Star War®: MedStar I: Battle Surgeons

by Michael Reaves

  Bleyd was certainly not blind to the irony that required him to trust another Hutt in dealing with Black Sun again. It was risky—very risky. Allying with Black Sun was like gambling with a Wookiee: even when you know he’s cheating, sometimes it’s best to let him win. But the stakes were too high to walk away from. With the credits they stood to make, he could become a landed person, perhaps even enter politics. He closed his eyes, picturing it: the wealthy Senator from Saki, with his own palatial spire on Coruscant, affecting the lives of trillions with his every command…he could certainly get used to such a lifestyle.

  Yes, it was risky. Going after the big game always was. But he’d hunted razor-tailed tigers in the Dust Pits of Yurb; he’d fought lyniks that had tasted his blood and therefore knew every move he would make; he had even trapped a nexu, one of the most ferocious beasts in the galaxy.

  He was more than capable of outwitting even a many-headed beast such as Black Sun.

  His secretary droid appeared in the doorway. “Admiral, you asked to be reminded of the time.”

  Bleyd glared at the droid, annoyed at being pulled back from his visions of glory. “Yes, yes. All right, you have reminded me. Go on about your business.”

  The droid, a standard protocol unit, quickly shuffled away. It knew better than to hesitate when Bleyd told it to move.

  The admiral glanced down at his desk and the mountain of flimsies and datapads there. Bleyd set to work. It would be best to have a clear mind, unencumbered by trivial business, so that he could concentrate on his plans. He had to keep things running smoothly; there was far too much at stake for any mistakes to be made at this point. Bleyd thought of the billions of credits he would realize from the Hutt’s scheme. Those billions would buy him the top floor of a monad in Coruscant’s prestigious equatorial belt, and servants to cater to his every whim. The means to accomplish all this was there—all he had to do was be brave enough to seize the opportunity.

  Den Dhur swaggered into the cantina.

  It wasn’t much of a swagger, but after all, he was a Sullustan, waist-high to and only half the weight of most of the patrons within. It was understandable that conversation didn’t cease and heads turn to mark his progress. He could live with that.

  What was harder to live with were the lights and the noise. There were fluorescent globes on every table, and a quadro unit near the door was pounding out something loud and thumping and syncopated that they called music these days. Big milking surprise, he told himself; a noisy cantina. Who’d have thought? But the fact that it was unremarkable didn’t make it any less unpleasant.

  Added to the wail blasting from the speakers were the patrons. Most of them were military and all were chattering loudly, which only added to the cacophony. Like all Sullustans, who had evolved for underground living, Den had relatively large eyes and sensitive ears compared to most sentients. He was wearing polarized droptacs and sonic dampeners, but even so, he knew he was going to have a walloping headache if he stayed in here too long. Still, he was a reporter, and places like this were where the most interesting stories could be heard. Assuming one could hear anything through this din…

  He ascended the ramp, designed for shorter and legless species, to the bar, gaining enough height to put him on eye level with the tender, whom he signaled with a wave.

  The tender, a phlegmatic Ortolan, came over. He looked at Den without speaking—at least, without speaking anything Den could hear. Most Ortolans conversed in ultrahigh or ultralow frequencies. Even the Sullustan’s ears, sensitive as they were, weren’t as good as the blue-furred flaps the tender sported. Den was sure the chunky, long-nosed alien wore sonic dampeners as good as his own, if not better.

  Fortunately the dampeners had selective blocking—either that, or the Ortolan was good at lip-reading, because when Den said, “Bantha Blaster,” the tender promptly began pouring liquids into a glass, building a swirly orange-and-blue concoction. He was pretty good, Den noted. In a matter of moments the Ortolan handed the drink to Den. “On the tab,” the tender said, his voice low and resonant.

  Den nodded. He took a long, slow sip. Ah…

  The first drink of the day was the best. After a few more, you couldn’t really taste them.

  He had enough swallows to blunt the harsh edges of the lights, then looked around. First thing a good reporter did upon spacing to a new planet was find the local watering holes. More stories came out of cantinas than anywhere else. This one certainly wasn’t much: a dilapidated foamcast building in the middle of a swamp—most of the planet seemed to be either jungle or swamp, Den had noticed on the shuttle coming down—set up to serve the clone troops, soldiers, and assorted support staff; the latter mostly medics, given that this was a Rimsoo.

  Lightning flickered outside, leaving, in his eyes, a momentary faint blue afterglow to everything. Thunder boomed almost simultaneously, hurting his ears even with the dampeners. If the weather here worked the same way it did on most planets Den was familiar with, the rumbles dopplering through the sky meant imminent rain. He watched as most of the cantina’s occupants repositioned themselves. Uh-huh. Roof leaks. The regulars undoubtedly knew the spots where the water would drip through. He watched gaps opening in the crowd as they shifted to new areas, their movements almost unconscious. Rain’s coming, don’t stand there, you’ll get drenched. Unless, of course, you were a water species, in which case the leaky spots were prized. One person’s trash, another person’s treasure…

  Another thunderclap—a sound easily differentiated from that of artillery, if you’d been in and out of war zones for as much time as he had—sounded. In the momentary ringing silence that followed, heralding drops of the storm pattered on the foamcast roof. Within seconds, the sky opened up, and the drumming of the rain became a constant barrage.

  And, just as he’d anticipated, the leaks began streaming.

  The water puddled on the floor for the most part, without hitting anybody as it cascaded. A newbie here and there was surprised and awarded laughter by his comrades for his soaking. At the end of the bar, an Ishi Tib mechanic stripped out of his lube-spotted coveralls and undulated under a steady stream, moving his eyestalks and clacking his beak in time to the music.

  Den shook his head. What a life. Cantina-crawling in yet another dung-hole, all in the service of the Public’s Need to Know.

  A blast of hot, wet wind swirled over him as the door seal parted. Den knew without even turning around who had entered; he could tell by the smell of damp Hutt that suddenly filled the room.

  The Hutt shook himself, ignoring the annoyed looks and exclamations the spray of water brought from nearby patrons, and slithered toward the bar. He came to a stop on the ground level next to Den.

  Den drained the last of his drink and took a moment to compose himself before looking at the Hutt. “Filba,” he said. “How’s it flopping?”

  The Hutt didn’t seem surprised to see him here—no doubt he’d been notified of the arrival of the press. He hardly spared Den a glance. “Dhur. Why aren’t you out somewhere making up more lies about honest working folk?”

  Den smiled. “I can make them up just as well in a dry—well, relatively dry—cantina.” Honest working folk, my dewflaps, he thought. If honest work came anywhere near Filba, the huge gastropod would probably shrivel up and die like his remote ancestors did when covered in salt.

  The tender approached. “Dopa boga noga,” Filba growled in Huttese, holding up two fingers.

  The tender nodded and drew two mugs of something yellow and fizzy, which he set in front of the Hutt. Filba knocked them both back, barely taking a breath between them.

  “Not one to savor your drink, I see,” Den said.

  Filba turned one enormous, bilious eye in his direction. “You have to drink Huttese ale fast,” he explained. “Otherwise it eats through the mug.”

  Den nodded in sage comprehension. The tender filled his glass again, and the reporter raised it. “War and taxes,” he said, and drank.

&nbs
p; “Koochoo,” Filba muttered. Den wasn’t familiar enough with Huttese to recognize the word, but from Filba’s tone it sounded like an insult. Of course, most of what Filba said sounded like an insult. The Sullustan shrugged. Either Filba still had a problem with him, or he was just venting. Either way, Den wasn’t particularly worried. In his experience there were very few problems in this galaxy that couldn’t be cured, or at least put in proper perspective, by liberal doses of alcohol or its many equivalents.

  The rain stopped almost as quickly as it began. Den stared at the puddles on the floor, knowing it would take days for them to evaporate in the humid air. And long before they did, it would have rained again. He asked a Bothan who stood at the bar a few steps away, “Why don’t you guys throw a field over this place, keep it dry?”

  The Bothan looked at him. “Tell you what—if you can rec one from Central or find one around here that’s not being used, I’ll be happy to put it up. And don’t suggest fixing it the old-fashioned way—we do that all the time. As soon as we get one hole patched, the milking spores eat open another one.”

  Den shrugged again—he had a feeling he would be doing a lot of that on Drongar—and turned back to his drink. Before he could give it the attention it deserved, however, he noticed a group sitting at a table a couple of meters away. There were four: two males and two females. One of the males was a Zabrak; the rest were humans. Den made a wry face. Although he tried to be open-minded and tolerant, he had to admit that he had little use for humans. They tended to be louder than most species, and whenever a ruckus started in a place like this, it was usually a human at the bottom of it. He remembered one time, on Rudrig, when—

  He blinked.

  One of the human females was wearing the robes and trappings of a Jedi.

  There was no disputing it; the plain dark hooded robe, the lightsaber hanging from her belt, and, most of all, something as indefinable as it was unmistakable in the way she comported herself—all these identified her as surely as if a neon holo had been blinking JEDI above her head. The Order had been in the holonews quite a lot lately, Den knew. He felt his pulse quicken a bit as he thought about the possible implications of her being here, on Drongar. Something to do with the bota, perhaps? Or was it something more secretive, more clandestine…?

  His reporter’s curiosity could not be denied. Den picked up his drink and started toward the table.

  After all, the public needed to know.

  4

  Jos didn’t recognize the Sullustan, but that wasn’t surprising. Rimsoo Seven wasn’t exactly one of the Coruscant spaceports, but a small amount of traffic did cycle through. Most of the newcomers were observers or officers on tour, and, of course, there was an endless parade of clones. Some, however, were civilians: supply and matériel supervisors, bota harvesters, and various hired laborers. He’d even heard rumors that the base might be included in a HoloNet Entertainment tour. Many base functions were performed by droids, but most droids didn’t last very long on Drongar. The WED Treadwells were constantly breaking their many delicate armatures, and the medical droids—the MDs, 2-1Bs and FXs—needed constant maintenance due to the humidity and high oxygen quotient. Jos had had parts on back order from Cybot, Medtech, and other factories for months, but no joy was in sight anytime soon.

  So when the Sullustan strolled over with a drink in one hand and a friendly expression, the four made room for another chair. He introduced himself, adding that he was a string reporter for the Galactic Wave, one of the smaller holonews services. “Been asked to come over to HoloNet several times,” he said, grabbing a handful of shroomchips from the bowl in the table’s center. “But they’re too mainstream, too party line for me. I like working on the edge.”

  “Do you disagree with the Republic’s policies toward Dooku and his Separatists?” Barriss Offee asked.

  Dhur’s huge eyes appraised her for a few seconds while he swallowed. “Kind of unusual to see a Jedi Knight this far out,” he said.

  “I’m not a Jedi Knight as of yet. Until I complete my training, my title is still Padawan,” Barriss said. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

  “You’re right—I haven’t.” Dhur looked steadily into the Jedi’s eyes. “Let’s just say I disapprove of some of Dooku’s methods.”

  The silence that followed threatened to become tension. Zan said quickly, “We’d just offered to give our new healer the five-decicred tour. Care to join us?”

  Dhur drained his drink. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Five decicreds would be robbery for this tour, Jos thought as the four walked through the base. There really wasn’t much to see: several foamcast buildings, the biggest of which contained pre- and postmed and the operating theater. Then there were the officers’ quarters—smaller cubicles, for the most part—the cantina, mess hall, landing pad, refreshers, and showers. All this in a small valley overshadowed by tall, tree-like growths, mostly draped with something that looked similar to Naboo swamp moss.

  The storm had stopped as suddenly as it began. Jos was sweating after a dozen steps; the air lay sodden and heavy, without a breath of movement. He watched Barriss Offee, wondering how she stood the damp heat in that heavy cloak. She didn’t even seem to be sweating. He wondered what she looked like under those robes…

  “We do triage over there, where the lifters put down,” Zan said to her, pointing to the west. “We keep a separate pad for the shuttles; that’s where you two landed, near the harvesters’ quarters.” He pointed south. “The front’s about seventy kilometers back. The lifters usually come around from the east, because of the winds.”

  Jos became aware of Tolk’s gaze upon him; she was watching him watch the Jedi. He glanced at her, and she grinned at him. He grinned back, somewhat sheepishly. No use trying to disguise his thoughts to her—she was a Lorrdian, and could read anyone’s body language like a holo on max-mag. It was almost like telepathy.

  He shrugged. Just idle curiosity, he thought, and saw one of the nurse’s eyebrows arch: Oh, really?

  He felt a moment of slight embarrassment as he glanced back at Barriss. Since she was a Jedi—well, one in training, at least—had her connection with the Force already alerted her to his taking notice as well?

  He had been most impressed by her work in the OT—her hands were fast and assured, wielding laser scalpels and mini pressor fields as she cauterized spurting arteries and even aided in transplanting a kidney. If she had used any of the healing powers it was rumored that the Force had given her, Jos hadn’t seen it—but then, he’d been rather busy himself.

  He knew very little about the Force—not even how to test for it, because that knowledge was supposedly reserved for the Jedi. He was aware of the power of the mind–body connection, of course, but he had no talents in that direction. He was a surgeon; he knew how to slice and splice the innards of a dozen species, including his own. That was his talent, his gift, and he was very good at it. So good that at times he felt almost bored with the routine plumbing repairs he had to make, for the most part, on the clones. He very rarely lost one, and when he did, due to sepsis or hidden trauma or some other nasty surprise, it was hard to feel too much grief. Even in wars fought by individuals the doctors often grew numb. It was easier still to do so when the next body to come under his laser looked exactly like the last one.

  They really do all blur together sometimes…

  It had bothered him at first. Now he’d grown used to it. After all, it was common knowledge that clones weren’t true individuals, in the strictest sense of the word. Their mind-set had been standardized, just as their somatotype had been, in order to make them more effective fighters. No one ever heard of a trooper freezing under fire, or letting his fellows down on the front lines. It just didn’t happen, due to subtle behavioral adjustments mass-programmed into the amygdala and the other emotional centers of their brains. Jos wasn’t sure, because he’d never had the opportunity to run tests, but he suspected that their serotonin and dopamine levels had b
een adjusted as well, making them more fearless and aggressive. The bottom line was that one clone was pretty much just like another, and not only in appearance.

  Of course, they weren’t interchangeable units of a hive mind. Jos had seen evidence of individuation, but only in areas that didn’t interfere with their ability to fight, or their loyalty to the Republic. They were true universal soldiers, genetically hardwired to fight without fear of death or sorrow at the deaths of their comrades. It made them more effective warriors, to be sure, but it also made it hard to think of them as being each a unique organic sentient. He’d often heard them referred to disparagingly as “meat droids”…he didn’t care for the term, but as a description, it seemed apt.

  “…right, Jos?”

  Jos blinked, realizing Zan had asked him something, but he had no idea what it was. He looked up at Zan, Barriss, and Dhur; they were standing on a small rise coated with the pale pink growth that was Drongar’s idea of grass. A slight breeze had started, but it provided little relief from the heat. The Jedi’s cloak was stirred slightly. It parted momentarily in a gust, and Jos could tell that the body beneath the robes was…Not bad. Not bad at all.

  “Hey, partner,” Zan said, amused. “How’s about dropping out of hyperspace and rejoining the group?”

  “Sorry.” He moved quickly up the rise to stand beside him, Dhur, and Barriss. “What was the question?”

  “I was wondering if that storm was the start of the monsoon season,” Dhur said.

  “It doesn’t start,” Jos said, “because it never stops. Except for the poles, the whole planet is like this.”

  Jos didn’t think Dhur’s eyes could get any wider, but his last statement proved him wrong. “You mean it’s like this all the time?”

  “Pretty much,” Zan said.

  “Actually,” Tolk said as she joined the group, “this is a rather nice day. Only one lightning storm so far.”

  A far-off rumble of thunder came from the east. They all turned and saw a new storm front massing dark gray on the horizon.