Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

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 DUTYChristie 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 years.” 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.