Star Wars_ Coruscant Nights 01_ Jedi Twilight - Michael Reaves [12]
On the face of it, such a concern seemed absurdly paranoid. The last planetary census pegged the population of Coruscant at upward of one trillion—and that was only the full-time registered residents. The census didn’t include commuters from skyhooks, Hesperidium, and other offworld communities. Nor did it include the hundreds of thousands of stormtroopers stationed planetside. And it most certainly did not—could not—account for the teeming multitudes living off the grid, in the depths of the urban slums. Estimates including those groups led some statisticians to determine the actual population to be nearly three times the official count. Given that, it seemed a single sentient could theoretically exist on Coruscant for the life span of a main-sequence star, and still remain virtually anonymous, with a minimum of effort. Unfortunately for Jedi such as Jax Pavan, that effort included not using the Force.
He had made himself as inconspicuous as possible. His dark brown hair, which he had been growing out in the style of a human Jedi Knight, he had immediately cut short again and dyed black. He’d had his beard permanently depilated as well. The austere hooded cloak and robes of his Order he had discarded immediately, of course. Now he wore a nondescript vest of black bantha leather, threadbare gray trousers, and black boots, with an ankle-length, gunmetal-colored greatcoat over it all. Its high collar helped conceal his face. He no longer carried his lightsaber proudly hooked to his belt; now it was hidden within an inside pocket of the greatcoat. He looked like a down-on-his-luck spacer, which was precisely the image he wanted to convey. The only visible weapon he wore was the vibroknife, although he also carried a small hold-out blaster concealed up his right sleeve, as well as a duracris poniard in a sheath between his shoulder blades. The latter didn’t show up on routine scans. A small confounder unit, carried in the same pocket as his lightsaber, kept it from being detected as well.
He’d managed to fool himself for a while, rationalizing that he was only hunting down criminals. But that was sophistry—particularly if he was hunting them for other criminals, such as Rokko. And now, as he stared down at the street far beneath him, Jax admitted to himself that he had fallen even farther than the distance from where he stood to the grimy pavement below. To survive in Coruscant’s dark underbelly, he had become what he’d once fought against: a hunter of sentients who had prices on their heads.
It had been torture to resist using the Force—tantamount to the self-amputation of a limb. He could still employ it in subtle ways, such as deceiving the weak-minded or sensing danger through it. But displays of power that only a Jedi could accomplish—even minor ones, like the stunt he’d just pulled with the bullyboys’ blasters—were dangerous in the extreme. Still, it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice.
“I think it’s time to go,” he murmured.
He had delayed long enough. He’d stayed on Coruscant, being paid by criminals to facilitate their vendettas, and tarnishing his psyche in the process, all the while trying to soothe his conscience by helping others escape the planet. But this had gone on long enough. It was his turn now.
The resistance movement known as the Whiplash was less than two months old, but already it had achieved some impressive accomplishments, including surgical strikes on supply routes and troop transports. It had also established a series of secret routes, safe houses, and groups of partisans working together to facilitate the escape of political undesirables