From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  He slitted his eyes at his sister. “How do you know all this? Did you put a homing beacon on my ship?”

  “Please, brother, that’s not my way,” she said. “Let’s just say I have my sources.”

  Bossk discovered a potential source in the console data when he opened a cache of messages, all addressed to him. “You’re intercepting my private communications!”

  “I intercept everything,” she said.

  “That’s impossible—the Hound’s Tooth has an ex-four transceiver with the latest encryption codes, the model used on Star Destroyers.”

  “Who do you think designed it for the Empire?”

  Bossk snarled, wanting never to hear Rutallaroo’s name uttered again. But if Chainbreaker had obtained all his communications, could it be possible that she had intercepted the most recent message he’d received and blocked its full reception?

  He activated playback of the last message in the cache. A hologram of an Imperial naval officer replaced Bossk’s above the projection table. “This is for the bounty hunter Bossk of Trandosha. I am Lieutenant Masil Veit, communications officer on the Star Destroyer Executor, and am contacting you based on the recommendation of your guild—”

  Chainbreaker flipped toggles on her mechno-chair and the hologram vanished.

  Bossk banged on the console screen to resume the message, but the playback controls wouldn’t reappear. “Why’d you do that? Replay the message!”

  She gave him a sharp-toothed smile. “Only if you do me a favor.”

  “I don’t do favors,” he snapped, nearly setting his Relby to kill and pulling the trigger right then and there. But he knew if he did, not only would he lose the massive bounty for capturing her alive, but he might also never hear the rest of the message.

  “Then call it a trade.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten who’s in charge here.”

  “No need to get testy,” she said. “We’re family, remember?”

  Bossk was done with her games. Striding to within a meter of her chair, he flipped the lever of his Relby to its most painful setting—the slow burn. “I don’t care who you claim to be. For all I know, you’ve concocted your story from all this intel you’ve gathered about me. Sister or not, if you don’t replay that message, I’ll make you and everyone on this ship feel what this weapon can do. Even the juveniles.”

  She met his stare without a blink. “You’re as sensitive as a Saurin, Bossk. But because I want you to see the truth, I’ll let you reconsider your threat.”

  Bossk instinctively pivoted toward the entrance even before he heard the thump-thumps amid the whir of machinery. He couldn’t see out the doorway from his vantage point, but Wookiee footfalls were unmistakable to his ears.

  He flipped the lever again on his Relby and fired a short burst at the blast door controls. The box melted, the blast doors started to close, and then stopped as a flight of ryyk throwing spikes whizzed through the doorway, spinning for Bossk’s head. He ducked behind Chainbreaker’s mechno-chair, and the spikes buried themselves in consoles behind him, shattering monitors and scopes.

  “Now before this becomes nasty, everyone hold their fire,” Chainbreaker ordered. “You, too, Bossk.”

  “That’s not how this works,” Bossk said. But when he lifted his head above the chair and saw what was arrayed against him, he heeded her advice.

  The Wookiees he’d fought minutes before and thought incapacitated swept onto the bridge. There was the female who had thrown the hydrospanner, the tenacious branch-swinging runt and blade-wielding twins, the muscular yellowstripe and pair of browncoats with the plasma torch and flail, and finally Rutallaroo, his claws retracted but his lunatic grin wider than before. In place of their previous weapons, all were armed with bowcasters—cocked and aimed at Bossk.

  “Gut my gizzard,” Bossk muttered. It was a stretch that Rutallaroo might be resistant to stun bolts, but all of them? “My shots would’ve knocked out a ronto!”

  “My friends endured far worse treatment under the Imperials than what you delivered,” said Chainbreaker.

  Bossk wedged the muzzle of his rifle into her skull. “Even waggle a paw on those triggers,” he said, knowing any Wookiee worth its pelt understood Dosh, “and she’s brainmush.”

  The fugitives growled, but Chainbreaker was the one to speak. “You do know I’m the only one who can replay the message.”

  Bossk surveyed the bridge and his assailants, assessing how he could shoot his way out. If he slithered from console to console, using them as cover, he might be able to neutralize most of the Wookiees. But all they needed was for one of their quarrels to explode in his vicinity. And since there were eight of them and only one of him, the chances of dodging that many bowcaster bolts seemed nil.

  “This ‘favor’ you mentioned,” he said to Chainbreaker. “What is it? You want someone captured? Killed?”

  She turned her head slightly so one mischievous orange eye peered up at him. “Spoken like a true Trandoshan.”

  “That’s what I am. That’s what you are.”

  “I’ve never said I was anything but.” Her three claws clicked on the arm of her mechno-chair. “My favor is simple. I want you to promise to stop what you’re doing.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop hunting Wookiees.”

  Bossk’s laughter came involuntarily this time, a convulsion of hisses, snuffs, and croaks. “You can’t be serious,” he said, between snorts. “You want me, of all beings, to quit?”

  “I’m not suggesting you change your career. I’m only requesting you end your pursuit of Wookiee bounties.”

  “That’s like asking a Trandoshan to stop shedding his scales,” he said, trying to recover some composure.

  “I haven’t shed my scales in years,” she said.

  “No wonder you smell so bad.”

  She ignored his barb. “The galaxy is replete with bounties for criminals, swindlers, and murderers. Why not choose to hunt them instead of Wookiees?”

  “Trandoshans hunt Wookiees. Even you know that. It’s the way things are.”

  “But it’s not the way things have to be, especially when it’s based on lies. We can change it.”

  “I’m not changing, I can tell you that.”

  “Really?” She arched an eye ridge at him. “Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you’re too afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Going after those other bounties.”

  Anger stifled the last convulsion of his laughter. “My bounties go far beyond your filthy Wookiees. I collected on the Gibbering Gran of Gibraal—”

  “Respected by no one, least of all the Gran themselves.”

  “Durgaagoo, Ploovo’s right-hand thug—”

  “But not Two-For-One himself.”

  “The masked monarch of Qotile, whose title I assumed—”

  “Meaningless, unless you want to rule over a desolate wasteland.”

  It took all his will not to pull the trigger. “Insults won’t convince me.”

  Chainbreaker’s voice remained steady and calm, as it had during their entire conversation. “And I mean no insult, but these are lowlifes compared with the bounties you should be going after. You’re primarily known for catching Wookiees, yet given your exceptional skills, you could become more than that, a hunter of great renown.”

  “I am a hunter of great renown, more talented than that Mandalorian pretender or that walking human bandage Dengar—”

  “And you can rise even higher than them, if you pledge to forgo hunting Wookiees and instead go after bigger prizes.”

  Bossk looked at the fugitives, the sneers on their mugs, their bowcasters primed. He glanced down at Chainbreaker, whose head was tilted so that her beady orange eyes, so much like his own, continued to focus on him. Maybe she really was his sister.
He couldn’t deny his senses. Yet, her offer seemed too preposterous to be plausible. Did she really believe he wouldn’t break his promise once he was out of this situation? Surely someone like her would know that a Trandoshan’s word was worth little more than the breath from which it was rasped.

  “You have the full message from the Imperials, not some partial intercept?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I blocked the end of the transmission to guarantee you weren’t distracted and came aboard.”

  “So let me see it.”

  “Will you take my pledge?”

  “Will you let me get back to my ship?”

  “What good would your promise be if I didn’t allow you to honor it? Do not worry, you will be released unharmed,” she said.

  He scratched a toe-claw along the wroshyr floor. She was trying to trick him, he just couldn’t figure out how. But under the present circumstances he saw saw no other alternative to her proposal.

  “Fine,” he snarled.

  “You promise to stop hunting Wookiees?”

  He snarled again, making his assent inaudible.

  Her calm voice turned forceful. “Say it.”

  Bossk coiled his tongue in contempt. His toe-claw dug so deep into the floor it chipped, and pain coursed through his foot. He grunted.

  “Say it,” Chainbreaker repeated. “I want these Wookiees to hear it.”

  He let out a breath and looked at his feet, not dignifying the Wookiees with his gaze. “I…promise.” He spit out the last word.

  “Very good. You will help make a new galaxy, Bossk,” she said, sounding almost optimistic, a rare tone for a Trandoshan. “As agreed, I will play the full message—”

  “Just the very end.” He wanted to get the coordinates and leave this odious ship as soon as possible.

  She flipped more toggles on the arm of her mechno-chair, and the lieutenant’s hologram reappeared over the projection table. “The rendezvous site is at eight-four-two-point-three in the Anoat system,” Veit said. “Be aboard in seven Imperial standard hours from the timestamp of this message. We will see you there.” The hologram vanished once again.

  Bossk knew the Anoat system was a short jump from the Rycep asteroid belt. If he went back to the Hound’s Tooth now, he could push its hyperdrive and make the appointed time with a bit of luck.

  “Before you go, take this.” Chainbreaker manipulated the keypad on the arm of her mechno-chair, and a datacube popped out of a slot. “It contains the full message and some other information.”

  He snatched the cube with his free hand. “Other information?”

  “Evidence that proves how baseless claims and outright lies have divided our species for centuries,” she said.

  “Propaganda. Conspiracies.”

  “Take a look at it for yourself and you can decide,” she said. “But ask yourself why we must forever be at each other’s throats. Reconciliation between Wookiees and Trandoshans is possible.”

  “Whatever you say ‘sister’.” Bossk shoved the datacube into a belt pouch and then carefully walked away from Chainbreaker, continuing to hold his rifle in a firing position. The Wookiees continued to do the same with their bowcasters, but they parted to the side as he approached the doorway.

  Halfway to the exit, he turned back to Chainbreaker, sensing he was missing something. He had to know what it was, what trick she was playing on him. And while honesty was always the least of his inclinations, right now it felt appropriate.

  “The job in the message,” he said. “You know who the Empire wants me to catch?”

  Chainbreaker nodded, seated as he had first found her, a specter in the electronic light of holograms and glowing consoles. “Is there any better test than to preclude you from going after the one you perceive to be your nemesis?”

  Bossk eyed the bowcasters aimed at him. “And what if I fail your test? What if I break this inane promise and pursue Chewbacca or another Wookiee?”

  “You will be hunted down like no other quarry in the galaxy and suffer a wrath unlike anything you can conceive,” she said. “But that won’t happen. I have faith you will keep your word. We must trust each other if there is ever to be reconciliation. And I trust you.”

  “Why? Why would you ever trust me? You know what I am.”

  “Of course I do.” Her orange eyes blinked at him. “You’re my brother.”

  * * *

  —

  As his jetpack took him through the outer asteroid ring, Bossk shivered in his vac suit. He was cold, colder than he’d ever been, and needed his body temperature to rise else he might lose consciousness. But he couldn’t stop thinking of what had just happened. He couldn’t stop thinking of his sister, if that was who she truly was, and why he was suddenly a part of her strange agenda.

  “Doshanalawook,” he said, over and over, to keep himself awake. He wanted to despise her, but couldn’t muster the hate. And he didn’t know why. He was still confused.

  When he made it to the air lock of the Hound’s Tooth, he grabbed the hatch-hold and looked back to where the Liswarr had been. There was only the void of space, without even the scatter-light trace of a ship having just jumped to hyperspace.

  Maybe he’d been stricken with a spell of space fever. Maybe he had imagined the encounter just like he had imagined his hatching day from the lies his father had told.

  Or maybe the galaxy was indeed changing, and he was swept up in it.

  Bossk grunted and entered through the hatch. His blood began to boil as his thoughts mercifully returned to Chewbacca.

  STET!

  Daniel José Older

  Hey Parazeen—looking forward to reading this! I must admit I had some concerns when you volunteered for this assignment, as I know your grandfather Mozeen has had some, er, complicated dealings with the primary subjects, but as you pointed out (numerous times), you’ve been interning for a while now and it’s high time for your first byline. Anyway, you know this is an important article for several reasons, so I’m sure you’ll apply yourself as fully to this as you have to supplying the office with caf and yummy treats. I’ll just jump right in! Comments will be in the margins.

  —TK-7, Chief Editor Droid,

  Galactic Digest, Culture Desk

  TWO “HIGHLY RESPECTABLE” GENTLEMEN OF “UNIMPEACHABLE CHARACTER” ASK FOR YOUR MONEY FOR A VAGUE BUT “UNQUESTIONABLY GOOD” CAUSE

  TK-­7: Might be me but…​this headline seems a tad sarcastic. Maybe if we take out the quotes it’ll come across as more genuine! Thanks!

  By Parazeen Parapa of the Parapa Cartel

  TK-7: I know family connections are super important to your people, but perhaps it’s better not to draw attention with this particular nomenclature.

  It’s the beginning of the graveyard shift at Freerago’s Satellite Diner—just past midnight, Hosnian Prime time—and inside, customers laugh and gossip as they munch on delicious and greasy tidbits from across the galaxy. Outside, though, I stand beneath the hundred billion stars and ponder how one can feel so small and so gigantic all at once.

  TK-7: Wow! Super evocative and poetic way to open! I do wonder, though, what this has to do with the subjects at hand.

  “It is I, Zuckuss!” a voice shouts from the docking bay. I spin around, see the famed bounty hunters Zuckuss and 4-LOM approach. Correction: former bounty hunters. The press release that was sent along with a sizable donation to our magazine headquarters described them as “compassionate entrepreneurs and charitable donation barons” who have “repented and reformed from their complicated but understandable past behaviors.”

  TK-7: Probably better to remove the quotation marks from here as well! Thanks!

  TK-7: As well as any reference to the press release! Thanks! Or any sum of money that may or may not have been received by this publication! Thanks!

  I’m sur
e all the people they’ve murdered are feeling so relieved!

  “You’re the Parapa kid, no?” Zuckuss asks, shoving his gigantic insectoid face and thickly mucused respirator all up into my personal space.

  “It is he and he is it,” 4-LOM confirms in that vapid mechanical drone. “Or at least, it is the registered equipment and outfit of the youngest heir to the Parapa Cartel, yes.”

  They both look a little nervous: Zuckuss squints and scowls, his thick fingers twiddling around each other endlessly. 4-LOM rocks back and forth. I suppose they were expecting a tiny Frizznoth, barely reaching their ankles. But in my mech suit, I’m the same height as them and every bit as formidable.

  Or maybe they look at me and see my grandfather, and all the chaos and destruction he has reaped on their pathetic miniscule lives.

  “Zuckuss is so looking forward to speaking with you about our charitable venture,” Zuckuss says, and I’m pleased that my rolling eyes are hidden beneath these layers of steel and wiring. “And my associate 4-LOM is as well.”

  The droid lets out a noncommittal grunt.

  “Yes,” I say. “I have some questions about where the donations you’re requesting will be going, exactly.”

  “Snarz!” 4-LOM exclaims suddenly, and I wonder if I’ve already unnerved them into revealing something. He’s glaring at the doorway of the diner, though, where a tall, sharply angled creature stands in a makeshift booth that says WEAPONS CONFISCATION in various languages. “When did Freerago’s crack down on arms?”

  TK-7: Will have to check with the legal department to make sure we can print this word. After I check what it means.

  Zuckuss snorts. “You really haven’t been here in a while, huh?” He hands over his long-nosed GRS-1 snare rifle and motions to 4-LOM to do the same.