Luke legged it out of the library as fast as he could go, his heart hammering in his chest. He'd activated his comlink and snapped out a quick summary of the situation to Palace security, ordered them to lock down all exits, halt all movement. There was a brief moment where he wasn't sure if they were going to take his orders—he was in disgrace, after all—but once he'd summarised the situation (and thrown in a few cutting threats) they'd jumped into action.
Then he gave chase.
The Rebel's Force signature darted through the halls quickly, erratically, with no apparent rhyme or reason to his movements, but it was enough for Luke to sense him. No one else was that panicked, that on edge, even with the guards halting them in their places and the general tense atmosphere of the Imperial Palace. The Rebel stood out like a faint lodestar: dim and dying, but enough to guide one's way.
He was heading downwards.
There were fewer people in the lower levels, Luke knew—many were abandoned, save for a few personal dungeons of Palpatine's, and there was no reason to return. In fact, enough retained the veneer they had when they'd been the old Jedi Temple that it could cast suspicion onto whatever curious soul wandered them.
If it was odd, living atop the past—the Jedi Temple was the Palace of the Sith Empire, the apartment of the Padmé Amidala now housed the Empire's greatest agents—Luke didn't waste a thought on it.
The Rebel was headed down there.
Logical for them, perhaps, but it was genuinely the worst thing the person could have done in that moment.
When Luke and Leia had first arrived on Coruscant, amid far too much pomp and ceremony for a ten-year-old's taste, they'd spent every spare moment they could running through the Palace, several royal red guards having to jog and curse to keep up. As the years passed and they began to know the place intrinsically, those red guards would often mysteriously lose sight of them.
They knew the shortcuts, the hiding places, the corners and corridors that looked dangerous but were as secure as could be if you trod carefully. The construction of the Imperial Palace atop the Jedi Temple had muddled the foundations and the lower levels in a way that couldn't be seen on blueprints, no matter how recent they were. The guards had never had a hope of finding them.
Initially, the one person who had had a hope of finding them had been their father, who knew their minds through the Force as well as he knew his own. But he still had to navigate the treacherous passages, crumbling mortar, his lightsaber a poor substitute for the sunlight of the upper levels. It took a while.
Once they'd learned how to shield effectively, it took even longer.
This Rebel might be scurrying to the shadows to hide from the spotlight. . . but the shadows had always been the twins' playmates.
The deserted levels meant he stood out like a satellite on a starless night, and Luke had no issues tracking him. The man had slowed to a walk by now, presumably believing himself out of danger. No one would find him this far down, right?
There must be an entrance down here that the Rebels had cleared while they'd been in Kuat, Luke mused as he set about finding him. There had certainly been none viable before.
Luke kept his footsteps light; sound echoed loudly down here. He could hear the man's panting breaths like he was standing right behind him.
He was headed for one of the training rooms—or, at least, near to it. The training room closest to the equator, next to the younglings' dormitories—
Luke had an idea.
Fear was not something he actively sought. If his opponent wasn't smart enough to be afraid of him, that was on them. But he knew his father enjoyed the sensation of power it gave him—and it could also be a useful tool, sometimes.
He let himself tread heavily; the decisive click-clack of his boots skittered away from him and down the hallway. He felt the man freeze, terror spiking: the echoes of his pursuer seemed to come from all around him.
Luke softened his tread again and broke into a light jog, as quiet as the wind.
He let some of his anger—bitterness he'd had to be in the Archives in the first place, seething resentment at his still-throbbing jaw, disgust at the thought the man had had the gall to penetrate so deeply into the heart of the Empire he served—run free.
Ice began to crystallise on the air.
Another spike of emotion from the man—apprehension, this time. Thoughts bombarded him: was this. . . normal? He was in the corpse of the Jedi Temple after all; the place had been picked clean and left to rot in the darkness. Was it. . . haunted?
Ridiculous, the man dismissed. Exaggerated stories of Vader and his spawn's witchcraft were messing with his head.
Amused, Luke light his lightsaber. That sound reverberated down the halls as well.
The man flinched. Ghosts. . .?
Get a grip! Ghosts don't exist.
Luke scoffed at the man's rationalisation. While the Force probably resorted to something as crude as ghosts only on rare occasions, that didn't mean they didn't or couldn't exist. Everyone left traces of who they were, what they built; Coruscant was full of them. Buildings on top of buildings, billions of people eking out their lives in an ever-changing dichotomy of the dark and the light. Property shifted, people shifted, the galaxy shifted, and people went on regardless, entirely unaware of the imprints around them.
They were living on a planet of ghosts.
It had been. . . dizzying. . . when Luke had first arrived.
But he had wasted enough time on games. The man was tense, nervous, everything short of terrified. It wouldn't take much to push him over the edge.
He was heading for the training room—was nearly at the training room. Luke reached out, used the Force to tug on a wall he knew was unstable. . .
It crumbled directly in front of the man.
He jerked back, heart-pounding.
Coincidence or not? He couldn't decide. But that had been his only exit.
Come on, Luke urged, take the bait. . .
The man turned to the door nearest—the only other door in the corridor that wasn't conveniently blocked off. Luke held his breath. . .
. . .and the man walked right into the younglings' dormitory, just as he'd anticipated.
The man's horror wasn't as sharp an emotion as his fear, dull-edged. It began as an idle observation of a pale, dusty item his foot collided with and sent skittering away into the shadows. Then he saw another, and another—and it began to dawn on him.
The room had two entrances, on two separate levels. Luke took a brief shortcut and emerged into the mezzanine above the Rebel, careful not to be heard before he wanted.
He needn't have bothered. The truth had hit the man by now, sucker-punched him in the gut, leaving him breathless. His eyes blew wide in the faint light of his glowrod.
When Luke and Leia had been thirteen and even more dramatic than they were now, they'd called this place the Chamber of Bones.
The reason why was fairly clear.
This was where the corpse of every Jedi Master, Knight, Padawan and youngling had been dragged after Order 66. The clonetroopers had piled them all in here and set them aflame. A funeral pyre the galaxy would never see.
They'd burned until the flesh had peeled from their body and disintegrated, only their bones remaining. Then Palpatine had ordered they stop, the fires be put out, and the bones kept in that one room in the lowest reaches of the Palace.
This was where his master came when he wanted to gloat in a more personal manner. This was where all the lightsabers taken from fallen Jedi—save the ones his father kept as trophies—had been thrown. Their glinting hilts lay among the bones, the ashes and ruins of a failed, meaningless order. A dead order.
Someday, even the ghost of it would vanish off of Coruscant forever, as all things were wont to do.
Luke and Leia would have been banned from coming here, had their father had his way, but Palpatine had said he wanted to show them exactly where the Jedi Order's failures had led them. So they'd come anyway, and played among the ghosts and the shadows.
Now, the man stared around in a sort of muted terror. Luke couldn't really blame him: he supposed that if he stumbled upon a room full of children's bones, he might be a little bit fazed as well.
The man reached with shaking fingers for a lightsaber hilt near to his foot. I was too dark and too distant for Luke to make out any of the hilt's characteristics, but there was a snap-hiss as the man pressed the ignition button experimentally, and a vivid yellow blade erupted from the emitter.
He stared at it, wide-eyed, then held it out in front of him. His eyes travelled along the hilt, up the blade. . . and further.
Further, to where by the light of the glowrod and the saber, Luke's pale features stood out like a phantom's.
The man screamed.
Luke reigned in his grin, lit his lightsaber and jumped.
He landed with a crunch, punching holes straight through two skeletons' ribcages and skidding forwards, the Force softening his landing. The man backed off, drenched in fear, but a wave of Luke's hand and the door behind him locked.
Luke took a step forward. His lightsaber cast an eerie glow across the bones. "Why were you in the Archives?"
Use that fear—that was what all of this had been about. Terrify your opponent before the confrontation even begins, and the battle's half won. He needed information; now, the man was all the more ready to give it.
Theoretically.
The man flinched back at the question, but he set his jaw and stubbornly avoided Luke's gaze.
He was still holding the yellow lightsaber out in front of him.
There was a blur of red, a shout of pain, and that lightsaber fell to the ground—along with the hand holding it.
The man crumpled. Luke punched him in the face,
A wheezing, choking sound; blood seeped onto Luke's hand, the floor. He ignored it.
"Why were you in the Archives?" he repeated, low and dangerous.
The security failings apparent in his infiltration wasn't his focus right now: someone else could deal with that. There was his stolen uniform to examine; witnesses to interview; surveillance to pore over.
What he couldn't find from any of that—what he needed to know—was why.
The man spat blood in his face and lashed out with his leg.
Luke staggered back momentarily, already recovering from the blow, but it was enough time for the man to get his remaining hand up and flash the glowrod in his face.
It made no difference: it dazzled him but didn't slow him; he had the Force, and that was all he needed. He just shoved himself forward, slamming him against the locked door, and waited for the spots to clear.
But it made a difference to the man.
His arms went limp, the glowrod tumbling out of his grip; a breath rushed out of him. His shock was resonant in the Force.
When Luke's vision cleared, he was staring at him.
"Kriff," the man said, more blood spurting from his nose with every breath. "You're a kid."
Luke ground his teeth together and punched him again.
The man sunk to the floor, still staring. Then he started talking.
"How old are you—sixteen? Seventeen?" He shook his head. "You're the same age as my son was. You—" Realisation hit him. His eyes flicked down to Luke's lightsaber. "You're one of the demon twins, aren't you? Vader's spawn."
Luke crouched down in front of him. "Who I am is irrelevant. What's important is that I'm the one holding a lightsaber, and I want to know what you were doing in the Archives."
"What has your father made you?" the man continued, not even looking at Luke. He doubted he'd even heard him. "My son grew up in the slums of Coruscant, but I'd never teach him to become a monster— agh—"
Luke could deal with slights about his age. He could handle people underestimating him, disrespecting him, pitying him.
But a slight against his father?
He tightened his grip on the man's throat, feeling the power and the intoxicating anger rush through him. . .
. . .and then he thought of Mara Jade, resolutely, ruthlessly still as his father punished her for telling the truth, and he let go.
Rebel or not, that had always seemed an ugly way to die.
Instead, he just spat, "Then clearly he was a better father than you were."
"Vader killed my son," the man spat back. "My harmless teenage son. If he had the heartlessness to do that, as a parent himself, then he's either a monster, a poor excuse for a father, or both." His lips twisted in a feral half-snarl. "My credit's on both—"
Luke knocked him out.
Not with the Force—that was too merciful. He slammed his head against the wall behind him and only vaguely hoped he didn't have any fatal damage.
"If you won't tell me what you were doing in the Archives now," he said into the silence, for no one's benefit but his own, "then you'll tell us under interrogation."
Luke had a job to do.
He couldn't get caught up in all these personal vendettas, give into his rage. He needed to protect the Palace and everyone in it.
Including his father.
Luke shook his head and eyed the body.
It would be a long trek up to the surface,
Leia's ship touched down on the landing pad outside the Imperial Palace, and she was out of the cockpit before the engines even shut off.
She bounced on the balls of her feet as the landing ramp descended. Luke and her father were standing outside ready to greet her; she could sense them. The ramp was moving too slowly—
But then it was down, and she rushed out, breath shooting out of her lungs when someone slammed into her. She buried her head in Luke's shoulder as he lifted her off the ground and spun her around a few times, then brought her back to a halt.
Still, neither of them let go.
There was a pointed cough from Palpatine.
They let go. Leia didn't know why these displays of affection were being frowned upon—it wasn't like there were any troops around to see it—but she was back on Palpatine's goodwill. She didn't want to lose it.
So she just linked arms with her brother instead, enjoying the feeling of actually being able to sense him in the Force, and grinned at him. "What happened to your face?"
Luke free hand came up to gingerly touch the spectacular violet bruise across his nose and cheek, and drawled, "I got punched."
"Only once?"
He shot her a look; she threw up her hands. "I'm just saying."
He glanced down, his lips tilted up, but then he gestured with his head towards Vader and Palpatine, and they wordlessly agreed to continue this conversation later.
Vader's hand settled on Leia's shoulder when they drew close enough; she wanted to throw herself at him, hug him, but she had the funny feeling Palpatine might object to that as well.
And, she conveyed to Luke through a nudge over their newly-reactivated bond, they had a few questions they needed to ask him.
"My dear," Palpatine said, calling her attention back to him. He smiled—it was the same smile he'd always used, every twitch of every muscle identical, but it looked. . . sinister to Leia now, in a way it hadn't been before. This was the smile of the man who'd electrocuted her brother, who'd sent her away from her family; how could his warm, grandfatherly act work anymore? "I am glad to see you safe and well."
She reluctantly extricated herself from Luke to give a short—shallower than usual, but not disrespectful—bow. "And I you, Master."
"Ah, but you will have to tell me of all your travels," he continued, placing a hand on her hand to start guiding her inside. She cast a nervous glance at Luke, but he was following dutifully; the slight quirk to his eyebrow made her lips twist upward slightly. "Come into the throne room, all three of you."
He cast a pointed glance at Vader.
"And then we can talk."
The throne room was empty save for the two Inquisitors standing guard in the corner as they always did. Luke wasn't sure what the point of them was—whether Palpatine made them fight for his own entertainment, enjoyed riling them up and eviscerating them with his careful words, or even just liked to watch his servants serve him—but he recognised one of them as Jade, who watched him from behind her mask. Still and impassive.
He and Leia knelt in front of Palpatine, as they always did, while their father hovered behind them almost protectively. Leia gave her report in succinct, measured bursts—though Luke didn't fail to note how she didn't elaborate on what exactly had happened on her detour to Tatooine.
Palpatine nodded once when she was done. "Good—you have done well in helping to handle the uprising on Naboo. Do you know who was responsible?"
"Yes, Master. I believe Saw Gerrera and his partisans were the instigators."
"Just as they were on Kuat," he observed. "Strange, that Amidala does not seem to have the same taste for anarchy that Gerrera does."
Vader tensed behind him at the Rebel leader's mention, but said nothing.
Palpatine turned his attention on Luke. "You," he said, "have already given me your briefing on your skirmish in the Archives yesterday."
Where was he going with this? "Yes, Master, the Rebel—"
"Hasn't revealed much under interrogation, I am told." Palpatine raised his eyebrows. "Only his name and one word, I believe?"
Luke gritted his teeth. "Yes, Master, the interrogators are still working on him, but—"
"What do you know of this attack so far?"
The question caught him off-guard—Luke had, of course, submitted multiple reports detailing the events during the previous days, on top of the work he was supposed to do in the Archives, but he rattled off, "The Rebel's name is Lacert Visz, he's a native Coruscanti human, fifty standard years old. The datapad he seemed to show an interest in held the blueprints to the central power distribution grid, but we've no idea if that was really his target or just a cover—"
"What has he revealed under interrogation?"
"I worked on him briefly when I could, and he showed familiarity when I mentioned Amidala, which indicates of course that this infiltration was linked to her"—or them, if Leia's theory about her was wrong—"unlike the attacks on Kuat and Naboo. However, this is mere conjecture—"
"Was there anything else you found?"
Luke swallowed. "Yes, Master. We got one word out of him: Eclipse."
Palpatine cocked his head. "Eclipse?"
"Yes."
"Interesting. And you could find no. . . context. . . for this?"
"No, Master. Anything we could come up with at this point would be a guess, but mine would be that it's a codeword for whatever operation the Rebels are planning."
"I see." Palpatine pursed his lips, looking thoughtful for a moment. "And you have no idea what that operation might be?"
"None, Master."
"Then I'm tasking you with finding out." Luke exchanged a glance with Leia. "I want the two of you to investigate this further, until you can find some concrete answers. Try to stay on Coruscant, but I understand if this task leads you. . . far astray." Luke had no idea what Palpatine's smile might mean. "I'll assign someone else to the Archives, and to hunt down Amidala."
Glancing at Jade from the corner of his eye, Luke saw an opportunity, and took it. "Master?"
"Yes, Luke?"
He lifted his chin to look Palpatine in the eye. "If I may make a suggestion as to who should pursue Amidala in Leia's place? I believe Admiral Thrawn would be a suitable choice."
Jade hid her shock well, but he was looking for it, so he felt it.
"Thrawn?" Palpatine sat forward, intrigued. "Why him?"
"He's demonstrated an unparalleled ability to think outside the box, and I respect him immensely for that. Chasing the Rebellion is like chasing shadows. And while no one may have the creativity to catch shadows, I believe that Thrawn would be the most likely candidate to think of a way." He didn't back down from Palpatine's questioning probe; he just said flatly, "I am certain he would rise to the task."
Palpatine was silent for several long moments.
"I will think about it," he said.
When Luke was dismissed from the room a little while later, he didn't so much as glance at Jade. But he felt her gaze burning a hole in his back nevertheless.