Chapter 12: Anakin on Coruscant - Part II

   CHAPTER 12: ANAKIN ON CORUSCANT - PART 2

   Coruscant

   22:5:7945 CRC

The lightsaber hilt felt heavy in Anakin's hands, a solid, unfamiliar weight. He held it in the third guard position, his arms trembling slightly from the sustained stance. The training salle was a wide, quiet room of pale stone, its only sound the faint hum of the climate regulators.

Mace Windu stood a few meters away, his own practice blade held loosely at his side. "Your feet are too close together. Widen your stance."

Anakin adjusted, spreading his legs further apart. The tremor in his arms subsided a little.

"Better." Mace lowered his blade. "That's enough for today."

Anakin powered down the training saber, the blue energy blade vanishing with a soft snap-hiss. He handed the hilt back to Mace with both hands, as he'd been taught.

Mace took it, his expression unreadable. "You're learning control. That's what matters."

Anakin wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. The training tunic was damp with sweat. "Master Windu?"

"Yes?"

"Will I ever get to build one? A real lightsaber, I mean."

Mace clipped the training hilt to his belt. "If you are trained as a Jedi, you will journey to find your own crystal and construct your own weapon. That is the tradition."

"But I'm not a Padawan."

"No," Mace said. His tone was not unkind, but it was firm. "You are an observer. The Council has not made a decision."

Anakin nodded. He looked down at his hands, calloused from years of working on engines and podracers, now sore from holding a lightsaber hilt. "I understand."

Mace observed the boy's downcast expression. He walked to the edge of the training circle and retrieved a water canteen, tossing it to Anakin. "Your progress is noted. The Council meets tomorrow."

Anakin caught the canteen, took a long drink, and handed it back. "Will you tell them… what you think?"

"I will tell them what I have observed." Mace secured the canteen to his belt. "Your connection to the Force is strong. Your discipline is growing. The rest is for the Council to decide."

They left the training salle together, stepping into the wide, vaulted corridor that led toward the Temple's residential wings. The evening illumination strips cast soft pools of light on the ancient stone floor.

"Your mother is expecting you," Mace said as they walked. "She has finished her shift at the workshop."

The corridor's stone felt cool under Anakin's boots after the heat of the training salle. He walked beside Mace Windu, matching the Jedi Master's measured pace.

"Your training will pause for a few days," Mace said, his gaze fixed ahead. "Beginning on the twenty-sixth, you will meet individually with members of the Council."

Anakin looked up at him. "All of them?"

"Several. They wish to form their own assessments."

"Oh." Anakin processed this. "What should I do?"

"Be yourself. Answer their questions honestly." Mace glanced down at him. "These meetings are not tests in the manner of our drills. They are conversations."

They reached the junction where the corridor branched toward the Temple's western gate and the Spire Lane apartments. Mace stopped. "Your mother's shift ended at the eighteenth hour. She will be waiting."

The corridor stretched away in both directions, silent save for the distant murmur of the Temple's perpetual activity. Anakin stood at the junction, the weight of Mace's words settling over him. He gave a small, formal bow, as he'd seen other younglings do.

Mace acknowledged it with a slight nod. Then he turned and walked back the way they had come, his dark robes blending into the shadows of the vaulted hall.

Anakin watched him go for a moment before turning toward the western gate. The wide archway led out of the Temple proper into a covered walkway that connected to the surrounding district. The air changed, losing the Temple's quiet stillness and gaining the faint, metallic tang of Coruscant's lower atmosphere.

The walkway's permacrete felt different underfoot than the Temple's stone—smoother, colder. Anakin's boots made a soft, rhythmic sound against it as he passed under the arch. The evening sky above the Temple district was a deep, artificial violet, the last of the day-cycle's light filtered through the planet-wide city's atmospheric processors.

A figure leaned against the wall near the gatehouse, his arms crossed over a worn leather jacket. Paril Zannfel straightened as Anakin approached, a half-smile touching his face.

Paril pushed off the wall. "Figured you'd be done about now. Your mom's making something with those spices we got at Uscru. Smells better than ration bars."

Anakin's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. He fell into step beside Paril as they turned onto Spire Lane. The narrow street was quieter than the main thoroughfares, its buildings older, their stone facades worn smooth by centuries of weather and repulsor wash.

> Anakin Skywalker says, "Good. I'm hungry. Have you got the Falcon fixed yet? I got a few days off until Prime day. If you need help." 

Paril walked with his hands in his jacket pockets, his gaze scanning the street ahead out of habit. "Starboard motivator's done. Port lateral stabilizer's acting up now. Always something with that ship, but it's spaceworthy."

"I could look at it," Anakin said, his pace quickening slightly. "I fixed a stabilizer on a junked Z-95 once. Used a hydrospanner and some spare conduit."

Paril glanced down at him. "You'd rather be elbow-deep in my motivator than sitting in some Council chamber."

It wasn't a question. Anakin didn't answer, his eyes on the familiar door of their building coming up on the left.

"I got a job tomorrow, a shipment to Naboo," Paril held the door open for him as he spoke. "Delivering supplies to Queen Amidala's people. You know anything about Naboo?"

"Just that it's got water and gardens." Anakin stepped into the stairwell, his boots hitting the worn steps.

"There's this trade blockade going on and I got a report back to the Jedi about how easy it was to get through, so I'm doing a run."

"Is that safe?"

Paril shrugged, following him up. "Nothing's safe. That's why they pay well." He paused on the landing. "But I'm not flying into a war zone. Just dropping off medicine and rations. Worst case they'll just turn me around and send me back."

Anakin reached the third floor landing and stopped by their door. "How long will you be gone?"

"Two days. Maybe three if I get held up."

Anakin's hand hovered over the door's keypad. He turned his head to look at Paril, his eyes bright. "Could I go with you? If my mom says it's okay, I mean. I could help with the stabilizer before you leave, and then I could… see another planet."

Paril leaned a shoulder against the wall beside the doorframe. He studied the boy's face, the earnest hope there. "Anakin…"

"I wouldn't get in the way," Anakin pressed, his words coming faster. "I could watch the scanners, or help with cargo. And I've never seen a planet with water everywhere. I've only ever seen desert and city."

The door slid open before Anakin could key in the code. Shmi stood there, a clean apron tied over her simple tunic, the warm scent of simmering spices filling the hallway behind her. Her eyes moved from Anakin's sweaty training clothes to Paril leaning against the wall.

"Your timing is perfect," she said, her voice soft. "The food is almost ready." She stepped aside to let them in.

The small apartment was warm, the main room's single lamp casting a yellow glow over the low table where two bowls and a pot of stew steamed. Anakin shrugged off his tunic, hanging it on a peg by the door.

"Paril says he's going to Naboo tomorrow," Anakin said, sliding into his chair. "With medicine."

Shmi placed a bowl in front of him. She looked at Paril, who had taken his usual seat at the table. "Naboo," she repeated. "That is where the blockade is."

"It's a supply run," Paril said, accepting the bowl she handed him. "Humanitarian corridor. The Falcon's cleared for it. Should be straightforward."

Anakin looked from his mother to Paril. "I asked if I could go. To help."

Shmi sat down slowly. She looked at her son, then at Paril. Her expression was calm, but her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced together. "You have meetings with the Jedi Council soon."

"Not for a few days," Anakin said. "Master Windu said my next one was on Primeday. That's two whole days. Paril would be back by then."

The stew in Paril's bowl steamed, carrying the scent of Uscru market spices—cumin, something smoky, a sharp note of pepper. He looked at Shmi over the rim. "It's a milk run, Shmi. In and out. The Falcon can handle it."

Shmi's eyes held his for a moment. "You said nothing is safe."

"Safe for me isn't the same as safe for a nine-year-old," Paril conceded. He stirred his stew. "But he wouldn't be in the hold. He'd be in the cockpit. And the blockade's been reduced to a military cordon. The supply lane's open."

Anakin watched his mother's face, his own spoon forgotten.

Shmi looked down at her own bowl. Her fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed. "You would bring him straight back. No detours."

"Straight there, straight back," Paril said. The apartment's single light flickered as a distant speeder accelerated past outside, its engine whine bleeding through the thin walls. Shmi set her spoon down with a quiet clink against the ceramic bowl. Her eyes met Paril's, then Anakin's, her expression unreadable but her jaw set in a way that made the boy straighten in his chair.

"Two days," she said finally. "Not three. If you're not back by Centaxday evening, I will find you."

Anakin's face lit up. "You mean it?"

"I mean it," she said, her voice soft but absolute. "And if I hear one word about detours or adventure, you will spend the rest of the month cleaning every engine part in the Temple workshop."

Paril raised his spoon in mock salute. "Straight there, straight back. We leave tomorrow morning. I'll have him home in time for his morning meditation."

   Jedi Temple - Coruscant

   22:5:7945 CRC

The High Council Chamber was quiet save for the soft hum of the city beyond the windows. Grand Master Yoda sat in his chair, his gimer stick resting across his lap. He watched as the others took their places.

Yaddle entered, her small form moving to her own seat beside him. Count Dooku followed, stopping just inside the circle of chairs. He did not sit, but stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a visitor among masters.

"Welcome, Count Dooku," Yoda said. His large eyes blinked slowly. "Grateful we are, for your assistance."

Dooku gave a slight, formal bow. "The Order has my continued respect, Grand Master. I offer what I know."

Mace Windu, seated across the circle, leaned forward. His gaze was fixed on Yaddle. "Your report."

Yaddle's fingers traced the edge of her chair. "Sealed, the tomb remains. But sleeping, it is not. Dreaming, it is." Her large eyes moved slowly around the circle. "A vision, I received. A Sith Lord named Eclizon, it showed. A spire falling from space. A lock, not a prison."

Jocasta Nu, standing near the entrance with a datapad, spoke without looking up. "The instructional glyphs support the theory. They describe a binding ritual. The reader as a psychometric trigger, designed to react to a specific Force resonance."

"The boy's," Saesee Tiin said, his deep voice resonating in the chamber. It was not a question.

"A hypothesis, that is," Yaddle corrected gently. "Certain, we cannot be."

The morning light streamed through the high windows, cutting sharp angles across the polished stone floor. Plo Koon's filtered voice broke the silence that followed Yaddle's words. "A hypothesis that fits too neatly. The tomb, the attack, the child's arrival—it suggests design."

"Or coincidence," Ki-Adi-Mundi offered, his tone measured. "Correlation is not causation. We lack the data to connect them."

Count Dooku remained standing just inside the circle, his posture relaxed but attentive. "Eclizon's heresy centered on permanence. He sought to cheat death by binding his consciousness to a locus of dark side energy. The tomb is that locus. It requires sustenance." He paused, his gaze drifting toward the window. "But Eclizon never achieved his desires for immortality and died centuries ago. His heresies were fragments, his tomb unfinished. If the mechanism still functions, it is not because he willed it so. Someone else has found his work. Someone else is feeding it. The attacker, the timing, the boy—these are not Eclizon's design. They belong to a living hand."

The silence held. The light from the windows seemed to dim as the shadow of Dooku's implication settled over the chamber.

Oppo Rancisis shifted in his seat, his long tail coiling slowly. "A living hand. Not a ghost. Not a relic. You suggest the Sith have returned."

"The evidence before you suggests it," Dooku replied, his voice calm. "I merely observe the pattern."

Eeth Koth's stern face tightened. "The attacker knew Master Jinn's name. He invoked yours. That implies knowledge of the Jedi, of lineage. Not a random marauder."

The chamber's light seemed to sharpen, catching the dust motes drifting in the air. Mace Windu's hands rested on the arms of his chair, his knuckles pale. "The living hand could be this unnamed assailant who shot down Qui-Gon, or maybe it implies a master. Someone directing the attacker, manipulating events."

The Grand Master's large eyes shifted from Dooku to Mace. "Manipulation, a Sith specialty is. But proof, we lack."

"We have a tomb that reacts to our presence," Adi Gallia said, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "We have an attacker who knew a Jedi Master's name. We have a boy of unprecedented power who appeared at the same moment. The question is not whether these are connected. It is who benefits from our believing they are."

Depa Billaba leaned forward, her brow furrowed. "If the boy is the key, as the vision suggests, then his presence near the tomb would have triggered something. Yet it did not. He was on Tatooine, but miles from the Dune Sea."

Yaddle's head tilted. "Trigger, it did not. But sense the boy, the presence did. A hunger, I felt. A recognition."

The glyph scanner on the low table emitted a soft chime. Jocasta stepped forward, her datapad illuminating a three-dimensional rendering of the circular stone platform. "The instructional glyphs describe a ritual of attunement. The scout's death was a test, not a fulfillment. The mechanism requires a specific… signature. Not just any Force-sensitive life."

"Like tuning a comlink," Plo Koon observed, his masked face turning toward the hologram. "The boy's signature may be the correct frequency."

"Or he may simply be powerful enough to be mistaken for it," Saesee Tiin countered. "We cannot know without exposing him to the site."

Yoda tapped his gimer stick twice against the floor. "Exposed to the site, we cannot allow. Secure, the tomb must remain. Guarded, the boy must be."

Grand Master Yoda sits in his chair, his fingers steepled. "Dismissed, the limited-term members are. Their voices, we hear later. For now, discussion alone we on the High Council require." Yoda turns to Dooka and Jocasta, "Knowledge you have provided, grateful we are. But decisions, the Council must make alone." His gimer stick taps once against the stone floor. "Gratitude, I express. Leave us, you will."

The glyph scanner's light winked out as Jocasta Nu powered it down. She gave a short, respectful nod to the circle of Masters, her datapad held close to her chest. Without a word, she turned and left the chamber, the heavy door sliding shut behind her with a soft thud.

Count Dooku remained for a moment longer, his gaze sweeping the assembled Council. He offered another slight bow, deeper this time. "I plan to return to Serenno tomorrow. I will be in the Archives tonight, should my perspective be required." His dark robes whispered against the floor as he followed Jocasta out.

The door sealed again, leaving the eight of them in the circle of morning light.

Mace Windu let out a slow breath. His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "We have a tomb that hungers. An attacker we cannot find. And a boy whose potential makes him a target, a tool, or both."

Plo Koon's mask emitted a soft hiss. "We also have the boy himself. He is not an abstract. He is a child who asks if he will build a lightsaber."

"He asks because he wants to belong," Yaddle said quietly. "Belonging, he seeks. Guidance, he needs."

"Guidance toward what?" Even Piell's single eye narrowed. "We still don't know what his power is. Is it just strength? Or is it something else? Something that calls to that tomb?"

The chamber's air felt stiller with the others gone. The light from the high windows painted long rectangles across the stone between the chairs.

Mace's hands rested flat on his knees. "He progresses. His control improves. But he asks questions about his future. He feels the uncertainty."

"Uncertainty breeds fear," Yaddle said, her large eyes holding a distant look. "And fear, a path to the dark side is."

"He is not afraid of the dark side," Saesee Tiin stated, his deep voice certain. "He is afraid of being sent away. Of being found… ordinary."

Oppo Rancisis's tail coiled slowly around the leg of his chair. "If he is the key, sending him away does not remove the danger. It merely moves the lock. The hand that seeks him would follow."

The morning light had shifted, the long rectangles on the floor narrowing as Coruscant's sun-cycle progressed. Mace Windu's chair creaked again as he straightened. "We proceed with the probation," he said, his voice firm. "But we define its terms. He is not a Padawan. He is an observer under our protection. That protection must be active, not passive."

"Protection from what, specifically?" Adi Gallia asked. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers laced. "The tomb is on Tatooine. The attacker is unknown. The immediate threat to the boy here on Coruscant is theoretical."

"The threat is his own power," Even Piell countered. "And whoever might want to use it. We keep him close. We monitor his training. We watch for outside contact."

Yoda's ears twitched. "Agree, I do. A schedule of instruction, we will set. Not as a Padawan, but as a ward of the Temple."

"I will continue his lightsaber drills," Mace said. "Three times a week. His Force meditation will remain with you, Master Yoda. He returns to training on Primeday."

The rest of the High Council approved without comment. The room settled into the quiet understanding that accompanies decisions made by long-term necessity rather than revelation.

"And the tomb?" Plo Koon asked, his masked face turning toward Yaddle. "If it hungers for a specific signature, we must consider that simply knowing about the boy may be enough to draw attention."

The quiet was not the absence of sound, but the collective stillness of eight minds at work. The decision hung in the air, a practical, provisional thing.

Yaddle's small fingers traced the carved wood of her gimer stick. "Guard the tomb, we must. But guard the boy here, we also must. A shadow on Tatooine, I felt. Watching, it was."

"A probe?" Even Piell's single eye fixed on her.

"A presence. Not physical. An echo of intent." She looked to Yoda. "The lock knows the key exists."

Yoda's head dipped in a slow nod. "Then watched, the boy must be. Closely."

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint, ever-present hum of Coruscant beyond the windows. The light had shifted further, the sharp morning angles softening into the diffuse glow of midday.

"Then we are decided," Mace Windu said, his voice final. "The boy remains an observer. We provide structured instruction. We maintain vigilance."

The suns of Coruscant were artificial, but they rose and fell like any other. The High Council had spoken. The boy would stay. The next expedition to the tomb would wait.

   Coruscant

   23:5:7945 CRC

Shortly after the calendar turned to Taungsday, Darth Maul was in the cockpit of the Scimitar, its systems humming faintly beneath layers of acoustic dampening. The Sith Lord's face flickered into existence above the holoprojector, his features partially obscured by the low-resolution transmission. He sat in a high-backed chair of carved obsidian, his hands resting on the arms in a pose that suggested both patience and authority.

The Zabrak's yellow eyes remained fixed on the shimmering blue image. "The boy leaves Coruscant tomorrow. He travels with the pilot on a supply run to Naboo. The mother remains here."

The Sith Lord's hooded head tilted a fraction. The vocoder rendered his reply flat, devoid of inflection. "The Jedi aren't aware." It was a statement of fact.

"I don't think they're aware. From what I gathered, he has a few days off and the plans were spontaneous," Maul said. "The pilot is running medicine to Theed. Humanitarian corridor. I haven't got an impression them or the mother plan to inform the council."

The Sith Lord's gloved fingers tapped once, slowly, against the arm of his chair. The gesture was thoughtful, not impatient. "A deviation from the Temple's protection. Unplanned. Good."

Maul waited. The Scimitar's internal sensors registered a distant shuttle passing through the industrial sector, its ion trail a faint blip on the edge of detection.

"The mother," the Sith Lord continued, the vocoder stripping any emphasis from the words. "Alone."

"Yes."

"Her bond to the boy is his primary tether to this world." The hologram seemed to lean forward slightly, though the resolution was too poor to be certain. "You will strike. Tomorrow you take Shmi Skywalker. The boy will return to find her gone. He will feel her absence. The fear will begin there."

The Zabrak's face shifted—a flicker of something across his features. He looked down at the console, then back to the hologram. "And if the Jedi become suspicious?"

The hologram's glow cast sharp shadows across Maul's face. "The Jedi are divided. Their attention is also divided, so we strike with precision and patience. The boy is the prize, but his mother is the pressure point. Remove the support, and he becomes vulnerable."

The holoprojector's light cast a cold, blue sheen across the dark console. Darth Maul's hands rested on the controls, his knuckles pale against the red skin. "Where should I take her?"

"Take her back to the Outer Rim planets long enough to give the boy a scare," the hologram flickered, the figure's outline wavering slightly. "Once he learns that his mother is missing, he will be desperate. Desperation breeds fear. Fear breeds darkness."

The holoprojector's light dimmed, then winked out. The cockpit returned to the muted glow of standby instruments. Darth Maul's hands remained on the console for a long moment before he powered down the comm array.

He leaned back in the pilot's seat, the leather creaking softly. His yellow eyes scanned the readouts on the forward display—a map of the industrial sector, the Scimitar's position a steady dot in the decommissioned platform. The probe droid's feed was inactive now, its last transmission showing the Spire Lane apartment building, quiet in the night-cycle.

Maul stood, his dark robes whispering against the deck plating. He moved to the rear compartment, where his double-bladed lightsaber lay disassembled on a workbench. He picked up the central hilt, his fingers tracing the familiar grooves. The red crystals within were dormant, cold to the touch.

Darth Maul put it together quietly, hoping it wouldn't come to that. The weapon's weight settled into his palm as he secured the outer casing. He clipped it to his belt, the metal clicking softly against his armor.

As he held the lightsaber, the Zabrak's fingers traced the familiar grooves of the weapon he had carried through countless battles. The probe droid's feed flickered across his secondary display, showing the narrow hallway outside the Skywalker apartment. Through the thin walls, he could hear muffled voices—the pilot's rough laughter, the boy's excited chatter, the mother's quieter tone.

The feed showed Paril checking his chronometer, then nodding toward the door. "I'll be back before you know it," Paril said, his voice carrying through the apartment's thin walls. "We'll hit the hyperlane, drop off the meds, and be back before the kid's morning meditation."

Anakin stood near the small window, his gaze fixed on the distant glow of the Jedi Temple spires. The excitement that had been building all evening now mixed with a strange, restless energy he couldn't name. He wanted to see something beyond the endless city, to feel the vibration of a ship in hyperspace, to prove he could handle it.

The Zabrak watched as the door slid open and Paril stepped into the hallway, Anakin following close behind with a small pack slung over his shoulder. It would soon be time to strike.