The Last Jedi

Twenty-Six


“You gonna come with us to the little mercenary’s store?” Den asked Jax as the Jedi put final touches on what Den thought of as his “pirate costume.”

Jax inserted his faux-cyber lens and turned to look at him. “I’ve got another errand I need to take care of at the tapcaf.”

Den shivered at the strangeness of the seemingly mechanical eye. “Yeah? And what might that be?”

“I need to talk to Tyno Fabris about something.”

“Tyno Fabris?” I-Five asked as he entered the tiny crew’s commons, wearing his pit droid persona. “Or Prince Xizor?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really. Black Sun is Black Sun. One member is just as slimy and dangerous as the next.”

Jax tied the closes of his jacket with extraordinary care. “Five …”

“What can you possibly have to say to him? You refused his additional help the last time you met, if you’ll recall,” the droid said. “I thought it was one of the smartest decisions you’ve made of late.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I think it would be a bad idea to go back and deal with Xizor further. He can’t be trusted.”

“Except not to be trustworthy,” Den muttered.

“Who said I trusted him? I don’t. But I do need his resources. He can get us onto Kantaros Station with some of his smugglers. And he may be able to provide cover or camouflage for us if we should happen to need it.”

“For which he will demand what, Jax?” I-Five asked. “Something you can’t afford to give?”

“We’ve had this discussion before—”

“We apparently need to have it again.”

Den looked back and forth between the Jedi and the droid. Under other circumstances he would have found the picture hilarious—a piratical human facing off against a meter-tall pit droid. Ludicrous. He could feel the tension between the two crawling on his skin; Jax was the definition of grim, and I-5YQ bristled with righteous indignation. It was almost like a standoff between a father and son.

Den swallowed an inappropriate chuckle when Jax observed, “This must be what it’s like to have a father.”

“Sometimes you seem to need one,” the droid responded.

“What I need,” Jax ground out, “is a Jedi Master, but I don’t have that. What I need is Laranth, but I don’t have her, either. What I need is not to have put Yimmon in harm’s way, but I did. What I need is the training and the experience to go head-to-head with Vader—but I lack that, as well. The last time I faced him I had help—a lot of it. And even with all that help, it took Vader overreaching and Rhinann throwing his life away to even get us out of there alive. Right now, I’ve got Xizor and his resources and I’m willing to use them.”

“This is a mistake, Jax,” I-Five told him. “For a Jedi Knight to be in the service of a Black Sun Vigo …”

“I don’t like it, either. But it’s what we’ve got.”

Den realized he’d been shaking his head for the last minute or so. “Jax, Jax, we can’t.”

Jax fixed him with a cold gaze. “Maybe you can’t, but I have to. If you don’t want to be part of this, then don’t be. I’m sure I can catch a ride on one of Xizor’s ships.”

“Then perhaps you should,” said I-Five.

Jax slipped his lightsaber under the folds of his jacket and left the ship, leaving Den to stare after him.

“Come on, Den,” I-Five said. “We, too, have errands to take care of. I think it behooves us to get my retrofit completed as soon as possible.”

“Do you really mean to bail on Jax? Can’t we …”

“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.