Jedi Healer

by Michael Reaves

  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
/>   for a major covert attack."

  "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