From a Certain Point of View

by Renee Ahdieh

  “Quite possibly,” said Poul, and she left it at that. Because she knew something the sublieutenant clearly didn’t—that the Death Star itself had been at Scarif, and had left the system just three days ago. Slallen was right—the operation on the planet was classified. Commander Poul had been on duty, and was of a senior-enough rank to have been informed of their destination, but even she hadn’t known what the station’s mission there was. There was talk in her mess that it was another shakedown run—something about a second test, following the first one over the moon of Jedha. Although a test of what, Poul didn’t know.

  But that was the thing about the Death Star. The battle station was so big that, short of a Star Destroyer crashing into it, most of the crew would have no idea about what was going on at any given time. Only essential mission personnel had the required clearance. Poul understood that. It was a matter not just of security, but also of pure logistics.

  Poul nodded at Commander Sheard. Her watch was over and it was time to go.

  “Station Control West is—”

  An alarm chimed from the console in front of Ensign Toos—Poul saw a red light flashing by his hand, quickly joined by another. Next to the ensign, Slallen glanced over her own console, checking systems, while Toos began cycling through a series of switches, peering at his monitor as he did so, a frown firmly etched on his face.

  Poul and Sheard exchanged a glance, then Poul leaned over the console between her two junior officers.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Ah…yes, ma’am…ah, maybe.” Toos flicked some more switches, then twisted a dial as he began cycling through a series of surveillance frequencies patched into the station’s security system. On his small display, the view of the docking bay was replaced by screen after screen of roaring static as he flicked through the channels.

  At her console, Slallen had one hand on her earpiece as she listened, then she acknowledged the message and turned to the two commanders.

  “There’s an alarm from level five, Detention Block AA-Twenty-Three. Subcontrol reports all sensors in the block have gone down.”

  “Confirmed,” said Toos, pointing to his display of rolling static. “All cams are out.”

  Poul glanced at Commander Sheard, who folded his arms and stepped back. “All yours, Commander.”

  “Thank you,” she said, before turning back to the ensign. “Put me through to the detention block.”

  Toos cycled his comm again and opened the channel, but the light beside the switch changed not from red to green as expected, but from red to blue.

  “They have their comm in secure mode.” The ensign looked up at Commander Poul. “We’ll have to wait for them to answer.”

  Poul lifted her datapad and quickly swiped through to the station directory. Her eyes flicked over the data, then she nodded.

  “Detention block AA-Twenty-Three is reserved for political prisoners,” she said. “So secure comm is standard. Okay, let’s just hope they answer quickly.”

  That was when the comm deck chimed. Poul moved closer to the console as Toos opened the channel. The ensign opened his mouth to speak, only for the operator on the other end to cut in first.

  “Ah, everything’s under control, situation normal.”

  Poul glanced up at Sheard, who frowned. Toos and Slallen looked at each other. Then Toos pressed the comm switch again.

  “What happened?”

  “Ah, had a slight weapons malfunction, but, ah, everything’s perfectly all right now, we’re fine, we’re all fine here now, thank you.”

  Poul didn’t recognize the voice, but whoever it was, they sounded almost breathless. She glanced down at her datapad to check, but then looked up in surprise as the voice spoke again.

  “How are you?”

  Toos looked back at Slallen, who nodded. He leaned back over the comm. “We’re sending a squad in.”

  The channel clicked back into life. “Ah, ah, negative, negative, we have, ah, a reactor leak here, ah, now, give us a few minutes to lock it down. Ah…large leak, very dangerous.”

  “Who’s the duty officer down there?” asked Commander Sheard.

  Poul checked her datapad. “Lieutenant Childsen.”

  Toos shook his head. “Ma’am, that doesn’t sound like Lieutenant Childsen.” He pressed the comm button. “Who is this? What’s your operating number?”

  “Ah—”

  Then the comm popped, and the control room was filled with a roar of white noise. Toos winced and killed the volume, then tried the comm again. “Detention Block AA-Twenty-Three, what is your status? Report please.”

  He was answered by static. He tried a few more times, then gave up. “Nothing. Comm down.”

  Slallen looked up at Commander Poul. “We should send a squad. I have a security team ready and waiting.”

  Poul held up a hand. “Keep them on standby.” She turned to Toos. “Ensign, systems report. If there’s a reactor leak, it could be serious. We’ll need to get engineering in.”

  Toos brought up data feeds at his console, then sat back and shook his head. He tapped a button, and the main screen changed from the docking bay view to a schematic of the power grid for this hemisphere of the station.

  “Power systems at normal status. Output is steady. No variables detected.”

  “No reactor leak then,” said Slallen. “Ma’am, the squad is ready to go.”

  Poul nodded. “Send them in. But we need to report this. Get me Grand Moff Tarkin.”

  Slallen nodded and turned to her own comm deck, selecting the channel before calling it up.

  “Overbridge ready room,” came a female voice from the desk.

  “Grand Moff Tarkin, please.”

  “Grand Moff Tarkin is currently in conference.”

  Commander Sheard shook his head and strode over to the command dais. He stepped up to the chair and pulled it around, then cut into Slallen’s comm channel from the panel on the armrest.

  “This is Station Control West, Commander Sheard. This is a priority red request. Put us through to the grand moff immediately.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  The comm chimed again.

  “Yes.”

  It wasn’t a question, it was just a statement, spoken by an old man with a clipped accent. Poul ground her teeth—she had only met Grand Moff Tarkin twice, and that was two times too many. Already she could imagine the cloying scent of lavallel, the rich, purple-flowering herb, that seemed to hang around the battle station’s chief commanding officer like a cloud. She met Commander Sheard’s gaze as he made his report to their superior. “We have an emergency alert in Detention Block AA-Twenty-Three.”

  “The princess? Put all sections on alert.”

  Poul felt the breath catch in her throat. Princess? What princess?

  And then she heard the voice of the man Tarkin was in conference with, the deep, resonant bass voice echoing down the open comm channel.

  Well, perhaps man was the wrong word. Because who knew what was inside that suit.

  “Obi-Wan is here. The Force is with him.”

  The comm clicked off.

  Lord Vader. Tarkin’s adviser—his enforcer. Poul knew he was aboard the station, but even so, hearing him speak sent a chill down her spine. She looked at Sheard and saw his throat bob as he gulped. It seemed that Vader had that effect on a lot of people.

  Then Poul realized that the control room had gone quiet, the constant murmuring of the crew absent as they all watched the two commanders.

  Now it was Poul’s turn to swallow. Over at the console, Slallen sat with her back rigid, her hands hovering over her console, ready to accept the next order. Beside her, Toos mimicked her posture, but he looked pale, his own hands curled tightly in his lap.

  Commander Poul gestured to the sublieutenant. “Send in the squad. Let’s get this situation under control.” Then she walked up to the command dais as, behind her, Slallen gave the order.

  “You’re welcome to stay, Commander,” said S
heard as he stood by the empty dais chair. But Poul rolled her neck, took a deep breath, and gave her colleague a smile.

  “No thanks, my watch is done. Good luck, Commander.”

  As she headed to the turbolift, ready for a shower, something to eat, something to drink—something quite strong, perhaps—Commander Pamel Poul tried to ignore the growing sense of unease and the rolling ball of cold that seemed to have taken the place of her stomach.

  She didn’t know what was going on—with the old freighter, with the detention block…and Tarkin had said princess, hadn’t he? What was that about?—but it wasn’t her problem, not anymore. Let Sheard handle it, and she could read his report in the next shift.

  A shift that, Poul hoped, would be another twelve hours of glorious, routine boredom.

  Now, that would be perfect.

  There’s something alive in here.

  —Luke Skywalker

  When they came, she wasn’t ready. She was asleep, so her guard was down. Vodrans didn’t usually come this deep into the swamps. They surrounded her before she could have known they were there.

  Still, Omi had the spirit of a warrior and so she was fighting as she woke. Rough leathery Vodran hands grasped each of Omi’s tentacles, their thick, hard nails pressing into Omi’s soft flesh, hauling her out of the water. They shouted instructions to one another in their oily language that always reminded her of the thin scum on the surface of the water when too much light came through the trees. She thrashed and rippled her flesh transparent, but she wasn’t much bigger than each of them was. She twisted her body, attempting to bite at limbs or torsos, but she was caught. Then something stabbed into her and she felt cold flood into the sensitive spot between two of her tentacles. Her strength left her.

  Through an awful haze, she was powerless to stop her capture. They rolled each of her tentacles into a large ball and shackled them all with thick shiny magnetized metal bands. She was fading, losing consciousness, as she held up her eyestalk, taking in all the Vodran faces, hard, knobbed, expressionless. She fell into the darkness as several of them hauled her into the spherical tank that was like a body-sized bubble that would not pop. She should have looked around at the swamp, her home, one last time. But instead, she was unconscious before her body settled on the bottom of the tank. She dreamed of home…

  Soft lands she could travel over. Warm rich waters, squelching mud, blasts of swamp gas, spindly trees. Here there was music, there was play, and there was plenty to eat and watch. Omi moved about the swamp knowing that she belonged, her eyestalk swiveling as she traveled, seeing so much of the world. When she settled in for a deep night’s sleep, she was safe and warm, her mind not on survival, but on where she planned to go next…

  Omi woke, instantly remembering that she’d been captured, and instinctively pulled her tentacles in. When she was sure nothing was grabbing her, she took inventory. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven tentacles. All intact. And so Omi settled some, glancing around.

  She was in a thick, clear crystal sphere, its lid screwed on tightly, the better to preserve the gases in the swamp water. The sphere was positioned against a window, among various other cargo. As far as she could tell, she was the only living thing in this place. Large and small white containers were stacked to the high ceiling; a narrow pathway led to an open doorway. Omi could see the swamplands right out her window, just beyond a flat, hard-looking plane of land. She’d seen these flying metal beasts before, passing across the sky, far above the trees, so large that one could be inside them and live. They flew here and there. She’d never imagined she’d be swallowed by one, contained in a crystal bowl. She pressed herself against her transparent prison, trying to get as close to home as possible.

  Everything began to rumble, the cargo stacks shaking but not falling. The water in her tank sloshed her this way and that. She turned her eyestalk to the window and realized her home was retreating. At first slowly, then faster than she could imagine. Something seemed to be pulling it down. What would happen to the swamplands if it was pressed into the ground? She shut her eye. Had this large beast just destroyed her home? And it was in this way Omi experienced her first sense of antigravity. She began to float about in her tank, losing her sense of location. None of this is possible, was all she kept thinking. None of this is possible. But it is happening.

  It was as if she were everywhere all at once. Where she had pressed herself to the sphere trying to stay close to home, suddenly she felt her body wanted to be all over the sphere. She pulsated with terror and after experiencing this intense emotion for several minutes, she felt something deep in her being click and let go. She floated upward and then turned to what her eye told her was upside down—but her other senses, like the feeling in her tentacles, the feel of the water, the heft of her body, told her differently.

  As she floated, she turned her eye back to the large window and stared for the first time deep into outer space. Her hearts’ beats quickened. This was a place she was not supposed to ever see. She was meant to travel the swamp, not into this…into this beyond. She felt herself pulled forcibly toward space. She pressed against the round glass of the sphere and suddenly all the rushing and flushing and flowing and stress in her seven tentacles and head stopped. Everything stopped.

  Quiet.

  Nothing.

  But everything.

  There was purpose.

  Omi twitched. Then involuntarily, her body shifted to being transparent, and then the black color with pricks of starlight. Home will stay home, but you must go, she understood, more than heard. And she knew deep in her hearts that she would not die. No, she was in the right place. In the right moment.

  Stay your path. This time she heard the words in the deep complex humming language that her people often spoke in when they weren’t feeding. To speak this language was to scare away all nearby food, the reverberations carried so completely in the water. To hear it now was like feeling a final breeze from home. Though she was gazing into space, she heard the voice humming from her flesh: Maybe it came from within the tiny links that her people said chained with one another to form her flesh.

  There was a great flash and Omi instantly knew. She was positive, at least in that moment, that this place she was in was going to burn. Then the moment passed and she was no longer sure of anything, except that feeling of oneness. What did that feeling even mean, though? She was no longer so sure. Maybe it was just her fear of death.

  Not so long ago, she’d been similarly forgetful when she’d gotten into a battle with another of her clan. She remembered that this one had identified as male, and they’d met while crossing over a piece of land, going in opposite directions. His name had been Iduna and she’d been intrigued by his male identity. Her people could choose the gender they wanted. They were physically hermaphroditic, so one’s choice said much about one as an individual. In her years, she’d met several females and even more who were diangous (the most common gender), but she’d never met a male until this moment.

  He had wanted to exchange a few eggs. She had refused, and that was when he grew angry. They’d fought a violent bloody battle, and during this battle, she’d fought with great focus and precision. To her, the battle had been like an argument that she controlled and eventually won. Iduna soon realized that if he didn’t flee, she’d kill him. Thankfully, Iduna chose not to die.

  Omi may have surprised herself with her incredible combat skills, but as she fought, the terror of the experience, the fear of death left her so forgetful that she couldn’t remember from which direction she’d come. This was how she’d wound up in the southern part of the land instead of the western, napping in the perfect place to be kidnapped and taken into space.

  —

  What must have been days passed and Omi was still wondering if the vision of this place going up in flames had been inspired by her intense fear. Obsessing over the fiery vision was all that kept her restlessness and anger over being kidnapped at bay. Her sense of up and down had
returned, and Omi felt she could think clearly. Twice a Vodran had come and sprinkled some smelly but somehow bland dried fish through a small hole in the lid.

  It was the taste of this fish that stoked Omi’s already heated anger enough to make her escape attempt. Back home, everything had flavor, juices, salt, the spice of food the fish had eaten in their bellies. But these people kidnapped her and then fed her food that was an insult. And her only view was of star-filled outer space and the white cargo on the other side of her sphere. She had to get out of here.

  She felt around the lid of her prison with her tentacles, gently touching every gap, even the tiniest ones, testing the pressure. The lid was made of a smooth, hard substance she had never felt before, and it smelled tangy and smoky; the material it was made of was weak. She pushed and felt some give. She pushed again, using her suckers to grip and turn. The lid clicked and began to easily slide in a circle. Around and around it went until it fell to the floor with a dull thud. She waited and then extended her eyestalk from her swamp-water prison. She hauled herself out.

  Back in the swamp, she’d moved freely over the damp land from one body of water to the next. Leaving the sphere was not much different. Instead of trees, she skirted hard containers made of the same smoky-tangy-smelling weak material. And instead of moist fragrant air caressing her skin, the atmosphere was dry and crackling and sucked at her flesh. But the ground was flat and she moved easily enough over it. Smooth and black. When she slithered into the hallway, she paused. All angles, dead, everything smooth and hard and blacker. The insides of this space-traveling beast were either rotten or dead.

  Never in her life had she seen such a place. But she was still rather young, so there was always more to see. For a second, she returned to that epic moment when she’d looked out into space and become one with it. And with it came her vision that this place was going to go up in flames. Would that be because this beast was going to fly into a sun?