From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  Or he would have if the holo of Vader’s likeness hadn’t come through with instructions that sounded more like an order. He didn’t take orders from nobody, but he knew better than to say no to the Sith Lord. Not that he was scared of him, or anything. Not exactly. But Lord Huff and Puff was preferable as an ally rather than an enemy. And so Fett tossed his job to a rookie on Jabba’s payroll wanting to make a name for himself. No one could say ol’ Fett didn’t throw a dog a bone from time to time.

  As he waited for the coordinates in the quiet of his ship, Fett caught sight of his reflection. He had the passing thought that he needed to shave, when his sensors lit up with a transmission. He set his course and hauled Slave I to—an asteroid field. Barely dodged a hunk of rock hurtling at his cockpit. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but a heads-up would’ve been appreciated. After transmitting his clearance code, he docked in the Executor’s hangar bay only to be instructed to wait. Wait. He could have delivered his bounty to Jabba, maybe even pounded a cold brew at Chalmun’s, and still been here with time to spare.

  Fett took a deep breath, ran a hand across the buzzed scruff of his hair, then secured his helmet, checked his blaster, and disembarked. Vader’s Star Dreadnought was pretty impressive, he’d admit to that. Sleek and metallic in a way that made the murder of docked bounty hunters’ ships look like a Jawa scrap heap. Stormtroopers and clusters of Imperial officers moved quickly. He caught several sneers lobbed his way. Even heard his name whispered on the lips of a pinch-faced redhead. Boba Fett.

  He got the feeling his presence wasn’t welcome, and neither were the other five hunters milling about. He nodded at Bossk and Dengar. The other three looked familiar, but most hunters blurred together in his mind. Two droids and a Gand with a circular respirator that looked like it would make the perfect bull’s-eye. Boba Fett said nothing, he simply waited with the others.

  “Boba,” Bossk hissed in greeting.

  How many times was he supposed to tell the old Trandoshan that it was Fett or Boba Fett. He wasn’t no little kid anymore. Sure, they had history. Probably would be the closest thing he had to a friend, if he’d actually wanted a friend.

  Before Fett could reply, one of the black-clad officers marched over. “You lot. Follow me.”

  You lot. Were they threatened Vader’d brought them in to do their jobs for them? Boba Fett scoffed. Typical Imperials.

  The sentinel and protocol droids-turned-bounty-hunters clipped at the officer’s heels, and he followed along the bright corridors, the clank of metal and stomp of their boots beating a steady rhythm.

  On his left, he could smell Dengar before he sidled up beside him, resting his Valken-38 blaster rifle against his chest. The guy practically spent half his credits buying this rare Felucian incense that clung to that dusty scarf he wore all the time. Back when they’d worked jobs together, Fett had never seen the Corellian do laundry. Not that hygiene came with the territory. Fett rubbed at a crusty brown spot on his gauntlet and didn’t guess at what the substance might have been.

  “Any idea what the job is?” Dengar asked. His voice was huskier than Fett recalled.

  He looked up and down the corridors. Officers hurried this way and that. He could feel the slightest tilt, like the Executor was making a hard turn in pursuit of something. Someone.

  “Bet you twenty credits it’s the Millennium Falcon.”

  “I’ll take that action.” Dengar grinned.

  Bossk grumbled, falling into step beside them. “I dropped another score for this. It’ll be worth it when I add that Wookiee’s pelt to my collection.”

  “The Empire wants them,” Dengar mused, “Jabba wants them. How’d a scumrat like Solo wind up with the most wanted ship in the galaxy?”

  “Between him and the Wookiee they’ve got half a brain to have joined up with the Rebellion,” said Bossk.

  Dengar shrugged. “Can’t figure out how they keep getting away in that scrap heap of a ship.”

  “Lucky is all,” Fett assured them. But his gut told him that there was more to this chase. That had always been Bossk and Dengar’s mistake. They went after their marks, but they never got inside their heads. There were rebels scattered all over the place, waiting, regrouping. Vader was obsessed with that ship and the crew aboard it. He remembered the last job he’d worked for the Sith Lord, hunting down the pilot that had blown up the Death Star into a million worthless pieces. Then they’d met on the scalding dunes of Tatooine, the air thick with scorched Tusken Raider. Fett had never seen someone bask in a kill the same way. He considered himself a blast ’em and leave ’em kind of hunter, but Vader—Vader was something else. He was living breathing vengeance. Fett had done one thing right. He’d gathered a name—Skywalker—and then he’d gotten out. He’d heard of what Darth Vader did when he was disappointed. But that name had bought Fett a few more years. Perhaps he’d been just as lucky as the rebel scum.

  The Imperial officer leading the bounty hunters glanced back, unable to rid the sneer from his pale freckled face. If he looked at Fett like that one more time, he’d make that ugly mug permanent.

  A series of turns down halls that were so identical, it was like the entire ship was designed to make you feel like there was no way out.

  Finally, they were deposited at the bridge. They filed in across the walkway, and guess what? They waited some more. Boba Fett watched the commotion of men in black uniforms, each one paler and more terrified than the next. From the tension in the air, it was clear that someone had recently failed at their job, and it was all hands on deck.

  “Wait here,” the officer told them, then turned on his heel and ran off. Sure, sure. Where the blazing dewbacks were they supposed to go? Help the junior officers learn how to press the GO button? Work on their typing skills?

  Fett sized up the other hunters. The assassin droid was an IG model with red blinking photoreceptors for eyes. Then there was a rusty protocol droid that looked like it had given itself a new head. The Gand male kept close to the droid’s side; long tubes attached to his face gave off the scent of ammonia. Looked barely capable of tying his own boot.

  This was what Vader was working with? He wasn’t sure if he should feel confident or insulted to be counted among them.

  It was then that Boba Fett felt the shift on the bridge. The way every button-pusher hunched over screens, gathered to watch the beacons of TIE fighters blink as they returned to the flagship. Vader was coming.

  His pressurized breath was the loudest sound on the walkway, as every officer focused on a task. Yeah, go and look busy to not draw attention to yourselves, ya cowards.

  Vader stood in front of Dengar and then the assassin droid, like he was taking their measure. It was impossible to know what Vader thought or felt. Did he even feel anything other than rage? Maybe Fett could relate to that. How many times had he been taunted at some cantina or outpost to take off his helmet? “Look me in the face, Boba Fett. Not so brave without your little mask on.” The fear of anonymity was, well, delightful.

  Then he heard it. Didn’t they realize their little pit echoed their voices? Some son of a Hutt saying, “Bounty hunters, we don’t need their scum.” Yeah, well, if the Empire didn’t need bounty hunters, then why was the guild loaded with Imperial credits? Why did Vader need their help when a starship, a ganking Dreadnought full of toy soldiers, couldn’t do the job Boba Fett could do?

  That familiar spark of anger shot up through his entire body. Bossk muttered something in his native Dosh as Vader kept walking, his cape swishing at his back like a shadow.

  “There will be a substantial reward for the one who finds the Millennium Falcon. You are free to use any methods necessary,” he said, and Boba Fett felt a quirk at his lips. Then it vanished as Vader stopped in front of him. “But I want them alive.” He jabbed a finger in Fett’s direction. “No disintegrations.”

  “As you wish,” Fett replied.
What else was he supposed to say? You fry a couple of heads once, purely by accident, and people will never let you forget.

  Of course it was the Millennium Falcon.

  Dengar surreptitiously handed over twenty credits while Bossk snarled, like he could already smell Chewbacca. The anticipation lasted only for a moment before an Imperial officer announced the ship had been found. “So much for that,” Dengar murmured.

  Boba Fett gave a single shake of his head. “Don’t worry. Solo’s harder to catch than a rock worrt. We ain’t done yet, boys.”

  They made their way back to the hangar bay with the help of a different Imperial runt who jumped at every ion cannon blast. Officers were black, trembling blurs. Boba Fett considered that the Empire, for all their resources and training, might have a better time tracking down their rebels if their cadets weren’t driven by a palpable fear.

  But what did he know? Boba Fett was only a bounty hunter, and there wasn’t much he was afraid of.

  Back at the hangar, the protocol droid and the Gand boarded their ship and took off. But the assassin droid hung back at the open ramp of its ship like a sentinel. What was it waiting for? An invitation to pursue?

  Still, Boba Fett could admit his best course of action was to remain aboard the Executor and close to Vader while the Avenger gave chase. If Solo had come out of that asteroid field he’d either make the jump to lightspeed or get reeled in. Either way, he needed to know. While the Imperial cadets kept busy and TIE fighter pilots tinkered with their ships waiting to be deployed, Fett leaned against a stack of crates.

  “You don’t look like you’re in a hurry,” Dengar noted, adjusting the weight of his blaster rifle.

  Bossk narrowed his reptilian eyes. “What’s going on in that spiky little head of yours?”

  Fett fought the urge to run his hand across his cropped hair, a tic he’d had since he was a kid with long hair. Good thing his helmet saved him the trouble.

  “Solo might be an idiot,” Fett said. “But he’s not risking his ship. One Corellian freighter against these monsters? Yeah, right. Something’s wrong.”

  Bossk growled at the back of his throat. “If you know Solo so well then why haven’t you brought him in. Losing your touch, Boba?”

  “Parasites like him are good at hiding is all,” Fett shrugged. Losing his touch? He’d show Bossk. He’d show everyone.

  Dengar smirked, pronouncing the many wrinkles on his aged face. “Maybe we should team up again. Like old times. Three minds are better than Solo’s.”

  “Krayt’s Claw lives again,” Bossk said, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  Boba Fett turned his face to where Bossk’s ship, the Hound’s Tooth, was docked. He’d spent years aboard that vessel, chasing down bounties and hauling cargo from one end of the galaxy to the next.

  “Forget it,” Bossk said. “Boba Fett works alone.”

  “Can you blame me?” Fett said. “After the Corellian job?”

  The three of them grimaced at the same time at the chaos of the memory. It wasn’t the first time one of their jobs had gone south. Every failure of his life made him work all the harder. Fett needed answers? He’d beat them out of someone. Fett needed a job done? He’d do it himself. It didn’t matter who got in the way. Not Dengar. Not Bossk.

  “I’ve tried the whole gang thing,” Fett said, waving a hand dismissively. “Never works to my advantage.”

  “We had some good runs,” Bossk reminded him.

  They had. One look at the Trandoshan was enough to recall that there was once a time when Fett wasn’t the ruthless bounty hunter that made a cantina full of villagers soil themselves. Once, he was a kid running jobs across the Outer Rim. Once, he was in prison picking fights for whoever told him to. And then there was Bossk, who towered over him, a great reptilian guardian, who said, “You got a problem with Boba, you got a problem with me.” Once, he’d needed help.

  Fett watched as a ruddy-faced officer who didn’t look old enough to shave ran to his comrades. “Captain Needa is dead! I saw—He—”

  The boy could barely get the words out. Someone had failed and died because the Millennium Falcon got away. Again. But for Boba Fett? This was another opportunity. As the flurry of action in the hangar intensified, an idea tugged at his mind.

  Dengar whistled. “Right again, Boba.”

  “What now?” Bossk asked. “Maybe…Krayt’s Claw can ride again. Like you said, I’ve tried to bring in Solo before and failed. The Empire underestimates him. And perhaps so have I. But I’ve tailed him long enough that I know his patterns. I think I know where he’s going.”

  Bossk eyed him with those big orange pupils. He traded a less-than-surreptitious glance with Dengar. “You have our attention.”

  He turned to what was left of his former gang. No one ever knew what happened to Latts Razzi. Dengar and Bossk, they were rough as Batuuan spires, but somewhere hidden deep in their minds, they still saw Fett not for what he was, but for who he had been. Little Boba angry at the world. Angry at everything and everyone who got in his way. A scrawny orphan who shared a face with a million others. The boy who swung his fists until either he or his opponent was bloodied and bruised. A man who learned that the only person he could trust in the galaxy was himself because now, after all this time, he was the only reminder that his father had ever existed. That he was probably older than his father would ever get to be. They thought they knew him. But did they? Did they know that there was a reason Boba Fett always got his mark? There was a reason why there was a trail of bodies in his wake? Because he held on to that anger. He nurtured it like cinders in a growing flame. He taught his anger to aim, to speak, to be the scream that he would never finish. Because every target was and would always be the Jedi who got away—the man who murdered his father.

  So yeah, Boba Fett works alone. He would always work alone.

  He hurried to his ship, punched in the coordinates and sent them to the Hound’s Tooth and Punishing One. Then, he loaded a series of decoy coordinates, a move Bossk had once taught him. He could never be too careful, and he had to act quickly.

  Fett saw the stretch of starlight signaling his entry into hyperspace. There one minute and then gone the next. He waited for a breath, then jumped back to the asteroid field where he’d started. Only this time, he was on the other side of it, just in time to watch the Imperial fleet break up. The Avenger loomed ahead, and he flew close.

  Because he knew people. He always got his bounty. One thing he hadn’t lied about. He was beginning to understand Solo. Enough to know the smuggler would never risk his precious ship. No one could fight against that amount of power. But they could outlast it if left behind.

  He savored the heady rush that came with locking in on his mark, of knowing he was right. The Millennium Falcon hadn’t gone anywhere.

  Now all Boba Fett had to do was wait.

  STANDARD IMPERIAL PROCEDURE

  Sarwat Chadda

  “See the stars! Travel the length and breadth of the galaxy! Visit worlds others only dream of! Wear the proud uniform of the Imperial Navy! Join today!”

  Ashon scowled as he collected his tray and joined the queue for the mess. “Why don’t they switch that rubbish off? We’re living in the guts of a Star Destroyer. The navy’s already got us for the long haul.”

  “Huh, it’s on a loop. No one’s bothered to change it.” Colm jerked his big thumb to the flickering hologram above them. “It’ll be the Organa Cast next. Here it comes…”

  “Wanted! Leia Organa! Known terrorist leader of the so-called Rebel Alliance! Any information regarding her or her known conspirators should be passed immediately to your local Imperial hub. The Empire counts on your vigilance! Your loyalty!”

  Peet sighed loudly. “Can you believe the bounty on her? Just some pen-pushing senator who thinks she can run the galaxy better than the Emperor!”

&nbs
p; Ashon glanced over the meager offerings. Slop today, just like yesterday. “Not just any senator, but a senator from Alderaan. You heard about Alderaan, right?”

  Peet and Colm fell silent. Colm tugged at his collar, as if his uniform was suddenly too tight to breathe in. Peet’s eyes darted this way and that, checking no one was too near. “I heard, Boss. Everyone heard. Don’t mean what happened happened the way people say it happened.”

  Ashon paused along the queue to look back at his crew. Peet and Colm couldn’t have been more different, but each made up for the other, you needed that. Peet was small, with nimble fingers and quick, sometimes too quick, while Colm plodded happily alongside, using those meaty arms of his for the bigger jobs. Slow and steady, but sometimes too slow. Still, they were all he had.

  The holocast droned on, turning to the smuggler Han Solo and his ship, a YT-1300 light freighter called the Millennium Falcon. Ashon’s attention lingered on the image for a few moments. Solo might be a hotshot pilot but he had the soul of an engineer; there were some interesting modifications on the ship. Then came his Wookiee copilot. Were they that big a threat to the Empire? He shook his head. Such decisions were way above his pay grade. He spooned a lump of orgo-protein onto his plate. It sat there, gray and glistening with oil. He’d eaten mynock steak once for a bet. He’d spent the night in the head, guts churning. Now he wished he’d saved a piece.

  Peet picked up a bowl of jelly, smacking his lips. “Ah, just like Mom used to make.”

  Ashon stared at the queue, the long line of enlisted men and women lined up for their daily dose of lab-manufactured nutrients. Soft, easily digested, foul. His gaze shifted across the mess to the officers dining.

  A serving droid scooted among the tables, taking orders, delivering meals freshly cooked in the ship’s galley. There were fluted jugs of Naboo wine. Steaming gundark steaks. His mouth watered.