The Last Jedi

Ten


Sleep had come with difficulty. Jax’s emotions were still clouding things, and his mind seemed determined to take dark paths his soul did not wish to tread. He slept restlessly, pulling himself out of turbid dreams before they could take hold. In the most benign of these dreams, he saw I-Five’s tactical display of Vader’s Fist as it intercepted the Far Ranger, took the ship, and fled with Yimmon.

In dreams he saw what he had not allowed himself to witness in the tactical display: that moment when the blue light that was Far Ranger winked out of existence, torn apart by the competing gravitational forces of the Twins.

As much as he wanted to wake then, he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he watched the fleet of bright dots speed away and slip into hyperspace, to emerge near Mandalore. In his dream, he saw that emergence, too, and woke wondering again why Vader would make a stop on Mandalore. Did it have anything to do with his prisoner?

When he finally gave up on sleep, Jax meditated, but he found it hard to concentrate without the miisai to serve as point of focus. It did not help that the seemingly dormant pit droid had stationed himself in one corner of the room.

Jax returned to his bed and slept, but fitfully. When he woke, I-Five was gone. Jax emerged from his quarters feeling only half awake, his mind wanting to dart here and there. He went in search of something to eat.

The lounge was empty. He availed himself of the food and drink dispensers. He looked out the long horizontal slits that served as windows. Not much to see—just flickers of light as they moved through the mag-lev tunnels. They were in motion now, but Jax knew they’d stopped during the night. Where, he had no idea. He had to admit it was brilliant of Pol Haus to have come up with this way of protecting the Whiplash leadership: by using the Underground Mag-Lev literally, rather than as metaphor.

Jax turned at the sound of a door opening and closing to see that Den and I-Five had entered the car. Den didn’t look as if he’d slept well. His oversized eyes were bloodshot, and his eyelids drooped.

“You look like I feel,” Jax told him.

“My condolences,” the Sullustan said, and went to get a steaming cup of caf and a protein cake.

I-Five—though Jax still had trouble thinking of this pint-sized droid as I-Five—moved gracefully to the table Jax where Jax was sitting and surveyed the Jedi with his single oculus.

“Condolences, indeed,” said the droid. “You did not sleep more than two, perhaps three, hours last night—and most of that in short naps. After your first wakeful period, you got hardly any REM sleep, which means you’re not dreaming.”

“I thought you were in regen. And I’d rather not dream, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It is not all the same to me. REM sleep is necessary to most sentients’ well-being. If you don’t get the required amount there could be repercussions, ranging from depression, exhaustion, and hallucinations all the way to a possible psychotic break.”

“Yes. All right. I know.”

“I may have to medicate you. I considered doing it last night, but reasoned that you’d be displeased if I did it without permission.”

Den snorted volubly and set his caf down on the table. “I’m sure displeased doesn’t begin to cover it.”

“I don’t want to be medicated,” Jax said quietly. Even as he spoke the words, he knew a niggle of guilt: it seemed somehow wrong to shut the dreams out. She inhabited them still. He thought longingly of the miisai tree, still in his quarters aboard the ship.

We won’t be here that long, he told himself.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Den asked.

I-Five uttered a muted beep. “Must there be something on the agenda? Perhaps you two should take this chance to rest and restore yourselves.”

“We’re going to do reconnaissance work today,” Jax said. “I-Five, I need you to sniff around Space Traffic Control. Talk to the AI, if you can. See if there’s been any unusual activity.”

“Such as incoming vessels from the Five-Oh-First?”

“Exactly. I’m going to find Pol Haus and see if he’s heard anything interesting out of the ISB. We need to locate Vader.”

Den looked at him shrewdly. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Are you ready to let it go? To let Yimmon go?”

They locked gazes for a long moment, then Den sighed deeply and shook his head again. “May the Warren Mother help me, no. No, I’m not ready.”

“It might be wise, however,” I-Five said, “to let Tuden Sal believe that we are, for the time being.”

Jax nodded and took another sip of the steaming caf. He hated being anything less than completely honest with his comrades-in-arms, but dissension in the steering group was the last thing they needed. As far as Tuden Sal and the others would know, Jax Pavan was grabbing some much-needed downtime. Only Pol Haus would be privileged to know how far that was from the truth.



Disguised as an Ubese merchant, Jax appeared at Pol Haus’s headquarters, presumably to lodge a complaint against a Sullustan trading partner. He blustered his way in to the prefect’s office and, once in Haus’s presence, paced the floor until he had located any surveillance devices, then placed himself so that his gloved hands were visible to none of them.

“May I ask,” Haus said, eyes narrowed, “why one of my lieutenants couldn’t help you?”

Jax struck a belligerent pose and asked, in the mechanically amplified croak common to the Ubese, “Speak you Ubeninal?”

Haus’s gaze dropped to his own hands. “Yes. But I am not as good at signing it as I am reading—”

“Then I shall speak and you shall listen. A creature of Sullust has stolen my favored pit droid. I demand that you come with me at once and confront him.” That was what Jax said aloud—what he signed in the Ubese nonverbal lingo was something entirely different.

“Your … pit droid?” Haus repeated, scratching around the base of his left horn. He glanced from Jax’s hands to his eyes, hidden behind the lenses of the face mask Ubese wore when among alien races. “I could have one of my associates—”

“Not good enough. This Sullustan creature will not respect your associates. He believes himself above the law. I suspect he is aligned with Black Sun.”

“Really?” Haus watched Jax sign his real intent, then nodded. “Black Sun, you say? Imagine that.”

“He is a thief. He is more than a thief. I have proof. You come.”

Pol Haus rose from his formchair and moved to snag his disreputable coat from a hook by the door. “If you can prove what you say, sir, I will be happy to accompany you.”

They descended to the constabulary’s vehicle park and took Pol Haus’s speeder out into the gray canyons.

“Where are we going?” Haus asked.

“Ploughtekal Market.”

They reached that spot in silence. Haus parked the speeder and they got out by mutual consent, losing themselves in the noise and activity of the bazaar. It was the same as always—a barrage of sound and movement, an explosion of vivid colors overlaid on the cold and dark grime of Coruscant’s substructure. Jax heard the chatter of a dozen worlds—Basic being spoken in another two dozen accents. Laughter. Argument.

In short, life going on.

Jax shook himself, uttered a rasping sigh.

Haus glanced sidewise at him. “What do you need?”

Jax shut off the voice amplifier and spoke normally, his head tilted toward Haus’s so only the prefect would hear. “Information. I need to know if there’s any unusual activity going on inside the ISB.”

“What am I looking for?”

“An Inquisitor presence or a heightened security level in the detention areas, maybe.”

“As if they had a special prisoner?”

“Yes. And … if Vader’s back.”

“That, I can tell you right now, because I’ve always got feelers out for Vader. He’s on Coruscant—I got confirmation just before you showed up in my office. And according to my sources, most of his legion returned with him. Which kind of makes you wonder where the other ships went—and why.”

It did make Jax wonder, but he was momentarily consumed by the idea that he and Vader were sharing a planet. Warring impulses raced through him—to find Vader and confront him, or to get as far away from him as possible. Could the Dark Lord feel his presence here? Did he know he had not killed Jax Pavan? Was Jax endangering Whiplash by his mere presence?

Haus stopped walking and turned to face Jax. “Does Sal know you’re still thinking about going after Vader?”

“I’m not thinking about going after Vader. I’m thinking about going after Yimmon. And no, Sal doesn’t know. Are you going to tell him?”

“Do you intend to interfere with his plans for Whiplash?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I have no reason to tell him, do I? I want Yimmon back, too.” The prefect turned and started walking again.

“Why doesn’t Sal?”

The Zabrak made an impatient sound. “I think you’re reading him wrong. I think he wants Yimmon back. He just believes—for the reasons he cited—it’s dangerous to dedicate all of the organization’s resources to it.”

“But?”

A sidewise glance. “Who said there was a ‘but’?”

“Give me some credit, Haus. I haven’t lost my Force sense. I can read your ambivalence, and I’m aware that Sal’s reluctance is soul-deep.”

The prefect laughed, though Jax detected no humor in him. “But—I think he could afford to dedicate some resources to finding Yimmon. To give him his due, I think he probably doesn’t want you to be among them. At least, if I were in his position, I wouldn’t want to lose you to a quest.”

“But?” Jax prodded again.

“But I’d also understand that if you don’t give your all trying to get Yimmon back, you might as well be offworld. Sal needs you—Whiplash needs you. But it needs you with your head on straight, your heart in one piece, and your soul not stretched like a superstring between here and Wild Space. It needs you doing what you do best—furthering the resistance.”

Jax stopped and regarded the police prefect with wry appreciation, meeting his deceptively lazy amber eyes. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Give me some credit, Pavan. I don’t miss anything.”

Jax parted company from Haus in the heart of the marketplace. As he walked, he felt a strange combination of restlessness, impatience, and exhaustion. He chafed at having to wait for information; he wanted something to act upon—some certainty of direction. Was Yimmon here or somewhere else? If he wasn’t on Coruscant—then why was Vader here?

Deep in thought, Jax lost track of where he was until he looked up and recognized the neighborhood. The Cephalon who had summoned him before they’d left Coruscant on their failed mission lived only meters from the corner where he stood. He stopped and gazed down the plaza to the entry of the Cephalon’s building.

Why here? What did he imagine Aoloiloa might tell him if he showed up on its doorstep? What did he want it to tell him?

Here’s what you did wrong, you ridiculous human. Why didn’t you listen to me? Are you deaf? Blind? Insensate? All of the above?

He meant to turn around and retrace his steps to the market, but didn’t. Instead he let his feet carry him to the Cephalon’s tower. He signaled his desire to come up—to be granted an interview.

Maybe he’ll just tell me to go away.

But the Cephalon didn’t tell him to go away. And so, committed, Jax entered, arriving in the antechamber to find that Aoloiloa had acquired a couple of new sculptures since his last visit. It seemed, in fact, to be admiring them when Jax stepped up to the window and greeted it, removing his Ubese face mask and voice amplifier.

Aoloiloa turned slowly and bobbed over to the window.

—You have/will return(ed).

The words scrolled across the communications display in the anteroom.

“I return. And I regret to tell you that I … experienced the truth of your words: Choice is loss; indecision is all loss. I failed to make a choice and lost all.”

—You wish/wished/will wish?

“I …” He stalled. What did he wish? What did he expect the Cephalon would or could tell him? What he might have done differently or better? He already knew that, didn’t he?

“I wish to know … if there was anything I might have done to … to produce a different result.”

—To not lose all?

“Yes. To not lose all.”

—That is/was/will be a different path. Every choice makes/has made/will make its own path. Many trails lead/have led/will lead to crux.

“Crux—yes, you said that before. You said: Locus. Dark crosses light.”

Or dark will cross light, or dark has crossed light, or …

—Yes. Locus. Nexus. Crux. Dark and light cross/crossed/will cross.

“You mean that wasn’t it? It hasn’t happened yet? Or do you mean that it did cross and that I made the wrong choice; went down the wrong path; whatever.”

The Cephalon bobbed silently for a long moment, then said:—Listen.

Listen? Jax couldn’t recall a time when he had heard a Cephalon say anything that carried even that hint of urgency or command.

“I’m listening.”

—Yimmon’s separation destroys/has destroyed/will destroy us.

Jax’s hair stood on end. That was the most intensely personal message he’d ever received from one of these ethereal sentients. “Us? You mean the Cephalons? Or Whiplash? Or—”

—All of us.

The words on the display looked the same as every other trail of letters and syllables, yet Jax’s Force sense—completely focused on the Cephalon—told him that it was not the same. Aoloiloa was disturbed by the words—perhaps even afraid.

“You mean he … he’s going betray the Resistance?”

—Your truth: Choice is loss; indecision is all loss. Dark crosses/has crossed/will cross light.

“And makes gray?” Jax asked reflexively.

—Eclipse, said the Cephalon.