The Last Jedi

Twenty-Eight


Tyno Fabris was smiling.

Prince Xizor recognized the smile the moment he entered his lieutenant’s tasteful, if somewhat cluttered, office suite. The smile was of the I know something you don’t variety, and the newly minted Vigo found it annoying. That annoyance made his skin prickle, though he managed to control his flushing reflex.

“You seem pleased with yourself,” he commented.

“Well, not with myself, but with my intelligence network. Yes, I’m quite …” Xizor’s attempt to control his reflexes was not entirely successful; the Arkanian’s smile faltered as the shift in his boss’s pheromone levels struck him. “…pleased,” he ended lamely.

“Do tell,” Xizor said, and meant it as a command.

To his credit, Fabris took it as one. “Things are happening on Imperial Center, Vigo. Interesting things. Our rumor mill has not only drawn Darth Vader away from Kantaros Station, but has caused Imperial forces to be moved to the affected area.”

Xizor shrugged. “That’s to be expected.”

“Ah, but that’s not all—at least according to one Captain Donari Caron. When asked why she was able to produce only three of the prototype P-shields she was asked to procure, she reported that her contact told her that security on Imperial Center was tight at the moment, but that the situation would soon change when Palpatine was—how did she put it—out of the picture.”

Xizor was momentarily speechless. Once he’d processed the information, he said, “What you’re implying is that someone actually is plotting to kill Palpatine.”

The Arkanian’s smile was back, no less annoying. “It certainly looks that way.”



On the bridge of the Black Sun vessel Raptor, everything was going according to plan. Jax watched from a jump seat at the rear of the bridge as the small crew went through their pre-launch protocols. The Raptor was one of three Black Sun vessels—well-armed black-market runners all. In exactly two hours, they would lift from Mandalore and make way to Kantaros Station.

He raised his eyes to the viewport, which gave a view of the other nearby vessels. Past the two Black Sun ships, he could see the Laranth sitting, her engines powered down and cold.

He was not unhappy that Den and I-Five would not be with him, he told himself. It was better that they stay behind, for a growing list of reasons. One was their own safety. What Jax was proposing to do was risky to anyone involved—including Xizor’s operatives. A related imperative was that the resistance not lose more good people. If he went in alone and failed, Den and I-Five would be left to carry on. If they were with him and he failed …

No. It didn’t bear thinking about.

There was a third reason for his decision to part from his closest friends—their distrust. It was palpable and it distracted him. Both distraction and distrust could foster indecision and, as he already knew, indecision resulted in loss … in death.

There is no death …

Jax shook himself, shoving doubt aside. Perhaps there was no death from the point of view of the dead. Perhaps death only existed in the minds of the living—the ones left behind.

Jax felt the thrum of the Raptor’s ion engines as they ramped up. He frowned and checked his chrono. Where was Xizor? The thrill-seeking Vigo had made his own presence on the mission a part of the deal, but he had yet to come aboard, though their departure was only minutes away.

There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere of the bridge. All of Jax’s senses focused on the source of that change—the captain, a human named Breck, had straightened and raised a hand to the earpiece of his comlink, then tilted his head, sat back in his seat, and glanced back over his shoulder at Jax.

The hair rose up on the back of Jax’s neck. Something was wrong.

The captain faced front again, uttered a word or two, then turned to his navigator. “Secure the ship. We’re standing down.”

Jax was stunned. He stood. “What do you mean ‘standing down’?” But he knew what was meant before Captain Breck answered.

“That was the boss,” the man told him. “He’s pulled the plug on the operation. We’re not going to Kantaros.”

“Did he say why?”

The captain shook his head. “No. And I didn’t ask.”

“Then I will.”

Jax strode from the bridge and off the ship.



“What’s happening?”

Den Dhur peered through the Laranth’s transparent viewport at the activity on the tarmac—or rather, the lack of activity. The three Black Sun smugglers, which had been powering up, were suddenly ramping back down again. After a momentary stillness, the loading ramp of the largest ship lowered and Jax came down it. He crossed the tarmac in long, ground-eating strides. The expression on his face was terrifying, and would have been even without the fake cybernetic eye.

Den was terrified by it, at any rate. He pulled back from the viewport. “Something’s wrong, Five.”

“You’ve only just noticed?”

“I’m serious, frag it! Something’s gone wrong. Badly wrong.”

“Apparently.”

Den turned to look at the droid, who was “dressed” in his new, not-so-shiny I-Five persona. “How can you be so sanguine about … whatever this is?”

“I’m not sanguine. In fact, I feel rather powerless to do anything. But consider what it might mean that Jax—apparently in a towering rage—has left the ship that was supposed to take him to Kantaros Station.”

Den considered what it meant and was about to say he didn’t follow, when he realized that he did. “Xizor’s broken the deal.”

“That would be my surmise.”

“What do we do? Should we follow him?”

“In his present state of mind, I doubt Jax would take that gesture in the spirit it was intended. I think we should just sit tight.”

Den clenched his fists atop the control console. “He could be in trouble, Five. He may be headed into a face-off with a Black Sun Vigo—one who almost killed him.”

“Jax wasn’t the same man then that he is now, and Xizor would be a fool to think that he is.”



The tapcaf was closed at this hour of the day. Only a few people were in the street when Jax arrived at the front of the building. The locked door was no obstacle. It opened at a gesture, letting him into the darkened ground floor. As he strode across the room to the staircase beyond the bar, a pair of startled employees—surprised in the act of polishing tabletops—glanced up but offered no objection.

He took the stairs two at a time and met his first resistance at the top in the form of a pair of Fabris’s goons—the Devaronian and the Zabrak. They came toward him, hands already on their weapons.

“Stop!” the Zabrak ordered.

Her partner drew his weapon. Jax made a swiping gesture, and the blaster spun away over the banister into the room below. The Zabrak woman went for her weapon next—Jax’s clenching fist caused the Force to twist it into an unrecognizable lump.

She flung the useless thing aside and lunged at him. He answered with a Force thrust powerful enough to toss her four meters down the corridor. Her Devaronian cohort, wisely, chose to run, scooping the Zabrak up and dragging her away.

Jax came down the hallway after them, doors flying open at his passing. When he reached the door to Fabris’s office, there were no guards there to challenge him, though he sensed quite a few in the depths of the building.

He thrust one hand, stiff-armed, at the door. It ripped from its hinges, blowing inward in a rain of wood dust and plaster.

Fabris was not behind his desk. Not surprising.

Jax closed his eyes, scanning. There, behind that tapestry, behind a door and the wall, were life forces. Four of them.

Jax crossed the room in three strides. One gesture tore the tapestry from the wall and flung it into a corner; another shoved the inner door aside, making its machinery scream. He drew his lightsaber and stepped into the doorway, expecting to have to parry blaster bolts, but no one fired.

Prince Xizor stood in the center of the room, his hands held out from his body—whether to show he was unarmed or to dissuade his two bodyguards from doing anything rash, Jax wasn’t sure. The Falleen was a stew of emotions, making his flesh shift colors rapidly. Tyno Fabris sat between the two guards, striving unsuccessfully to look composed. Sweat stood out on his brow, and his gaze was locked on Jax’s lightsaber.

Jax shifted his stance, swinging his glowing blade in a slow figure-eight that made it hum menacingly.

“What game are you playing, Xizor?” he asked the Vigo. “Why have you scrubbed the mission?”

“Mission? My, my, how religious that sounds. There’s no mission, Jedi. This is business, not a spiritual quest.”

“Then let me put it in terms you’ll understand. Why have you broken our contract?”

Xizor spread his hands in a gesture that said he had no choice. “The situation has changed radically. It no longer makes sense for me to involve myself in this … endeavor.”

Jax stepped fully into the room and moved slowly to his right, forcing Xizor to turn to face him. The last time the two men had confronted each other, Jax’s Force connection had been sputtering and inconsistent. Xizor had had the advantage. This time Xizor was pinned and he knew it.

“I’m going to let you explain yourself,” he told the Vigo, “but first I want to warn you about what will happen if the bodyguards that are massing in the outer corridor try to enter Fabris’s office. That big chandelier on the ceiling is going to come crashing down on their heads. Then I’m going to embed you in that wall behind you.”

Smiling, Xizor locked eyes with him, reading him. Apparently, the Falleen didn’t like what he saw. His eyes flickered, trying to dodge. His smile faltered, became wooden. His lips drew back in a snarl. “Let me send one of my men out to hold them back.”

Jax considered the idea, then nodded.

Xizor turned to the men flanking Tyno Fabris. “Brank, go out and forestall any attack.”

“Tell them to withdraw to the lower level,” Jax ordered.

“Fine. Tell them that.”

Brank, a tall, broad-shouldered Mandalorian of indeterminate species, nodded curtly, growled, and lumbered out of the room.

“You were expecting me, Xizor,” Jax observed. “Otherwise I doubt there would be quite so many guards lurking in the upstairs corridors.”

“You’ve got me there. I figured my news would make you less than happy, but what can I do? I can’t get you to Kantaros Station, Jax. Sorry. I mean that. I was looking forward to having a Jedi at my beck and call. I’d be the only Vigo in the history of Black Sun to be so endowed. So, you see, this hurts me as much as it does you.”

“I doubt it. You said something changed. What changed?” Jax struggled not to connect with the roil of fury in his breast. If he could stay above it …

“Well, you see, a funny thing happened. As you requested, I employed my network of associates to draw Darth Vader back to Imperial Center. My people effected this by spreading seemingly credible rumors that someone was plotting to assassinate the Emperor.”

Jax felt a clammy chill invade his gut. “And this changes things, how?”

“I’m a bit embarrassed about this, but it appears that someone actually is plotting such an attack. One of our captains was engaged in a business negotiation with a black-market supplier—a fellow named Ash, I think she said—and this supplier made a strange reference to Palpatine being removed from the picture.”

Acer Ash—a member of Whiplash. Tuden Sal was going ahead with his insane plan, and there wasn’t a thing Jax could do about it.

“The bottom line is that the rumors I had planted happened to be true. Now, let’s imagine for a moment that this assassination attempt is linked with an arguably insane attempt to free Whiplash’s captured leader. The fact that Yimmon’s liberator arrived on a Black Sun vessel would not be lost on the Emperor.”

“You could say that I stowed away.”

The Falleen was slowly shaking his head. “A handful of valuable members within my organization know about this plan. If Vader were to question them, it would become immediately apparent that I was involved. I simply can’t take that chance.”

“Did you know? Did you even stop to think that rumors of that nature could impact the resistance?” Jax’s voice was hard, cold, and quiet.

“It didn’t occur to me, nor would I have cared if it had, to be perfectly honest with you. I simply reasoned that a credible threat to the Emperor would draw Vader away. It worked.” Xizor spread his hands again. “Sorry, Pavan. Nothing personal, it’s just business.”

Just business. How many people had died—how many would die—because Black Sun was just doing business?

Jax was struck with a full appreciation of Den and I-Five’s objections to his dealing with Xizor. To them it must seem as if he were neck-deep in his own version of “just business” as he pursued his goals.

Deep down inside him, something gave.

Xizor sensed it, for he took a step back and said loudly, “Brank! To me!”

Jax felt the sudden rise of adrenaline among the sentients in the tapcaf below. Of course, Xizor had kept a comlink open. He would have been stupid not to.

Jax turned and bolted for the outer room, reaching it as the first of the guards came pounding up the staircase. He knew others were coming along other routes, intending, no doubt, to cut off all egress. But they were dealing with a Jedi. Albeit a Jedi whom they had never seen show any sign of real violence.

Wielding his lightsaber, Jax sundered the rest of Fabris’s tapestries, effectively blocking the remaining hidden doors with yards of heavy material. Then he whipped around, free hand extended, generating a Force thrust that swept every surface in the room, creating a storm of flying objects. The hail of glass, metal, and wood pelted the bodyguards who were even now rushing in through the unblocked office door.

Jax leapt away from the center of the room, reaching up toward the ceiling with his free hand. Overhead, the gaudy, oversized chandelier quivered and chattered. The candles flickered in their sconces.

“No!” Tyno Fabris wailed from the doorway of his hidden room. “Not that!”

“Stand down, Pavan,” Xizor warned. “You’re trapped. You’ve nowhere to go.”

Jax met the Falleen’s smile with one of his own—one he guessed was no more pleasant. “I guess you’re right. There’s no way out.”

He deactivated his lightsaber and returned it to his belt, slanting a look at the heavily fortified stained-glass window behind him. He saw the bodyguards relax back, heard Fabris sigh in relief, felt Xizor warm toward gloating.

He glanced back at the Vigo. “But I can fix that.”

Jax spun, thrusting with both hands. The barred window exploded outward over the street below, taking a big chunk of the wall with it. Colored glass sparkled in the morning sun like bright rain.

In the stunned moment of silence after, Jax glanced back at Xizor and his lieutenant. “Nothing personal, of course. Just business.”

A last sweep of his hands wrenched Tyno Fabris’s fantastic chandelier from its mounts and brought it down in a shower of crystal and flame. Then Jax stepped out of the empty window and let himself down into the street in the arms of the Force.

He knew a moment of regret when he saw the devastation his blast of energy had caused—blocks of masonry and shards of wood and glass lay scattered across the walkway and into the street; the few people out this early were either scrambling for cover or staring in utter disbelief. He felt no injured here, and hoped there were no dead as he broke into a run.



Less than half an hour after he’d left the spaceport, Jax reappeared at a dead run, looking no less fearsome than he had earlier. He came straight to the Laranth, boarded through the hastily lowered loading ramp, and made his way to the bridge.

Den looked up into that stony face, uncertain what to expect.

“Prepare the ship for departure,” Jax said. “We’re going to Toprawa.” Then he turned and went aft.

Den stared after him, a strange, wild elation blossoming in his chest. Jax was back—again. They would soon be among friends. He sagged in the copilot’s seat and looked over at I-Five, who was going into the pre-liftoff protocols with mechanical precision—using the one “normal” hand on his mongrel I-5YQ chassis.

“Is it too early to celebrate?”

“Far too early,” I-Five said, nodding his still-misshapen head toward the commercial quarter Jax had just come from. “From appearances, I’d say Jax left some destruction in his wake.”

Den peered out the viewport, his eyes immediately finding what the droid was talking about: a telltale plume of smoke curling up from the direction of the Oyu’baat tapcaf.

“I suggest we hurry,” said I-Five, and activated the ion engines.



He had never felt like this—not after his Master’s death, not after Flame Night, not after Kajin Savaros’s near destruction, not even in the aftermath of losing Laranth and Yimmon. He was filled with a horrible, dark, quivering desire—but for what, he could not put into words. His whole life had been about self-knowledge, self-control, self-discipline. Now he knew nothing about himself except that he had none of those things.

In the moment the door of his quarters hissed shut behind him, the ravenous need swarmed him, swamped him, roared to be free. He let it, giving vent to a wild scream of alien passion. The room around him exploded in a cyclonic whorl of motion, sound, and violence. Whatever was not fixed to the decking or walls came loose, blown to the upper bulkhead. Whatever was fixed followed mere seconds later.

As swiftly as it had come, the tidal wave of emotion surged out again, leaving Jax empty in the center of his ruined cabin. He trembled as his eyes took in the devastation … and stopped dead at the sight of Laranth’s tree lying on the deck, its roots naked and half crushed by the broken remnants of its container.

The Sith lightsaber he had concealed in the device lay gleaming on the deck plating, taunting him.

He fell to his knees on the padded flooring, pulling away the debris and lifting the tiny miisai into a cupped palm. He reassembled the feeding container as best he could, collected the soil, and set the tree back into it, watering it and feeding it energy from his own life force. Then he sat and stared at it, numbly aware of the ship’s trembling as she lifted into the morning sky.