Star Wars: Coruscant Nights III: Patterns of Force

by Michael Reaves

  Den jumped, startled. He’d clearly been lost in his own thoughts. He glanced from Jax to I-Five, then turned to establish the connection. In a moment the Elomin appeared in a life-sized hologram above the holoprojector next to the terminal.

  “What’s happened?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Plenty,” mumbled Den.

  “Nothing,” said I-Five. “We need to consult. I promised to deliver Tuden Sal an answer to his proposition tonight. While that is still hours away, I don’t have a firm answer for him. I’d like to know where everyone stands.”

  “I choose to sit,” said Den. He looked up at the droid. “You know my opinion. I haven’t changed my mind. This is too dangerous—to you, to us, to Jax, to the Whiplash and everything it represents. I vote no.”

  “I could not have put it better myself,” Rhinann agreed. “I am, for once, in complete agreement with Den. I vote no.”

  “And I,” said Dejah, “vote yes.”

  Den and Rhinann both reacted to that with stunned disbelief, and Jax had to allow he was equally shocked, though he managed not to show it.

  “I realize this is a radical change of mind for me,” the Zeltron went on, “but I’ve thought about this a lot in the last few days and I’ve come to realize that all we’ve gone through—the running, the hiding, the concealment of Kaj’s talent, now the fear about Pol Haus using us to expose Thi Xon Yimmon and destroy the Whiplash—none of that would have happened if the Emperor was not in power. This Empire is strangling the life out of its people. It must fall, and the sooner, the better.”

  “Jax?” I-Five was looking at him, expecting an answer.

  Jax didn’t have one. “That’s one of the things I need to talk to Yimmon about, because Dejah’s right—what we decide to do will have an impact on the Whiplash and everyone it touches. It will have an impact on everyone we touch. After I meet with Yimmon I’ll have an answer, I promise.”

  “Do you really need to do that, Jax?” Dejah asked earnestly. She rose from her chair and came to take his hands in hers, to look up into his eyes. “Don’t you know your own heart? Can’t you feel what’s right? Can’t you see that the Emperor has to die?”

  He did see. He saw it very clearly. Felt it viscerally, but he also knew how seductive the idea of revenge could be. How it could insinuate itself into the heart, and look, sound, and feel like logic, or justice, or righteousness.

  He heard Den murmur something acerbic under his breath as he pulled his hands from Dejah’s grasp. “I need to talk to Yimmon,” he repeated.

  Dejah turned and left the room, moving out onto the gallery, where she paused to look down at Kaj through the shimmer of his screening light field. Then, with a glance back at Jax, she went into the kitchen.

  Jax pulled his eyes away from her with an effort, returning his attention to I-Five. “Can you wait for me?” he asked simply.

  The droid inclined his head. “As you wish.”

  “Well,” said Rhinann gustily, “that’s a reprieve, I suppose. Before I go, I have a couple of things to report. One is that there have been Inquisitors in the neighborhood again today. Two or three of them—it’s hard to tell. I believe we must abandon this location …”

  “Yes,” said Jax. “I agree. Do you need help?”

  “I think I’m capable of managing on my own, thank you. I know how to cover our tracks.”

  “And the other item?” I-Five prompted.

  “A message for Den from an Eyar Marath. Shall I forward it?”

  “Don’t,” said Jax. “It might be traced. Encrypt it, crystallize it, and bring it with you when you come. If that’s all right, Den?”

  The Sullustan had gone incredibly pale and his dewlaps quivered. He said nothing, merely nodded.

  Jax opened his mouth to ask if he was expecting bad news, but before he could say anything, Den slid from his chair and left the room. They heard him take the lift down into the studio.

  A moment later, Dejah appeared in the broad entry to the living room. “The kitchen’s empty and I feel like cooking something. I’m going down to the marketplace,” she announced.

  Jax was relieved to see her go, hoping that doing something creative might settle her nerves and make her more kindly disposed toward his decision that was not a decision.

  sixteen

  Jax met Laranth in a corner of the Grotto Room of Sil’s Place. Cut out of the ferrocrete substructure of the commercial block above it and fashioned to look like a natural cave, the sub-basement was the only quiet spot the cantina possessed.

  Jax got there first, took a corner booth with a table made to look like a squat, flat-topped stalagmite, and ordered a daro root beer. Then he huddled over the pale golden beverage watching the fizz die out of it. It was not alcoholic, but looked as if it could be. He sipped it slowly, savoring the creamy flavor and wondering if Laranth would even show.

  He felt oddly hollow inside, as if some part of him were absent—something he was used to having there. And he was uneasy.

  Well, there were any number of reasons for unease: Inquisitors prowling Poloda Place, Kaj throwing Force tantrums, Haus leaning on them to expose Kaj, Sal leaning on them to plot murder. And then there was the seemingly trivial friction between Dejah and Laranth … and Dejah and Den … and Dejah and Rhinann. In fact, the only people who did not seem put off by the Zeltron were I-Five, Kaj, and Jax himself.

  He was reminded suddenly of that alien roil of jealousy he’d felt in his gut when Dejah responded to Kaj’s neediness. That was just plain weird. Yes, she was attractive, but he had filtered out the chemical portion of that, hadn’t he?

  He flashed back to the conversation he hadn’t quite had with Laranth at the studio—to her comment about their leave-taking in the medbay. There had been a moment in which he had looked into her eyes and known—known with the certainty of Force-enhanced intuition—that they were on the same wavelength and that deep beneath the differences in their species, their philosophies, their training, and their personalities, they were … what?

  He shook his head. It had been such a fleeting sensation. The feeling that he knew her, completely and candidly, and that she knew him with the same stark clarity. That they were, somehow, two parts of a whole that was held together by the Force itself.

  Then it had been gone, blotted out by their mutual fear.

  And something else.

  He recalled it as if it had been yesterday: walking out into the ward beyond the room in which Laranth lay; the filtered sunlight, the others waiting for him, Dejah’s sultry laughter, and the feeling that everything would be smoother, easier without the grim Twi’lek …

  Something cold and insidious crawled up from the pit of Jax’s stomach. He took his hands from the chilled mug and sat back in the booth, staring at the play of light through the pale amber liquid. Had he been manipulated? Had he let himself be manipulated?

  “You all right? You look as if your life just passed before your eyes.” Laranth, her own large, dark eyes watching his face, slid into the booth next to him.

  He tightened his hold on the Force, pulling its fabric around him like a comforting cloak. Life passing before my eyes? Yeah, something like that. Something of his life had certainly passed by him so swiftly he had been unable to even so much as touch it before it was gone.

  He turned to look at her, caught the honest concern in her eyes. Could he ever get that moment back? “I just had a rather unwelcome realization.”

  Her eyebrows rose.

  He shook his head as if to shake the epiphany away. “This morning you said Kaj was getting cocky. I just realized that I’ve been cocky, too. And about something a lot more important than a practice droid.”

  “You’re just full of riddles today. You sound like Master Yoda.”

  He shook his head again, wrapping his hands around the daro root beer. “Master Yoda would never have made this mistake.”

  She gazed at him, her eyes, he was sure, seeing more than he wanted them to. “I’m
sure, if you asked him, that he’d tell you that we all make that kind of mistake once in a while.”

  He opened his mouth to ask what she meant by that kind of mistake when she turned her attention to a couple of Rodians who had just entered the dimly lit grotto, arm in arm. When she turned back to him, he could tell that another of his life’s moments had passed. The thought brought with it a tickle of nascent panic.

  There is no emotion; there is peace.

  “How’s your little brother?” Laranth asked, referring to Kaj.

  “He’s fine. He was playing sabacc with—with the guys.”

  “He was playing sabacc with the Zeltron.”

  Had he been that transparent? “Is that a problem?”

  “No. In fact, I think it’s a good idea. She can keep him calm. She worked wonders with the Togrutan female, by all accounts.” She tipped her head toward his drink and raised her voice just a bit. “Why don’t you finish that so we can go someplace more private?”

  He struggled briefly with cognitive dissonance, confused for half a second by the soft warmth of her voice. The vague static that rose between them when she leaned in close to him.

  There is no passion; there is serenity.

  He tossed back his drink and grinned at her, falling into his assigned role. “I’ll go wherever you want to take me.”

  She gave him a look that, from across the room, must have looked smoldering. Close up, the effect was somewhat different. More like scalding.

  He sobered. “What—too much?” he murmured.

  She grasped his hand and hauled him out of the booth. They were making their way out of the cantina when a tall Devish woman passed them in the entry.

  “Laranth!” the woman cried with a broad grin. The Twi’lek returned the greeting, if not the smile.

  “Who’s the new man?” the Devish asked, a suggestive leer on her red, saturnine face.

  “Don’t know yet,” Laranth told her. “But I’m going to find out.”

  They left the cantina with the Devish’s laughter following them down the walk.

  “The new man?” Jax asked when they’d gone about a block. “Is there an old one?”

  “I meet a lot of people in that cantina, Jax. Contacts. Friends.”

  Lovers? he wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  They went down three levels from the very verges of the spaceport, into a maze of tunnels and alleys so complex that Jax wondered how anyone who was not a Jedi—or at least a Force adept—could find his or her way out again.

  When he thought they must be coming to their destination, Laranth stepped into a waiting airspeeder, and they were whisked away to a neighborhood not unlike the one in which Poloda Place was situated. Deep in the crisscross of alleys there was an old theater of the type where live stage plays were mounted to limited audiences. They had been all the rage some four hundred years earlier, but now the old building was long past its heyday and cloaked in grime and faded glory. It had a little art gallery on the first floor where artists unfamiliar to Jax displayed a diverse array of work, including, he noted with interest, some light murals.

  Though the medium was the same as that used by the late Ves Volette, the style of display was entirely different. Instead of a bowl from which a fountain of cleverly shaped light sprang, these were affected by having the light leap up the wall from a long, narrow tray or even a bar that housed the emitters and field generators. They were significantly smaller than Volette’s work, too, and the generators were miniature.

  Still, he caught Laranth’s attention and gestured at the works. “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. I wondered about those myself when you mentioned the plan for the Volettes. They don’t have anything like the cohesive power of the fields in his work, though.”

  “Might do in an emergency.”

  Laranth shot him a hard glance. “Are you planning on creating an emergency that will test that theory?”

  Jax grimaced. “I never plan emergencies. They just seem to happen.”

  Laranth turned her head away, her right lekku curling and uncurling. She gestured toward what appeared to be a blank wall covered with a spray of light. “Through here.”

  “Through where?” Jax started to ask, when the Twi’lek stepped through the wall. Correction: hologram of a wall. He followed and found himself in a turbolift tube. He couldn’t tell immediately whether they were going up or down. He used a tendril of the Force to find out. It was up, surprisingly.

  They stepped out into a hallway that boasted several sets of doors. She led him to the far end of the hall and through a pair of doors that opened with a pop and a sigh.

  Den played the holographic message again, heart tripping over itself at the radiance of Eyar’s face, the sweetness of her voice. The impact of those things surprised him. He was at least a dozen years older than the Sullustan songstress. Jaded. Tired. Old. But to hear her, see her, made him feel rejuvenated, especially when he considered the gist of her message: “What’s keeping you, lover? How soon can you be home?”

  Home.

  Gods of hearth and hill, but that was a glorious word. Hearing it in his mind, he wondered if he even needed to wait for Jax’s decision. Den got up from the workstation and, with a strange, quivering haste, began to pack.

  He was just covering all his bases, he told himself. Just preparing for any eventuality. Just packing lightly, the essentials—which were all he ever traveled with, to tell the truth. A career in the news business had taught him to always be prepared to fly out the door on a moment’s notice, with never more than a single small valise’s worth of stuff.

  In ten minutes he was ready. All that was needed was the use of a credit stick to secure a berth on an outgoing starliner. That would take less than five minutes.

  He looked about the room and was surprised at how little emotion he felt. He thought of I-Five, his friend. He knew he was being cowardly by leaving without saying good-bye. But he couldn’t wait—couldn’t take the chance of losing his resolve. He had to go while he had the nerve. Because the way things were going, he might not get another chance.

  “Enough adventures,” he muttered. “It’s time to rest.”

  Den walked out the door, which slid shut behind him with the sound of a forlorn sigh.

  The room was comfortable without being opulent, the colors were rich and warm, the furniture was handcrafted. Jax, who had never been here before, was suitably impressed by the room as Laranth led him in—and even more impressed by its sole occupant.

  Seated at the narrow end of a large oval table was the leader of the Whiplash, Thi Xon Yimmon. A Cerean, he was an imposing figure, well over two meters tall, his height accentuated by the tall, tapered cranium common to his kind, which housed a binary brain. It was this singular feature, along with a preternaturally calm temperament, that made him the ideal leader for a multifaceted organization such as the Whiplash. Those twin brains, able to work semi-independently, effectively allowed Yimmon to concentrate on multiple subjects simultaneously. Jax had met the man once before and had been impressed to the point of wondering if Yimmon didn’t have some latent Force abilities. He was known to live by Jedi principles, at least to some extent. It didn’t surprise Jax that Laranth found Yimmon’s leadership appealing in the extreme.

  The Whiplash leader rose, smiling gently, and held out a large hand to Jax. The thick fringe of gleaming blue-black hair that grew from the back and sides of the Cerean’s head was worn long and in ornate braids.

  “Sit down,” Yimmon said, his voice a deep warm baritone. “Laranth tells me you have some questions.”

  “For both of you, actually,” Jax said. His glance caught Laranth just as she turned to leave. She froze, giving him an impenetrable look. At Yimmon’s gesture she moved to the table and sat down next to the Jedi.

  “Please.” Yimmon held out his hands toward Jax, palms-up, as if to receive the questions.

  “First,” Jax said. “Has Laranth spoken to you about the young adept we’ve taken
in—Kajin Savaros?”

  The Cerean nodded. “Yes. An extraordinary young man, by all accounts.”

  “And a dangerous one,” Laranth added.

  “And in a dangerous position,” said Jax. “The Inquisitors have been rabid to bring him down since he killed one of them. And unfortunately, his Force projections have drawn their notice.”

  “They’ve had to relocate,” Laranth added. “Vader has ordered the police prefect of the Zi-Kree Sector to investigate the case.”

  Thi Xon Yimmon nodded. “Pol Haus.”

  “You know of him?”

  “He’s served the constabulary well for decades. He’s a force to be reckoned with, though I know he doesn’t seem it at first blush.”

  “He’s suggested to us that we should find Kaj and turn him in.”

  “I think you should.”

  Jax was caught off-balance. “Excuse me?”

  Yimmon’s eyes glittered with sudden mirth. “Pol asked me if I would be willing to expose our connection. I told him that if he’d be willing, I could do no less. Pol Haus was one of the original Whiplash operatives, Jax. One of the very first. Can you trust him? Yes. You can trust him to do what is best for the Whiplash and the people it serves.”

  “Then if Kaj’s continued existence seemed not to be best for the Whiplash …”

  Yimmon shook his head. “Perhaps you look for layers of meaning where there are none. The Whiplash, like the Jedi Order, is built on the conviction that people must be trustworthy in their dealings with one another. He’s told me that he means no harm to the adept, and I believe him.”

  “Why didn’t he say as much to us?” Jax asked. “He said nothing about protecting Kaj.”

  “Not surprising. He’s an old hand at giving potential listeners nothing to hear. Meet with him where you can speak freely and plainly and ask your questions there. Even if I’m wrong about him, I think you’d know if he told an outright lie.”

  If you’re wrong? An unsettling thought. “Could you be wrong about him?”

  The Cerean shrugged. “Anyone can be wrong about anything. But, while I have known Pol Haus to lie, I have never known him to be dishonest.”