Jedi Healer

by Michael Reaves

  tone. And almost immediately, he felt a powerful sense of desire stirring in

  him. An attraction to her so strong it was all he could do to resist it.

  It was the same attraction he'd sensed earlier, but multiplied a

  hundredfold. He knew what was causing it. Pheromones. Airborne chemicals

  released solely to cause emotional reactions in others. A number of

  different species used them, he knew; some for communication, some to mark

  territory-and some to enhance sexual attraction.

  Thula smiled. She knew exactly how her pheromones were affecting him.

  "That's how," she said. "The military hires civilians now and again,

  especially those with appropriate credentials. It just so happens that Squa

  and I have excellent documentation-the best that credits can buy-attesting

  to our expertise in a number of disciplines. Shipping dispatch and systems

  controls are among them. With a ... patron who is attracted to me, I am sure

  we can get work somewhere in the shipping system."

  "What if the person in charge of hiring is female? Or some other sex

  entirely?" Kaird asked. "Like the Tri-parates of Saloth, out in the Minos

  Cluster. Ever hear of them?"

  The two exchanged a calm look. Then Squa Tront said, "No, we haven't.

  And neither has anyone else, because you just invented them."

  Kaird laughed, and his mask made the snorting, gurgling noises that to

  the Kubaz indicated mirth. These two seemed to be unflappable, an essential

  quality for smugglers.

  Thula gestured to her partner. "In any event, should we run afoul of

  the fair sex, Squa has certain talents in that area. His methods differ from

  mine, but the result is the same." The Falleen grinned. "Though you'd never

  think so to look at him."

  "I resent that," Squa said. "Among my species, I am considered well

  above average in looks."

  "Not much to brag about." But Thula smiled as she said it, and Squa

  smiled in return.

  Kaird detected a warmth in the Falleen's voice and expression, mirrored

  by that of her companion. An odd couple., indeed.

  "Once hired," Thula said, "we'll be in a position to influence those

  with direct access to the product. A piece of easy. But-how much is it worth

  to Black Sun?"

  Ah, now came the fun part. He had a lot of leeway in transactions like

  these. Two percent was standard, but he could go as high as 4. He would

  start by offering 1 percent of the net, which he could sweeten with a small

  advance, five thousand creds or so ...

  "Let's not dicker like a couple of Toydarians," Squa said in his dry,

  papery voice. "What say, we get... four percent? And a small advance, oh...

  five thousand credits?"

  Kaird shook his head, and mentally cursed himself. It was hard to

  bargain with somebody who had empathic or telepathic abilities. He had a

  pretty good thought-shield defense when he concentrated on it, but he had

  relaxed and let it slip. A good lesson in that.

  There was something charming about the two-something aside from their

  hormone- and mind-manipulating abilities. They were a pair of likable

  rogues. This was to be prized. Emotions, thoughts, even the senses could be

  fooled in various ways, but spontaneous charisma wasal-ways in short supply.

  "Done," he said. "But since you can see things you ought not to be able

  to see, you know what will happen if there are any problems. If, for

  instance, you suddenly decided to abscond with a hundred kilos of bota to

  setup shop on your own? See what my thoughts about that are."

  Squa grew slightly paler, if that were possible. He swallowed dryly.

  "We'd never dream of such a thing," he said.

  Thula, her skin faded back to its normal pale green, added, "We aren't

  stupid, or greedy-which is why we're here, alive. You don't need to be a

  Republic armorer to know a big gun when you see it. We do the job, we make

  money, you make money, everybody gets happy. And maybe someday, Black Sun

  will want to throw some more work our way."

  Kaird smiled behind the mask, which, after a heartbeat, translated it

  into the Kubaz equivalent-the short proboscis curling up and over itself.

  "Always a pleasure doing business with professionals," he said. "I'll stay

  on-planet until you get things set up and running, then it's all yours."

  He held up one hand, palm-down, in the traditional Kubaz sign for

  agreement. Both Thula and Squa Tront mirrored his gesture.

  Excellent! A few days, a week or two, and Kaird could be on his way,

  leaving behind a new operation up and running, while he spaced back to more

  interesting places and things.

  He headed back to his quarters to change his disguise, and an odd thing

  happened: a cool breeze touched him as he walked across the compound. He

  could just feel it through the heavy and hot disguise, and it lasted but an

  instant, so short a time that he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. He

  stopped and looked around, but there was nothing to be seen, nobody even

  close to him.

  He scowled-the mask turned it into a Kubaz frown, curling the short

  facial trunk up and under, tucking it close to the chin. Kaird didn't

  notice. A blast of air cold enough to feel even through all he was wearing?

  Coming, apparently, from nowhere? This was unnatural. And Black Sun

  operatives did not live to a ripe old age by ignoring the unnatural.

  On a hunch, he looked up. The sky wore its usual bands of colors: pale

  green, yellow, a bit of blue and red. The spores were thick outside the

  force-dome, and there were some small clouds of the stuff floating around

  inside the energy shield, up high, but nowhere near enough to cause a health

  hazard.

  Could the blast have come from outside the dome, somehow? He shook his

  head. That made no sense-if anything, it was hotter outside, not colder.

  Kaird slowly continued on his way. Something strange had just happened

  and its cause was unknown-now.

  But he would make it his business to know it. Soon.

  10

  The announcement came over the hypersound speakers, sounding as if a

  quiet voice were speaking privately to each sentient being in the base. The

  announcer, however, was an Ugnaught, and his thick, Basic-mangling accent

  made it hard to decipher the words.

  "Att'ntion. In free local days HoPNet 'N'tainmen', in, uh,

  collab-collab'ration wit' da R'public Mil'tary Ben'-fit As-so-ciation,

  brings you Jasod Revoc and His G'lactic Revue, you bet. Wit' Epoh Trebor,

  Lili Renalem, Annloc Yerj, Eyar Marath, an' Figrin D'an an' da Modal Nodes,

  yar."

  Uli, who was examining a cephaloscan readout on his handheld, frowned

  and looked at Jos. "What did he say?"

  "He said the carnival is coming to town. The troops are going to be

  entertained-and so are we, theoretically. Unless, of course, we're in here

  playing mix-and-matcli with various viscera." Jos gestured to the FX-7 on

  duty to take over the resectioning of the trooper on the gurney before him.

  It had taken him nearly forty-five minutes to remove all the shrapnel that

  had been embedded in tte clone's mediastinum. Shrapnel extraction was the

  cause of nearly all the i
nvasive work done in the Rimsoo-far more than

  slugthrower fire, sonic disruption trauma, vibroblades, or anything else

  from the murderous catalog that was ground war in a jungle. He figured he'd

  probably pulled a good ten kilos of twisted, seared metal from the insides

  of various troopers. The damage was always horrific. A chunk of durasteel

  traveling at near-sonic speed hit a body's midsection like a hunger-maddened

  reek, and chewed it up even worse.

  "1 don't know about you," he continued, "but I am sorely in need of

  some laughs. Revoc's people perform pretty well, I hear." He grinned at Uli.

  "Of course, the kind of music they play might seem a little stodgy for your

  taste ..."

  "I'm always up for a good band," Uli said. "Leap-jump, like that. My

  big goal now is to find a date- preferably carbon-based, humanoid, and

  female, though after three weeks here I'm learning not to be so picky."

  Jos nodded thoughtfully as he stripped off his gloves and gown in the

  postop chamber. Had it really been three weeks since Uli had arrived? He

  realized that he hadn't thought of Zan lately, and felt a pang of

  self-reproach. Why? he asked himself. Any good physician knows that loss

  heals eventually-grief is a process. Zan would have wanted it that way.

  Still, he felt obscure guilt. The truth was that Uli, despite his youth,

  made a pretty good cube mate. He was neat, and his tidiness had inspired Jos

  to be a bit more mindful of the immediate environment as well, so that the

  walls were no longer furry to the touch, at least. He certainly had a

  different perspective on a lot of things than Jos, but, unlike most people

  his age, he wasn't at all dogmatic in his beliefs. The two had had

  interesting conversations about everything from galactic politics to

  favorite Coruscant restaurants; Jos preferred the elegant-and expensive-

  Zothique, while Uli was partial to a greasy spoon called Dex's Diner. No

  doubt about it, the new had helped east the passing of the old.

  Three weeks. It had been nearly that long since Admiral Kersos had

  taken over. His great-uncle had yet to meet Tolk, save briefly in the

  OT-various administrate duties had kept Kersos orbitside in the MedStar

  frigate for much of that time-and Jos had been making efforts to keep them

  apart. Even though Kersos had been guilty of the same sin Jos was

  contemplating, Jos was afraid that his uncle would not like her-or that Tolk

  might not like him. He was honestly not sure which eventuality would be

  worse.

  Well, the two would undoubtedly encounter each otto socially at the

  HoloNer Entertainment show. And tit wasn't at all sure he wanted to be

  there-or anywhereon the same hemisphere-when they did.

  Column stared at the decoded message on the flat-screen, feeling

  somewhat queasy at the content. As mudi as the spy hated the idea, the

  powers-that-be had ordained a course of upcoming action that would involve

  violence,

  Extreme violence.

  The Separatists wanted this world and its valuable bota. They intended

  to try to swing the precarious balance of power their way, and the manner in

  which they planned to accomplish this was, in a word, despicable,

  Just the thought of the consequences of this action was enough to cause

  nausea. It would not fall entirely to Column to implement this sabotage;

  still, the spy would havt to instigate a vital element of the plan at the

  appropriate moment. And as a result, some of the Republic's forces were

  certain to die-perhaps many of them, and among their number would be quite a

  few noncombatants. Yes,

  they were mostly military personnel, but this was largely by virtue of

  conscription-Column had met very few medics who elected to join the army or

  navy by choice. While there were always those who thought military service

  was a valid idea, helping the wounded and sick, by and large surgeons,

  medical doctors, nurses, and techs were draftees. They had no choice in the

  matter-it was be inducted or be imprisoned. Some made the latter choice,

  though they were in the minority. Eventually, the war would be over, win or

  lose, and if they survived, the conscripts would go home, back to their

  lives. But electing to go to prison in lieu of the military could follow a

  person for a lifetime. It was not an easy choice. Before this war had begun,

  before there was an agent with the alias of Column or Lens, the bearer of

  both names had known moralistic objectors in other wars who had taken

  stances against the concept. Some could withstand the onus; some broke

  beneath the weight of that choice, crushed like a wingstinger under a heavy

  boot.

  Column sighed. In times like these, only the distant goal could remain

  clear. The objects and people near to hand were fuzzy, and, like the tiniest

  parts of matter, did not bear close examination. To peer too closely at them

  while knowing what was inevitably going to happen was to court madness. How

  could a being smile at those close by, interact with them, share their

  hopes, dreams, and frustrations, while simultaneously taking part in a plot

  that would end in the deaths of at least some of them?

  No, the immediate ugliness had to be ignored. When all this was done,

  when the Republic had been roundly defeated and old-but-not-faded wrongs had

  been righted- then there would be time enough to grieve.

  Often cliches contain more than a grain of truth-

  which is why they become cliches. In this case, sometimes the ends

  really did justify the means, no matter how heinous they seemed in the

  moment.

  That's how one had to look at it. To see it any other way would cause

  paralysis. And, whatever else might happen, the Republic had to lose this

  war.

  It had to lose.

  Tolk sat on the end of Jos's cot and blotted her wet hair with a

  syncloth towel.

  "Your 'fresher's sonic dryer is broken again," she said.

  Lying on the bed and watching her, Jos smiled. "Do tell? I'll have the

  butler droid give the mechanic droida call straightaway," he said, affecting

  a posh upper-class East Quadrant Coruscant accent. "I do hope you haven't

  suffered too much in these dreadful and barbaric circumstances, my dear."

  She smiled back, finished blotting her hair, and threw the damp towel

  at him. It hit him in the face before he could get a hand up to block. He

  laughed, and her smile broadened.

  Then, abruptly, it faded.

  "What?"

  "Nothing." She started to get up; he reached, gently pulled her back.

  "You aren't the only person who pays attention to faces around here, you

  know. Now, tell Doctor Vondar."

  She nibbled at her lower lip. "I've been contacted by the director of

  Surgical Nursing Services on MedStar."

  "And... ?"

  "And they want me to rotate up for a Continuing Medical Education short

  course in decubitus care. Six hours, lecture and lab."

  He snorted. "A CME class on bedsores'? What idiot came up with that

  one? We don't have patients here long enough to develop decubitus ulcers!

  Anyway, with the massage fields it's not a-"

  "I know. The order came directly
from the admiral's office."

  Jos frowned. "I see . . . anything else?"

  "According to an old friend in SNS, as of this morning I am the only

  surgical nurse onplanet who has been ordered to take the class. What do you

  think that means?"

  The answer was fairly obvious. Why would the admiral's office order a

  single nurse to attend a course that was, given the nature of the Rimsoo

  treatments here, pretty much useless?

  "Great-Uncle Erel," Jos said, his voice tight. "He wants to check you

  out-and he doesn't want me around when he does it."

  She nodded. "That's how I figure it."

  Jos sat up. "I can tell MedStar we can't spare you right now," he said.

  She shook her head. "No. I'll have to talk to him sooner or later.

  Might as well be now. I've been holding my breath ever since you told me who

  he was."

  "Tolk-you don't have to-"

  She leaned over and put her hand over his mouth. "Shush. I'm a big

  girl. I won't melt if your uncle looks at me crooked. If he is going to be

  family-" She stopped. "Are you having second thoughts?"

  He put one hand on her cheek. "Never."

  She smiled. "All right. Then I'll go see Uncle Admiral and we'll find

  out what's what. It'll be fine."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm a face reader, Jos. At least we'll know where we really stand with

  him."

  He was still worried? And obviously she could see it in his expression.

  She grinned, took his hand from her cheek, and kissed his palm - and

  worrying about his uncle suddenly fell off the top of his to-do list.

  11

  The MedStar frigates were the acme of the Republic medical corps'

  fleet. Equipped with state-of-the-art xeno-aiid biomedical facilities that

  would rival those of many planetside hospitals, MedStar-dass vessels were

  designed to accept Rimsoo-stabilized ill or injured patients and, when

  necessary, continue their treatment. Such ships were extremely expensive,

  and there were but a handful of them presently in active service. Given the

  nature and length of the war, others were being built as quickly as Kuat

  Drive Yards could turn them out.

  In war, the roads to victory-or defeat-always wound through mountains

  of bodies.

  Column, seated in the transport headed for MedStar, gazed through the

  small, thick porthole at the verdant landscape rapidly dwindling below. The