Star War®: MedStar I: Battle Surgeons

by Michael Reaves

  He skirted the larger puddles and deeper mud, and made it to the bin without being drenched, hit by lightning, or attacked by killer Separatist battle droids. The sensor on the bin dilated the input hatch, and he fed the bag into the recycler, listened to oscillating power hums and crunches as the trash was reduced to small bits and then flash-zapped into greasy ash by the reactors. There was something curiously satisfying about the process, although doing it with regularity certainly didn’t hold any appeal.

  Another exciting moment from the life of Jos Vondar, crack Republic surgeon…

  He turned and nearly bumped into a trooper arriving at the bin with several bags of refuse. The trooper murmured a respectful apology; Jos acknowledged it and started to leave, then stopped abruptly. He felt somehow that he knew this one. If he looked past the Jango Fett template, there was something about the eyes, the face…he could be wrong, but he was pretty sure it was CT-914, the one who had sparked the question that had, of late, threatened to overwhelm Jos.

  “Hello, Nine-one-four,” Jos said.

  “Hello, Captain Vondar.”

  “On trash duty, are you?”

  “That would seem self-evident, sir.” He began to feed the bags into the dilated maw of the bin.

  First a droid, Jos thought, and now a clone, cracking jokes. Everyone’s a comedian.

  For a moment he just stood there, unable to think of anything to say—which, for him, was a rarity. Finally, he said, “Let me ask you a question.”

  CT-914 continued to shove the bags into the bin, which ground and hummed as it ate them.

  “How did you feel about the death of CT-Nine-one-five?”

  Nine-one-four pushed the last of the bags into the hopper. He looked at Jos. “The loss of a trained soldier is…regrettable.” Both his speech and bearing were stiff.

  Jos knew CT-914 didn’t want to pursue this, but he forged ahead anyway. He had to know. “No. I’m not talking about his value to the Republic. I’m asking you how it made you feel. You, personally.”

  CT-914 stood there for what seemed like a long time without speaking. “Were I a civilian,” he said at last, “delivered naturally and not vat-born, I could tell you it’s none of your business—sir. But since I’m bound to obey my superior officers, then the answer to your question is that I—personally—was pained by Nine-one-five’s death. We’re all of the same flesh and design, all equal in basic abilities, but he was my comrade in arms. I knew him all my life. We fought together, ate together, and shared our off-duty times like brothers. I miss him. I expect I’ll miss him until I die.

  “Does that answer your question, sir? I have more trash to collect.”

  Jos swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Yes, that answers it. Thank you.”

  “Just doing my duty, Doctor. No thanks necessary.”

  CT-914 turned and walked away, and Jos watched him go, unable to move. Inside his mind, the tiny voice he was growing to hate piped up again and said, You ought to know by now not to ask questions you don’t really want answered.

  No kidding. If they were all like CT-914, then clone troopers were much more mentally complex than Jos had thought. They had feelings, inner lives, maybe even dreams and aspirations that reached beyond the art of war. And that shifted things into a realm Jos didn’t want to think about.

  Blast.

  27

  Though the action was unusual, Admiral Bleyd found sufficient reason to delay his departure from Rimsoo Seven for a few days. He offered as a reason his belief that the matter of the murdered Hutt needed further investigation, and his desire to make certain his people were protected. It might have seemed a thin excuse to anyone with more than a few working brain cells, but that didn’t matter—he was the admiral, and no one would question his decisions.

  The real reason for him staying, of course, was to find the one who had dared to surveille him. Whoever it was, he would soon learn how dangerous it could be to spy on a predator.

  They erected a command module for him, not much more than a bubble with some basic furniture and comm gear, but it was enough. For someone who had hunted many times on planets where there was nothing to sleep on but the cold, hard ground, a formcot was more than he needed.

  The morning after Filba’s death, Bleyd was on his way to meet a transport bringing in the head of his military security unit to take charge of the search for Filba’s killer. The man was late, and Bleyd hoped—for his sake—that he would have a good reason. As he strode through the camp, the mud from the near-constant storms caking his boots, he noticed one of The Silent drifting in his direction. Even in the cloying heat and humidity, the figure had his cowl up, his face hidden in its shadows. There were a few members of this particular order on the planet at various Rimsoos, offering their presence for whatever good it might be. The Silent would pass close to him, though their paths would not quite intersect.

  As the figure drew near, Bleyd noticed a peculiar odor coming from it. It was not unpleasant—in fact, it had a heady, almost spiceflower-like aroma, noticeable even over the fecund stenches of the nearby swamp. Offhand, he knew of no species that carried this particular scent. He filed it away for later consideration as The Silent passed. He had more important things on his mind.

  The head of the security unit was Colonel Kohn Doil, a Vunakian human with a pattern of ritual scars on his forehead, cheeks, and depilated head. The geometric whorls and configurations of the raised cicatrices, which signified caste status, were amazingly intricate. Bleyd knew that Doil had not used a pain inhibitor during the scarification ceremony; it was one of the reasons he had hired the man. A unit commander with a high pain threshold was not a bad combination.

  Doil alighted from the transport, saluted, and apologized for the delay in his arrival. “A vortex storm hit the main camp just before I was due to depart; the wind wrecked the transport on the pad, along with a goodly portion of the supply prefabs and trooper barracks.”

  “No need to apologize for the weather on this forsaken planet, Colonel. But let us waste no more time. I know you have the facts of the case, and the autopsy report showing the poison used, but since I was there when the Hutt died, I thought I should brief you personally.”

  “I appreciate that, Admiral,” Doil said as they walked back through the camp. “If I might be so bold as to ask, how did that come to pass? That you happened to be there?”

  “I had heard certain rumors about Filba that I found disturbing. I suspected that he might have been responsible for a black-market operation, and maybe even for the destruction of the bota transport not long ago. In short, I feared he was either an illegal entrepreneur or a Separatist spy.”

  “Ah. You think it was suicide, then? Fear of being caught and disgraced?”

  Bleyd did not want to appear too eager to lay that hypothesis before the colonel. Doil was an adept security officer, and it would be better if he came to the conclusion on his own. “Possible, of course. It might also be that the Hutt had a confederate who saw that we suspected his partner and decided to eliminate him. Hutts are not well known for their bravery under pressure.”

  Doil said, “Sir. Hutts are not known for their bravery under any circumstances. It would seem most unusual, however, for there to be a spy in a medical unit in the middle of nowhere, much less two of them.”

  Bleyd shrugged. “As you say. Better to consider all the possibilities, however.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I expect you’ll need to find quarters before beginning your investigation. I shall remain here for a few days, to offer what help I can. Feel free to call upon me as necessary.”

  “Sir.” Doil saluted, then set off to find Vaetes and arrange for his new lodgings.

  As Bleyd headed back to his own quarters, he considered the situation yet again. He knew that Filba hadn’t poisoned himself. The Hutt had thought that Bleyd could protect him—that he would protect him—and he was too much the coward to ever snuff his own greasy flame. No, somebody had murdered the slug
, and under the Rule of Simple Solutions, it was likely that whoever had done that was the same one who had been spying upon them. But why? Bleyd shook his head. That was another question. Better to first determine the “Who” and then worry about the “Why.”

  As he opened the door to his bubble, a spicy floral smell wafted over him. Without even thinking Bleyd drew his blaster.

  “Move and I’ll cook you where you stand,” he said.

  “I won’t move, Admiral. Though I’m not standing at the moment.”

  The voice had a musical and amused lilt to it. Bleyd passed his free hand in front of the room’s lighting control and the hut’s interior lit up, revealing the figure of a Silent—obviously a disguise, since by speaking he had broken the siblinghood’s most sacred tenet. The robed and cowled being sat on Bleyd’s cot, leaning against the wall.

  Bleyd did not lower the blaster. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “If I may?” The other raised his hands slowly to the sides of his head.

  Bleyd nodded. “Slowly, and with great care.”

  The figure slipped the cowl back to reveal his face.

  It was not the countenance of any being Bleyd had ever seen before, and he had been around the galaxy more than a few times. The face was vaguely birdlike, with sharp, violet eyes, a nose and mouth that could have been a short beak, and pale blue skin that might be either extremely fine fur or feathers; Bleyd could not tell which from where he stood. The head was smooth, the ears flat and set close against the skull, and there was a hint of darker blue at the base of the throat. Quite striking, the admiral thought; he had certainly seen more unattractive bipeds.

  The being smiled—Bleyd assumed he was male—and there were at least several pointed teeth in the thin-lipped beak-mouth. The beak seemed to be formed of rubbery cartilaginous material rather than keratin, which gave it a limited range of expression.

  There was also more than a hint of danger glinting in those eyes. This was a deadly creature, whatever its origins or intentions.

  “I am Kaird, of the Nediji.”

  Nediji? Nediji…he had heard the name…ah, yes, he remembered it now. An avian species from a far-flung world called Nedij on the east spinward arm. Bleyd frowned. There was something else unusual about them…what was it…?

  “I didn’t realize the Nediji traveled outside their own system. I seem to recall hearing that such journeying was taboo.”

  “If one is properly nested, yes, that is true,” the Nediji replied. His melodious voice was as pleasant to hear as his scent was to whiff, but the cold, calculating look in those eyes was all Bleyd cared about. As in most species, the truth could always be found in the eyes.

  “But there are some among us who, for one reason or another, cannot be of The Flock,” Kaird continued. “No one cares where the winds bear us.” There was no regret in the words; what Bleyd heard instead was amusement.

  “Well, here, we do care if somebody breaks into our quarters. Explain yourself—quickly.” He gestured slightly with the blaster.

  There was a small click! behind him, as if someone was trying his closed door. Bleyd shifted his attention to the sound for a heartbeat—

  The Nediji vanished.

  No, that was not strictly true. The being had moved, but so fast that Bleyd couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Of a moment, he was sitting on the cot, and then in an eyeblink he stood next to Bleyd, out of the blaster’s line of fire, close enough to touch.

  Bleyd started to shift his aim, but stopped. If the fellow could move that swiftly in a one-gravity field, he would never be able to line up on him in time if he had a weapon of his own and wanted to use it.

  He lowered the blaster.

  “Wise move, Admiral.”

  Bleyd caught a flash of light on something in the Nediji’s hand, then whatever it was disappeared.

  “All right,” Bleyd said. “You’ve established that you’re faster than a dirt-demon. Though if I hadn’t been distracted by that noise—”

  Kaird walked back toward the cot, a slow stroll that had definite elements of avian locomotion in it. When he reached it, he turned, flashed his teeth again, and said, “You mean this noise?”

  The click! came again. Bleyd did not allow it to distract him this time.

  Kaird held up a small device the size of his thumb—the thing that had caught the light a moment before. He had yellowish talons on his fingertips, Bleyd noticed. “A simple clicker, operated by this remote.”

  “Fine. You came prepared. What do you want?”

  “The continuation of our mutual benefit, Admiral. Apparently our last agent was careless in his piloting. I am a much better flier. In the genes, you know.”

  Bleyd felt a small but definite surge of fear. Black Sun!

  He hadn’t expected them so soon.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Indeed,” Kaird said.

  As it turned out, Kaird was a surprise on more than one level. Apparently, Black Sun did not want to change its former arrangement regarding the bota. It took Bleyd but a moment to realize that Mathal, the agent whom he had dispatched to the Realm Beyond, had been up to some “business” of his own. Kaird’s purpose was to investigate Mathal’s death, which he had done to his satisfaction while disguised as one of The Silent, and to assure that the flow of bota stayed constant. Supply and demand kept the value very high, and moving a small amount of material for a large profit was better than moving large amounts at a lesser rate, which was what Bleyd had figured all along. So Mathal’s real intention had been to grab as much bota as he could, then flee before his superiors in the criminal organization found out. How interesting.

  Had Black Sun known what its late agent had been up to, they would likely have taken care of him themselves, Bleyd realized. He’d done them a favor. But he wasn’t about to volunteer how Mathal had met his end—that would be suicide.

  Despite his resolve to avoid such daring ventures, Bleyd was immediately beset with the idea of testing himself against the new agent. The Nediji was much faster than he was, and tricky as well. No doubt he was well trained in many combat arts. Avian predators would have a different way of viewing prey than those who were ground-bred. Here was a foe worthy of Bleyd’s mettle.

  But—no. If he were to die with his family honor tarnished, he would have failed in his life goal. Not to mention losing that palace on Coruscant. No matter how tempting such a confrontation was, he had to resist. He could give the Nediji no more thought in this regard.

  Still, it would be a glorious fight…

  “I will remain in the camp for a few days,” Kaird said, “pretending to be of The Silent, observing the doctors and patients, so as not to arouse suspicion by leaving too soon. This business with the Hutt—your doing?”

  Bleyd considered his reply for a moment. He did not need a Black Sun operative poking around in his business any more than was absolutely necessary. If the Nediji believed he had poisoned Filba, he would give it no more thought. “Yes. He was becoming greedy. I thought it best to remove him before he caused problems.”

  “Wise. We like prudent beings in our partnerships.” The bird-being turned toward the door. “We will be in touch, Admiral. Until then, keep following the original plan agreed upon by you and my superiors.”

  “Understood.”

  Once Kaird had gone, Bleyd felt a sense of relief. The loss of Black Sun’s hot breath on his back was one less worry with which he had to deal.

  Now, if he could just find the spy, all would be well once again.

  28

  The spy was not surprised to see one of The Silent standing in the hard shade next to the medical ward. There hadn’t been any assigned to the Rimsoo in the last few months, but where there were doctors and suffering, the presence of The Silent was always a possibility. They lived only to serve their vision of helping the sick or injured, simply by being there. There would seem on the face of it no scientific basis for their belief, but it was well known that when on
e of The Silent took up residence at a medical facility, mortality figures dropped more often than not, and length of hospital stays somehow shortened. Some said it was merely placebo effect, but there were cases in which ill patients did not know one of The Silent was about, and they still tended to get better faster. A strange phenomenon, no question about it. Perhaps it had something to do with the Force; perhaps it was something entirely different. But it had been documented too often to be dismissed.

  While seeing The Silent there was not a surprise, hearing the whisper from the cowled figure: “We need to talk, Lens,” was startling. Almost startling enough to draw a visible reaction.

  The spy was too well trained to give anything away, and there was no one else around, in any event. The code name Lens provided all the information necessary to know what, if not who, the being disguised as a Silent was. The disguise was unexpected and clever.

  The spy had two code names on this world—one for the Separatists, and the second for the underworld organization Black Sun. To the latter, the spy was known as “Lens.”

  Anybody who spoke that name aloud could only have gotten it from Black Sun, and they didn’t give such information to anybody but their own.

  “My quarters, ten minutes,” Lens said, lips unmoving.

  When the agent from Black Sun arrived, precisely ten minutes later, in the cubicle, Lens was there and ready to deal with him. That an agent had been sent here was also not a surprise. Lens had information he or she wanted.