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 Hoth1985/1999 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 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 - realGoah Galletti - clone Kaile Mirrener Grunt one Grunt two Grunt three |