Signs of Life
By JalendaviLady
Chapter 9
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Disclaimer: I do not own Star Wars.
If you recognize any characters, locations, or things in the following story, George Lucas owns them.
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Anakin relaxed into the
wheelchair-bed the medics had jury-rigged for him. They had only just
presented it to him that morning, telling him, "You may not be
strong enough to be up and about, but you can certainly be about."
There was no way for him to move it himself, but they had promised to
let him get outside his room in it at least once every day, even if
only to circle the medcenter corridors. Finally, a form of mobile
life-support.
It wasn't the greatest thing in the
universe, but he was propped up somewhat so that he was nearly
sitting. For someone who had spent over 20 years of his life sleeping
sitting upright in a sterile meditation chamber, the past week of
lying flat constantly had been extremely unnerving, even ignoring the
effects of his injuries. The soft padding of the wheelchair-bed had
come as a relief. He was still weak, but he felt more in control of
himself.
He smiled weakly at the medics. "Thank
you." He silently berated himself for not knowing their names
by now, but lucidity was still very much a fluid thing for him. I'll
learn their names eventually, he promised himself. "Now,
didn't you all say Biggs wanted to talk with me?"
"If
you wanted to talk with him. He wanted us to be sure to let you know
he wouldn't hold it against you if you didn't come..."
"It'll get me out of the room. And I do need to
talk to him."
There was only a small length of corridor
between the two rooms.
One of the medics stuck his head in an
open door. "Someone to see you, Biggs."
"He
can come in," a weak voice answered. Anakin recognized the
quality of the weakness—it was the voice of one who had lain
still far too long.
The medics pushed him in and left,
closing the door partway.
"So you're Luke's
father," Biggs whispered after a moment. Anakin could see the
shine in his eyes and knew the quality of Bigg's mind hadn't
suffered from his long medical problems. Emotional problems yes...
but not cognitive problems.
"Yeah. Thanks for speaking
for me, by the way."
"Don't mention it.
Have they told you anything about how Luke's doing?"
"Not yet. They say he's in good hands and I
shouldn't worry."
Biggs snorted softly. "They've
been telling me the same thing."
"Something's
got to be wrong, then."
"Can't you feel
him? You are both Jedi, right?"
"It's been
so long since I used the lightside extensively, and I'm so
physically weak... I can't use the Force for very much right
now. As far as I can tell he's still unconscious."
Biggs seemed to relax—Anakin thought he saw some change
in the skin folds around his eyes. "If he's unconscious,
then he can't feel whatever pain he might be in. It's
been over a week."
A long quiet pause, not really
uncomfortable at all. We're both used to the silence,
Anakin realized.
"Does it still hurt?" I can't
believe I just asked him that...
"What?"
Biggs asked weakly.
"Your injury. Does it still hurt?"
"A little. Sometimes."
"I hope
someone who can help defects soon." Something suddenly lodged
in his mind. "Has anyone checked to see if someone on the
Executor could help?"
"I don't
know."
One of the medics came in. "A holomessage
just arrived from your father, Biggs. Do you want to see it now, or
later?"
"How did he sign it?" Anakin could
hear trepidation in his voice.
"Huff Darklighter,
followed by all his titles."
Biggs let out a sob.
"There goes my inheritance. He only signs holomessages like
that when he's sending them to business rivals. Just go ahead
and play it."
Surely enough, the message was clear.
Biggs had been completely disowned.
Because of me.
Anakin spent the rest of the day there, trying to keep Biggs'
spirits up. Eventually, Biggs dropped into a deep but uneasy sleep.
Anakin relaxed. He's asleep. Finally. He closed
his eyes from exhaustion and felt himself slip into unconsciousness.
...
He was on a ship.
I know this place.
Mamre was there, Shmi of the laughing eyes and warm smile,
the woman who had raised him.
Famre was there, a dim sense of
warmth and comfort.
The stars were everywhere, big and bright
through the large window of the family observation lounge. He felt
himself waddle over to the window, pressing his hands and face
against the cool transparisteel plating.
He was small, so
very small.
Famre behind him, picking him up and holding him
close.
He fell out of the dream and into a vision. Not
again.
A man, dressed in late-middle Republic Jedi robes,
face scarred and marked by a thousand worry wrinkles. He had life
tough, Anakin realized.
"Chosen One, defend
yourself."
"What? What do you mean? I don't
understand."
"CHOSEN ONE, DEFEND YOURSELF!"
He snapped back into the physical world instantaneously...
... to find a blaster aimed into the room. He couldn't
tell if it was aimed at him or Biggs—either way, he had to do
something.
In desperation, Anakin reached as deep as he could
into the Force and pushed...
...