became. Why waste it at the source on clone troopers? After all, it wasn't
like they were going to run out of them anytime soon , . .
A number of the physicians here were petitioning to get the
interdiction reversed. And a few, Kaird had heard, simply ignored the law
and found ways to treat their patients with it anyway. As an individual and
a warrior, Kaird applauded their courage and dedication. As a member of
Black Sun, however, he might have to do something about it if and when the
ordinance was changed.
Up until recently, the crime cartel had been able to obtain fair
amounts of carbonite-encased bota, which could be smuggled without detection
or damage, from a pair of black marketeers in the local Republic forces.
Alas, both of these suppliers were no longer among the living-one appeared
to have deleted the other, and Kaird himself had killed the survivor. Thus,
Black Sun needed another local contact, and until he developed one, the
vigos had decreed that he would remain here.
Black Sun did have a contact onplanet-in this very Rimsoo, in fact-but
unfortunately, it couldn't utilize this op, who was a double agent, working
also for Count Dooku's breakaway factions. The spy would not risk discovery
by becoming active as a procurer, and Kaird could understand that.
Furthermore, Lens's current task of leaking information about both sides to
the criminal organization was far too valuable to them.
He shifted uncomfortably, feeling the robes sticking to his skin. The
air coolers on the base operated only sporadically, and the osmotic fields
kept some, but not all, of the heat and humidity at bay. Drongar's
pestilential environment was completely unlike the clean, thin air in which
the avian Nediji had evolved. Their wings were long gone, their soft,
feathery hair but a pale shadow of the plumage sported by their distant
ancestors, but the Nediji still preferred the cool heights, the crags of
mountains drifted deep with snow, to the lowlands. Ah, if he could but be
there now . . . Kaird smiled to himself, his expression hidden inside the
cowl. Might as well wish for a creche of females and a hillside full of
rath-scurriers, the Nediji's traditional prey, while he was at it. And maybe
a little vintage thwill-wine to complement the hedonistic fantasy.
The smile became a frown as he watched Padawan Of-fee moving the palms
of her hands slowly over the clone's bare chest. He wondered if this Jedi
might be potential trouble. Her presence on this world struck him as very
odd. To be sure, she was a healer, but the Jedi were spread very thin these
days. It seemed a waste to send one here, even if that one was a Padawan
still not fully fledged. As a Black Sun operative, Kaird suspected everybody
and everything he could not immediately explain. There were old ops and
there were careless ops in his position, but no old and careless ops. One
stayed alive by constant vigilance, by always being one swoop ahead of a
potential enemy.
This woman wasn't a danger to him directly, even though her connection
to the Force granted her considerable mind-probing abilities. His
thoughtshield techniques were far above average, however-his training had
been the finest his vigo could afford. A mere Padawan, even a healer, would
sense nothing about him that he did not allow to be sensed. Still, it was
worrisome. Whomever he wound up installing as the supply agent would need to
be able to avoid giving her- or himself away with an errant thought or
feeling. It would not do to have the Jedi woman nose out the new agent-then
Black Sun would have to start all over again, and that would be ...
troublesome.
Perhaps he should kill her. He allowed it some thought. It would be
easy enough, and the immediate worry would be assuaged. Perhaps . . . ?
No. Few things were certain in this galaxy, but one of them was: kill a
Jedi somewhere, anywhere, and other Jedi always came to investigate. He
could take out this Padawan easily, but the next one might be a Jedi Knight
or even a Master, and thus more trouble to deal with. Better the d'javl you
knew than the d'javl you didn't, as the old saying went.
The Padawan finished her healing ritual. The trooper's eyelids
flickered. Through the cowl's mesh, Kaird could see the man's chest rising
and falling regularly and gently, I and his eyes moving beneath their lids
in healing, dream- I filled sleep. Whatever she had done, it had been
effective. As she passed him, she nodded-a gesture of respect I and
gratitude from one healer to another. Kaird nodded back, keeping his
thoughts blank until he judged that she had left the building. Then he
smiled.
For now, he decided, it made the most sense for him to concentrate his
energy on rinding and developing a new partner for Black Sun. Then, once the
flow of bota began anew, he could deal with whatever other problems might
arise. Black Sun was, after all, nothing if not adaptable.
4
Being a spy in an enemy encampment was not easy. There was nothing
particularly original or surprising in this observation-the truth seldom has
those attributes. But that didn't make it any less difficult. To work
undercover in an enemy military base, one had to have more eyes than a Gran
and be as vigilant as a male H'nemthe. One had to be ever mindful of the
fact that a spy was an outsider, an interloper; one could never relax one's
guard, even for a second.
Not that anyone had reason to suspect the spy-less so, now that the
Hutt and the former admiral had been shown to be something other than they
had appeared, not to mention both of them dying. But this was war, and spies
were summarily executed when caught. And they were caught-many of them-in
places far less likely than a Rimsoo on some lonely planet way out on the
tail end of the galaxy.
Complicating matters further was the fact that there had been deaths.
Deaths for which the spy, who served two masters under two aliases-Column to
Count Dooku's Separatist forces and Lens to Black Sun-had been at least
partly responsible. Did it matter to the dead that the one known as Column
or Lens was responsible? No. Did it matter to one of the two sub rosa
personas if the other was found out and executed? That was worth a rueful
smile.
Column-the first sobriquet was the one with which the spy tended to
identify, having been recruited by the Separatists before Black Sun-liked
many of these people. The recent death of one of the doctors had been
surprisingly painful, though it was not the result of an undercover
operation. Column had thought often about the perils of living submerged
amid the enemy. Even if one dwelled among a tribe of murderers, one could
develop certain attachments to some of them. And none of the doctors and
nurses and staff here were killers-they were healers, all, and if an enemy
fell and was brought before them, they tended to the wounded with the same
skill and dedication as one of their own. It was their duty to save lives,
not to judge them.
That made it hard, too, when, as either Column or
Lens, the spy had to
offer them harm, as had sometimes become necessary. It was true that the
long-anticipated end would come from righteous justification-still painful
after decades-but sometimes the goal seemed impossibly far off, hidden in a
fog as thick as the vapors that wafted from the endless swamps, and the
little details of day-to-day life-as well as friendships, concerns,
alliances-tended to get in the way.
Column sighed. One could not build wooden houses without chopping down
trees, but that didn't make it any more pleasant when a giant bluewood fell
on those who considered one a friend and colleague. Yet there was no
avoiding it-as painful as it was sometimes, it was duty, and it had to be
done. There was no help for that part of it. None.
Column stood before the window of the cubicle, looking out at the base.
Rimsoo Seven had been mostly rebuilt by now; the move from the lowlands to
the highlands had been accomplished with relatively few problems. The admin
center, supply buildings, and, most importantly, the medical and surgical
structures had been put up by the construction droids in less than two of
the local day cycles, a Drongarian day being just over twenty-three standard
hours. The cantina and the chow hall had been completed before nightfall of
the third day. On the surface, at least, things seemed to be back to normal.
But not without cost.
The move, made under heavy Separatist fire, had incurred the loss of
three patients-all from trauma associated with relocation-the wounding of
fifteen, and the death of one doctor: Zan Yant.
A great pity, that. Yant had been not only an excellent doctor, but
also a superlative musician, at times holding the entire base spellbound
through the magic of his que-tarra. He could make that instrument sing,
truly; melodies so hauntingly beautiful that they seemed capable of calling
dying troopers back from the threshold of eternity.
But there were no compositions, no fugues, no rhapsodies, that could
call Zan Yant back.
Column turned away from the window, toward the desk that took up most
of one wall. The Separatists were waiting to hear the latest, and it was
necessary to work up one of the complex coded messages and send it to
Dooku's forces. The process was unwieldy and complicated: once the
cumbersome code had been used to encrypt the message, the security protocol
required transmitting it via sublight waves through a hyperspace wormhole
connection rather than the usual subspatial carrier pulse. A complex and
boring exercise, all in all, but necessary-failure to decode such messages
in a timely matter might be fatal. The warning of the attack that had killed
Dr. Yant had been carried in just such a message, and, had Column decoded it
quicker, Yam's life might have been prolonged for a short while longer. That
was a lesson to remember. However laborious and time-consuming the process
might be, Column needed Dooku's resources and help to defeat the Republic,
and some things had to be suffered for that. Best get to it, then. It wasn't
going to get any easier...
Den had to hand it to Klo Merit-the Equani therapist had not so much as
twitched a whisker in surprise when the reporter had shown up in place of
Jos Vondar. In fact, of the two, the counselor was probably much more
comfortable with the situation than was Den, this being the first time he
had ever so much as set foot inside a minder's office.
It had been a last-minute decision, he told Merit nervously. He didn't
feel that he needed to unburden his troubles, not on the Equani's broad
shoulders or on anyone else's-at least, not until a few high-octane Bantha
Blasters had loosened his frontal lobes enough to set him talking. Den was
firmly of the opinion that pubtenders made the best therapists, and he told
Merit so.
Merit nodded and said, "Sometimes they do. Believe it or not, some of
my best sessions-impromptu, but memorable nonetheless-have taken place in
similar circumstances. And, by the way, I usually frown on patient
substitutions, particularly last-minute ones. But I'm letting that slide
this time." He leaned forward. "So-what brings Den Dhur to my inner
sanctum?"
Den chewed his bulbous lower lip. Blast, but this was a lot harder than
it had looked to be. He'd never thought he'd be this uncomfortable just
talking . . .
"Jos said I should take his time," he said finally. "He's up to his
hairline in wounded troops currently."
Merit made no response to this at first. Then he leaned back and said,
"And . . . ?"
Den could already tell this was going to be no fun at all. "Uh, well...
he said I needed it more than him."
Merit looked slightly surprised. "Did he? Well, it being against the
tenets of rny profession to reveal anything about a patient's private
sessions, I'll just say that that's a surprising statement, coming from
Doctor Vondar."
"I know," Den said, relieved at being able to discuss Jos's woes
instead of his own, if only for a moment. "Doctor Yant's death really hit
him hard. I mean, he deals with death all the time in the OT, but this is
different-Zan was his friend. And it was pointless. So pointless ... but
what death in a war isn't?"
Merit nodded. Den realized he was feeling much more relaxed
already-maybe it had something to do with the Equani's empathic abilities.
Whatever it was, it made the minder very easy to talk to. On the whole,
however, Den still preferred alcohol.
"And how did his death hit you?" Merit asked.
"Hard," Den admitted, "but not as hard as it hit Jos. I don't think it
hit anyone as hard as it hit Jos. I mean, I really didn't know Zan all that
well . . . he'd show up for the sabacc games, and he played a mean quetarra,
but.. ."
Merit leaned back in his chair. "But it's not his death you want to
talk about, is it?"
Den stared at the minder in surprise. "Oh, you're good," he said.
"You're very good."
"That's why I make the big credits."
Den squirmed in the formchair, despite how comfortable it was. "Well,
it's just that-recently I came across some more intel about the men that
Phow Ji killed-you remember, he died in his one-man assault."
Merit didn't move, but something about him warmly invited the reporter
to continue. "The twirl pundits managed ro sell him as a hero-no one wanted
to touch my story with a ten-meter force pike. Ji was a killer, cold as
vacuum, when he was alive. Now he's a milking hero. "Thing is, he just might
really be one." "How do you mean?"
Den fluttered his dewflaps. "He took out a whole contingent of
Salissian meres and a super battle droid. Never seen anything like it.
Padawan Offee said he just went berserk-killing mindlessly. But he knew he
was going to do it-he had himself holoed, and sent the 'cron to me.
"And, according to my source, he didn't pick those meres at random.
They were an elite combat team on a training mission, sent here because of
the extreme conditions. Supposedly, they were a strike force being prepared
"So you're led to what you feel is an inescapable conclusion: that Phow
Ji, instead of just indulging in an orgy of mindless murder, gave his life
in a heroic action that may have had large-scale benefits for the Republic."
"I'm not entirely dismissing the mindless-murder-orgy element," Den
said. "But basically-yeah." He paused. "When I heard this, I was stunned.
Stunned. I felt like Ji himself had kicked me in the gut. I thought I had
his number; he was crazy as a dyslexic Givin, and he couldn't stand being
humiliated-so he thought-by a Jedi Padawan. He defeated a Jedi Knight in a
match once, you know. So he heads for the front lines and goes out in a
blaze of glory. Simple."
"Indeed. And it lets you feel a satisfying righteous outrage when he's
painted as a champion,"
Den sighed. "I'm nearly twenty standard years a reporter, Doc, and if
anyone knows the galaxy isn't black and white, it's me. But now I feel like
some wet-between-the-dewflaps cublet who's just learned his system's Senator
takes graft. I feel . . . betrayed." He snorted, shook his head, and looked
at Merit. "Why?"
"I have a theory. So do you. Let's hear yours first."
Den looked skeptical. "Why not yours first?"
"It's my office."
Merit smiled slightly, and Den couldn't help grinning back. A minder, a
Jedi, and a Silent in the same camp, he thought. No wonder the psychic
energy around here's thicker than swamp gas.
He pursed his lips, then shrugged. "Padawan Offee told me I had the
'aura' of a hero," he said.
"You certainly proved that when you rescued Zan's quetarra for him."
"Lotta good it did him. Nobody to play it at his funeral. Look, I don't
want to be a hero, Doc. Heroes may get medals, but mostly they get dead, in
my experience."
"No one's insisting you be a hero, Den."
"Good, 'cause they'll be disappointed. But I don't want some rabid nexu
idolized as one, either. I just want people to know the truth."
"Your truth," Merit said. " Your version of events. And you want them
to do more than know-you want them to believe."
Den frowned at him. "You sound disapproving." "I neither approve nor
disapprove. This is just the view from here. But," Merit added, "in all
modesty, it's a view that's backed by considerable expertise in reading
Jedi Healer Page 3