[Last Of The Jedi] - 06(5)

Now the group numbered eleven in all. Trever had arrived here with his traveling companions Solace, Oryon, and Clive Fax, and they had sprung two Imperials prisoners — Ferus’s best friend, Roan Lands, and their friend Dona, as well as Astri Oddo and her six-year-old son, Lune. They were an odd group with only one thing in common — they were all wanted by the Empire.

They’d commandeered an Imperial ship, a sweet Corellian YT transport, but they’d had to ditch it at a spaceport and find something else. They’d arrived on the asteroid with Solace flying a less impressive and close-to-clunky Class Space Cruiser with a pitted hull and a stripped interior.

They’d arrived to find that conditions had deteriorated. Toma had fallen ill, and though Raina had training as a medic, she lacked the supplies needed to cure him. His recovery was slow, and he was still weak and shaky.

With Toma down, Raina had worked herself to the bone. Garen had tried to help in the greenhouse, but he was still weak, and eventually he pushed himself too far and had to stop. Raina had carried the bulk of the work on her shoulders, and she was in a state of exhaustion by the time they’d returned.

The group had taken stock of the situation and immediately went to work. Solace had barked out orders, and the situation was bad enough that even Clive had obeyed. Oryon had turned out to be a knowledgeable gardener, and he’d recalibrated the soil mix in the greenhouse. Already the plants and vegetables were showing signs of new life. Roan worked on the exterior of the survival pod, which had been buffeted by a strong wind. Clive set to work repairing the landspeeder. Dona foraged for edible plants and set up more vaporators. Astri had helped with Garen and Toma, as well as tweaking the comm system that Toma had managed to set up before he fell ill. Trever himself had helped wherever necessary, which meant he’d spent way too much time pulling weeds and watering in the greenhouse. That would have been bad enough, but he’d also gotten stuck with the most degrading, dirty, despicable job of all — babysitting.

He’d asked Astri if there was something she’d like him to detonate instead, but she’d just grinned and tossed him a lasertoy.

Well, Lune had turned out to be an okay kid. When Ferus had given him that look — the look Trever had come to know so well, the look that meant do this, do it now, and don’t complain —Trever had taken the boy and escaped from the high-rise building in Sath that had been invaded by stormtroopers. He and Lune had tumbled into Solace’s transport, and Astri had gathered Lune into her arms. She hadn’t cried, but Trever would never forget the fierceness of her expression or the way she had clasped her son against her. It reminded him of his mother … only his mother was dead, so he didn’t want to be reminded. He tried not to be around when Astri and Lune were together.

Now he sat outside in a rare moment of light. Occasionally the asteroid would travel by a star system or a sun big enough to penetrate the thick atmosphere, and they would be able to see without glowlights.

He watched as Garen helped Lune keep a ball in the air using the Force. As soon as Garen had seen Lune, he’d known the boy was Force-sensitive. Those Jedi could sure pick up on whatever that Force thing was. Garen had worked with Lune, helping him “trust his feelings” and “Don’t try. Just do.” Sure. Whatever the lesson was, it was working. Trever wished he could propel an object just by looking at it. He’d propel plenty of credits his way.

The only person who wasn’t tickled by the sight of Garen and Lune was Astri. He saw her watching, and he could feel her worry. Who could blame her? It wasn’t exactly a stellar moment to be a Jedi.

He knew that Astri’s husband, Bog Divinian, had connived to get Lune away from her. He wanted to enroll Lune in some sort of academy the Empire was starting on Coruscant. He knew Lune was Force-sensitive, so he figured he’d make a hotshot pilot eventually.

Ferus had foiled that plot. But Astri kept on worrying.

Trever tucked his hands around his knees and leaned against a flat boulder. It was the end of a long day. Soon, the others would leave their jobs and gather. Someone would bring a tray with tea. They would sit and report on their progress. Trever didn’t know how the routine had been established, but it had. It made them all feel part of something.

Clive arrived first, settling himself next to Trever with an oof. “Leave it to Ferus,” he said. “If there’s an unspeakably dreadful patch of rock you can land a starship on, he’ll find it.”

It was a variation of what he said every day. Clive was meant for cities and teeming worlds with traffic and restaurants and dangerous characters. He’d once been a double agent during the Clone Wars, as well as a musician and industrial spy. There didn’t seem to be anything he couldn’t do.