From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  He and Andry—and all the other infantry grunts lining the trench—popped back up and steadied their weapons back on the trench’s frozen shelf. Walker fire still assaulted Emon’s position, but at least now there was less of it.

  “Focus all fire on those walkers!” Sergeant Trey Callum shouted across the trench. “Keep them back!”

  Emon steadied his A295 blaster rifle and checked that its energy pack was in place. While on patrol a week ago, the pack had fallen out of Emon’s rifle, and all the Alliance could offer Emon was a cord and a strip of tape to help keep it in place. On Koshaga, Emon would have been deeply offended by such an unsatisfying response. But this wasn’t the People’s Movement, and Emon wasn’t the only one equipped with a weapon that had the potential to fall apart in the heat of battle. Cally Pon’s A280 was always overheating; Su Torka’s rifle jammed as much as it fired; and Andry’s scope was so misaligned there was little sense even using it. And none of those problems had been addressed any better than Emon’s.

  That was the Rebellion, though. Elastic bands and good intentions.

  Sometimes, Emon wondered what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  Emon followed the orders he’d received and fired his blaster at the approaching walkers. Up and down the trench, the rebel infantry sprayed a steady assault of blaster bolts; the turrets, which were dug into the snow and provided heavier firepower, unleashed concentrated blasts. Bolt after bolt landed true, striking the AT-ATs in concert with the snowspeeders’ assault.

  And not a single strike managed to leave so much as a scorch mark on the Empire’s armored machines.

  “Maybe when they get closer we’ll be able to do some damage!” Andry shouted.

  “You really want to get closer to these things?”

  Emon continued to fire. At least his energy pack was holding, though the bitter irony was not lost on him.

  Ahead, Emon watched as a snowspeeder took a direct hit; flames erupted out of its rear—maybe its power generator had been penetrated, but Emon couldn’t be sure—and the vehicle careened through the air before pounding into the frozen ground. It was more flaming wreckage than ship by the time it crashed.

  The walkers kept coming. Emon’s ears began to ring. Explosions continued to rip through the trench, one after another after another; the crunch of the AT-AT’s metal hooves thundered across the expanse separating the only line of rebel defense from the unstoppable enemy. To Emon, though, it all seemed so distant. Someone was shouting, and their voice sounded like it was coming from the far end of a long, dark tunnel—too far for the words to reach Emon.

  Emon continued to fire. His bolts joined all the others, bringing flashes of color to the bleached landscape, but they still had no effect. The shouting continued. A hand gripped Emon’s shoulder, hard. It pulled at him, but Emon squeezed the trigger on his A295, unabated. Smoke wafted from a fire burning somewhere nearby, and it filled Emon’s nostrils.

  It tasted like the ashes of Koshaga, hot and dry on his lips.

  Emon blinked as memories of his homeworld flashed across his mind. He remembered the swarm of stormtroopers—their white armor practically glowing against the night’s darkness—overwhelming the Lowlands with their endless numbers. He remembered following his brothers and sisters into an unthinkable retreat, only to encounter more of the enemy everywhere they turned. Emon’s home, infiltrated and ravaged, had been twisted into a maze, and every turn seemed to lead him back into the enemy’s crosshairs. He remembered the Empire’s monstrous machines obliterating everything in sight, sending a clear message: They’d rather see this world burn than see it resist.

  And Emon remembered running, leading his people—so very few of them—to safety as, indeed, Koshaga burned.

  * * *

  —

  Emon gasped, startled by the hand that was wrapped around the sleeve of his coat. He was on Hoth, not Koshaga, and Andry was at his side, screaming in his ear.

  “You gone deaf, Emon?” he howled. “Sarge says to get down!”

  The world came rushing back. Alongside Andry, Emon slid to the ground and, again, took cover against the trench. The wall quaked at Emon’s back; it—and everything around Emon—felt on the brink of collapse.

  Emon looked at Andry, who was covering his head as chunks of ice blasted off the trench’s opposite shelf and came hurtling forward. Emon didn’t know much about him, other than his home planet was Alderaan, and if any system was worse off than Koshaga, Alderaan was it. Up and down the line, Emon identified squadmates that he thought he’d understood—they were people like him, like Andry, who came to the Alliance because they had nowhere else to go. Maybe they were motivated by revenge, maybe by justice, maybe by plain old rage. Regardless, they were the losers, and they were taking up arms against a proven superior force.

  And yet—armed with insufficient weaponry and outnumbered to an unfathomable degree—they still fought. Soldiers returned to their feet; they pushed their blasters back down into Hoth’s frozen surface, and they fired back at an enemy they knew they couldn’t stop.

  Emon couldn’t understand why.

  “What are we doing?” Emon asked, grabbing hold of Andry just as he, too, was standing back up. “We don’t stand a chance—we have to get out of here!”

  Amid the panic and the fear, Andry turned to Emon, and he smiled. “You don’t understand what we’re doing here, do you, kid?”

  Emon could only shake his head, because he didn’t understand. On Koshaga, they had had better weapons, better resources, and an infantry that dwarfed the Alliance’s. And still, they were annihilated. What could the Alliance possibly hope to achieve against the Empire’s might?

  “You know,” Andry continued, “I’ve heard some people say that the Empire is a dark shadow spreading across the galaxy. But you know what? Shadows pass. The Empire’s darkness pushes down on you relentlessly; it smothers you until darkness is all that’s left. Think about Koshaga, Kref. Now picture what happened to your home happening everywhere.”

  Emon didn’t have to think hard.

  “None of us want this war, Kref,” Andry said. “We want what comes after the war.”

  Emon paused. After. It seemed so strange, but he’d never really considered an after to the conflict on Koshaga. The war always was, and everyone assumed it always would be. They didn’t fight to win, Emon realized—they fought not to lose.

  Alongside Andry, Emon got back into position. The moment he did, a profound rumbling shot across the battlefield. Emon caught sight of a downed AT-AT, its face buried in the snow, just before a pair of snowspeeders raced by, dousing the machine in blasterfire. The Empire’s mobile weapon of destruction exploded, bits of it bursting across Hoth’s surface.

  The trench, galvanized from one end to the other, sounded with cheers. Emon’s own voice blended with the celebratory cacophony, though he didn’t realize when he’d joined in.

  As the exultation died down, Sergeant Callum marched up and down the narrow space, pulling his troops near.

  “Word from our scouts is we’ve got stormtroopers approaching our position,” Callum said, his commanding voice heard sharply over the din of battle. “We cannot let them get inside the base. You understand me? The enemy will not pass this trench.”

  “Yes, sir!” Emon and his squadmates assented.

  Still, Emon realized as he turned back to the battlefield, even with one walker down, the battle was far from over. With Andry at his side, Emon joined his squad in resuming fire against the enemy. Andry’s theory was proven false—proximity to the walkers didn’t make them any more vulnerable. Another snowspeeder was blown out of the sky and, just a few meters away, a P-Tower took a direct hit; the heat of its flames warmed Emon’s face, yet still he kept firing—until Cally Pon yelled “Troopers!” and Emon and the rest of his squad shifted their focus to the western edge of the trench. There, barely vi
sible against the bleary white landscape and through the haze of smoke, was a line of snowtroopers, rushing their position.

  Emon was almost relieved to see an enemy he stood a chance against.

  “Fan out!” Callum yelled. “Press the attack!”

  Emon followed Andry up and out of the trench. They charged forward, though Emon’s legs felt weak and tired, like he’d been holding his position in the trench for days on end. He fired his A295, and his first bolt struck a trooper square in the chest. The trooper crumpled to the ground, and others soon followed. As the enemy’s numbers diminished and Emon’s squad remained, Emon couldn’t help but feel like there was something shared between himself and the beings he fought alongside.

  On Koshaga, Emon fought because that’s what he was born into. And the Empire’s troopers, they fought because that was what they were ordered to do. Emon had heard stories of how they were conscripted from the worlds the Empire plundered—and here they were, obediently fighting for the very enemy that had brought ruination to their homes. The thought chilled Emon deeper than the frigid air. That could have been him.

  The Alliance was different. The conflict wasn’t some grim destiny passed down across generations. These people from all over the galaxy chose to be here, in this Alliance, on the frozen plains of Hoth, fighting against a nearly insurmountable enemy. And that choice gave them strength.

  It gave them the power to hope, and Emon was beginning to feel what that meant. He was coming to understand the power of after.

  But just as Emon felt like the rebels could win, that they could do the impossible, the sound of an explosion penetrated his ears and rocked Hoth’s surface with such power it nearly brought him to his knees. Emon turned to see the Alliance’s shield generators burning in the distance; black smoke billowed into the sky, and Emon knew—

  The defense of Hoth was over. Now survival was all that mattered.

  And in what seemed like a flash, everything was chaos.

  * * *

  —

  Emon had no idea where the orders came from, or if there were any orders at all, but the whole of the Rebel Alliance infantry was retreating toward the South Ridge. Soldiers scrambled across the ice, pursued by walkers and stormtroopers. Emon’s heart sank as he witnessed rebel fighters being cut down before they could make it to the rendezvous point. Their bodies buckled as blaster bolts drove into their backs. They’d tumble ahead a few more steps—haunting steps, Emon shuddered to think, as they were dead people walking—before collapsing into the snow.

  Emon turned to Andry.

  “Come on, we have to—”

  A blaster bolt split the air just in front of Emon and buried itself into Andry’s body. Andry growled; Emon tried to grab his friend, but he fell out of his reach too quickly.

  Emon turned and spotted a trooper just ten meters away. He had his blaster raised, nearly pressed against the hood that covered his face. Emon dropped; he felt the heat of the trooper’s blaster bolt as it raced by, just missing him. Prone on the ground, he lifted his own weapon, took aim, and fired.

  His shot landed directly in the trooper’s torso and propelled him off his feet.

  Emon crawled to Andry, who was on his back, his complexion already a shade lighter. Emon knew that was never a good sign.

  “Get out of here,” Andry said, breathlessly. “Get to the transport.”

  Emon ignored him. He braced his arm beneath Andry’s shoulder and lifted. Andry grimaced, but at least his upper half was off the frozen ground.

  “Can you walk?” Emon asked.

  Andry nodded. “Might need some help, but—”

  Emon had helped Andry get to one knee, but then he stopped. He looked at Andry, and expected to find him in intense pain. Maybe Emon had pulled too hard, too fast. But it wasn’t pain on Andry’s face; it was horror. Eyes wide, mouth agape, Andry’s gaze was trained upward and kept rising. Emon couldn’t bring himself to say a word. He screwed his head back over his shoulder and felt his breath catch in his throat.

  An AT-AT stood over them, mere steps away. Its size, from this close, was almost incomprehensible to Emon. It was monstrous, and it was created with the sole purpose of delivering death wherever it went. A single cannon blast, from this range, would reduce both him and Andry to nothing but ash.

  Emon relinquished his grip on Andry and left him propped on his one knee. He turned to the walker, which was firing one volley after another, driving—Emon was certain—more rebel troops to the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Andry asked. “Run, get out of here while you still—”

  Emon couldn’t run. He’d fled on Koshaga, and it took hardly any time at all to be back where he’d started. Andry was right: The Empire’s darkness was inescapable. There was no running from it, no hiding. You either fought back, or you lived in the obsidian of its clenched fist.

  There was no choice at all. Emon lifted his blaster, training it squarely on the underside of the walker’s head. He wrapped his finger around the trigger and pulled.

  And nothing happened.

  Emon pulled again, and again. His weapon didn’t discharge a single shot.

  The energy pack. Emon closed his eyes; he heard his breath, sharp and clear, and he brought his hand along his blaster to where the pack should have been. It was unnecessary, because Emon knew. It was gone, lost somewhere in the snow.

  Above him, the walker’s head screeched and groaned as the gears that controlled it shifted. Emon imagined it adjusting slightly downward, and he imagined what would happen then.

  Emon braced himself, but he didn’t despair. He was a rebel, and that meant he was more than his weapon, his uniform, or his rank. He was an idea, and ideas couldn’t be snuffed out, not even on the desolate, frozen plains of Hoth.

  As Emon stared down the walker, steeling himself against the inevitability pressing down on him, he was distracted by the sound of something shrieking through the sky—shrieking and approaching fast. Emon turned. A snowspeeder, engulfed in flames, was hurtling directly toward the walker. Emon barely had time to leap back as far as he could, knocking Andry to the ground with him. Over their heads, the speeder crashed directly into the walker’s cockpit. The machine’s head burst into a million pieces, reduced to fragments that came tumbling across the snow and ice. A cloud of smoke poured from the walker’s body, and then it crumpled beneath its own weight and crashed to the ground.

  Emon stared at Andry. Neither had any words for what just happened, but they knew what to do—

  With Andry’s good arm wrapped around Emon’s shoulders for support, they got to their feet, ran as well as they could—finding coordination eventually—and joined their fellow rebels in the retreat.

  On the transport ship, medical droids attended to Andry’s wound. Emon was told that while Andry had lost a lot of blood, he’d make a full recovery.

  In the moments after takeoff, a hush settled over the ship. The rebels had lost their base on Hoth. Alliance leadership was scattered, and no one knew where they were going next. But while Emon saw trepidation and exhaustion on the faces of the beings around him, something told him that, despite how grim things may seem, they’d be okay.

  Rebellions may be built on hope, Emon considered, but they end in a better galaxy.

  THE TRUEST DUTY

  Christie Golden

  General Maximilian Veers strode briskly down the corridors of the Executor, his boots ringing on the hard metal flooring. His posture was perfectly upright, his hands clasped behind his back, every movement executed with controlled precision. Years of service in the Empire’s military had shaped and claimed him, body and soul. Decades of strategizing and combat in a variety of climates and situations had schooled his mien to appear composed and cool at all times. Had carved his body into lean, feline fitness, which he maintained even as he slipped into what for others were “middle ye
ars.” Had honed his mind to the sharpness of a well-crafted and -cared-for blade.

  The Emperor’s right hand was the fearsome Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith; he of the unseen face, black armor, brilliant mind, and swift discipline. If the elite troopers aboard Vader’s flagship, the Executor, were known as Vader’s Fist, then Veers liked to think of himself as Vader’s Dagger: silent, elegant, and lethal.

  Veers would be the first to admit that serving aboard the Executor brought unique challenges, but it also brought unparalleled rewards. And for Veers, it brought an honor that could never be eclipsed in this lifetime.

  At this moment, Veers was bringing unwelcome news to his master, but that did not trouble him. The amount of…attrition…at both higher and lower levels on the ship was troubling to some, terrifying to others. Fear had been beaten out of Veers quite some time ago, and he had no patience for it. It confounded him that others failed to grasp that the secret to promotion, respect, power, and a long life was very clear:

  Don’t fail Vader.

  Maximilian Veers never had. Because who would ever want to fail Lord Vader? And who could live with themselves if they did?

  Lord Vader’s obsession, one that fueled and frustrated him in equal measure, was obliterating the Rebellion against the Empire. So many had died aboard the Death Star. A terrifying symbol of the power of the Empire, it was the darling of the late Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin. It was where Veers had first met Lord Vader. He had admired them both, but he had privately wondered if the moff might, one day, meet his death at Lord Vader’s hands. The question was moot, as in the end, it was Tarkin’s own overweening arrogance that had doomed him and everyone who had the misfortune to be on the Death Star. In his own mind, Veers felt that Tarkin had failed to give Lord Vader the respect he was due.