, listening.

  “Princess, wouldn’t you rather send out one of the younger, stronger animals?”

  The female leads Murra over to the smaller corral where they keep the saddles, and for once, Murra eagerly follows. Not because there’s food involved, but because the saddle means she’s going outside, and that’s where her daughter Riba has been for far too long.

  “There’s no stronger tauntaun than this old battle-ax,” her rebel says, patting her neck. “She was here before us, and she’ll be here long after us. For some reason…I trust her.”

  The female rebel leaves as the male begins the lengthy saddling process, but then she returns with a handful of fungus, which Murra daintily nibbles from her open hand, following it with a wide lick of thanks.

  “I’m counting on you, girl. Bring them back safe.”

  And then the female rebel leaves, a scent of hope mixed with worry trailing in her wake.

  The male rebel grooms Murra with a currycomb—it would be enjoyable if she weren’t so anxious to leave—and saddles her, pulling the strap a little more tightly than she’d prefer and making her snort in surprise. She knows this dance, she’s ready for it, and when the noisy male rebel finally arrives, she can smell him, too—he’s angry, but more than that, he’s scared. And he carries the faintest whiff of her female rebel, a ten
der but lingering scent of affection.

  The noisy one doesn’t seem to like what the other rebels are telling him, and he climbs up into her saddle with purpose, thrumming with energy that resonates in Murra herself.

  He wants something very much, and she does, too.

  She can feel it in her blood, in every muscle.

  She needs to run outside, needs to open all her nostrils and hunt for her daughter. She is the matriarch of her herd, and this is her greatest responsibility—keeping those she loves safe, no matter what.

  “Your tauntaun will freeze before you reach the first marker,” the male on the ground says, but tauntaun is the only word that means anything to Murra.

  “Then I’ll see you in hell!” the noisy rebel shouts back.

  Murra doesn’t know what that means, either, but it feels an awful lot like the bellow of rage she unleashed on Keelak earlier, and she wants to bugle along with him, to share in his determination. But the sound she wants to make belongs outside, just like she does. She can wait a few moments longer.

  The noisy rebel nudges her forward, and Murra gladly runs out the open door, nostrils wide open, scenting the icy air for any sign of her daughter. She takes in a deep breath, and her body lights up, incandescent. Here, she is an animal again, she is herself, she feels the snow underneath her feet and her tail swinging fully in the freezing air. It is exhilarating and right and beautiful, and for just a moment, before he jerks her reins and sets her course, Murra remembers what it was to be free.

  She throws back her head and calls for her daughter, and for once the noisy rebel lets her, doesn’t yank the reins to quiet her.

  “You can say that again, sister. Now do me a favor and find my friend.”

  Murra runs, nostrils open, searching, hunting, fully herself for the briefest of moments.

  There—the faintest scent.

  It’s the younger rebel male, the one Riba carried this morning.