“Can’t we what? Stick with him to the bitter end? Watch him sell his soul to Black Sun—to Prince Xizor? If he’s determined to go after Yimmon using Black Sun resources, what can we do?”
“Sit here in Keldabe and hold our breath?”
“I don’t breathe.”
Was that a joke? “I’m not kidding, Five. I’m … I’m scared. Something’s happening to Jax and I feel powerless to stop it.”
“I don’t think we can help. Not without getting help ourselves.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“If he’s intent on going to Kantaros Station, perhaps we should go back to Toprawa and gather some forces there. We might be able to mount an attack on the station that would give Jax some much-needed cover and provide a distraction for the Imperials while he extracts Yimmon.”
“That sounds … insane.”
“It probably is.”
“Okay, let me put that another way: do you think we’d stand the slightest chance of success?”
“I don’t know.”
Those, Den thought, were the three bleakest words he had ever heard.
Jax arrived at the Oyu’baat tapcaf to find Tyno Fabris once more ensconced in his garish office. Tlinetha did her best to keep Jax from going up, but he sensed that had more to do with her own agenda than her boss’s. At last she escorted him to the upstairs suite, dropping unsubtle hints about how exciting life on a smuggler’s ship must be.
“Exciting?” Jax repeated. “Hardly. Cramped, boring, and dangerous.”
“There are ways to alleviate boredom,” she said, smiling.
He turned at Fabris’s office door to give her a quelling look. “The last woman who shipped with me is dead,” he said tonelessly. “What else would you like to know?”
He’d shocked her. Frightened her just a little—her energies curled away from him. Still, to her credit, she recovered quickly enough to ask, “Do you care that she’s dead?”
The question, unexpected as it was, almost gutted him. Though he kept his face shuttered, he knew that the Balosar, with her sensitivity to shifts in emotion, was not fooled.
He shook himself. Focus.
“Let Fabris know I’m here,” he said.
“Already have,” she told him. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.” She swung away and went back down the flight of rough-hewn wooden stairs, her long, pale hair flying behind her like a cloak.
Fabris’s door opened at a touch. Entering, Jax scanned the room, but his eyes only confirmed what his Jedi senses had already told him: the Arkanian was alone.
“Where’s Xizor?” he asked.
“Why would you expect to find him here? Yours is a done deal. You got what you wanted, and I had the distinct impression that you wanted nothing more to do with us. So did he.”
“I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. Unfortunately, I need to.”
The Arkanian flicked a glance toward the tapestry to the right of his desk. “That’s too bad, because I don’t know if he’ll see you. Prince Xizor is a busy man.”
Jax took two long strides to the desk and slammed both hands down in the center of its broad, vivid surface, scattering flimsies, tablets, and writing utensils along with some of the knickknacks that littered the top. A statuette of a Dathomir warrior toppled and rolled off the desk and onto the floor, hitting the carpet with a solid thunk!
“I don’t have time for games. Xizor will see me because I am potentially useful to him. Do you want to be responsible for depriving the prince of something he considers useful?”
Fabris’s smile disappeared as if it had been vacuumed from his face. He chewed the inside of his lip for a moment, struggling with his temper. Clearly, he wanted to send the Jedi packing, but business came before pride.
Jax raised one hand and held it up before the other man’s face. He summoned the fallen statuette to it, the sharp impact against his palm no less satisfying than Fabris’s reaction to it—the Arkanian jumped as if he’d been shocked. Fear, sudden and raw, flooded his eyes.
“I’ll let him know you’ve returned,” Fabris murmured, his lips barely moving.
“I’d lay odds he knows already,” Jax said. “In fact, I’ll bet he was expecting me … this time.”
He felt the tingle of pheromones before he heard the sound of applause from a single pair of hands. He turned as Prince Xizor entered the room through the hidden door, his Mandalorian bodyguard holding back the tapestry that had concealed it.
“Very subtle display of force, Jedi,” Xizor said. “You continue to surprise me. You’re wrong, you know—I wasn’t sure I’d see you again. Did you go to Kantaros Station?”
“I did.”
“Really? And lived to tell about it. I congratulate you. In fact, I congratulate you on even finding it. How did you accomplish that miracle?”
“How do you think I accomplished it?”
Xizor’s smile was slow and altogether vile. “That is a marvelous talent you have, Jedi—to be able to sense the presence of other powerful adepts at such distances. Marvelous … and extremely valuable.”
Jax quelled the rebellion of conscience the Falleen’s words evoked. He needed Xizor—needed him—if he was going to infiltrate the station.
“Yes, it is.”
“What do you want for it?”
“I want to get onto Kantaros Station. That should be easy to achieve, given that your ships go there on occasion. Beyond that, I’ll need to get to Yimmon and get him into a disguise or some sort of container that we can then get back aboard the ship.”
“How do you propose to even get to him? There are Inquisitors on that station.”
“I’ll take care of that. I’ve dealt with Inquisitors before.”
Something kindled deep in Xizor’s violet eyes, and his skin flushed toward copper. “Ah, another valuable talent.”
“It’s been that. Now, about when we go—”
“Now. The time is now—and for a very good reason. My distraction worked quite well. Darth Vader has left Kantaros Station to return to Imperial Center.”
Probus Tesla stood just inside the great, barren chamber that was Yimmon’s cell and regarded his prisoner with interest. The Cerean was sitting, as usual, in a meditative posture, seemingly quite unfazed by the chaotic blare of sounds bombarding him. Something to do with that dual cortex, Tesla suspected.
He’d mention it when his Master returned. Now he raised a hand, causing the barrage of sound to cease.
Yimmon didn’t move, though Tesla sensed a change in the level of the other man’s awareness of the outer world. Tesla approached slowly, moving to stand before the Whiplash leader where he sat under his cone of brilliant light. The Inquisitor stayed just at the edge of the veil of shadows, knowing that he looked sinister and imposing in his cowled robe. He regarded the Cerean silently for some minutes and was bemused at his complete lack of response.
Curious, he reached out with a rivulet of the Force and touched the other’s consciousness. He met a serene pool of calm with barely a ripple to mar its surface. Mesmerized, he dared to explore the pool. It was so calm and clear, he imagined he could see to its depths. It was only when he had swum to the center of that pool that he became aware of what he couldn’t see. Aware, in fact, that he floated above a fathomless unknown.
Tesla dragged himself forcibly back to the shore of his own consciousness with the stunned impression that the unseen depths of Thi Xon Yimmon’s mind hid something unsettlingly alien. He’d felt … He shook himself. He’d felt as if he, the Watcher, was himself being watched.
Perhaps this was why his Master had ordered him only to “attend.” Vader must have known what touching this alien consciousness would lead him to imagine.
And perhaps your Master underestimates you.
That was his pride talking, of course—pride that had taken somewhat of a beating in his prior encounters with Whiplash operatives, most especially with Jax Pavan. But that did not cause him to dismiss the idea
out of hand. One thing he knew: he had been given the authority for Kantaros Station in Lord Vader’s absence. He would not let the opportunity to show his worth slip by.
He squatted half in the shadows, put back his hood, and gazed into Thi Xon Yimmon’s face.
“I will know you, Cerean,” he told him. “By the time Lord Vader returns, I will know you.”
The amber eyes snapped open, boring into Tesla’s. It was all he could do not to flinch.
“Do you know yourself?” Yimmon asked, his voice husky with disuse.
He closed his eyes again—and his mind.
Tesla waited a moment, but the prisoner said no more. He rose, then, replacing his cowl. He wanted to let the Cerean know he recognized his pathetic attempt at manipulation, but he realized before the words left his lips that even that much acknowledgment gave ground.
“Better than you can imagine,” he told the prisoner, and withdrew from the room.
He pondered Thi Xon Yimmon as if the Cerean were a mathematical equation or a logical conundrum. He trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him that the secret to compromising the Whiplash leader lay in neutralizing his dual cortex. The strategy: divide and conquer.
He wondered if Vader had considered seeking some way to separate the Cerean’s cortices. In pursuit of that information, he went over the record of Yimmon’s interrogations and treatment. Though there was repeated mention of the power of his intelligence, there was no reference to its peculiar nature.
An oversight … or a test?
If it was the former, Probus Tesla would exploit it; if it was the latter, he would rise to it.
Twenty-Seven
“That is a most interesting … necklace.”
Pol Haus looked up at the sound of Sheel Mafeen’s mellifluous voice and smiled inwardly, knowing it was not the necklace she found interesting, but the Togruta skin-suit he wore that transformed him into a handsome male of her own species. She had recognized him, he knew, only by the fact that he was wearing a rancor tooth pendant, which—according to their prearranged agreement—he would be toying with.
“Thanks. You have the speaking voice of an angel.” He reached over to pull a chair out from the small table from which he’d watched her performance. “May I offer you a drink?”
“I’d love one, thanks.” She sat down opposite him, smiling. “You’re new here.”
“I saw your picture out front. Thought I’d see if you sounded as good as you looked.”
“And?”
“Like I said, you have a beautiful speaking voice. And your selection of poetry is stellar.”
They ordered drinks, talked flirtatiously, and left for Sheel’s conapt. It was a nice place. But then, Sheel Mafeen was a well-known and much-admired performer in the sector. Haus reckoned she must do pretty well for herself to be able to afford a suite of rooms so high up in her resiblock.
A gleaming, carpeted hallway led to her door, which opened into a main room that was decorated in rich shades of green and furnished with pieces that looked as if they were fashioned of real wood.
She noticed him studying the furniture.
“Yes, it’s real,” she said. “I had it imported from my homeworld. The forest valleys of Shili are very dear to me.”
“Very nice.” He caught her expression and laughed. “No, I mean it. It’s beautiful.” He didn’t mention that the greens clashed a bit with her rosy complexion.
She smiled, showing sharp canines. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get us some caf.” As she spoke, she removed her shoulder bag and withdrew from it what looked like a makeup case.
It wasn’t, he knew. It was a portable sensor array—or SAP, as the military liked to call them, short for “sensor array, portable.” As she crossed the cozy living area and went into the kitchen, he got out his datapad and activated its sensors. In less than a minute, he had ascertained that the living room was free of surveillance devices.
Haus relaxed, sat down on a forest-green divan, and scanned the room visually. It took him several moments to realize that the view outside of the large living room window was real. Those were the real spires of the Imperial Palace, not holographic images of them.
“Whoa.” He was drawn to the window as if by a magnet, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow among the cloudcutters and skygrazers.
“Whoa, indeed. I bet you don’t often get to see that view in your line of work.”
Sheel Mafeen had reentered the room. Haus was surprised to see that she was carrying a tray with steaming mugs of caf and a dish of some sort of candied fruit.
“No. Not often. I’ve visited the Security Bureau a number of times, but even then, I’ve never seen the palace from this angle.”
“The kitchen’s clean,” she said as he returned to the divan.
“Have you ever found surveillance bugs in here?”
“Only when I first moved in. I’d just made a splash in the local performance and art world and I think the Imperials wanted to vet me. I left the bugs there for a while to establish that I was a good, upstanding citizen, then ‘accidentally’ destroyed them when I had the place redecorated. Since then, nothing.” She handed him a mug. “Did I mention that you make a handsome Togruta?”
He chuckled. “As opposed to a homely Zabrak?”
“I didn’t say that—or mean it. You’re a handsome Zabrak, too. Just a bit … scruffy.”
She wrinkled her nose when she said it, and for a moment, he considered that perhaps he didn’t need to always look like a demented street rat. Then again, it was such a useful thing—it nearly always caused people to underestimate him.
He took a sip of the caf. “What’s the situation?”
Sheel’s smile drained away. “Sal is going through with it—with the …” She shook her head, unable to frame the words. “Here’s what really worries me: he’s doing all this with minimal input from the full Whiplash Council.”
“I’m starting to think that’s the way Tuden Sal works,” Haus agreed. “Divide and control.”
Sheel nodded. “He’s not only divided the authority among Whiplash leaders, but he’s pieced out different parts of this … plan, as well; I think he’s the only one who has the whole picture. Not even Acer and Dyat are in on everything, though I think he trusts them the most. He talked about ambushing the Emperor in the streets around the shore, but that doesn’t tally with what I’ve seen. He’s got field operatives in the shore and floor maintenance crews near the Emperor’s villa. And Acer let it slip that he’s been in receipt of large amounts of explosives—explosives powerful enough to bring down entire buildings.”
Haus nodded. It didn’t surprise him that the Sakiyan had effectively made himself the head of Whiplash, all the while giving lip service to support for a nonhierarchical authority. It was—according to his dossier, which the prefect had combed through thoroughly—the way he had run his corporate organization, as well. He was in the pilot’s seat, while his underlings took care of discrete parts of the business with authority that only extended to their own small domain. No one except Sal himself had an overview of the entire operation.
In an organization like Black Sun, this kind of arrangement was offset by natural ambition; any and all subordinates were looking for ways to rise above their positions, pull off a coup, or work out their own competing plans. In an organization like Whiplash, however, in which the council members took the egalitarian nature of their cause at face value, Tuden Sal could make his own plans with confidence that no one else among the shared leadership would formulate competing schemes or imagine that he was withholding information. Haus remembered that the Coruscant resistance had chosen the name Whiplash out of a sense of irony—a constant reminder of the Imperial yoke they attempted to overthrow.
“I suppose it’s possible he’s just being careful,” Sheel said, her hands wrapped around her mug as if her fingers were cold. “If I were him, I’d be afraid that maybe someone would slip up and reveal too much to the wrong person.”
/>
Reminded of his own unwelcome suspicions, Haus set his caf down on the carved wooden table more heavily than he’d intended.
“What is it, Pol?”
“What you were saying about slippage—it may have already happened. I can’t be sure.”
Maybe it was his imagination, but the Togruta’s face seemed to go a shade or two lighter. “What do you mean?”
“One of my speeder patrols checked in early this morning with the observation that for the past two nights, they’ve seen Imperial security forces moving into the Golden Crescent area near the Emperor’s villa.”
“Well, of course, the Emperor is in residence—”
He shook his head. “He’s been in residence for over a week. Why would they be moving now—and under cover of darkness? I also got a report from an operative who delivers supplies to the administrative offices of the Inquisitorius. She says the few Inquisitors that were left behind when Vader went offworld are no longer ‘drifting around the place’, as she put it.”
Now Sheel’s pallor was definitely not imaginary. “You think they’ve gone to guard the Emperor?”
“Entirely possible. It’s also entirely possible that, high-level Senate committee meeting or not, the Emperor himself may have been moved.” He shrugged. “Or, knowing how arrogant he is, he may be lying in wait like a spider at the middle of a web.”
“What do we do? Don’t we have to warn Sal?”
“How? Do you think he’d trust anything I had to say? And if you go to him with this intel, he’ll want to know how you got it. Worse—he may decide he can’t trust you, either.”
“What then?”
Haus stood. “I’ll try to reach him. At least that will keep you out of it. I’ll try to make him believe the warning is real and not my attempt to run interference. Chances are he’ll laugh in my face, but I can’t just let him run head-on into a rancor nest. I suppose I could arrest him on trumped-up charges or make up some reason to bring him in for questioning.”
“Would you do that? Could you do it?”
“If I have to. But I’m not sure that would stop whatever it is he’s set in motion.”
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