Star Wars - MedStar 01 - Battle Surgeons

by Michael Reaves

  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 could 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.

  Most interesting.

  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.

  Don't tell me you're surprised, his mind whispered mockingly.

  The admiral dismissed the troops and personnel. Col­onel Vaetes, accompanied by Captains Vondar and

  Yant, joined Bleyd to walk him through the operating theater.

  Sooner or later, Bleyd would find time to speak to Filba alone. And Den was determined that they wouldn't be as alone as they thought they were .. .

  23

  Back in his cubicle Den pulled a small box from under the bed, thumbed the recognizer lock, and opened it. It was time to bring out the big guns—or, rather, the small ones. The smallest one, in fact, and it wasn't a gun, though it did "shoot."

  Den held the tiny device close to his eyes and admired it. It was a tiny spycam disguised as a flying insect, known as a moon moth. The entire thing barely cov­ered his thumbnail, but its biomimetic design allowed it to fly about undetected, letting its operator hear and see everything its sensors could pick up, from up to ten thousand meters away. He'd used it a few times before. It had a built-in state-of-the-art confounder that would nullify tangle fields, sensor screens, or other electro­magnetic obstructions either Bleyd or Filba might be wearing. And, with all the winged pests buzzing around the base anyway, one more would hardly be noticed. It had cost him three months' pay, but the first time he'd used it, back when he'd done the story on the Wild Space smugglers, it had paid for itself.

  "Off you go," he murmured as he activated the de­vice. The moon moth flew through the open entrance and vanished as Den slipped on the virtual headset that would allow him to control it.

  He let himself enjoy the feeling of flying for a few mo­ments, climbing high over the base for a panoramic view of the swamp, then swooping down low to buzz one of the many clones in sight. Then he leveled out and headed for Filba's domain.

  The door was shut, but there were plenty of tiny openings where the heat-warped plasteel was joined with the duralloy framework. He squeezed the moon moth through one. Not a moment too soon—Bleyd was already there, facing the Hutt, and from the looks on both their faces Den didn't expect either one to whip out holos of the kids anytime soon. He steered the bug-cam to a landing on a nearby shelf.

  What was that old Kubaz saying about wishing one were a buzz-beetle on a wall. .. ?

  Filba had evidently prepared for this confrontation by finishing most of a keg of what looked like Alder­aanian ale. His skin folds had that rubbery look that Hutts got when drunk.

  Bleyd, on the other hand, was not at all intoxicated, unless anger could be considered an intoxicant. He was speaking in a low, level tone, and seemed—to Den, at least—ready to slice and dice Filba.

  Den turned the gain up on the sound enhancers.

  "—things are too hot right now," Bleyd said through his fangs. "I don't want Black Sun coming back anytime soon. Until this affair with their missing emissary is set­tled, we have to lie low."

  "Easy for you to say," the Hutt rumbled. "Your profit margin's far higher than mine." He took another mighty swig of the ale; despite his distended gut, he was evidently nowhere near capacity. "I'm taking all the risks, and you're getting all—"

  "There'll be no profits for either of us if Black Sun

  moves in, you bloated imbecile! If you've a brain buried anywhere in all that blubber you'd understand that."

  "Insults," Filba sneered, waving his jug about. "All I ever get. I deserve more for my part in this. I deserve—"

  Bleyd was suddenly across the room and at the Hutt's throat. He'd moved so fast that the moon moth had only registered a blur. "You deserve," the Sakiyan hissed, "to have your innards rearranged, you swamp-sucking—"

  He stopped abruptly. Filba's eyes were even more bul­bous and distended than usual. His wide gash of a mouth opened and closed, either questing for air or try­ing to speak, and apparently not succeeding at either. The small arms were waving about in panic. The jug slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

  Filba lurched forward, drawing more and more of his bulk upright until it seemed impossible that he could maintain his balance. He swayed, a mottled tower of flab and slime—then toppled, crashin
g down to the floor. Bleyd had to leap out of the way to avoid being crushed as the Hutt's considerable mass struck hard enough to shake the building. It nearly vibrated the moon moth off its perch.

  Maker's eyes! He's fainted! Or worse . ..

  Den, watching, could not believe his eyes—or, rather, the moon moth's photoreceptors. What was going on? Had the admiral actually scared Filba into having heart failure—or whatever the Hutt equivalent was; hard to believe Filba even had a heart—by appearing to attack him?

  Bleyd bent over the motionless form. He touched the Hutt's back, perhaps feeling for some kind of pulse.

  Then he turned to the broken ale jug, lifted a shard, and sniffed it.

  A peculiar expression spread over his face—equal parts understanding, anger, and bafflement. He stood frozen for a moment, then hurled the fragment to break against the wall.

  The entrance chime activated. A muffled pounding was heard, as were concerned shouts. Filba's collapse had probably been noticed by everyone in the area— Den would have been surprised if the Separatists hadn't felt it as well.

  Bleyd turned to the door. He smoothed his uniform, made sure no medal hung even slightly askew, and then opened it.

  Den knew it was time to go. The moon moth was im­mune to most detection devices, but shortly techs would likely be going over this chamber with gadgets that could hear an electron shifting shells. He made the moon moth fly off the shelf, toward the entrance, which was already filled with confused and shocked faces—

  A hand came out of nowhere, moving so fast it just seemed to appear. Den gasped as his point of view shifted violently. And then, suddenly, the moon moth was being held close to Bleyd's face. The admiral was staring, it seemed, right into Den's eyes.

  A second later the hand closed into a fist. There was a flash as the piezoelectrics shorted out—and then blackness.

  Uh-oh . . .

  24