From a Certain Point of View

by Seth Dickinson

  “I think you need a change as much as I do,” she says. “Tonight.”

  She quickly walks back to her still-empty table. I pocket her card before anyone notices and exit the club. Outside, the suns shine bright as ever. Cloud City is fully awake. I find a quiet corner to read Joy’s card.

  A Change

  Sector Four

  I knew today was going to be different. I felt it! I’ll hit up Cloud Regalia first before searching for Na’Tala. I will finally dress the part. I hurry to the wing where anyone who has any clout shops. Extravagant stores for only a privileged few, and today I’m one of them.

  “Isabalia,” I tell the droid staffing the entrance. It punches my name and the doors open. The store is exactly what I imagined: completely pristine in white and silver with racks of clothes that can appear with just a press of a button. Because it’s on the early side, the store is somewhat empty with only a handful of customers.

  “How would you like to be dressed today? Is it for a private event or a day spent in the casinos? You’re petite but shapely. Perhaps a formfitting gown that changes with every step you take?”

  I try to shoo the store droid away but it’s not possible. It is relentless.

  “I need clothes I can move around in,” I say. “For fighting. With hidden pockets and such.”

  The droid directs me to another room. I can’t help myself. I instantly gravitate to the capes.

  An older couple enters the room. The man has white hair while his partner wears hers in the elaborate Bespin braids. The man grabs a flashy outfit, stares at it with confusion, and brusquely places it back on the rack.

  “This isn’t really my style.”

  “Stop being so silly,” she says. “It’s not every day you mark a union as long and as fruitful as ours. Tonight, we celebrate.” She laughs, gently nudging at him.

  They haven’t noticed me yet. I dig deeper into a rack as if I’m looking for something in particular. I can’t stop sneaking glances over to them. How the man caresses her cheek. How she presses into his hand. I remember when my parents looked at each other like that. They were never afraid to show tenderness, to laugh loudly at their inside jokes, to hold each other. I never had a bad childhood. I was always shown affection, just like this couple freely exhibits. But poverty makes a person hungry. Love can only get you so far.

  The couple look up and see me. They give me a nod, a warm smile, and I do the same. Then they walk out with new clothes.

  The droid returns with a pile of garments for me to try on. Soon I’m dressed in an extravagant blue jumpsuit with a matching cape.

  “A dash of the baron administrator’s taste is always a good thing,” the droid says. I walk out of the store wearing my new threads, throwing the old ones away.

  * * *

  —

  Breaking in to Na’Tala’s place is pretty easy. Her room is as small as mine, but unlike my empty space devoid of any personality, Na’Tala’s unit is an explosion of color and items. Clothes are thrown everywhere and every centimeter of her wall is a piece of art or a declaration. “BE FREE!” “NO FEAR!”

  I rummage through her stuff, trying to find a clue, anything to point me in the right direction. Unfortunately, I find nothing but more affirmations.

  Annoyed, I head out. Before I close the door my boot crunches down on something. I bend and pick up the two cracked pieces of a card. “A Change Sector Four.”

  Sector Four is where it’s at, apparently. My destination is set.

  As I draw nearer to the sector, I hear the sound of voices, hushed but still there. A gathering. Did Joy invite me and Na’Tala to a secret party?

  “If we stop work then they will have to meet our demands for better pay. We run Cloud City. Without us, the city simply won’t function.”

  Joy is at the center of this gathering, but this isn’t a social get-together. This is bad news. They’re trying to overthrow Cloud City rules. It’s not possible. Lando will never allow it. There’s a reason why we are not part of the Mining Guild. We are able to thrive under secrecy. Protesting against how things run in Cloud City is a fruitless endeavor.

  “They’re wasting their time,” I mutter to myself.

  “Are we?” Na’Tala suddenly appears beside me. “Heard you’ve been looking for me. Still playing the role of Elad’s messenger? Don’t worry. I got my own message for Elad.”

  Na’Tala walks away and joins the others.

  “Full city stoppage. It’s the only way to get their attention,” Joy says. She looks radiant, more beautiful than ever. “Who is with us?”

  The crowd nods in agreement. After a few more fiery speeches, I’m left wondering why Joy thinks I would be a part of this.

  “What did you think?” she asks as the crowd lingers, excited and ready for action.

  “I think you guys are in for a losing battle,” I say. “Cloud City is built for business and pleasure, or have you forgotten Lando’s mandate?”

  “I’ve seen you take these little jobs,” she says. “Apprehend this two-bit player. Rough up another. You’re more than that. We all are.”

  How can she be so sure? This time I can’t hold her stare. Instead I look down at my shiny new boots.

  “I believe in you even now when you can’t meet my eyes,” she says.

  My face burns up.

  “This is a pivotal time. Don’t you want to be a part of this?” Joy asks. “A real movement.”

  She rests her hand on my arm, gently squeezes it. The crowd around us has all but disappeared. It’s just Joy and this hope she’s offering me.

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “Because it’s time to come out from the shadows and be with your people,” she says. “We’re right on the edge. It’s time to take a leap.”

  I’m not used to this. She’s laying it out plain for me, this chance. But I’m destined to walk another path. Maybe if I explain this to Joy, she would understand.

  “When I take care of this one thing, then I’ll be able to do whatever I want,” I say. “Boba Fett can show me the ropes and—”

  Her face falls.

  “You’re looking at a man hired to track others as your ticket out.” She says this with such disappointment. “I guess you better run off then. I’m sure the person you hurt won’t mind. At least you’ll be dressed in nice clothes while you do it.”

  Joy storms off, and I’m left there feeling foolish in this jumpsuit that suddenly feels too tight.

  * * *

  —

  There’s so much unrest. Whispers of the work stoppage due to start any minute. Strange new faces about. And through it all, I just can’t stop thinking of Joy and her words. I stare at the beldons but they hold no answers for me today.

  Nothing has felt right. When I finally caught up with Na’Tala she didn’t put up a fight; instead she simply shook her head. “You are on the wrong side,” she said before I deposited her back to the Azure Den and Elad. I completed my task, and Elad promised the introduction I’ve been waiting for. The carbon freezing facility is where I’m to meet Boba Fett this morning. Everything I’ve worked on for so long is about to come true. Yet, why do I feel like bantha crap?

  I double check that my Relby-K23 blaster is secure underneath my cape with the vibroknuckler in my pocket. I try to ignore the disapproving voices in my head but it’s not working. A bounty hunter must be single-minded and focused. I’m none of those things. I’m just torn.

  Recnelo scurries past me without uttering a word.

  “No insult for me, Recnelo? It’s not like you,” I say, matching her quick stride.

  “I need to be somewhere, but you already know that.”

  “I’m heading to the carbon freezing facility, too,” I say. “We can go together.”

  “You’re joining the work stoppage then. Correct?”
r />   She stops when I don’t respond.

  “Open your eyes, Isabalia. You think the beldons are floating out there for your viewing pleasure. They once were fierce creatures,” she says with frustration. “Did you know Cloud City sedates them to keep them docile?”

  “There’s more to life than what Cloud City can offer. Don’t you think I deserve it?” I ask. “Please tell Joy I’m sorry.”

  “No, Isabalia, you’re wrong. You are Cloud City.”

  Recnelo walks away and I’m left to contend with this truth. She meets Joy at the end of the passageway, and they head toward the carbon freeze. Along the way they collect a couple more people and eventually stop at the entrance of the facility. Like a fool, I follow a few steps behind and watch as things unfurl.

  If the work stoppage begins here, I can easily slip into the facility through a side entrance. Boba Fett is surely waiting inside. Joy briefly looks my way, as does Recnelo. Everything is converging at once and I must make a choice. Follow Boba Fett to a future I’ve been planning for months or join the others. Joy, Recnelo, even my parents, see something in me I’m failing to see. A person I’m meant to be. Which future do I embrace when both are so uncertain?

  “Stop right there!”

  A stormtrooper appears out of nowhere, blaster at the ready. Recnelo and Joy argue with the trooper but he refuses to listen. He aims a blaster at them.

  Before I can think I run toward the stormtrooper, brandishing the Relby-K23. I shoot toward the stormtrooper’s knees right as he turns to me. He buckles, but still shoots, barely missing me. I don’t stop. I head straight toward him, kicking his blaster out of his hands. I straddle the trooper. Punching with all I’ve got. Finding ways past his armor to inflict pain with fear and adrenaline propelling me. Only a few more blows cement who is truly in control of this situation.

  “Listen up, Imperial trash,” I say. “Your ugly white uniforms are not welcome in Cloud City.”

  The last punch is more than enough to knock the stormtrooper out cold. I get up, wiping beads of sweat from my forehead. My new outfit is ruined by a large tear down the side of the jumpsuit.

  “I heard there’s a work stoppage happening,” I say after a couple of beats. “Not sure if I’m dressed for it but…”

  Joy chuckles, flashing that smile.

  “There’s hope for you yet, Isabalia,” she says.

  This time I hold her stare. Maybe I can even hold it for a lifetime.

  “Enough of that, you two.” Recnelo says. “The work is before us.”

  “C’mon!” Joy says. “Our people are waiting.”

  She grabs my hand, and I don’t let go.

  NO TIME FOR POETRY

  Austin Walker

  “Can you believe they pay us for this?”

  It wasn’t the excitement in Dengar’s voice that surprised IG-88, who stood next to the Corellian bounty hunter as he piloted his way through wreckage and debris. As the galaxy’s deadliest assassin droid, IG-88 had crossed paths with plenty of overexuberant bounty hunters, the sort who convinced themselves that obsessive thrill seeking was a vocation. Dengar, yanking back the yoke of his JumpMaster 5000 as it dodged incoming detritus, was just one more fool with a blaster.

  “C’mon, c’mon…Come to Dengar.”

  Nor was IG-88 nonplussed by the bounty hunter’s mangled Imperial accent. Compared with the elegant edge of Imperial officers’ speech, Dengar’s voice was a makeshift shiv. This evaluation was not a judgment on the part of IG-88, though. People seemed to think that accents reflected intelligence or authority, but the droid knew better. The way an organism spoke was only one more patina layer of ugly organic inefficiency. Eventually, the assassin considered, they wouldn’t be around to speak at all. So much would be improved, then.

  “Damnit! Lost him. Iggy, start a thermal scan would you, mate? We can’t let him get away now.”

  There it was again. The second-person plural. “Us.” “We.” That was what had taken IG-88 aback. Had the organic forgotten the terms of their arrangement? Was this a ploy? Better to confirm now that Dengar remembered that the moment they had their prey in hand, his life would be forfeit. Best to remind him.

  “One of us will be paid, Corellian. Or do you not recall our agreement?” IG-88’s cylindrical head twisted to face Dengar. This was, of course, only for effect. The sensor array in the IG series was not limited by simple organic limitations such as “facing.”

  Dengar let out a playful sigh as he brought his ship to a halt, hidden behind the massive sublight engine of a wrecked frigate. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your circuits in a twist, you walkin’ vaporator. You and me, we each got coordinates from Fett. Just like Bossk an’ the oth—”

  “Those coordinates were fraudulent.”

  “Of course they were! I’m gettin’ there, you absolute lamp.” Dengar readjusted his posture, stretched his fingers, regripped the ship’s yoke, and cleared his throat. “As I was sayin’, Fett gave everyone dummy info. But you and me, we’re too smart for that. We cracked his system and found the coordinates he was keepin’ for himself. And hard as it is to admit, two of us together got a better shot at catchin’ Solo.” Dengar’s voice twisted in subdued rage as he said the name. “Especially if he’s got his rebel pallies with him.”

  “That is not the deal,” IG-88 said, in as close to a scold as the machine could emit. “That is the circumstance of the deal. Confirm that you understand the arrangement.”

  The already cramped cockpit of Punishing One, Dengar’s ship, felt a little smaller for a moment. Both of its inhabitants were killers, and each knew that a deal like theirs could fall apart at any moment, even now as they neared their prey. IG-88 was, after all, a droid known for ruthless opportunism. And even in their short time together, he had realized that Dengar was fond of claiming not to have a conscience at all. Whether it had been taken from him by a life of violence—the tragedy scarring his face and body—by a poorly installed cybernetic modification, or by some other loathsome quirk of illogical organic life, IG-88 did not know and did not care.

  Dengar’s voice dropped, stone-cold serious. “When we get him, our truce is over. You and me, we’ll have a prizefight fit for the dueling arenas of Nar Shaddaa. And only one of us will walk away with the purse.”

  “Good.” It was fundamentally a productive understanding. The pair would have higher odds of capturing Solo than the independent hunters like Fett or the Trandoshan Bossk, who had no one to watch their backs. But neither would IG-88 and Dengar be weighted down by the ungainly sentimentalism that came with being long-term hunting partners like 4-LOM and Zuckuss.

  The bounty hunter sank a little lower in his seat before a thought seemed to cross his mind, lifting him back up into his normal, spirited posture. “Now, wait a second, assassin. Why all this effort into making sure I remember the particulars? You ain’t secretly a protocol droid, are ya?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  A laugh from the Corellian. He must have confused IG-88’s swift rebuttal for comedic cadence. Which again, IG-88 thought to himself, Absolutely not.

  “Now, Iggy, back to work, yeah? Get us that thermal scan so we can find our mark.”

  “That would be a waste of time, Dengar. This area is contaminated with interference. Such a scan will be useless.” The coordinates Fett had provided Dengar with had led the duo to a debris field in the Outer Rim, one of the few reminders of the Clone Wars’ massive starship battles. The Empire had been extremely thorough with its salvage operations in the years after the war, but this wreckage had been left behind for some reason. And though it had been years since these ships had seen combat, the entire area was radiated with their heat.

  “Ah, the present is always haunted by the past, isn’t it, droid?”

  “I do not have time for trite poetry, bounty hunter.”

  “You also apparently don�
�t have time to offer up an alternative.” Dengar leaned across the starship’s console and flicked a few switches. “But no worries there. I don’t need one anyway. Activating thermal scan.”

  Don’t have time? IG-88 could have killed Dengar a dozen different ways in the time it took the Corellian to speak those words. In fact, the droid’s mastery over time was so complete that he ran internal simulations of doing exactly that and luxuriated in the internally visualized display of his power and mastery.

  “See, piston-head, I’m not looking for Solo’s thermal signature.” He flicked a few more switches as IG-88 came out of his reverie. “I’m looking for the absence of Solo’s thermal signature.”

  “Impossible. Even if you know the make of Solo’s ship—”

  “And I do. We’re chasing a modified YT-1300 Corellian light freighter. Not as hot as its reputation might lead you to believe, I may add.” He hit another switch and then a toggle.

  “Do not interrupt me, organic.” IG-88 again rotated his cylindrical head to add punctuation. Deep inside his advanced computer core, he considered that adopting such an affect might be akin to gaining his own sort of accent, and began to calculate exactly how troubling such an inefficiency was.

  “Sorry, partner. You were saying?”

  “I was explaining that even with the Millennium Falcon’s information, this debris field’s level of thermal pollution is so high—”

  Before the droid could finish his sentence, Punishing One’s auxiliary computers lit up like pyrotechnics. A YT-1300 light freighter had been hiding in the desolate shell of a Trade Federation Lucrehulk-class battleship. Solo.

  Dengar couldn’t hold back the smirk forming on his lips. In fact, he didn’t even try. “That doesn’t count as interrupting you, I hope?”

  “How did you achieve such signal resolution?”

  “Ah, well, you need to understand exactly how a smuggler like Solo thinks. It’s an old trick, before your time I’d guess. And the sort of thing that wouldn’t make its way into even the most rigorous of Imperial memory cores.” Dengar’s voice took on the posh tone of an Imperial admiral as he delivered the line, which only worked to make IG-88 wonder why the bounty hunter had not chosen to adopt the more socially prestigious accent. Simultaneously and elsewhere in the droid’s constantly whirring verbobrain, IG-88 took permanent note of the technique. He understood it now, and that was all that mattered.