The Last Jedi

Thirty-Three


Probus Tesla orbited his Cerean captive as a planet orbited its star. He had begun his pacing around the Whiplash leader in a moment of frustration with the other’s impassivity. But when he sensed that the constant movement was actually having an impact on Yimmon, he kept it up.

He had lost track of how many times he’d circled the still figure—probing with tiny trickles of Force sense—when he decided to make a more assertive move. The trickle became a stream and he pressed, seeking a chink in Yimmon’s psychic wall. To his surprise, the Cerean flinched away mentally, withdrawing from his approach.

Tesla curbed his excitement and increased the pressure.

“What’s wrong?” he asked aloud. “Why are you suddenly shy? Is it something I’ve said? Something I’ve done?”

He was tempted to tell Yimmon what he’d learned from his last communication with his Master—that Whiplash was dead, broken. He stopped himself. Hadn’t his Master told him to do no more than watch?

He flooded the connection between himself and the Cerean, seeking an inlet. But the other was barricaded behind a seawall of calm.

Tesla’s lip curled. Yimmon wasn’t a Force adept, and his pitiful mental defenses were lumpish, inert, rocklike. Water eroded rock, Tesla mused; entered its chinks, built up pressure, and blew it apart. The Inquisitor called such images to mind and brought the Force to bear. His physical and mental eddying must have somehow disconcerted the stolid rebel. Perhaps he had only to keep up his assault.

Yimmon’s defensive barrier seemed to yield and contract … and then it held.

Tesla sought a way to breach it. He settled on a means that was not quite in violation of his Master’s instructions.

“What if I were to tell you that there has been a coup on Coruscant?” He let the question hang and was rewarded with a sudden spark of interest from Yimmon, as if he had poked his head above his barricade.

“What if I were to tell you that there had been an attempt on the life of the Emperor. Perhaps you already knew this?”

No response, but the other’s pulse quickened; his breathing shallowed.

“And what if I were to tell you that the perpetrators of this attempt were crushed utterly and their entire organization shattered?”

Ah, yes. Now, that was a reaction. He could sense how much Yimmon wanted to open his eyes, to see Tesla’s face, though he would be unable to read anything in it.

“Has such a thing happened, you’re wondering? Let’s assume that it has. And that resistance operations on other worlds are next. And that they will fall, one after the other. Would you warn them if you could? Ah, but of course you can’t. You have no way to reach them.”

Having put that suggestion in place—having invited Thi Xon Yimmon to think about his resistance colleagues on their various worlds—Tesla monitored the comparatively nervous activity behind the Cerean’s calm façade for a moment more, then pressed ever so gently at it. Then he withdrew … apparently. At least it should feel to Yimmon as if he had withdrawn.

Suiting physical action to mental suggestion, he turned as if to leave the room—and was flayed by a flash flood of Force energy. It pattered against him like static rain. Electrifying. Shocking.

As swiftly as it had come, it was gone, leaving Tesla feeling winded and chilled. He hesitated, and felt an instantaneous tickle of interest from the man seated cross-legged on the floor behind him. He forced himself to keep walking, his feverish thoughts held tightly to him. Was it possible that this Cerean was a secret adept? He thought again of the course of action he meant to put to Darth Vader on his return to Kantaros Station—the physical separation of Yimmon’s dual cortices. If Yimmon was a Force-sensitive, what effect might that have?

Tesla hurried out of Yimmon’s cell, curiosity curling deliciously. He was eager for his Master’s return so that, together, they might dissect Thi Xon Yimmon’s psyche and expose its secrets.