Alright, I know I told someone Sunday night at the latest, but there were unforeseen problems over the weekend, and I had no computer access from Thursday afternoon through this afternoon. So, I finished typing this today and now it's up. Just as a little reminder, the Star Wars calendar has 368 days, divided into ten 35-day months, three celebratory weeks, and three holidays. A week is five days long to them. I know some things get explained over and over again, especially Anakin's background and the events of Revenge of the Sith, so I'm trying to gloss over those bits some. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Next chapter is going to be rather eventful, and I hope to have it out within two weeks, but preferably sooner. As always, your reviews and comments are incredibly helpful, as they stir my creative processes and help me stay within the characters and enviroments that Mr. Lucas and the various authors and producers he pays have created. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!
The Hero Strikes Back
Chapter 9
This is so not right, she thought, pulling her hood forward more to hide her face. Creeping through a military compound in the dark of night wasn't something she'd normally do, but that same voice in the back of her mind kept urging her onward. It had gotten her safely this far, though, past two sets of sanctimonious officials demanding to know her travel plans, countless troopers in white armor, and even the tight security on this post. If she didn't know instinctively that she wasn't Force-sensitive, she would have attributed the voice to such abilities. As it was, its existence baffled her.
How many ships do I have to pass up before I can get out of here? she wondered. She'd gone by six, no, seven light transports now, and she was unsure of her ability to pilot anything much larger. Still, that nagging little voice insisted that she continue.
She rounded a corner and was forced to stifle a gasp even as the realization came that this was what she was looking for. It must have been fifty or sixty meters from stem to stern, at least, with flowing, organic lines unlike anything she'd seen since she awoke.
She'd been getting memories back lately, slowly at first but now more rapidly, remembering who she was and the details of her life before the dark room. Those recollections were now giving her a great deal more confidence. Despite the fact that it was more than triple the size of the light transports she'd passed, she could handle this craft by herself.
Nubian shipwrights designed their vessels to be flown by a single pilot as an emergency precaution.
Looking at her ship again, she noticed that it was a stylized avian form, recalling a native Nubian reptavian that was common to the swamps near Theed. It made her smile wistfully. Watching the peko-pekoes from the back garden had been one of her favorite activities as a child. For a moment, she wondered where her children were, what had happened to them while she was… whatever she had been before waking in the dark. The thought was fleeting, though, and she crept closer to the ship.
It was the only vessel in this particular bay, and there were no troops visibly guarding it, at least not inside. A dimly glowing panel marked the hatch, and she entered a code, hoping that factory procedures hadn't changed. Hydraulic systems hissed quietly as a section of hull descended with the lift, and she thanked the stars that the administrative override still worked.
Light spilled from the opening into the dark hangar, and she rushed aboard. The last thing she needed was for someone to walk by and see that. When the hatch had resealed, she relaxed enough to take in her surroundings. They were unexpectedly harsh, in stark contrast to the ship's exterior with the boxy and confining lines. The color scheme didn't help, either; black flooring, dark gray walls, and the occasional splash of blood-red fabric cast a morbid pall over everything.
Supremely disappointed in the previous owner's taste—this beauty was hers now—the woman kicked one of the 'columns' set against a bulkhead. The sound was definitely not that of durasteel, and she thought she saw one edge pull away from the wall. She had no doubt that a more elegant Nubian interior was somewhere behind the stark façade.
She moved forward, looking for the control room, passing hatches as she walked. The forward end of the corridor terminated in a single door; when she palmed the control pad, it slid open with only a whisper of sound. Thankfully, the previous owner hadn't attempted redecorating in here. The control center was refreshingly traditional in the Nubian style, and the three main consoles gleamed and winked at her. She settled into the central command couch and began the warm-up sequence.
One difference immediately struck her as she scanned the other controls. Unlike the Nubian vessels she'd used in the past, this one was armed—heavily. Though this made her uneasy, it would help; she doubted that she would be able to get out of the bay without turbolasers, let alone off the base. What kind of shape is the galaxy in if Nubian shipwrights are arming craft of this size? Once again, she wondered how long she had been in that dark room.
A soft chiming alerted her that the engines were prepped for takeoff. One command engaged the repulsorlifts, a second deploying the ventral laser cannon. The first shot rattled the hangar doors and set off a set of sirens; the second blew them wide open. Another klaxon joined the chorus, louder than the others, as she opened up the throttle, but her real worry was potential pursuit. Two fighters screamed overhead as she wove between buildings in search of a clear area large enough for her to turn her vessel toward the skies.
A part of her was shocked badly by the apparent changes in technology evidenced by those fighters. There was so little ship in the things that she had to wonder if the pilots were being protected from anything beyond temperature and vacuum. A small ball encompassed the cockpit and engine mounts and was bracketed by a pair of canted solar panels. The design was just as minimalist as the retrofitted interior of her ship.
As the pair of fighters swung around to fire on her, she input a command on a side screen; blasts sounded from above her as a dorsal cannon rained deadly bolts on the wing pair. One of them lost a solar panel, the support strut sheared cleanly from the cockpit. Unbalanced, it began to spin wildly about the remaining panel, crashing into the other craft and bringing both of them down.
Her vessel rounded a corner, and there was suddenly open space on all sides. With one hand, she pulled back on the control stick as hard as she could; the other hand pushed the throttle as for as it would go. A throbbing hum became audible as she sped through the atmosphere, decreasing as the air became thinner and then nonexistent. Oddly, no more fighters rose to challenge her escape. In-system traffic was light, just as it had been when she arrived two days ago.
Veering away from the blue-green light cast off by Beshqek, she set the auto-pilot to take the vessel to the system's outer edge, away from any gravity wells, giving her a chance to figure out where she was supposed to go next. Then she switched seats, accessing the navicomp with a practiced ease.
All right, Padmé, you've secured your own transport, she thought to herself. What are you supposed to do with it, and where?
Ord Radama, whispered the odd, genderless voice that had been prodding her along since she woke. Away from this dark, tainted world. With a shudder, she entered the name and sat back as the computer calculated the most efficient route. She wanted desperately to take a shower or a bath if the facilities were available; as short as her stay had been, Byss made her feel incredibly filthy. Her skin had been crawling the entire time.
The navicomp chirped at her, and Padmé glanced over the jump calculations before instructing the craft's computer brain to begin the first jump as soon as possible. She stood again, glanced around, and ran a hand across the console in something of a caress. A tremble ran over her skin, and she left the control room, searching for the main cabin and the refresher it would contain.
Then, she resolved, she would begin stripping the interior down to the original décor. It would occupy her for the week or so she would be in hyperspace. The fact that it would distract her from her worries about Ani and little Luke and Leia would be a welcome side effect.
A warning light on the console flared amber, and Jix swore before kicking one of the side panels beneath the readouts. The light turned off obediently, and he cursed again. He couldn't tell if the battered YZ-900 was going to make it to Coruscant or fall apart on him in the middle of a jump.
Why do I always seem to pick the dealers with the most abused craft for three parsecs? he asked himself. It sure wasn't something conscious. Maybe some higher being had it in for him.
The Corellian hadn't really volunteered to keep an eye on Palpatine, but he was doing the job anyway. He would have rather stayed on the Executor and joined the Rebels, But Uncle D—now Uncle A and a much more interesting person—had asked him to do this. Anakin had stressed the importance of knowing what the Emperor was up to, and Jix simply couldn't find it in himself to refuse.
And now here he was, hurtling through hyperspace in a rusting heap that might disintegrate at any moment. Still, the situation wasn't all bad; he had a sizeable cash pile available, even after purchasing the Yevan Lady, which he could use to get her in good working order, and he was headed for the center of galactic civilization. Jix was still working on his plans for the actual watching part of his mission, but he'd already figured out his schedule for entering Coruscant and settling in right under the Imperial nose, so to speak.
He'd get through planetary security with a false identity and name for his ship; once inside Coruscanti airspace, he'd take the Lady to see a good friend of his who had a way with starships. With the ship under repair, he'd then rent a nice apartment under another name. The one-time soldier was determined to live the good life on the credits Piett had been able to procure.
His stockpile currently stood somewhere between three and four million Imperial credits. The admiral had rather impressive slicing skills for a man on the straight and narrow; Jix had no idea how many accounts had been altered to create the one he'd converted to cash, and the Axxilan hadn't batted an eye at the request. In fact, Piett's words were, "Might as well use Imperial money to bring down the Emperor."
Hours passed before the Yevan Lady dropped out of hyper near Imperial Center, her lightspeed engine popping and clanking as it disengaged. Jix sighed. One more thing for Dex and his crew to work on.
"Corellian YZ-900 freighter, transmit identification, cargo manifest and destination," the comm announced with the tones of a bored traffic official. Stretching a bit to reach the comm station, Jix flipped a switch to send the doctored information.
"Shadow Voyager, Pilot Daclif Gallamby speaking. I'm hauling electronics parts today." He kept his voice casual, almost as bored as the officer's, as though he, too, did this five days a week, 368 days a year. It must have worked; there was only a normal delay before he was given a flightpath for his descent. Had there been no delay, it would have alerted him to a betrayal; on the other hand, if it had been unusually long, that would have been a sign that Planetary Security had seen or heard something to cast doubt on his cover story.
Yevan Lady groaned as she hit atmosphere, and the Corellian slowed the vessel even more. Please, let me get down in one piece, he thought. If the ship began shedding parts, the debris could be dangerous, and the Imps would be on him like ugly on a Hutt. Then it would be 'good night, Wrenga,' for the last time, because he'd never allow anyone to imprison him again, not after Kessel.
He reached over to the comm again, turning off the first switch and powering up another set of transponder data. Now, to any traffic droids, the ship would read as the Mythic Blaze, with him as Chel Feroon, and he would be supposedly waiting for the delivery of his next cargo: med packs, a tank of bacta, and two old medical droids. It was all smoke and mirrors, though, for neither Chel nor Daclif was a real person, and the false monikers for the freighter were equal fabrications. Chel was his cover for his accommodations and a long-term docking bay or landing pad.
Dex, on the other hand… The Besalisk had become a friend a few years back, shortly after Jix had become Vader's go-to man. Apparently the alien had once owned a diner in the upper levels of Coco Town, before the rise of the Empire and its humano-centric policies. At one point, the big xeno had confided that some of the Jedi had been frequent customers at the restaurant, including one Obi-Wan Kenobi. Boy, was Dex in for a surprise when Jix could get him in a private spot.
Before lone, the Yevan Lady was nearing the edge of the so-called 'Alien Protection Zone,' and the Corellian turned on his personal comlink. He'd entered Dex's secure frequency during the last jump, so he only needed to press the transmit key.
"Jettster, my man with the hands, d'ya read me?" he asked, crossing his fingers and hoping.
"That you, Wren?" came the reply after a minute. "I was hoping His Imperial Nibs hadn't gotten ya when word got around."
"Nah, DJ, I'm good. Better than, actually. Can't say the same for my Lady, though. She needs a good helping of your magic touch."
"Well, my boy, I've had to move since the last time you brought a gal in. The new place is about thirty-eight degrees east of north, right at the edge of the Zone. I'll turn on the lights for ya."
"Great. See you soon, my friend." He sighed in relief as the connection went silent. Jix banked to starboard and winced as something behind him groaned loudly.
Even without the blazing neon lights, there would have been no missing Dexter's repair bay; the doors were accented by an abstract design in various lurid colors. Their tracks were mounted on the outside of the building, presumably so the panels could be viewed at any time. As he eased the Yevan Lady through the opening, Jix made sure to glance back and check his clearance.
A droid zipped up to hover in front of the cockpit, waving a pair of glowrods. With its help, he was directed to one corner of the massive bay before he eased the battered freighter onto the duracrete.
"Wren, my boy, where do you get the heaps you buy?" Dex asked as soon as he emerged. Jix shrugged.
"Something must be off with my dealer IFF system." When the Besalisk stopped laughing at him, he grinned. "You'll never believe what I have to tell you. It has to do with some of the customers you used to get at your diner. The unusual ones."
"Really?" Dex asked, the fleshy crest on his head rising with interest. He led Jix away from the Lady and into a small interior office just off the bay. The wall between had been replaced at some point with a single large sheet of transparisteel, allowing anyone in the office to keep an eye on the entire business. "You mean the Jedi I told you about, I'm guessing," his host continued, settling into a large chair with armrests specially designed to accommodate his four arms. In turn, the Corellian threw himself on the one couch present.
"You mentioned Kenobi; What about his—ah, hell, what's the term…"
"His padawan?" the Besalisk replied, leaning forward. "Little Ani Skywalker? 'Course I knew him. Neither of them could cook anything, so they were in my place regularly—between assignments, at least."
"Ani?" Jix asked, feeling his eyebrows rise. "That is the oddest nickname…" 'Uncle Ani' sounds so much better than 'Uncle A.' "Kenobi wasn't the only Jedi to evade His Nibs' hunters. One's been under his nose all along, supposedly tame."
"I'd heard Vader was one before he became th'Emperor's pet, but it couldn't have been him," Dex replied. "Could it?" he continued as the human smirked.
"All it took was finding out that His Nibs lied about his kids dying with their mom."
"But they had some laserbrained rule against that sort of thing, I know!"
"Think about it this way: a human kid wins a pod race when he's nine, when normal humans can't hack it. Ya think he's gonna follow any other rules that don't make any sense to him?" Watching Dex's eyes go as wide as they could was… interesting. They looked like they might almost fall out.
"Ani was… Why?" By the time the Corellian had finished explaining, he could see half of the Lady's hull off to one side as droids worked on her, and damp tracks lined Dexter's face. "Lemme talk to some folks I know," the Besalisk insisted. "We'll set ya up with a place, and then work out somethin' to watch His Nibs without riskin' your neck."
Jix tried to protest, pointing out that he had a cargo hold full of credits, but it did him no good. Jettster was determined to make his stay as safe as possible without taking away the perks of being on the capital world.
Corran was beginning to learn that there were days when it really sucked to be Anakin Skywalker's apprentice. For one thing, the Jedi was two meters tall, give or take a few centimeters—in his bare feet.
He wasn't short himself, by any means—he had some height on Luke, and Corran wasn't through growing yet. Master Anakin still stood a head taller than he did, and he seemed to like messing with people's hair, especially when it came to his son and padawan. The
Rebel pilot seemed to dislike the gesture almost as much as he did.
For another thing, the Alliance High Command was forever calling his master away, especially when interruptions were most unwelcome. Yesterday, it had been during Corran's lesson on the forms of lightsaber combat. Three hours after the call, Master Anakin had stormed back into their shared quarters, snarling something about politicians under his breath. It had even happened during meditation once, despite all the comm systems in the rooms being disconnected. At least that hadn't happened a second time.
Today, the interruption had come during a session of what Corran called 'mind exercises.' He'd been left with instructions to build the most solid and detailed illusion he could manage, making it as believable as possible. He'd finally chosen a model-sized reproduction of the particular X-wing he had been training with before leaving CorSec.
He was down to the really picky part—adding the micrometeorite scars and carbon scoring that any vessel acquired over its lifetime—before he sensed his master. The door opened a fraction of a second later, and Master Anakin walked in pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I hate politicians." The young man blinked. "They know now not to call unless I'm the only one who can answer their question, and to try and save it until they have several questions to ask at once." As he spoke, the older Jedi noticed the miniature X-wing and sat down to examine it. "Good detail. I'm guessing this is a specific vessel and not an archetype. You're doing well, Corran."
He ducked his head at the compliment. "I wasn't really done yet."
"I mean it, a very good illusion," Master Anakin replied. "How about some work with remotes? I know you've been wanting more saber practice." Eagerness must have been apparent in the Corellian youth's face, because the blond began to chuckle. "Come on, kid."
Corran grinned as he stood. Remotes meant that he would finally be using a real lightsaber. He didn't have one of his own yet; Master Anakin had said that it might be a year before he had the skills needed to build one of the sophisticated weapons.
Just down the corridor from their suite, a small gymnasium had been designated for their use, though others used it from time to time, especially Mara, Luke, and Leia. Inside, the older man unlocked a storage unit against the wall and beckoned his padawan forward. Lightsabers filled the shelves of the cabinet, dozens of them, each with its own distinct design and style.
"Most of these were built before the Empire was declared, some long before. A few are practice sabers that I threw together. I want you to choose one, not based on its looks or the color of its blade, but on the guidance of the Force. Close your eyes and pick up the one that most calls to you."
The student did as he was told, his hand hovering over the top shelf of weapons. He stood there for what seemed an eternity. Some of the sabers were only a dull glimmer to his mind, while others gave off steady glows. None from the highest shelf really captured his attention, nor did any from the second. However, on the third tier, Corran's hand latched onto a cool, smoothed cylinder, his fingers settling comfortably into the curves of the gently undulating grip.
Master Anakin sighed loudly. "I should have expected that, I guess." The Jedi gestured at the case. "All but a handful of these blades were, well, liberated from a closed-off wing of the Galactic Museum on Coruscant. For the last twenty years, they were viewed as trophies by Palpatine, symbols of his eradication of the Order. When Mara Jade left his 'service,' she took anything she could carry from those rooms, to save them from further damage at his hands."
"Then this lightsaber belonged to someone who was famous enough to merit a display in the Museum." Corran's stomach began to flutter nervously. How could I be worthy of a blade like this?
"It was one of the last Jedi displays added," Master Anakin replied. "The Master who built it was killed perhaps a month or two before the Purge." As he spoke, the older man was rummaging through another cabinet. "There were two other items in the case with that saber: a holo display holding a few images, and a JedCred." When his master paused and straightened, he was holding a display unit, and something else the Corellian couldn't see.
"What is a JedCred, Master?"
"A Jedi Credit was a commemorative coin. It was one of the Corellian Temple traditions; when one of their Knights became a Master, coins would be struck bearing his likeness, and he would give them to family, friends, students, and Masters. The Master, too, would keep one. The JedCred in the Museum likely was his own." Master Anakin opened his hand to reveal a small golden disk. The clear portrait was marred by a pair of deep scars in the metal; someone had gouged out the eyes.
Frowning, Corran pulled at the gold chain around his neck, pulling a similar coin from underneath his shirt. A matching collar had been placed around the JedCred to make it a pendant. "I always thought this was just Dad's luck piece," he mused. "Makes me wonder who gave it to him." After a moment, the youth compared the two coins, drawing a deep breath as the similarities began piling up.
"These—and the lightsaber—are rightfully yours, Corran. Your birthright, so to speak." At his curious glance, Master Anakin elaborated. "These coins were struck nearly forty years ago, in honor of Nejaa Halcyon. Your biological grandfather."
I wore the credit because it was a way to keep a part of my Dad close. Pop and I should have told you, but… we never felt safe enough.
"You were trying to protect me, Dad," Corran whispered to his father's presence, feeling a brief hug in return. "I understand."
Whistler has a message in his memory banks that I recorded for you. The encryption code is my Dad's name. Corran sighed as the presence faded from his mind.
"Here, kid." His master held out a blast helmet, its visor painted the same flat gray as the rest of it. "I'm going to start with one remote. As you become more proficient, I'll add others." When Corran settled the helmet in place, Master Anakin reached out and hit the blast shield, plunging him into darkness.
"How am I supposed to block the darts when I can't see, Master?"
"By tapping into the Force. Valin taught you about spheres of responsibility, and they can help you sense what is going to happen, especially in a combat situation." With a nod of understanding, Corran activated his grandfather's lightsaber and stood at the ready.
