“Going on? What are you talking about?” Zan didn’t meet Jos’s eyes.
“I’m talking about a patient who comes out of a life-threatening secondary infection so fast he leaves ion burns on his chart. I’m also talking about treatment with unmarked skinpoppers.”
Zan hesitated for a moment, then sighed in resignation.
In that short pause, Jos suddenly knew what had transpired. “You didn’t,” he said.
Zan said, “I did.”
“Zan, have you got an ingrown horn or something? You know what the risks are. If they catch you, you’ll be court-martialed!”
“If you see a fellow sentient drowning and there’s a rope lying right next to your foot, are you going to worry about being accused of stealing the rope?”
“If there’s a good chance they’ll hang me with it, yeah. This is not the same thing.”
“It isn’t? We’re on a planet with the biggest supply of a flat-out miracle drug in the galaxy—you can walk to a huge field of it in five minutes. We tried everything else on this guy, Jos—macromolecular regeneration, nanocell implants, maser cauterization—nothing worked. The man was dying. You’ve read the SGJ literature touting bota—an adaptogen that can cure everything but a rainy day in most humanoid phenotypes. We’ve had patients who died from infections we could probably have cured with one scale of it.” Zan raised his hands, a gesture of inevitability. “I couldn’t just watch him die. Not when there was the slightest chance…”
Jos opened his mouth, but said nothing. What was there to say? Bota was valuable—so much so that the Republic deemed theft of it a crime to be severely punished. The plant was, ultimately, why both they and the Separatists were on Drongar. And, ironically, the local Rimsoos were forbidden to use it because of its potential offworld value.
Before Jos could speak again, Zan said, “Nobody will miss a few plants. There are little pockets of bota all over the lowlands that nobody even knows about. Pluck a couple of scales, stick them in your pocket, hand-process them later…who’s to know?”
“Zan—”
“Come on, Jos, you know a lot of the xenos around here sneak out and harvest the stuff for recreational use. Filba used to bliss out with a hookah full of it most every night. Everybody knows what it can do for them, and everybody looks the other way, as long as no one gets greedy. At least I’m using it to save lives—which is what the Republic says it’s doing, too. Is the life of someone a hundred parsecs from here more valuable than one in the next room? Can I stand by and let people die without doing everything in my power to save them?”
“You didn’t start this war, Zan. You’re not responsible for everybody who gets hurt in it.”
“Oh, that’s good. This from the guy who once kicked a hole in a wall when he lost a patient to Drakñahr Syndrome—something that all of Coruscant Med and a room full of Jedi and Silents couldn’t treat.”
At a total loss for words, Jos looked at his friend, and saw nothing in front of him but a doctor who took his job as seriously as he himself did. He sighed. “Okay. But you’ve got to be more careful—there are a lot sharper eyes than mine around here who could notice a blank skinpopper.”
“Point made. I’ll make sure they’re marked from now on,” Zan said. “I can even use dye to color the serum so it looks like polybiotic or spectacillin. Nobody will notice, Jos.”
“I hope not,” Jos said. “ ’Cause if someone does, your career could be smashed flatter than a mynock in a black hole.”
Zan grinned and clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, and the two turned and reentered the building.
31
Den Dhur was not a being to sit idle for long. Despite his facade of being supremely bored and cynical, of doing his job solely because it paid his drink tab, the thing in which he took the most pleasure in his life was his work. Even with the admiral hunting him, he could not simply camp in his quarters—in fact, he couldn’t do that precisely because the admiral was hunting him. The first question to answer during an investigation, an old police officer had once told him, is: what looks different now than it did before? Any change in the behavior of a criminal suspect was cause for suspicion. If a bank is robbed and the guard on duty at the time suddenly decides to take an unscheduled vacation or begins driving a new and expensive speeder to work…well, unless his rich uncle just passed away suddenly and left him a bundle of credits, or a winning ticket in the dauxcat races, he’s going to have company, to be sure. Company in uniform, carrying sonic pistols and stun batons.
Den Dhur the reporter did not usually spend his days alone in his quarters, and he surely wasn’t going to start doing so now. So it was that he found himself out in the blistering hot day, shadowing the Rimsoo’s combat instructor. Discreetly. Very discreetly. It wasn’t a real good idea to come to the attention of a being who could, if he wished, exterminate you without even raising his heart rate. A being who had demonstrated his ability and his willingness to snuff out lives and who had been recorded doing it. A being who glorified in the hunt and the kill.
A being like Phow Ji.
Den slipped into the shade of an outbuilding, happy for the relative coolness there, and watched his quarry. He focused a tiny recording cam upon the scene and triggered it. A little more background material never hurt. Better to have too much and have to cut it than too little and have to stretch it. This device wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as the moon moth, but it would get the job done.
Phow Ji had assembled a class of combat students, maybe a dozen or so, mostly humans, and they were limbering up their bodies on a patch of pink shortgrass behind the cantina. Broad-leaved trees offered the martial arts trainees partial shade, but their exertions still had those who shed heat by perspiring sweating profusely, while those who used other means of cooling themselves were panting, waving their limbs, or expanding rills and bulbae—whatever it took to bleed off excess warmth.
“What is the First Rule?” Ji said. His voice was oddly soft, but carried well enough in the damp morning air.
“Always be ready!” the class chorused in unison.
“Exactly. You don’t hang your fighting mind-set on the hat hook when you enter your cube. You don’t leave it on the counter when you shower, you don’t set it on the bedside table when you sleep. If it is not part of you, it is useless and—”
Without a hint of what he was going to do, Ji took a quick step to his left, swung his fist in a short arc, and punched a tall, thin human amidships.
The human went “Oof!” and staggered back a step, hands coming up in a belated defensive posture.
“Too late!” Ji roared, loud enough to put a cold finger on Den’s spine, thirty meters away and hidden.
The human had sagged to one knee, his face congested in pain. When he saw Phow Ji watching him, he hastily rose to his feet.
“Duels are fun,” Ji said. “Duels come when you and your opponent both know what’s about to happen, at least in general terms. Duels are neat, clean, and have rules. A match in the ring might kill you, but you are prepared for it. You know who your enemy is, you know where he is, and you aren’t surprised when he comes at you.
“In real life, you don’t have those luxuries. You could be sitting in the ’fresher when someone comes for you. Showering, sleeping, or taking a class like this one. Now. What is the First Rule?”
“Always be ready!” they shouted in unison.
Ji took a step toward the group. The group, as one, took a step backward. Some of them raised their hands. One of them pulled a knife partway from a sheath.
Ji grinned. “Better. Now. First Posture!”
The students took a stance, one foot forward, one hand high, one low. Ji walked around them, touching an arm or leg here and there, correcting the poses. Everybody in the group watched him with what Den could see, even from his hiding place, was a tense wariness.
Den shook his head. This Phow Ji was a bad man, no doubt about that. He already had enough to file a story, but he allowed
the cam to continue running. He knew what his slant was going to be: Phow Ji, a murderous thug who, in peacetime, would likely be locked away to protect the citizenry, instead was indulging his violent tendencies on the field of battle, allowed to kill and be thought a hero and not a villain. How did the public feel about that? Knowing that someone who was mentally deranged and violent, an assassin, a monster, was out there, and ostensibly on their side?
Den knew he could twirl it so that they would be horrified. A few more sequences showing the human’s cruelty and violence, and civilized beings would turn away in disgust and revulsion.
He smiled. This was what he did, and he was good at it. Of course, one could never be sure what the public would do, but he knew a good story when he saw one, and whatever else he might lack in, he could tell that story well.
32
Tolk, Jos decided, was deliberately torturing him.
She knew how she affected him—it was in her nature and training, both as a species and as a female—and she was doing everything but giving him a handwritten invitation to join her in whatever his heart might desire.
In the preop surgical scrub room, Jos washed his hands, taking the customary ten minutes to do so, lathering, cleaning under the short nails, then repeating the process, even though the need for such had been unnecessary since long before he’d been born. With sterile fields and gloves, there was not much of a chance any pathogens were going to be transferred into a patient because he washed his hands for nine minutes instead of ten, but he’d been taught by traditionalists who valued the old customs. So he washed, and he watched the chrono, and he brooded.
Old customs. On his world it was acceptable—barely—that a young unmarried person might go forth into the galaxy and sample the pleasures of ekster company. It wasn’t spoken of in polite circles, but it was done. Then the young, having gotten it out of their systems, were to return home, find a spouse from a proper enster family, and settle down.
But even in his younger and wilder days, Jos had never been comfortable with the idea of brief liaisons. He’d done it, of course, but the essentially meaningless encounters had weighed heavily upon him. At the core of his being, Jos knew that there would only be one love in his life, and that he should not be unfaithful to her—even if he did so before he ever met her.
But now, here was Tolk. Beautiful. Sexy. Adept. Caring. Intelligent and, Jos knew, all too perceptive. She called to him. He wanted to get to know her, to explore her emotional depths, to find out if what he saw within was real. And, were he from another background, he would have broken landspeeder records to pursue her, to see if she was indeed the One. But she could not be the One for him; his family, his culture, and a lifetime of duty to both forbade it out of hand. She was not of his people. She was ekster. There was no sacrament, no ceremony, no ritual, that could change this. She could not become one of them.
Jos was indeed a man torn.
Tolk knew about his cultural background, of course. She could have politely backed away from any possible entanglements. But she hadn’t.
And why is that, Jos, you simpleton? Hmmm?
Jos scrubbed hard at the backs of his fingers. How pink the skin was getting there. Clean. Very clean.
Tolk hadn’t made herself scarce for a simple reason: he wanted her, and not just physically. And she knew it. And apparently, she was of like enough mind so as not to be offended by the idea. And therein lay the real problem—
“I wouldn’t recommend scrubbing the skin off entirely, Jos. Get serous fluid inside the gloves and all.”
Speak of temptation, and lo! there did she appear!
He mumbled something.
“Pardon? I didn’t catch that.”
Jos continued to meticulously wash his hands, like that character in the old holodrama who believed that, no matter how hard he scrubbed, he would never be clean of his father’s blood. What was his name again…?
He took a deep breath. Might as well get to it.
“Listen, Tolk. I…uh, I mean…uh…” Blast, this was hard! The term mixed emotions didn’t begin to cover how he felt. It was more like pureed emotions.
She smiled sweetly at him, pretending, he knew, that she didn’t have a clue as to how he felt. “Yes?”
He straightened, stuck his hands under the dryer. “Why are you making this so hard?”
“Me? I’m sorry, am I making something hard, Doctor Vondar?” The finest strands of spun Yyeger sugar would not have melted upon her tongue.
“You know my culture,” he said, determined to see it through.
“Yes. And this knowledge disturbs you…?”
“Blast it, Tolk. You know very well what I’m talking about!”
She looked at him with an innocent gaze, her eyes so wide they made a Sullustan look squint-eyed. “My talents aren’t perfect, Jos. I’m not a mind reader; I can only see what’s obvious to anybody who looks closely enough. Maybe you should just say what you mean so there won’t be any confusion.” She smiled again.
He wanted to scream and break things.
“I—you—we—we can’t have a future together.”
Tolk blinked, as innocent as a newborn. “Future? Who said anything about that?”
“Tolk…”
“We’re in a war zone, Jos. Remember? Our protective field might malfunction tomorrow, we could take incoming fire from the Separatists, and we could all cease to be, just like that. Or the spores could mutate and kill us. Or we could be hit by lightning. In short, this is a dangerous place. Prognosis dismal. Any future for us is purely theoretical.”
Jos stared at her. Somehow he retained enough muscle control to close his gaping mouth.
Tolk said, “You know the Bruvian saying, ‘Kuuta velomin’?”
He shook his head.
“ ‘Seize the moment.’ It’s all we have. The past is gone, the future may never arrive. What exists is now. I’m not asking for marriage, Jos. I know that you can’t travel that path with me. But we could share what comfort we might have together, here and now. Two people who care for each other. The future, if it comes, will attend to itself. As should we. Where’s the harm in it?”
He shook his head again. “I’m—I wish I could do that. I’m just not wired that way. I need to commit to something this important.”
“Am I that important to you, Jos?”
He looked at her, and she smiled again, a sad smile. “You needn’t say it aloud. Your expression tells me.” She paused.
“All right, then. I’ll be your friend and your coworker, because it seems that’s all we are allowed. More’s the pity.” She reached out and touched his hand, and he felt an electric thrill run through his whole body.
She withdrew her hand. She wasn’t smiling now. “Oops, I’ve contaminated you. Sorry. You’ll have to wash your hands again. I’ll see you in the OT.”
When she was gone, he found that he was shaking.
He hated this. The war, the deaths, his culture, and in that moment, he was very glad Tolk had left and could not see the despair that he knew must be showing on his face.
He had to get out.
Not for long, and not far, but he could not face the OT right now, especially with Tolk in it. He’d sooner face an entire platoon of droidekas armed only with a trochar than see that look in her eyes again, at least today. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate; likely as not he’d wind up replacing a kidney with a gallbladder or something equally bad.
He commed Zan.
“You owe me,” the Zabrak said darkly as Jos watched him scrub up. “I just finished my own rotation two hours ago.”
“Sleep’s overrated.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Just give me an hour or so,” Jos said. “I’ve got to clear my head.”
“So you’re going for a walk? Have you been outside lately? The air’s so thick you could swim to the cantina.”
“One hour,” Jos said. “I’ll be back.”
He left the building and struck
out across the compound, angling away from the marshes and toward the relatively drier bota fields. Zan hadn’t exaggerated—ten minutes of walking and his clothes were already sweat-soaked. He would have to decontaminate all over again.
He didn’t care.
He stepped through a small stand of broad-leaved trees, waving away the wingstingers and fire gnats swarming around him, and saw the bota fields. Twenty or so parallel rows of growth stretching into the misty distance. Bota grew low to the ground; actually, the majority of the plant was underground, with only the fruiting bodies exposed. The rows were being tended by the usual assortment of droids; he didn’t see any organic handlers at the moment.
He made no attempt to pinch off a bit of the plant, knowing that the rows were protected by a low-level zap field. This innocuous growth was a precious commodity—understandable, since its adaptogenic cells could serve a variety of purposes, everything from potent broad-based antibiotic to hallucinogen to nutrient, depending on the species. If it could be cultivated offworld, it would give the spice traders considerable cause to worry, because it could literally be all things to all people.
All things to all people. It suddenly seemed to Jos that he’d spent a goodly part of his life—entirely too much, perhaps—trying to be the same thing. As far back as he could remember, it had been assumed that he would be a doctor. It wasn’t a decision he regretted—he was proud of his profession—but that was only one of many ways that he had endeavored to be the Good Son. He’d studied hard, always toed the line, been a child of whom anyone could be proud. And his family had been proud of him, no question of it. They had never stinted in their praise. He had no desire to hurt them or to see them hurt. And he knew that espousing an ekster would probably put them in early graves.
But—he seemed to be hearing the voice of Klo Merit in his ear: Are they your customs?
Are they?
It didn’t take a Jedi to see that Tolk would shine out amid an entire planetful of women. And he couldn’t deny that her offer of wartime comfort was tempting, very tempting.
Star War®: MedStar I: Battle Surgeons Page 20
