The Da Vader Code

[Haika Vibrose]

The elderly man ran fittfully through the Mylin museum of Art and Curiousities. His heels clicked against the polished tile floor as he ran between the old and valuable paintings. Faces, half contorted by the dark, seemed to grimace down at him.

The man was Harold F. Darkwing, the curator of the museum, and he was currently running from a shadowy presence behind him. I must keep the secret safe..., he thought hurridly.

He stopped, his breath falling short. "You have no chance, Mr. Darkwing," his follower said, "but I can be merciful. Tell me where to find it."

The old curator turned to a painting, an old and rather unimportant painting from the reknowned artist Y. K. Eldare. He grabbed it's anceint wooden frame and hefted. An alarm was tripped, and the picture was pulled back by robotic hooks, but the desired effect was reached. A large metal grate fell down, locking out the hooded man.

This man lifted his hand and slid it into his cloak. He pulled out a blaster, which he aimed at the curator between the durasteel bars. "Tell me, Mr. Darkwing, and I can spare you."

"Never," the curators voice, hoarse and ragged, spoke, "I'll die with the secret. As will the others."

"You mean as HAVE the others." The hooded man said.

"What?" Harold asked, shaking his head. "It can't be. You wouldn't...not your order, of them all."

"There are some things that need to be hidden, and I am ready to kill for them."

"Then there is no longer anything to hide..." The curator looked up and spoke, "It's at the rebuilt Temple of the Life Force, on Mhanii 3."

"Thank you," the murderer said, putting away the gun, his hand lingering in the cloak for a moment, "you have been most helpful."

The ceremonial knife flew through the air, entering the curator's stomach before being pulled back by the Force and into the murderer's hand. The hooded figure cleaned it with a rag and lowered his hood.

"Look at the face of your death." He said, "and be happy that you helped us so."

The curator shook his head as the Jedi raised his hood again and walked away.

He had to do something, warn someone. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out his datapad. Then he looked around at the data pads that were inserted on the walls next to every painting, telling the artist and name of the painting. More information could be added and viewed with a password...yes, he knew what to do.

[Corran Antilles]

“Yes, some historians think, that the pyramidal form of a Sith holocron is a phallic symbol, explaining their patriarchal world view.” Corran Antilles, professor for Jedi and Sith symbology at the New Republic Fleet Academy, answered the question of a petite female student. Corran was wondering why the female students were outbalancing the males in the auditorium of the Yavin Jedi Academy, where is was giving his guest lectures. <i>Maybe girls are more interested in symbols.</i> He pondered, being glad that he had got a nice new haircut before leaving Coruscant. “What is your opinion about it, Professor?” somebody asked, but Corran was distracted by another female, who was fluttering her eye-lashes towards him before closing her eyes. There was something written on her lids. Corran narrowed his eyes to read it: <i>Want... you</i> Confused he turned around. “Uh...”

“Professor Antilles?” The other student asked, waiting for an answer still. Corran cleared his throat. “Oh, yes, my opinion... Well, I think that it’s not a phallic symbol but more one for their hierarchy at all. Just one ruler on the top, the pawns on the base.” He checked his chrono. “Well, that’s it for today. Don’t forget to read the chapters IV – VI of <i>Zigg's Glossary of Graphic Signs and Symbols</i> until next class. And for questions: I’ll be in my office this afternoon from 1400 to 1600.”

Corran waited until all students had left the auditorium before gathering his books and datapads. Carrying the stack he walked outside too, just to run almost into two figures, who were dressed in the same suits. “Professor Antilles?” The taller one of them asked. Corran nodded. “Yeah, you found him.” Now the smaller one spoke. “NRI. We are the agents Jonnson and Smeeth.” Corran balanced the stack in his arms. “NRI? Am I in trouble?” The agents changed a suspicious look. “No... of course not.” Again such a look. “But we have to ask you to come with us.” Corran sighed. “What’s the reason?” Another look. “Professor, do you know a certain Harold F. Darkwing?”

“Sure. He’s the curator of the Mylin museum of Art and Curiousities. Quite a luminary of his area of expertise. I had an appointment with him last evening. But he didn’t show up.“ Corran told them without hesitation, wondering about the meaning behind all this. The agents stared at him. “You have to come with us, Professor.” Smeeth informed him again. There was no hint of request in his voice. It was obviously a fact to him. Corran started to become annoyed. “And why?” This time Jonnson answered: “Because he was found dead. And we found your name in his daily planner.” Corran’s jaw dropped. “You don’t think that I...” Jonnson looked at him emotionless. “We aren’t paid to think, Sir. Just to follow orders. But I am allowed to show this to you.” He handed a holopic to Corran. “This was made some hours ago in the museum on Mylin.”

Corran stared at the pic, paling. The image was gruesome and profoundly strange. Jonnson waited a moment, knowing about the impact of that holopic . "Who would do this?." Corran asked finally, his eyes locked on the picture. "We had hoped that you might help us answer that very question, considering your knowledge in symbology and your plans to meet with him." Jonnson answered. Corran was staring at the holopic still. "This symbol here, and the way his body is so oddly…" "Positioned?" the agent offered. Corran nodded, getting a bad feeling about this. "I can't imagine who would do this to someone." Agent Smeeth looked grim. "You don't understand, Mr. Antilles. What you see in this holopic…" He paused. "Mr. Darkwing did that to himself."

[Haika Vibrose]

Haika sat in the large hall. Large, ornate paintings of beasts encircled him. He was rather nervous. He was about to meet the Master, the devisor of the great plots.

A hidden door, the same colour as the sparse section of walls, opened. Out stepped a short, slightly stooped man, with thining hair and a bent nose, shuffled out.

Haika stood. "My lord," he said, falling to one knee.

"That is not necassary, Haika," the Master said, "no one who has performed their duty so well deserves to bow to me."

Haika stood. "My lord, they all agreed to the same location I told you about over the comm."

"The Temple of the Life Force..." The master said, rubbing his large, rather imposing chin. "What is your take?"

"They were all lieing to me..." Haika replied, "but I searched their offices and in each found this picture."

Haika handed the Master a small disc. The master pressed a button and an image arose...the image of a large statue, maybe 60 feet high. In the shape of a featureless human.

"It's the Ascending Man," Haika told the master, "by Heniisii Coreolli."

"Indeed," the Master responded, looking for another moment at the statue. "Where is it currently?"

"The Church of Truth, on Dantooine." Haika replied.

"Find it." The Master said. "It is imperitive we destroy any possible leads and find the treasure ourselves."

"To destroy it?" Haika asked.

"Of course, my friend, of course." The Master said slapping the Jedi on the back.

"I will go now, Master." Haika said, bowing to the man and leaving through the door he had entered in. He raised his hood as he did so, stepping into the small rented ship he had taken for his mission.

***

The Master went back into the hidden room. It was dark inside, the only light the glowing blue of screens on every wall. These screens watched various famous works of art. One of them was on a dead man, stretched into a straight line, arms above his head and feet pointing downwards, forming a line. The man was naked. It was Darkwing.

A shadowy figure sat in an imposing chair, watching the monitors. "My lord," the master said, bowing, "he is going as we speak."

"Goooood." The hidden figure said, "it is almost over. Soon all will be revealed. The Father shall rise."

[Petra Williams]

Moonlight trickled through the window, illuminating the different trinkets in the office. Different charts of language patterns, symbols and translation tips covered the walls like an odd, modern wallpaper, peppered with occasional holopictures. In the middle of the organized chaos, Agent Petra Williams lay with her face in her arms, sound asleep on her desk.

She had a good excuse—her job as one of the rising cryptologists on Coruscant kept her busy from the time she opened her eyes in the morning until she collapsed exhausted at home at night. Today, she had wrapped up a large case that had taken months to finish. Her usual partner in tech, Marsh Flick, had taken off a few hours ago to work on a new theory of symbol translation and code breaking with some gadget. She had been in the middle of writing her report on their latest work when she had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, her comlink started ringing right next to her ear, making her eyes pry open.

Giving a sleep glance at her wrist chrono, she finally fumbled for the ‘link and opened it, croaking out, “Williams.”

“Petra! I am so sorry, I only just heard…” Marsh’s flickering blue image appeared before her eyes as he looked at her with a mixture of sympathy, shock and… sorrow?

“Marsh, what the frell is going on? It’s…” she glanced at her chrono, “almost midnight. And what the heck are you talking about?”

Marsh had continued, now pacing and making her dizzy, “… After all, he was like a father to all of us, me especially, he did give me my first translator spectrum capacitator and teach me how to break into the mindset of a 3-PO until using the calculations of Doctor Pascal’s—”

“MARSH!” She yelled at the top of her lungs, shocking her partner into silence.

“You needn’t yell at me!” He said plaintatively. “I was merely expressing my condolences.”

“Condolences for what?” she grouched, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

Marsh’s eyes widened. “You mean you haven’t heard?” he asked, incredulous.

“Heard. What?” She snapped while giving him the Evil Eye. “I’ve been trying to write out our report since you had to leave early, remember? And it’s the middle of the night!”

However, her expression barely made an impact on Marsh. He stared at her, as if he had never seen her before. “Petra…” He swallowed hard. “You might want to turn on the CorSec transmitter. Right now.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Marsh, I don’t have time for one of your stupid games. Tell me what’s going on!”

Marsh took a deep breath, then spoke slowly. “It’s Darkwing, Petra. He’s… dead.”

------------------------------------------------------------

“Citizens are not allowed into a crime scene, Lady!” The officer tried to shove Petra back, but she held her ground, pulling her CorSec badge out and placing it into his face.

“I’m an Agent of the New Republic, Officer…” she glanced at his badge, “Jon’nes. If you don’t let me in, you’ll be possibly answering to the Senate and even the military. From behind the bars of a cell. Now let me pass!”

He started to argue with her, but she gave him a glare that withered him visibly. “Fine, just don’t touch anything!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said dryly, ducking under the “DO NOT ENTER” tape covering the entire front of the museum. Thank gods, they had decided to not put on their lights otherwise there would be a mob trying to figure out what happened inside. Rubbernecks, Darkwing had called them.

A lump formed in her throat at that thought. Harold Darkwing was dead.

She tried to push the thought away, forcing herself down the corridors and down to the exhibit where the police communications had said his body was discovered.

Passing a group of uniforms, she almost rolled her eyes when one let out a wolf whistle but ignored it. She continued until one suddenly put his hand out and slapped her on her lower backside.

“Oooh, nice and firm, just the way I like it!” She spun on her heels and faced the smirking officer.

Forcing a sweet smile onto her face, she crooked a finger at him in a “come hither” way.

His buddies elbowed and slapped his back, but he shrugged them off and stepped closer, moving until they were almost touching noses. “Yeah, girly?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

He suddenly dropped to the ground with a whimper as her knee came into contact with his groin. “Don’t ever touch me again,” she informed him, still smiling before she headed down the hallway. In her head, she could hear her more controlled and less sleep-depraved self scolding her for her actions but she ignored it. It was almost one in the morning, and she didn’t have the energy or time to deal with hormone-driven idiots.

She continued down the hall until she entered the exhibit, then her breath caught in her chest hard.

Lying in the middle of the floor was the most awful sight she had seen in a long time.

“Gods…” she whispered, almost choking.

Petra swallowed hard and circled it, pushing back her personal feelings and letting her professional façade take over. She could grieve for Darkwing later. Now… then her eyes widened at the scribbles next to his body.

[Haika Vibrose]

It was late at the Church of Truth on Dantooine. Flames glittered in sconces on the ancient walls, casting an eerie glow about the abandoned church. Two Force-Preists walked down the aisles between the pews, doing the nightly incense route. Dark, greenish smoke drifted from an urn they carried between them.

A shadow fell across the floor, long and sinister, like a bird of prey. One of the preists looked up to the stained glass window the shadow was coming from. There was nothing there.

"I sense something..." His partner said.

"I do too..." The preist whirled about, trying to locate the blurry presence.

Suddenly, a pew flew from the back of the church and struck the preists square in their heads. The two young men fell to the ground, the urn rolling away, scattering slightly smelly ashes across the floor.

A hooded figure walked from the shadows at the back of the church. He stepped over the bodies, apoligizing as he did so. He had not wanted to do what he had, both the murders and the lies, but he had to, for the sake of all.

He went to the altar, where a long, curved sword sat atop a table. The blade in itself was a work of art, a weapon of a long forgotten Jedi Master. Haika kneeled before it, shutting his eyes for a single moment, before standing and walking around the altar to the gigantic, featurless statue.

He raised his hand and touched the cool marble, the white rock slightly damp to the touch. Evidentally it was cleaned and polished often. He stood before the huge figure. it's lack of features engulfing him, it's arms high above its head, an arrow to the sky. Haika was shocked at its wonder.

He took out his lightsabers and walked around the statue several times, before igniting the blades and cutting through the rock, right in the center of the man's ankle. The Ascending Man teetered for a moment, before falling forward. Haika leaped out of the way as the statue fell.

As it came to the ground with a mind numbing crash, chunks of both the ground, the statue, and the altar it had struck flew in thousands of directions. A few narrowly missed striking Haika's head. If he had not been ready, he would have been killed.

He walked into the midst of the destruction, to the remainders of the Ascending Man's head, which lay directly over the altar. He pushed it away and found the sword, which he put into his belt. Then he brushed away the rubble and looked at the floor beneath the altar.

A message was inscribed there. The Jedi took a datapad and wrote the message down in it. Then he left. Two more clues taken out, and a message no one would understand left behind. None would find the truth.

***

The preist stood groggily. It took several seconds for his eyes and head to readjust to where he was, but when they did, he threw himself to the ground and cried.

"Who would do this?" He asked himself, "Who?"

[Petra Williams]

“Remember, Petra, no puzzle is too complex. You just need the key to open it.” Darkwing tousled her hair, smiling with affection at the young Cryptology student. “I have faith in you; you are one of the best students I have ever had. Nothing is out of your reach…”

The memory hit Petra hard as she stared at the corpse of her old professor. A kind, gentle, older man who had invited her and Marsh over to his office many an afternoon for tea, when she needed a study break; who had retired to be surrounded by his beloved paintings and not the copies he had always kept in his office.

Now he was lying in the center of the room, in the form of the Ascending Man. The irony almost choked Petra, for it was one of his favorites. Lying in a diving position with his toes pointed together, his arms outstretched over his head, and a datapad lying at his side, it was one of the most undignifying deaths Petra had ever heard of or seen. And the look of agony on his dead face…

Who could do this to you, Prof? She choked.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” An officer had joined her, standing at her side. “Can’t imagine why he did that to himself.”

Petra looked up at him, confused. “Wait, he did this?”

“According to the coroner.” He checked his datapad for his notes. “He died from the knife wound at his stomach, and went nuts afterwards. Maybe it was a form of shock. Maybe he was crazy… He was known to be eccentric.”

“He was not crazy,” Petra said through clenched teeth.

The officer raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sure…” He walked away shaking his head.

Waiting until he had left, Petra sighed and knelt next to Darkwing’s corpse. Indeed, there was a gaping wound on his stomach, with dried black blood. She quickly looked away and studied the words he had written on the floor.

Dimidium facti qui bene coepit habet.
Nature non facit saltus. De nihilo nihil fit. Quod non est in actis, non est in mundo?
Necessitas caret lege.
Sapere Aude.

PET- Hac urgent lupus, hac canis angrit. SELLITNA NARROC

Absently she noted that one hand was pointing in a random direction, but was it just from rigor mortis?

The key… Sighing, she rubbed her face tiredly. What was the key? Was it a literal or figurative one? Had Darkwing really gone insane in his final moments?

“Dimidium facti qui bene coepit habet!” Every student in the room jumped from the vehemence in Darkwing’s voice. “Translation, class!”

“Well begun is half done,” they droned, surprised.

“Exactly! You may start with good intentions, but you must remember that your task is not complete. You must remember!”

Slowly, Petra stood and stared at the message again. “Vague terms… but they make sense in the end of the game.” That was Darkwing’s favorite hobby for his favored students. He would write out a random phrase, and they would spend hours trying to find what he meant, only for it to be so simple they could kick themselves.

“You sure left me a hell of a game, Prof.” She studied the words again, translating in her head.

Well begun is half done…
Nature makes no jumps. Nothing comes from nothing. What is not recorded simply does not exist?
Necessity knows no law.
Dare to be Wise.

Pet- Between two fires…

But the last two words confused her. They weren’t any code or language she had ever seen in her life, or studies.

She pulled out her comlink and dialed in a familiar number.

“Flick here.”

“Marsh, it’s Petra. Is your translanguage thingy working yet?”

Petra could hear his long-suffering sigh. “For the fiftieth time, Pet, it’s not a translanguage thingy, it’s a-”

“Whatever,” she interrupted impatiently. “I need to know if it’s working.”

“It’s working,” Marsh said, sounding confused and intrigued. “Why?”

“I need you to check two words for me…” She paced back and forth, thinking while glancing upwards. “It’s spelled “S-E-L-L-I-T…” Her voice trailed off.

After a pause Marsh finally said, “Petra? Are you still there?”

She swallowed. “Hold that, Marsh, I’ll call back in a moment,” and closed the comlink, staring at the window above her head.

Despite the moonlight outside, it still gave a mirrorlike reflection of the room below.

And the words suddenly made sense.

She quickly glanced to the side, to where Darkwing was pointing. It was down the hallway towards a rounded display room.

The prominent piece in it was The Birth of the Balance.

Pet… between two fires… or two light sources… balance… Darkwing had known she would come. He knew she had limited knowledge in his area of expertise, since she had stayed with her beloved mind-games.

So he had sent her clues to the one person who could help her.

“Corran Antilles,” she murmured to herself, remembering his reputation as the Force Balancer and knowledge of both Sith and Jedi symbols.

Behind her, she heard one of the officer comlinks going off. “Antilles is on the way. Over.”

[Corran Antilles]

The agents walked next to Corran, but also half a step behind him. It gave him the feeling of being brought here more as a prisoner than as the in demand expert for symbology. Maybe the agents wasn’t used to escort blameless citizens. And an old bantha learns no new tricks. So Corran tried to ignore them as best as he could, as he watched the paintings at the walls of the halls they were passing. It was pity that he wasn’t here to visit the museum for its art treasures but for this obscure fatality. Corran had no idea what the authorities expected him to do. He had been a CorSec, but never a crime scene investigator. And after all it was more than 12 years since he had worn the uniform for the last time.

Finally they arrived at the site of crime. The corpse wasn’t here anymore, obviously already in forensic medicine, but the markings on the floor showed clearly where Darkwing had been. The room was filled with some uniformed police officers as well as some people in civilian clothes, but their displayed badges showed that they belong to different specialist departments.

A little lost Corran stood in the middle of the hall, while the agents talked to the officer in charge. His hands in the pockets of his old jacket, he stared at the floor where the old professor had died. Why in the position of the Ascending Man? Why used somebody his last living minutes to do something like that instead of calling help? A paramedic team could have been here in minutes and with the medicine of today they could have saved him, even when his bodily functions wouldn’t have worked at the time of their arrival. So a big why was hanging over the scenery.

As one of the cops stepped aside, Corran noticed the writings on the floor. His knowledge in that language was slightly rusty, so he tried to translate it slowly. <i>Dimidium facti qui bene coepit habet.</i> Dimidum...? Corran tried to find the memory in his mind. Damn, where was a translator droid, if you needed one? Pondering he did let his gaze wander through the room as if it would help him to find the solution. But instead he noticed an attractive dark-haired woman, maybe some years younger than himself, watching him.

“Hi.” Corran whispered to her, not daring to speak loud at this place. She nodded a greeting and walked towards him. As she stepped closer, Corran could read <i>Petra Williams</i> and <i>Cryptology Department</i> on her badge. “Are you Corran Antilles?” she asked without any further ado.

“Yes, that’s my name, Agent.” Corran nodded. “How can I help here?”

[Petra Williams]

This is Corran Antilles? Petra quickly scanned him and almost let out an audible groan: tall, muscular, handsome face… Probably knows how good-looking he is, too. But she fought down her skepticism with the metaphorical broom. Prof trusted him. That truth alone was enough for her now.

But she walked up and inquired, “Are you Corran Antilles?” She did not have the time nor the energy to make assumptions right now. Prof’s chilling final message rang through her head.

When Antilles asked how he could help, she countered back, “What have they told you?”

Antilles started to answer, but glanced back at his “escort” of CorSec Security. “They… were a little vague.”

“They didn’t tell you anything?” she pressed.

“Well…” he hesitated, making Petra roll her eyes.

“Look, Antilles, I need to know what you do, otherwise I won’t be able to find out why Prof-” she paused, took a deep breath, “Mr. Darkwing- did this to himself. Or who killed him.”

Petra inwardly cursed when she saw the look of instant pity in his eyes at her slip. “Were you close to him?” he asked gently.

“That’s not important right now.”

“But it’s important to you,” he countered.

Swallowing back a wave of grief, she composed her features and looked him straight in the eye.

“Darkwing supposedly did this,” she gestured to their surroundings while changing the subject, “to himself. He may have been eccentric, but there’s always a reason behind his actions. It’s just not always transparent to everyone at the beginning of the game…” Her voice trailed off as she looked, pondering at the scene before her.

“‘The game?’” Antilles echoed, looking confused.

She waved his question aside. “Word games, iconology games… He loved doing mental conundrums on people, and leaving mental posers for them.”

“So you’re saying,” Antilles spoke slowly, “that we’re in the middle of a game, about how one of the Galaxy’s most brilliant minds was murdered, with only the clues left by said mind, who was known for the greatest brain-stumping enigmas in the universe?”

Petra opened her mouth, paused to think about what he said, then nodded with a shrug. “Basically.”

He rubbed his face. “I see.” It sounded muffled.

“Oh, and I think you’re the main suspect. So we need to figure out the murderer before you’re locked up.”

Antilles’ hand dropped. “What?!”

She nodded casually at the crowd of officers nearby, a couple of which had never let their eyes stray from them. “Your buddies look a little trigger happy.” And indeed they did, because one had a blaster aimed at him subtly the entire time.

“Oh frak.”

“Sorry, not interested.” She examined the message on the floor again.

He opened his mouth to make a retort, then thought better of it. “My ancient Nubian’s a little rusty.” He stepped next to her and studied the scribbles. Leaning a little closer, he whispered, so their unofficial shadows would not overhear, “You don’t think I killed him… do you?”

Their eyes met: hers searching, his pleading. “No,” she finally said. “You couldn’t have.”

“I’m no murderer,” he said, with a relieved smile.

“You didn’t have a motive,” she countered. “Unless you’re crazy, you have nothing to gain by his death.”

His eyes narrowed. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You want confidence? See a therapist.” She gave him a fake smile when he almost glared at her. “Look, Antilles, I’m tired. I’ve been up since dawn…” she glanced at her wrist chrono, “yesterday. I finally wrapped up a case last night, only to get this one.” She omitted the fact that she volunteered for this assignment.

“Well, less than six hours ago all I had to worry about was my lecture. Now I’m Suspect Number One in probably the most flashy murder of the year.”

That almost made her smile. He sounded like a petulant little boy who was complaining about an unfair time-out.

He studied the floor. "So what do we do now?"

[Haika Vibrose]

The sword... somehow this was about the sword. The mastermind of Haika's actions knew this the moment he laid eyes on its ornate hilt. He looked over the odd inscriptions, a curling, vibrant language, unreadablebut to one who had studied it for years.

Haika thought, when he met the mastermind, that he was simply another servant of the Master. This was what he was supposed to believe. The con was working perfectly.

"you are sure no one will work out the clue you couldn't destroy?" The mastermind asked, his blonde hair shining in the light.

"Of course," Haika answered, nodding, "unless they can work out the code. It is very ornate...I am doubtful they could, even if they were cryptologists. Besides, they would also need an iconologist to work out what the riddle means afterwards."

"What is the riddle again?" The mastermind asked.

Haika closed his eyes and recited the lines. "Blade gives way to blade. Jedi and Sith combined, bring forth the Son of the Sword. None will know their secret."

The mastermind nodded. "It is, of course, simply a double meaning. The first meaning does, of course, lead us to the sword. 'Blade to blade,' and all. The second meaning is more obscure. Blade is the symbol for man, phallic in origins. Blade to blade means Man to Man. 'Man gives way to Man'. As for the Jedi and Sith combined, it is quite obvious. One who is both Jedi AND Sith. The Son of the Sword...well, he could only be one. The Son of Man, the sword being a reference to the symbol of the blade."

That is what I believe too" Haika responded.

"This swords carvings are small, connected. It will take me a rather long time to decipher them. Until then, you may go, wait, rest." The mastermind gestured for Haika to leave. The Jedi stood and started walking towards the door.

"Wait," the mastermind spoke. Haika stopped and turned. "I forgot something the master asked me to do."

Haika walked back and sat down once again at the desk. "Give me your arm." The mastermind said. Haika did.

The mastermind rolled up the Jedi's loose sleeve and looked at the muscular arm. "You are strong, so this should not hurt as much." The mastermind removed a knife from his shirt, faster than Haika's eye could catch. The Jedi tried to jerk away, but the blade had already hit his shoulder. The mastermind made a line, curvy like a wave, then another, the exact same, one centimetre below, then a third and final line. They were not deep cuts, but the blood flowed.

"You are now marked as a saviour to the Force." The mastermind spoke.

Haika stood, calming himself. "Th-thank you."

He left.

[Petra Williams]

He studied the floor. "So what do we do now?"


“I… I don’t know.” Petra felt helpless now. She had discovered one part of the clue and felt so elated at the thought of someone to help her. Now she was struck with someone more clueless about this than her.

“Have you wondered about immaculate conception?” Darkwing looked out his window thoughtfully, bringing his teacup to his lips.

Both Petra and Marsh exchanged an inquiring look. But they humored him, knowing he always had a point.

“I’ve wondered about that,” Petra admitted. “Lord Vader, after all-”

“But was he really?” Darkwing continued in that dreamy voice. “After all, aren’t both male and female needed for conception?” He took another sip.

Marsh put his cup down. “Professor Darkwing, you need to be careful. If the Empire heard you talk like this…”

“Oh, tush, Marsh. I’m too old to fear men in white.”

“Prof…” Petra bit her lip but looked at him pleadingly. His eyes met hers, and softened.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” He placed his cup on the desk and stroked her hair soothingly. “I won’t leave you alone, Pet. You have suffered so much loss already…”

“Hey, you okay?”

She snapped out of her memory when a strong hand gently touched her shoulder. Looking up, her eyes met Antilles’. His were full of worry and tension.

“I’m… fine. Just stuck.” She shrugged his hand off.

Stepping back a pace, Corran studied her carefully. This Petra Williams tried to be cold and hard, but for that brief moment when she faded into her thoughts, he had seen gentleness, pain and sadness in her eyes. She right now let off waves of grief and worry into the Force, grief so sharp it could cut him.

“How did you know him?” he asked quietly.

Petra shrugged, but her voice came out low, laced with aching hurt: “He was my mentor.”

Corran winced at the simple words. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t need your sympathy. I need your help.”

Her brisk tone would bother him usually, but now he just let it go. “Let’s see if we can get this translated.” He crouched next to the scribbles and started resounding them out. “Dimidium facti qui bene…”

“Here.” She fished into the pocket of her jacket and handed a datapad to him. “I already translated it.”

“Ah.” He grinned at that. “Two steps ahead of everyone, huh?”

“Is there any other way to go?” She showed him the words. “Now look, Darkwing never wrote anything unnecessary. Every word is supposed to be used, like pieces in a puzzle.”

“But…” Corran scratched his head, “it looks random.”

“I know.” She rubbed her eyes. “I could kill for a stimtea.”

“I’d take a caf.” He stood. “Let me see if our ‘bodyguards’ will let us get something.” Giving her an encouraging smile, he walked over to the officers.

He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away. She doesn’t miss much, does she? he wondered with slightly grim amusement. Her determination to solve this pleased him, showing her ability to think past her sorrow.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The rough push at his chest broke Corran’s reverie.

“Well, we’re kind of thirsty after assessing the situation,” Corran tried to smile and appear relaxed, keeping his eyes on the officer’s blaster. “Is there a caf machine or something I can use?”

The officer exchanged a look with one of his buddies. “You are to stay here. We can get it for you.”

Alarm bells went off in Corran’s head. “That’s okay, I can-”

“You are to. Stay. Here.”

Corran slowly nodded. “If I need to use the refresher…”

“We will escort either you or Agent Williams to the proper facility.”

His head moved again in a nod. “Uh… we’d like a caf, and a stimtea. Please.”

“Okay.” One officer shuffled off. The other stayed put.

Forcing a pleasant expression on his face, Corran walked back over to Petra. He kept the smile on his face while saying quietly, “I think we’d better get comfortable. We’ll be here for a while.”

------------------------------------------------------------

Marsh Flick’s fingers tapped impatiently on the free space he had made on his desk for the purpose of finger-tapping. “Come on, Petra,” he muttered, worrying more and more. “Call me back!”

A glance at the chrono on the wall told him it had been almost an hour since she had hung up on him.

Standing, he started pacing. Despite her early-Academy impulsiveness, she never did anything truly dangerous anymore. She had promised him she would stay safe. She was the sister he never had…

He grabbed his comlink and dialed the number, losing patience finally. “Pick up, damn it…” he muttered.

------------------------------------------------------------

Both Petra and Corran jumped when something started ringing loudly. Her eyes rolled when almost fifteen blasters from various corners of the room aimed at her.

She pulled out her comlink and waved it at them with exasperation. Only two of the CorSec gang had the decency to look sheepish.

Standing, she opened it on audio. “Williams.”

“WHERE THE FRELL ARE YOU?!?”

Antilles winced at Marsh’s shout while Petra held the com away from her ear with a start. They could hear every word abundantly clearly.

“I’VE BEEN WORRIED SICK! YOU CALL AN HOUR AGO, SUDDENLY HANG UP, AND DON’T CALL! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK?!?”

“Marsh, BREATHE!” she finally cut in, shouting back. Audible gulps of air came over the connection.

Looking at the guards, she stepped into an unoccupied corner for a bit of privacy and spoke quietly, so none of them could hear her.

“I have never been so glad to hear your voice, Marsh…”

“What happened?” His voice lowered even more. “Are you in trouble? Is that why you’re whispering?”

“Yeah.” She accidentally let out a small sob. “Marsh, I’m in big trouble this time, and I don’t see a way out of it.” She looked back at her guards, but they looked confident that she couldn’t leave.

“Okay, where are you?” She could hear him grab his keys.

“No, no, you don’t understand, I…” Suddenly she had an idea. “Marsh…” She changed her voice into a sweet purr. “Marsh, Marsh, Marsh…”

“What?” he asked flatly.