The Last Jedi

by Michael Reaves

  “I’m surprised you don’t have that covered already.”

  “Curmudgeon,” she called the droid. “I figure we’re going back to Kantaros Station. And since we know that Black Sun ships are welcome there, we’ll go in as a Black Sun ship. How’m I doing?”

  “Quite well,” I-Five admitted. “Now that we’re clear on the mission, I suggest we depart as soon as possible. As much as I’d like to hang around here and continue my refit, we can’t afford the time. Can you clear a departure with your leadership?”

  “I can do better than that. I can get us an escort and backup.”

  “They’ll only be able to escort us so far. Trust me, the area around the station is well patrolled.”

  “They’ll be like shadows. Vader’s forces will never know they’re there—unless we want them to.”

  Den felt as if he’d been left completely in the dust. “Back up! What do you mean we’re clear on the mission? I’m not clear on anything. What exactly is it we’re proposing to do?”

  If I-Five had had an eyebrow to raise, he’d have raised it, Den was certain. “Exactly what Sacha suggested. We’re going to pose as a Black Sun freighter and dock at the station just as if we had every right to be there.”

  Den shook his head. “And what’s going to convince them they shouldn’t just blow us out of the sky? Any incoming Black Sun ships have to send ident codes to the station in order to gain admittance. We don’t have Black Sun ident codes.”

  “Actually, we do,” the droid said, sounding about as smug as it was possible for a droid to sound. “While we were sitting on the landing pad in Keldabe with Prince Xizor’s little fleet, I took the liberty of slicing a few ident codes. As far as the Kantaros command and control is concerned, we’ll be the Raptor out of Mandalore.”

  Den nodded, grateful, at last, for an explanation that made sense. “I see. That way, once we invade the station and rescue Yimmon, we can get away before they—” He blinked his owlish eyes. “Wait—what?”

  Thirty-Six

  The Jedi starfighter was beautiful, Magash admitted. Even her faded and scored finish did not detract from the sleek lines and arrowlike profile.

  The Zabrak Witch was not the only member of her community who found the vessel intriguing; there were several sisters—even a handful of children—observing the Jedi vessel from a safe distance.

  Magash felt a niggle of irritation. By the Mountain, they were afraid of it! Well, she would not be. She marched up to the ship and stood in the shadow of one backswept wing, wishing that the visitor had left his landing ramp down. She would not have hesitated for a moment, she told herself, to walk up it and peer into the cowled cockpit.

  She considered a Force jump up onto the foredeck but backed away from such a bold move. Male he might be—stranger he might be—but he was a guest of the Matriarch. Such an act would be a breach of courtesy. So instead, she merely raised a hand and caressed the forward surface of the wing where it melted into the fuselage.

  A tingle of something like dread coursed up her arm. She pulled her hand back with a sharp intake of breath.

  What was that?

  She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the timid ones who stood watching her. Had they felt her involuntary withdrawal? Did they read it as fear?

  Clenching her teeth, Magash reached up and laid her fingertips against the shiny metal. The whisper of dark energy returned, making her suck in another breath. She murmured the words and melody of a calming spell—

  “I call on thee, O Unformed.

  “Let no harm befall me in times of trial.

  “In moments of danger, guide my steps.

  “Inspire me. Purpose me.”

  She kept her hand in contact with the ship’s hull until she thought her every nerve would scream out with the urge to shut out that whisper of dark power. Then she withdrew it casually, as if her jaws did not hurt from the clenching of her teeth—as if she did not want to snarl with unnamable distress.

  She stepped away from the ship, turned, and strode back into the citadel, taking care that no one could see her compulsively wiping her hand on the front of her tunic. She had gone past curiosity. Now she wanted desperately to know what haunted the Jedi’s vessel.

  Jax Pavan seated himself upon the divan Clan Mother Djo indicated and considered how to answer her question: why had he come to them?

  I don’t want to put a name to what brought me here, he thought, but that was not an answer she would accept … nor would he, ultimately, because he knew it was a dodge.

  “I was led here, mistress. In part, by my mate, Laranth—a Gray Paladin.”

  Augwynne Djo’s gaze was serene, but Jax felt a sudden sharpening of her focus on him. “You mentioned her before. Her death. Yet you say she led you?”

  “I had a vision of her—no, less than a vision, an impression—while I was in contact with my Cephalon allies. Their message was: Seek sisters. Other than Laranth, herself, only the Witches of Dathomir might be called ‘sisters’ of the Jedi.”

  Djo’s regard intensified. “You were in contact with Cephalons? We have heard of these beings. It is said they live outside of time.”

  “I don’t know if they live outside it, but they certainly have a different perspective on it.”

  Jax leaned toward the Clan Mother, willing her to an openness he knew must be difficult for her, given her circumstances. The Witches of Dathomir were essentially a community in exile on their own world.

  “Clan Mother Djo, while I was still immersed in this contact, I was forced to lay in a course rather hastily. I didn’t think about what course to set, I simply did it. When I dropped out of hyperspace, I realized that I’d set a course for Dathomir.”

  Djo’s eyebrows rose toward her coronet. “Seek sisters,” she quoted softly. “Yes, I see. But what do you expect to find here?”

  “I’m not sure. I only know what I need.”

  “And that is?”

  “A tool. A weapon. A strategy to use against the Dark Lord. I also mentioned that I lost my own leader to him. I can’t bring Laranth Tarak back from the dead, but I must free Thi Xon Yimmon.”

  Augwynne Djo nodded. “And you believe you will find that … weapon … here?”

  “Yes. And I think it may have something to do with the ruins out on the plain.”

  The Clan Mother stood and paced away from him, but he had seen the fleeting distress in her expression, and he felt it as ripples in the fabric of the Force that stretched tightly between them.

  “The ruins of the Star Temple? We avoid them. Assiduously. You believe what you would find is there?”

  “There’s some residual energy, possibly from the Infinity Gate. Some … eddies in the Force … possibly in time, itself. I … I feel the need to understand them.” He didn’t mention the Sith Holocron or its reaction to the ruins of the Gate.

  “Then you intend to go there—to visit the ruins?”

  “If you will permit it, Clan Mother.”

  She turned back to look at him, a tiny spark of humor in her pale eyes. “And if I were to say no? If I were to deny you access to the ruins?”

  He stood. “Then I’ll go away. I’ll find another way to … to discover whatever it is I need to discover.”

  “No other clan can grant you access to that place. We are its guardians.”

  “I know.”

  She considered the proposition silently, never taking her gaze from his face, never breaking the Force connection she had established with him since he had been ushered into the roundhouse.

  “You may visit the ruin, Jax Pavan, but you must have one of the Sisterhood with you.”

  He inclined his head. “Thank you, Clan Mother.”

  Augwynne Djo turned toward the doors of her chamber. Jax saw the filaments of Force fly from her—bright fibers of energy, issuing a summons. Then she returned to her seat. She’d no more than resettled herself when her chamber door opened to admit her human lieutenant—the one she had called Duala.

/>   “You summoned me, Mother?” the woman asked.

  “I have granted our guest permission to visit the ruins.” She tilted her snowy head toward the plain that lay beyond the city walls to the northwest.

  The younger Witch threw Jax a startled glance, but all she said was, “Yes, Mother Augwynne.”

  “I wish him to have a companion from among the Sisterhood. The ruins are … a dangerous place.”

  “It will be difficult,” Duala said, “to find someone willing to go with him.”

  “I will go.”

  Jax, Augwynne, and Duala all turned at the sound of the voice. Djo’s Zabrak lieutenant stood in the doorway, her gaze on Jax. The intensity of that gaze caused the Jedi to raise a cautious shield.

  “Are you certain, Magash?” asked her mistress.

  “I am curious about the ways of the Jedi,” the Zabrak said. “I would like to understand them better, that perhaps I might learn something of value to the clan.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Djo said approvingly, then addressed Jax. “It is past midday. When the sun sets, the temperature will fall and the ruins will become more dangerous, even to those immersed in the Force. Will you go there now, or wait until morning?”

  “Time, Clan Mother, is not something I have to waste,” he said. “I would go now, if that is acceptable.”

  Augwynne Djo nodded her permission. Then she held out her hand, Jax’s lightsaber balanced across it.

  He raised his own hand and called the weapon to him. It settled against his palm with a comforting weight. He secured it to his belt.

  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to be careful,” said Djo.

  Jax smiled. “No, Clan Mother. You don’t.” He bowed to her and started for the door and his unsmiling guardian.

  “Jax Pavan.”

  He turned back at the sound of the Matriarch’s voice.

  “If you should find something in that ruin that might be of benefit to us …”

  “Rest assured, Mother Djo, that I will share anything I learn that can serve the Sisterhood.”

  Jax went first back to the starfighter to retrieve the Holocron. He had no idea how he would explain it to Magash and her sisters, and wondered if he might somehow conceal its presence.

  The Aethersprite extended her ramp to him at a thought and he went up into the cockpit. He secreted the Sith Holocron in the deep pocket of his surcoat, calling on his memory of the miisai tree to help him create a Force veil to dampen the artifact’s signature. Then he rejoined Magash Drashi on the rocky plateau.

  She gave him a strange look as he reached the bottom of the landing ramp and triggered its retraction. He was mystified when she stepped briskly forward and touched her fingertips to the vessel’s wing.

  She pulled her hand back and turned on him. “It’s gone. What have you done with it?”

  “What’s gone?”

  “The Dread Thing,” she said, and he felt a prickling sense of what she meant.

  He bit the inside of his lip. The Witch was incredibly sensitive to the texture of Force energy.

  “I’m not sure what you mean—the Dread Thing?”

  She made an impatient gesture. “It was aboard your vessel—or it was part of your vessel. A dark flutter, like the tread of a predator you cannot see. It was there. Now it’s not.”

  Jax glanced about. They were the focus of attention from a number of women who had come out to watch them.

  “Not here,” he told his guardian. “I’ll explain later. Now, what’s the best way to get down to the ruins? Do we have to walk?”

  “Yes. That is, unless you wish to try riding a rancor beast. They suffer the sisters to ride them. To my knowledge no man has ever tried … successfully.” She smiled, showing sharp, white teeth.

  Jax’s answering smile was wry. “We’ll walk. Which way?”

  Thirty-Seven

  “You don’t mind using Jax’s quarters?” Den stood uneasily in the hatchway of the Jedi’s cabin, watching Sacha Swiftbird examine it.

  “I don’t if he doesn’t. And he’s not here to ask—so, no. I don’t mind.”

  She moved to the miisai tree and brushed her fingertips over the delicate branches. “This was his?”

  “Yeah. Uh. She gave it to him … Laranth did. He used it—uses it—to meditate.”

  “Looks like it’s had a rough time.” She fingered a broken branch, then patted some loose moss into place around the base of the little trunk.

  “Yeah, it … met with an accident.”

  Den was going to ask if he should take it off her hands when she reached into the front flap of her pack, pulled out a packet of energy nuggets, and proceeded to crumble one into the planter’s feeding receptacle. Okay, so she was the nurturing type.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Den said. “Come up to the bridge when you’re settled in.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Settling in took Sacha longer than Den expected, and I-Five was inexplicably absent, as well. Sitting alone on the bridge, Den had begun to wonder if he was the only one who felt any sort of time pressure when he heard the landing ramp retract.

  Well, finally.

  A minute or two later, I-Five slipped onto the bridge in his pit droid persona.

  “Where the heck have you been, Ducky?” Den asked. “I thought we were in a hurry.”

  “We are, but I had to consult Geri about some … further modifications.”

  “Modifications to you, you mean?”

  “Yes. Are we ready for liftoff?”

  “As soon as our new engineer shows up.”

  As if on cue, Sacha appeared in the hatchway. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Just settling in.”

  “Ah,” said I-Five. “There you are. Would you like to put the Laranth through her paces?”

  “Love to.”

  Den vacated the copilot’s station and watched her slide in behind the control panel. She seemed … troubled. Or at least introspective.

  “I think the wisest course of action is to put in at Keldabe to pick up some actual cargo and to establish our point of origin as Mandalore,” the droid continued as the Ranger checked over the controls. “That way, if the folks at Kantaros Station check our back trail …”

  Sacha was nodding. “… it reinforces our disguise as a Black Sun carrier,” she finished for him. She took the yoke and checked their heading. “We should be at a good jump point one-point-two-five hours out.”

  “That’s what I make it, too,” I-Five said.

  Den, sitting behind Sacha and to her left, found himself watching her. She seemed edgy … or ill at ease. Her hands were working the steering yoke—fingers flexing, tapping, rubbing. Her jaw seemed tight.

  Den had opened his mouth to ask if anything was wrong when she said, “Um. I … ah … I found something kind of … unusual … in Jax’s cabin. Not quite sure what to make of it.”

  “Unusual?” I-Five repeated.

  “What?” Den asked, his mouth suddenly dry. The last thing he wanted was to have their new colleague tell him something scary about Jax to add to all the other scary things about Jax he’d come to know.

  “There’s a hidden drawer in the casing of the planter that little tree is in—which I found while I was making sure the water-to-food ratio was set right,” she added when Five swiveled his head to look at her. “Anyway, there’s a lightsaber in it.” She hesitated. “A Sith lightsaber.”

  There was a profound silence while she waited for their reaction. Den broke it by bursting into laughter.

  Sacha gave him a strange look. “That’s funny?”

  “No. Not funny.” Den swallowed the inappropriate mirth. “Just a relief.”

  “A relief that our Jedi friend has a Sith weapon hidden in his quarters.”

  “Listen, Sacha, with all that’s been going on with Jax, I was afraid you were going to tell me—I don’t know what—but something I couldn’t cope with.”

  Her look became more perplexed. “Hello? Sith? Dark side? Not O
ur Friends? The Enemy, in fact.”

  Five interjected: “Jax received the lightsaber from an anonymous source prior to confronting the assassin Aurra Sing. You may have heard of her.”

  Swiftbird nodded. “Piece of radically deadly work. Yeah.”

  “Jax theorized that the blade might actually have belonged to Sing. When he faced her, she was carrying a Jedi weapon.”

  “You mean they … swapped somehow?”

  “Jax’s lightsaber had been destroyed. He used the Sith weapon until he and Laranth were able to build a new one.”

  “But he kept the Sith weapon, anyway?” The idea seemed to disturb her.

  “The plan,” Den said, “was to locate a new crystal for the hilt and remake the weapon for some future Padawan. It just never happened.”

  Sacha Swiftbird nodded slowly, processing the information. “Okay. Thanks for explaining that. I was a little leery of my new quarters.… I’m not likely to find any other surprises in there, am I?”

  “Hopefully not,” I-Five said.

  “But you never know,” Den murmured.

  In some parts of Coruscant, night was brighter than day. With the artfully refracted and reflected sunlight gone, artifice took over completely and turned the streets to gold, to copper, to silver, to rubies and emeralds, to rainbows. False day reigned in all its varied splendor.

  But here, in the abandoned recesses of the antique mag-lev system, night was night. Black on black.

  Pol Haus knew that there were things surviving down here that never saw any sort of daylight—false or otherwise. Things that fled light and sound, scent and vibration … unless they were hungry.

  It was just such a place he had chosen to hide the Whiplash train. He had let go all but the first three cars—sacrificing the tail to save the body and mind—and had brought those to the lowest level still accessible from the tube where Sal had originally left them. He chose a length of track that only seemed to be cut off from egress but actually had a well-hidden “back door.” He had also rigged the computer core with a number of destructive software and hardware devices; if discovered, and cut off from that back door, he could irretrievably vaporize every jot and tittle of information in the system.