Star Wars: Medstar II: Jedi Healer

by Michael Reaves

  His choice of species to impersonate was somewhat limited, due to the shape of his own features. The truncated trunk of a Kubaz nose hid his own beaklike mouth very well, however, and the goggles that the bug-eaters wore in bright sunlight covered his violet eyes. No one glanced twice at him at the spaceport; Kubaz were ubiquitous throughout the galaxy.

  Kaird was waiting for the latest transport to land. Along with the supplies and matériel it was delivering, it was also bringing a team who had been highly recommended to him. One was an Umbaran, the other a Falleen. According to Lens they were not cheap antenna-breakers, but possessed subtlety and skill. They were opportunists, con artists who made their way along the space lanes from world to world by virtue of various scams. Like most grifters, Lens had said, they had had periods of solvency, even wealth, and periods of desperation. The latter was their current lot in life.

  Which meant that they might be useful to Kaird.

  The transport lowered on repulsor beams down through the crimson and copper spore clouds, was admitted through the force-dome’s interrupt, then settled on its pad. Droids and binary loadlifters began unloading the cargo. Kaird watched the disembarkation ramp. There were only a few passengers on this trip: a Kaminoan there for some sort of biological inspection, and a trio of human officers to discuss the bota plant shipment quotas with Colonel Vaetes. Some droids, and his two potential employees, rounded out the list.

  His two prospects were the last to debark, followed by an RC-101 “redcap” droid carrying their luggage. Neither seemed disturbed by the hot, soupy air, even though the spores were particularly bad today. Kaird appraised the prospects. They appeared as different as it was possible for two carbon-based humanoids to be, so dissimilar as to be almost ludicrous. The Umbaran was short, perhaps one and a quarter meters, bald and pallid. The Falleen, on the other hand, was more than a head taller and wore her hair gathered in a topknot. She walked proudly, like a warrior. She carried no weapons, but from the fluid play of her muscles under the tight synthcloth one-piece, Kaird judged that she would be dangerous even unarmed.

  In contrast, the Umbaran looked like a strong wind would send him sailing away over the poptrees, particularly with that voluminous cloak enveloping him from neck to feet. Kaird had done his research on both species, and knew that the garment was called a shadowcloak. To most humanoid species it appeared as chalk-white as the Umbaran’s skin, but not to other Umbarans, since their vision range was primarily in the ultraviolet wavelength, below three hundred nanometers.

  Nor did it appear that way to Kaird. The winged raptors that were his ancestors had had access to a visual palette wider than the narrow slit of radiation available to most eyes. Though hundreds of thousands of generations removed, the Nediji eye could still see deep into both ends of the visible spectrum. To him the cloak was a churning riot of colors for which few languages beside his own had names: berl, crynor, nusp, onsible…

  It really was beautiful. As the Umbaran walked, the cloak’s designs seemed to eddy and swirl into ever-new shades and hues, a constant, kaleidoscopic play of light and shadow. A magnificent garment, Kaird thought. He had seen rulers of worlds who were content to wear far less.

  He stepped forward and greeted them, the vocoder chip in the mask imitating a harsh Kubindi accent. “Hunandin of Apiida Clan, at your service. I have been directed by our mutual friend to welcome you to Drongar.” The “mutual friend” was, of course, the spy, Lens. “How may I be of use to you?”

  The two regarded him. Kaird felt a definite tug of something—yearning? charisma?—toward the Falleen. He knew the probable cause of this. The reptiloids could give off pheromones with a broad chemosignal base that subtly—or not so subtly—influenced many different sentients. He wondered if she was releasing the pheromones on purpose or as a reflex action. It didn’t matter—as long as he was aware of them, his mind was disciplined enough to cope.

  Then he was shocked when the Umbaran spoke. “Fly free, fly straight,” he said, “Brother of the Air.”

  The Nest Blessing, spoken with the proper laryngeal inflection! How? How did they know? His disguise was good enough to fool everyone in the camp, even other Kubaz. There was no way—

  Wait. He recalled now another fact about Umbarans: they were reported to have paramental abilities, to be able to see and even influence others’ thoughts. Wonderful. Yet another mindplayer in Rimsoo Seven. A miracle all our heads don’t explode.

  Evidently he wasn’t the only one who had done research. Few non-Nediji knew any of the language of The Flock. Lens did, and now these two…

  He said in a low voice, glancing about to make sure no one was within earshot: “I congratulate you on your perspicacity, but let me assure you it is to our mutual benefit to maintain the illusion of—”

  “Of course,” the Falleen said. The Umbaran’s voice had been little more than a husky whisper; in contrast, hers was rich and full of life. “Your secret identity is safe with us, Hunandin.” There was a slight twist of sarcasm when she spoke the name. “And excuse our poor manners; we have yet to introduce ourselves.” She drew herself up, and Kaird realized that she was slightly taller than he was. “My name is Thula.” She gestured to the Umbaran. “This is my associate, Squa Tront.”

  “Delighted,” the Umbaran whispered dryly. “Might there be some place on this forsaken world where one can get a drink?”

  Inside his mask, Kaird smiled. “Certainly. Come with me; we have much to talk about.”

  6

  Perhaps half a dozen meters behind Barriss’s kiosk was a small clearing bounded on three sides by thick and verdant waxy-leaved croaker bushes—so called because of the odd sound the leaves made when rustling in a breeze. The thick plants were half again her height, and it was here Barriss came to practice various fighting techniques with her lightsaber. Such training wasn’t something Jedi ordinarily did in public, but this place was as private as she could find. The only way somebody would see her was if they happened to pass by the open end of the little clearing. Since the local swamp started a dozen meters past that, it was unlikely anyone would be walking around in the ooze for their health.

  The heat lay upon the small open space like a sodden blanket. Under it, and under the loose brown robes she wore, she sweated, the perspiration soaking hair and skin, hardly evaporating at all in the high humidity. Unpleasant, but a fact of life on Drongar. She’d gotten used to carrying a hydropak with her at all times; to do otherwise was to risk dehydration.

  As she had done countless times before, Barriss ran through the basic arm- and shoulder-limbering exercises, cutting and slashing the fetid tropical air in simple two- and three-combination moves, switching her weapon from hand to hand. The martial movements she danced were primarily those of Form III, one of the seven fighting systems that the Jedi had developed over the ages. Master Unduli favored Form III over the others, even though it was disparaged by some as primarily a defensive discipline. It was true that it had been developed originally as a response to blasterfire and other projectile weapons, but over the centuries it had developed into much more. “Of all the seven forms,” her Master had told her, “Form Three, with its emphasis on anticipating and blocking lightspeed energy blasts, requires the greatest connection to the Force. The road is long, but it is worth the journey, for a true master of Form Three is invincible.”

  The lightsaber’s power hum was a comforting drone, the hard-edged energy beam as familiar to her as her own arm. She could not remember a time when she had not wielded a lightsaber. As a child, there had been the low-powered practice models, with which she and other young Padawans had dueled. They were strong enough to deliver a powerful jolt; when one of them stung you, you knew it.

  Pain was a most tasking instructor.

  When she turned sixteen she had built her own fully powered unit, choosing a blue crystal as her beam’s signature hue. It had been hooked to her belt ever since— she knew every part of it as well as she knew her own fingers. As part of her tr
aining, she had taken it apart and reassembled it using only the Force. It was more than a weapon—it was an extension of her body, an almost organic part of her…

  She smiled as she stepped forward, spinning the lightsaber rapidly before her, creating what seemed a solid shield of light. Thinking too much again. Concentrate on the moment.

  At that instant, there came a blast of cold air, as if someone had opened a freezer door just behind her, shocking in its intensity. It was gone almost before she knew what it was, but the combination of her drifting thoughts and the frigid breeze startled her. She knew immediately that the lightsaber, now moving across her lower body and headed up and around, was—too low.

  She heard rather than felt the tip of the pulsing blade slice through the top of her boot. The boot was spun-plast orthotic, pliable yet extremely tough. When she’d bought the boots, they’d come with a guarantee—wear them out and the manufacturer would replace them, free, for as long as the original owner lived. Spun-plast would turn the edge of a sharp durasteel blade, or even a vibroknife.

  There were few material objects proof against a lightsaber, however, and tough as it was, spun-plast wasn’t among those.

  Barriss quickly extinguished the lightsaber. She looked down and saw blood welling in the surgically neat slice across the top of her boot.

  She was astonished—not by the wound, but by the error that had resulted in the accident. How many times had she done this form? Five thousand? Ten? This was a beginner’s mistake, a blunder that would be inexcusable in a Padawan child nowhere near her skill level.

  Had she imagined it? It was tempting to think so, but when the moving air had rustled the croaker bushes, she had distinctly heard their unmistakable, mournful sound. The breeze had been real.

  She hung the lightsaber on her belt, lifted her foot, and pulled the boot off, balancing easily on the other foot.

  The cut was narrow and not too deep, maybe three centimeters long, and a couple of centimeters above her second and third toes. The epidermal edges were burned, but the cut was still bleeding freely; evidently the spun-plast had absorbed just enough of the blade’s energy to prevent complete cauterization of the wound. Barriss stood there, still balanced on one leg, staring at the injury. She shook her head.

  She reached for the Force, felt it flowing through her, and concentrated on the cut. There was no danger of her bleeding to death from it, but she certainly didn’t fancy hopping back to the base for treatment, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

  The steady flow ebbed, then stopped. She could feel the pain beginning to throb, now; she breathed deeply, made space for it, shunted it into that space. She mentally applied the Force to the wound again. The edges seemed to draw together a bit, but then gaped again.

  “Better let me take a look at that,” came a voice from one side. She looked up, surprised. It was Lieutenant Divini, the new surgeon.

  “I can manage it,” she said.

  The boy—Uli, she remembered—whose issue coverall was clotted with swamp mud to midthighs, stepped forward and peered at her foot. “Looks as if you nicked a couple of tendons. They’ll need to be synostatted, plus you’re going to need three or four staples and a dermaseal, at the least. Lot of nasty little microorganisms swarming around this place.” He waved his hand to encompass the entire planet. “Better patched and sealed than infected and sorry, don’t you think?”

  He was right, of course. Barriss nodded. “And how do you propose to do this?”

  He grinned. “No problem—I’m packing.” He patted a small pouch on his belt. “Got my trusty kit right here.” He gestured at a relatively dry spot of ground. “Be seated, m’lady.”

  Barriss sat, restraining a smile, and Uli squatted next to her in that relaxed, rear-on-heels position available only to those with flexible ankles. He opened the medpac, laid the sterile sheet out and triggered it, then slipped into a pair of thinskin gloves while she positioned her foot. The field tickled as she extended her leg through it.

  He used a flash-sterilizer on the wound, the bright strobe of actinic blue and the accompanying zap! indicating that the injury had been cleansed of bacteria and germs, then reached for a sprayer of nullicaine.

  “I won’t need that,” she said.

  “Right. I forgot.”

  He put the anesthetic back in the kit. He lubed a resector with synostat, and used a hemostat to spread the cut wide. Bending close, Barriss could see that the tendons leading from her toes had small cuts in the sheaths, revealing a pair of paler, pearly white ellipses.

  She concentrated on keeping the pain at bay.

  Uli dabbed synostat onto the cuts and waited. In five seconds the cuts changed color to match the uncut tendon sheaths.

  “You forgot what?” she asked.

  “I did my internship at Big Zoo, on Alderaan,” he said, reaching for the biostapler. “I treated an injured Jedi once. Great body control—the ability to stop minor bleeding, shut off pain—very useful.”

  He inserted the tip of the stapler into the wound and triggered it. The staple—which, Barriss knew, was made of a biodegradable memory-plastic—formed a tiny loop. It would hold for a week or so, then be absorbed by her body. By then the wound would be healed.

  “How did that happen?” she asked, referring to his story. “The Jedi have their own healers on most of the Core worlds, including Alderaan. They don’t usually see outside doctors.”

  He dialed another staple into the applicator’s tip. “One fine evening, a bunch of drunken hootyboos decided to take apart a cantina in downtown Aldara. Started a riot that boiled out into the street. The Republic Senator was passing by, and her flitter got caught in the melee. She had a Jedi protecting her. There were thirty, thirty-five rioters who took it upon themselves to turn her flitter onto its back. The Jedi—a Cerean, as I recall—ah… objected to this action. The mob decided to teach the Jedi a lesson.”

  “What happened?”

  He laughed as he triggered the third staple shut. Barriss looked at his face, thought, Someday, when he’s old enough to have laugh lines, he’ll be stunningly handsome.

  “What happened was, four surgical interns—including me—and two residents spent the rest of the night reattaching hands, feet, arms, and legs to the rioters. Lightsabers leave neat, surgical cuts. Every bacta tank in the place was fired up. The Senator wasn’t hurt, but they brought her in to check, of course, and her bodyguard came along. He had a vibroknife wound on one arm, good-sized laceration, all the way to the ulna. Wasn’t bleeding, though, and it didn’t seem to be bothering him. I cleaned and stapled it for him.”

  Barriss smiled. She wondered who the Jedi had been. Ki-Adi-Mundi was the only Cerean Jedi she knew, and the talents of a Jedi Master would not be squandered on a bodyguarding assignment these days, even for a Senator. Probably one of the many who died at Geonosis, she thought. We are so few now, so few …

  Uli put four staples inside, then looked at the external wound edges. “Even with a dermaseal, I’m thinking a couple of extra staples to close the skin,” he said.

  She nodded. That would keep the strain off the edges of the healing cut when she walked.

  He began the external repair, his movements very neat and precise.

  “You do nice work, Doctor Divini.”

  “Call me Uli,” he said. “Doctor Divini is my father. Also my grandfather. And my great-grandfather. All of them still in practice together.”

  “Disappointed them when you didn’t go into the theater, did you?”

  He laughed. “A Jedi with a sense of humor. Will wonders never cease.”

  After he finished, she thanked him. He stood and gave a grandiose bow. “Glad to be of service,” he said. “It’s what I do.” He watched her with a speculative frown as she put her boot back on. “Now, an ordinary human or humanoid, it’d take five, six days to heal. With you… what? Three?”

  “Two. Two and a half, at the most.”

  Uli shook his head. “Wish we could bottle that.�
�

  The unsettling image of beings dying in the OT arose unbidden in her mind, and she could see by his expression that it had in his as well. She changed the subject.

  “You spend much of your time slogging around in the swamp?”

  He smiled, and once again he looked about fourteen. “My mother collects Alderaanian flare-wings,” he said. “Some of the bugs on this world look very similar; might be panspermic relatives. Thought I’d bag a few for her.”

  Suddenly his name sounded a chord of recognition. “I saw a display once, in the Coruscant Xenozoology Museum. The most extensive collection of flare-wings in the known galaxy. Filled up three of the biggest rooms in the building. Presented by the renowned mudopterist, Elana Divini. Any relation?”

  “Mother never does things halfway.” He looked at his chrono. “Gotta run. I’m back on duty in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks again for the stitchery.”

  “Thanks for the opportunity.”

  After he was gone, Barriss walked around the clearing. Her foot was fine, and it would heal quickly. But that sudden cold wind she had felt was nowhere to be found now. She’d been on this hothouse world for so long she’d almost forgotten what cold air felt like. How could a cold breeze possibly be produced anywhere on Drongar, without mechanical aid? And inside a force-dome? It was human body-heat temperature out here within moments of sunrise, and it never got much cooler than that, even at night.

  More importantly, even if a chill breeze had touched her, how could she have allowed her concentration to lapse to the extent that she had cut herself with her lightsaber? The last time that had happened, she had been nine years old—and it had been a nick on her wrist, nothing nearly as bad as this.

  No two ways about it—she had reacted like a rank amateur.

  Barriss started back to her kiosk. This was a bad sign. The longer she stayed on Drongar, the more she seemed to be moving away, not toward, her goal of becoming a Jedi Knight.