Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

Could be nothing. Could be flying conditions weren’t great today. The emissaries were grumbling, faces twisted up in annoyance, their leisure time interrupted.

The corridor that would take him to his job, overseeing pressure levels in the reactor stalk, was directly to his left. But Willrow couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, so he looked for Bexley’s cloud car, finding it parked in its assigned bay.

Bexley was hunched over with her back to him. One of the car’s orange panels was flipped up, and she was surveying the electrical guts of the ship. Her blond hair curled out from underneath her shiny white helmet, and Willrow thought, Yeah, it’ll be worth it, being a little late. Hadrian could pick up his slack on the console for a few minutes. She turned toward him before he had a chance to call her name.

And usually she smiled when she saw him.

But today she looked just as worried as Willrow felt.

“Who’s throwing the party?” Willrow asked, throwing a thumb at the crowds.

Bexley pulled a rag out of her pocket to wipe her hands, not making eye contact. “Got called back in. I was driving around some guy from Canto Bight. Offered me a bunch of credits to just ignore it and stay out there. I swear, there’s no talking to people with money.”

“You got through to him, though, I bet?” Willrow asked, ending the comment with a roguish smirk.

Normally Bexley was happy to engage in a little flirtatious sparring, but her mouth remained a flat line. “Uh-huh.”

Willrow looked around at the milling throng. No one seemed to be leaving yet, holding out hope that the delays were temporary. But there’d been no announcements. No warnings. He turned back to Bexley, who was staring off into space, and asked her, “What’s going on?”

She looked around to make sure they were out of earshot, then took a step toward Willrow and dropped her voice. “I was talking to another pilot. Said he was over in the big shuttle bay trying to scare up a part to fix his repulsorlift. He said he saw…” She dropped her voice lower. “Vader.”

Willrow tried to respond and found he couldn’t, the muscles in his throat paralyzed. He felt a surge of fear that made him think of being a child, trying to fall asleep in a pitch-black room. That utter terror that there could be monsters just beyond the edge of his vision.

“He’s…here?” Willrow finally managed to get out, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I mean…he’s real. And he’s here?”

“Real,” Bexley said, matching the quietness and fear in his voice. “And very tall, apparently.”

Why would Darth Vader, of all people, be in Cloud City? Why would he come here personally ? Lando Calrissian, the city’s administrator, seemed intent on staying neutral and avoiding Imperial attention. And despite the fact that the man was more interested in the benefits of power than the work that came along with it, he did a decent job staying under the Empire’s radar.

It’s why Willrow liked it here. Cloud City was just small enough to be unimportant.

After a moment he realized his hands were shaking.

Bexley nodded. “Yeah. Vader, a mess of stormtroopers, even a Mandalorian. So”—she cocked her head toward the grumpy masses—“I’m figuring this has something to do with that.”

Willrow took a step back, suddenly less interested in Bexley, and his work shift, and just about anything else that didn’t involve Vader in Cloud City. He mumbled a quick “hold on” to Bexley and darted back toward the throng of waiting ambassadors, barely catching the incredulous response she threw back. As soon as he cleared the densest part of the crowd, he broke into a run.

He briefly considered checking in with Hadrian, making an excuse about a stomach bug or something, but Willrow realized it wasn’t worth it.

He wasn’t coming back.

The living quarter corridors were mercifully empty, so Willrow was able to keep a quick pace. He turned the corner to his hallway, nearly barreling over a service droid pushing a trash cart, which let loose a furious stream of beeps in his wake. He fell into his door, pressing his thumb hard to the sensor pad.

The door slid aside with a whoosh, and he surveyed the dark, brutalist confines—far removed from the spacious, glowing accommodations afforded to the city’s upper class. This place had suited his needs, but he would not miss it. He thought about changing for the trip and was about to strip off his orange jumpsuit, but the clock was ticking.

He dived for the chest under his bed, pulled it out, and flipped up the top.

It was empty.

He fell back into a sitting position, head spinning.

Even though gas mining was the biggest industry in Cloud City, Willrow wasn’t paid very well. The big money was reserved for the people who owned the machinery but didn’t actually know how to operate it. Willrow was exhausted, killing himself to make someone else rich. For the past few months he’d been harassing his sometime drinking buddy Faron, a Rodian smuggler, to give him a job.

Every day, Willrow sat at his console, monitoring pressure levels, venting gases, doing little more than watching lights and pressing buttons. And every day, he dreamed of a new life. Something where he could make himself rich, instead of somebody else. A job that got him out of Cloud City and into the wider reaches of the galaxy.

Smuggling carried such an allure: Be your own boss, visit different planets, wear your own clothes instead of a stupid orange jumpsuit. Maybe even a little time for some no-strings-attached romantic liaisons.

Willrow was a hard worker. He was sure it wouldn’t be long before he could afford his own ship. He just needed some entrée to that world.

So he was thrilled when, a week ago, Faron showed up at his room with the package, the assignment, and an up-front payment of ten thousand credits. It was due on Batuu three days from now.

As Faron passed on the gig, he also passed on a warning.

The woman you’re bringing it to, Faron had said, her name is Tropos. You deliver this safely and on time, you get another forty thousand credits. Anything happens? Let’s just say Tropos has ways of making people disappear. But not until she makes every person you ever loved disappear first.

Faron wasn’t prone to exaggeration. And there was a shiver in his voice when he spoke the name, like it was accompanied by a burst of cold air.

Willrow hadn’t worried about completing the job. He had planned to leave tomorrow, and he was especially looking forward to a few days on Batuu. Some sun and a few drinks and, even though his waistline would protest, some Nectrose Freeze.

But with the Empire here, his dreams of glowing drinks and ice cream were slipping away. He racked his brain, trying to think of who might know the contents of the chest. He hadn’t told anyone…

Except Bexley.

Two nights ago, at the bar. To get to Batuu, Willrow needed a pilot. And not a cloud car. He needed a ship with hyperdrive. Bexley said she could borrow one from a pilot she knew, but it wouldn’t be cheap. Willrow was feeling good, between the drinks and the thought of spending a little time in a cramped cockpit with Bexley. He asked her if ten thousand credits would be worth the cost of the rental and her time. She smiled and ordered another round.

And yeah, he’d told her he had a package to deliver. But not what it was, or to who, or how much he was supposed to get in return for it.

Right?

He’d had a lot to drink. And Bexley looked good that night.

Maybe he’d told her more than he should have. But when could she have taken it? He’d been out running errands all morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d checked the chest. Two days ago? Three? How did she even gain access to his room?