Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

That was the eating core of the Empire. And in time it would chew through all the shells of bureaucracy, all the Kuat Drive Yards contracts and orders of battle and armor patterns and TIE acronyms and XX-9 turbolasers and uniform tab codes. In the end, the Empire would not be about tactics and procedures and logic. It would be about the empty cruelty of men like Vader. It would be fear for fear’s sake, power without purpose, symbol without meaning, nothingness, nonsense. A man in a mask, like the Hendanyn death masks that had given him nightmares as a child. But when you took off the mask, there was no man.

“Sir,” Tian said, “you’re shivering. ”

“Ah. Yes. I kept the bridge a little warmer on Majestic. And I’m—” He shook his head. If he admitted he felt ill, she would offer to relieve him. She would take the ship into the asteroid field herself.

Maybe that was good! Maybe she could face the danger on the command tower while he was safe in the armored hull! But what a craven, cowardly thought that was; what an unworthy and conniving act it would be…

“Would you like some caf, sir?” she asked.

“No, thank you, Commander. Your talents are wasted on an ensign’s work.”

“I do look forward to commanding my own watches, sir.”

Oh, she did want the bridge, didn’t she? Make way for Tian’s ambition. “On second thought,” he said, “do fetch that caf.”

She stiffened, sensing the closure of a door she hadn’t known was open. “Yes, sir.”

He sighed. “Wait.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind the caf. One of us should transfer down to auxiliary control, in case the bridge tower is hit.”

The Imperial -class kept its helm and weapons functions tightly centralized, to ensure “reliability.” Transferring command to the auxiliary was not an easy process—a measure meant to prevent trickery and hijacking. At Scarif there had been serious, if brief, fears of a boarding action. “If there is an impact, we’ll need to be ready to clear the field and make repairs.”

She eyed him carefully. “Yes, sir. As senior officer, perhaps you should take the better-protected station…?”

“No, no. My place is here. The bridge deflectors should be enough to stop anything that gets past the batteries and tractor beams.” And asteroids, unlike rebels, were not likely to make runs under the shields with proton torpedoes. At least the Separatist droids had been civilized enough to stand off and trade broadsides.

“Still, sir, you’d be much safer below.”

Ah, she was afraid that he was manipulating her into seeming cowardly. Maybe she thought he would report that she’d fled her post. Or was it the opposite? Maybe she wanted to command the bridge in combat, and claim he’d fled below…

Maybe she was the empty avarice of the New Order, waiting to eat him. As she’d eaten her two peers at Carida.

Or maybe she was honest, principled, funny, the hope of a new generation of better officers. He didn’t trust himself to tell the difference.

One of them had to go below. One of them had to stay here and risk death.

What would a decent man do? Impossible for him to know. But he could pretend he’d never heard of Helix Squadron. Never come around a lammas tree in the croaking jungle dark to find a Korun boy, drinking from a tap hammered through the gray bark. Never seen that final instant of white reflection from the boy’s terrified eyes. He could pretend.

What would the man who had never known these things do now?

“Go below,” he ordered. “Stand by in auxiliary control to take over if the bridge drops out. If that does happen, your orders are to clear the field and save the ship. On my authority.”

She looked up into his eyes. Wondering, perhaps, if he was trying to save her, or if he wanted all the glory for himself. Wondering who he was.

“You’re sure, sir?”

“I gave you an order, Commander. Go below.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted. “Don’t forget the command conference with Lord Vader. I’ve configured the holo pickup and set it to the proper channel. You can take it right here.”

“I do not intend to displease Lord Vader by forgetting anything, Commander.”

“Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.” She turned smartly and headed for the lifts.

Canonhaus turned, settled back into the clasped-hands posture of cool consideration, and (when no one could see) screwed up his face to sneeze.

It wouldn’t come.

The maelstrom of the Hoth field whirled and pulverized itself ahead. Ultimatum ’s sensors and tractor projectors reached out, plotting the turbulent courses, prioritizing larger fragments for deflection or destruction. The odds of anything getting through were—well, he was no droid, but they were acceptably low. Nothing would get through.

“None shall pass,” he murmured. He had vague pre-Imperial childhood memories of a show he’d loved, hazy, taboo, something COMPNOR would certainly not approve of. He remembered it as if from another reality. It was called Laser Masters. In one of the later episodes, a Laser Master defended the Senate chamber from an army of monsters. Those were the Laser Master’s last words before his final stand. None shall pass. He had loved that show. How many years since he’d thought of it?

“None shall pass,” he repeated. Something a hero would say.

The lieutenant commander running the crew pit to his left looked up in confusion. Canonhaus ignored him.

He looked back to be sure Commander Tian had gone below. No sign of her. He felt an unaccountable sadness, like an alien growing in him, fever wasps crawling out his tear ducts. And a sense of something rushing toward him from the dark, coming closer, wanting nothing, needing nothing, destroying whatever it touched. His brooding on the New Order had clearly set him badly off-kilter.

If something did go wrong—if the ship was hit, and they looked over the logs at his posthumous court-martial—they would find his final order was to send Commander Tian below. That thought comforted him, though he did not know if it should. A hero’s order. Standing the watch himself. None shall pass.

He sneezed.

AMARA KEL’S RULES FOR TIE PILOT SURVIVAL (PROBABLY)Django Wexler

Please note I said probably. Nothing is guaranteed in this galaxy except taxes and the navy post losing your mail.

—

Rule number one: Don’t get attached.

Not to anything, not to anyone.

Don’t get attached to your fighter. I know some pilots get cute, tuning the tolerances and controls. Then they get killed when their precious machine is in maintenance during a combat scramble, and they’re not used to stock. TIEs are meant to be mass-produced, disposable.

Like us.

Don’t get attached to your officers. All the good ones will move on as soon as they possibly can. The bad ones will stick around killing people with their stupidity. High turnover among officers is a good thing.

Don’t get attached to your squadmates. Eat with them, drink with them, play sabacc with them, sleep with them if it suits your fancy. But don’t get attached, because then one day they’ll do something stupid, and then you’ll do something stupid, and then it’s a couple of fireballs and some Imperial morale officer sending your family a plastoid medal and a heartfelt note. And it probably gets lost in the mail.

You want to be the one still sitting on your bunk when they bring in the next round of new recruits. Those of us who’ve made it past one tour call them “cloudflies,” the kind that only live for a day. It helps us remember rule number one.

Until proven otherwise, you’re a cloudfly.