two hundred kiicks. More importantly, if the codes didn't work and he was
somehow captured, he certainly didn't want to be brought back to answer
charges of intentional murder. They'd jam him into the brig for stealing a
ship, of course, but that wasn't a death-sentence crime, even for stealing
an admiral's rig during a war. Eventually, Black Sun would send somebody to
find out what had happened to him, and they would get him released. A
wartime tribunal that found him guilty of murder, on the other hand, would
have him cooked and recycled long before Black Sun even began to wonder
where he was.
In addition, there was the matter of that former Med-Star admiral he
had taken out, the Sakiyan Tarnisse Bleyd, and it wouldn't do at all for
them to be prying into his brain and discover that. But even in war, there
were rules, and brain scans were not supposed to happen without proper
authorizations. If it did come to that, it would be better to shut himself
down than talk, Kaird knew, since he'd be dead either way, and doing it
himself would be quick and painless-which was not at all how it would be if
Black Sun was unhappy and involved.
The best plan was, of course, to not get caught.
Kaird headed for a 'fresher to lose the last of the heavy human suits.
And good riddance. Mont Shomu, like Hu-nandin the Kubaz, had served him
well, but he was quite happy not to have to wear the heavy disguise again.
He wondered how humans who really did carry that much extra fatty tissue
functioned. As far as Kaird was concerned, he'd rather be plucked and
roasted over a slow fire.
Jos was as angry as he could ever remember being. He saw the man before
him almost as if there were a red haze in front of his eyes. He said,
through gritted teeth, "Were you not my great-uncle and my commanding
officer, I'd knock you on your butt!"
"In your place, I expect I would feel the same way."
They were in the admiral's office on MedStar, and they were alone, but
Jos somehow suspected that if he started smashing Erel's face in, somebody
might come to see what the noise was about. Several somebodies, in fact, all
of them military security, large, humorless, and armed.
Not that it mattered. The way he felt right now, no one and nothing
could stop him if he wanted to slug his long-lost uncle.
"How dare you interfere between us this way? What gives you the right?
"I only wanted to spare you grief."
"Spare me grief? By driving off the woman I love? Sorry, Doctor, but I
don't quite see the medical indication there. Tolk is the cure for so much
of what bothers me, hurts me, scares me, that I cannot begin to explain it
to you!" Jos paced up and down, seething, for a moment. "I still can't
believe she listened to you!"
"That she did this is a measure of her love and regard for you, Jos."
"How do you figure that?"
"She doesn't want to see you ostracized from your family and friends."
"Because you painted for her such a grim and ugly picture of what it
would be like. You made it sound like we'd be looked at as the scum of the
entire galaxy."
"I admit that I did."
Jos had to consciously unclench his hands. He took a deep breath, let
it out, took another. Easy, he told himself. Smashing the admiral's nose
might be very satisfying, but it would also be a bad move, no matter how
much the man deserved it. He's a doctor, Jos reminded himself. He was doing
what he thought best. But it was still hard. He wanted to deck the old man.
A lot.
Even so, his anger was not quite at nova intensity anymore. Jos took
another deep breath and said, "Well, Uncle, if my family is not willing to
accept the woman I love,' then they're family in name only, and I'm better
off without them."
Kersos shook his head, a gesture of infinite weariness. "I thought so,
too. I've been down this path, Jos."
"But you are not me. I might have lived to regret it- though I doubt
it-but even if I did, it would have been my choice. I should get to make
it."
"It isn't that easy, son. You speak of cultural mores that have been
around for thousands of years. There is much tradition to justify them."
"And sixty or eighty years from now, much of that culture and
tradition, including the prohibitions against en-
sters and eksters, will be gone." Jos paused, struggling to gather his
anger back in. He could explain this to his uncle. He was smart and
articulate; if he could explain a complicated procedure to a nervous
patient, he could surely couch this in understandable terms.
"Listen," he said. "You were far ahead of your time, and I'm stilt
ahead of it. But my children and their children will not have to deal with
such mindless mopek."
Uncle Erel shook his head. "I find this difficult to believe. Are you
able to foresee the future?"
Jos shook his head, sighed. "I can see the present, Uncle." He paused
again. "It's been a long while since you were on the homeworld. Have you
ever heard the term Hustru fonster?"
His uncle shook his head. "It sounds like Hoodish."
"Close. It's Vulanish, a similar obscure dialect from the Great
Southern Reaches. I believe the last native speakers of the language on our
world passed away fifty years ago. Anyway, Hustru fonster means 'the wife in
the window.' It's a term that's come into usage in the last few years, and
not one spoken in polite gatherings."
His great-uncle looked puzzled.
Jos continued. "Suppose we have a young man of good family who finds
himself drawn to an ekster girl. Okay, so, everyone winks and nods and
glances away while he gives in to his wild urges and gets his drive tubes
scoured. It's not condoned, but it's permitted, as long as he comes back to
the fold.
"But more and more of late, the good sons, and the good daughters, as
well, are going offworld and finding eksters with whom they wish to continue
relationships. Yes, custom forbids it, but those with sufficient means have
found a way around custom.
"The good son or daughter comes home and takes an enster spouse. But
this is a wife or husband who enters into the marriage for reasons of
commerce or position only. The newlyweds hire a housekeeper or a gardener or
cook who just happens to be an ekster-you can see where I'm going with
this."
His uncle said nothing.
"Technically," Jos continued, "there's not even a prohibition against
that kind of arrangement. And so everyone's happy. No scandal, no shame, and
if the 'housekeeper' becomes pregnant through an unknown liaison, why, her
child could be raised by her employers almost as if it's one of their
own-such is their care and concern for a valued employee. Perhaps even
adopted legally, since more and more of these enster marriages seem to be
turning out barren.
"And, of course, if the child of a good wife resembles the gardener, or
the issue of the maid looks like her employer, well, that can only be a
coincidence."
His uncle shook his head. -"This is being practice
d on the homeworld?"
"Widely and more frequently all the time."
Erel looked as if he'd bitten into something sour. "Well. There's your
answer, then."
"No, sir, it is not!" Jos replied. His tone grew hot again, but this
time he didn't throttle back. "I will not subject my spouse to such a
practice-living a lie that fools no one, just to maintain an archaic and
anachronistic practice that no longer serves any purpose. I would take Tolk
to myself as wife everlasting, and any who find that unacceptable can open
their hatches and sniff vacuum, for all I care."
"Your family-"
"Talk is my family! She ranks first and foremost. Everyone else from
now on comes in second. I love her. I cannot see any life without her. And
if I have to crawl across an obsidian razor field on my hands and knees to
convince her of this, I will"
The older man smiled.
"Something amusing?" Jos felt his anger surge hotter. He was going to
hit the man, great-uncle, commanding officer, or not-!
"I made that same speech to my brother, long before you were born." He
stood. "Congratulations, nephew. will support your choice in any way that
I can."
Jos blinked, feeling like he'd been whiplashed by one of those hard
banks against vacuum he'd seen fighter pilots pull. "What?"
"To go against thousands of years of custom is not a task for the weak.
If Tolk meant anything less to you, you'd ultimately regret it. As you say,
you might anyway-hut at least you're starting from a position of strength."
Jos leaned across the desk and looked the older man in the eye. "At the
moment, Uncle, thanks to your meddling, I'm starting from nowhere, Tolk is
going to transfer to another Rimsoo. She isn't talking to me now. Somehow I
don't see things getting better with a thousand klicks of water between us."
"Son, nobody in the Republic Expeditionary Medical Force goes anywhere
on this planet without my leave. If the woman you love is worth giving up
everything else you have to be with, then you have something that's worth
doing. I'll correct my mistake. She'll be around."
"But-how? The damage has already been done. How can you-? "
"By letting Tolk watch the recording of this conversation," Admiral
Kersos said. "She was willing to give you up because she loves you. If she
sees and hears how much you love her, it will make a difference."
Jos sat down, feeling like he'd just climbed a skyhook. Could Uncle
Erel rectify his mistake? Or was it already too late?
"Don't worry, Jos. What I break, I fix."
And for the first time in days, Jos felt a sense of hope stirring in
him.
33
Den Dhur sat by himself in the cantina and brooded.
He had finished drafting his piece on the mutating bota, and, all
modesty aside, he considered it one of his best efforts. He'd managed to tie
some being-interest angles into it, by examining the potential ways in which
various species would be affected by the loss of the miracle adaptogenic,
using a number of case studies verified via the HoloNet. In addition, he'd
worked in a hardhitting bit on the irony of fighting a war for a plant that
then mutates and makes said war pointless.
All in all, it was the kind of journalism that garnered notices. His
byline on something like it could very well put him back on the radar again,
land him an assignment someplace less . . . exciting than Drongar. Or, if he
did indeed return to Sullust and take Eyar up on her offer, it would be a
great story to go out on.
There was only one problem. Upon reflection, he didn't see how he could
file it.
Once it became common knowledge that the bota was useless, Den foresaw
two things happening. The second thing would be the cessation of hostilities
and eventual evacuation of Drongar, since there would be nothing else on
this simmering dungball to fight over. Which was just fine with him.
The first thing, however, would be a no-holds-barred final battle
between the Separatists and the Republic over the last viable patches of the
plant. Since bota grew pretty much only in this one area of Southern
Tanlassa-about a thousand square klicks-the fighting would be concentrated
all around them. The fifteen Rimsoos charged with the duties of caring for
the wounded and, in the cases of Rimsoo Seven and a few others, of
harvesting bota, as well, would be overrun by enemy troops. Battle droids,
droidekas, mercenaries of all kinds, and just about anyone else with dreams
of quick wealth would come howling over the barricades like a swarm of swamp
shoats. It wouldn't be pretty.
He'd realized from the moment he'd heard the rumor that such was going
to happen. Still, the story would break anyway, sooner or later-why
shouldn't he be the one to reap the benefits?
But he knew the answer to that, much as he hated to admit it. Somehow,
during his sojourn here, he'd become infected with a germ more deadly than
any bug to be found in Drongar's pestilential ecosystem: a conscience.
Den could get the story out secretly, he knew that. But he would be at
least partially responsible for a shipload of bantha poodoo falling on the
people he'd come to consider his friends.
Den sighed gustily, dewflaps fluttering in vexation. Whether the leak
came from him or someone else, the calamity was certain to come eventually.
And when it did it would be the sort of thing best viewed from a few
par-sees away. Which meant he should be finding a bunk on an outbound
vessel. Soon. Which is why the thought of accompanying I-Five on his journey
to Coruscant was quite appealing. It would be easy to connect from there to
Sullust or just about anywhere else.
Den was still undecided on the whole retirement issue. In fact,
compared to him, a two-headed Troig was a paragon of single-mindedness.
Chuck it all and become the patriarch of Eyar's warren-clan? Or hurl Himself
back into the job he'd done all his adult life? There were still good
stories to uncover, after all.
On the other hand, Eyar was a most lovely and desirable fern . . .
He would have to decide soon. I-Five was leaving on his mission for
Barriss Offee. There would be no problem with Den going along-he was a
noncom, a civilian, free to come and go as much as was practical. They could
reach the Core worlds in forty-eight standard hours, maybe less.
There was no reason for him to stay, unless it was to risk almost
certain death by remaining to report on the last chaotic hours. And, as he'd
pointed out more than once to just about anyone who'd listen, he was no
hero.
But something about going, about leaving people like Jos, and Barriss,
and Tolk, .Klo, Uli . . . it just didn't go down easily.
How had things gotten this bad? That he suddenly had all these people
to care about?
As one of The Silent, getting up to MedStar was easy. Religious and
meditative orders-particularly ones that had beneficial effects on the ill
and wounded-were usually given preferential treatment. Once on board and
checked in properly, Kaird took his travel case and
proceeded directly to
the main bay. Since The Silent didn't speak, he handed the guard a stat
flimsi with his request, flashed his false identichip, and was allowed to
proceed. Ostensibly, the departing Silent was going to stow his luggage on a
military transport that was leaving for the Core worlds in another day or
so. There would be a guard there, too, but since the guard wasn't expecting
company-at least, not company like Kaird in his disguise-the robed figure of
The Silent passing by would mean nothing.
The admiral's ship was berthed away from the other shuttles and
transports, which wasn't surprising. One had to approach it down a long and
private corridor.
There wasn't a guard posted at the bay, because there was no perceived
need for one: without the codes, you couldn't get into the ship, or operate
it, or bypass Flight Control, or get past the picket ships, and the only
people who had the codes were the official pilots, so-why worry?
Kaird moved slowly, with the preoccupation of someone meditating
constantly on weighty matters. He knew that there was a dead zone ahead,
right where the corridor turned-he'd found it while studying the MedStar's
plans, for which he had paid dearly-and there were no cams covering the
spot. It was a small area, only a few meters by a few meters, but that was
all he needed.
When Kaird reached the spot, he looked around, didn't see anyone, and
quickly shucked his robe. Underneath, he wore one of Bogan's uniforms and a
simple human skin mask. The mask was generic-it looked like a human, and
wouldn't fool anybody up close into thinking he was the real Bogan, but it
should if viewed by a surveillance cam at a distance. The only thing that
might be remarked on was the filtration mask he had to wear, which had been
hollowed to accommodate his beaklike mouth. His other human disguise had
been fleshy enough to disguise its three-centimeter jut; Bogan, however, was
an exomorph, and so Kaird had had to be a bit more creative. Still, such
masks were common sights aboard Med-
Star, especially in the wake of the explosion, since trace amounts of
dust and possibly toxic particles lingered in the ship's atmosphere.
The last hundred meters was the most dangerous part of his trip. If
anybody happened to pass him in the final steps, he would have to kill them
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