“It’s good to see you, Pol!” she exclaimed, wrapping her hands around his. She slid into the chair next to him and leaned her head so close that it all but rested on his shoulder. “What happened?” she murmured, and smiled as if she’d just said something intimate or flirtatious.
Haus felt a tickle of attraction to the Togruta. It surprised him. And it was distracting. He stifled it.
“Our Sakiyan friend is a bit put out with me. Seems he was expecting a gift and I neglected to give it to him.”
Her eyes fixed on his face. “A gift?”
“The gift of knowledge.”
She considered that for a moment, then nodded. “What did he do?”
“About what I expected. He threw me out on my posterior. I’m no longer welcome in his elite club.”
Her eyes grew round with worry. “What can I do? Try to patch things up between you?”
He shook his head. “That’s not likely to happen, and you’d only make him mad at you if you tried. But I’d like to know what he’s thinking. He got what he needed from a different source. I’m a little concerned about what he might do with it.”
“I’m sure he’ll be careful. You’re sweet to worry about him, though.” She leaned in and brushed his cheek with her lips, whispering, “He’s called a meeting tonight. Late. On L-two-six-nine.”
Haus nodded. So Sal had moved the mag-lev’s stops to a different level of the city.
Sheel straightened. “Stick around for the next reading?”
He shook his head. “Gotta run, sorry. Duty calls.”
She made a rueful face. “Doesn’t it always? Later then?”
“Later,” he agreed. “Uh, where? Where will you be later?”
“The Ellipse,” she said, but her hand made a subtle gesture that told Pol Haus she would catch the train two levels below that establishment.
“I may join you … after.”
“I’d like that. Give me a ping. If I’m free …” She let the sentence hang, rose, kissed his other cheek, and said, “You need a haircut, Pol. What sort of prefect looks like a street vendor?”
“One other street vendors are willing to share confidences with.”
She laughed softly and disappeared behind the low stage.
Haus finished his lukewarm caf and left, wondering if all that subtext had been strictly necessary. Or perhaps wishing that it hadn’t been. Tuden Sal knew that both Haus and Sheel were wary of his obsession with assassinating Palpatine, and though neither had expressed strong dissent, they had both cautioned him against haste. With Jax Pavan and Pol Haus both out of the picture, the Sakiyan might very well throw caution to the wind. Or he might bury his plans under layers of subterfuge. Or both.
If that happened, he might well take it into his head to exclude anyone he had the least doubts about from his most intimate counsel. Haus could only hope he had no doubts about Sheel Mafeen. If he did, it was going to be hard to guess his moves.
Tuden Sal watched his fellow Whiplash Council members take their places around the table. Only four now—Acer Ash, Dyat Agni, Fars Sil-at, and Sheel Mafeen. Fars and Dyat were already engaged in an argument about future plans. Dyat was advocating a bolder, more proactive approach through a series of lightning-fast hits on Imperial facilities all over Coruscant. Fars argued that given their recent loss, they ought to lie low, regroup, and retrench—possibly even consider moving their base of operations offworld.
The discussion grew spirited. Acer watched the byplay with obvious amusement, Sheel with inscrutable silence.
“You’re both right,” Sal said after letting the debate roll for a time.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“How’s that work?” Acer asked. “Just curious.”
“We appear to be lying low. Perhaps even to be defunct. But we use the quiet to strike at a target that is believed to be impervious. A target on the shore of the Western Sea.”
“What?” Fars asked. “Why? What’s on the shore of the Western Sea?”
Acer Ash’s thin lips curved in a slow smile. “I know. It’s the Emperor, isn’t it? He’s gone down to his villa by the sea.”
Dyat’s eyes lit up, and her face flushed a deep shade of rose gold. “You intend to strike the Emperor, after all?” She slapped the table with the flat of her hand. “Yes! This is the way we should operate. All our caution has bought us thus far is heartbreak and death. If the Emperor expects us to be cowed, let us surprise him and be bold! Let us surprise him to death.” Having flung her challenge down before any who were inclined to timidity, the Devaronian turned burning eyes to Sal. “You have a plan?”
He nodded slowly. “The beginnings of one. For which we’ll need explosives—” He flicked a glance at Acer Ash, who grinned. “—and a couple of cars from this train.”
Sheel Mafeen leaned toward him, her hands folded on the table before her, her expression rendered unreadable by her facial patterning. “You intend to blow the villa up? Surely anyplace the Emperor would live would be proof to such an attack. How do you intend to get at him?”
“The specifics will be worked out with … special operatives. But before I go into great detail, I need to know that you’re all behind this endeavor. Some of you have expressed … reservations about this sort of operation. I won’t lie to you—this will be perhaps the most dangerous thing Whiplash has ever attempted. But if we succeed—even if we lose people—we will have cut the head from the Empire.”
“What about the Dark Lord?” asked Fars Sil-at. “I’d say the Empire has two heads.”
Sal curled his lip. “Vader is the Emperor’s lapdog. Without his master, he will be without direction or purpose.”
“He seems to be driven by his hatred of the Jedi,” Fars observed. “If you’ll recall, there is a Jedi associated with Whiplash. If we kill the Emperor, what makes you think Vader won’t be even more driven to wipe out Jax Pavan and anyone connected to him?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Jax Pavan is absent from our number.”
“Yes,” Fars said. “And so is Pol Haus. Where is he? What does he think of your plan?”
Sal looked down at his hands. “Pol Haus has parted company with us.”
A ripple of disbelief washed through the group.
“What?” Dyat Agni exclaimed. “Why?”
“Yes, why?” echoed Sheel Mafeen. “Can you enlighten us?”
How much to tell them? Tuden Sal was stricken with uncertainty. Did he lie to soften the blow of the police prefect’s betrayal, or did he impress them with his decisiveness?
He opted for the truth as he saw it. “Pol Haus willfully withheld critical information.”
“Why would he do that?” Fars Sil-at demanded.
“I don’t know. He couldn’t explain himself.”
“Which is why you changed the train route,” Acer said, nodding. “That was wise of you. Do you think he’s gone over to the enemy?”
“No. I think he’s simply looking out for his own interests. The mission we’re about to embark on is a dangerous one. Pol opted not to be part of it. He also believes his withholding of intel has derailed my plan. Which is good. If he should fall under suspicion in the eyes of the ISB, he will be able to tell them nothing.”
He looked around again at the people seated at the table. “So, my friends, here we are. If, like Pol Haus, you don’t want to be involved in this, now is the time to leave—before you know any more. Dyat has already given her support. Acer?”
“I’m in.”
“Sheel?”
“Yes.”
“Fars?”
There was a long moment of silence before the Amani wrinkled his broad nose, blinked several times, then let out a huge sigh. “Yes. Yes, I’m in. What else can we do?”
Sal held Fars’s gaze for a long moment. “Good,” he said. “Now, let me sketch out what I’ve been thinking.”
Jax walked for several blocks in silence—I-Five rolling along beside him—before he spoke. What he said finally
was, “Spying on me?”
“Providing backup,” I-Five said quietly—R2 units were not supposed to have verbal mimicry vocalizers. “I thought you might need it.”
“What would make you think that?”
“I reasoned that if Tyno Fabris was out of the picture, someone else must be in it. Someone with an even longer reach than Fabris. I didn’t like the implications of that. So I followed you. If you recall, the last time you were in the same room with Xizor, he did his best to kill you.”
Jax smiled. “Oh, he assured me that was nothing personal. Just business.”
“Is this just business, too, Jax? Your involvement with Xizor?”
Jax wondered how much of their conversation the droid had overheard. Then he wondered why he cared. “I’m hoping that my ‘involvement’ with Xizor is at an end. He gave me the information I needed. Now we can act on it.” He glanced over at the droid. “You heard him offer more, I’m sure.”
“I did.”
“Then you heard me turn him down. We’re leaving Mandalore, Five. Immediately. We’re going to Kantaros Station.”
The droid rolled along silently until they reached the entrance to the spaceport’s northern landing platform, then asked, “And when we get to the station? What then? I expect that its defender will be watching.”
“Of course he will. But I’m counting on him not watching for Jedi simply because he believes all the Jedi are dead.”
“And what if he’s right, Jax?” I-Five asked. “What if you are the last Jedi? Putting your life in jeopardy—”
Jax stopped and wheeled on the little droid. “What other options do I have?”
“You could get help from the Rangers—”
“We’ve been over this. There are inherent dangers in that.”
“You could stay here on Mandalore and let Den and me go to Kantaros Station.”
“Unacceptable.” Jax turned and started walking again, swiftly enough that the R2 had to scurry to catch up. He had crossed the platform and was halfway up the Laranth’s boarding ramp when I-Five stopped him.
“Jax.”
He turned to look down at the battered droid.
“Do you want to die?”
Whatever question Jax had expected his mechanical friend to ask, it wasn’t that one. “What?”
“It’s not rich with subtext. Do you want to die?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“One you didn’t answer.”
“Of course I don’t want to die.”
“Really? Because you’re acting like someone with a death wish. Going into ISB headquarters, putting yourself into close contact with Inquisitors—and with Vader. Coming here and courting Black Sun contacts. Throwing yourself in with Prince Xizor—who, for all you knew, might just as soon have shot you as talk to you. And now sailing off into a completely unknown situation after the most dangerous man in the galaxy …”
That jarred a laugh out of Jax. “Right now, Five, I’m the most dangerous man in the galaxy—because I have nothing to lose.”
The droid rolled up the ramp toward him. “You’re wrong. There is much still to be lost, Jax. The problem is, it’s not yours to lose.”
That stung. Mostly because he knew it was true and that what he had just mouthed were empty words. In a moment of epiphany, Jax realized that I-Five himself was one of those things that might be lost. If they threw everything they had at Vader in one go and failed …
“You and Den can stay behind in Keldabe. You’ll be safe enough here.”
“What—and cut your chances of staying alive even more? I think not.”
“Fine. Then let’s get this bird off the ground.” He turned on his heel and continued up the ramp.
Twenty-Two
He had the dream in hyperspace en route to the Bothan system. It was different from previous dreams in that it did not begin in the chaos of Far Ranger’s ruined corridors. It began at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, in the broad gallery that led to the great library. He was walking toward the huge, heavily carved doors, a wash of sunlight from the skylights laying a glowing, translucent carpet for his feet to tread.
He was aware that someone walked beside him, but when he turned to look, the figure—another senior Jedi Padawan in temple robes—was so bathed in sunlight that he couldn’t make out who it was. He wanted to speak, to prompt the other Jedi to speak so he would recognize him or her, but though he opened his mouth, no sound came out.
He kept walking, the other beside him, stride for stride. When they reached the library, he would be able to see the other’s face.
But they never reached the library. Behind them the broad corridor was shattered by a tremendous blast and filled with smoke and cries of alarm.
Jax was confused. Order 66 had been carried out at night, as had the operation that had resulted in Flame Night. What was this? When was this?
It didn’t matter. time didn’t matter. He had to fight.
He drew his lightsaber and turned toward the chaos, but a strong hand on his arm stopped him. He looked over at the robed figure beside him.
Green eyes met his.
“No,” Laranth said. “We keep going.” She strode toward the library.
Torn, he vacillated. What could be so important in the library that it should keep him from defending the Temple? They knew how this would end. They knew. The younglings and junior Padawans would all be killed. Anakin would murder them with his own hand.
“Jax,” Laranth said, “it isn’t time.”
He felt the heat of flames on his face, watched the corridor melt, heard the screams of the younglings.
“When, then?” he demanded. “When?”
“Time is a spiral,” Laranth said, and layered behind her voice was another voice, saying, Time is/was/will be a spiral.
The lightsaber was heavy and solid in his hand as he glanced, again, down the hall. Flames ran up the walls and dripped from the ceiling. The skylights were dark.
“Choice is loss—” the twinned voices said, and Jax screamed with frustration.
“Yes! Yes! I know! And indecision is all loss. I know that, too!”
“We have to go,” Laranth said.
“Go where? You weren’t there,” he realized. That seemed important suddenly. “You weren’t at the Temple when Order 66 was executed. You weren’t there!”
“You were there. Now I was, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Time,” she said, and he didn’t know whether she was telling him it was time to go, or that time had something to do with her witnessing the gutting of the Jedi Order. “Time,” she repeated, and turned from him again.
He glanced once more at the deteriorating hallway, then turned to follow Laranth.
She was gone.
Heart hammering, limbs chilled, Jax sprang after her. The grand library doors were falling shut. In a moment it would be too late. He threw himself on the doors, forcing them open again and sliding through.
The library was gone, and Jax stood in the longitudinal corridor of his dying ship. Now the nightmare was familiar. He knew where Laranth was. She was dying in the dorsal weapons battery.
Wake up, he told himself, but he kept walking toward the heart of the ship. A billow of smoke obscured his view.
Again, a hand grasped his arm, halting him.
“I’m not there,” Laranth said, but as before there was another voice only partly hidden behind the Gray Paladin’s. A darker voice.
“I’m not there,” the dark voice said, and now Jax recognized it and knew it came from the chaos of fire and destruction behind him. It was the voice of murder and rage. The voice of death.
The voice of Darth Vader.
He felt the impulse to turn, but that would mean putting Laranth behind him.
Choice.
“I’m not there,” Laranth said emphatically from nowhere.
Jax woke to the realization that they’d dropped out of hyperspace.
“Jax,�
� Den’s voice said over the ship’s comm, “we’re in Bothan space.”
He opened his eyes to his cabin, and for a moment he was disoriented. Tendrils of Force energy that were not his own enwrapped him. They were translucent yet vividly colored; in the same moment he saw them, they were gone, seeming to withdraw into the miisai tree.
He stared at the tree in confusion for a moment, then responded to Den’s repeated message. “I’m on my way.”
He wasn’t, though. Not right away. He took several moments to connect consciously with the Force, to calm his pounding heart and center his thoughts.
Before he left the cabin, he glanced at the tree again. It did nothing extraordinary, but merely glowed faintly with the energy that only he could see—energy that fed into it continually from the Force.
Somehow Den had expected Kantaros Station to be like other Imperial depots he’d seen: low orbital platforms that floated in the clouds of otherwise inhospitable planets, or dirtside complexes that rambled over the landscape, burrowed under it, or rose out of it. Kantaros was none of those things. It wasn’t tethered to a planet. It wasn’t orbiting a planet. Nor was it floating in free space. According to Prince Xizor’s last bit of intel, it was somewhere in the Fervse’dra asteroid belt that orbited Both where the star’s original third planet had been. Now it formed a formidable barrier between the sere, barren world of Taboth and the population center, Bothawui.
All this meant precisely one thing to Den Dhur—the station was going to be kriffing hard to find, dangerous to approach, and almost impossible to escape from with any speed.
They came at the asteroid field from the outskirts of the system, hiding in the gravity shadows of the outer worlds, then falling in among the commercial traffic as they came out from behind the purple gas giant, Golm.
What the Vigo had been unable to give them was the station’s transponder frequency. He hadn’t had it—something Den was sure wrinkled his universe. Black Sun runners supplied the station with some hard-to-get items, but they were guided to it on an as-needed basis, entering the system with their own signal beacons pinging and waiting for Kantaros to contact them and pull them in on autopilot. The Black Sun vessel Corsair was on her own.
The Last Jedi Page 20
