Star Wars - MedStar 01 - Battle Surgeons

by Michael Reaves

  "Looks like a spiceball," Zan said. "That would be interesting."

  Jos raised his mug in silent agreement.

  Barriss said, "It's from a cam droid. Military grade, looks like."

  "Give the Jedi first prize," Dhur said. "I got this from a harvester, who happened across it in the field after a

  recent sortie by the Separatists. Apparently it was pretty much destroyed in the battle except for passive func­tions—couldn't move, no weapons online .. . even its comm was out."

  "Still not exactly front-page news, now, is it?" Jos said. "There are pieces of blown-apart droids all over the place."

  "Think I broke a tooth on one in my grainmush this morning," Zan added.

  The server arrived with Dhur's drink. "Put it on Von­dar's tab," Dhur said. He looked at Jos. "Money back if you don't think it's worth it."

  Jos nodded at the droid, which registered the transac­tion and moved off. It wasn't as if he had anything else to spend his pay on here.

  "Just a wild guess," Zan said, "but I'm thinking it's not the sphere itself we're interested in here."

  "Can't get anything past you, can I? Watch." Dhur set it on the table and activated it.

  The holoproj rezzed up from the sphere, one-sixth life-sized. There were some broad-leaved trees, a lot of burned-out or blown-up droids, and a few clone troop­ers lying about. Everything was canted, at an odd, low angle, as if recorded from a few centimeters above the ground.

  "I've seen dead troopers, too," Jos said. "Lots of them. Don't even have to go into the jungle for that, we've got a service brings 'em right to your door."

  "Shut up, Jos," Tolk said, without any heat in her voice.

  After a moment, a trio of humans appeared, working their way through the downed machines and bodies. They wore black-and-purple thinskins and jump boots, with slugthrower carbines slung over their shoulders.

  "Those are Salissian mercenaries," Barriss said. "I had heard that Dooku had some working for him here."

  Dhur said, "Yep. Some are mechanics, some run the harvesters—not many battle droids are programmed to pick the local produce, which is why, ultimately, we are all here on this fetid dungheap of a world. A few are special troop, recon, like that, who can go places and do things droids don't do too well—climb trees, covert those kinds of things. Sometimes only a hu-

  recon,

  manoid will do. And Salissians will do just about any­thing as long as there's a few credits at the other end of it. Ugly bunch of folks, just as soon shoot you as look at you. Probably rather shoot than look at you," he added to Jos.

  Jos smiled indulgently and glanced at Zan. "They're so cute when they're that size, aren't they?"

  The three mercenaries were scavenging, picking up tools and weapons from the battle site and checking the clone bodies. There was no sound, and the image occa­sionally wavered a bit, breaking into digital blocks and then steadying again.

  "Droid was on its last power reserves," Dhur said. "Cam went dead a few minutes after this was captured. Just sheer luck it happened to be pointing the right way."

  Suddenly the three Salissians froze. They dropped their weapons and raised their hands, then backed away from their fallen blasters.

  "It seems somebody has caught our mercenaries off-guard," Tolk said.

  A moment later, a man walked into the cam's frame, a blaster rifle held on the trio.

  Jos looked at the human. The odd angle made recog­nition difficult, but still, he felt he knew this guy. He

  leaned to one side, studying the holo from a different perspective. Of course—it was—

  "Phow Ji," Barriss said. Her voice was soft.

  As they watched, Ji smiled—then threw his gun to the ground. It struck in a silent splatter of mud.

  Tolk, Jos, and Zan reacted in surprise. Barriss did not. "What's he think he's doing?" Zan said.

  Tolk was watching the holo closely. "He knows what he's doing," she said. Jos said nothing. As far as he knew, neither Zan nor Tolk had seen the combat teacher in action, although Tolk's cold-reading skills had obviously told her Ji was no one to trifle with. Jos looked at Barriss. She shook her head, but Jos was pretty sure she, like Tolk, knew what was about to hap­pen, because he was pretty sure he knew as well.

  And Zan was about to find out...

  The holo flickered again as Ji moved in and the three Salissians went for him—

  A moment later, all three mercenaries were on the ground, and darned if Jos could tell what had happened.

  Maybe he'd had enough to drink for today, after all.

  Dhur said. "Let's look at the replay on that." He touched a control on the sphere. Everyone sat up and watched carefully as the scene began again at one-quarter speed.

  Even slowed down, it wasn't easy to see exactly what Phow Ji did, but Jos knew enough anatomy to recognize what damage had been inflicted as the three mercenar­ies fell. One had a crushed larynx, one a broken neck, and the third had taken an elbow to the temple that had surely cracked the skull. All three injuries were apt to be fatal if not treated, and he didn't see any Separatist medics in the jungle clearing.

  Phow Ji went to each in turn, squatted next to the body, and appeared to take something. The image froze as he squatted next to the last one.

  "Not sure what he was doing at the end," Dhur said, "but I'd guess he was taking some kind of trophies. Sep­aratist troops use sub-Q implants for ID, so it's proba­bly pieces of clothing, or ... something."

  Looking around the table, Jos knew everyone was thinking the same thing—the "something" Ji had taken could have been a chevron or some other adornment— or it could have been a finger, or an ear.

  "The droid's power kicked out about then, 'cause that's all there is." Dhur looked at Jos. "Worth the drink, Doc?"

  "Worth several," Jos replied quietly. "However many it takes to forget it."

  "He killed those three mercs," Zan said, outrage in his voice. "With his bare hands. He could be court-martialed and sent to prison for that!"

  "Not likely," Dhur said. "They were mercenaries, pretty much the scum of the galaxy, on a battlefield, and it was three against one. Except for this recording, there were no witnesses, and who would trust an enemy cam droid? Everybody knows how easy it is to fake such things. They could have left this here for just that purpose, for all we know."

  "Cold-blooded murder," Zan said. His voice was thick.

  "People die in wars, Captain," Dhur said. "If Ji had shot them down, nobody would blink twice at it. En­emy troops, on a field of battle, looting the bodies of our dead? Even though he killed them with his bare hands, there are a lot of Republic officers who would say 'More power to him!' and put him up for a medal."

  Zan finished off the last of his drink and set the glass down carefully. "I hate this war," he said. "I hate every­thing about it. What kind of people are we that such things can go on and nobody is outraged? What does that say about us?"

  Nobody had an answer to that.

  Zan stood, carefully, for he had drunk enough to make him unsteady. You couldn't tell unless you knew him, but Jos could see it. "I am going to bed," the Zabrak said. "Don't wake me until the war is over."

  After he walked away, Dhur sipped at his own drink. "There's a good story here, though I doubt the censors will let it by. The citizens back home might find it... disturbing." He paused. "Your friend's too sensitive to be here. He's an artist. They never do very well in wars."

  "Does anybody?" Jos asked.

  Dhur nodded at the frozen holoproj image. "Some do. Where else can you legally beat people to death and get paid for it?"

  On her way back to her quarters, Barriss thought about the recording she had seen. It was night, warm and muggy, and wingstingers and scavenger moths swarmed the glow lamps, casting giant, ghostly shad­ows. A late thunderstorm grumbled in the distance, heat lightning flashing in the darkness. The rain would be welcome if it got this far—it would cool the smother­ing, sticky air somewhat, and the sound of it on t
he foamcast roof of her cubicle would be comforting. She could certainly stand some comfort—there was little enough to be found on Drongar. Tropical worlds had their beauty, and humans were at their core tropical, or at least temperate, creatures, but she preferred cooler

  worlds. A walk in the snow was, for her, far more in­vigorating than one in broiling sunshine.

  The Jedi part of her had been impressed by Phow Ji's efficiency as a fighter. His moves had been fluid and powerful; against an opponent unaided by the Force, he would be formidable indeed.

  But the part of her that lay deep beneath her Jedi training was repulsed by the violence. It had been mur­der, for it was obvious that the three mercenaries had not had much, if any, of a chance of defeating Ji. Even three against one and barehanded, the odds had still been in his favor—and, of course, he had known it.

  How many trophies did he have hanging on his wall? She did not really want to know, but again, a part of her was curious. Back in the Temple, she had once listened to Mace Windu tell a group of students that killing somebody was easy—you could do it with a single swipe of your lightsaber. But living with the knowledge that you had killed somebody would change you for­ever. The Jedi Master had been right—it had certainly changed her. Killing was not a thing you did lightly, not if you had any kind of compassion, or even minimally decent moral and ethical codes. Sometimes, to protect the innocent, or one's own life, justice and survival de­manded a Jedi strike with enough power to lay an at­tacker low. But the fact that it was necessary did not absolve you from seeing the faces in your dreams, or hearing the anguished cries of the fallen late in the silent night. How could a person with any humanity at all de­liberately go out and stalk victims, kill them with his bare hands, and then take trophies to remind himself that he had done it?

  As if he could possibly forget?

  The Force allowed you to be a powerful fighter, but it

  also leavened your impulse to do violence. When you knew what you could do with your lightsaber, knew how deadly you were, it gave you pause. Because you could do a thing did not mean that you should . ..

  She shook her head. Phow Ji was a killer, a seeker and savorer of violence, and whether he did it as some per­sonal challenge or because he enjoyed it really didn't matter—it was a sickness. If she could touch his mind, bring the Force to bear upon his psyche, maybe she could cure him of this sickness.

  Or maybe he could infect you with it.

  She shook her head again, this time against her own thoughts. The constant pressure here, the intensity of the work, the lack of real rest... all these things took their toll. A Jedi who was worried that the Force couldn't protect her against a trained thug was defi­nitely overfatigued. She should get to bed and sleep— she needed it.

  In the distance, the thunder grew louder. Good. Maybe the rain would wash away some of these dark thoughts along with the spores and rot in the air ...

  15

  Getting rid of the body on board the MedStar would have been easy. A little messy work with an industrial vibroblade, then a trip down to the waste station with a bulky, liquid-proof bag, and hatoo! Mathal, the dead human, would be no more than garbage by now, indistinguishable from the rest of the all-purpose trash that was sieved from waste disposers and even­tually spaced. But Bleyd knew that to have an agent of Black Sun mysteriously disappear, especially when he could be traced as far as Bleyd's ship, would be bad. They would automatically suspect him—rightly so in this case—and having Black Sun turn a quizzical frown in his direction was not even remotely appeal­ing.

  The problem was, there was no flunky Bleyd could trust to help him. The troops owed their fealty to the Republic, not to him personally. Droids' cognitive mod­ules could be probed, and even after extensive repro­gramming their data banks might retain residual quantum imprints. Some of the ship's personnel might be amenable to bribes, but there was no way to know if their loyalty would stay bought.

  Which meant he had to do all that needed to be done himself.

  Fortunately, he had considered his actions for some time and in detail; this left only the actual execution of his plan. It entailed some risks, but Bleyd felt it could be managed, with sufficient attention to each element.

  The admiral first treated his own wounds—Mathal had been skilled enough with a blade to mark him. Bleyd had known that would be the case going in. It was the way of knife fighting—only a fool believed that fac­ing an opponent with a knife would end without blood­shed. In his case, the injury was not serious—two long, shallow cuts on his right forearm. The pressure of his thumb for a few minutes on the proper nerve ganglion had stopped the bleeding temporarily, and an applica­tion of synthflesh would finish the job.

  His injuries attended to, Bleyd then put Mathal's corpse into one of the carbon-freezing chambers in the quarantine section and sealed the body into a rectan­gular carbonite block big enough to show no sign of what was contained within. This he then holostamped with markings indicating that the block contained a set of defective harvesting enzyme converters. Sealing such volatile and active catalytical components for transport was normal enough. Then, with the help of a small antigrav generator, he moved it via the service lift tube to the aft cargo hold's trash lock.

  In theory, he could have shipped the dead agent to a chemical storage warehouse and had him shelved. As long as he paid the pittance of a fee, the block of densely interlaced carbon and tibanna atoms containing Mathal's remains would sit stacked there forever, un­molested and uninspected.

  But the body itself was of no consequence. The trick was to convince a skeptical Black Sun that their human agent had left Bleyd's ship in his own vessel, and that

  the ship had subsequently been destroyed by forces unconnected to Bleyd.

  That next part would be a bit trickier, because on this vessel, everyone knew who Admiral Bleyd was—by sight, or, if not blessed with that sense, then by smell, taste, touch, or hearing. In order to continue his plan, Bleyd had to be disguised.

  He had pondered this aspect at some length, and had i decided that a simple disguise was better than an elabo­rate one.

  He returned to his quarters. There he packed into a small case a long, white robe, hooded with an osmotic veil that would completely conceal his features. The robe was identical to the ones worn by a meditative ] caste of siblings-in-service called The Silent. There were usually a few of The Silent to be found on any large medical ship, since the order's universal mission was to aid the sick and injured. They did not speak aloud, even to each other. They took their meals in private and wore their hoods up in public, effectively hiding their identi­ties at all times. A few days ago Bleyd had surrepti­tiously caused microtransmitters to be placed in their food—tiny devices no larger than grains of sand, which enabled him to track those few of The Silent who were on board, at least for a while. He would not run into one of them by accident, and no one else would be able to sense who was under the ersatz robe.

  The refresher next to the library was empty, and it | was one that was not covered by surveillance cams. Ad­miral Bleyd entered the 'fresher; it was a nameless, face­less member of The Silent who emerged.

  None of the people he passed on the way to the star-board docking bay did more than nod or smile at him, and he, of course, did not speak. He walked in a slight i

  stoop, aware that he was taller than most of the robed ones he had seen on the ship.

  The Silent would not have the codes, nor the keycards for security doors that were locked, but Admiral Bleyd did. That part could be adjusted later—all traces of those security recordings would have to be altered or erased, leaving nothing that even the most diligent search might uncover. But there would be no such search, because there would be no reason for it. A per­son might remember one of The Silent passing through these doors, but it was unlikely in the extreme that any­body would ever ask about it. And even if someone did, there would be no way to connect that shrouded figure to Bleyd. He was covered.

&nb
sp; He smiled at that thought as he strolled, unhurried, about his task. He was covered, wasn't he? The osmotic veil passed air freely, and allowed him an unimpeded view, but no one could see his face. It was pleasant. He found himself rather enjoying the novelty of being anonymous.

  Mathal had been directed to park his small KDY Star-spin in the darkest, least-used corner of the subflight deck, where a light had burned out only moments be­fore, courtesy of a tiny timer that had, not coinciden­tally, vaporized with the electrical flare that killed the lamp. The ship had been precleared—on the admiral's orders—to leave at any time.

  Bleyd smiled again as he approached the vessel. Yes, he had thought of everything. The key to a successful hunt was proper preparation. If you knew your destina­tion before you took the first step, you saved yourself endless amounts of grief.

  Once in the ship, he informed the controllers that he wished to depart, and was granted immediate clearance.

  He taxied the vessel through the double sets of pressure doors and onto the launch pad, waited for the green lights, and put the craft into space.

  Now came the hard part.

  Timing was of the essence, if he was to pull this off. He looped under the multistoried keel of the medical frigate and headed aft, staying close enough to the hull so that the sensors couldn't see him. He rocketed past a few open portholes and smiled; anybody looking out would likely have gotten a sudden and considerable fright as he blew by them almost close enough to touch. In theory, however, that was good. If anyone ever did ask—not likely, but if they did—then the recklessness of the Black Sun pilot would surely be remarked upon.

  Yar, I saw him. Freaking fool near broke the trans­paristeel port, he was so close—!

  As he headed for the aft trash lock, Bleyd began to seal the robe. Under the cloth was a thinskin emer­gency vac suit, complete with gloves and boot seals, a flexicris head shroud and face cover. The emergency air tank held but five minutes of life—thinskin vac suits were designed to work inside a ship during a sudden atmosphere loss, and then only long enough to get to a pressurized section or a full vac suit. But five minutes would be more than enough, assuming everything went as planned . ..