Star Wars - MedStar 01 - Battle Surgeons

by Michael Reaves

  The trash lock was just ahead. Bleyd triggered the re­mote control, and the hatch dilated. A second remote activated the antigrav unit on the carbonite slab and pushed it out the lock.

  Expertly, for he was a good pilot, Bleyd pulled the Starspin to a velocity matching the slow-moving slab's, then used a grapple arm to grab it and pull it against the ship's body. He locked the arm in place.

  He took a deep breath. This part wouldn't be pleas­ant, but he could not tarry. He sealed the vac suit, acti­vated the airflow, and cycled the ship's canopy open. Then he maneuvered himself out of the cockpit, aimed at the open trash hatch, and pushed off.

  Since the MedStar's orbital position was currently over the night side of Drongar, it was cold out there, a biting, harsh chill that stabbed him through the robe and thinskins like a thousand needles of frozen nitro­gen impaling him all at once. But he ignored the cold, refused to accept the shock it threatened to plunge his system into. Bred into him was the stamina and strength of a thousand generations of hunters, an ar­mor woven from his ancestors' ancient DNA. His re­solve was icier by far than the void through which he floated.

  His aim was a hair off, but not so much that he missed the hatch. As soon as he was in the ship's gravity field, he dropped, but he had been expecting that, and he landed on his feet, his balance firm. He slapped the hatch control, and the hatch constricted and closed. The chamber, even unpressurized, was still considerably warmer than the raw vacuum outside.

  He activated the pressurization cycle and moved to the viewport to look at Mathal's ship, triggering the re­mote for it as he did so. The Starspin's ion drive lit, and the little vessel, its carbonite load still firm in its grasp, shot silently off into space.

  Bleyd watched for a moment. The course was laid in—there was nothing more to be done now.

  He unsealed the vac suit and headed for the inner lock door. In a matter of a few minutes, an unidentified ves­sel would violate Separatist orbital space on the far side of the planet. The ship would not respond to queries,

  nor would it deviate from its course. There would be warnings given, and finally the Separatist batteries would open up, and the ship would be blown to bits.

  And alas, Mathal, the representative of Black Sun, would be vaporized as well, and nobody would ever be able to tell that he had been dead before it happened, for the thermonuclear explosion that destroyed the Star-spin would not leave enough of the slagged carbonite to fill a wingstinger's ear. There would, however, be just enough trace molecular residue to establish that an or­ganic body, probably humanoid, had been vaporized along with the ship.

  No one would be particularly surprised, either. While the rules of war forbade one side attacking the other's orbiting medical frigate, no such injunction held against the invaded side defending itself.

  As he stripped off the robe and thinskins to change back into a spare uniform, left there earlier for that pur­pose, Bleyd went over it yet again. He was no fugue master, but he was adept enough at dissembling to pull this off. When Black Sun came to call, as eventually they would, and when they asked him what had become of Mathal, as eventually they would, he did not doubt that he would be able to pass a truth-scan, if he worded his reply carefully enough.

  Mathal? He left here in his ship, but for some reason he flew into Separatist space. They shot him down. Most regrettable, but this is, after all, a war zone, and Mathal did not have the proper clearances .. .

  Which was all technically true.

  There would be records in the ship's systems to show just that. Controller's logs, sensor logs, maybe even an eyewitness or three who saw the ship fly past, obviously

  piloted by an idiot, given how close he had been to the hull.. .

  And nothing to show anything else.

  Of course, it was a temporary stopgap at best. Sooner or later, Black Sun would wish to reinstigate its de­mands, but by then Bleyd would have another plan in place. Perhaps he could use Filba to buy more time. In any event, he would continue to smuggle the bota and add to his fortune ...

  16

  Barriss would not have sought out a confrontation with Phow Ji—Jedi were trained to deal with conflict, not to go looking for it when there was no compelling reason to do so. What she had seen of Ji's action in the field had been reprehensible, in her opinion, but her mission was not that of military security. It was not her job to demand restitution for the mercenaries' deaths.

  But the next morning, as she had gone out into the dawn's relatively cool light to do some stretching exer­cises, the Bunduki fighter had swaggered into view and stopped to watch.

  "Up early, eh, Jedi?" There seemed always to be a sneer in his voice. She didn't bother to reply to the obvi­ous comment, but instead continued her exercises.

  "You don't look to be in bad shape," he commented. "Good to see that you don't rely entirely on your 'magic'"

  There was still no reason to engage in conversation, as far as Barriss was concerned. She was sitting on the damp ground, her legs extended to either side in a full split. She leaned over first one knee, pressing her cheek against her outer thigh, then did the same for the other side, feeling her hamstrings and back muscles warm with the effort.

  "I wasn't aware that the Jedi took vows of stillness," he said. His voice was clipped, now, and there was an edge of steel underlying it.

  She stood and extended her hands straight over her head. "We don't," she said, bending to put her hands flat on the ground, keeping her legs straight. "We talk when we have something to say—not simply to hear our own voices."

  "You're angry. I thought Jedi kept their emotions un­der control." Ji smiled. "Something I said?" His tone was taunting.

  Barriss raised herself from the front bend, brushed a strand of sweat-soaked hair back, and turned to look directly at him. "No. Something you did. You murdered three mercenaries."

  If that surprised Ji, his face didn't show it. He gave her a small, bland smile. "And what makes you think so?"

  "Someone recovered a crippled cam droid. It was all recorded."

  "Really? I'd like to see that."

  She could hear the interest in his comment; she did not need to use the Force to know the truth of it.

  "Taking trophies wasn't enough?"

  Ji made a gesture probably intended to be self-deprecating. "Well, I can only see things from my own viewpoint. A holorecording from other angles would be useful in self-critiquing my moves. Besides, I have a wall full of trophies. But a holo? That would be a first."

  Barriss shook her head. "It doesn't bother you at all, does it?"

  "What?"

  He was baiting her, that she knew. Be ever mindful of the living Force—that had been the advice of Qui-Gon Jinn. She had been quite young when the Jedi Master

  had died in the Battle of Naboo, but she still remem­bered hearing that—one of the first bits of Jedi wisdom imparted to her. Rise above this, she told herself. But she could not help answering him.

  "That you beat three people to death."

  He looked surprised. "Is that how you see it?"

  "Is there another way to see it?"

  Ji smiled and spread his hands in a gesture of inno­cence. "I was unarmed, one against three, on a battle­field in a war, my dear Padawan. I was but utilizing the skills that I am paid to utilize. I'm a soldier. It is not considered murder to kill the enemy."

  Barriss had stopped stretching; now she stood, arms folded against her chest, looking at the Bunduki master. "You're an expert fighter, and your hands and feet are as much weapons as a vibroblade or a stun baton," she told him. "Those men had no more chance than they would have had you used a blaster on them. Pretending otherwise is disingenuous."

  "Are you calling me a liar, Jedi?"

  There was no mistaking the danger in his tone now. This is exactly what he wants you to do. Ignore him. Turn away.

  She faced him squarely. "Yes."

  He smiled again, a cruel, triumphant smile. "Such an accusation presupposes
the willingness to back it up. Would you care to demonstrate the efficacy of your mystical Force against my expertise?"

  With the greatest of difficulty Barriss held her anger in check and kept her mouth shut. She conjured up be­fore her mind's eye the disapproving visage of Master Unduli. It helped, a little. She had known when she'd first spoken that this was the road down which she'd

  started, had known it was the wrong path for her. And yet, here she was . ..

  After a moment, he laughed. "That's what I thought. I beat one of your Jedi Knights in a hand-to-hand match, and it wouldn't really be fair for me to pick on a lowly Padawan, now would it? Enjoy your exercise, Jedi."

  He turned contemptuously and started to walk away.

  Barriss couldn't stop herself. She raised her hand, concentrated, and closed her open fingers into a fist.

  As Ji took another step, time seemed to slow for Barriss. Ji's left foot came forward, and as it approached his right, his boot twisted inward, no more than a few degrees— just enough to catch the heel of his forward boot.

  He tripped.

  A man of lesser skill would have fallen flat on his face upon the wet ground. And, despite her knowledge that it was wrong, Barriss would have enjoyed that sight.

  But even as he fell, Ji tucked into an ovoid shape, one arm curving, hand turned inward slightly, so that his motion looked like a deliberate action: he dived, rolled on his arm, shoulder, and back, coming up and turning slightly, a neat gymnastic move that left him standing in balance and facing her.

  "Careful," she said. "The ground is slippery from the heavy dew."

  He stood there for a moment, glaring. The sense of menace hung heavy in the air, the currents of it swirling about in the Force like a dark whirlwind. But even as angry as he was, he maintained control.

  He turned away.

  Once he was gone, Barriss shook her head at her ac­tion. What had she been thinking? One did not use the

  Force for such childish, trivial things. It was wrong to take such petty action, even against a villain such as Phow Ji. Yes, it could have been an appropriate demon­stration, designed to teach, to show that the Force was valid, but she knew this had not been the case. It had been a personal response, driven by anger, and she had known better from the beginning. Great power had to be wielded with great care, and taking an obnoxious character down a level because you thought he deserved it was simply not sufficient justification. It was chasing a fire gnat with a turbolaser. Her Master would have been extremely displeased.

  She was never going to become a Jedi Knight by be­having thusly.

  Barriss sighed and went back to her stretches. Her road was hard enough already. Why did she keep strew­ing boulders in her own path?

  17

  Den Dhur had seen a number of odd sights in his years on interstellar assignments. To the best of his memory, however, he had never seen a droid sitting alone in a cantina.

  When he walked in out of the syrupy heat of midday, it took his eyes several moments to adjust, even with the droptacs' aid. As his vision cleared, he saw that the bar was mostly deserted. Leemoth, the Duros amphibian specialist, was seated in a far corner nursing a mug of Fromish ale, two clone sergeants sat at the bar, and at one of the nearer tables was the new protocol droid, I-Five.

  There's something you don't see every day, Den thought. First off, droids rarely sat at all. Most of the more humanoid models were capable of the posture, but since they never got tired, there was no real reason for it. But I-Five was sitting there, albeit somewhat stiffly. His photoreceptors were trained at the plasticast tabletop. Even though there was no expression in the metal mask of a face, Den got a distinct feeling of melancholy from the droid.

  On impulse, he pulled up a chair, sat down across from I-Five, and raised a by-now-well-practiced finger to the cantina's tender. "We don't see too many droids in here," he said to his companion.

  "At these prices, I'm not surprised."

  Den's eyebrows went up. This was something un­usual—a droid with a sense of humor. The tender brought the reporter his drink—Johrian whiskey. Den sipped it, watching I-Five with interest.

  "I heard you were helping Padawan Offee earlier in the OT."

  "True. It was—quite an experience."

  Den took another sip. "If you don't mind my saying, you seem rather—unusual for a droid. How did you come to be assigned here?"

  At first it seemed that the droid was not going to re­ply. Then he said, " 'I am cast upon the winds of space and time, like a planetesimal spun eternally between suns.'"

  Now Den was shocked. "Kai Konnik," he said. "Beach of Stars. Winner of the Galaxis Award for best novel last year, if I'm not—"

  "Two years ago," I-Five corrected him.

  Den stared at him. "You have an impressive knowl­edge of literature for a droid."

  "Not really. My memory banks are programmed with more than two hundred thousand novels, holo­plays, poems, and—"

  "I wasn't talking about memory," Den said. "Most protocol droids have the capacity to store that much in­formation. And most droids, if asked to quote from a particular work, can access it as easily as you just did. But," he continued, leaning forward, "I've never met any kind of droid yet who could use the material meta­phorically. Which is what you were doing."

  Silence for another moment; then the droid emitted something that sounded remarkably like a human sigh.

  "At times I wish I were a carbon-based being," he said. "The concept of intoxication is attractive."

  "It has its advantages," Den agreed as he took an­other drink. "You going to tell me why you're in here?"

  Again, I-Five seemed disinclined to speak at first. Then he said, "Nostalgia."

  Den waited. He'd come into the cantina to see if he could dig up any more dirt on Filba, but so far this was more interesting. If I-Five hadn't been a droid, Den would have plied him with drinks to loosen his tongue. It seemed, however, that little loosening would be needed. The droid obviously wanted to unburden him­self to someone.

  "I used to spend a fair amount of time in establish­ments much like this one," I-Five continued. "Places like the Green Glowstone Tavern and the Dewback Inn, in the Zi-Kree sector on—"

  "Coruscant," Den finished. "I know them both well. Nasty part of town; they call it the Crimson Corridor." He finished his drink and signaled for another. "I found a lot of good leads to stories there." He looked at I-Five in silence for a moment. "Most watering holes don't like droids; some old superstition, I believe. I'm surprised your master got away with bringing you in with him."

  "Lorn Pavan wasn't my master," the droid said. "He was my friend."

  The muscles in Den's forehead were starting to get sore from their strenuous workout. "Your friend?"

  "We were 'business associates.' We traded under­world information, ran sabacc numbers, brokered the occasional minor government intel—that sort of thing. Not exactly the thrilling life one sees in the holodramas, but it did offer an occasional frisson or two."

  "Colorful," Den commented. When the droid did not continue, he said, "Well, you're a long way from the big city now, as I'm sure you've noticed. Why are—?"

  He broke off, noticing I-Five's sudden shifting of at­tention from him to a group of surgeons who had just entered. Among them was Zan Yant, who carried his quetarra. Den assumed there would be music later on, after the cantina filled up a little more; that was the usual way of it. He didn't mind; he liked Yant's musical choices, for the most part, although the Talusian's homeworld compositions sounded to him like two sand cats in a sack.

  The droid, however, seemed a bit—nervous. I'd swear he somehow shows expressions with that metal mug of his, Den thought. The concept was surprising, but no more so than the idea of a droid having the emotions necessary to produce those expressions.

  Den's second drink was set down before him, and he lifted it thoughtfully. "So, what motivated you to pack up and leave such a rewarding existence?"

  I-Five said,
"I have no idea. Lorn and I were being pursued by ..." He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "... an assassin."

  "A Zabrak," Den said casually. He watched the droid's face carefully this time. His photoreceptors didn't get bigger, but they did get brighter, which some­how conveyed surprise just as well. That's it, he thought. The eyes are the most expressive organs in most humanoid faces. You can read a world of meaning into their slightest movement. Somehow, I-Five gets much the same results by varying the intensity and an­gle of those optical sensors of his.

  He was so intent on figuring out how the droid showed expression that he almost missed I-Five's reply. "Do I rummage around in your data banks without permission?"

  "Sorry; reporter's instincts. It was obvious that some­thing bothered you about seeing Yant come in, and since I'm assuming you're not a music hater—"

  "Congratulations. The assassin was an Iridonian Zabrak. Quite deadly; a martial arts master skilled enough to make Phow Ji look like a drunken Jawa. He had .. . other skills as well."

  Den nodded. "I see. Yant's from Talus, if that makes any difference."

  I-Five didn't reply to that. "This assassin stole an item of value from us and fled Coruscant, into orbit. Lorn and I were about to go after him, and then—the next thing I knew, I was serving on a spice-smuggling freighter."

  "Any theories?"

  "I think Lorn deactivated me to keep me out of dan­ger. By then this had turned into something very per­sonal for him, you see. Someone he cared for greatly had sacrificed herself to save us, and—"

  "Sounds like a great story," Den said. "Wish I'd been around to write it up."

  "Trust me—you don't. This assassin was—" I-Five hesitated, then shook his head—another disturbingly human action.

  "Black Sun?"

  "Worse. Far worse. Besides," he said softly, "what's a story without an ending?"