Марта Уэллс: From a Certain Point of View

Then he dashed out of the stream of prospective refugees and into the vaulted halls of the merchants’ promenade. The shoppers were gone, but a few vendors struggled to pack their goods or lock their stalls. From somewhere outside came the electric snap of a blaster shot; he quelled the fear rising like bile in his throat and made for the far exit.

The voice that came through the intercom was nearly loud enough to muffle the chaos of the plaza—a low voice, smooth and grave and confident all at once. “This is Lando Calrissian. The Empire has taken control of the city. I advise everyone to leave before more Imperial troops arrive…”

“Treachery!” our lonely hero cried in reply.

For he was King Yathros Condorius the First, the man who had turned Cloud City from a gas miner’s watering hole to a galactic paradise. His ancestors had shared the blood of the Nothoiin nobles who had ruled the Anoat sector, and his edicts yet carried weight in the deepest pits of Bespin.

He was king, and Landonis Calrissian had been his regent, chosen to rule in his place. That choice had been the most grievous mistake of his very long life.

Treachery! he thought. Vengeance would be his!

—

It was only a few days since Yathros had become aware of Calrissian’s wicked plots. Oh, he’d long known the young baron administrator possessed an unsavory side—seen his serpentine ambition, his willingness to swindle and betray in love, cards, and dealmaking—but he’d believed (naïvely, foolishly) that Calrissian’s fondness for the ordinary folk of Bespin would overpower his darker half.

Yathros had been taking an evening stroll when the truth had become apparent. The night had been a pleasant one: He’d dined on buttery scalloped wing-eel at the Paradise Atrium (not inside the atrium, of course, where the presence of a king would’ve distracted other customers; but the owner knew Yathros well, and had left him a disposable container and dinnerware at their secret drop-off beside the kitchen door). He’d finished his latest proclamation—one regarding the treatment of the unfairly maligned silverchicks that had taken occupancy in the local parks—and turned the draft over to Or’toona Fleenk, the kindly artist who’d promised to transcribe it, print it, and post it where all of the king’s people could see. The only disappointment had come when the shuttle pilot refused to carry Yathros aboard the red line car heading to the north platform—demanding Imperial credits, as if the mark of King Yathros were insufficient. Yet even that nuisance was remedied through the intervention of a kindly Ugnaught (Yathros had always been friend to the Ugnaughts), and Yathros was able to admire his domain from the vantage he treasured most along the Grand Avenue.

Under the domes of the guildhalls, observing the cloud bands as they refracted the low evening sun, he heard a party approaching from the opposite end of the road. Turning to the sound, he saw Baron Administrator Calrissian in his usual finery (the man wore a fresh cape every day, it seemed to Yathros) flanked by two of his Wing Guards and speaking sharply to a pair of armored figures.

Yathros recognized neither of the men in armor. They were strangers in Cloud City, which was unextraordinary enough—Calrissian trucked with many outsiders, as part of his diplomatic duties. This pair, however—one in gleaming black, the other in dented green—unnerved Yathros. Neither appeared moved by Calrissian’s ire, and Calrissian appeared to flinch when the one in black replied.

It was when a third armored figure approached that Yathros understood. The newcomer wore the death-white garb of an Imperial stormtrooper and squawked urgently toward the group.

Shock mixed with fear and comprehension in the breast of Yathros, yet his duty as king was clear. With the instinct of a father swiftly correcting a toddler’s disastrous first step into a busy road, he swept forward and called, “Baron Administrator! What is this outrage?”

The group had already turned away to follow the stormtrooper. Calrissian offered a scornful glance toward Yathros before saying distinctly to one of the Wing Guards, “Take care of this. I don’t have time for his delusions.”

“The Empire will ruin you!” Yathros called, even as a Wing Guard in a pressed blue uniform made to intercept him. “Whatever pleasing treasures they offer, whatever promises they make, they know only how to consume and destroy! For your own sake, as well as Cloud City’s—”

The Wing Guard clapped a hand over his mouth. It smelled of soap and perfume. Yathros struggled, but his assailant turned him firmly about. “Not today, my king,” the man said. “Calrissian will see you another time, but not today.”

They moved together like dancers. Yathros pushed into the Wing Guard, and the Wing Guard pressed back, forcing Yathros to retrace his steps with a stumble. Yathros squinted into the face of the younger man. “You, too, Mr. Mizz? You know better than this. You recognize madness when you see it. Tell me what schemes Calrissian concocts! Have the Forbidden Acolytes poisoned his mind? Is this the work of the Invisible Cartel—”

“You can ask Calrissian yourself, another time. ” The man called Mizz sighed, the frustration practically beading on his brow. “Trust me on this, King. Remember when I got you into the Miners’ Ball? You met my brother and his family. You thought Calrissian didn’t want you there, but I got you a formal invite and everything.”

“This is not a party !” Yathros cried, and slapped his palm upon Mizz’s breast. “This is the fate of our city!”

But Mizz only turned away and hurried after Calrissian and the Imperials, the lot of whom were already out of sight.

—

That had been days ago, and all Yathros could do now was right a scant few wrongs. He’d gone searching for Calrissian but found himself in the mid-levels of the processing facility, inspiring a band of Ugnaught workers (he had always been a friend to the Ugnaughts) on their way to evacuation. He raced behind them, calling, “Hurry! Hurry!” and listening to the howling winds beneath the catwalk.

The squat humanoids grunted and ran. Together, all of them passed into a tunnel rich with the wintry metallic odor of carbonite. The Ugnaughts stopped at a lift and—at the sight of something Yathros could not see—began to squeal in alarm.

“Speak to me!” he urged.

One of the Ugnaughts turned. “King!” she said in her native tongue, but she was not allowed to continue as the others cried, “Flee!” and the door to the lift opened upon an army of Imperial stormtroopers.

Or if not an army, numbers close enough.

The Ugnaughts flowed around Yathros like steam from a burst pipe. He was ready to turn around himself, but one of the stormtroopers raised a rifle, and he was possessed by an outrage at once distant and familiar. “You will not fire on my people!” he bellowed, or tried to bellow—his hands found the barrel of the rifle, jerked it up, but then something smashed into the side of his face. He tasted blood and fell hard onto the tunnel grating.

All he heard for a long while was the ringing of a bell. Indignation kept him conscious, though his vision was blurred. Finally a boot prodded at his coat and an enunciated Core Worlds accent sneered, “Not even the rebels smell this bad.”

Yathros tried to speak around the crimson mess of his own mouth. “I needn’t be a rebel to understand what you are.”

“Let’s see some identification,” the electronic voice of a stormtrooper said. “Slowly.”

“Why, I’m Governor Tarkin! Or perhaps your nanny, come to scold you!” The taunts were feeble, and his grin was crooked; a spot of drool or blood welled at one corner of his lips.