The Last Jedi

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?”

“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.

“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.