Star Wars: The Last of the Jedi, Volume 4 (2 page)

She’d talked him into breaking in again. He would need lightsabers, she argued, for the Jedi he was sure were out there. And she needed to discover the identity of her spy.

So they’d broken into the base of the Temple, thanks to Solace’s odd ship with a mole miner aboard. But they’d run into too many stormtroopers and more trouble than they could
handle. Now here he was, in prison, with an execution order just waiting to be carried out.

He was given a number when he arrived: 987323. He was told not to talk to any other prisoner and not to ask the guards for anything because he wouldn’t get it anyway. “Not even for
seconds on dessert?” he’d asked, and in response had received a force pike in the stomach. That had taken hours to recover from. He had to remember to keep his mouth shut.

The situation was hopeless, he supposed, but he had been trained as a Jedi, and so he resisted feeling hopeless. There was always a way. Or, as Yoda would say,
a way there always
is.

He wondered about Trever, the thirteen-year-old who had pretty much adopted him as a guardian. He had been along to break into the Temple—both times. He didn’t seem to want to leave
Ferus’s side. Would Solace take care of him? Not that Trever would let anyone take care of him, exactly. And not that Solace had the warmest of characters. Still, he hoped Trever was all
right. He was a street thief and an explosives expert and a pain in the neck, but he was still a boy.

The rat returned, and Ferus winged his boot at it again. It retreated, baring its teeth in a rather human way that gave Ferus a chill. He hoped he wouldn’t see those teeth sunk into his
ankle later. Maybe sleeping wasn’t such a good idea.

“Do you mind, chum?” The voice of his cellmate rose out of the corner. Ferus had been thrown into the cell in the pitch-black and hadn’t met him yet. He was just a shape in the
corner. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“There’s a meer rat—”

“You don’t say. What a shock.” Ferus could only see a gleam of pale skin across the space. “They like to eat boots. Use them as a pillow.”

“Use my boots as a pillow?”

“What, duracrete is such a nice cushion? Keep a rock in your hand and crush its skull when you get a chance. Leave the body. The others will get the message. Better do it or else
you’ll find one chewing on your face in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t have a rock.”

Ferus could hear his cellmate’s sigh. “Why do I always get stuck with the new guy? Heads up.” A good-sized rock suddenly loomed out of the darkness. Ferus caught it, but if he
hadn’t had quick reflexes it would have bashed in the side of his head.

“Thanks. So where am I?”

“Dontamo Prison. But don’t worry, you won’t be here long. One day soon you’ll be dead.”

“I got that impression. Has anyone ever escaped?”

“Death is your escape, my friend.” Ferus heard his cellmate turn over to face him. Now he could see the gleam of his eyes. “All right, I can see that I won’t get any
sleep until I give you the lowdown. Whatever you do, don’t get sick. No one who goes to the infirmary ever comes back. Second, don’t talk to anyone during the day. And don’t talk
to me unless you have to. I have a whole fantasy world going on in my head, and I don’t like to be interrupted. I’m on a picnic with my wife, and the sun is shining, and I’m about
to eat one of her sweetberry tarts.”

“You’re married?”

“Never ask a personal question,” the prisoner continued. “Never fall down. Never tell anyone you’re innocent. Nobody had a trial here, so we’ve got the innocent and
the guilty and it makes no difference. Nothing matters here except putting in your time until you get to die. Everybody fights over rations. That’s the currency here. Eat fast. And one last
thing, the most important thing—don’t cross Prisoner 677780. He runs the gang here. We just call him 67. Don’t even catch his eye. You’ll be sorry if you do.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“My advice is, think of the best day of your life and replay it in your head. Now leave me alone.”

Ferus felt his cellmate turn away. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and clutching the rock. Was this all he had left? Hanging on to a memory, replaying it until death came for
him?

Best day of his life…

He and Roan, on a hiking trip on the neighboring world of Tati, deep in the forest, coming upon a waterfall that slid into a deep pool of green. They had been so hot, and they’d dived in,
straight to the bottom. The water was so cold they came up shivering and laughing.…

He heard the rat scuttling forward and he brought his hand down, hard, with the rock in his fist. The rat lay still.

Those Jedi reaction skills sure could come in handy.…

Trever flattened himself on the metal walkway. He heard the ping of blaster fire and the cries from people being hit. He smelled smoke from the detonators and the burning
dwellings. He heard the sound of bodies falling.

He was hiding, his usual position in a battle. But this time it was different. This time he couldn’t move. His fingers shook as he curled them around the grating underneath him. His hiding
place was good, behind one of the Imperial troops’ own speeders. There was a guard, but he hadn’t seen Trever. For a brief moment Trever had thought of stealing the speeder, but he knew
he’d be blasted to bits in seconds.

When he and Solace had returned from the disaster at the Jedi Temple, Solace had heard the battle before he did. She had leaped off the ship and straight into the thick of it.

He had seen battles before, but none like this. He had run from Imperial officers, he had broken into buildings, he had taken the risks needed to maintain his own black-market operation, but
this was different. This was terrifying. The eerily white stormtroopers were bent on annihilating everything in their path.

He had caught glimpses of Solace, fighting furiously to save her followers. He’d seen her moving, diving, never losing her balance or her grace despite the ferocity of her attack. Her
lightsaber was a beacon of light, glowing green through the smoke.

She would lose. She would hold out as long as she could, but she could not win. There were simply too many of them. Almost everybody was dead now. Slaughtered without thought, without pause.

Rhya Taloon was dead. He saw her die. She’d been a Senator once, until they targeted her for prison or worse and she had joined the Erased, the group who’d destroyed their former
identities and hid in the lower levels of Coruscant. She had fashioned a new, fierce look for herself, twisting her silver hair into horns and wearing holsters across her body. She’d learned
how to shoot a blaster, but she’d never been very good at it.

He and Ferus had traveled down here with other members of the Erased, but now they were dead, too. It must be so, because all he could see were bodies. Among them lay Hume, who’d once been
a pilot in the Republic Army. Gilly and Spence, the brothers who hardly spoke. Oryon, the fierce Bothan who’d been a spy for the Republic during the Clone Wars. Curran Caladian, the young
Svivreni who’d once been a Senatorial aide, had leaped to defend the houses in the central catwalk. Trever had seen the stormtroopers send flame grenades into the homes and had turned
away.

And Keets Freely, the journalist. Trever had seen his body, bloodied and battered, as he and Solace had run up to investigate. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that the
mocking, indestructible Keets could fall. But fall he did, from a platform above, landing at Trever’s feet. That had been the beginning of Trever’s true terror.

In the short time he’d been traveling with them, they’d all become his friends. And now he didn’t know what to do or where to go, because he was sure that this was the day he
would die.

A new voice rose in his mind, not a voice of fear but impatience.

Well, if you’re going to die, show some guts, will you?

He slowly, painstakingly, raised his head, ready for it to be blown off at any moment.

The battle had moved to an upper level of the catwalks and landings that twisted so crazily below the cavern walls. But there wasn’t much battle left. He saw a few holdouts, but they were
surrounded and soon would be dead. He wrenched his gaze away. He couldn’t watch anymore, couldn’t bear it anymore.…

Suddenly a streak through the smoke made him raise his head. Solace had made an incredible leap, jumping down from the topmost catwalk to the one just above Trever’s head. Stormtroopers
were pouring down the ramps after her. In another few moments they would corner her.

And he was here, hiding like a coward.

He had to help her, and do it fast. But how?

Stop hiding, Trever. That would be a start.

He snaked behind the other speeders and was able to get a better look above.

The stormtrooper guarding the speeders turned away from the noise of battle to take a communication—he could see him speaking into his helmet, straining to hear over the noise—and
Trever leaped closer to the stairs that led to the next level. He landed behind a smoking heap of twisted metal that had once been a house. He slammed into a body and nearly levitated out of the
space in terror until a strong hand clamped on his leg.

“Don’t move.”

It was Oryon, the Bothan. His face was blackened with smoke, his long mane a tangled mass. His tunic was torn and a long scratch ran down his upper arm. His eyes were reddened from the acrid
smoke. He was the fiercest thing Trever had ever seen.

“Solace is—” Trever panted.

“I know. Do you have any charges left?”

Trever nodded, ashamed. He had been too afraid to set off many of his charges. He had hidden instead.

“I’ve got some grenades,” Oryon said. “It might be enough.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Blow the whole platform.”

“But she’ll fall.”

“She’s a Jedi. She’ll survive. But they won’t.”

“Uh, and what about…” Trever gulped. “Us?”

“We’ll do it from below, then get back to this platform.”

Trever glanced down through the grate to the black sea below.
“Below?”
he squeaked.

“Are you ready?”

Ready? I’m ready to run the other way.

No—keep it together.

Trever nodded.

“Follow me.”

Oryon took two strides and suddenly flipped himself over the catwalk railing. Trever moved cautiously forward and hung over the railing in astonishment. He saw that there were handholds and
footholds below the grating, just random pieces of metal that you could hang on to in order to scrabble your way across, moving underneath the grating like a crab. Far, far below he saw the moving
black sea.

There was nothing else to do but go over. A small part of him was pleased that Oryon was treating him as a comrade, assuming without question that he would do this. Ferus would have told him to
continue hiding behind the speeder.

Trever swung one leg over, searching for a hold underneath. Then he slowly slid his hands down until his other toe found a hold.

They made their way upside down, looking up through the grating. Sometimes they had to curl their fingers through the grating itself to make progress. He just hoped that a stormtrooper
didn’t step on his fingers. Those boots looked pretty lethal. Trever knew his fingers would be raw after this, but strangely, the fear had left him and a grim determination to finish the job
was pushing him forward.

When they were close, Oryon signaled him and spoke in his ear. “You have to go ahead. Set the timers for thirty seconds. That will give you enough time to get back. Then I’ll throw
the proton grenades from here. Set the charges carefully so only that catwalk blows.”

Trever scrabbled forward, his fingers aching. He would have to find a good place to anchor his feet and one hand while he reached into his utility belt. He made his way more quickly now, used to
the feeling of being upside down. When he saw the white stormtrooper boots above, he set one charge, wedging it into the catwalk, then another and another, his biggest alpha charges. By the time he
finished, his fingers were scraped raw.

Counting in his head, he went backward to where Oryon waited. “Five seconds,” he grunted to the Bothan.

“Go,” Oryon whispered.

Trever quickly scrabbled back in the direction he’d come. But he couldn’t resist stopping to watch Oryon toss the grenades.

Oryon dropped one powerful arm and lobbed the grenade. It shot straight out then curled around the edge of the catwalk, sailing over the railing and onto the platform above. Without pausing, he
threw the other three grenades.

Trever felt the explosion against his eardrums. Oryon was moving fast toward him, hand over hand. The catwalk had become a living thing, buckling and waving. It could break at any moment.

He risked another look back. The platform above was cracking, metal parting from metal with a groaning, scraping sound. The stormtroopers were starting to fall into one another as they
desperately searched for traction. Some were trying to vault to safety to the catwalk or the platform below.

Solace was the only one who used the explosions to her advantage. She had ridden the blast like a wave and had shot into the air. Trever watched, breathless, as she somersaulted away from the
stormtrooper army and fell—no, not fell,
soared,
completely in control—past the stormtroopers, over the groaning metal, over the heat, over the smoke, and down, down to the sea
below.