3-4 VICTIMS

Long journeys are brutal on the body, especially when one must stay awake the whole time.

The woman continuously chants curses under her breath, heedless of what they can spawn in the depths of the Warp. This is her only comfort — the only way to keep her spirits just above the waterline after days without sleep.

She’s a true master of the craft after so many lonely journeys. It’s almost like a game now, seeking out ways to combine phrases in creative and vitriolic ways. She can probably go for days without repeating herself now.

It certainly helps to be multilingual too. Low Gothic by itself boasts a litany of highly specific profanity. Combine that with the technical invectives of High Gothic and the possibilities grow toward infinity! The woman has even sought out and bullied a few tech-priests into teaching her some of their cants and dialects just so she can add some more variety to her salad of obscenity. And then, a dash of creative license with everyday terms, and she’ll never run out!

Primaris. A worthless title without minions to foist duties upon. She can’t even take shifts. She can’t have others keep watch for the numerous dangers lurking in this dreaded ocean. Speaking of which…

“We’ve got another one. Section Draco-16-11-315.” she says, a finger pressed to the commlink.

“Lockdown commencing.”

The woman watches cautiously as hundreds of crewmen scramble out of their bunks at the sound of a localized alarm. Bulkhead doors slam shut, trapping them inside and sealing them to their fates. Hopefully not too many of them will die this time.

Well, that’s what she “hoped” last time, and look what happened!

She shakes the memory of gore-drenched corridors away. The hab-section is still under quarantine three months later.

She casts her gaze around warily, searching for any threats looking to capitalize on the distraction the current incident is causing. Finding nothing, she closes her eyes and focuses only on today’s infected section.

Hundreds of men and women slam their hands against the blast doors, pleading for mercy; pleading for someone to save them. Many others sit or lie down having given up already, waiting for their end. All of them are scared. All of them are angry. All of them, except for one.

The child sleeps fitfully, his arms and legs contorting in unnatural angles as he lies unconscious. His hair catches on a rivet in his shared cot, but he notices not. Even when he jerks his head to the side, bashing it against the wall and ripping the strands of hair away, he never wakes.

A phantom of malice hangs over the child, laughing at the pain. Born from dream-stuff, it feeds upon the hopelessness emitted by the panicking menials around him, growing stronger and stronger by the second. It’s almost there, bloated with presumed power — almost at a disastrous apotheosis.

“There you are.”

The creature twists its head around to glare at the woman kilometers away. Its neck cracks grotesquely with the speed at which it rotates, yet it suffers no real harm. It’s just in time to catch a tiny hand on its cheek.

Its head whips around widdershins, corkscrewing upward like a cartoon before popping off. The body deflates, spewing forth a miasma from the neck that is quickly swept away by the same hand, out into the Warp beyond.

The woman glances at the child, his head and spine now separated from the rest of his body by several meters, then covers her mouth and yawns.

It’s a good thing she’d caught that early. Only one potential asset lost. More of a liability at that age, really.

She blinks and she’s back at her post, having never left it in the first place. Two kilometers away, hundreds of crewmen collapse in relief as the alarm falls silent and the doors open wide. A dozen more only scream louder as the lights flick on, revealing a grisly sight.

A moment later, the stream of creative curses flows once more with the slightest bit of renewed vigor. And yet, she still feels so damn tired…

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

You yawn as quietly as you can, lifting your hand to cover your mouth before remembering it’s already covered when your hand knocks against your mask. Embarrassed, you quickly return it to your lap.

“Did you not sleep well?” Master Lasah asks, her voice lilting up with concern.

“Ah, um. I’m fine. Just had a bad dream.”

“A nightmare? Would you like to speak of it? We have some time.”

“Not a nightmare,” you say with a shake of your head. “Just unpleasant. And, I don’t really remember too much of it. Just the bad part.”

“Was it one of those dreams?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, I would very much like to hear of it.”

The air shuttle lurches downward, as you’re about to speak, its horn blaring as the driver curses. A moment later, the shuttle levels out and you can let go of your death grip on the seat.

“Sorry about that!” the driver calls from the front. “Bast— I mean, some blind fool cut us off.”

Master Lasah swivels toward him, pointedly putting her blindfold directly in line with his mirror.

“I would advise you to rethink those words too.”

He blanches, suddenly remembering who exactly he’s carting around, then stammers out an apology. Waving him off, Master Lasah settles back in next to you.

You think for a moment, straining to remember what exactly happened in the last few dreams you’ve had. They’ve been small, fleeting things. Sensical in some way, but nowhere near as in-depth as the “dreams” prior.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“All I really remember is… me. I think. Me as I’ve seen myself before: a Navigator. I was keeping watch while traveling the Warp, and something bad happened. In the end, someone died, and I might have been the one to kill them.”

Master Lasah leans back, swaying with the movement of the shuttle. “Who were they? The person who died?”

“An innocent. A victim. A child, younger than me.”

“Murder?”

“No, I don’t think so. Mercy, maybe. A victim of something else. A killing that needed to be done, I hope.”

“Hmm. Did you have any control?”

“No.”

“Then it is not your fault.”

With that, she falls silent, seemingly lost in thought. You scoot forward on your seat, letting your legs dangle as you try to create more space for your tail. You contort your tail around you, playfully tapping your fingers against the hard carapace as you let your blood-flow recover. Sitting in seats like this, not made for be-tailed beings, can be very uncomfortable over long periods of time.

The shuttle passes between kilometer-tall buildings — towers dividing up the sky. Millions of people live above, below, and all around, and you can feel it. At the edge of your mind, an endless horde chatters. You have to keep a tight hold on your boundaries, even tighter than during your work in the Halls of Healing. This, in comparison, is a thousand times worse.

Fortunately, Master Corr had only been mildly disappointed in your promise so quickly broken. She had understood and waved you forward, telling you that she could handle whatever came next. You know she could. You know she can. A master healer like her doesn’t need an Initiate underfoot, but you still feel a bit bad about leaving her without much warning.

You hold back a sigh, your fingers pausing in their rhythmic pattern. Well, what’s done is done, though it certainly puts a damper on your excitement for today.

“Xena, we are approaching our destination. Please prepare yourself.”

You look up at Master Lasah as she brushes off her already spotless robe, picking away at nonexistent lint. You yourself are dressed in your typical garb: small brown robes, a tunic, pants, and boots. And, of course, your mask and headband. You sit up straight, swiping at your own clothes to remove any dust that may have been left on the seats, then adjust your mask. You nod at her — all good to go!

The shuttle swoops down to a small landing pad jutting out of a CorSec building. Master Lasah slides the door open without hesitation, stepping out on steady feet. You nod to the pilot and thank him, then hop out after her.

The building, essentially an security force outpost in what amounts to the slums, is a solid structure with spartan decoration. Only the words, “Coruscant Security Force” formed by thick blocks of durasteel above the entrance demarcate the outpost as anything other than an industrial building. However, just because this area isn’t nearly so wealthy as those around it doesn’t mean it isn’t well traveled. This sector is sandwiched between an industrial hub and an entertainment district. It’s not even that poor considering the sky is visible above. The upper crust is still the upper crust.

Plenty of passersby walk these streets. Some are clearly blue-collar workers, heading toward their early morning shifts. Others are far less presentable, drunkenly making their way home after a full night in the places of pleasure and debauchery.

You shiver, a vague sense of unease rising at those words, but you can’t put your finger on why.

Stepping quickly, you catch up to Master Lasah as she knocks on the second-level door, the landing pad having been constructed in an elevated position to save space. The door slides haltingly open, revealing a bearded man in a CorSec uniform who ushers the two of you inside.

“Welcome, Master Jedi. Glad to have you here,” he says as he leads you down a narrow flight of stairs.

“Indeed,” is Master Lasah’s only reply.

Nonplussed, the man continues onward, guiding you two through hallways and corridors. Tiny offices line the sides, their occupants slaving away at mountains of paperwork handed down from their absent superiors. Three meters below, a man lies in a drunken stupor, passed out in a cold, hard room. A pair of rodents sneak through the walls, playfully biting at one another while dragging a stolen lunch with them. Finally, at the end of one last hallway, the man opens another door and waves the two of you in before stepping away, proclaiming that he’ll be back in a moment.

There’s several rows of chairs lined up facing a holographic projector. Just to the side is a podium, upon which the symbol of the Coruscant Security Force is emblazoned. You turn to Master Lasah, wondering what you’re supposed to do now.

“I suppose this is an appropriate setting for giving you the briefing,” she remarks. She steps forward to the podium, pulling out a folder of documents from within her robe. “I will make this quick. At approximately oh-nine-hundred yesterday, Jedi Knight Justinia Ryker was found dead at the intersection of Eight-Two-A Camberoa and Eight-Two-P Goldrock. She had been sent to pick up a delivery at the loading docks at Camberoa Nine-Nine-Oh-One. You may take your headband off to look at this map. I will warn you when the officer returns.”

Sliding your headband off, you shuffle forward and accept the handheld holoprojector Master Lasah hands to you. You depress the button on its side and a three-dimensional representation of a busy shipping yard appears. The scene slides over by half a block, revealing the aforementioned intersection. There, in the center of the intersection, a diamond appears, labeled with “J. Ryker - Disc. ~0900.” All around the intersection are labeled buildings. To the northwest is a series of storefronts, some of which are clearly condemned. Northeast of the diamond is a tiny health clinic, above which appears to be a tower of residences. To the southeast is industry, purpose unknown but brimming with heavy-load droids and machinery. To the southwest is the loading docks, a subsection of the shipping yard.

As you watch the hologram, Master Lasah points at the diamond, saying, “Ryker was found here by one Ioaniis Tlin only minutes after Ryker stopped breathing. Mr. Tlin immediately notified CorSec who arrived at the scene six minutes later. In the meantime, he ran to the clinic over here—” she points northeast, “—and asked the medic to assist. It was too late, however. Ryker is presumed to have died just before being spotted by Tlin. From the position of Ryker’s body—” she points at the ground just next to the diamond, “—it appears that she had fallen to her knees and was trying to crawl toward the loading dock. She then collapsed at the spot she was found and was unable to move again.”

“Did anyone see her before then? And, what was she picking up?” you ask, curiosity piqued.

“Unfortunately, nobody has yet come forward as a witness. As for what the item is… that is not something I can tell you. Not yet; only if it is pertinent to the investigation. The item was not stolen. In fact, it is being held at a Coruscant Highline Bank just north of the loading docks, having been accidentally shipped there. We have taken the liberty of simply renting a safe deposit box to store it in for the moment. We will go and retrieve the item today.”

“Why didn’t anybody go get it earlier?”

“CorSec attempted to claim it as evidence and nobody was available to go negotiate with them. They, at least, had the decency to find out where it had gone and told us after we asked, but would have taken it if I had not called the bank yesterday and made arrangements.”

“Oh. So, are we here to find the killer?”

“Yes and no. We need to first find out why and how Justinia Ryker actually died. Nobody should have known she would be here for the item, so there should have been no motivation to kill her. Also, her death is… mysterious. The autopsy reveals that she died from an asthma attack, though she was never known to have had asthma.”

“So, she may not have actually been killed. She could have just… died?”

“It is a possibility, but I have my doubts. This is why we are going to investigate.”

“So, why are we here? At this station?”

“Waltzing into another’s domain is rude, and we could use the backup if things go poorly. Some of the residents here do not particularly respect Jedi.”

“Oh… but they respect the police?”

“No, but their Guardian droids make excellent shields when firefights break out. And, they have data recorders that may be useful for interviews. Now, are there any other questions? Otherwise, we should decide where to start our investigation — that is, what should we do after examining the scene of the crime?”