Марта Уэллс: From a Certain Point of View

He claps his hands to his face, trying to slap some life into himself, and jumps up and down in place. It’s a new day. Anything is possible. Today could be his last day on kitchen duty, he knows it.

“I am confident. I am strong. I’m a valuable member of the Rebel Alliance, and any minute now Major Derlin is going to give me a mission of my own.”

Chase swipes through the pages he was reading before he went to bed, mouthing Raysi Anib’s words to himself.

To first make your dreams come true, you must be open to the belief that they can. You must embody it. If you don’t believe it to be true, how can anyone else?

The winning smile of the author grins at him from the cover of Be Your Best Self on his datapad. The Mirialan genius got him this far. Without this book he never would have left Takodana for Yavin 4 in the first place to fulfill his dreams about being a hero for the Rebel Alliance, so he owes it to Anib to keep trying.

“It’s too early for your self-help shenanigans,” mumbles a sleepy voice from the top bunk. “I don’t have to report to the bridge until oh-nine-hundred. Please let me sleep.”

The naysayers will try to get you to doubt yourself.

Chase ignores Joenn’s critical voice and the way the cold seems to seep through his socks as he tugs on his boots and pads to the shared bathroom. “I am a strong, capable person with value,” he intones to himself in the mirror.

“Shut up, kitchen boy. Hurry up and get out of here, I’m gonna want breakfast,” Poras calls from a few bunks down.

His smile falters at the “kitchen boy” comment. The reality of who he is and what he does sinks in with absolute disappointment. Chase looks unacceptably plain, with boring written all over his features, nothing at all like the heroes whom epic spy stories and romances are written about.

Imagine who you want to be. Use that energy to direct your actions.

Chase gives his reflection a roguish wink, trying to project the aura of a confident, dashing hero.

Instead, he just looks like he has something in his eye.

A new notification flashes across the datapad, and Chase opens it eagerly.

To: Chase Wilsorr,

I have reviewed your appeal regarding Major Derlin’s denial of your request for sentry duty at Echo Station 3-T-8. As per Major Monnon’s report of your subpar work in the Alliance Corps of Engineers and his recommendation you be removed from duty, I regret to inform you that you do not meet the qualifications and encourage you to continue with your training before you take on advanced duties. Please report to Lieutenant Harlize Dana in the kitchens as per usual.

Your continued contributions and your commitment to the Rebel Alliance are appreciated.

General Carlist Rieekan

Ugh.

Chase hates Hoth. He hates Echo Base, he hates the freezing cold, how cramped the bunks are, how the gray-white sky melts into the endless ice fields outside, and most of all, he hates how it feels like LOSER has just been stamped across his forehead and there’s no way to get rid of it.

It was so different on Yavin 4. Even though he’d failed basic training six times, Chase still felt hopeful. The days spent with the other young rebels, listening to stories of dashing spywork and bravery, imagining himself fighting back against the Empire. Running through the training fields, lush green fronds swaying in the humid jungle air—Yavin had felt like a wild adventure, and even working in the kitchens had been fun, cooking spicy woolamander stew and learning about different foods from Reynolds’s and Khan’s home planets, laughing about how they’d be heroes.

Kitchen duty on Hoth is always the same; there’s little variation in the menu, nothing but the endless monotony of peeling and dicing in the same four walls. Chase has long since memorized the line of every pipe across the ceiling, the sound of every creak and sizzle from the power lines ahead, even the way the ice is curved under from where he sits everyday, a slight dip from where it melts and refreezes to his trousers.

Chase peels another purple tuber and tosses it into the pile.

X0-R3 beeps affirmatively at him, taking the completed pile and dicing it efficiently.

“You don’t even need me,” he says morosely to the droid. “This could all be automated.”

Harlize ruffles his hair. “You’re important, Chase, we all are.” She sweeps her long blue hair into an efficient bun, tucking it into her hat before joining Chase at the pile of tubers. “C’mon, completely staffing the kitchens with droids is a luxury we can’t afford. You’re quick with a peeler and a kriffing good supply runner. Not all of us are cut out to be pilots. Doesn’t mean we aren’t valuable.”

“Caf. Delivery. Datawork.” Chase groans. “Some hero I am.”

His old friends had both completed training on Yavin with flying colors; Marinna Reynolds just started flying with the Rogue Squadron, and Oriss Khan trains regularly with Alliance Special Forces when he isn’t taking on grueling shifts of sentry duty.

Chase, meanwhile, is still stuck doing kitchen work.

He peels another tuber and starts a new pile.

—

Chase’s first kitchen duty is over by 0700, and then he’s on call for “essential delivery,” which makes his job sound way more important than it actually is. He delivers caf and food to people who can’t leave their shift, runs whatever boxes or supplies people need, and occasionally relays messages.

Chase knows all of these tunnels by heart—in fact, he helped make a good portion of them, before Major Monnon booted him out of the corps. Chase wasn’t cut out to be an engineer, but he wanted to help, despite Monnon’s claims that he was a danger to himself and others with the heat-tech. He shudders, thinking of that first week on Hoth when they’d carved out and melted tunnel after tunnel. Sure, he kept dropping the tools and he did sprain his ankle, but the ice flooring had been uneven! And using the heat-tech was far slower than Shara Bey’s idea to use the ion cannons of the A-wings. It’s not Chase’s fault he didn’t know what setting to use, but they ended up with a nice big briefing room, which worked out for the best, even though Major Monnon finally snapped at him to go help with the setup of the barracks instead of making the tunnels.

Chase still uses the makeshift tunnels they’d built during construction scattered above and below the main access tunnels. Most people don’t know about them or avoid them, preferring the wider corridors that connect the main areas of the base, but Chase likes his shortcuts, likes how surprised people are when he seems to pop out of nowhere.

He saves his favorite caf run for last, before he has to head back to the kitchens for his second shift.

The bustle of mechanics and pilots and the hum of speeders and X-wings gives way to the soft bleating of the furry beasts as Chase approaches the tauntaun pens. There aren’t enough tauntaun handlers for adequate rotation to allow for both sleep and the mess hall, so the food runs are necessary to keep the handlers going. On today’s early shift, three handlers are on duty, a fact that Chase definitely did not factor into his schedule.

Baesoon and Murell take the caf and food gratefully as Chase makes his way through the ice-formed stables, the floor littered with tauntaun droppings still being swept up for compost.

Jordan Smythe, the newest handler, spots him walking down the aisle between the pens, his face breaking into a wide grin. “You’re the best, Chase.”

“Just doing my job,” Chase says. “Apparently I’m not good enough to do anything else.”

“Oh, come on, you’re the best runner in Echo Base.” Jordan smiles at him, taking the cup of freshly poured caf Chase had specially prepared just a moment before.