It was nearly midnight. The long-snouted Kubaz costume was gone, and the fat suit was a lot of trouble to flesh up and don, so Kaird had his meeting with Thula dressed as The Silent monk. It was not as if anybody would see them together, so he wasn’t concerned about the impropriety of speaking.
He stood with his back against a thin-walled storage shed just past the main dining hall, apparently alone. Thula was inside the shed, invisible to anybody who might be passing in the hot tropical dark, but easily heard past a screened grille designed to let air circulate through the wall while keeping out the rain.
“You have what I need?”
“Yes.”
“Then you and your friend have your two days’ warning. I suggest you use the time wisely.”
Thula’s voice was a soft, feral purr. “And the balance of our payment?”
“Look atop the inside ledge of the door’s frame.”
There was a brief pause. Kaird’s ears were keen enough to detect the sound of the Falleen’s footfalls as she quickly moved to the door, paused a moment, then returned to the wall. He caught a faint glimmer of light through the mesh as she triggered the credit cube he’d left over the door and checked the holoproj for the sum it contained.
“Most generous,” she said.
“Where is my case?” he asked.
“By now it’s in your kiosk, next to your other luggage. It was a pleasure doing business with you, friend.”
“You have a way to depart?”
“Yes. We’ve secured tentative passage on a small transport vessel, leaving tomorrow. There is a pilot open to bribes.”
“A surface-to-ship transport won’t take you far.”
“Far enough to obtain something else that will. Money is a powerful lubricant.”
“Perhaps we’ll met again someday,” Kaird said.
“Perhaps,” she said.
Kaird moved away from the shed and back to his kiosk. The door had been locked, but such locks as were used here were hardly proof against professional thieves, as Squa Tront and Thula were—among their many other talents.
The carbonite slab stood next to his other bag, disguised so as to resemble a moderately priced travel case. It was almost a perfect match to his luggage. Frozen in carbonite, the bota would keep until somebody triggered the melter. After that, it would have to be processed quickly to avoid the rapid rot that would follow, but that was not his problem. Black Sun had the best chemists in the galaxy on tap; all he had to do was get it to them.
He hefted the case. It was heavy, nearly seventy kilos, he judged, but easily within his ability to pick up and carry.
Kaird felt better in that moment than he had since he had arrived on this pestilent planet. He had done the best he could, given the circumstances, and when all was said and done, he felt he would come out of it looking very good indeed. Just a couple more days of subterfuge, and then on to his homeworld and peace.
A well-deserved peace.
Jos woke up in the middle of the night, grainy from his most recent bout of drinking. He sat up on his cot and rubbed his eyes. He had dreamed of Tolk, and in the dream she had told him why she wanted to go away. Only now, he couldn’t remember what she had said.
Jos stood, padded to the ’fresher, and splashed water on his face. He rinsed his mouth out. He had been drinking lately to such an extent that even the anti-veisalgia drugs that normally quashed hangovers were losing their effectiveness. He looked at himself in the mirror.
What a sad sight you are.
He sighed. No question about that.
What a pitiful excuse for a man, too. Are you just going to let her go? Without a fight?
He frowned at his reflection. Aloud, he said, “What am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me! And I don’t know why!”
So? You’re not stupid! Figure out why! You couldn’t stop Zan dying—are you just going to let Tolk walk away without even knowing why?
Jos turned away from the mirror and went back to his cot. He stood there, staring at the bed. There was the question, wasn’t it? The big one, the only one: why? What had caused Tolk, the woman who said she loved him, to just up and leave? She had cited the explosion on MedStar, the dozens of deaths—but that didn’t make sense. Tolk had seen worse, far worse, and a lot closer at hand. No, this was different. It was almost as if she’d received a revelation from some primitive planetary deity…
The sudden realization hit him hard enough to make him sit down. It was as if he had been punched in the solar plexus, his wind stolen, so that he couldn’t take another breath. He knew. He knew!
Great-Uncle Erel. He had talked to Tolk. He had told her what it was like to give up family and home forever. He had poisoned Tolk’s thoughts!
It made perfect sense. She had figured the old man would speak to her. Jos had, too, but somehow that knowledge had slipped from his mind—he had been so tired and overworked. In hindsight, it seemed unbelievable that he could have put that possibility out of his thoughts, but he had. Tolk had talked about the explosion, the deaths, the horror of it all, and Jos had fastened upon that and thought about her reasons no further.
Uncle Erel.
Rage rose in him like a hot tide. He stood, went back to the ’fresher, and flipped the sonic shower on. He stepped into the stall, feeling the grime and sleep and sour smell of alcohol that still seeped from his pores begin to sluice away, rolling down his body in dirty waves to the drain. He looked at his chrono—the next transport was scheduled to lift midmorning. Time enough to shower and dress, and then, by everything that was righteous, he would pull rank, call in favors…grow wings and fly if that’s what it took to pay a visit to his loving uncle and have the truth from him—one way or another.
32
Kaird, or Mont Shomu, as he was known in his fat human disguise, smiled as the human pilot and the Twi’lek food service tech sipped from the bottle of local wine he had brought along. It wasn’t bad wine, made from a round, reddish purple fruit about the size of a human’s closed fist that grew on the funguslike trees of the Jasserak Highlands. Called avedame, the pulp was crispy when ripe, and had a tart, yet sweet taste; the wine reflected this.
That the wine was drugged with myocaine didn’t affect the flavor at all, given that in the liquid oral form, the muscle relaxant was tasteless, odorless, and colorless. To allay any suspicion, Kaird also drank the wine. The difference was that a pinch of neutralizer had gone into his glass, along with the straw-colored wine, ensuring that he would feel no effect from the chemical.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” the Twi’lek female said. The excitement was high in her voice. Kaird smiled, and the fat face smiled with him. How sweet and naive…
Bogan, the human pilot, was just as ramped. He swallowed half his glass of fruit wine and impatiently waved the holoprojector to life. Not as conscientious as the other pilot, to drink wine, even though it wasn’t much.
The image of a large hall filled with tables, at each of which two players sat, blossomed in the air above them. The holoproj was sharp, and they would get to enjoy the first twenty or thirty minutes of it. After that, once the pharmaceutical took hold, they would be awake and alert, but simply unable to move.
After fifteen minutes, the pair of them began to slump, and, while they no doubt wondered and worried at this, they simply did not have the energy to do anything about it, save to frown. At twenty minutes, they couldn’t even flex their facial muscles enough for that. Were he to give each of them a blaster, neither could summon the strength to raise it and shoot him.
Kaird moved to the human. “Can you speak?”
“Y-y-y… yesssss,” Bogan managed, his voice a dragged-out slur. “Wh-wh-whaaat …?”
“I’ll keep it short and simple. I’ve drugged you. I want the codes to the admiral’s personal ship—access, security, operational, everything. The drug I gave you is not fatal; however, if you don’t give me the codes, or if you give me false ones, I will kill you and your friend. Do you underst
and?”
“Y-y-yesss…”
“Good.” Kaird produced a recorder from his pocket. He knew that the man’s slurs wouldn’t matter—the security codes were not vox-specific, so anybody could make them work. “Give me the codes. Take your time, identify each one clearly. If they work, you and your girlfriend will have a pleasant evening watching the Strag match, and by noon tomorrow, you’ll be able to move well enough to call for help.
“If any of the codes fails, however…” Kaird removed a small thermal detonator from his pocket. Used to trigger a larger bomb, a unit this size, if it went off in this room, would shred everything in it, paint the walls with blood and vaporized flesh, and then knock down the walls. All in about a thousandth of a second.
He held it so the man could see it clearly. “Do you recognize this?”
“Y-y-y—”
“Good,” Kaird said, cutting him off. “I have a transmitter for the detonator that has a range of two hundred kilometers.” He produced a small device, held it up, then pocketed it again. “If, as I leave in the stolen ship—yes, I am stealing it—anything awry happens with the codes you give me, and I mean anything at all—then I will trigger this.” He stood, moved to the holoprojector, and set the thermal bomb on top of the device.
Bogan had begun sweating, which was good.
“Now, I know you’re a pilot and thus a brave fellow, Bogan, and probably not afraid to die yourself,” he said. “But your Twi’lek Strag mate here is an innocent non-combatant. You wouldn’t want her to be turned into bloody paste now, would you?”
“N-no…”
“Well, then, we’re in accord. The codes?”
After Bogan had spoken the words and numbers aloud—a long and slow process—“Mont Shomu” took several of the couch cushions and used them to prop the boneless couple up and against each other, so that they were looking at the holoproj. He wiped the sweat from Bogan’s face. “Enjoy the match. I’ve set the projector to repeat, so you won’t get bored—at least, not for the first dozen or so times.” Kaird bowed slightly, then exited.
He could have killed them outright, of course, and there were many in his profession who would have done so without a second thought. Nor would it have bothered him particularly to do so; he had sent more than his share of people back to the Cosmic Egg in his time, so two more would hardly affect the total very much. But there were reasons not to kill them. First off, nobody had paid him to do so; second, it wasn’t necessary. The two were out of commission, inside a locked kiosk, and by the time anybody missed them, Kaird would be long gone. They had no idea he was a Nediji, and the fat human they had met would be recycled synthflesh in a few minutes. He’d made sure there were no currents leading to his nest.
He grinned inside his disguise. Actually, the thermal detonator was a trainer—mechanically and electrically identical to a live grenade, but without an explosive charge, and thus harmless. The “transmitter” he had waved at Bogan was a personal featherette groomer. As far as Kaird knew, there weren’t any handheld transmitters that size with a range anywhere near two hundred klicks. 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 MedStar 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 Hunandin 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 ensters 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 still 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 fönster?”
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 fönster 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 practiced on the homeworld?”
Star Wars: Medstar II: Jedi Healer Page 20
