The refresher next to the library was empty, and it was one that was not covered by surveillance cams. Admiral Bleyd entered the ’fresher; it was a nameless, faceless member of The Silent who emerged.
None of the people he passed on the way to the starboard docking bay did more than nod or smile at him, and he, of course, did not speak. He walked in a slight stoop, aware that he was taller than most of the robed ones he had seen on the ship.
The Silent would not have the codes, nor the keycards for security doors that were locked, but Admiral Bleyd did. That part could be adjusted later—all traces of those security recordings would have to be altered or erased, leaving nothing that even the most diligent search might uncover. But there would be no such search, because there would be no reason for it. A person might remember one of The Silent passing through these doors, but it was unlikely in the extreme that anybody would ever ask about it. And even if someone did, there would be no way to connect that shrouded figure to Bleyd. He was covered.
He smiled at that thought as he strolled, unhurried, about his task. He was covered, wasn’t he? The osmotic veil passed air freely, and allowed him an unimpeded view, but no one could see his face. It was pleasant. He found himself rather enjoying the novelty of being anonymous.
Mathal had been directed to park his small KDY Starspin in the darkest, least-used corner of the subflight deck, where a light had burned out only moments before, courtesy of a tiny timer that had, not coincidentally, vaporized with the electrical flare that killed the lamp. The ship had been precleared—on the admiral’s orders—to leave at any time.
Bleyd smiled again as he approached the vessel. Yes, he had thought of everything. The key to a successful hunt was proper preparation. If you knew your destination before you took the first step, you saved yourself endless amounts of grief.
Once in the ship, he informed the controllers that he wished to depart, and was granted immediate clearance. He taxied the vessel through the double sets of pressure doors and onto the launch pad, waited for the green lights, and put the craft into space.
Now came the hard part.
Timing was of the essence, if he was to pull this off. He looped under the multistoried keel of the medical frigate and headed aft, staying close enough to the hull so that the sensors couldn’t see him. He rocketed past a few open portholes and smiled; anybody looking out would likely have gotten a sudden and considerable fright as he blew by them almost close enough to touch. In theory, however, that was good. If anyone ever did ask—not likely, but if they did—then the recklessness of the Black Sun pilot would surely be remarked upon.
Yar, I saw him. Freaking fool near broke the transparisteel port, he was so close—!
As he headed for the aft trash lock, Bleyd began to seal the robe. Under the cloth was a thinskin emergency vac suit, complete with gloves and boot seals, a flexicris head shroud and face cover. The emergency air tank held but five minutes of life—thinskin vac suits were designed to work inside a ship during a sudden atmosphere loss, and then only long enough to get to a pressurized section or a full vac suit. But five minutes would be more than enough, assuming everything went as planned…
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 Starspin 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 d
on’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 hi
m.
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, holo-plays, 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?”
Star War®: MedStar I: Battle Surgeons Page 11