The doing of it was not so easy, but he was both clever and resourceful. Small amounts of the bota could continue to be diverted and stored. His dealings with Black Sun would have to cease—a major theft was out of the question—but he could hide a lot of the valuable adaptogen on a ship the size of a MedStar, stack it in blocks of carbonite disguised as something else, and take it back to civilization himself, bold as you please. The material would never show up on a manifest, nobody would know it existed, and it would only become more valuable as time went by. A thousand kilos of pharmaceutical-grade bota stashed in some warehouse would eventually be worth millions all by itself.
But there were other things a smart admiral could do to enhance his fortune. A medical system necessary for a Rimsoo could be ordered in duplicate, and one of them could find its way elsewhere, perhaps to some world in desperate need of such a facility, and bartered for something of equal value but more portable. Precious metal or rare gems, say. And a couple of first-class medical droids misdirected to some frontier planet where doctors were in short supply would also be worth their weight in credits. Even a copy of a proprietary computer program, such as the one that ran the MedStar’s operational systems, was a valuable commodity—if presented to the right customer. How many one-starship worlds would love to have one of those for its hospitals, with no questions asked, for the right price?
The ship’s hull began to warm as it arrowed its way into the atmosphere. The sensors noted this and adjusted the environmental control systems. He was only a few minutes away from the ground medical HQ, traditionally called Rimsoo One. There didn’t seem to be any fighting in this quadrant today, so he didn’t expect any real trouble. Now and then, some pilot from the Confederacy would try a suicide run, braving the spores in order to get a chance to attack a Republic vessel outside his operational range. He had never been attacked himself, and the lighter was equipped with a pair of fire-linked ion cannons, as well as laser cannons he could use from the cockpit. He sometimes wished one of the Separatist fighters would try him so that he could demonstrate he was no rear-guard admiral, but such an opportunity had never presented itself. Too bad.
“This is Landing Control. We are assuming command of your vessel in thirty seconds, sir.”
Bleyd nodded to himself. “Acknowledged, Landing Control.” He would prefer to bring the lighter in him- self on manual, but this was not standard procedure, and Tarnese Bleyd would not risk his future on pure ego-driven matters of such small consequence. Let them land the ship. He had bigger game to slay . . .
22
Bleyd liked to vary his inspections. Sometimes he would stick to one planetary sector; other times he would travel across an entire region. On one trip he might visit Rimsoos in numerical order; another time he’d hit only the even- or odd-numbered ones. There were a dozen of the emergency medical bases, one for practically every major battlefront, spread far and wide over Tanlasso. There was no way he could see them all in a single visit, unless he was willing to stay on the ground for a month of constant travel. Republic Mobile Surgical Units were technically able to pick up and move quickly, either to avoid danger or to follow the advance or retreat of the front lines. Once established, however, the units tended to stay put for weeks or months, and some of them were still in the same spot where they’d been initially dropped. There wasn’t a lot of variation among them, since they all had the same primary purpose: the repair and maintenance of the clone trooper army and whatever other casualties might occur.
Not that it made any difference how he conducted his inspections; whichever manner he chose, the word would be there long before he arrived. Some leaders liked to drop in unannounced, but for him, surprise was not part of the process. He wasn’t looking for some- thing unpleasant to have to deal with. As long as nobody fouled up, he didn’t worry about the day-to-day operations.
As the landspeeder ferrying him from the area’s temporary hub spaceport approached the current location of Rimsoo Seven, Bleyd watched faint speckles of reddish spore dust glitter over the vehicle’s transparisteel canopy. Even though the spores were much less dangerous at ground level most of the time, zipping along in a speeder with the top down was hardly a good idea.
The unit was just ahead; they’d covered the two hundred or so kilometers of marshland and bayous separating it from his landing pad quickly. His driver was a young, four-armed Myneyrsh male, which was something of a surprise. Most Myneyrshi had an aversion to technology, and Bleyd assumed that this applied to powered ground-effect craft such as this one. The driver also had an issue blaster on the seat beside him, though if attacked, Bleyd was fairly sure the trooper would reach first for the big garral-tooth knife he wore in a sheath strapped to his translucent blue leg. There was a Myneyrsh saying: “A knife never runs out of ammunition.” Bleyd understood that well enough.
“Rimsoo Seven, Admiral, sir,” the driver said.
Bleyd nodded. He had been here before, though it had been several months, at least. The place looked like all the others; only the location and the local graffiti marked it as different.
Well, that and the fact that his partner in crime, Filba the Hutt, was based here . . .
They approached the perimeter, were challenged by the guard, and admitted through the energy shield. The military-grade power shield kept certain things out, notably fast-moving missiles and high-energy spectra such as gamma and X-rays, while letting in radio waves and visible light. Unfortunately, heat, rain, spores, and insects were slow enough to some degree to pass through the osmotic shield as well.
Bleyd met Colonel D’Arc Vaetes, the commander, and each offered up the usual ordained and meaningless compliments and comments. Going through the motions, Bleyd was paying somewhat less than half his attention to the tour. Vaetes ran a tight ship, he knew, and the admiral would have been surprised to see anything really amiss.
As they passed the dining hall and cantina on their way to look at the main surgical theater, Bleyd saw a man leaning against a poptree twenty meters away, smiling.
A chill touched Bleyd’s spine, for there was a distinct sense of danger emanating from the smiling human. There was nothing overt about it, nothing that might be seen as a gesture of disrespect, but the feeling was unmistakable. Here was a warrior—not just a soldier. A smiling killer who knew what he was and gloried in the knowledge.
Bleyd stopped. “Who is that?”
Vaetes glanced over and said, “Phow Ji, the Bunduki close-combat instructor. His workouts keep me in better shape than I’d like.”
“Ah.” That explained it. Bleyd knew about Ji. Like any good hunter, he always marked predators in his territory. Ji had had a reputation before he arrived here; his datafile had been flagged. And since he had arrived, he had done several things to add to that reputation. There was a rumor that a holo existed of Ji going up against a trio of mercs, and being the only one to walk away. Bleyd was very interested in seeing that.
To Vaetes, he said, “Let’s go over and say hello.” As they turned and headed toward Ji, the admiral was amused to see the fighter’s nostrils flare a little, and his relaxed pose become just a bit more tense. He smiled. It could have just been his rank, but Bleyd didn’t think so. His file stated that Phow Ji had little respect for authority. No, Bleyd figured that Ji recognized in him the same thing that he had immediately seen in the Bunduki: a potentially dangerous opponent. Ji came to attention, albeit somewhat slowly. “At ease, Lieutenant Ji.”
“By your command, Admiral.” The fighter relaxed, bent his knees slightly, and shook his shoulders almost imperceptibly.
Getting ready to move, Bleyd thought. Excellent1. This man could take on twenty Black Sun thugs like the one Bleyd had bested orbitside without breaking a sweat.
“You know me?” Ji asked.
“Of course. I have heard that you are . . . an adept fighter.”
His tone, and the pause, were just enough to give his comment an archness that might or might not be sarcastic. So close that it co
uld have been nothing—or a calculated insult. Impossible to tell.
The two looked at each other for a second, each gaze cool and measuring.
Ji said, “Adept enough for anyone on this planet. Sir.”
Bleyd held a grin in check, though he wanted to show his teeth. The Bunduki was insolent. The comment was plainly a challenge. There had been a time, when he had been much younger, when Bleyd would have stripped off his skin-shirt at such a remark, and they would have danced right then and there. He wanted to do it now—and he could tell that Ji knew this, and was ready to go at it, too.
Three things stopped Bleyd from physically attacking the Bunduki who was standing there and inviting just that. First, he was an admiral of the fleet, and it was beneath him to be seen brawling in public. Such a match would have to take place behind closed doors and unwitnessed, were it to happen at all.
Second, Bleyd’s plans to redeem his family’s honor were still paramount, and a physical squabble with another officer, for whatever reasons, would draw unwanted attention from uplevels. He did not want to risk that.
Third—and this reason came hard, but he could not deny it—he wasn’t at all sure he could beat Phow Ji in a fair match. There was no doubt that he was stronger and faster, but the human was a combat champion, and his skills had been honed in dozens of matches, some of which had been to the death. Size and strength and speed all mattered, of course, but an opponent with enough skill could level that field. When two fully grown saber-fangs fought, the winner and the loser both came away bloody, and which was the victor was sometimes difficult to tell. Bleyd was a predator, and as such was willing to risk death, but smart killers did so only when the reward was worth the risk. Bragging rights for beating a combat champion did not fall into that category—at least, not on this day, and not in this place.
What if, he wondered briefly, he were to turn Ji loose in the rain forest and make it a hunt? That would give Bleyd the advantage, but even so, it might not end with him victorious. Such risk would definitely spice the game, but it was not, unfortunately, going to happen now.
“I would like to see you in action someday,” Bleyd said.
Ji nodded without breaking eye contact. Bleyd could see that he understood that the admiral was not backing down, but only postponing a possible confrontation. “I’d like that as well, Admiral. Sir.”
The two stood there for a few seconds, neither of them blinking. Finally, Bleyd turned to Vaetes. “You were going to show me the operating theater, Commander. And I expect that the field commanders will want to display their troops, who will no doubt be getting warm in this weather.”
Vaetes, who had kept a respectful distance from and a noncommittal expression about what must have seemed to him a very strange interlude, nodded. “Right this way, Admiral.”
Bleyd could feel Ji’s gaze on his back as he walked away. A pity, but it was true that a hunter without patience usually went hungry. There would be another time. Already, though, Bleyd felt better about his tour. There was nothing like a dangerous animal stalking you to get the blood circulating.
His enthusiasm dampened a bit as he remembered that there was other business to which he must attend at this particular Rimsoo, distasteful as it was. No rest for the being in charge . . .
It was time.
With the Rimsoo admiral planetside for his tour, there would not be a better opportunity, Den knew, to spring his trap for Filba. To see the larcenous Hutt’s many crimes finally brought to light—the embezzlement and usury and countless other illegal appropriations that Den had diligently discovered over the past several weeks, both through the HoloNet and by skillful interviews with the staff, all revealed right under Admiral Bleyd’s nose—what could be more fitting? Or more satisfying?
It hadn’t been easy. The data trail had been as serpentine as the Hutt’s own slime track after a massive cantina bender. The most incriminating indictment had come from one of the medical staff who had an uncle on the supply side. The uncle had in his possession encrypted data that implicated Filba in the rerouting of five hundred hectoliters of Anticeptin-D into the cargo hold of a black marketeer’s freighter two months ago. It wasn’t strong enough evidence by itself, and Filba had at least been smart enough not to bleed the same source twice, but coupled with the other infractions Den had discovered, it would be more than enough to take him down.
Den leaned back on his formcot and smiled. Payback would be sweet.
Over the hypersound speakers came the martial strains of the Republic Anthem’s first stanza—the music traditionally played whenever a ranking officer or visiting dignitary was present. Of course, Den was a noncom, so he was not technically obligated to turn out with the others. Still, no harm in showing a little courtesy.
He’d only spoken to the Sakiyan officer once, and that briefly, before he’d made the drop to Drongar. But from what he’d heard around the base, Admiral
Bleyd was held in reasonably high regard. He ran a tight operation, and there seemed to be little question of his personal courage, pride, and honor. Den didn’t know that much about Sakiyan culture, but he did know that the society was structured around complex family-political units, and that honor, dignity, and respect played a big part—so much so that there were a multitude of subtle, yet distinct, permutations, each with its own name and rules.
He emerged from the tent, blinking and, as always, slightly astonished at the stifling, sodden heat, and saw the officers, enlistees, and medical personnel lined up for inspection. The clone cohort was separate, their gleaming black-and-white-armored forms, all exactly the same height and body type, standing at attention in rows that, if not perfect, couldn’t have been off by more than a millimeter at best.
Why you would bother to inspect clones was beyond him. Seen one, seen them all.
Admiral Bleyd stood before them. He was an impressive figure, surely enough—tall and lean, his dress grays showing nary a wrinkle, and somehow Den knew that he wasn’t using an antistatic field generator. No wrinkle that knew what was good for it would come anywhere close to the admiral’s uniform.
The bald, burnished head gleamed in the sun, its dark bronze shining like an insect’s carapace. Den couldn’t see any sign of the admiral sweating. Maybe Sakiyans didn’t sweat. Or maybe it was just Admiral Bleyd who didn’t.
The reporter came to a stop not far from the officers’ line. He could see Filba—Not exactly hard to miss, he looks like something a space slug sneezed out. The
Hutt’s yellowish skin was even more mottled than usual, and he looked particularly slimy today. You don’t know what suffering is yet, Den silently promised the gigantic mollusk. At least this planet has an atmosphere, foul though it may be. Not like a prison on an asteroid, where all you’ll have to look at is rock . . .
The best time to drop his bombshell would be during the inspection tour—out of Filba’s earshot, obviously. Den tried to visualize the look of dismay on the Hutt’s face when security came to collect him.
Somewhat to his surprise, now that this elaborate revenge scheme he had worked on for the past several weeks was about to pay off, he felt remarkably unenthused about the whole thing. Blowing the whistle on the Hutt suddenly seemed like more of an obligation, a duty, than savory retribution. He didn’t feel the joy he thought he would.
It wasn’t just payback for the Hutt’s recent treatment of him. He’d nearly gotten Den killed on Jabiim, as well. No, Filba had had this coming for a long time. But now—and this struck him with something very close to real horror—Den realized might actually be feeling reluctant to do it.
You’re getting soft, Den told himself. Losing your edge. Must be the heat. You gotta get off this planet.
Then he noticed the admiral pause slightly as he passed the Hutt. There was eye contact between the two—a very quick glance, something that, unless you’d been an investigative reporter with your sensors attuned by years in the field, was virtually unnoticeable.
But Den noticed it.
Although he was aware that he might be reading a terabyte or two into that look that wasn’t necessarily there, still, the implications were . . . unsettling. He would bet his droptacs that there was something going on between the Hutt and the Sakiyan, and that it would be, at the very least, highly unorthodox. What would an admiral of the fleet and a supply sergeant have to talk about?
It was a lot to read into a single, almost subliminal glance. It might be nothing more than distaste for Hutts in general that had caused Bleyd’s look, but Den Dhur was adept at what he did, and he had learned to trust his reporter’s instincts—maker knew they had been hard enough to come by. And the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. The deeper his investigations into Filba’s malfeasance had gone, the more obvious it had become that the Hutt couldn’t be handling a black-market operation like this by himself. He had to be getting help from higher up. Den just hadn’t realized how high up the help was.
Of a moment, he did a fast revision of his plans.
Looks like I won’t be acquainting the admiral with your iniquities after all, you sack of slime. Certainly not until he was more knowledgeable about Bleyd’s involvement. The rot had spread higher than he’d thought. If he went tripping into the admiral’s presence and began blathering about Filba’s crimes to his partner in those crimes, who just happened to be somebody who could have him shot with a wave of his hand— well, that could be a fatal error.
Star Wars: Medstar I: Battle Surgeons Page 15