Star Wars®: MedStar II: Jedi Healer

by Michael Reaves

  “Someday,” she promised. If we survive. Then she moved down the hall and into the OT scrub room, slipped into a surgical gown, but didn’t bother to scrub or glove. She wouldn’t be getting that close to a patient.

  She headed for Jos and Tolk.

  “Barriss. What’s twirlin’?” Jos said. She could hear the change in his voice. Whatever his demons, they had been greatly diminished.

  “I need to speak to Tolk for a moment.”

  Tolk raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  Barriss took a deep breath. Here was a risk. If Tolk was the spy, asking her to drop her thoughtshield would give away the fact that Barriss suspected. She might have a weapon, and if she was the spy, she wouldn’t have any problems with using it. Barriss could protect herself—she could reach her lightsaber under her surgical gown through the slit on the side in a heartbeat—but it might put the others here at risk. A stray blaster bolt could hit anybody.

  Another mortar round impacted upon the shield. Den was correct, the dome would shrug it off—assuming it didn’t malfunction again—but it was nerve-wracking, to say the least. And there was no way to tell when the attacks would escalate.

  The confrontation was a risk, but Barriss felt it was a small one. And she knew she had to take it—life was not always about safe harbors. Sometimes you had to sail on stormy seas and risk the chance of sinking. There was no time to wait for a more opportune moment. Who knew what other vile plans the spy might have already put into play?

  “Barriss?”

  “Tolk, I need you to drop your thoughtshield and open yourself to me. It’s important.”

  Tolk did not hesitate. “Okay.”

  With that single word, Barriss knew she already had her answer. The mind-probe merely confirmed it. What poured from Tolk was suffused with love for Jos Vandar and her own self-respect and pride in herself as a healer. It had nothing to do with espionage or sabotage.

  That meant there was only one person left who was a reasonable suspect.

  “Thank you, Tolk.”

  Tolk said, “And we’re doing this… why?”

  Barriss looked at her and Jos. Decided they deserved to know—Jos, especially.

  She took a deep breath, and told them.

  Klo Merit—also known as Column and Lens—looked around his office for the final time. The artillery rounds bursting more or less harmlessly against the protective force-dome were no threat, but once again nobody had bothered to let him know precisely when they would begin their real attack, and it was irritating in the extreme. He was a valuable resource to the Separatists—why did they continue to risk him so?

  Well. He would take that up with them later. For now, he had a bribed driver standing by. He would sneak out in a supply vehicle and get away from the Rimsoo. Once he was out of range, he would get rid of the driver, then trigger his coded transponder. Any battle droid that came across him would recognize him as a friendly, not an enemy, and he could make his way back through the lines with no trouble. Hardly the same as having a parade thrown in his honor when he arrived, but that was a spy’s lot. In quietly, out quietly, and if you did what you were supposed to do, nobody ever knew who you really were.

  “Time to go,” he said out loud. He had done what needed to be done, and while he had some regrets, the situation was what it was. He headed for the door, opened it—

  And stopped in surprise. Jos Vandar stood before him, a blaster in his hand, pointed right at him.

  39

  The mortar rounds fell more often, and Den’s comment about particle beam and laser weaponry was proving to be valid—even in the bright sunshine, the destructive rays of coherent energy were visible in the distance, reflecting off the dust particles and spores in the air. So far, none of them had passed close to the dome, but their luck wouldn’t hold forever. As Barriss hurried to find Vaetes and report her suspicion—her certainty—of Merit’s guilt, she noticed that a thunderstorm was heading their way. That was good—heavy rain interfered with tactical beam weapons, absorbing or deflecting much of their force. Probably didn’t do battle droids any good to be hit by lightning, either. But as the sky darkened, the weaponry flashes seemed to be coming more and more frequently, mixed with those of the natural lightning.

  War, in all its deadly aspects, was coming on swift feet.

  The sense of impending doom was nearly palpable. It was too late now for the capture of the Separatist spy to do them much good, Barriss knew. He could be made to answer for his crimes—assuming any of the Republic forces survived to do that—but with the attack obviously in full swing, Merit wasn’t Barriss’s biggest worry. The survival of the camp was. Unless a miracle came to pass, the combined mortar and energy weapon attacks would pound them all into paste.

  You can stop it.

  It was an almost tangible voice in her head. She was carrying a popper of bota in her pocket. Just take it out, inject it into her arm, and in a few seconds she would have the ability to turn the tide of conflict, no question about it. She knew this. She couldn’t say how it would manifest, exactly; probably it wouldn’t be as simple as just waving her hands and watching all the attacking battle droids shut down and fall over. A pity they weren’t controlled by a single orbiting broadcast power source, like the army the Trade Federation had fielded during the Battle of Naboo, but someone had wised up since then. Nevertheless, somewhere in the vast and omnipotent energies of the Force there was a way to stop them, and she could, with the bota’s help, reach it.

  She knew this. There was no doubt.

  How would it feel to have that much power, to be able to stop a war? To go from being a Padawan to becoming the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy in a matter of moments—one who could use the Force in ways no one had ever been able to even comprehend, much less use, before? To direct vast energies, primal powers, like an active volcano channeling molten rock and hurling it in erupting fountains of lava? Nothing could stand before it. There was nothing in the galaxy that could resist the Force, if it could but be channeled properly, shaped and primed and driven by her will.

  She reached into her pocket and gripped the injector.

  Think of all the lives you can save.

  Yes. That was what she did, wasn’t it? That was her primary mission. She was a healer. She saved lives. Only this time, it would be on an enormously larger scale.

  The storm drew close. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, to join the sound of mortars exploding against the protective force-dome. It was true that Master Unduli or Master Yoda or Master Windu would be so much better suited to this task, but they weren’t here. Barriss was the only Jedi in a hundred cubic parsecs, as far as she knew.

  The moment had come. She had to choose—now.

  Take the bota and save them all, or—

  Don’t take the bota, and know that countless beings— including some whom she had come to know as friends— would certainly die.

  Barriss pulled the injector from her pocket. By now the environment had become virtually apocalyptic—the exploding mortars, thunder, and lightning were almost constant, and in addition lasers and particle beams were starting to strike the dome itself. One hit almost directly above her, and the resulting cascade of high-energy pulses along the dome’s outer aspect was nearly blinding. Supposedly the field kept out gamma rays, alpha particles, and other deadly radiation, but for how much longer? Already she could feel her skin tingling in the ionized air, could taste the residual ozone.

  The choice was simple enough, wasn’t it? Why even hesitate? The gain here far outweighed the risks; the end more than justified the means. She had been to the heart of the Force already—how could it be wrong to go back now and seize it, use it for such a noble purpose? It would feel good, so good, it was right …

  She cleared her left sleeve, held the injector in her right hand. She positioned it over the inside of her wrist. Another buzzing lance of energy—she couldn’t tell if it was a laser or a particle beam—hit, and more fireworks resulted. Barriss touched th
e popper to her skin. She put her thumb on the firing stud—

  And, as she was about to trigger it, a memory rose within her, a memory of Oa Park on Coruscant, of a lesson she had learned there, one that she had already applied here on Drongar, when facing the deadly fighter Phow Ji.

  The memory of a conversation between her and her teacher about the dark side:

  There may come a time when you experience this, Barriss. I hope not, but if ever it happens, you must recognize and resist it.

  It will feel evil?

  Oh, no. It will feel better than anything you have ever experienced, better than you would have thought anything could feel. It will feel empowering, fulfilling, satisfying. Worst of all, it will feel right. And therein lies the real danger.

  Barriss Offee stood under stormy and violent skies, only the slightest pressure of her finger away from rejoining the Force in a way that had been more wonderful than anything she had ever felt, or had ever imagined anything could feel.

  And in that moment—a heartbeat, an eon—she understood what her teacher had been trying to tell her that day in the park. To give in to the dark side was the path to ruination, to corruption worse even than death. Dead, you could not harm anyone. But alive, and with the dark side driving you, you could become a monster.

  She remembered as well something she had told Uli a couple of weeks ago:

  Those who embrace the dark side don’t see themselves as evil. They believe that they are doing the right thing for the right reasons. The dark side warps their thinking, and they come to believe that the end justifies the means, no matter how awful those means might be.

  Had her previous experience truly been of the dark side? No, she decided. As she had also told Uli, the Force did not choose sides. But to wield that kind of power, no matter how noble the intent, would almost certainly lead to ruination—if not today, then tomorrow, or the day after. Each time, the temptation to use it would become more compelling, the reasons for doing so more justifiable. She could feel the truth of that to her core. That kind of power could not help but be addicting. It would consume anyone who was less than absolutely pure, less than all-wise, less than wholly selfless. Barriss was by no means a bad person, she knew that. But she was not perfect, and such contact with the Force on a regular basis needed perfection to survive uncorrupted.

  Did it make sense to have the powers of a god, without the wisdom of a god?

  “Barriss?”

  She had been so deep in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed Uli trotting toward her. Startled, she looked at him.

  “You okay?” he called, through another crash of thunder.

  She smiled. Carefully, she lifted the popper from her arm and put it back into her pocket. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, actually, I am.”

  Another beam strike, another chromatic spill of ionization. Uli glanced up nervously. “Everybody is supposed to get inside. Use a dosimeter to make sure you’re not getting cooked by backscatter radiation—they expect the dome to go soon. And you’d better pack—just the absolute essentials, one small bag per person. If the droid infantry gets through the troops, we’ll have to move— fast. Right now, word is that it’s an even fight, but who knows which way it might go?”

  “I understand. Thanks, Uli.”

  He nodded and hurried away into the gathering gloom. She turned to go as well, but something stopped her. In that moment, Barriss felt something new rise within her, a certainty as strong and real as her journey to the center of the Force had been: she was a Padawan no longer.

  And the knowledge of why welled in her, equally unmistakable:

  You truly became a Jedi Knight on the day when you realized that you already were one.

  Standing there, amid the chaos and cacophony of the storm and the Separatist attack, Barriss Offee threw back her head and laughed.

  40

  Merit said, “Jos? What is it?”

  He stared at the human blocking his way. The blaster in Jos’s hand was dead still, as if the man’s arm had been carved from wood.

  “You killed Zan,” Jos said, tonelessly.

  Fear blossomed in Merit’s gut, a flower made of frozen nitrogen. He let none of it show. Somehow, Jos had become suspicious. It didn’t mean his cover had been blown—were that the case, he would most likely be facing Colonel Vaetes and several military secs instead of the Rimsoo’s chief surgeon. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to talk his way out of a tight spot, and, unless his powers of empathy and persuasion had vanished completely, it wouldn’t be the last.

  His expression was mildly quizzical, his tone solicitous as he said, “No. Zan died when the Separatists attacked. The transport was hit by a stray round. You were there, Jos. So was I, remember?”

  “I remember,” Jos said. Another beam of focused energy struck the dome, and the resulting pyrotechnic display momentarily backlit him. It almost seemed as if he had come here from some other, higher plane, a demon bent on vengeance.

  “I remember,” he said again. “I remember also how you showed me how to work through my grief, Klo. How your understanding, your ability to do your job so well helped me heal, helped me put it behind me. I owe you for that, Klo. Or I would—but, since you were involved in calling in the Separatist strike, I think that kinda zeros out any obligation on my part. Don’t you?”

  How could he know? He can’t know. He suspects, but he can’t know. I was too careful, I left nothing that would—

  Forget about that now. Deal with the present problem. He could turn this around. He was, after all, an adept at emotional manipulation and control. Given time, he felt sure he could convince Jos that the man was wrong, that he had made a mistake.

  Time, however, was growing short.

  “You’re under a lot of stress, Jos,” Merit said. “I don’t know where this delusion is coming from, but I think we should table any further discussion until we’re both safely offworld.”

  Jos laughed, but Merit’s empathic abilities sensed no humor. Instead he sensed rage, held in check by cold determination, like an ice cap plugging a volcanic vent.

  “Sorry,” Jos said. “That just struck me as funny—you thinking you’re going anywhere.” Thunder rumbled as if echoing his words.

  Merit realized two things right then. One, that Jos Vandar wasn’t operating on a hunch or suspicion. He knew. How didn’t matter. And that led to realization number two: if he didn’t kill Jos, Jos was going to kill him. He’d played too many card games with the man to believe otherwise.

  He sighed. He genuinely liked Jos, liked and admired the man. He had wished to leave Drongar without having to kill again. But wishes seldom came true.

  Hidden in his right coat sleeve was a small hold-out blaster.

  “Speaking of stress,” Jos said, “I have to think you’re under a fair amount as well. How could you do it, Klo? What could possibly cause you to betray your friends? Your clients? To kill people you knew, people you worked with, ate with, played cards with?”

  Shoot him. Shoot him and go. Every second you waste talking with him puts you in greater peril.

  “Have you ever heard of the Nharl system?” Merit asked.

  “No.”

  “There were five planets around the local sun. One of them was my homeworld, Equanus. You know why you don’t see many Equani in the galaxy, Jos? It’s because there are only a handful of us left—a few hundred, maybe a thousand at most—of a species that once numbered almost a billion. And do you know why there are so few of us now? It’s because only those of us who were offworld two years, six months, and three days ago survived.”

  Merit had never actually told anybody the story before. He knew he was being foolish, if not downright suicidal. But it was as if a psychic dam had burst. He wasn’t sure he could stop the words now, even if he wanted to do so.

  “Two years, six months, and three days ago, a solar flare burst from our sun that was over ten light-minutes long. A huge, unheard-of, massive eruption, far greater than any the st
ar had produced in ten million years. A flare that jetted forth with such power and force that Equanus was cooked. The atmosphere and oceans boiled away in minutes; the land was turned into a burned-out cinder. Our scientists saw it coming, but too late. It arrived before anybody had the slightest hope of escaping it. They knew it was coming, and they knew there was nothing that could be done. Every comm line on the planet was jammed with people trying to say their final good-byes to each other.”

  He could sense that Jos was listening; could feel the slightest mitigation of the rage within him, saw that the impact of so many deaths had rocked him. Of course it would—he was a doctor. Merit honestly didn’t care, at that moment, just as he didn’t care if he was killed by friendly fire in the next minute. All that mattered was the telling.

  “All of the Equani, nearly a billion people—our art, our civilization, our hopes, dreams, everything—all scorched to ash in a few moments, Jos. Gone. Dead. Forever.”

  Jos said slowly, “I’m…sorry. But what has that got to do with this?” He gestured with the blaster, to encompass the situation, and Merit could have killed him easily right then, could have blown open his chest with the hidden hold-out weapon.

  He didn’t.

  “What has it to do with this? Very simple: that solar flare was not a natural disaster, Doctor. The Republic, the glorious, wonderful, benign Galactic Republic’s military leaders were testing a new weapon. A planet buster, a superweapon for some kind of ultimate battle station being developed. They fired it into our sun, and they miscalculated. They had a base on our moon, the scientists and military who’d created this abomination. The flare got them, too. Small comfort to me and the few Equani who were offworld when our planet was murdered.”

  “I—I never heard about this.”

  “Of course not. It’s not something the Republic’s anxious for the galaxy to know. They kept it quiet, but I made it my business to find out.

  “The Republic killed my species, Jos. Even if all the surviving Equani could be gathered together, there’s not enough of us left to repopulate another world. Yes, you can say that those who pulled the switch died, too, but what about those who sent them there? What about the bureaucrats who were responsible for allowing it? They continue to laugh, and love, and eat, and sleep—and live.