And after that, it would be smooth sailing. He could almost smell the sharp, clean air of the eyrie once more…
23
Jos wanted to grill I-Five about the details of his restored memory at length, but unfortunately it was turning out to be another long day patching up the troops. There was nothing especially difficult or enormously complicated about most of the procedures; the majority of them involved removing shrapnel, as battlefield surgeons had done on war fronts for the past few millennia. The Separatists knew one grim fact of war very well—kill a soldier, and all you’ve cost your foe is the price of a recycle. Incapacitate the soldier, and you put a drain on your enemy’s supplies and personnel across the board.
Jos grafted burned skin, resected pulverized tissue, removed perforated organs and replaced them with fresh transplants. Time crawled by.
Tolk was working with another surgeon this day. Whenever he could, Jos tried to catch her gaze, but to no avail; she simply looked at him from over her mask, her eyes betraying nothing—then turned her attention back to her work.
By the time his shift was up, nine troopers had passed beneath his gloved hands, and he was about to fall asleep on his feet—something he hadn’t done since his residency.
He went to the ’fresher and laved his face and hands, sieved tepid water through his hair. It helped push back the exhaustion a little. Was a time when he had been just like Uli—well, a little older—and pulling a shift like the one he just had would have slid off him like water off an Aqualish’s back. But now, every time he looked in the mirror, it seemed he could find new lines in his face, more gray hairs in his stubble. He was beginning to look—
Creators help him, he was beginning to look like his uncle.
He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Tolk—she’d gone off shift before him, and he hadn’t seen her since.
When he left the ’fresher, he saw I-Five just emerging from the OT disinfection passage. The combination of UV light and ultrasound was complete enough to zap any pathogen that might have somehow made it through the sterile patient field, but the droid always complained that the sonics left him with the robotic equivalent of tinnitus for a few minutes afterward.
“So your memory’s fully restored?” Jos said as the droid joined him.
“What?”
“Turn up your auditory sensors. You said you remembered everything,” Jos said. “So tell me—are you really a lap-droid for some wealthy princess, or a groomer for a Shistavanen, or what?”
“I’m exactly what I was before, thank you very much for asking. I said there were gaps in my memory that needed to be filled. Now they have been. My internal cognitive function repairs are complete.”
“I wish mine were. Anything in particular you recall? C’mon, I-Five. Share.”
The droid cocked his head in a puzzled pose. “Why are you so anxious to know?”
“Well, because—” Jos thought about it. Just why was he so curious?
“Because,” he said slowly, “because from what you do remember, you’ve had an adventurous time of it, first on Coruscant and then careening around the space lanes. As for me…the only worlds I’ve been to, other than here, are Coruscant and Alderaan. I look in the mirror, and I hardly recognize the aging hunk of protoplasm I see. I suppose that, when you said you remembered everything, that…” He shrugged.
“That you would seize the opportunity to do a little vicarious sightseeing?”
“Something like that. Also,” Jos paused, looking again for words. “I suppose I should be telling all this to Klo—”
“He does rate far higher than I do on the intuition scale.”
“Most doctors—especially the ones here and others like them—will tell you they don’t fear death, because they’ve seen so much of it. That may be true, for them. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s for just that reason that I do fear death. Or at least the boat that makes the crossing.”
“Padawan Offee might also be more able to help you than—”
“It’s usually painful and protracted, death. Seems odd, with all the painkillers and stim treatments available nowadays, but there’s still about a billion quadrillion or so beings just getting by for every one with his own private skyhook. In that respect, the galaxy probably won’t ever change.”
“There are other options.”
“True. If you’re rich, there are options—a personality dump, being frozen in carbonite—all kinds of options. But I’m not within a parsec of being that rich, and probably never will be. So I—”
“Jos,” I-Five said. Jos stopped, surprised. The droid’s voice hadn’t really changed—it still had that slight, indefinable touch that identified its origin as a vocabulator instead of a larynx—but it was different, somehow. He hardly ever calls anyone by name, he realized suddenly.
I-Five said, “From what I’ve studied of popular culture, I think this is the moment where I’m supposed to remind you of all the wonderful advantages you, as an organic, have over me, a mechanical. Unfortunately, I really can’t think of any. Yes, you are capable of creativity, of flights of imagination that I am not—because my core programming doesn’t encompass such ephemerals. But I don’t miss them. I don’t yearn to be able to understand beauty and art. The same goes for love—and existential life crises such as you seem to be currently experiencing.”
“I don’t believe that. You have, at the very least, a sense of humor—”
“I was programmed with one. Just about all droids that interact with organics on this level are.”
“You wanted to get drunk!”
“True. I didn’t say I wasn’t programmed with emotions. Loyalty is one. Curiosity is another. And my lack of creativity dampers and my expanded synaptic grid allow me to extrapolate feelings. Experiencing things that organics favor—such as mind-altering concoctions— would theoretically help me understand them. And, since I’m stuck in this galaxy with all of you, I need all the data I can get.
“But I’m not the little droid in the children’s tale that wants to be an organic, Jos. I’m a machine. A very complex machine, capable of mimicking the thinking processes of a sentient to an astonishing degree, if I do say so. But a machine, nonetheless. And I have no real desire to be anything else.”
Jos stared at I-Five. He couldn’t have been more astonished if the droid had just turned into a three-headed Kaminoan. Then, somewhat to his surprise, he started to feel angry. He’d just recently had his worldview twisted, was only now starting to get comfortable with the idea that maybe droids shouldn’t be treated like electrospanners with arms, and he was determined not to let I-Five mess with his head again.
He said slowly, “Do you remember, during one of the sabacc games, when we were discussing how a being knows if it’s self-aware?”
“I remember.”
“And you said something along the lines of, To be self-aware enough to ask the question is to have answered it. I think you’re aware enough to answer that question, I-Five. In fact, I think you already have. But now you’re pulling back—you’re denying your self,” Jos said. “I wonder if it might have anything to do with your memory returning?”
I-Five was quiet for what seemed a long time. When he spoke again, Jos could hear a definite tone of wonder in his voice. “I think—comparing subjective neural activity with internal files on the subject—” the droid said, “I think I’m having an anxiety attack.”
24
Sometimes the names did get a little confusing. Most of the time, it was the one the others in the Rimsoo used; after that it was Column, the op-nom bestowed by one of Count Dooku’s Separatist spymasters. Lens, the code name by which Black Sun knew its agent, was the one least often utilized. None of them, of course, was the name bestowed upon the spy at birth, and that was but one of a long list that had changed time and again, as circumstances dictated.
However, Lens was the sobriquet being used now, that being the one the spy’s guest was familiar with. The being sitting facing Lens was o
stensibly human, but, in fact, concealed under the adipose rolls of a fat-suit disguise was Kaird, the Nediji assassin and enforcer. The two of them were in an empty office that belonged to a lab supervisor who had contracted a nasty, local form of pneumonia during the recent cold spell. The lab worker, an Askajian, was in the medical ward and wouldn’t be using her room anytime soon.
The ersatz human had just laid out what sounded like the bare essence of a plan to steal a major amount of bota—and a ship in which to transport it. This didn’t make any sense, and Lens was not at all hesitant to say so.
“We have our reasons.”
“And you are telling me this… why?”
“You are our agent; it seemed only fair to warn you. The theft will cause investigation—best you are not caught unprepared.”
Lens smiled. “My official persona here is quite blaster-proof. What’s the real reason?”
The human disguise was quite good—the smile it produced looked genuine. “Eventually, as all wars must, this one will end. Business will continue. You have been a valuable asset to us and could be one again after this conflict is resolved. We hate to waste talent.”
That made more sense, but it wasn’t all of it, Lens figured. “Still not quite right, is it?”
The disguise’s vox unit gave a realistic offering of a human laugh. “It is so refreshing to not have to deal with the dull and ignorant,” Kaird said. He leaned forward. “Very well: in your official capacity here, you have access to certain data.”
“True—but security codes for vacuum-worthy ships, especially those with hyperdrive units, are not among such data,” Lens said.
“I didn’t think they were. But you can get medical records.”
“Anybody in the Rimsoo with standard clearance can view those files. I fail to see how that will help you steal a ship.”
“Ever see a child’s tumble-slabs? You can set them up in long and convoluted rows and whorls, the one at the end being a hundred or a thousand away from the one at the beginning. If you line them up right, however, tipping the first one over will eventually result in the last one falling.”
Lens nodded again. “Yes. I see what you mean.”
“I am going to do some very basic research,” Kaird said, “and after I have learned some things, I will ask you for specific files that I believe will be useful. Nothing that should be secured above your ability to scan.”
“Not a problem,” Lens said. “I will obtain what you need.”
“Excellent.” There was a pause. “Now I’m going to do you a favor, Lens. I realize you have other loyalties besides those to Black Sun, but those interests—and ours— here are about to cease to matter.”
Lens frowned. “How so?”
“The reason we are all here is singular. That reason is already dwindling in importance, and, in a short time, will stop completely.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me. You’re talking about the bota?”
“Yes. The plant, it seems, is undergoing a new mutation, one that will radically alter its prized adaptogenic properties. By its next generation, bota will be no more valuable than any other weed growing on this hot rock— it will be chemically changed so far as to be useless as a drug. Since Drongar itself is of no use, strategic or otherwise, both the Republic and the Separatist forces will have no reason to remain here.” The hands spread themselves, palms-up, in a gesture of freedom. “We can all go home.”
“How do you know this?”
“That doesn’t matter. I know it for a fact. I tell you this because, after I’m gone, you might be able to use the data to help your friends under Count Dooku’s command. It might be worth a final, all-out battle to secure what’s left of the bota fields—since once those are gone, there won’t be any more to be had. Not around here, at least.”
Lens, startled by this revelation, said nothing. There would be no reason for Kaird to lie about this. The theft of a goodly amount of bota would, at least indirectly, harm the Republic, and so Lens wished him success as far as that went. But if what he said was true, it would definitely be in the Separatists’ interest to grab up as much of the crop as they could, even at the risk of destroying the rest of it. Better half a loaf than none.
Somehow, this information had to be verified.
“This is valuable knowledge,” Lens said. “And yet you offer it freely.”
The jowled head nodded ponderously. “As I said, the war will eventually be settled. Win or lose, it’s all the same to us. If we do you a favor, someday you might be in a position to do one for us. Black Sun has a long memory, for enemies and for friends. We have plenty of both, but it never hurts to have more friends.”
Lens nodded and smiled. The Nediji’s statement made sense, although it came with a fairly high dosage of irony, since Black Sun had in the past played such deals from so many angles that it took a nine-dimensional slice of space–time just to contain them all.
The human suit stood, its rolls of foamcast fat quivering. “I’ll contact you in a day or two,” Kaird said.
“May frost never dim your vision.”
Kaird left, and Lens considered what the Black Sun enforcer had said. If this revelation about the bota checked out, it would be a major bit of intelligence to pass along. The course of the war here would almost certainly be altered quickly.
Very quickly.
Jos plodded toward his kiosk. He no longer shared it with Tolk, nor with Uli. She’d moved back into her own three days ago, saying she needed space to think. Uli was still in the single unit that he’d moved to soon after Tolk moved in. These days, Jos spent most of his time either in the cantina or in the OT. He only went back to his quarters when he needed sleep—and he desperately needed it now.
The drone of medlifters began. They quickly built into such a cacophony that he couldn’t even guess how many there were. He shook his head. That was going to be bad for whoever was on—
His comlink cheeped.
He answered, knowing it was bad news. “What?”
Uli said, “There’s been an explosion and big fire at the AIA hydrogen plant, Jos. A hundred people seriously hurt. We’ve got nine lifters worth headed our way, thirty-some wounded, most of them bad burns and—”
“I just finished my shift. I can barely lift my hands, much less use them to operate.”
“I know. But one of the droid surgeons just blew a gyrostabilizer, and it’ll take hours to repair it. We’re shorthanded in the OT. Colonel Vaetes said to call.”
Jos sighed. “Kark,” he said. But there was no heat in the word, only a great weariness. Would this never end?
In the OT, the first patients from the fire started arriving as Jos gloved up. He saw Tolk, and this time she nodded at him. A small gesture, but it made him feel a little better. At least they had that much.
He moved to a table as a pair of droids slid a patient onto it from the gurney. A clone, and scorched pretty badly. “What do we have here?”
“Third-degree burns over twenty-six percent of his body,” one of the droids, a surgical diagnostic unit, intoned. “Second-degree over an additional twenty-one percent. First-degree over seventeen percent. In addition, he has a lacerated small intestine from what seems to be a splinter from a shattered hydrogen tank, left lower quadrant, transversely; puncture wounds in his left lung, which is collapsed; and a fragment embedded in his left eye.”
“Separatist droids attacked the plant?”
“No, sir,” the SDU droid said. “It was an industrial accident.”
Wonderful.
“Isn’t bad enough the Seppies’re killing people—now we’re blowing ourselves up. Crack open a burn kit,” Jos told Threndy. “Somebody hit him with enkephalin, a hundred milligrams. And get the ultrasonic scrubber— he’s going to need at least half his skin replaced…”
Jos somehow managed to keep it together for another five patients, saving them all.
Then he killed the next one.
He was halfway through the first stag
e of a pneumonectomy, on a nonclone human patient, working on the left lung with a laser scalpel, when he nicked the man’s aorta. Blood spewed from the clamped vessel in a geyser that shot nearly all the way to the ceiling.
“Get a pressor on that!”
Tolk and Threndy had been pulled away to help Uli and Vaetes, who were doing a heart transplant, but the surgical assistant droid quickly focused the pressor field on the cut artery with mechanical precision, a perfect placement. Unfortunately, the field strength was not quite sufficient, and the wound continued to ooze.
“Kick it up,” Jos ordered. “What’s the field strength?”
“Six-point-four,” the droid said.
“Go to seven.”
“But doctor, that will exceed tissue parameters—”
“Override. Seven, I said.”
Even as the droid complied, Jos realized his mistake. The man lying before him was not a Fett-clone, one whose circulatory system’s wall strengths had been augmented to help keep wounds from bleeding as much. This was an ordinary human, which meant—
The aorta exploded, shredding as if a small bomb had gone off inside it.
“I need some help here!”
All of the surgical heart–lung bypass roilers were in use, and an extra pair of hands wouldn’t be enough. The field couldn’t stop the blood, and even as he tried to tie off the blown artery, he knew it was too late. Massive shock took the man, and he flatlined before they could implement cerebrostasis. Jos tried to revive him, once he had a flexy-stat on the torn vessel and oxygenated expander flowing to replace the lost blood. Ten minutes he tried, but nothing seemed to work. He couldn’t restart the heart.
He had four more patients lined up. He knew what he had to do.
Star Wars: Medstar II: Jedi Healer Page 15
