From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  “If you choose to face Vader,” I say, “you will do it alone. I cannot interfere.”

  I say it mostly in the hope it will scare him into staying. He’s never truly fought alone before. He’s never been alone before. He hardly knows Han and Leia—doesn’t yet know who Leia is to him—and already his heart has put down deep roots. Just like his father. With Anakin, it was his mother, then Qui-Gon and me and Ahsoka and Padmé, childhood abandonment resulting in him clinging with white knuckles to whoever was nearest him. It had been him and Shmi against the galaxy for so long, then she was taken from him. Then he had Qui-Gon and me, the only familiar stars in the constellation of his new life.

  And then just me.

  The first year he was my Padawan, I would sometimes wake in the night and find him asleep on the floor next to my bed, afraid he’d wake and find me gone, too.

  What kind of choice had that been for him, Qui-Gon? Leave your mother for a prophecy you’ve never heard of, to join an Order of legendary peacekeepers who arrive on your planet only to tell you that they aren’t there to free you from the barbaric system you’re part of? That the legendary justice of the Jedi is for others. There is no justice on Tatooine. He was the Chosen One without any choices of his own.

  When, I think, will this inner peace I was promised in death finally show up?

  Luke presses his forehead against the ladder, and I think for a moment I’ve scared him enough that he’ll stay. But then he says quietly, “I understand.” He turns back to us for just a moment, and there he is again, the dumb, beautiful son of my dumb, beautiful friend who could never be talked out of anything he set his mind to. Those last days on Coruscant rise in my mind, the memories I have sieved over and over again, searching for what I could have done to stop it all, and knowing the answer didn’t lie in those final hours together. It was years in the making.

  “Artoo,” Luke calls as he mounts the ladder. “Fire up the converters.”

  R2 whistles a jaunty reply. I shoot him a look that says, Don’t you dare fire up those converters. I’m not sure if the old droid can see me, but he gives another chirp that I swear means Kriff off!

  “Luke,” I call, one last attempt, but when he turns back to me, the words die in my throat. Everything I want to say to him suddenly feels hollow and untrue. The language of the Jedi that I had spouted for years, first to Anakin, now to his son. Where has it ever led me but down volcanic embankments and barren dunes? For every way the Council had broken Anakin down, I had stood by and let them. I had been their arbiter of justice, repeating the language they had given me.

  Why didn’t I fight for you? I think.

  So instead, I offer the only advice I have. “Don’t give in to hate. That leads to the dark side.”

  “Strong is Vader,” Yoda adds. “Mind what you have learned. Save you it can.”

  Luke tugs the strap of his helmet into place. “I will,” he says. “And I’ll return. I promise.”

  If only those were the sort of promises we could keep, I think. The cockpit of the X-wing closes with a pneumatic hiss, and the swamp debris beneath it is blown aside as the engines fire. The starfighter lifts off, casting Yoda and me into darkness. The engines flare, and their red light bathes us.

  “Told you, I did,” Yoda murmurs, his face to the sky, and I wonder if he resents ghosts like me arriving without warning, or if the ghosts are what he lives for.

  “Reckless is he. Now matters are worse.”

  “That boy is our last hope,” I say, and in my voice I hear Mace Windu. I hear Qui-Gon. I hear Yoda. I hear every Jedi before me who brought us here, dead and desperate and up to our knees in a swamp.

  But Yoda shakes his head. “No. There is another.”

  And it’s a long, quiet moment between us before I remind myself it isn’t Anakin. He’s not here anymore. And neither am I.

  FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT

  Cavan Scott

  Heads turned as he passed. It was hardly surprising. The people of Cloud City knew style when they saw it. His cape billowed as he swaggered toward the baron administrator’s office, the silk lining shimmering in the light from the station’s panoramic windows. Yes, this is where he belonged, not the grimy backstreets of Nar Shaddaa or the gambling dens of Vandor-1. This was where he would make his home.

  He turned the corner, winking at a beautiful Kessurian who was admiring his Tarelle-sel-weave shirt. He could feel her amber gaze lingering on his back as he continued on his way, his ronto-hide boots clicking on the polished synthstone floor. That’s it, baby, he thought to himself, take a looong look. One day you’ll be able to tell your kids how you saw the galaxy’s most eligible bachelor up close and personal. The stuff of legends.

  A courier droid tottered out of the office as he approached, a data slate tucked beneath its silver arm. He stood back to let it pass, firing off a friendly salute then sweeping through the door before it could close. Never forget the little people, that’s what Vonzel had told him when he first started smuggling, especially the droids. It was a lesson he’d tried hard to remember, no matter what the situation. You never knew when you needed a droid in your corner.

  The reception room was tastefully decorated with minimal furniture, a sweeping couch set beneath a screen showing the latest bulletin from the HoloNet. He glanced up at the display, seeing a spokesbeing for the InterGalactic Banking Clan dismissing rumors of a heist on Scipio. There wasn’t a word of truth in them, she claimed; the vault was as impregnable today as it had always been. Then why did the ticker running beneath her say that the Imperial Security Bureau was in the Albarrio system looking for an IBC employee by the name of Manakor? Linked or not, it hardly mattered to him. Cloud City was an independent state, free of Imperial entanglements, just as he liked it.

  He crossed the room, heading for a pair of frosted glass doors embossed with an elaborate seal. They opened smoothly as he approached to reveal a pale-skinned human wearing a flashing cybernetic headband.

  “Lobot! Good to see you, buddy!”

  The cyborg stepped forward, the doors sliding shut behind him.

  “I’m sorry?” he said, narrowing his light-blue eyes. “Have we met?”

  That took the wind out of his sails. “Have we met? Are you kidding me?”

  The aide shook his head. “I assure you that I am not.”

  Unbelievable. After everything they’d been through together, over the years.

  “Lobot…It’s me…Jaxxon!”

  The cyborg gave him a look so blank, it bordered on insulting.

  “You really don’t recognize me, do ya?” Jaxxon said, his whiskers drooping.

  Lobot glanced at the logpad in his hands. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do,” Jaxxon said, seizing on the sudden reprieve as if it were a life pod. “It’ll be in the diary. My secretary made it himself.”

  At least, Jaxxon hoped he had. He’d certainly told Mel to make the appointment, reminding the maintenance droid on three different occasions. That said, ML-08’s memory chips weren’t as reliable as they used to be. The last time they’d taken the Rabbit’s Foot to Musca for repairs, the droid had trundled off in search of a cooler valve and immediately forgotten where the Rabbit was docked, let alone why they had come to the shipyards in the first place.

  Lobot was still scanning the day’s schedule, Jaxxon bobbed on his heels impatiently, his hands gripping his belt buckle to stop them from snatching the reader and finding his name himself.

  “Tumperakki Haulage?” the cyborg finally inquired, looking quizzically at Jaxxon’s green face.

  Jax broke into a relieved grin. “Yeah, that’s me. Jaxxon T. Tumperakki, the Haulage King of Coachelle Prime, at yer service.”

  “You’re late,” Lobot informed him brusquely. “The meeting was an hour ago.”

  “An hour?” Jax stammered, not quite believi
ng what his long fuzzy ears were telling him. “That’s not possible. Mel…I mean, my executive assistant definitely arranged it for eleven hundred hours on the dot.”

  Lobot pressed a button. “I have the communication from your droid right here. It says ten hundred hours and lists your name as Joxxon.”

  Joxxon? Well, wasn’t that the straw that broke the bantha’s back? As soon as he got back to the ship, that pathetic excuse for a utility unit was going out an air lock, whatever Vonzel had said back in the day. Remember the little people? Mel would be in little pieces when Jaxxon was finished with him.

  Swallowing his frustration, Jaxxon slapped Lobot on the shoulder. “Well, me and Lando go back a long time. I’m sure he can fit an old pal into his busy schedule.”

  The cyborg didn’t look convinced. Instead he showed Jaxxon the couch with its glitterglass table and pile of holomags, most of which showed Calrissian’s oh-so-dashing face. “If you’d like to take a seat,” Lobot said, “I’ll see what I can do, but as you said, the baron administrator is a very busy man.”

  “I don’t doubt it. And important, too, not to mention handsome. I’ve always admired his mustache.”

  Inside, Jaxxon was dying. Not to mention handsome? Always admired his mustache? What in the name of the Holy Hutch was he saying? Once again Vonzel’s words bubbled up from his memory, a nugget of wisdom given when the old smuggler had taken Jaxxon under his wing: “The first rule of negotiation is to never look desperate, especially when you are.”

  Luckily, Lobot ignored Jaxxon’s blushes and inquired if he could get him something to drink: “A carrot juice perhaps?”

  A carrot juice? Of all the narrow-minded, bigoted things to say. Why not offer the Lepi a nice crisp lettuce while he was at it? Jaxxon wanted to tell Lobot where he could stick his carrots, but instead forced a rictus smile, reaching for the clasp at his neck. “I’m good, thanks, but you could take my cape if ya want?”

  Before the cyborg could object, Jaxxon removed the cloak and swirled it into Lobot’s face. The cyborg spluttered, suddenly smothered in the cheapest aeien silk that money could buy. Jaxxon dodged around the struggling aide, slipping through the doors before he could be stopped.

  “Jaxxon? What in the blazes are you doing here?”

  Lando Calrissian was on his feet behind a curved kriin-oak desk in an office that practically screamed class, from the Caamasi light sculptures against the wall to the well-stocked drinks cabinet beneath the oval window.

  “I’ve come to see you, of course, you old card sharp,” Jaxxon said, throwing his hands in the air half in greeting and half due to the fact that at least half a dozen hand blasters seemed to have been cocked behind him. Damn, Lobot was efficient, calling the Bespin Wing Guard in less time than it took to tell. Mel could definitely take a few lessons from the guy.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the cyborg began behind Jaxxon, but Lando waved him off with a flick of his hand.

  “It’s fine. Jaxxon’s an…old friend.”

  Jax resisted the urge to turn around and smirk as the Guard retreated, the doors sliding shut behind them.

  Lando sighed and dropped back into a seat as white as the walls. “Let me guess…the Tumperakki Haulage Company? I knew I recognized the name.”

  Jaxxon took that as his cue to launch into the spiel he’d been practicing ever since they’d set course for the Anoat system. “You know what they say, Lando ol’ pal…the future’s in haulage, and you can be a part of it.”

  Lando regarded him incredulously. “And who says that, exactly?”

  Jaxxon ignored the jibe. “Imagine it, Lando—a fleet of gleaming freighters in red, white, and yellow livery, streaking back and forth across the galaxy from Kinooine to Sernpidal, ferrying goods here, there, and everywhere. Textiles. Machine parts. Even livestock.”

  “You mean smuggling.” Lando leaned across the desk, his hands open in front of him. “Jax, those days are long behind me. I’m a legitimate businessman now.”

  “That’s great…’cos so am I.”

  Lando raised a cynical eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Of course,” Jaxxon replied, trying not to sound aggrieved. “Sure, I’ve pulled a few dodgy deals in my time…”

  “Just a few, huh?”

  “But all that’s changed. I want to go legit, just like you. I mean, look at us…” He twirled on his heels so Lando could take in the full splendor of his outfit, including the high-waisted pants that were almost a match to the pair he had seen Calrissian wearing on the cover of Free-Trader’s Gazette. “We could be brothers.”

  Lando raised a hand to stop Jaxxon’s sales pitch in its tracks. “Look…Jax…it’s great to see you, but this isn’t the time.”

  “What are you talking about? There’s never been a better time.” Jaxxon leaned across the desk, a pose he’d practiced in a polished bulkhead back aboard the Rabbit. “Think about it, shares in your own haulage fleet, able to transport Tibanna gas to every corner of Imperial space.”

  A shadow passed over Lando’s face at the mention of the Empire. “We’re doing fine as we are. Cloud City has all the haulers it needs.”

  What was wrong with the man? Couldn’t he see a golden opportunity when it was staring him in the sickeningly suave face?

  “Lando, look…all I’m asking for is a favor…a step up the ladder. I…” He rubbed the back of his neck where the Tarelle collar was chafing his fur. “I had a spot of bother with an Imperial governor not so long ago, a misunderstanding over a shipment of ryll I was transporting for the Pykes.”

  “Ryll?” Lando spluttered. “And this is you trying to go straight?”

  “It was a mistake…a mistake that nearly cost me everything. It made me look at my life, at the choices I’ve made. This isn’t easy for me, ya know? I’ve spent a lifetime building a rep that flies in the face of what the galaxy thinks of me.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “What d’ya think? I’m a Lepi. You know what folk say about us: a bunch of scruffy layabouts. And why? Because we look like giant rabbits. It’s not fair, I’ll tell ya that. Looking like a shoal of walking squids never did the Mon Calamari any harm, and the least said about the Harches the better. Those guys are literally giant spiders for pity’s sake.”

  “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

  “A chance, that’s all. It’s not easy getting by when you have ears like these. That’s why I became a smuggler in the first place. Who takes a Lepi seriously, especially out here in the Outer Rim? But you know that business…once you’re in, there’s no getting out…or so I thought, before I heard about you.”

  “What have I got to do with it?”

  “Everything. If a no-good grifter like Landonis Balthazar Calrissian can turn his life around, then why can’t I?”

  Lando’s face had softened. This was it, now or never. Jax only had one last card to play.

  “Come on, pal. I’m doing it for my kids. They deserve better than blockade-running their entire life.”

  Lando looked surprised. “Kids? I didn’t even know you had any?”

  “Oh, I don’t,” Jaxxon admitted, quickly. “Not yet, but I will, one day. Lots of ’em. What can I say? I’m a Lepi.”

  Lando laughed, shaking his head, before glancing at what Jax had assumed was an empty seat on the other side of the desk. “I’m sorry about this, Corovene.”

  Jax looked down to see a tiny figure dwarfed by the leather chair, beady eyes swiveling around on stalks to glare back up at him. It was a Troglof, its thin tentacled arms crossed across its small chest and wet lips drawn down into a scowl.

  “Oh…,” Jaxxon said, glancing nervously between the pair, “You got company. I…I didn’t know.” He nodded at the slug-faced alien by way of an apology. “How ya doing down there, little fella?”

  Corovene ignored the question, turning back
to Calrissian. “Baron, we haven’t long…”

  The comlink set into Lando’s desk buzzed, a light flashing at the center of the unit.

  “Indeed we don’t,” he said, rising to his feet. “That’ll be Lo, reminding me of my next appointment. I have a number of guests arriving for a…” He paused as if searching for the correct word. “For a dinner engagement.”

  Jaxxon’s long ears pricked up. “A dinner? Sounds great. I skipped breakfast. Lunch, too, for that matter. Maybe I can tag along? We could discuss your investment between courses. Will there be ham bones?”

  Both Corovene and Jaxxon jumped as Lando slammed his palm down on the desk.

  “Damnit, Jaxxon, there’s not gonna be an investment. There’s not gonna be anything at all!”

  Jax laughed nervously, shocked by Lando’s sudden outburst. He’d never seen Lando raise his voice before, let alone lose his cool.

  “Let’s not be hasty, eh? Forget the ham bones. They’re not important. I just don’t want you to pass up an opportunity that you’ll regret later.”

  “Regret? At the moment the only thing I’m regretting is the day I first set eyes on you. Don’t you get it? I’m not interested. I’ll never be interested, either in you or in your harebrained schemes.”

  “Harebrained?” Now Jaxxon’s hackles were well and truly raised. “There’s no need for that kind of language, after everything we’ve been through.”

  “Everything we’ve been through…” Lando snorted, standing to his full height. “You mean like the time you sold me out to Renza the Hutt…”

  “Renza? Well, that was a joke. It’s not my fault the overgrown slugball has no sense of humor…”

  “Yeah? And what about the time you told Maz Kanata that it was me who stole the Corsair’s hypercoils.”

  Jaxxon raised his hands to protest his innocence. “I still have no idea how they ended up in the Rabbit’s power core. I think that was probably Amaiza. She’s not with me anymore.”

  “Why am I not surprised? You’re a crook, Jaxxon. You always have been and you always will be, and worst of all, you’re not even a good crook.” Lando jabbed a perfectly manicured finger in the Lepi’s direction. “You waltz in here, dressed like a Surakkean peacock, expecting me to throw money at you. And why? For kids you might have one day. Listen up and listen good, my friend, because I’m never saying this again: I’ve worked hard to put my past behind me. There were no handouts and definitely no favors; just me, working my way from the bottom to the top. You wanna be like me? You wanna make something of yourself? Then hop back to that rusty hunk of metal you call a ship and do it yourself, just like I had to.”