The Last Jedi

by Michael Reaves

  “Did he say that he was going to meet with someone from Black Sun?”

  “You were eavesdropping on the conversation—you know what he said. He was … careful. When Jax is careful with his words, I think I have every right to worry.” Den shook himself. “What do you think we should do?”

  “I think we should be ready to move. Why don’t you run the pre-launch sequence.” The droid turned and scooted back into the workshop area.

  Den wasn’t even tempted to laugh. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to slip into disguise and do a little recon.”

  Twenty

  Sal put the train in motion the moment Pol Haus came aboard. A precaution, merely. There was no way of knowing what the police prefect might do if he thought he had been compromised. For all Tuden Sal knew, Haus was taking orders directly from ISB.

  He gritted his teeth as Haus came through into the council car. Schooled his face to expressionless calm as the other man’s gaze swept the empty chamber, at last returning to rest on the Sakiyan sitting at the head of the long table.

  “Am I the first one aboard?”

  “You’re the only one aboard. Have a seat.” Sal gestured at a chair along one side of the table.

  Haus slid into a chair three seats down from Sal. “No one else could come?”

  “No one else was invited.”

  Haus shook his shaggy head. “I thought we agreed there weren’t going to be any closed meetings. That sort of thing leads to factions, internal division—”

  “And what does disinformation lead to, Pol?”

  The prefect raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “The Emperor’s forces have been redeployed. They’ve shifted their attention from the Imperial Palace to a villa on the Western Sea. You knew this.”

  To his credit, Haus didn’t bat an eyelash. Sal had to admire his poise—albeit grudgingly.

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And you—what? Thought it wouldn’t interest me?”

  The Zabrak chuckled; the sound grated on Sal’s ears. “Oh, I knew it would interest you.”

  Sal sat in the silence that followed, resisting the desire to throw himself across the table and wipe that lopsided smile from the prefect’s face. Sal was a Sakiyan: the veneer of civilization was painted very thinly on him. Beneath it, he could feel his pulse at his temples, fast and frantic. His yithræl—his clan-pride—was stirring angrily.

  “Why? Why didn’t you tell me, then? You knew I was waiting for an opportunity like this—an opportunity to get close to the Emperor.”

  Maddeningly, Haus nodded. “Yeah. I knew that, too.”

  “And didn’t tell me. You withheld important information from me, Pol. What else haven’t you told me?”

  “That’s a silly question, isn’t it?”

  Sal stood, his fists planted firmly on the table. The gleaming surface felt solid, steady. He needed that steadiness. “You intentionally undermined Whiplash operations—”

  “Actually, I intentionally tried to keep you from undermining Whiplash operations, Sal. I hope I haven’t failed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The Zabrak looked up at him with annoying aplomb, his amber eyes showing an intensity that belied his relaxed slouch. “Stay away from the Emperor, Sal. Stop plotting to take his life. Our cause won’t be won that way.”

  “Oh really? And in what way do you imagine it will be won?”

  “I don’t know. But not that way. You put our resources into that and the consequences could be horrific.”

  A chill settled into the marrow of Sal’s bones. “Is that a threat?”

  “No. It’s a fear.” Haus rocked forward in his seat, put his elbows on the table, and gave Sal a look that was disconcertingly direct. “If you try to assassinate Palpatine and fail—even if you succeed—it could cost us the entire network. Right now Vader’s got Thi Xon Yimmon. What do you think would happen if he got more of us?”

  “Vader’s offworld.”

  Haus nodded, slowly. “Yes. He is. Which means that the Emperor is more closely guarded than usual.”

  “By Inquisitors, you mean? There are only a handful left. Or so you said.”

  The prefect tilted his head to one side. “There are. I wouldn’t underestimate them, though.”

  “Is he guarded by your men, Pol? By you, personally, perhaps?”

  Now Haus laughed out loud. “I’m not the Emperor’s man, Sal. If I were, I’d’ve ratted you out long since. Can you imagine the cachet that would go with bringing down Whiplash and putting Jax Pavan—alive and well—into Vader’s hands?”

  Fear and rage warred in Tuden Sal’s head. “Have you imagined it? Is that what this is about?”

  “I repeat: I am not the Emperor’s man.”

  “No, you’ve always been your own man, haven’t you? Working your own agenda.”

  Sal stood back from the table, then turned and tapped a control on the system panel that dominated the forward right corner of the car. He kept one eye on Haus throughout. It would be only too easy for the police prefect to pull a blaster on him and blow him away. He’d taken precautions against that, of course, and Haus would realize that. That didn’t mean he might not test the proposition.

  Sal turned back to face the Zabrak even as the train began to slow. “It’s over, Pol. We’re done. You’re no longer part of Whiplash.”

  Something sparked deep in the Zabrak’s eyes, but he only rose from his seat and rearranged his disreputable coat. “What, you’re not going to shoot me?”

  “If I had proof that you were in league with the enemy, I would. In a heartbeat. But I’m not sure you haven’t just been working for your own ends. Protecting your own interests. You’re right, after all. If you were in league with the Empire, we all would have been dead long since.”

  “Are you going to go after Palpatine?”

  “I’m not stupid, Pol. You’ve hamstrung me. I can’t exactly go forward with any plans I might have had now. You know what I might do. You’ve known long enough that even if I did shoot you, that information probably exists somewhere outside this room just waiting to be found.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So what then?”

  “So, I let you off at an unscheduled stop and you never see this train again. I’ve rerouted it, and I’ll let the other members of the council know where to meet it as needed.” The mag-lev was slowing to a stop. “And now, it’s time for us to part ways.”

  “I won’t betray you, Sal,” Haus said solemnly. “Friends don’t betray each other. But I’d like you to reconsider. If you’re going to do something stupid, you should at least have a full complement of naysayers to keep you in check. And the best intel you can get.”

  Sal shook his head, resenting that the Zabrak had felt it necessary to make a veiled reference to his betrayal of Jax’s father. “Whatever we do now, we’ll just have to do it without your intelligence, friend. Besides, you’ve demonstrated that I can’t trust you to give me the best intel if it suits you to withhold it.”

  “I withheld it to protect you. To protect Whiplash.”

  “It’s a nice enough story. I simply don’t believe it.”

  The train had come to a full stop. The magnetic field that had cradled it was dissipated, and it dropped gently into the curved durasteel channel in which it ran.

  Sal gestured at the forward doorway. “Good-bye, Pol. I sincerely hope I never see you again.”

  The Zabrak pulled himself to his full height. “If you need to see me again, Sal, don’t hesitate to call.”

  Pol Haus went out through the forward door, there to be deposited on a deep service platform from which it would be difficult to extract himself quickly. If he had associates tracking him, the Whiplash Express would be long gone before they reached him.

  Sal sat down at the table again, vaguely aware that the hovertrain had started moving. The rear door
of the compartment hissed open and Dyat Agni came into the car. The Devaronian singer studied him for a moment, then asked, “Are you sure that he won’t betray us?”

  “I’m sure he can’t betray us without betraying himself. He’s worked too actively to protect Jax Pavan. Even if he turned coat now, the Emperor would never trust him. There would be too many unanswerable questions about why he waited until now to reveal what he knew. And people the Emperor doesn’t trust—” He made a flinging gesture with one hand.

  “Die,” Dyat said simply. “So we stand down, then.”

  Tuden Sal smiled. “I think not.”

  The Devaronian’s tilted red eyes widened. “But you said—”

  The smile deepened. “I lied. Merely returning the favor.”

  Pol Haus stood in the dark on the abandoned service platform for long moments, considering his predicament. He had expected that Tuden Sal might eventually discover what Haus had tried to conceal. He hadn’t thought it would happen quite so soon.

  He could at least console himself that he’d cut Sal off from any attempt on the Emperor … maybe. He shifted the energy absorptive shielding he wore beneath his long, tatty coat and scratched at the spot where it met his collarbone. It was a good thing to know about Tuden Sal: that he would not kill a comrade he thought might have betrayed him, even if it meant giving up—or at least revising—a plan he had long hungered to put into motion. He could only suppose the Sakiyan felt his own betrayal of Lorn Pavan and I-Five acutely enough that it still affected his judgment and his behavior.

  Well, it was a wrinkle, not a tear—a bump, not a breach. Tuden Sal was not to be rid of him that easily. Hopefully it would be some time before the Sakiyan realized that.

  Haus smiled grimly. Sal really should have shot him down where he stood.

  Twenty-One

  Jax felt as if he were being herded by Circumstance. Experience had taught him that Circumstance was a tool of the Force; now, that experience failed to translate into confidence. Whereas before he might have met the situation with his eyes open for opportunity, now he caught himself thinking reactively and defensively.

  At the Oyu’baat tapcaf, he found Tlinetha at the beverage bar in the main room and had to work at ignoring her smug assertion that she’d known he would come back. She ushered him up to Tyno Fabris’s offices, where Prince Xizor was waiting for him. The Falleen Vigo was alone in the room, sitting in Fabris’s favorite chair, his booted feet on the desk, his eyes exploring the flame and sparkle of the chandelier overhead.

  Despite Tlinetha’s smugness, Xizor seemed surprised to see him.

  “I was led to believe you’ve been expecting me,” Jax said drily.

  “Actually, no. I had rather imagined that when you said no, you meant it. What changed your mind?”

  “I can’t walk away from this, and I’m out of time to cultivate other avenues of approach. I’ll grant you your promissory note, with one condition.”

  A blush of vermillion rippled across the Vigo’s high cheekbones, sending a wash of warm static down Jax’s spine.

  “And what might that be?” the Falleen asked.

  “That whatever you ask of me doesn’t require me to harm the resistance or help the Empire.”

  Xizor shrugged. “I have no particular love or loathing for either party, certainly. Consider your condition met. But I have a condition, too.”

  “Which is?”

  Xizor met Jax’s eyes. “The truth. Obviously, the story you told Tyno was intended as subterfuge. You’re a Jedi, not a pirate, and you clearly don’t want to give Vader something he needs or wants. What’s your real agenda, Jax Pavan? Why are you really pursuing Lord Vader?”

  The urge to leave again was strong, but not strong enough to overwhelm his sense of duty.

  “He has something I want.”

  “Someone, you mean. Remember, I was eavesdropping on your conversation with Tyno.”

  “Which, as you said, was subterfuge.”

  Xizor raised one graceful digit. “Ah, no. I said it was intended as subterfuge. But there was truth in it. Here’s what I think happened. You didn’t intercept a distress call from a resistance ship. You were piloting the ship. A ship that was, as you said, transporting a high-level resistance operative. Vader captured the operative, destroyed or damaged your vessel, and brought this person to Mandalore en route to parts unknown. How am I doing so far?”

  “Pretty well.” The admission was like ashes on Jax’s tongue. He felt exposed, vulnerable. And despite what his life had been like since Flame Night, he had felt this way precious few times.

  “I surmise you want this person back. Or at least that you want to keep Vader from extracting critical intelligence from him or her.”

  “Him. Thi Xon Yimmon. Head of—”

  Xizor’s eyes had widened. “Head of the resistance on Coruscant. Yes, I know who he is. I try to stay informed. So, it seems you only overstated the damage to your ship.”

  “Not by much,” Jax said. “I lost … the ship.”

  The Falleen’s eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to read what hid behind the bland words and the slight hesitation. “So, you want to retrieve your associate. I’d suggest to you that getting in and killing him would be simpler, easier, and more likely to succeed, but I suspect your Jedi sensibilities rule that out.”

  Jax inclined his head.

  Xizor laughed. “Be careful, Jedi. In dealing with me you may have just stepped onto the slippery slope to … well, the Force only knows, eh?”

  Jax ignored the warning. “So, will you give me the intel I need?”

  “Are you certain you don’t want more than mere intel? From what I hear, you’ve got one small ship, one Sullustan crewman, and one pathetic little droid.”

  “I have sufficient resources, thanks.”

  A shrug. “If you say so. Here’s what I know: The message Vader sent ahead was directed at the Bothan system, but neither Vader nor his forces have made landfall on any planet in the system. There has, however, been some extraordinary activity around Kantaros Station.”

  Jax frowned. “That’s an old military outpost, isn’t it?”

  “Ex-Republic depot and medical facility. It still has a civilian population, but it’s currently in use by the Empire as, apparently, a dumping ground for high-level prisoners of war.”

  Jax laughed humorlessly. “Except that we’re supposedly not at war. The Empire is one big, happy family.”

  “Hm. And the family heir apparent seems to be in residence.” Xizor pushed a data wafer across the top of the desk toward Jax. “Full intel—including complement, armaments, and station schematics. Are you sure you don’t require additional assistance: ships, weapons?”

  “All for a favor from a Jedi?”

  “I’ll be sure to make it a very big favor.”

  There was a sudden disturbance in the hall outside the office. A moment later someone rapped on the door.

  “Come,” said Xizor.

  Jax turned to see Garan, Tyno Fabris’s Devaronian bodyguard, shove an R2 unit through the doorway. The droid uttered a shrill protest, but didn’t try to escape.

  “What is it?” Xizor asked.

  “I just caught this thing out in the hallway, snooping around the door.”

  Xizor turned an amused gaze on Jax. “Does it belong to you?”

  “Yes. My crew probably sent it to find me.” Jax turned to the droid. “Do you have a message?”

  The droid uttered a series of trills that Jax interpreted as, Take care.

  “I’m always careful, Five.” He turned back to Xizor, feeling strangely more at ease with the droid at his back. “As you said, Xizor, Lord Vader is in residence at Kantaros Station. I need a way to draw him off. Keep him from going farther with Yimmon. I won’t accept your offer of material aid, but if you could create a diversion—”

  Xizor considered this. “A diversion that would draw Vader back to Coruscant? I think I can pull that off.”

  “How quickly?”<
br />
  “Within hours.”

  “What—” Jax started to ask, but the Vigo shook his head.

  “Better if you don’t know.”

  Jax grimaced. Those were practically the same words Tuden Sal had said to him not that long ago. “Right. I’ll be going then.”

  “And I’ll be thinking of a really big favor for you to do me.”

  The Port o’ Call Café Theater was tucked beneath the overhang of a relatively new tower near the Westport. At least the top of the tower was new. The theater sat just below the more recent construction on a seam between the old and the not-so-old, its façade an explosion of graffiti. The proprietors had taken advantage of the collection of spontaneous art to introduce intentional elements that glowed with the names of performers and their scheduled appearances.

  The Togruta poetess Sheel Mafeen was on the program tonight; her name and an exaggerated likeness of her floated next to the door. The flicker of light from a variety of sources made the static image seem to move, while its eyes followed everyone who passed through the door.

  Pol Haus paused to read over the night’s entertainment, then nodded and entered. If anyone besides the effigy of Sheel watched him, let them think he’d just stopped by on a lark because he saw someone he liked on the billing. The café was a sea of darkness punctuated with flickering, holographic flames that seemed to float above each table. It was just over half full of patrons and cluttered with the sound of their conversations. The air stank of death sticks and other inhalants, most of them hallucinatory; he felt the slight beginnings of a buzz as he found himself a seat to the far right of the stage and ordered a hot, flavored caf.

  The performances started within ten minutes of his arrival; he sat through a stream-of-thought singer, a parodist, and a human storyteller, before Sheel Mafeen took the stage. She performed three poems—two brief and one fairly long—while the prefect tried very hard not to yawn. He didn’t really understand poetry. He understood songs.

  She’d seen him halfway through her set and, though she was pro enough to be low-key about it, he saw her eyes light up. Once she’d finished her recital, she’d hopped off the stage and headed straight for him.