Chapter Three: The Tunnel to the Edge

Anakin had always dreamed of visiting Coruscant, placing it in the top ten of all worlds he one day planned to visit, just under Corellia and Alderaan, respectively. He never imagined it would come so soon, and certainly never in Jabba's ship. Through the long hours of hyperspace travel from Malastare, Anakin's head was filled with all the dreadful possibilities of Jabba or his notorious bounty hunters tracking down him and the ship. He didn't even know if Jabba was alive after the attack—if the Hutt was, Anakin could expect to be hunted for the rest of his life, especially if he piloted a ship as visible clearly named as the Star Jewel. As he saw it, he had two options: sell the ship upon landing at Coruscant (assuming he could work his way into the black market for something so large, which he had no experience with) or change all the ship's codes and transponders to give it a new identity. With his knowledge of the ship's systems, only one choice made any sense to him.

So, for the majority of the flight, he sat on the floor grates near the ship computer, using every trick and password he knew to work his way through Jabba's security. One of Threepio's "innocent civilians" happened to be a computer tech with certain less-than-legal skills, which made things easier. After passing a few credits his way, the slicer—one of the blue-gray-skinned, red-eyed Duro—broke through Jabba's system, and Anakin rewrote all the necessary electronic documents. Well, enough to get him to Coruscant anyway. Starship registries still wouldn't have him listed on any and someone was bound to discover that. He'd have to find a way to purchase a fake registry position once they got to Coruscant, but for now the transponders would get him a landing permit. That's all he needed to start with.

The only thing really left to him was to decide a name. A dozen possibilities jumped through his mind in the first few minutes: the taunting Jabba's Loss, the ridiculously straightforward Anakin's Amazing Star Palace, the whimsical Scarlet Whirligig, and the violent exclamation of Rancor Gutting! among them, but they all sounded too childish in his head. Yes, he was sixteen, but that didn't mean he wanted to fly around a ship that shouted that out to everyone for the rest of his life. Jabba may not have been creative with his christening, but outdoing it in the other direction was almost as bad. It wasn't until an hour out from Coruscant that the idea dropped on him, and it was perfect. It was him, and his life. Now it was his ship.

Runaway Phenom.

By the time the Runaway Phenom descended into Coruscant's atmosphere, Anakin was back in the cockpit, his feet propped up on the console, watching the coal-colored planet gleam with lights like rings of fire spider-webbed in yellow. While most planets had something of the natural system left, Coruscant did not, and the entire planet was lit like the man-made construction the world now was. It wasn't often that Anakin was awestruck anymore, but this time was one of those.

It was well into the evening hours of the Capitol District when Anakin brought the yacht down, settling into a massive bay, one among thousands. That was Coruscant for you. The Jedi agreed to pay the docking costs for the moment, on the condition that Anakin come before the Jedi Council. As Anakin didn't have enough credits to his name to rent out even a tenth of the space he saw no problem in agreeing to their request.

The refugees disembarked together, herded by Republic officials to some office or another, to be mired in bureaucracy for the next several months. Anakin was nearly pulled there himself, mistaken for a refugee by his clothing (which he might have found offensive if it weren't so accurate). A'Sharad got him out of it with a quick word and something that sounded vaguely like "custody."

"You can come to the Jedi Temple with us. Can't have you spending the night in a refugee camp if you're going to stand before Council in the morning. With all the bureaucracy, we'd never find you again."

Then again, maybe that's what he needed to make sure he escaped Jabba entirely. Of course, then he'd lose the ship and be forced to live wherever the Republic felt need to place him. Most of the refugees would be presumably sent back to Malastare, once it was deemed safe, but Anakin's records were nonexistent. The Force only knew where he'd end up.

And then there was the matter of attending to the Runaway Phenom's records before anyone started looking too close. He cast his eyes away from A'Sharad and scratched the back of his head. "Actually, I need to take care of some things first, before I go to the Temple. Jabba might still be able to claim me as a slave, and I'll need . . . well, whatever you call it when slaves are set free on free worlds."

A'Sharad shrugged. "I can help. I know Coruscant better than you do." And to make sure you don't run off on us. He didn't say it but Anakin knew it was on his mind.

"I don't know . . . I think that –"

"You don't really have a choice."

"Doesn't your master need you or something?"

"On Coruscant? Not particularly."

"Fine, but don't get in my way." He was going to have to be very careful to slip this under the Jedi's nose, as absolutely nothing about what he wanted to do was legal.

A'Sharad took a moment to think it over. "All right. I know whatever you're planning's not legal, but neither is slavery. I won't stand in your way. And, believe it or not, I think I might have an idea where you should go."

They descended into Coruscant's depths, to a place where architecture supplanted the last natural thing on the planet: the sky. The man-made canyons of stone and durasteel were darker than any natural one, and even the bright lights of the classes above couldn't reach this far down. Dark shapes moved in perpetual shadows, darknesses that never fled the day. Neon signs and flashing lights replaced the steady glow of homes and safety. Anakin knew this world far too well.

The Tunnel to the Edge was no shadier a place than any cantina on Tatooine, only flashier. Red, blue, and green lights swung above, old holoscreens played images of scantily clad women and men dancing, and jets of water jumped up and down inside smudged transparisteel columns supporting the cracked ceiling. Befitting its name, the Tunnel to the Edge was a long, cylindrical cantina leading straight up to a massive window overlooking a section of city somehow even lower than the cantina was. A catchy swing-bop tune filtered through age-old speakers, some half-remembered recording suppressed under the steady murmur of voices and clunky glasses.

"You know, you may need to wait at the door," Anakin said, as they stepped in.

"What? Why?"

"You look like a Jedi."

A'Sharad peeled off his cloak and outer vest, then tucked his lightsaber up under his tunic. "Not so much anymore. You can't lose me this easily."

"You don't trust me?"

"You're a teenager who recently committed grand theft starship. No."

"Have it your way, but don't interfere. When I tell you to back off, you need to do that. Wouldn't want to have to arrest me, would you?"

The pair worked their way through the garish, smoky room. The tables and corners were filled with people from all over the galaxy, comprising species Anakin had never seen before and never would again. Most ignored them but a few watched their passage warily. Anakin took a seat at the bar and flipped the bartender a five credit piece. "Cometduster."

"Alcohol?" A'Sharad asked as he took the stool next to him.

"I grew up on a lot worse. Do they allow . . ." He shifted his gaze to nearby patrons. "Um, your kind to drink?"

"Depends on who's doing the drinking. It's discouraged."

Anakin caught the bartender's eye and jerked a thumb at A'Sharad. "Polanis Red." He grinned at A'Sharad. "Gotta start you on something weak."

The bartender, a balding, felinoid Farghul, passed Anakin his drink, a fizzy, almost glowing blue beverage. Anakin took it up, feeling its slight warmth through the glass. He took a sip, feeling its sweet crackle along his tongue and palate. "You stay here and keep an eye out. I found who I need to speak to."

It was a trick he'd picked up after a few years in Jabba's palace and aided by his special knack for reading others. As he'd approached the bar, he'd glanced over everyone he'd passed, mentally cataloguing their behaviors and getting a sense of their business there. When he approached the lone Ithorian at the window, nursing his drink while electronics whizzed on the table before him, a cloaked figure stepped out. "What is your business with Gebdon?"

"Documentation."

"Payment?"

"See that man at the bar? The one in the red-eyed mask? He'll arrange for payment however you need. Tell him it's for Skywalker's business."

The faceless figure grunted, but acquiesced, allowing Anakin to the table as he himself went to speak with A'Sharad. Anakin seated himself but said nothing, waiting on the Ithorian. The other man studied him for several moments, the eyes on this gray-brown hammerhead never blinking. "What do you seek?" he whispered, his deep voice reverberating from both mouths.

"Official documentation for myself, my real identity, and for a Ubrikkian Minstrel-class." He pulled out a datapad with all the Runaway Phenom's current codes. "This ship. I have all codes and transponders configured correctly but I need something in official databases and registries."

"Which planets?"

"None in particular. Republic-controlled if possible."

"Very well. I will arrange it. I have people who handle these services. How soon do you require them?"

"As quickly as our payment arrangements allow." He took another sip of the Cometduster, savoring the shock on his tongue.

Gebdon entered a few pieces of information onto his computer. "I'll need to gather some personal info you'd like to show up. I don't care if it's real or not, but anything you don't fill in will be left to the discretion of my people."

The rest of their discussion lasted less than twenty minutes, as Anakin related nearly complete personal information about himself—or, at least, as real as he knew. He chose to list Shmi as his mother, still, though he hadn't seen her in nearly two years. He had needed to change her profession to personal aide from slave. It was close enough for the record. However, when it came time to discuss his father, Anakin started making stuff up on the spot, going back to fantasies and daydreams he'd had when he was younger. His nonexistent father (as his mother insisted) was now real on paper: Bron Skywalker, itinerate spacer, killed in service when Anakin was three. He kept Tatooine as his homeworld, despite not being born there, because he wasn't sure where he'd really been born. And a backwater, non-Republic world made it easier to lose key bits of official documentation and not look suspicious.

At some point, a bar brawl broke out, which might very well have been an everyday occurrence down here, at the Tunnel to the Edge. Fists and people were flying. A holoscreen erupted in a bright flash and a shower of sparks. A'Sharad and the cloaked figure waded out of it, though not before the former sent a man flying over the bar. "Do not drag me into this!" he yelled, thrusting a finger at the man.

Gebdon shifted nervously in his seat, eyeing the surging mass of bodies. Anakin forced the Ithorian to meet his gaze. In his mind, he was tuning out the brawl, willing it all but to disappear. "Focus on me. It'll be all right."

"It will be all right."

"There's nothing over there to be worried about. We have work to do."

"We have work to do."

Anakin had done this before, to focus or distract, and once or twice to steal food from Jabba's kitchens. It was an odd thing, having such power of suggestion. At one time, when he was younger, he had thought this was a natural charm but since he'd put a label to his other gifts—extraordinary coordination, perception to the point of clairvoyance, telekinesis—as the Force, he'd wondered how much this mysterious energy field was playing with others' minds. He didn't know if he much cared, though parted of him wanted it the same way part of him longed to be a Jedi: for the excitement of it. For the adventure.

At this moment, though, none of that mattered. It got Gebdon to settle down, and that was all he needed. By the time he left the Ithorian's table, the brawl had settled into cleanup of the mess. And Anakin left the flashing lights feeling as if he'd bared his life to a stranger. It left him in an odd state, as if he suddenly realized that, for the first time in his memory, he was free. A'Sharad apparently noticed it as he followed Anakin from the boisterous cantina. "What happened? Did you get it all sorted out?"

Anakin nodded. "In four days, I'll be a free man with records to prove it."

"We might need that proof, or I'll have to explain to the Council why I just transferred four thousand credits to a sequestered bank account while also paying for some foul-tasting alcohol. If that's the price of your freedom, though, I don't see how they'll complain."