Lost on Hoth
1985/1999 short story by Jonathan Hicks Three years after Episode IV - A New Hope I was there. On
Hoth. The whole planet gripped by ice and snow, shrouded in white like a
beckoning jewel in the darkness. Always cold, with blue-skied evenings that
seemed to call you to walk in the perpetual dusk and then freeze you where
you stood. The
Rebel Alliance hadn’t been on Hoth long. How long, I’m not sure, I had come
here from a small world in the Setnin Sector, come here to do my bit to free
the galaxy from the Empire. Sitting
on my rear in sub-zero temperatures looking at a viewscreen that informed me
of orbital activity was not my idea of being a freedom fighter. I spent most
of my time sipping a boiling cup of chav and rubbing my hands together to get
some form of feeling back into my fingers. Pressing buttons was the worst. I
was always afraid that connecting a digit with a key would fuse them together
until someone heard my cries for assistance and came to free me. Luckily,
this only happened once. The
day they activated the climate control system was a day I’ll never forget.
The walls started melting and, even though the temperature was supposed to
make the atmosphere more tolerable, it only succeeded in making the
construction of the base worse. It slowed the airspeeder adaptation right
down. We had spent days trying to make sure they would fly in the low
temperatures of the world and found that these craft were just not designed
for ice planets. Someone came up with the idea of fitting the climate control
systems to the speeders, which reverted the base
back to the cold. I
was under the impression that Hoth was just another small outpost but when I
arrived I saw the scale of it. Command staff, tactical suites, an orbital ion cannon, full bombardment shielding. This
place was heavily fortified and I remember saying to a friend at the time
that the Empire would be sore pressed to take the base. It
was at the end of my night shift, and Echo Station three-eight had just
called in the all clear for their sector and my friend walked in with a fresh
cup of hot chav. He placed it in my
freezing hands and ushered me off the seat. “Too cold to hang about.” He said, swinging the padded scarf he wore off his helmet around
his shoulders. “Get down to the foodhall and grab
some breakfast.” I
was surprised that the night had passed so quickly and mentioned the fact. My
friend said that one of the command staff had gone missing during the night
and Rogue Squadron were bringing them in as we spoke. Rogue
Squadron. When the speeders had finally been converted someone had apparently
said that the normally practical vessels looked as though they had been
patched up by a rogue technician, and the name kind of stuck. I remember
pursing my lips and shaking my head. Were the Rebellion so desperate they
couldn’t even think up decent names for their squadrons? I kept that
particular train of thought to myself. Moral was already low and there hadn’t
been any decisive engagements since Yavin. The civil war had become a sequence
of hit-and-run raids and, in my opinion, both sides
were desperate for something more final. I
was always told by my mother, be
careful of your desires. They may be fulfilled. The
first I heard of the approaching conflict was when my friend ran into the
scanning room during my next shift, shouting and waving his arms frantically.
He started deactivating the sub-systems as I sat there in shock and demanded
to know what was going on. He said that a Probot,
an Imperial probe ‘droid, had been spotted a while ago and an evacuation was
pending. I smiled and told him he was mad. This base was very well protected
and what could a few Imperials do? When
a fleet of Star Destroyers suddenly appeared on my screen we both stopped and
stared. Dots appeared on the scanner as one ship after another entered the
system, dropping out of hyperspace close to our stellar position. A bit too
close, I observed. If they had come out of hyperspace further away, they
could have sent in smaller vessels, which would have been more difficult to
detect. The amount of meteor activity in the system tended to give false
readings of what was in the vicinity. But
a fleet of Star Destroyers? They stood out like an Ithorian in a Twi'lek
beauty contest. My
friend bundled me out of the seat and told me to get down to the hangar. He
would contact the command centre and inform them of the threat. In
a state of profound shock I stumbled from the room and ran down the
ice-walled corridor. As I approached the hangar a signal started to
reverberate around the base. The
evacuation alert was sounding, and after that the defence positions alarm
went off. I staggered into the hangar and immediately had a Blaster rifle
pushed into my hands. “Get to the south ridge!” The officer
bawled, and before I could explain that I was ground staff he pushed me at a
knot of troops already running for the blast doors. The
thought occurred to me; was that why my friend had bundled me out, knowing
that if one of us wasn’t in the scan room then that one would be placed on
the front line? The devious nerf-herder. We were
going to have serious words after this. I
ran under a battered old freighter and across the hangar, not entirely sure
how to handle the weapon I had been given. We ran past one of the command
staff briefing the fighter pilots, out into the biting cold and forced our
way through the deep snow to hastily constructed trenches and positioned
laser turrets. I watched as three radar laser cannons were quickly placed and
I wondered what was going on. Surely
if the Empire intended to attack, they would send in ships first? What were
we going to do, take pot shots at the fighters as they screamed overhead? I
jumped down into the trench and tried to control my breathing, surrounded by
my rebel comrades. Every pull of air grated my throat. The cold, or was it
fear? A
backpack was handed to me and I noticed it was a combination ration and
medical pack. How long did they intend us to stay here? I couldn’t comprehend
the magnitude of the situation. There was no way in freck I was going to spend more than a few hours here. Once we
had repelled the attack I would get back to the relative warmth of the base
and get some more chav. Then I thought, would there
be a base to go back to? If the problem was as small as I was kidding myself
it was, then why was I watching an evacuation transport and two X-Wings take
off from the landing fields and off into the sky? Then I remembered the
number of star destroyers I had seen on the scanner. A whole fleet! It
was at that moment truly realise the magnitude of the situation. The
realisation struck me fully as the orbital ion cannon pumped twice with a
heavy bass rumble, sending bolts of ionised particles into the air. After
a few moments we were informed by an officer that the first transport had
made it. There was a half-hearted cheer, with a few fists raised into the air
but you could tell by the expressions that the troops were concerned. That
was, after all, one transport of many. Then
the rumbling started. Others had already noticed it and were looking over the
snowfield nervously, but I had been so wrapped up in my thoughts I had barely
noticed it. It was low trembling under my feet. That’s
the way it is when an Imperial AT-AT starts walking into your vicinity. The
All-Terrain Armoured-Transports were huge four-legged war machines with heads
that bristled with armament. I couldn’t tell how many there were. At this
distance we could hardly see them. We pushed forward to the edge of the
trench and started to look out through our rifle scopes. My superiors saw
them through macrobinoculars and blanched, calling their reports into wrist comlinks. Snowspeeders, the new name for our converted airspeeders,
screamed overhead, attitiude adjuster flaps
extending and retracting as they manoeuvred into attack position. We received
the order to prepare for contact and we started aiming our weapons. The
lead AT-AT fired a single shot which seemed to mark the beginning of the
chaos. Explosions started springing up all around us, taking those who were
not prepared by surprise. The
Snowspeeders opened up, their heavy laser cannons
pumping energy at the approaching AT-AT’s. We
watched in consternation as the bolts slammed into the machines and merely
exploded on impact. Their armour was obviously heavier than they had thought. The
order came and our heavier weapons opened up. With little effect. The turrets
and the radar cannons locked onto target and started firing. Laser bolts
connected with the Walkers but either dissipated or bounced. Then the first Snowspeeder went down, it’s back
end erupting in flame and dropping like a dying bird. It hit the snow and lay
still. We
watched as more blasts tore over our heads and started decimating our
defences. A radar cannon was hit several times by
precise targeting and exploded. All I heard of the crew was a single scream
that was cut off, but through the fire and smoke I could see nothing of their
fate. Shots
were slamming into the trench around us. The edges were torn apart as a heavy
barrage rained down. Snow was instantly vaporised and steam and smoke started
drifting across our vision. Some troops were obviously tempted to turn and
run, but our mission was clear; defend. Make sure the evacuation goes ahead,
and slow the attack as much as possible. We kept our stations. I
felt a fresh sense of purpose at that moment. I had always wanted to help
free the galaxy, and here was my chance. I levelled my Blaster and started
firing at the approaching Walkers. My small weapon was nothing but a
distraction but with the combined strength of our entire defence line, then
surely we could do some damage. I
could scarcely believe my eyes when I saw one of the Walkers falter. It was
as if its forward legs had become inoperable, but why I couldn’t see. The
smoke and the heavy fire obscured my vision. It fell head forward and slammed
into the snow with its rear end still high in the air. If the situation
wasn’t so serious I would have laughed with the comical appearance of it. “Come on!” Shouted an officer further down
the field, and some of them climbed from the trenches to run at the AT-AT,
taking advantage of its apparent misfortune. Unfortunately for them, the Snowspeeders that screamed from behind beat them to it. The
war machine was stopped, allowing the passing Snowspeeders
to more precisely target their enemy. After a short burst of laser fire into
the walker’s neck the machine erupted totally, sending debris flying for
dozens of meters in all directions. The wreckage slammed heavily into the
snow, creating small steaming craters. Cheers echoed around the trench,
joined by my own triumphant roar. Until
the laser turret to my right was struck twice and we suffered another blow.
The trench under the turret partially collapsed burying men and equipment. It
was as if the Walkers were paying us back for the loss of their comrade. We
continued firing, losing another radar cannon in the
process. As we laid down more fire we heard the shouts we had been secretly
praying for. “Begin retreat!” “Fall back! Fall back!” Men
started climbing from the trench and running. Explosions tore between them,
and before I realised what was happening I was the only one left on the line.
I clambered to my feet, jumping from the trench and climbing into the barrage
of enemy fire. Lasers tore overhead, erupted between the three of us that
were the last to run, sent men flying or staggering, dead and wounded.
Anti-personnel fire targeted individual troops to make sure we kept on
running. This
was the most terrifying moment as I leapt the trenches that had been behind
me during the fight ad were now obstacles. Being at the back of the
retreating mass I felt the most vulnerable. It was as if the Walkers were
toying with me, allowing me to run so that at any moment they could shoot me
in the back. Even so I was loath to turn to see if I was under threat. An
explosion made me do just that. The fire coming our way seemed lessened
somewhat after this huge eruption, and I turned to
see a Walker. It was headless, and I watched in fascination as one of its back
feet twisted involuntarily and it fell over sideways, it’s
neck belching black smoke. The ground threatened to heave me to the ground as
shockwaves travelled under my feet. Slowing
to look back at the destruction was one mistake I will regret every time I
look into a mirror. As
I ran a heavy laser bolt exploded directly next to me. I felt something slam
into the side of my head, felt pain and nausea flow through my body, and I
staggered forwards a couple of steps before falling to the snow. I rolled over
onto my front and received a mouthful of frozen moisture. I
tried to collect my senses but all I could feel was the pain in my head and
the blood in my mouth. I heard something roar overhead and explode in the
distance. My brain felt as though it was swelling, as though it would burst
any second. Then
I knew I was going to die. A huge explosion, many times larger than anything
I had heard since the beginning of the battle, threatened to tear my
eardrums. A shock wave swept over me and I forced my head up through the pain
and the dizziness to see the cause of it. The
main generators were gone. Which meant the anti-bombardment shield was down. Which
meant the Empire could send their heavy ships down. We
were beaten. I right honest-to-freck
decimation. The remnants of the generator rained down, and I let my face fall
into the snow. Better to die here, right now. We were beaten. I
felt hands slip under my shoulders and someone heave me up. I batted out,
trying to stop them from taking me. I’d be damned if some filthy Imperial was
going to take me prisoner! Let them kill me now why I fought with what little
strength I had left! Very
poetic, I know, but it’s easy to think how I should have felt at that moment. As it turned out, it was a
fellow rebel, trying to haul me off the ground and after the fleeing troops. “Don’t fail on me.” The rebel growled.
“Run, damn you!” It
was my friend from the scan room. He had obviously been relieved from his
duty now that system scanning was pointless and had come to the defensive
lines to help. I hadn’t seen him arrive, or seen him join us here at the rear
as we retreated, but I forgot any animosity I had towards him for pushing me
out of the room and just placed my arm over his shoulders. A
new surge of energy swept over me as I realised I had a chance. The blood had
almost completely frozen to my face but I managed to ignore it and pump my
legs to make the distance between me and the Imperials. “They’ve deployed troops.” He said. “We’d
better get to a speeder and get to sector twelve. We’ll never make the
transport on foot.” I
agreed, not because I understood what he was trying to say but because I was
still in shock from the near-hit and was quite willing to let him make the
decisions as far as the retreat was concerned. We pushed through the snow and
to the mouth of the hangar. We
were in luck. Just outside was a small cargo lifter,
and my friend all but threw me into the back of it and started it up. As we
moved around the ridge we could see white-armoured Stormtroopers in cold
weather gear running through the base. The
heavy weapons of the AT-AT’s had ceased, but then
we heard another burst of fire from within the hangar. Before we knew what
was happening a freighter had blasted out of the mouth and roared off over the
low hills. My
friend poured on the power. The cargo lifter, not designed for speed, whined
in protest at the abuse and the cold but carried us over the ridge to the
rear landing fields. We
slowed as we watched the last transport lift from its hovering position and
head up into the sky. After a few moments, single seater
X-Wings followed it up and my friend expressed what we were both feeling as
we watched the last fighter power up and ascend to freedom. “They left us.” I
shook my head. No, they didn’t leave us on purpose. They had to go. I had
been left because as far as they were concerned I was dead. My friend had
been left because he had not obeyed the evacuation order and gone with them,
but had come out to join the fight. At
least, that was what I initially convinced myself of. I think that's the
reason I never tried to rejoin the rebellion. No matter what they stood for,
justice and freedom against oppression which I agreed with with a passion, I couldn’t get that unjustifiable anger
out of my head. They
had left us behind. My
friend cursed so loudly I thought he was going to rupture a blood vessel. He
raised a fist to the sky and I realised he wasn’t angry. He
was happy. He was actually happy that they had escaped, which meant we on the
front line had done our duty and bought them enough time to flee. I envied
him the ability to find some joy out of the carnage. But
as he shouted his glee I knew it was not over for us yet. Slumped on the back
of the cargo lifter I could still see the base. Stormtroopers were spilling
from inside and covering the snowfields, searching for survivors. I grabbed
my friends' coat and yanked, asking him very politely if we could vacate the
area. Actually,
my words were a lot more insulting, but he obviously got the message and
slammed his foot on the accelerator plate. The lifter skimmed over the empty
landing field and towards the mountains. Unfortunately, the Stormtroopers had
already seen us. I
never figured out why they never gave chase. I know a snowstorm started brewing
a little after the battle and that we spent a lot of
the time hiding under snowy ledges. We watched as Imperial dropships fell
from orbit to tear the base apart for scraps. The white-armoured warriors
picking over the remains like scavengers. We knew they would find little. The
databases and central computers had been wiped and any hardcopies had been
destroyed or booby-trapped. They
never came after us, however. There was no detailed search, no scouring of
the hills or mountains. We sat there, warmed by the heat of our lifter’s
idling repulsor plant. We just sat there and watched for hours. At
one point my friend spoke. “Maybe we should do something.” We
were silent for the rest of our waiting. The idea that the two of us could do
any damage against an entire legion of troops was ludicrous. We had no
weapons, after all. We
fell to sleep that night to the sound of Imperial machinery working on the
base and we knew when we woke to the same sounds that we could never go back.
They were waiting for survivors to return to escape the cold, and they were
loath to send men out because they were more interested in focusing their
attention on the fleeing rebel fleet. We
watched for a little while longer and then my friend came to a decision. “Let’s go. We’ll die for definite back
there but we may survive out there.” Sure.
Get shot to death instantly or die slowly freezing in the wastes. We
clambered aboard the lifter and started off. Between
us we had at least three weeks of concentrates, if we rationed, and a single medpac was enough to see to my injured my head. A lump of
charred rock, an actual piece of the ground under the snow, had glanced off
my left temple and knocked me down. A piece of Hoth! It had been the first
lump of dirt I had been in contact with of this planet and I had been too
bothered trying to stay alive to appreciate it. We
spent the first few days just travelling over the tundra. The power cell in
the lifter was good for several weeks of use, but we had to let the engine
continually run so that it wouldn’t freeze. This put an extreme strain on the
machine, depleting its dependence drastically. It’s
hard to describe what it was like those first days, just looking around and
seeing nothing but white. We took turns standing at the controller's station
of the lifter, one piloting, one scanning the
immediate area with a hand-held lifeform scanner.
The large boxed device, with its two antennae up in the air, was cumbersome
but necessary. We could have drifted within a hundred meters of life and
missed it, especially when the wind whipped up the snow in a fury. Our
conversation was limited; we had got it into our minds that talking was a
waste of precious energy. When I told my friend this on the third night we
laughed. He had had the same thought. Although our mirth was forced, it was
nice to feel that way. The
lifter gave up on us on the eighth day. It sputtered and whined, dropped so
violently we had to leap from it and then it just wheezed once and fell into
the snow. We salvaged what we could carry, thanked our makeshift transport
for getting us this far and began to walk. At
first we were terrified we were going to have problems because we were in the
middle of a huge icefield, but the weather was kind
to us that day and there was little wind. We trudged through the knee-high
snow, the small energy pockets in our suits keeping us relatively warm. For
two days we travelled this way. Several times we stopped and discussed our
next move, even suggesting we try to return to the base to see if the Empire
had left, but always the same decision. We
go on. We had no way of calculating our direction or if we were approaching
salvation or doom. We
were lost on Hoth. Blizzards
on Hoth are the worst thing you can imagine. I’ve been in some violent storms
but having ice blasted into you’re face is a feeling I never want again. It’s
simply terrifying. At that moment when you think you can’t take any more, you
come to the decision that it would be easy just to lie down and rest. As soon
as you stop you feel you’re limbs starting to seize, and then you know that
if you don’t carry on you’ll die. Like I said, it’s a horrible feeling. I
think I had got to that point where I was determined to live. I had survived
the Battle of Hoth, had survived days in the frozen tundra. If I just keeled
over and died now, who would I tell of my travels and adventures? If there
were people to entertain with my stories, there was a reason to go on living. That
was one of the many reasons I found to keep myself going. During
the third day of storms, the lifeform indicator
started flashing. At first my friend
considered it a malfunction. The lifesigns the
sensor was displaying were very weak and appeared to be incomplete but there
they were, blinking on the screen. Three indications of life. According to
the detector, they were within three hundred meters. With
my friend leading we headed for the signs. In the dim light the blizzard was
creating, even though the system’s sun was at it’s
height, we could see huge ice formations, rising from the ground like some
snow-gods tombstone. After a few minutes of forcing our way through the
driving snow we saw a dome of white. It was almost perfect in it’s symmetry, and as we approached we could see that an
energy field had been raised to keep whoever was under the field protected. Shadows
moved within the dome. They suddenly became active as we approached, and as
we drew closer part of the dome split and a hand came out, beckoning us
closer. Considering we had no other choice we stumbled forward and into the
shelter. We
were confronted with three of the most peculiar things I had ever seen. I do
not mean to be vague in my description of our apparent saviours but the term
‘things’ is the best way I can find to describe them. They were some form of lifeform but they were so covered in wires and bionics it
was hard to tell where the flesh stopped and the technology began. Beings
turned into ‘droids or ‘droids turned into beings? They
were reptilian, that was obvious. Long snouts
terminated in short sharp incisors and bony beak-like lips. Their eyes, the
ones that weren’t artificial, were slitted and blinked rapidly. Wires came
out of their red scaly hides and connected with technology that seemed to do
little but make their appearance more frightening. I looked over at my
friend, questioning silently whether we had made the right decision by
entering the shelter. The
warmth in there overpowered my concern. I thought I would never feel that
sense of contentment again, but as soon as the heat had penetrated our damp
clothes I knew that, threat or no threat, now that I had stopped I was not
going to start again. The
lizards looked at us and then at each other. As they stared at each other,
lights blinked on electronic implants on their heads. They nodded as if
conversing but there were no words. All we could do was exchange glances and
wish we knew what the other was thinking. I
thanked them for their gracious accommodation of our rude intrusion and their
lips curled back. If it was smile or a threat, I couldn’t tell. “We are glad - “ “- to have helped -” “- you out.” It
was strange, and took me completely by surprise. As I focused my attention on
the first speaker, the second one took over the sentence and then the third
one completed it. “We -” “- are -” “- Grunt.” I
was still confused but my friend, who was slowly unwrapping
his headress, nodded as if confirming a suspicion.
He quickly explained to me that the three were linked by the implants in
their heads, that their actions and thoughts were controlled by the bionics
on their bodies. When I asked him who was in control, he just said, “All of
them.” That
made it clearer. As clear as the blizzard outside the energy shelter. They
were a race of beings that linked themselves by way of bionic enhancement,
some kind of religion based around the combination of flesh and metal.
Although they were capable of independent thought and action, when they came
within personal range of more of their kind they connected on a binary level,
increasing responses and mental agility by however many there were. My friend
did explain what race they were, with some corrections by the beings
themselves, but the details I have forgotten. I was so shocked I never really
took it all in. The
beings had their own names, but whilst combined they used the name Grunt.
They were Grunt one, Grunt two and Grunt three, labelled so to make it easier
for ‘singleminders’ like us to communicate with
them. We
shared our rations, which they devoured as if they hadn’t eaten for days, and
asked what they were doing on Hoth. They communicated silently for the
briefest of seconds before answering. Apparently they had experienced engine
trouble so they stopped over Hoth only a few hours ago, thinking it was a
deserted ice-ball to make repairs. Unfortunately, an Imperial picket ship
took a shot at them so they were forced to flee. After dodging Imperial
fighters and patrols they had landed the vessel and powered down in this
storm to avoid detection. My friend asked them why they had abandoned the
ship and camped out in the blizzard. Once
again, they communicated silently and then gave us their response. It was
unnerving, having to wait for an answer while they obviously conferred. One
couldn’t help having the feeling they were conspiring. They had been forced
to camp outside their vessel because the Imperials had found their ship,
which was still experiencing malfunctions, and rather than have to fight they
fled. It
was easy to sympathise. We had been doing that for the past few days. After
my friend had remarked that must there have been an enormous amount of luck
on our side that they had landed in our vicinity the Grunts, or ‘Grunt’; it’s
still very confusing, explained that they had detected our life signs when
they were making planetfall. They had hoped we were
some kind of indigenous wildlife they could shoot and eat. They had found us
because they were hungry. Apparently, being wired up to so much technology
increases the metabolic rate, making enormous food consumption a necessity. We
thanked them for not cooking us on sight and they laughed. At least, I think
they did. After
a little more polite chatter they invited us to share their shelter for the
night. At first I was concerned; it was a rather tight fit with the five of
us in there. Grunt one reached over and turned a dial on the field
projector/heater/stove that sat in the centre of our circle and the energy
field expanded just enough to allow us to lie down comfortably. Although the
integrity of the field lessened because it had been made larger, it was still
powerful enough to keep the blizzard out. I
don’t know how long I had slept for. I awoke at one point during the night
with everyone else asleep around me. The Grunts had all lain over each other,
making a small bundle of red scales and wires that they obviously found
endearing. Their gentle breathing lulled me back to sleep. The
next time I woke it was bright with daylight. The shelter was still operating
and snow still covered most of it, but the one side sheltered from the wind
was not as heavily blanketed. Outside I could see the wind had died and the
sun was shining. I
was also alone in the shelter. I
quickly sat up, looking around for any exit but I could see none. I leaned
towards the projector and saw that a small dial and a button handled the
entry/exit procedure. I turned the dial to indicate where I wanted the exit
to appear and I pressed the button. Looking
back, I suppose I should have been more careful in figuring out how to
operate the device. An exit appeared directly under the side of the shelter
most covered by snow and I was immediately covered by a huge amount of Hoth’s white cloak. As
I managed to dig myself out I could hear laughter. The others were walking
towards me, obviously finding my predicament amusing. I spat snow out and
increased their enjoyment of the spectacle. As
the beings shut down the field projector and broke camp my friend explained
that they were going to take us back to their ship which they hoped would now
be clear of Empire notice to use. They were not exactly eager to go on
running over this planet’s desolation. If the vessel was clear and they could
get it flying they would take us away from Hoth, from the cold. I agreed
whole-heartedly, happy to have found an apparent escape from my fate. The
Grunts hadn’t travelled far from their ship. It was maybe five or six hours
hard walking, but after the warmth of the shelter I was eager to get going. I
had found my second wind, I had a new purpose, and I was geared up and ready
to start what I thought would be the final leg of my journey. I
took a step in the direction the Grunts were heading and my foot connected
with something peculiar under the fresh snow. It felt, even through the thick
sole of my boot, as though I had stepped on a pipe. There
is no way I can ever express what it feels like to suddenly witness the snow
under your feet erupting with something alive. I was catapulted into the air
and to the ground as something under the frozen moisture exploded upwards. My
foot, the one that had stepped on the ‘pipe’, bore the full brunt of that
explosion and I felt something give in my ankle. Through the pain I watched
as the new arrival to our small party looked wildly about to get orientated. The
‘pipe’ was, in fact, the barrel of a weapon, which lowered as soon as the
figure was at full standing height. Entirely clothed in black, covered in a
heavy dark thermal overcoat with white fur lining, a mask fitted with
miniature oxygen reprocessors and a glare-proof
visor, the figure levelled his weapon at the Grunts. They
turned into a blur. Enhanced reflexes sent them diving in all directions as
they silently communicated strategy. Or, at least, I assumed they did. From
what I remember from the fight that came next, their head implants flashed
furiously. The conflict is, and always will be, as clear to me now as it was
when it took place. I have an uncanny knack of remembering things like this
quite vividly. I consider it a curse. The
figure was too slow with his gun. Before the snow he had displaced had chance
to fall to the ground the Grunts had drawn wicked looking Blasters with
barbed blades mounted under the barrels from holsters on their backs. They
lowered their own weapons and fired. The
figure leapt forward, to my surprise towards
the Grunts. He planted one gloved hand in the snow and heaved his whole body
over in a one-handed cartwheel that ruined the Grunt’s aim. Blaster bolts
sizzled past the newcomer and as he planted his feet back on the covered
ground he pulled off a single shot. The red bolt connected with Grunt two and
his chest erupted, flinging him back and sending arcs of electricity
spreading between his implants. He jerked for a second and lay still. I
tried to get back to my feet but my ankle hurt badly. It must have been the
initial heave that injured me because I couldn’t imagine damaging myself
landing in snow. Our gatecrasher was obviously very strong. My friend just
scrambled out of harm’s way, weaponless and
confused. Grunt
one, roaring fury over the loss of a comrade and a connection, leapt forward
with incredible strength. He sailed the eight or so meters with his blade
high, trying to cleave the figure in two. The figure lifted his weapon to
defend, catching the blade with the butt of his weapon and turning it. He
spun full circle with the force of the connection and came back with a blow
from his own weapon. Grunt one grabbed the weapon and they struggled for it,
pitting strength against strength. Grunt
three stepped forward, his weapon aiming at the figure. Faster than any of us
could see, the newcomer spun Grunt one around. He
let go of the barrel of his weapon and clenched his fist. A blade, the length
of his forearm, snapped out from a concealed location and he drove it into
Grunt one’s neck, timing his spin and strike with Grunt three’s shot, which
slammed into Grunt one’s back. As the body went limp the figure planted a
Blaster bolt neatly into Grunt three’s chest and then another into his head.
Both Grunts fell to the floor, lifeless, their bionic components shutting
down or shorting out. I
stared with horror at the bodies. The whole thing had taken what I guessed to
be about ten or twelve seconds. The figure turned a full circle and scanned
the area. When he was satisfied there was no other threat he approached me
and my friend. As
he advanced his step slowed. The mask seemed to be fixed on my friend, and as
I watched the head cocked to one side, like a curious animal. He walked right
up to him and went down on one knee. My
friend was terrified. He just stared at the figure, his breath coming out in
short ragged gasps. He flinched visibly as the figure reached out, brushing
away his headscarf so that his face was fully exposed. I
was curious now. The figure studied my friend, and after a few seconds stood
to full height. His hands went to the mask and he pulled it off, the headsock drawing out long dark hair that fell about his
shoulders. He lowered his head and stared at my friend. My
friend stared back. I
took a few seconds for it to register, but when I saw that their faces were
exactly alike I almost yelped my surprise. I watched intently, waiting for
some form of reaction from either of them. They regarded each other with the
same eyes, the same shocked expression, the same
creased brow. I did not dare move as I watched these apparent twins stare at
each other. “Who are you?” The man
asked, weapon lowered. His voice, although fundamentally the same as
my friend’s, was husky and deeper. My
friend appeared incapable of answering, but finally blurted out. “I’m Goah Galletti.” The
man shook his head, an uncertain smile flashing across his lips. “I’m
Goah Galletti. Who are you?” “I told you.” This
argument went on for a little while, with my friend claiming he was Goah,
which I knew he was, and the man claiming the same. My friend wanted to know
where he came from. The man was distrustful and wanted to know if this was a
set-up, and who my friend was working for. Obviously, they both came from
very different backgrounds. The
man was starting to get angry. They had started arguing over ‘their’ past,
certain details, which they obviously disagreed on. My friend asked him why
he had to kill these aliens. It
appeared that this new Goah had been hunting the Grunts for a few days. They
had, according to him, been stealing bionic implants from people and adding
it to their own, whether the donators wanted to give up their technology or
not. Some of the new Goahs’ friends had been killed and his employer, an
underworld crimeboss called Glann Cipple, had wanted them dead before their
acquisition became epidemic. Goah had tracked them here, to this system,
where they had tried to lose him in an asteroid belt but had stupidly flew in too far and damaged their craft. Flying into an
asteroid field? Who would be stupid enough to do that? He
had tracked their ship, under the scanning eyes of the Empire, and located
his quarry. He knew that a full frontal attack was impossible. When the
Grunts had time to react they were formidable opponents, hence the ambush. He
had to kill them quickly and cleanly. The
new Goah explained this and my friend was shocked. He demanded to know how he
could be so cold - apt, considering our location - about his work. The new
Goah just shrugged. “It’s who I am.” He
then started to search the bodies, taking certain items, which I assumed he
wanted as markers to verify the fulfilment of his contract. I looked over at
my friend and saw him working something out in his head, mumbling certain
phrases and cursing this Glann Cipple. “You are
me.” He suddenly said. When the man
asked for an explanation, Goah just came out with a string of expletives,
with a rough explanation in between. It
appeared that three years ago Goah had also worked for Glann Cipple. Glann
was increasingly annoyed with Goah’s tardiness and lack of interest in his
work, but for some reason he always employed him. Then, one day, Glann
offered Goah a hundred thousand credits and shooed him off to the Core. In
return, Goah provided Glann with skin and blood samples for DNA records. At
least, that’s what Glann had told him. Goah knew of Glann’s dabbling in
genetics and cloning, and came to the conclusion that the new Goah was one of
Glann’s creations. My
friend allowed the words to pour out in a rush. After a few sentences the new
Goah expressed his displeasure at this apparent slur on his existence. He
dove over to my friend, grabbing him by his heavy coat and lifting him into
the air. He spat his words out, accusing him of lying, that he must be the clone and this was some
kind of trick. He said that he should just stop lying and that he was going
back to the Setnin Sector. He dumped him into the snow and started walking
away. I
thought it was time to add my own opinions and I shouted after the man. He
stopped and turned, and so I politely asked him if he could aid us in getting
off this iceball. He flatly refused to take my
friend, but said that if I wanted to I could accompany him. If not, then the
Grunt’s ship wasn’t far. If we could get it flying we could go. The
Setnin Sector is my home, and after being left behind by the Rebellion I just
wanted to go back. Although travelling with this new Goah was unappealing, it
may have been my only chance in getting home. My friend said that I could go,
because he was intent on rejoining the rebels, something I did not want to
do. I shook his hand and prepared to leave with the man. My
friend was sad, that was obvious. He looked at me with eyes that betrayed
mixed emotions. “What has Glann done to me?” He said,
looking after the other Goah who was walking away quite quickly. It almost
appeared as if he was going to cry there and then, but he just headed off, at
a half run, towards the direction of the Grunt’s ship. If
he made it off Hoth or not, I never found out. I
accompanied Goah to his ship. The
long trip back to the Setnin Sector was quiet. The cloned Goah spent most of
his time in the cockpit, not doing anything in particular but obviously
avoiding me. There
was one time I passed the open door to see him staring at his hands,
clenching and unclenching them. He kept saying, “What am I?” over and over,
as if there was some kind of knowledge within his grasp but he just failed to
comprehend it. When
I finally got back I just went straight back to my homeworld. There I found a
new trade, as a soldier-for-hire. I became known as Kaile Mirrener;
professional bodyguard and tactical advisor. It was as if spending that time
with the rebels actually meant something. But
I never joined any organisations again. I couldn’t bring myself to trust
them. Looking back, it’s as if something awful happened to all of us; me, the
two Goah’s and the Grunts on the ice planet. I had lost my faith in causes,
the Goah’s had lost their identities and, worse of all, the Grunts had lost
their lives. We
were all, truly, lost on Hoth Lost on Hoth
1985/1999 short story by Jonathan Hicks Three years after Episode IV – A New Hope Histories – Originally written at the same time as Mark Newbold’s short story Lost in the Dunes of Tatooine, this Jonathan Hicks short story was
written during an English lesson at Netherstowe Comprehensive School in England during 1985.
Revised in late 1999, with the addition of the Kaile Mirrener character and a clarification of the nature of the
three Grunt cyborgs, this story takes
the reader through the traumatic Battle
of Hoth from Mirrener's point of view, and the journey he and the two Goah Galletti's take thereafter. Cast
of Characters
Goah
Galletti
Goah
Galletti Clone Kaile
Mirrener Grunt
one Grunt
two Grunt three |