Star War®: MedStar I: Battle Surgeons

by Michael Reaves

  Phow Ji had no idea how close to dying he was just then. Her rage was such that a flicker of a finger would suffice. He’d never know what hit him—and it would even be justice, in a fashion—was he not, after all, a killer?

  Yes, he was—but Barriss Offee was not. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done, but she did it—she resisted the dark side. She lost the battle, but won the war.

  This time…

  25

  Admiral Bleyd paced. The chill he felt in his spine seemed as cold as interstellar space. He had immediately regretted crushing the spycam disguised as an insect; had he simply kept it, he might have been able to backwalk the guidance system memory and find out where it had come from. As it was, all he had for certain was the knowledge that somebody was spying on either Filba or him. Given the nature of the device, the operator could be anybody within ten kilometers of the camp. Maybe Black Sun had an operative here? Or maybe it was one of his own people…

  Bleyd growled deep in his throat. Somebody had poisoned Filba, the autopsy had confirmed that, and Bleyd was not a believer in coincidences that large. The Hutt is murdered and there just happens to be a miniature spycam there to witness it? The probability of it wasn’t quite as high as that of a rogue planetoid smashing into Drongar in the next five minutes—but it wasn’t far behind. No, the two events were surely linked.

  Filba had enemies, of course, and it could be possible that one had just happened to choose this time to repay an old debt, and then used the spycam to make sure it went down smoothly. But whoever had done it, and for whatever reasons, that person now had information linking the dead Hutt with Bleyd in a criminal enterprise. No matter how he scanned it, that was bad. He had to find out who it was, get whatever recording there might be, and eliminate it—along with whoever had it.

  He considered the possibility that it might be one of the enemy, but quickly dismissed the notion. It did not seem likely that a Separatist spy had managed to sneak into camp, poison Filba, and then hurry back to hide out in the marsh among the slitherers and saw grass, and watch it happen via the spycam. And what spy would have any interest in the goings-on at a Rimsoo? Nothing strategic happened here, save for the occasional shipment of bota. It was true that one of the transports had blown up, and, while there was no reason to assume Filba had anything to do with it, the rumor floating about the unit was that he had. Filba had been as warped as an event horizon—a fact that had evidently been fairly common knowledge. That could serve him, since he had been keeping the Hutt in reserve in case something went wrong with their black-market operation. He could have blamed the big slug for everything, and then Filba could have had an “accident” before his trial. And now…

  Now that he was no longer around, it would be even easier to make him the scape-Drall for any illegalities that might turn up.

  Bleyd stopped pacing and smiled. Yes. This could turn out to be an advantage after all. Even a killer storm watered the garden.

  But if the spycam’s operator was in the camp, as Bleyd suspected, that was a bantha of a different color. He—or she, or it—might seek to use the information against Bleyd—and that, of course, could not be allowed.

  So. The hunter had evidence of prey. Bleyd bared his teeth. Let the tracking begin…

  Den Dhur went where he usually went to work out his problems—the cantina. But even sitting there in the semidarkness, feeling the damp sluggish air, reluctantly stirred by the circulators, sliding over him like hot oil, he barely sipped at his drink. Now was not the time to dull his perceptions or his wits. Such as they were.

  Filba was history, and so was Den’s story—nobody wanted to read an exposé about a dead Hutt on a one-rocket planet. The masses wanted their bread and circuses. A nefarious gangster revealed, captured, and punished—that was the good stuff, that was what sold newsdiscs. But Filba dying of pump failure, or even being poisoned by an old enemy, before he was brought to justice? That wasn’t what the readers wanted, not at all.

  As he’d suspected, Bleyd had been in on whatever skulduggery had been going with Filba. That was a great story—but one he couldn’t dare file until he was at least fifty parsecs away, the enmity of angry, crooked, and feral admirals being generally bad for one’s health. Still, the stone hidden in the stew was that the admiral knew somebody had seen and heard what had happened just before Filba was shuffled off back to the primordial ooze from whence he’d come. It wasn’t the admiral who had poisoned him—Den was fairly sure of that, judging by Bleyd’s reactions. Not that it mattered much, since black marketing during wartime was generally considered treason and was punishable by death. At best, even if Den had all kinds of outstanding favors due him from high places—which he didn’t—his career would be ruined if this got out while he was still in the same sector as Bleyd; at worst, he’d be quietly executed and spaced.

  The first thing he had done after he saw Bleyd crush the moon moth was feed the receiver unit into a waste disposal unit that turned it into sludge and piped it off into the swamp with the rest of the sewage slurry. He had cursed at the necessity—the unit had not come cheap—but it wasn’t worth his life. Besides, without the cam, it wasn’t much more than a big flimsiweight while he was here.

  The recording from the cam, a disc the size of his little fingernail, was now glued to the back of a wall brace of the south refresher, just a hand-span above the catalytic tanks—not a place where anybody would happen across it, and one where, even if by some miracle it was found, it wouldn’t be connected to him. He needed the recording to verify his story, but he didn’t need Bleyd finding it and having him shot. As long as he kept his mouth shut, he should be safe enough. Bleyd couldn’t know who had been watching, and the admiral wasn’t about to start an investigation that might reveal his own complicity in Filba’s bootlegging activities.

  The only problem was, this meant Den was going to be stuck here on scenic Drongar for a while. Any sudden move to fire thrusters now would certainly throw the hard glare of suspicion on him. If Bleyd were looking for the cam’s operator—and you could take it to the First Bank of Coruscant that he was—then anybody from this Rimsoo who tried to leave quickly would probably find himself being brain-scanned, and a reporter would likely have to endure a harsher exam than most. Den had no desire to be turned inside out by a high-ranking official who knew his life was in the balance if his crimes came to light.

  Too bad—it was a great story, far better than if only Filba had been implicated. The rabble did so love to see the mighty brought low, and a fleet admiral stealing was the kind of thing that could win a Nova Award, if done right. Poor troops in the field, dying because medicine or some equipment wasn’t on hand due to a crooked admiral who was filling his vault? Ah, the teeming trillions would love that. They would scream for Bleyd’s head on a force pike.

  But if he moved too soon he could get turned into fertilizer, and if there was one thing this planet didn’t need, it was more fertilizer. Not to mention how much he didn’t need it.

  No, he would just have to stick it out. Find another story to justify his being here. Maybe something with Phow Ji, that fighter who’d slaughtered the mercenaries? It wouldn’t be too comfortable having him irritated at you, either, but at least Den could get some protection from the higher-ups, Ji being only a lieutenant. Yeah. That would keep the pot boiling long enough for him to eventually jet this swamp world. Once he was on the other side of the Core, then he could bring low the mighty Admiral Bleyd for his audience.

  Black Market Admiral Revealed! Associate in crime dies mysteriously!

  Den smiled. He did love a thrilling headline.

  He took a bigger sip of his drink. Problem raised, problem solved. Another victory for crack reporter Den Dhur, speaking to you live from the Jasserak Front in the Clone Wars…

  26

  There were times, during her meditations, when Barriss slipped from her concentration, drifted from being-in-the-moment and into memory. In earlier years, she had never been sur
e whether this was a good thing or not; then she had learned to simply accept that it was what it was. True, it was not conducive to the purpose of achieving a clear mind, but sometimes the past offered insight into the present; therefore sometimes she went with it.

  And so it was tonight. Because she was still troubled by the strong feelings she’d had during the fight with Phow Ji the night before, when the memory arose un-bidden she let it take her where it would…

  It had been a sunny but cool morning on Coruscant. No rain was due in this sector for another day, and the slidewalk leading to the park was busy, but not too crowded, as she and Master Unduli reached the designated greenbelt. The other beings also on their way to the large patch of nature represented an amazing variety of sentients: Nikto, Phindians, Zeltrons, Wookiees, Twi’leks…a fascinating glimpse of the galaxy’s infinite diversity, all headed for Oa Park. There was much ferrocrete and metal on this world—some said too much—and parks were dotted here and there to help those who wished more contact with nature achieve it. Oa Park contained within its boundaries more than thirty different environments simulating various other worlds, each with its own atmospheric mix, solar spectrum, and gravity field, separated from each other by energy boundaries.

  On such a bright morning, in the middle of smiling and laughing folk going to enjoy the multifarious flora and landscapes and streams, the dark side seemed far, far away to Barriss. But even as that thought crossed her mind, as she and her Master stood in the shade of a four-hundred-year-old blackneedle tree three meters thick and two hundred meters tall, Master Unduli had smiled and said, “The dark side is always at hand, Padawan. It is no farther away than a heartbeat, an eyeblink, side by side with the bright side of the Force, separated by no more than a hair. It waits to snare the unwary, wearing a thousand disguises.”

  Barriss had heard that before, many times, and she believed what her teacher said, but she had never really felt or understood exactly what it meant. She had not been tempted by the dark side, as far as she knew. She said as much, as they moved to a quiet spot where the grasses had been engineered to grow short and soft, like a living carpet. “We’ll do the Salutation here,” her Master said.

  Barriss nodded. She moved to one side a bit to give her Master space.

  “To answer your question, let me offer this: every conscious move you make, from the smallest to the largest, requires choice. There is always a branch in the path, and you must decide upon which turning you will tread. Do you recall the testings of your ability to sense a remote while wearing blinders?”

  “Of course.” This was among the most basic of Jedi skills. A remote was a small levitating droid about the size of a goldfruit that could be programmed to zip about and fire mild electric bolts at a student. With a blast helmet on and the blinders down, the only way to know the position of the orb was to use the Force. As a student progressed in the use of his or her lightsaber, blocking the remote’s bolts became a standard exercise. Since you couldn’t use your eyes or ears to track the device, the only way to avoid being shocked was to let the Force guide your hands.

  Her Master continued: “And were there not instances when your use of the Force was less than perfect and the training bolts got past your lightsabor?”

  “Far too many of those instances,” Barriss said ruefully. She shook her head. “At times, I felt like a needle cushion!”

  “And did you ever feel during those times like destroying the remote? Reaching out with the Force and crushing it like a wad of scrap flimsi?”

  As she spoke, Master Unduli began the Salutation to the Force, a combination exercise and meditative posture that started with a body arch upward, followed by a deep squat and leg-extended stretch to the rear.

  Barriss copied her Master’s pose. “I confess there were occasions when I had little love for the training device, yes.”

  “And did you have sufficient skill in use of the Force to have destroyed it, had you chosen to do so?” Master Unduli stood and repeated the pose, ending on the other leg. Again, Barriss copied her.

  “Yes. Easily.”

  “Why didn’t you? If the goal was to protect yourself from being shocked, would that not have been justifiable?”

  Barriss frowned. “But that was not the goal. The goal was to learn how to attune my lightsaber with the Force so that I could stop the bolts from striking me. The shocks were painful, but without any lasting damage. In a real fight, with a full-charge blaster bolt coming at me, if I could not block that, I might not have the power to stop a shooter fifty or a hundred meters away from pulling the trigger.”

  “Precisely. But did you know that one student in eight does eventually reach out to destroy a remote? That they usually justify it by saying it is more efficient to stop the source of the damaging bolts than to endlessly deflect them? Laser Pose, please.”

  Her Master lay upon the soft grass, rolled up onto her neck and shoulders, and extended her body skyward, her hands on the ground at her sides.

  Barriss also assumed the Laser Pose. “I can certainly understand how they might feel that way. And it makes a certain logical sense, especially given the premise in our hand-to-hand combat training that says pure defense is inferior to a combination of defense and offense.”

  “Indeed. Arch Pose.”

  Hands and feet on the ground, Master Unduli pushed upward and formed her body into a high, rounded arch.

  “I hear a ‘but,’ ” Barriss said as she followed suit.

  “And I see that yours could be higher from the ground.”

  Barriss smiled and pushed herself into a more acute arch. Her Master continued: “Many of the exercises Jedi in training must learn—and Jedi are always in training, be they Padawan, Knight, or Master—involve determining what the true goal of the exercise is. You will recall the levitation drill and the bakery.”

  “As if I could forget that one.”

  “To destroy the remote is, in itself, not necessarily a wrong choice. If you have developed sufficient skill to block the training bolts and you arrive at the decision through logic and with a calm mind, then you can justify using the Force to stop the attack at its source. Some of the more gifted students do just that. But if you do it out of anger, or pain, or fear, or any emotion that you have allowed to control you, then you reach for the dark side. If you offer that the end justifies the means without mindful thought to determine that it indeed does, you have succumbed to the insidious energy. If you remember nothing else from this talk, Barriss, remember this: Power wants to be used. It must be kept under constant vigil, else it will seduce and corrupt you. One moment you’re swatting an annoying training toy; the next you’re paralyzing an offending being’s lungs and choking him to death. You do it because you can. It becomes an end in itself. As a Jedi, you live always on this edge. A single misstep, and you can fall to the dark side. It has happened to many, and it is always a tragedy. As with an addictive drug, it’s too easy to say, ‘I’ll do it just this once.’ That’s not how it works. The only thing that stands between you and the dark side is your own will and discipline. Give in to your anger or your fear, your jealousy or your hate, and the dark side claims you for its own. If that happens,” Master Unduli said, “you will become an enemy to all that the Jedi stand for—and an enemy of all Jedi who hold to the path of right. Rocker Pose, please.”

  Barriss moved to assume the pose. She said, “And have you ever given in to the dark side, Master?”

  For a few seconds, there was silence. Then: “Yes. In a moment of weakness and pain, I did. It allowed me to survive when I might have perished otherwise, but that one taste was enough for me to realize I could never do it again. 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?”

  Master Unduli paused in her stretch. She regarded Barriss with what seemed to be great sadness in her eyes. “Oh, no. It will feel better than anything you have ever experienc
ed, 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.”

  Now, on a planet many parsecs away from Coruscant, in a Rimsoo medical facility, Master Unduli’s words on that sunny and cool morning came back to Barriss with renewed clarity and, perhaps, a better understanding. She had been tempted to destroy Phow Ji. He had been no real threat, save to her pride, and she had almost justified it by telling herself that his attack had been a threat to the honor of the Jedi Order. That would have been a lie, of course—the Jedi Order was not threatened by Ji’s attack any more than she personally had been. But how close she had come to using that as her rationalization for taking a life!

  In a very real way, she realized that she owed a debt of gratitude to Phow Ji. Ironically, his presence here in her life was instructive, was an opportunity for her to learn how to resist the temptation of the dark side. If there was a purpose to all things—if, as the core tenets of the Jedi Code stated, the galaxy was indeed unfolding as it should—then Phow Ji had his destiny to fulfill, even as she had hers.

  Barriss took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Master Unduli had been right—she did indeed walk a fine line that had to be watched at all times. It was not an easy path, but it was the one she had been raised from birth to tread. Failure was unacceptable, unthinkable. To become a Jedi Knight was her life’s goal.

  Without the Jedi, she was nothing.

  Jos waited until the afternoon shower tapered to sprinkles before he headed to the refuse bin to dump his and Zan’s trash. Unfortunately, there weren’t enough maintenance droids allocated for that duty, so many times he either carried his own garbage out to the bins or it quickly filled up their living quarters. He and Zan had a side bet for the chore going at the sabacc game, and even though Jos had walked away the big credit winner, he had lost the trash bet to Zan, so he was stuck with the duty all week. And it seemed at times that all he and Zan did was sit around and generate trash—the plastiwrap bag he carried had to weigh five kilos and was barely big enough to zip shut.