Chapter Fifteen: One They Fear
Obi-Wan's entire body was a single ache, starting in a hot pulse at his left ankle and working its way up in coiled vines of soreness til it reached his softly pounding head. Though he could feel himself waking up, he kept his eyes squeezed shut, uncertain of what being exposed to light would do to them. Even without his sight, he could sense that he was not, as he might have expected, sprawled on a bunk in a holding cell. In fact, he seemed to be sitting in a rather comfortable chair.
"General?" said a distant voice. Begrudgingly, Obi-Wan opened his eyes.
He sat in an office the same shade of beige the interview room had been, but the overall effect was far more welcoming. Light shone in through a window to the left, though the room's other occupant had taken care to polarize the view; the furniture was not plastic but leather, in the case of the Jedi's chair, and what appeared to be real wood, in the case of the desk in front of him. Atop the desk was a pitcher of water and an already-full glass; careful not to spill any, Obi-Wan reached forward and took a lengthy sip, praying the liquid would do something to reduce his headache.
That attended to, he raised his eyes to look at the man across from him. "Where am I?" he asked.
This new face was the same age as Vargot's, but where that man had been fleshy and square, this one was thin to the point of gauntness, his angular face and the sharp point of his receding hairline only emphasizing the contrast. His eyes, watery blue, seemed to follow the glass as Obi-Wan returned it to his desk; then, smiling, he returned to his guest. "You're in the office of the director—myself, that is. I thought it best that you be in friendlier surroundings when you came to." At that the polite smile slid from his face. "General Kenobi, I apologize profusely on behalf of the Office. My two men downstairs had no right to detain you against your will, nor did their subordinates any right to assault you. They will be disciplined, I assure you."
Words meant to impart an apology, but the director didn't deign to mean them—Obi-Wan sensed a profound irritation bristling beneath the polite exterior, not at the assault itself but at the dent it had made in his schedule. Not that the Jedi needed his senses to form this impression—the clipped tone in which the other man spoke was evidence enough.
Too weary and sore to concentrate on any further mental probing, Obi-Wan didn't pursue the feeling—the director's feelings toward his derailed itinerary were the absolute least of his worries. "I do hope my experience wasn't representative of others' interviews," he replied, the jab blunted by another hasty sip of water as the dryness in his throat seized.
The director smiled again and nodded, the movement carrying an unsettling resemblance to a bird of prey dipping its head. "In the wake of the attack, our recruits have been overzealous in venting their frustrations. As I said, they will be dealt with. Though," he continued, sudden good cheer heightening his voice, "I will admit their conduct has not been entirely without benefit to me. I've wanted to meet you, you see." Extending a hand whose fingers seemed just too long, he said, "Wilhuff Tarkin, at your service."
Gripping and shaking, Obi-Wan felt his wariness grow—entirely too many people today had been personally interested in him for his liking. "Wanted to meet me?"
"General, false modesty does not befit you," Tarkin replied, releasing the Jedi and pouring his own glass of water. "I have a keen interest in heroes."
An opening, room for Obi-Wan to be politely self-deprecating or to go for a harsher jab—Your people downstairs don't seem to think I'm particularly heroic. He didn't take it. Rather, he sipped again at his glass to buy some time, willing the pulse at his temples to decrease. When Tarkin simply let the silence hang, Obi-Wan gestured at the window. "Quite the view you have."
Indeed it was—though it was not of Capitol Plaza. Instead, Tarkin's office faced outward, opening to Coruscant beyond—skyscrapers and plumes of smoke rose as the plaza's carefully maintained precision gave way to the haphazard layers of construction that made up the majority of the planet. The sun was already beginning to set—the buildings rose against a canvas of blue shading toward purple, the dimness deepend by the polarized transparisteel.
Tarkin nodded. "There are those who've asked me why I didn't take an office pointed toward the Senate dome. I prefer to have my eyes on the work I've yet to do."
"And that work is?"
The prosecutor raised his eyebrows in indulgent amusement. "In my line of business, I'm used to asking the questions, General."
Obi-Wan pressed his fingers hard against each other beneath the desk. "I was under the impression the interview was over."
Tarkin gave a sniff that might have been a laugh. "The work, General, that all citizens share. Bringing perfect order to this Republic." He nodded toward the view. "Look at them. The buildings, the districts. Slapdash, inefficient, milling about with all sorts of incompatible inhabitants and ways of life. A mere encumbrance at the best of times—but these are not at all the best of times, are they?"
It wasn't rhetorical. "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"Rogue elements, General Kenobi," said Tarkin. He jabbed at a button beneath the desk; a moment later, the polarizer dimmed entirely, leaving the two of them in a space that felt far more enclosed than it had a few moments ago. "Parting gifts from our warlord friends. You've heard rumors, I'm sure—clone troops, yes, but mercenaries and criminals too, left beneath the planetary shield to wreak havoc from within."
"I was under the impression that rumor is all they were. Fearmongering."
"That is what this office is attempting to uncover, among other matters." Tarkin steepled his fingers in a perfect triangle. "But if I may confide in you, General, it is my belief that whether or not these saboteurs are rumors, we must proceed as if they exist. A society can only be free when it is free from every contingency, wouldn't you agree?"
Not remotely. Aloud: "Your dedication is admirable."
"No more than yours, of course. It seems even retirement from the armed forces has not stopped you from coming to the aid of those in need."
Too tired and frustrated to care if rudeness got him into further trouble, Obi-Wan shook his head. "I already told your men downstairs, Mr. Tarkin, that I serve on a strict consulting basis—"
"Oh, I'm not referring to your having the ear of Bail Organa. I'm referring to your activities during the battle."
Too late, Obi-Wan realized he'd been so busy trying not to walk back into the trap of House Organa that he hadn't even considered the trap Tarkin had just sprung.
In the instant he grasped exactly what was going on, he was already responding—hesitation would at this point be fatal. "Mr. Tarkin," he said, adding a chuckle whose genuine sound was both a surprise and relief, "I'm afraid I don't see what's so heroic about my staying huddled inside."
"As I said before, General Kenobi, false modesty does not befit you." Tarkin again resembled nothing so much as a raptor—only raptors did not smile, did not take relish in their hunt. "Word travels—not always loudly and not always far, but enough. You were seen on . . ." He paused and tapped at a datapad, the pretense of calling up the figure rather spoiled by the way he continued to meet Obi-Wan's eyes. "Ah, two separate occasions helping citizens out of collapsing structures left behind by street-to-street combat. It seems your hood was not a match for Republic gunship floodlights."
So there it was. The Office of Special Investigations knew something no one at the Temple knew—not Master Drallig, not Qlik. Obi-Wan Kenobi had broken ranks.
He was almost certain he hadn't been the only Jedi to imitate Qui-Gon when the hastily assembled council had placed the Temple on lockdown—Mace Windu didn't seem the type to sit still when he was told, and while he was an extreme example there were plenty of others who'd wanted to go out and help. Too regularly, and Obi-Wan would have gotten caught—he'd slipped out a handful of times over the course of the siege, taking care not to do so by any fixed schedule.
It had been so little—helping people escape from collapsing buildings, subtly redirecting debris with waves of Force power before it blocked off the routes civilians were using to escape. Offering what morale boosts he could through mental suggestion. As the siege had wound on and Drallig kept a tighter and tighter watch, he'd stopped going out altogether—he'd spent the time since wishing he'd done more, had wielded his lightsaber against the invaders head-on.
In the present, he found himself wildly grateful he had never used it in front of witnesses.
Putting on his best confused frown, he paused for just the right span of time before shaking his head. "You think better of me than I deserve, Mr. Tarkin. People see things they want to see when they're in the midst of danger—rescuers become angels, famous heroes. I've seen it before with soldiers; I can only imagine what civilians could be frightened into seeing."
A furrow opened up along the director's forehead, a frown that didn't quite reach his eyes—Obi-Wan could still see their gleam of enjoyment. "You'll forgive me, General, for doubting you, of course—it's just that these images seem quite definitive."
He turned the datapad, and Obi-Wan saw a face looking back at him. It was hooded, half in shadow, in soft focus—but it was unmistakably his own.
As his jaw tightened, the Jedi tried to force it back open, to say something, but Tarkin had already leapt in to fill the gap. "Strange things were reported happening in the area just before this. Clones being blown away as if by magic. Loads of debris lifted that no single being could possibly have hoped to move. That sort of story popped up on several occasions during the attack, in fact. At any rate, whatever his connection to those events, shortly after this particular image was captured, the subject departed on foot. Our best guess is that he was headed for the Works."
Not the Classical District, they've missed that much, he thought with silent gratitude for small favors. Almost immediately, he asked himself, But then, this man has no reason to tell you the truth about what their best guess really was, does he?
"You know, Mr. Tarkin," he said, turning the datapad back toward its owner, "I'm afraid I already told your people downstairs that I will not answer irrelevant questions. I hope you don't find me rude, but I really must ask to go."
The ease with which the prosecutor nodded in assent twisted at Obi-Wan's gut. He had no reason to keep the Jedi further.
He'd found out what he wanted to know.
"I'd be happy to get you a private lift home, in recompense for my men's behavior—ahh, perhaps not," said Tarkin, smirking at the alarm that must have flitted through the Jedi's eyes. "An escort to the nearest public transit, then.
"Again, General, I must say it has been an honor meeting you in person."
If the two uniformed humans Tarkin had sent as Obi-Wan's escort were supposed to reassure him simply by dint of their lack of white plastoid armor, it wasn't working. The pair bracketed him on either side, just far away enough that he wouldn't feel encroached upon without ever actually falling out of step with him. Reaching out to plumb their minds, he caught watchfulness, unity of purpose, and very little else.
The beginnings of sunset had thrown Capitol Plaza into a land of contrasts; the light shone sharp against the white stone as it died, but so too did it throw shadows of solid black. In the distance, the construction crews that milled about the Senate dome were mere silhouettes. Obi-Wan found himself glancing from shadow to shadow, waiting for something to jump out—Vargot and Ponce Held, a cluster of plastoid-armored troops, Tarkin with his predator's eyes.
They know I'm a Jedi.
The conviction passed through his head again and again, simple, unprovable, undeniable. It explained everything—the inquiries into his background. The repeated hints that his relationship with Bail had been untoward. The questions as to his whereabouts during the siege. The choice details of sightings made to sound more impossible than they were.
But why him? Tarkin had made reference to other sightings, presumably of other Jedi.
Other Jedi aren't military heroes. Other Jedi don't have direct lines to politicians.
Other Jedi aren't Anakin's best friend.
The latter crossed unbidden into his mind before he could prevent it. Instinctively, before he could even weigh the possibility, Obi-Wan flung it aside. He wouldn't do that to you. You know him too well to consider that. And besides, he was surprised when you told him this inquiry even existed. He wouldn't have lied.
(Would he?)
"General Kenobi? Are you all right?"
He'd stopped, he'd realized—he and his two escorts were simply standing still, all three enveloped by the shadow a statue cast across the pavement. Taking a quick breath, the Jedi shook his head and started forward without looking at either of the men flanking him.
The train station, when they arrived, was quieter than the last time he'd been through the area, but "quiet" on Coruscant still meant it was milling with people. Above the din of conversation, Obi-Wan turned to his companions and said, "Thank you for the escort. Have a good evening." Before either could reply, he'd turned around and started up the stairway into the building proper.
They still, he knew, were just behind him.
That, of course, was the real reason Tarkin had sent two unmasked men. Impossible for one to not know one was being followed if the tail was two people in gleaming white armor. But in Capitol Plaza, which was full of government officials, this pair could blend right in.
Assuming their target hadn't expected to be followed. Obi-Wan very much had.
Bolting for the nearest turnstile was his first instinct, one he had no intention of following—flee that obviously and it would be enough of a pretext to bring him in. He had to lose them as subtly as possible, and that meant letting them tail him for at least one train. That train would have to be one that led as far from the Temple as possible.
A short-range transit, then. Not outward to the rest of Coruscant, but deeper into the Capitol district.
As he passed through the turnstile, his train pass chiming faintly, he looked back in the direction of his pursuers. Not physically—there'd be no way to do that without their noticing—but with his Force-enhanced perceptions, painting the space behind him in broad sensory brushstrokes. He picked out the familiar energy the two carried and held it, bringing it into sharper focus—about ten meters behind him, moving at a steady pace.
For a moment, he second-guessed himself—he could still attempt to turn them back before they passed through the turnstile, send a mental suggestion that they report back to Tarkin early. But his suggestions worked only on the weak-minded, and if these two weren't weak—well, they'd probably feel suspicious about hearing voices in their heads. Clenching a silent fist, Obi-Wan felt them cross past the barrier, eyes still on him.
Movement caught his attention up above—holoscreens displaying the latest of Palpatine's public service announcements, this one a reminder to support the new Grand Army in its efforts against border incursions by the shards of the CIS. The messages were being broadcast all over Coruscant, but seeing them here, now, seemed like an ill omen.
The train wasn't due for another five minutes. As Obi-Wan took his position on the platform, and felt his pursuers do the same just out of sight, he squeezed his eyes shut. He kept a single strand of his perceptions focused on the two men, but everything else withdrew. The bustle of fellow commuters, the distant chugs echoing through the train tunnel, Palpatine's solemn tones filtered through a slight electronic crackle—all faded as the Force washed over him. He breathed slowly, easily, and willed himself to let go of apprehension.
Five minutes later, as the train pulled into position, he crossed back over to the real world.
Before the doors in front of him had fully whooshed open he was moving forward, delicately stepping around a gaggle of Bothan staffers and sliding into the car. As he gripped the warm, slightly sticky metal of a support pole, its tangibility grounding him firmly in the present, for the first time he risked an actual look at his tail, just long enough to confirm they'd entered the far end of his car. Glancing quickly away, he faked an intense interest in the glowing map of this sector's train network, its constellations of blue dots and the gently pulsing routes between them flickering in time with the tube lights that illuminated the car.
With a low rumble of complaint, the train started forward. Once again, Obi-Wan called upon the Force, but this time rather than letting it obscure the outside world he heightened his awareness of his surroundings.
His tail had their eyes fixed on him, watching him stare into the map's oscillating glow. As precisely as he could with the swarm of thoughts all around them, Obi-Wan tightened his perceptions and pushed, hoping to penetrate into their minds.
It was like looking for individual pieces of driftwood amid ocean swells; the waves of the passengers' mental energy rose and fell more quickly than an ordinary mind would be able to track, impressions and emotions and coherent thoughts all melded together into an ever-moving body of cognition. The Jedi waited on the Force to sift through the detritus and point him in the right direction; for a long while there was nothing, just the white noise of every life within the train.
Then a piece of wreckage began to glow against the current. And another, and another.
His own name was one of them. Custody another. He caught a flash of something that made his brow furrow—Snowblind—before it vanished again underneath the tides of thought.
What he'd gleaned was enough. At the next stop, he'd have to move.
The whoosh of the gravtrack beneath the train grew more forceful as they began to glide to a halt. In front of them, the station loomed—this one was far larger than the outpost station where Tarkin's men had dropped Obi-Wan. The white stone maw swallowed up the car, whose internal lights glowed brighter to compensate.
After a few moments of darkness, they pulled alongside the platform. With a hiss of rushing air, the doors swept open.
Obi-Wan stepped forward and, at the same time, flicked very delicately at a Whipid standing near his tail. Not a strong Force push, not even a tug, just a nudge to the alien's balance at precisely the wrong time. It stumbled, barked its shin against a seat, and gave a roar of pain, hopping on one foot and almost tripping over—directly in front of the Jedi's two friends.
The distraction lasted for only a few seconds. He'd have to hope it would be enough. There was no way for him to look back and see if it had worked.
Stairs passed in a blur, then the turnstile—rather than exit the station, however, Obi-Wan ducked into a bathroom and hurriedly enclosed himself inside a stall. He waited there for ten minutes, keeping his senses pressed against the outer door in case he was followed in. Mercifully, he wasn't.
Still, he couldn't leave. Not with this being his last recorded location. He'd have to go back down, take one more train, make sure he'd lost his company.
Then he'd head elsewhere. The Temple wasn't an option—neither was his apartment, not if he risked being watched on his way back. Especially not when he wasn't the only person who knew where it was.
Of course, there was the matter of his lightsaber being there . . .
Too late for that now. Get out of the capitol, go to ground, wait.
And then figure out what the hell is going on.
He traveled the rest of the night.
"Ah, Anakin! Come in, sit down, have a drink. I believe congratulations are in order."
As the chancellor spoke, Anakin moved almost mechanically from the door of the Executive Office to the chair before Palpatine's desk. He lowered himself into it, careful not to disturb the glass of wine that sat on one arm of the furniture—or to eye it with the disdain he couldn't help but feel.
"You did read the report I filed, right?" he asked. He looked not at the chancellor as he spoke, but beyond him—through the panorama window to the city beyond. Midday sun hung over Coruscant, something his body didn't know what to do with. They'd fled Sluis Van under the cover of night and, after several dummy jumps to shake pursuers, had made way straight for Coruscant.
He hadn't slept the whole trip. He didn't know what time he thought it was. He didn't care.
"Of course I did," Palpatine replied—the look on the man's face indicated genuine confusion. "The operation was a resounding success."
"I got two people killed," Anakin said—pausing, he glanced over at the wine glass and plucked it from its place on the armrest. "Had a couple more close calls, too. I could've lost half my squad. What exactly is successful about that?" Raising the glass to his lips, he downed half of it in one gulp.
"The twelve capital ships you destroyed," Palpatine replied, placing his elbows on his desk and steepling his fingers. "That's a dozen warships Sluis Van can't use against us, or sell to someone else who will. Do you know how many people we would have lost if we tried to destroy a dozen Sluissi ships through conventional warfare?"
Yes, he knew. And he knew exactly how successful he'd felt as he'd watched those warships crumble. That was the problem. But of course he couldn't say that.
Instead, he snapped, "So two dead people is fine, because it could have been worse?"
Palpatine's eyes grew wide for the briefest of moments; then, inhaling deeply through his nose, the chancellor shook his head. "You know that isn't what I mean. Listen, Anakin. The chaos you created on Sluis Van has presented us with an incredible opportunity. The fleet that pursued you out of the system was meant to be the first line of defense against a full-scale attack. We sent a strike fleet in, and now control the space above the planet.
"Plans are in motion to capture the shipyard's new Archon. By the end of the week, we could hold the system. That happened because of you." A satisfied smile crossed Palpatine's face, and he leaned back slightly in his chair.
Anakin rocked his mechanical hand back and forth. Mesmerized by the swirling wine, he stared into the burgundy pool as he spoke. He's right, you know, that voice that would scrape at the back of his mind from time to time told him. You pulled it off when no one else could have. Speeders in caves.
"I had no plan, sir. I was making it up as I went. It shouldn't have worked at all."
"But it did, didn't it?"
Anakin broke away from the staring contest with his drink and locked eyes with the chancellor.
"I picked you for this job for a reason," Palpatine said, his voice level but firm as stone. "You say you had no plan, I say you are brilliant at improvising under pressure. That's what this job is. Sending you into impossible places to do impossible jobs. No outside support, no army, no warships. You succeeded because you are meant for this.
"You're a good man, Anakin. Perhaps the best I know. It's why I wanted you for this task. But you mustn't let your goodness dissuade you from a greater good. Those men knew what they signed up for. If you'd dropped everything and rescued them, perhaps you would have made it out alive. But you would have traded the many for two lives."
Closing his eyes, Anakin could see a vivid mental picture: the capital ships they'd toppled rising from the canyon, complete, ready to rain hellfire down on Republic worlds. Firing on Republic Star Destroyers—on the Coelacanth, maybe. "You say that like you know."
"My boy, you think I don't?" Anakin opened his eyes to see that the chancellor looked almost hurt.
Palpatine pressed a button, and the holoprojector atop his desk sprang to life. A map of the galaxy hovered between them—Republic territory green, CIS factions various shades of red eating at the boundaries like a cancer. "Every day," he told Anakin through the rays of light that separate them, "I choose which pieces of this map we lose and which we rescue. Where we save lives and where we sacrifice them. I've seen so much death since the war began—more than I ever wanted."
The hologram winked out of existence, and there was only Palpatine, weary and somber. "If I thought it was pointless, I would have resigned years ago. But I persist because I know that the sacrifices we make are not in vain."
The young man held back the question that he wanted above anything else to ask: And does knowing that make you feel . . . good?
That was what had eaten at him most of all in the days since they'd fled Sluis Van. Not the deaths. The adrenaline rush he'd felt when he and Amina hurtled out of the ship. The bloom of euphoria in his bloodstream as he watched warship crash down upon warship and realized what they'd accomplished. In those moments, he hadn't thought about the men he'd lost at all.
Aloud, he simply let out a deep sigh. "You still want me to continue with this."
"I do," Palpatine said with a nod. "If we stop now, all you will have accomplished is the capture of one planet. If we keep going, you could help end the war. What's holding you back, son?"
"I want Amina reassigned," Anakin said without thinking. The moment the words left his mouth, he felt guilty. The thought had plagued him the entire flight back to Coruscant, but it still seemed wrong to say it out loud.
"Done," Palpatine said, waving his hand as if granting a wish. Then, after a moment of silence: "May I ask why? Did her performance in the field not meet your expectations?"
"No!" Anakin said, leaning forward with insistence. "It's not that. She just . . ." he allowed himself to trail off for a moment; his eyes wandered to the window, then the wine, then back to Palpatine. "I nearly got her killed. She deserves better."
"I assure you, Anakin, each and every one of your crew are prepared to give their lives for the Republic, if need be. But it will be as you ask; I'll see that she's reassigned before the next operation."
Anakin pretended not to notice the assumption Palpatine was making, speaking of a "next operation" before he'd even agreed to do one. His mind hung on the first statement. The crew was prepared to give their lives for the Republic—and yet here he was, ready to pull the plug because two of them had actually done so.
His thoughts returned to Thorm and Manik. Two men, dead because of him. The image of Amina, her helmet clattering to the floor as she tore it from her head to desperately gasp for breath. The feeling of snatching a man off the ground moments before he would've been run over by a speeder bike.
Palpatine hadn't said it. Perhaps he hadn't even meant to imply it. But Anakin couldn't help thinking it: had these people nearly died—or actually died—to capture one planet? Or had they done it in service of ending the war?
Despite all the words swirling in his mind, he could only manage one. "Okay."
"You'll do it?"
Anakin nodded. "I'll do it. Make sure that whoever Amina's next commanding officer is knows this wasn't a demotion. She comes with the highest recommendation from, well, whatever my title is."
A warm smile played on Palpatine's face. "You, my boy, are to be the chancellor's right hand. An instrument of the will of the Republic, a vanguard for the safety of her people. And as such, we'd best present you with a rank. You will be called Executor."
Executor. It had a certain . . . harshness. Swift, decisive.
Anakin didn't know if he liked it or not.
"Great," he said hurriedly, hoping the swift response would disperse the awkward tension created by Palpatine's impromptu speech. "She comes with the highest recommendation from Executor Skywalker."
"Ah, that's one other thing we should discuss," Palpatine said, holding up a hand. "There is the matter of your name. For the same reason the Grand Army would have used you in parades and stuck you behind a desk, we can't exactly have an Executor Skywalker running around the galaxy blowing up shipyards. It's not safe. For you, for me, for the people you love. You'd become a target."
Anakin glanced at his feet as the words the people you love hung in the air. "I suppose I would."
"It is for this reason that you are to use a . . . code name, of sorts. A pseudonym. Your crew will address you this way, as will I when the situation demands it. This name will be how your work is known throughout the galaxy. This name will be the one they fear. Leaving Anakin Skywalker to live a peaceful life as a civilian."
Palpatine paused and clasped his hands together. "Go, my son. Take the rest of the day off. You've earned it."
"Thank you, sir." With the meeting officially at a close, Anakin felt some of the weight lift—the chancellor, too, seemed to loosen his posture, lapse from executive poise to something less rigid. The young man gave a tired laugh—the release felt good, as though he were pulling off his uniform. "I'm going to sleep for the next . . . day, I think."
Palpatine chuckled in response. "I do hope Ms. Amidala isn't disappointed."
Padmé, he thought. Is she even home? No, she wouldn't be—Alderaan, with Bail.
I'll call her later. Apologize, or try to. After I get some sleep.
Some of the weight settled back on him with the thought, and he was already tired. Rather than be polite and ask Palpatine what he planned to do with his evening, he offered a slight bow of his head, then rose to his feet and turned toward the door. "Good-bye, sir."
Palpatine nodded. "You'll have your next assignment soon enough, my boy." He straightened suddenly, as if remembering. "Or should I say Executor Vader."
Republic Archives: Coruscant Transit Authority
The Coruscant Transit Authority is a subordinate agency of the Senate Committee on Infrastructure, and is responsible for the mass transit network found throughout the galactic capital world. Thousands of train stations and their connecting lines make up the bulk of this transit network, which operates on a "hub and spoke" model. Short-haul local routes all depart from hubs designated as superstations, which are in turn connected by express lines that can take passengers halfway around Coruscant in a matter of hours.
Transit fares are partially paid for by credits raised through taxes—Republic citizens living on Coruscant are allotted a certain number of transit trips per month, and must pay a nominal fare for any trips they take beyond that allowance. A Coruscanti resident can earn extra transit trips if they submit proof that they do not own an airspeeder or other personal planetary vehicle.
The Coruscant Transit Authority is one of the oldest federal agencies in the Republic, and operates out of the equally historic Coruscant Central Station. A large collectors market has emerged around the historic "train token"—metal coins once issued by the CTA as a way to pass through station turnstiles and board trains. These tokens have long since been supplanted by wireless passcards that scan automatically as a user passes through a turnstile, deducting credit from their account accordingly.