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