From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  There was nothing dividing the officers’ area from that of the enlisted. No wall, no guards, just the high barriers of rank and privilege.

  He dropped his tray.

  Peet turned, suddenly anxious. “Boss? What are you doing?”

  Ashon headed over to an empty table.

  “Boss!”

  The moment he sat down, a serving droid appeared at his shoulder. “Sir? Your order?”

  Look at that. Proper durasteel cutlery. He picked up the glass, mesmerized by the way it refracted the harsh mess hall lights, spilling colors over the perfectly pressed, perfectly white tablecloth.

  “Sir?”

  There was no need to look at the menu, he knew it by heart. “Shaak steak. Well done. Give it plenty of spice and drown it in Chandrilan sauce. I mean a bucket of it. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The chest panel lights flashed as it transmitted the order. “And to drink?”

  To drink? When was the last time he’d had a proper drink? “The Naboo red. Bring the bottle.”

  The serving droid rolled off.

  This was why he’d joined up. Power. Prestige. And a fat pension.

  Time on board counted double, and he’d spent twenty years on the space lanes. There were fleet bonuses, too—the bigger the ship, the bigger the bonus—and he’d spent almost half his career on Star Destroyers like this one, Avenger.

  Enough to buy a place, outright, maybe on a Core World. Get himself a ship or two. He had contacts all the way to the Outer Rim. Hire a few ex-Imperials to fly the routes and sit back and count the credits.

  It would’ve been sweet.

  It would have been, if he’d just followed the rules like a good little Imperial.

  “You appear to be lost, friend. This is for officers only.”

  Look at them. Polished boots, pressed uniforms with the single, paltry Petty Officer stud. Fresh out of the academy and acting like they were grand admirals already. He bet they still got green whenever there was a hyperspace jump. He’d cleaned up after arrogant younglings like these often enough, when they’d emptied their stomachs all over the deck. He glowered at the one in the middle of the three, the one with the biggest grin. “Head of engineering is an officer rank.”

  “True, true.” The man’s eyes shone with amusement. “But you’re not head of engineering, are you, Carl Ashon? Not since you trashed those TIE fighters.”

  “I did not trash anything.” He’d explained himself over and over again. And yet that was the story now, the official story. “I came up with a superior mainten—”

  But they weren’t interested. No one was.

  “You’re lucky Needa didn’t send you to work the spice mines. Demoted all the way out of engineering into waste disposal, wasn’t it?” He wrinkled his nose. “Yes, waste disposal.”

  What’s the worst they could do? Send him to the brig, again? It was more familiar than his own cramped bunk. It’s not like they could cut his pension by any more. Twenty years on the space lanes, twenty loyal years, and what did he have to show for it? To bow and scrape beneath these upstart, tailored younglings?

  “Go join your rabble over on that side.” The officer put a hand on his shoulder. “Now.”

  Ashon glowered. “Remove your hand.”

  “Or what, old man?”

  A few days in the brig. It would be worth it, just to teach these three a lesson or two. Let them take the rest of his pension away. He wouldn’t miss it. Ashon tightened his fists…

  “Boss! Boss!”

  Peet barged through the three officers, and they reeled away as if he might stain their uniforms with a speck of dirt. Colm came up beside him, tapping his datapad. “We got a call.”

  Ashon stood up slowly. Both his men stood either side of him. They were good men; they were all he had. “What?”

  “Coolant spill on Dock—” Colm scanned the datapad. “—Eleven. Some ship’s blown its life-support systems, and they need a mop-up quick.”

  “Ship? What ship?”

  Colm turned the datapad toward him. “A Firespray.”

  Firespray? What was that doing on a Star Destroyer? The Navy didn’t use them. “Designation?”

  Colm tapped the top of the screen. “Here you go.”

  Slave I.

  * * *

  —

  “Vader’s recruiting bounty hunters?” asked Peet. “He must be desperate.”

  “Will you shut it?” snapped Colm as they made their way along one of the countless maintenance tunnels that wove through the Star Destroyer Avenger like arteries. “He might hear you.”

  “Hear me? He’s way out on the Executor. He’s as likely to hear me as he is…” Peet faltered. “…as he is…” He pulled at his collar.

  Colm rushed beside him as he tottered against the wall. “Peet? Peet?”

  He was turning red, the muscles of his neck stiff as he choked. He clawed at his collar, his eyes wild with fear.

  “Peet!” What could he do? They all knew Vader…

  Peet’s eyes rolled back and…he laughed. “Your faces!”

  Colm punched his arm. “You’re an idiot. Boss, tell him.”

  “One day, Peet, you’re going to go too far,” said Ashon, then returned his gaze to the datapad. The Firespray belonged to one of the bounty hunters, a guy called Boba Fett. Strange name. Where was he from? Probably some blasterslinger from the Outer Rim, just this side of the law. Was this what the navy had been reduced to? Hiring the dregs of the galaxy?

  He read the deck officer’s brief report. The ship, along with the other bounty hunters, had left the Executor. The ships had made their jumps, but the Firespray had dropped out almost immediately, hailing the Avenger. Fett had reported a leak and so been given permission to dock.

  Most likely sabotage by one of the other bounty hunters. That scum didn’t play fair.

  They detoured off the main passage to the branch leading to the docking bay. Ashon swiped his ID and the access door hissed open.

  “What kept you?”

  The deck officer practically pounced on them as they emerged into the cavernous docking bay. She stabbed Ashon’s chest with her finger. “We’re in pre-jump and we’ve got that sitting smack in the middle of the bay!”

  Sure enough, there was the Firespray, the coolant puddle all over the floor, steadily evaporating.

  Peet scratched his stubbly chin. “Pre-jump? No one told us.”

  She looked at him as if she’d found him stuck on the sole of her shiny black boots. “Who cares? You’re waste disposal.”

  Ashon pushed her finger aside. “Standard Imperial procedure is that all divisions be alerted for pre-jump. We’ve checks of our own. The disposal bay doors need to be—”

  She was already leaving. “Deal with that Firespray right now.”

  Ashon turned to Peet and Colm. “You guys head back. I want you to run through the protocols. And Peet…”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “I want it by the book. Got it?”

  He groaned. “Really? It’s like the lady said. Who cares?”

  That was it, he’d had enough. Ashon’s patience snapped and he jabbed Peet hard. “You want to break procedure, Peet? Be my guest. Then we’ll see where you end up. You think waste disposal is as low as you can go? You’d be surprised.”

  “Sorry, Boss, I didn’t mean it—”

  But he wasn’t finished. Peet needed reminding. “I was head of engineering, Peet. Remember that? On a Star Destroyer. You don’t get a better berth. Then I just break procedure once, once, and look where I am now. So how are you going to do it?”

  “By the book, Boss.” At least Peet had the decency not to meet him in the eye. Ashon turned to Colm.

  Colm’s big head bobbed up and down. “You can count on me.”

  “I’d better
be able to.” Ashon gestured back the way they’d come. “Get started.”

  Slave I squatted within the center of the bay, with the squadrons of TIEs suspended high above, row upon row, like nesting mynocks. The smell of the coolant made his eyes water. Above the control cabin was a chrono, counting down to the jump. He could already feel the vast engines of the Star Destroyer rumbling through his feet. Forty minutes.

  He caught the deck officer glaring at him. She wanted the Firespray gone. Non-military craft were not usually permitted aboard during the jump through hyperspace. Officially it was cited as a safety issue. In reality it was cost. The Empire didn’t give free trips across the galaxy.

  Ashon stopped at the base of the hall and spoke into the outside intercomm. “Anyone there?”

  The intercom crackled. Nothing but static.

  He tried again. “Your coolant’s spilling all over the floor. I’m going to get it cleaned up, but I need you to shut down the life-support system first. Or maybe I could have a look? It’s usually the magnetic coupling on the refill. A quick fix and you can be on your way.”

  No reply. Was it empty?

  The deck officer stomped over. “Well?”

  “Where’s the pilot?” Ashon asked. “I need access inside and I might be able to fix it. It won’t take more than—”

  She held up her hand. “Not interested. Get this junk off my deck. Now.”

  “Where am I meant to take him?”

  She looked him up and down, making no effort to hide her contempt. “Where do you think?”

  * * *

  —

  He could have had it towed out of the docking bay and just let it float away. That would have been the easy, simple thing to do. But it wasn’t standard Imperial procedure. What if it floated into the path of a jump? Boooom.

  Ashon sat in the control room’s big chair, looking out over the bay. Peet, Colm, and the maintenance droids were busy dismantling one of the TIE wrecks dragged out of the asteroid field. Despite the Empire’s near-endless resources, it was standard procedure to salvage any still-operational equipment, lest it fall into rebel hands. The power panels on the TIEs were valuable; the squadrons went through them at a horrific rate, so replacements were always in high demand.

  Thirty minutes till the jump.

  Ashon looked out of the bay.

  Tractor beams used energy, vast amounts of energy. For minor jobs, like picking debris out of space or moving large equipment from ship to ship, they used tug-bots. Small but powerful, a pair had collected the Firespray and brought it around to waste disposal. Now it sat there among the rest of the debris, ready to be dumped safely out of the ship before they jump into hyperspace.

  Boba Fett. He’d checked up on him. If anyone could track down Organa and her followers, it was this guy. The Mandalorian armor was decorated, if that was the right word, with custom weaponry and tokens of his conquests. That blaster made Ashon’s semidormant engineering cells itch to get it out on the workbench.

  This Fett knows his business. So where is he?

  One thing was for sure, he wasn’t with his ship. In less than half an hour it was going out the door with the rest of the space junk. Ashon continued through his pre-jump checklist. Three hundred and twelve items, leading up to hitting Big Red, the door release button. He knew them by heart but still ticked them off. Ashon tested the backup power. It read 30 PERCENT instead of the required 60.

  Peet. Typical. The guy just has no pride in his work.

  Ashon activated one of the maintenance droids parked by the side of the bay. “Get outside and have a look.”

  The droid sprang to life and darted through one of the outer hatches.

  Ashon switched on the relay screen, seeing what the droid was seeing. Sure, he could leave the repairs to the droid’s own protocols, but he still had his pride. He’d been head of engineering once. He knew every millimeter of the—

  “Hold up. Pan ninety left.”

  What was that? A landing claw?

  Something had parked itself on the back of the Avenger.

  Definitely not Sienar. The design looked Corellian.

  A YT-1300 transport.

  It can’t be.

  Ashon licked his lips. “Pan up. Slowly.”

  It looked like a piece of junk. Exposed systems seemingly welded on at random; oversized power couplings that should shake a ship that size apart. But as a feat of engineering, it was something beautiful. They’d risked the whole fleet chasing it through an asteroid field.

  The Millennium Falcon.

  Go inform the deck officer.

  That was his first thought; it was standard Imperial procedure. She’d send it up the ladder to the captain, to the admiral, to Vader himself.

  Then what? What would be the reward for capturing the greatest prize in the Empire? The admiral would get a promotion. The captain a bigger ship to command. An extra stud for the deck officer. But for him, right at the bottom? He’d be lucky if he even got a mention, let alone a bonus. Get his pension reinstated? Never.

  Maybe there was another way. He flipped on the intercom. “Peet. Come in.”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “I…I just got a call.” He swallowed. This was it. Twenty years of loyal service, of following standard Imperial procedure, had gotten him…what? Callused hands, a bad back, and a meager pension that meant he’d be working till he dropped. “You’re in charge. I’ll see you later.”

  “I get to hit Big Red?” said Peet, excitedly.

  Ashon glanced at the door release button on the control console. “All yours.”

  He smiled to himself. What was that bounty on the rebels? Ten million for the senator. He would retire tonight. All he needed was to find—

  A hand reached over his shoulder and switched off the relay screen. The image of the Falcon blinked, and the screen turned blank.

  Ashon spun around.

  Boba Fett stood over him, thumbs hooked into his belt. “So you found her too.”

  He wasn’t big. The battle-scarred armor was a generation out of date, yet he wore it with comfortable ease.

  But this was Ashon’s domain. He was in charge here. “I was just going to find you.” He stood up, straightening his overalls. He cleared his throat, which had suddenly become dry. “We can make a deal. For the Falcon.”

  Fett tilted his head but said nothing.

  Ashon cleared his throat again. “Split the bounty for Organa and the rest. I’d be happy with forty percent.”

  “Forty?”

  Ashon forced himself to stand still. “I should report this up the chain of command. Sixty percent of something’s better than a hundred percent of nothing.”

  Fett drummed his fingers upon his belt, then gave the smallest nod. “Sixty–forty, then.”

  More than his pension ever could have been, even if he’d flown the lanes a hundred years. All for an hour’s work.

  Fett turned his attention toward the bay. “You’d better have a word with your men. They’re about to ruin our deal.”

  “What?” Ashon turned. What did he mean? Colm was working on one of the TIEs, and Peet was just leaving the wrecked Lamda-class shuttle he’d spent the last day stripping out. “They’re not doing—”

  Fett’s arm locked around Ashon’s throat. There was no give in the iron-hard muscles; Ashon’s fingers just scraped across the smooth metal of the helmet, unable to grab anything. He thrashed side-to-side, but Fett’s grip only tightened. Blood pounded hot in Ashon’s temples as his vision darkened and his strength faded…

  * * *

  —

  A deep, dull thrumming stirred Ashon back from the fringes of unconsciousness. He groaned as he forced himself awake. His throat was raw and sore, and he blinked repeatedly to clear his vision.

  Where was he?

 
Head still throbbing, he took a few moments to make sense of his surroundings. He had been dumped in a cockpit. The seats were gone and the controls stripped down to loose wiring and circuitry dangling from the console. The viewport was shattered and semi-opaque, but not so opaque he couldn’t see Slave I, only meters away.

  I’m in the Lambda shuttle.

  Ashon leapt to the door but the handle had been dismantled. He pushed, first with his hands, then with his shoulder. It didn’t budge a millimeter. Fett must have jammed it from the outside.

  He threw his arm across his eyes as the cockpit was flooded with red light.

  The klaxon screamed. “Sixty seconds to door release. All staff to clear the bay. Sixty seconds till door…”

  Colm scurried past, followed by two maintenance droids lumbering under the weight of a salvaged power panel off one of the TIE wrecks.

  “Colm! Here! Here!” Ashon hammered his fists against the canopy. “Colm!”

  No good. He couldn’t hear him over the klaxon. Moments later, Colm climbed up into the control room overlooking the bay. Peet was already sitting in the big chair, waiting to slam Big Red.

  “Thirty seconds to door release…”

  Come on, come on. There has to be a way out of this.

  A tremor ran through the ship as the gravity controls went offline. The smaller items began to float off the floor.

  He scanned the control console, what was left of it. Standard Imperial procedure was to dismantle anything that could be recycled and reused; the Empire’s war machine was huge, and salvaging was a big part of their duties. But he’d tasked Peet to strip out the Lambda…

  The comms. Maybe they were intact. Peet never bothered stripping them out, they were too fiddly and took too long. Peet wasn’t one to make an effort if it could be avoided. It was why he’d missed promotion after promotion.

  “Twenty seconds till door release…”

  Okay, okay. You’ve got this.

  Ashon ran his fingers along the cables, nimbly reconnecting them to the meager backup power, praying there was just enough juice left in the system for him to contact the control room and get his boys to slam on the emergency lockdown and get him out.