The Last Jedi

by Michael Reaves

  “Yeah, he could. But he wouldn’t. And I’m pretty sure Vader knows that as well as we do.”

  “Granted.” I-Five punched the hyperdrive controls. Space blurred, the stars becoming streamers of varicolored light. “And I suppose you could be right about Vader—perhaps he is toying with Jax. Or perhaps he’s simply wary of him. In either case, it begs a most interesting question.”

  “That being?”

  “Why?”

  Den was quiet for a moment. “I don’t like that question.”

  “Maybe you’ll like this one better, because it arises simultaneously: how well does Darth Vader know himself?”

  Den was quiet for a longer time. At last he said, “It’s a good thing you opted for indispensable metal sidekick.”

  “Yes? Why?”

  “Because you suck at comedy relief.”

  In his cabin, Jax walked back through their brief stay on Coruscant—realizing how close he’d come to giving up the whole mission by affording Vader a chance to recognize him. More than ever, he longed for his Master’s guiding hand, for Yimmon’s quiet strength, for Laranth’s cool, clean pragmatism. But as much as he hungered for their presence, he felt haunted by them.

  He sat down before the miisai tree to steady himself, to work out their next steps, but his attempts to empty his mind of ghosts met with only limited success. He focused his awareness on the miisai tree—a fractal structure of pulsing light, shedding pale ribbons of Force energy into his small cabin. He reached out with his own awareness, touching the field generated by the tree, moving beyond it toward its Source.

  He was forced to banish Laranth from his thoughts repeatedly, but finally succeeded in emptying himself into the Force, stretching his awareness out to sense, to listen, to feel. He let his consciousness float in the Force eddies—an island, both disconnected and connected. In this state, he fixed his mind on Thi Xon Yimmon. If he reached out to the Cerean’s powerful intellect, he might be able to sense him—the epicenter of tiny ripples in the fabric of the Force. But it made more sense—dangerous as it might be—to seek Vader. As a powerful Force-user, Darth Vader inhabited the Force in a way that Jax could detect quickly and easily; a much more noticeable presence than Yimmon, like a planet-sized dent in the space–time continuum as opposed to a small asteroid.

  Anger—hot, swift, and unreasoning—swelled momentarily in his breast. Why? Why was Vader what he was? How had Anakin become the enemy?

  If you touch him with that much rage in your heart, he’ll know, the voice within him, thin and small and low-key, reminded him. Or with fear consuming you. He’ll know you’re alive. He’ll know how much he’s hurt you. And he’ll know he can reel you in.

  It was true. The clarity of the knowledge, the certainty of it, all but stopped Jax’s breath in his throat. He was trapped by the rawness of his own emotions, for he could not go anywhere near Vader with either fear or anger dominating him. Somehow, between now and the time they reached Mandalore, he had to armor himself. He had to be able to sense Darth Vader without Vader sensing him—until it was too late.

  He needed time. And he needed help. Whiplash was out, and he’d already jeopardized the resistance fighters on Toprawa more than he ought to have—never mind that there was a chance betrayal had come from that quarter. Something bothered him about that idea, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

  Jax shook off the vague unease and tried to think ahead to Mandalore. Even with his Force sensitivity in play, their chances of being able to scare up any real intelligence with a haphazard approach could prove to be a time-consuming exercise in futility.

  Where could they get such help? They were cut off. Cut off from the resistance and from Whiplash.

  He felt a sudden kinship with Tuden Sal. The Sakiyan must have felt something like this when he was first expelled from his entrepreneurial support network. When he’d lost his family, his business holdings, his contacts—

  Jax felt as if the universe had paused in its ceaseless movement, waiting for him to catch up.

  Sal’s contacts.

  Jax knew the Sakiyan hadn’t lost touch with all of them. In fact, he occasionally used them to provide information, to distract attention, to misdirect black-market arms shipments.

  Jax rose and went forward to the bridge. He found his companions right where he’d left them, though now Den was staring moodily out of the forward viewport.

  “How soon can we drop out of hyperspace?” Jax asked I-Five.

  “I’d planned on it in approximately fifteen minutes and … four seconds. That way we’ll seem to be adhering to our flight plan—if anyone’s watching. Why do you ask?”

  “I need to talk to Sal. Let him know where we’re going. What we’re doing.”

  “Isn’t that rather risky?”

  “We can encrypt the message. We can even bounce the signal and make it seem to be coming from somewhere else. If we take those precautions, we should be all right. It won’t be much—just a quick exchange of information.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Good.” Jax reached out and touched the droid’s helm briefly. Then he sat down in the jump seat behind the pilot’s station and joined Den in staring out the viewport.

  “You okay?” the Sullustan asked him. “You seem … edgy.”

  “I’m fine. Just … I know what I need to do.”

  “Oh. Okay then.” Den smiled at him, relief all but oozing from his pores.

  At I-Five’s precise mark, they dropped out of hyperspace and adjusted their course to point them into Mandalorian space.

  The droid looked over at Jax. “We’re parked. You can talk to Sal anytime.”

  “Good.” Jax slid out of the seat and headed aft. “I’ll use the comm console in engineering.”

  He saw Den’s head swivel toward him as he slipped from the bridge. He felt … strange. He was being secretive, and they all knew it. And he suspected that neither Den nor I-Five would approve of what he was about to do. He doubted Laranth would, either.

  Well, he’d deal with all that later. Every action carried risk, but he had to act.

  Fourteen

  Jax both encrypted the communication and bounced the signal from the Laranth’s main communications array off a satellite orbiting the farthest-flung planet in the nearby Champala system. Someone would have to be in the room with Tuden Sal to receive Jax’s unencrypted side of the dialogue and would—if they were able to trace the transmission—assume that it originated several light-hours from where it actually did.

  “Jax!”

  Tuden Sal’s holographic image appeared as if standing in the middle of the ship’s small engineering bay. The Sakiyan took a step toward the holo-emitter and lowered his voice. “What—where are you?”

  “Outbound from Coruscant. Listen, I need to talk to you about resources. I—”

  “We can’t afford you any resources right now, even if I could get them to you. They’re engaged elsewhere.”

  Jax frowned and followed the digression. “In what?”

  “In a plan that you would also be a part of if you weren’t trying so hard to win the war all by yourself.”

  Jax ignored the personal analysis. “What plan?”

  Sal shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you were here to participate in it, I’d tell you. But you seem about to fly blindly off into disaster. If you were to be captured …”

  Jax nodded. “Yes, of course. I understand.”

  Sal unfolded his arms and moved forward another step. He made a beseeching gesture. “Please, Jax. I don’t know how far out you are, but please reconsider. What can you and your team do on your own? Stay connected to Whiplash—to the resistance. Out there, you’ll just be roguing it. Here, you’ll be part of a larger effort. Here, you can hurt the Empire far more than if you’re gallivanting across the starlanes on some wild bantha chase. And you won’t be costing us any further resources.”

  Jax cringed. “It seems to me that Whiplash h
as disconnected from me. And from Yimmon. But that’s not why I’m contacting you.”

  “Where are you heading, Jax? What are you planning? If you’re after Vader—”

  “I don’t want revenge, Sal. I just want to free Yimmon. Then I want to work toward freeing the entire galaxy from the Empire’s power. I want to see the Jedi Order rise again. I want to be part of the effort to rebuild.”

  “Which is all the more reason for you not to put yourself in harm’s way again,” Sal argued. “What if you are the last Jedi, Jax? Have you thought about that? What if you’re the only one left to rebuild? You may be the only person alive who can transmit the knowledge of the Jedi to future Padawans.” Sal scanned the Jedi’s face. “You have considered that, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. That doesn’t change what I have to do.”

  Sal continued to gaze at Jax for a long, silent moment. Then his shoulders slumped perceptibly. “I’m sorry you feel that way. So … then you’re committed to this … crusade.”

  “I am. Everything in me tells me I have to do this.”

  “Obviously, nothing I say will convince you otherwise.” Sal made a weary, dismissive gesture. “I wish I could help you, but …”

  “Actually,” Jax said, “I think you can help me. You have contacts in Black Sun.”

  Sal’s surprise was obvious. “I did have contacts in Black Sun. Before they stood by and watched the Emperor ruin me. I haven’t been in touch with them since.”

  “I know that’s not strictly true. You have been in touch with some of them.”

  “One or two. And only briefly. Why?”

  “Black Sun operates openly on parts of Mandalore and Concordia. I need to start my investigation there. Maybe your contacts could help me out.”

  Sal snorted. “You’d do better to go in and tell them you’d shot me and mounted my head on your cabin wall.”

  “If you think that would work,” Jax said quietly.

  Sal’s expression showed naked fear for a split second before he recovered himself. Perhaps he had just remembered that he was talking to the man whose father he had unwittingly betrayed.

  “I’ll give you a name and contact information,” he agreed. “You’ll have to figure out what approach is best to take. As I said, I’m not sure claiming me as an ally would be helpful. Except in one case—an Arkanian system lieutenant named Tyno Fabris. He actually seemed to have a conscience about what happened to me. Not enough of one to explain to me why Black Sun was suddenly doing the Empire’s bidding, but enough for him to keep finding ways to make it up to me. One thing, though. I’ve always communicated with Fabris through a location scrambler. He doesn’t know I’m on Coruscant. In fact, with the hints I’ve dropped, he believes I’m on Klatooine. He also thinks I’m an arms dealer.”

  “All right.”

  Sal took one more step closer so that he was face-to-virtual-face with Jax. “Jax, he can’t know I’m on Coruscant. None of them can.”

  Jax nodded. “I understand.”

  “I know you do. And I’m hoping—”

  Jax knew what he was hoping. “I won’t betray you, Sal.”

  The Sakiyan dropped his gaze and stepped back. “I’m … I’m sorry, Jax. You can’t begin to imagine—” He cut off and turned his head sharply to the left. “Someone’s here.”

  Jax ended the transmission. A tug of some chaotic emotion—almost a mental static—pulled his attention in the direction of the bridge. Den. Probably fretting over being a sitting duck.

  Jax grimaced and pinged the bridge. “Let’s get out of here,” he told I-Five.

  “Didn’t I hear Jax’s voice?” Pol Haus stepped into the Whiplash conference room and looked around, pointedly. Tuden Sal was alone in the room, but the prefect had heard enough to know whom he’d been talking to and what about.

  “Jax is offworld.”

  “Offworld? Already? What happened?”

  The Sakiyan Whiplash leader lowered himself into a chair at the conference table. “He didn’t say. Wouldn’t even tell me where he was … or where he was going. But I suspect he’s gone after Vader.”

  Haus wanted to ask Sal why he was lying about Jax’s plans but knew that would reveal how much of the conversation he’d overheard. Instead he asked, “So they’re not coming back for a while, then?”

  “No. And I have to say, that may be for the best. He hasn’t been right since …” He made a gesture that indicated the galaxy outside the train car.

  “The kid has been through a lot in the last two years.”

  The Sakiyan’s face flushed a darker shade of bronze. “Yes. He has. Which is why it may be to the benefit of all concerned if he’s not involved in Whiplash activities for a while.”

  “You mean this new plan of yours?”

  “Jax might endanger the mission.”

  Haus nodded. “He might at that. Speaking of which, I have some interesting intel for you. Vader has sent all but a handful of Inquisitors offworld.”

  He had Sal’s entire attention. “A handful? How big a handful?”

  “All but four or five, by our best count. And Vader headed out soon after.”

  Sal rose from the chair, zeal brightening his eyes. “Then the Emperor …”

  “Is missing most of his deadliest defenders.”

  “Where is he?”

  Haus took a deep breath. He could see that Tuden Sal was practically trembling with anticipation. “I don’t know. Ostensibly, he’s at the Imperial Palace. But there are rumors he may actually be elsewhere.”

  “I want to hear those rumors, Pol. Every last one.”

  Fifteen

  Mandalore was a culture divided. The wartime activities of a consortium of criminal elements known as the Shadow Collective had proved too much for the New Mandalorians to handle. Satine’s government had fallen and a violently dissenting group calling itself Death Watch had arisen to give the members of the Shadow Collective—largely Black Sun and Hutt organizations—a titanic headache. After the initial paroxysm of hostilities had passed, a puppet Prime Minister had been installed, and things had quieted down.

  Still, the atmosphere on Mandalore was one of simmering uncertainty. It was peaceful enough on the surface—even with the strong Death Watch presence—but the dissolution of the Shadow Collective had left a power vacuum. Into this vacuum, Black Sun—personified by the Falleen Vigo, Prince Xizor—had oozed like malevolent slime.

  Tuden Sal’s contact, Tyno Fabris, was the new Vigo’s lieutenant, living a discreet existence in the old Mandalorian capital of Keldabe. So that was where Jax set the ship down—at a small landing facility in the considerable shadow of the MandalMotors tower. She was still the Corsair but now carried a Tatooine registry.

  The discretion of Tyno Fabris’s existence was a bit unusual. Arkanians were not the most humble of beings; they tended to think of themselves as the apex of evolution. To find an Arkanian in Black Sun was unusual enough, but to find one who kept a low profile was even more surprising.

  Once on the ground, Jax slipped into a disguise calculated to make him fit into Keldabe’s hardscrabble, chaotic environment. He wore a blaster at his hip, covered his back and chest with lightweight body armor, and had bound his lengthening hair back in a metal clasp. He’d even gone so far as to fit himself with a contact lens that made his right eye look as if it had been replaced with a cybernetic implant. An artful scar ran down his right cheek, bisecting the eyelid.

  He looked hard, like a mercenary … and like he could have been Sacha Swiftbird’s male twin.

  The disguise didn’t end with his clothing. It was also a persona that he slipped into. Corran Vigil was a dealer in precious contraband, a man who lived on the fringes in a completely different way than Jax Pavan had done. He’d had I-Five give him a record as both a smuggler and a ruthless procurer of hard-to-find items. The record of his disreputable existence was buried in obscure places because those were what I-Five could access without raising alarms, but if anyone looked for Corra
n Vigil, they would assume his obscurity was due to attempts to hide.

  Jax had not told either I-Five or Den whose counsel he was going to seek, and so sent them off to glean information about a possible Imperial presence on Mandalore or Concordia, and to further aid I-Five’s rebuilding. He, meanwhile, headed for the Oyu’baat tapcaf, arguably the oldest cantina in continuous service in Keldabe. If there were Black Sun operatives on Mandalore, that was a likely place for them to do business.

  The Oyu’baat was a large establishment that took up several floors of a building that looked like a museum piece. It was constructed entirely of wood and stone with swaths of plaster from which chunks had fallen, leaving artful gaps that displayed the history of the building’s various façades—brown, pale gray, even an amazing shade of orange that Jax was certain had never existed in nature on any world. The wooden ridgepole that anchored the tiled roof was as big around as three men and jutted from beneath the eaves like the prow of a sailing ship. It reminded Jax forcibly that Keldabe had originally been a fortress.

  He entered beneath the shadow of the cantina’s massive portico, eyeing patrons who passed him on their way out even as they gave him calculating once-overs. The main room of the tavern was a noisy, smoky cavern of dark wood and vivid tapestries depicting various legendary figures and events from Mandalorian history. Red was a dominant color. There was a lot of bloodshed in Mandalorian history.

  At the top of the broad, shallow staircase that led down into the main room, Jax paused to look around. The center of the immense chamber was dominated by two curving bars. One apparently served food, the other beverages—including the spiced caf that the Oyu’baat was famous for. Both bars were lined with customers, jostling one another for service.

  Around the raised perimeter of the room, tables were scattered at intervals while booths ringed the walls; each booth had a sliding wooden screen that could be slipped across the opening for privacy. Behind the bars, at the far end of the room, was a fireplace he could have parked a small shuttle in. It was from a period in which it—along with a scattering of braziers—had provided heat for the frontier gathering place. At least a dozen people could have sat in the alcove around the main fire pit. It was a chilly day—flames leapt in the huge grate, and a number of patrons gathered around it.