"Always a pleasure doing business with a professional," Kaird said. He stood. "We won't speak again while I am here. Perhaps someday we will meet in another time and place, Lens. Until then, live well."
Lens nodded. "Fly free, fly straight, Brother of the Air."
That surprised the Nediji, as Lens knew it would. He raised a feathery eyebrow. "You know the Nest Blessing. I'm impressed."
Lens gave him a slow, military nod, a small bow. "Knowledge is power."
"Indeed it is."
After he was gone, Lens sat for a moment, thinking. Why Bleyd had claimed Filba's death as his doing was, as Kaird had said, interesting, but the Nediji would sort that out, and Lens need not worry over it. The admiral's fate was of no real concern. Lens had much bigger quarry to bring down. What, after all, did a single admiral matter when you were after the entire Republic?
29
As Barriss entered the main medical facility to make her rounds, she noticed that the droid on duty was the same one that had aided her during triage—the same droid that had been in the sabacc game a few nights ago. I-Five. The droid with which Jos had discussed the essentials of being human.
She watched him for a moment. He was changing the bacta fluid in a tank. He moved with the economical precision of a droid, and yet, something was subtly different. She'd noticed the same thing about his face—it seemed almost capable of expression at times. Curious, she reached out to him with the Force. Ethereal tendrils, unseen and insubstantial, but no less effective for that, enveloped the droid's form, seeking knowledge and relaying it back to her. There was no sensory analog to describe how she received and processed the Force's data—those who were not sensitive to it could no more comprehend it than one blind from birth could comprehend sight. But to Barriss it spoke loud and clear.
Initially there seemed to be nothing unusual about I-Five. She could sense the almost undetectable susurrus of countless quarks and bosuns shifting spin and polarity, providing the synaptic grid with nearly unlimited potential connections. She could feel the hum of circuitry,
the smooth pulse of hydraulic fluid, and the restrained power of the servos. The droid was well made, even though some of his parts were old.
But there did seem to be something else . .. something too subtle even to be called an aura. The merest hint that somehow, in a way unexplainable by scientific methods, the sum of I-Five was greater than his parts.
"May I be of assistance, Padawan Offee?"
He had asked the question without turning around. He had sensed her somehow; the most probable way was with his olfactory sensor, which was many times more sensitive than most organics'. He had smelled her.
"Merely here to make my rounds," she said, stepping forward. "Some patients whom I have been able to help."
I-Five turned to face her. "With the Force."
"Yes."
"I knew a Padawan, a female human approximately your age, on Coruscant. Her name was Darsha Assant." He seemed disturbed by this recounting.
Barriss nodded. "I've heard of her. Obi-Wan Kenobi says she died bravely, battling an unknown foe."
I-Five was silent for a moment. "Bravery," he said at last. "Yes. She was very brave. You humans are known for your courage throughout the galaxy. Even the most warlike of species respect it. Did you know that?"
"I hadn't really given it that much thought. There are a great many species who are as brave or braver than humans, I should imagine."
"Yes. But there is a crucial difference between your kind and a Sakiyan, say, or a Trandoshan, or a Nikto. They are fearless, but not necessarily brave. Fearlessness is encoded in their genes. There are two ways that life ensures survival of the fittest—by producing war-
rior types fierce enough to conquer all in their path, or by creating life-forms that have the sense to run away. Those capable of both are rare. You humans have a choice—fight or flight. Yet so many times you choose to fight—and so often for the strangest reasons." I-Five raised both hands, palms up, in a very human shrug. "It's fascinating, at times baffling, and often infuriating. Humans never cease to amaze me."
As they spoke, Barriss took her lightpad from the rack and started walking down the rows of beds, checking the overhead monitor stats against the glowing figures appearing on the pad as she entered each bed's information field. The droid walked alongside her.
"You and Jos were talking about what it is to be human during the game," she said. "Do you consider yourself brave, I-Five?"
"Somehow I doubt that anyone who is really brave considers himself brave. I don't believe Padawan Assant did."
They walked down the narrow aisle between the two rows of beds. Nearly all of them were occupied by clone troopers; the same face multiplied over and over. Only the injuries were different.
I-Five said, "I've been told that the troops have also been genetically modified to feel little or no fear on the battlefield. One can't help but wonder—does eliding the 'fear gene' make them less human?"
Barriss did not answer; she was suddenly occupied with watching the last piece of a puzzle fall into place. She knew that Jos had been wrestling with some sort of existential conundrum for the past few days, and, with the surety of those connected to the Force, she suddenly knew that this was it. Jos, like most people—even some Jedi—had compartmentalized those around him into
comfortable slots—comfortable for him, anyway. For him, clones had been dumped into the same category as droids—the only difference being that they were made of flesh and bone instead of durasteel and electronics. It had been convenient to view them with such detachment; it made it easier to accept it when he was unable to save one on the table, though he still took it pretty hard. He was not the sort to be callous or indifferent to any life, even that of someone most considered an organic automaton.
But then, along comes I-Five, a fully cognizant machine, or at least extremely close, and suddenly life isn't so easily dealt with. If Jos couldn't mentally segregate a droid into something less than human, then he certainly couldn't fit clones into that category.
No wonder he'd seemed shaken up lately. His view of life had been wrenched.
A hand with a vibroscalpel needed to be steady. She should speak to him. Or at least make sure he spoke to the minder.
And yet—what words of wisdom could she offer to quiet his turmoil? Was she so certain of life in all its manifestations that she could offer a real solution to his problem? Wiser heads than hers had failed to come up with a sustainable philosophy of everything that made the galaxy a neatly packaged place. Who are we? Where do we come from? What does it all mean? She had the Force, a constant upon which she had been able to rely since she could remember, and her knowledge of it had grown stronger over the years. Like the microwave hum of the universe, the Force was always with her. She had a certainty. Those who were unable to feel the comfort of the Force—what did they have?
What could she say to a man who had questions for
which there were no simple answers? And even if he could feel the Force, what did it say about the life of a droid or a clone, or, for that matter, anyone else? The Force was not an instrument of any but the most basic of ethics and morality. There was the light side and the dark side, and those were the choices the Force offered. Education as to the true nature of sentient life? That must come from elsewhere.
Still.. . she was a healer. She could, at times, ease the fury of mental storms. At the very least, a calm mind was a better tool for dealing with such issues. She couldn't answer Jos's questions, but perhaps she could help him find a quiet place in which he could find his own answers. That much she was willing—and happy— to do.
30
The spy was known by two aliases—Lens to Black Sun and Column to the Separatists. It was the latter identity that sat and frowned at the odd-looking squiggle on the computer's holoproj. To the uninitiated, the little mark might seem nothing more than a flaw in the projector's image resolver. To those i
n the know, the glitch meant something else entirely.
The spymaster on Drongar had sent yet another of a series of all-too-frequent communications. It was irritating. Of the dozens of coded messages that had been sent, none had yet offered anything of substance. The messages were trivial intelligence, along the lines of "Keep an eye on the bota" . .. useless in general, and a particular waste of time to a field agent in Column's circumstance. It took hours to decode the blasted things, which were Feraleechi onetime loops. In a dull, repetitive, manual process a cipher was partially decoded, using a keyword in the early-morning holonews. This gave a series of numbers that were then keyed to a particular textbook available on the library 'cast, always something so boring that reading it aloud could stop a full-scale cantina riot dead—Aridian Procedures for Development of Agricultural Fertilizer on Lythos Nine or some such mindless twaddle. Then it had to be
translated from Basic into Symbian, a language dead, but unfortunately not buried, for thirty thousand years, and every sixth word transposed. The end of all this labor was usually a message along the lines of, "How's it going?"
The spymaster must not have much to do, and must be paranoid in the extreme to boot.
Which, Column thought, teetered on the edge of silly. Even if somebody managed to intercept one of the messages—unlikely—and even if they were the best slicer in the galaxy and somehow broke the cipher—unlikelier still—learning the number of cases of Phibian beer delivered to the military canteen at Prime Base last month would hardly be worth the effort.
Column sighed. It was how the Separatists chose to do things, and no there was no help for it. It would have to be done, but not right now. Later.
Much later ...
Jos moved through the medical section, on his way to see a postop patient who had recently developed a nosocomial infection. The patient was a human male officer, not a clone, and one upon whom both he and Zan had worked for several hours to replace a shrapnel-riddled heart. They had been lucky; five minutes more and they would have lost the man. After such a brilliant surgical triumph, losing him to some waste-hopper secondary bug was simply unacceptable. Even though the Rimsoo was state-of-the-art in sterile procedure and environment, nosocomial infections—contagions picked up while one was hospitalized—still happened now and then. This particular one had been very stubborn, not responding to the usual broad-spectrum antibiotics, and so far they had been unable to culture out and identify it.
The prognosis was dire. Unless they could ID the cause, the officer wasn't going to survive.
When Jos arrived at the isolation chamber, he saw that Zan was already inside the airflow "walls" and sterile zap field that kept pathogens from entering or escaping. Next to the bed, just outside the field, stood a hooded figure, one of The Silent.
Jos had never put much credence in the mute sibling-hood's supposed efficacy in aiding patients' recovery rates, but at this point he was not one to turn down anything that might help. And, whether it was some kind of placebo effect, spontaneous healing or remission, or something completely outside Jos's medical experience, the fact was that a Silent's presence at or near a patient's side seemed to speed recuperation. So he nodded at the figure, whose face was hidden in the cowl, as he passed. The Silent nodded back.
Jos stepped into the field, which crackled slightly. Zan started, as if somebody had poked a finger into his back. He looked around, saw Jos, and relaxed. "Oh, it's you."
"Nice to see you, too." Jos noticed that Zan was holding an empty skinpopper.
"Sorry. Just a little on edge."
"I can't imagine why. These days everybody's adrenals are stuck on full throttle." Jos looked down at the unconscious form in the bed. "How's our latest poster boy for the horrors of war doing?"
The patient, one N'do Maetrecis, a major in the army, looked somewhat better than the last time Jos had seen him. His skin had been pale and anhidrotic, but now it was taking on a normal, healthy glow. The flatscreen chart hung on the bed's foot, and Jos picked it
up and scanned the stats. Blood pressure normal, heart rate normal, white cell blood count...
Hello? Look at this. The elevated white count that indicated the infection was way down. And the differentials—the spread and proportion of specialized white cells, segs, polys, eos, and so forth—were all within normal limits.
The patient had turned around.
"Well, well," Jos said. "Looks like somebody has the healing hands of a Jedi. Or the fingers, at least."
The skin around Zan's horns mottled a bit—the Zabrakian equivalent of a human's blush. He dropped the empty skinpopper into the pocket of his one-piece.
Jos frowned. "You develop a sudden sentimental attachment to instruments? Going to have it anodized and put it on the mantel?"
"Excuse me?"
"Since when do empty poppers not go into the trash?" Jos waved at the waste hopper next to the bed.
"Oh. Sorry—guess my brain's gone on leave." Zan pulled the skinpopper out and tossed it into the bin.
As it arced past him, Jos got a good look at the pneumatic injector. The clear plastoid cover was just that— clear. Blank. No identification denoting what kind of medication it had held. No batch number, either. Nothing.
That simply wasn't done.
The patient, who was now awake, mumbled that he was indeed feeling much better. Jos made polite doctor noises, automatically checked the man's vitals, then raised an eyebrow at Zan. "Doctor Yant, if I might speak with you in private?"
Outside the building, Jos steered Zan into a patch of
shade and relative coolness. "All right. What's going on here?"
"Going on? What are you talking about?" Zan didn't meet Jos's eyes.
"I'm talking about a patient who comes out of a life-threatening secondary infection so fast he leaves ion burns on his chart. I'm also talking about treatment with unmarked skinpoppers."
Zan hesitated for a moment, then sighed in resignation.
In that short pause, Jos suddenly knew what had transpired. "You didn't," he said.
Zan said, "I did."
"Zan, have you got an ingrown horn or something? You know what the risks are. If they catch you, you'll be court-martialed!"
"If you see a fellow sentient drowning and there's a rope lying right next to your foot, are you going to worry about being accused of stealing the rope?"
"If there's a good chance they'll hang me with it, yeah. This is not the same thing."
"It isn't? We're on a planet with the biggest supply of a flat-out miracle drug in the galaxy—you can walk to a huge field of it in five minutes. We tried everything else on this guy, Jos—macromolecular regeneration, nanocell implants, maser cauterization—nothing worked. The man was dying. You've read the SGJ literature touting bota—an adaptogen that can cure everything but a rainy day in most humanoid phenotypes. We've had patients who died from infections we could probably have cured with one scale of it." Zan raised his hands, a gesture of inevitability. "I couldn't just watch him die. Not when there was the slightest chance ..."
Jos opened his mouth, but said nothing. What was
there to say? Bota was valuable—so much so that the Republic deemed theft of it a crime to be severely punished. The plant was, ultimately, why both they and the Separatists were on Drongar. And, ironically, the local Rimsoos were forbidden to use it because of its potential offworld value.
Before Jos could speak again, Zan said, "Nobody will miss a few plants. There are little pockets of bota all over the lowlands that nobody even knows about. Pluck a couple of scales, stick them in your pocket, hand-process them later ... who's to know?"
"Zan—"
"Come on, Jos, you know a lot of the xenos around here sneak out and harvest the stuff for recreational use. Filba used to bliss out with a hookah full of it most every night. Everybody knows what it can do for them, and everybody looks the other way, as long as no one gets greedy. At least I'm using it to save live
s—which is what the Republic says it's doing, too. Is the life of someone a hundred parsecs from here more valuable than one in the next room? Can I stand by and let people die without doing everything in my power to save them?"
"You didn't start this war, Zan. You're not responsible for everybody who gets hurt in it."
"Oh, that's good. This from the guy who once kicked a hole in a wall when he lost a patient to Draknahr Syndrome—something that all of Coruscant Med and a room full of Jedi and Silents couldn't treat."
At a total loss for words, Jos looked at his friend, and saw nothing in front of him but a doctor who took his job as seriously as he himself did. He sighed. "Okay. But you've got to be more careful—there are a lot sharper eyes than mine around here who could notice a blank skinpopper."
"Point made. I'll make sure they're marked from now on," Zan said. "I can even use dye to color the serum so it looks like polybiotic or spectacillin. Nobody will notice, Jos."
"I hope not," Jos said. " 'Cause if someone does, your career could be smashed flatter than a mynock in a black hole."
Zan grinned and clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder, and the two turned and reentered the building.
31
Den Dhur was not a being to sit idle for long. Despite his facade of being supremely bored and cynical, of doing his job solely because it paid his drink tab, the thing in which he took the most pleasure in his life was his work. Even with the admiral hunting him, he could not simply camp in his quarters—in fact, he couldn't do that precisely because the admiral was hunting him. The first question to answer during an investigation, an old police officer had once told him, is: what looks different now than it did before? Any change in the behavior of a criminal suspect was cause for suspicion. If a bank is robbed and the guard on duty at the time suddenly decides to take an unscheduled vacation or begins driving a new and expensive speeder to work ... well, unless his rich uncle just passed away suddenly and left him a bundle of credits, or a winning ticket in the daux-cat races, he's going to have company, to be sure. Company in uniform, carrying sonic pistols and stun batons.
Star Wars - MedStar 01 - Battle Surgeons Page 19