Star Wars: Medstar II: Jedi Healer

by Michael Reaves

  Jos blinked. Was the old man a mind reader? Didn’t they have enough of them here already?

  “I found out you were on this world before I applied for this duty. I… inquired about you. I know why you are willing to talk to me. I know about you and the Lorrdian nurse.”

  Jos felt his temper rise abruptly. Kersos must have sensed it; he shook his head. “Don’t blow a major vessel, son. I’m not telling you what you should or should not do. I’m only offering my experience. When I elected to marry Feleema, I never looked back. I was young, brave, and she was, in my mind, worth all of my disapproving family put together. I had her—I didn’t need them.

  “Then, suddenly I didn’t have her—and I didn’t have them, either.” He paused. “Family is sometimes more important than we think. Especially when they are still there, but denied to you. Things happen. People change, they separate, for all kinds of reasons. And they die. The woman you love today might turn into somebody you can’t stand five or ten or fifteen years from now. Or she might not be here at all. There are no guarantees.”

  Jos nodded. “I know. Just tell me this: if you had it to do over again, knowing what you know now—would you do the same thing?”

  His great-uncle smiled, and it was not a happy expression. “I’m not you, Jos. My mistakes were mine—yours will be your own.”

  “Not a responsive answer.”

  The older man shrugged. “Maybe not. But it’s true.” He paused. “There are times when there is no question in my mind—yes, I’d have done it exactly the same. Six years with Feleema was better than six hundred years of my family.

  “But there have been other times when I wonder: what would it have been like, to see my brother’s or sister’s children grow up? The nephews and nieces I never met, never saw, never even knew were born? I couldn’t go home for my father’s funeral. My mother is still alive— I’ve kept track through the census data banks—but I am dead to her. The choice I made was simple—as simple as it was irrevocable. But it wasn’t easy. And it never got any easier. There’s an old saying, Jos, maybe you’ve heard it: there’s no easy way to shave a Wookiee.”

  Jos sighed. Just what he needed to hear.

  9

  After Jos had left the table, the remaining players discussed the new commanding officer, Erel Kersos, for a few minutes. “I hear he’s much more hands-on than Admiral Bleyd was,” Barriss said.

  “A Bespin cloud creature is more hands-on than that brain case was,” Den said. “They never did find his assassin, you know. There’s a thought to keep you nice and cozy at night.”

  The CardShark began to deal cards again. Den held up a hand. “We’re done. Just finishing our drinks.”

  The casino droid paid no attention. “Dantooine double-hand,” it said. “Place your bets, pplleeeaaass—”

  The CardShark’s voice suddenly droned off as its arms drooped. It slowly spiraled to a resting place on a nearby empty table. The players looked at each other in puzzlement. Then, as one, they turned to look at I-Five.

  “What did you do?” Barriss demanded.

  If droids could shrug, I-Five would have done so. “I shut it down. It was hardly the most sparkling of conversationalists.”

  “You weren’t anywhere near it,” Den said.

  “True. It wasn’t necessary. I simply aimed a microwave beam at one of its EM receptors and overloaded a capacitor. I knew it would go into emergency shutdown mode.”

  “Maybe trying to get you drunk isn’t such a good idea,” Den mused. “You’re dangerous enough as it is.”

  The other three looked at the Sullustan and the droid skeptically. “Why would you want to get a droid drunk?” the Padawan asked.

  “Not just any droid.” Den stood and threw an arm around I-Five’s shoulders, an accomplishment made possible only by the fact that the droid remained seated. “I-Five needs to let his dewflaps dangle a little.”

  “Thanks for that,” I-Five said. “It’s a thoughtful gesture, but I think we’ve already decided that it’s impossi—”

  “You might be able to accomplish it,” Klo Merit broke in, “by varying the oscillator signal so that the phase harmonics shift into a multipulse instead of a standard pulse configuration.”

  Everyone turned and stared at the minder. Merit spread wide, four-fingered hands, the short fur on their backs shading to dark leathery palms. “What? I can’t have more than one skill?”

  “It might work,” I-Five said thoughtfully. “The nonlinear feedback pattern established could create a new heuristic response.”

  “Your synaptic grid processor would have to be in electron depletion mode,” the Equani pointed out.

  “Of course. That goes without saying. Perhaps programming could be devised…”

  Den cocked a suspicious eye at Merit. “Where did you pick up all this esoterica? And don’t lie to a reporter—we always know.”

  Merit smiled. “I’ve had a number of jobs before I settled into minding. Including six months working as a boson wrangler for Industrial Automaton.”

  Den shrugged. “Who knew?” He turned back to I-Five. “What say we give it a try? And just to make sure you’re not flying solo, I’ll be your copilot.” He gestured to the serving droid, who swerved her single wheel and headed in their direction. “Hey, Teedle, bring me a Pan-Galactic Gar—”

  “Quiet!” Tolk had her head cocked in a listening pose—a pose they all knew all too well. In the sudden buzzing quiet a sound slowly became audible—a sound they also all knew too well.

  “Lifters!” Tolk headed out of the cantina at a fast trot, followed by Barriss. Merit, moving his bulk with surprising ease and speed, left as well.

  “Looks like we’ll have to temporarily forgo pushing back the boundaries of science,” I-Five said to Den as he started for the door. “Hold that thought.”

  Others at nearby tables were also leaving, heading for their various stations. Only the three sentients in the corner—the Kubaz, the Umbaran, and the Falleen— stayed put.

  Den shrugged, and settled back to wait for his drink.

  They sat in the cantina, in the middle of the midday meal crowd, hidden, as Kaird liked to think, in plain sight.

  Kaird, still in his Kubaz disguise—thank the Egg for a working air cooler, finally—leaned back and looked at his two potential employees. They returned his gaze, both faces noncommittal, as far as he could tell; he’d always had trouble reading those fleshy blobs and gashes that served as faces for most humanoids. There was no question as to whether they would take the job, however—if you were an outlaw and Black Sun made you an offer, it was not in your best interests to refuse.

  Whether they could do the job was the question.

  They ordered drinks, and then, before Kaird could say a word, the Falleen female said, “Okay. We’ll do it. What would our end be?”

  “Just like that?” Kaird said, vaguely disappointed. He’d expected some pretense at haggling, at least.

  “You’re Black Sun,” Thula said. “Do we look stupid?”

  “How? How will you manage it?”

  As Kaird watched the Falleen, her pale green skin began to change color, shading into a warmer, reddish orange 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 a
mong 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 Triparates 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 thoughtshield 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 was always 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 set up 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 onplanet 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 t’ree local days Hol’Net ’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-match 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 the clone’s mediastinum. Shrapnel extraction was the cause of nearly all the invasive 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.

  “I 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 ease 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 administrative 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 other socially at the HoloNet Entertainment show. And he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be there—or anywhere on the same hemisphere—when they did.

  Column stared at the decoded message on the flat-screen, feeling somewhat queasy at the content. As much 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 have 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.