Column sighed. In times like these, only the distant goal could remain clear. The objects and people near to hand were fuzzy, and, like the tiniest parts of matter, did not bear close examination. To peer too closely at them while knowing what was inevitably going to happen was to court madness. How could a being smile at those close by, interact with them, share their hopes, dreams, and frustrations, while simultaneously taking part in a plot that would end in the deaths of at least some of them?
No, the immediate ugliness had to be ignored. When all this was done, when the Republic had been roundly defeated and old-but-not-faded wrongs had been righted— then there would be time enough to grieve.
Often clichés contain more than a grain of truth— which is why they become clichés. In this case, sometimes the ends really did justify the means, no matter how heinous they seemed in the moment.
That’s how one had to look at it. To see it any other way would cause paralysis. And, whatever else might happen, the Republic had to lose this war.
It had to lose.
Tolk sat on the end of Jos’s cot and blotted her wet hair with a syncloth towel.
“Your ’fresher’s sonic dryer is broken again,” she said.
Lying on the bed and watching her, Jos smiled. “Do tell? I’ll have the butler droid give the mechanic droid a call straightaway,” he said, affecting a posh upper-class East Quadrant Coruscant accent. “I do hope you haven’t suffered too much in these dreadful and barbaric circumstances, my dear.”
She smiled back, finished blotting her hair, and threw the damp towel at him. It hit him in the face before he could get a hand up to block. He laughed, and her smile broadened.
Then, abruptly, it faded.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She started to get up; he reached, gently pulled her back. “You aren’t the only person who pays attention to faces around here, you know. Now, tell Doctor Vondar.”
She nibbled at her lower lip. “I’ve been contacted by the director of Surgical Nursing Services on MedStar.”
“And…?”
“And they want me to rotate up for a Continuing Medical Education short course in decubitus care. Six hours, lecture and lab.”
He snorted. “A CME class on bedsores? What idiot came up with that one? We don’t have patients here long enough to develop decubitus ulcers! Anyway, with the massage fields it’s not a—”
“I know. The order came directly from the admiral’s office.”
Jos frowned. “I see…anything else?”
“According to an old friend in SNS, as of this morning I am the only surgical nurse onplanet who has been ordered to take the class. What do you think that means?”
The answer was fairly obvious. Why would the admiral’s office order a single nurse to attend a course that was, given the nature of the Rimsoo treatments here, pretty much useless?
“Great-Uncle Erel,” Jos said, his voice tight. “He wants to check you out—and he doesn’t want me around when he does it.”
She nodded. “That’s how I figure it.”
Jos sat up. “I can tell MedStar we can’t spare you right now,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. I’ll have to talk to him sooner or later. Might as well be now. I’ve been holding my breath ever since you told me who he was.”
“Tolk—you don’t have to—”
She leaned over and put her hand over his mouth. “Shush. I’m a big girl. I won’t melt if your uncle looks at me crooked. If he is going to be family—” She stopped. “Are you having second thoughts?”
He put one hand on her cheek. “Never.”
She smiled. “All right. Then I’ll go see Uncle Admiral and we’ll find out what’s what. It’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m a face reader, Jos. At least we’ll know where we really stand with him.”
He was still worried, and obviously she could see it in his expression. She grinned, took his hand from her cheek, and kissed his palm—and worrying about his uncle suddenly fell off the top of his to-do list.
11
The MedStar frigates were the acme of the Republic medical corps’ fleet. Equipped with state-of-the-art xenoand biomedical facilities that would rival those of many planetside hospitals, MedStar-class vessels were designed to accept Rimsoo-stabilized ill or injured patients and, when necessary, continue their treatment. Such ships were extremely expensive, and there were but a handful of them presently in active service. Given the nature and length of the war, others were being built as quickly as Kuat Drive Yards could turn them out.
In war, the roads to victory—or defeat—always wound through mountains of bodies.
Column, seated in the transport headed for MedStar, gazed through the small, thick porthole at the verdant landscape rapidly dwindling below. The ship’s A-Grav field ensured that the crew and passengers remained at a comfortable planetary constant, but, judging by the quickness with which Drongar fell away from them, the spy estimated that the transport had to be pulling at least five g’s. The reason for the swift ascent was to pass quickly through the spore strata. Column watched as colonies of the single-celled proto-animalcules splashed against the transparisteel port like insectoids against a windscreen. Smears of color, most of them various shades of red or green, were turned into liquid streaks by the transport’s speed.
Drongaran life was both mutagenic and adaptogenic, and its rate of evolution seemed to be constant, rather than punctuated, as well as extremely rapid. Studies had found that the species on this world possessed DNA that granted undedifferentiation properties to virtually every cell of the organism, allowing it to adapt to environmental threats in an astoundingly short time. The swift mutability posed a real threat to the aliens who had come here to harvest bota. Spores, bacteria, viruses, RNA-ersatz, and no doubt millions of other tiny life-forms yet undiscovered roiled through and clogged everything on Drongar. A ship traveling through the spore clouds had to hurry; tarry too long, and the teeming protolife attacked and overcame the seals, sometimes digesting material as quickly as might a strong caustic. It could do much the same—and frequently did—to alien biological systems such as lungs, livers, kidneys, gutsacs, spiracles, and so forth. Fortunately, the most damaging concentrations of spore swarms stayed just above the treetops, high enough to allow people relative safety at ground level. No one was sure why. It might, Column mused, have something to do with wind patterns. Or perhaps it was the heat. Whatever the reason, everyone was grateful that the myriadfold of Drongaran life was not more inimical to offworlders.
Column sighed, knowing that this rumination on the local fauna and flora was simply a way to put off thinking about the job to come. The stroke of a finger on the holoproj control changed the image from an aerial view of Drongar to the magnified image of MedStar, waiting above in geosync orbit. What had to be done was an unpleasant agenda, no two ways about it. A spy was, at times, not simply a gatherer of information. There sometimes came a crux when a more active role was required. Sometimes one had to cross into the territory of saboteur. It was part of the business—hard, but unavoidable.
Column reflected upon this unhappy, but necessary fact for…what? the thousandth time? Reflection did not change things, however. It was war. People died in war, some deserving, some not, and, wishes to the contrary, spies and saboteurs in the enemy’s camp had to bear responsibility for violent acts. If not Column, somebody else would be here. Perhaps, Column liked to think, that agent would have fewer qualms about death and destruction.
Not that Column could be considered scrupulous; there had been actions for which the spy had been directly responsible over the past few months that had claimed both lives and property. Actions that were, as the ancient Ithorian revolutionary Andar Suquand had said, “Casting sand in the gears of the machine.” Such an action wasn’t going to stop the war, but it would slow things down a bit.
Sometimes, that was all one could hope to do.
This coming actio
n would be more akin to throwing pebbles than sand, at least locally. After Column was finished, gears would metaphorically grind to a stop, camshafts would break, and the repairs would cost time, money, and valuable labor—all of which would be a drain on the Republic’s war chest. Not a big drain, to be sure; in fact, given the length and breadth and depth of the Clone Wars, as the aggregate battles were beginning to be called, it would hardly be noticed. But wars were often won, not with a few major breaches, but with many tiny punctures. Even pinholes, were there enough of them, would empty the largest container.
Column glanced again at the holoproj built into the next row’s seat back. MedStar slowly grew in size, all alone against the backdrop of space, as the transport approached. Column sighed again. What had to be done would be done. Such was the nature of war.
Jos came out of a series of simple and dull procedures, routine stitchery that any first-year resident could do. But simple or not, they were time-consuming when piled on half a dozen or more deep.
As he tossed his dirty surgical gown into the recycle hopper, Uli emerged from the OT, looking as if he had just had ten hours of restful sleep, a sonic shower, and a cup of hot bajjah.
Truly, youth was wasted on the young.
“Hey, Jos,” the kid said. “They just kept ’em coming today, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, they do that sometimes. Too many times. How’d it go?”
“Great. Two bowel resections, a cardiac transplant, a liver repair. All still alive, no sweat.”
Jos smiled and shook his head. None of those procedures was cut-by-the-numbers, even back in the real galaxy. This kid shrugged off stuff that would have had Jos sweating transponder battery acid when he’d been a third-year surgical resident. He had a platinum vibroscalpel, Uli did, no question. The uncertainty Jos had seen on the boy’s first day had quickly been replaced by confidence verging on cockiness. Jos knew that, even though Uli had spent the day snatching lives back from the brink of eternity, death was still an abstract concept to someone that young.
“You holding up okay?”
Slightly startled by the question, Jos looked at the younger man. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you know. Tolk being gone and all…”
“She’s not the only surgical nurse on the rotation.”
“True. But she’s the only one you’re, uh, involved with.”
Jos raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
Uli grinned, just like the big kid he was. “Come on, Jos. We share a cube. It’s not that big, and a couple of plastoid panels down the middle doesn’t exactly make it soundproof.”
Jos felt uncomfortable. “I thought we were pretty circumspect.”
“Not really. Besides, it’s obvious even to people who don’t live in the same clutch with you. She okay?”
“She’s fine. She had to go up to MedStar for a CME class. She’ll be back in a day or two.”
“You miss her.”
It wasn’t a question, and Jos supposed he could have slapped the kid down for it, but it sounded like a sympathetic comment, not a smarmy one. “Yeah. I miss her.”
There was an awkward pause. “I think I’ll go get a bite to eat,” Jos said. “Join me?”
“Maybe later. I need to check on a patient first.”
Barriss had been practicing with her lightsaber diligently since the accident in which she had cut herself. There had been a little hesitation at first, a concern that had slowed her moves, but that had gradually faded, and now she was back up to speed. Whatever the problem was, it had not come back, and so her confidence had risen, even though she still could not imagine what had caused the slip. A move she had made ten thousand times was not one about which she would normally think—in fact, she shouldn’t have to think about it. Thought was far too slow.
She also had no idea what had created the sudden blast of cold air. She’d checked with others in the area, as well as some of the techs. No one else had experienced it, and no one had any explanation for what might have caused it.
It was tempting to believe it had been her imagination. But she knew it hadn’t. In addition to the croaker bushes, she had felt energy of some sort rippling through the Force.
She trusted in the Force; had done so since the first time it had surged to life within her and she’d understood what it was. She had also learned quickly what it was not. It was not, first and foremost, a protector, or a weapon, or a mentor—though it could, at times, manifest aspects of all those things. The Force was what it was, no more, no less. Errors in wielding it belonged to the user.
She had just finished the section of Form III in which she danced against four imaginary opponents, all of whom were using blasters. The greatest Jedi who ever lived could not stop four bolts fired from different angles at the same moment, but that wasn’t the point. Jedi combat principles were founded in the concept of constantly reaching for perfection. A Jedi began the battle with the idea of facing multiple attackers, who would be armed, and skilled. If you trained for combat believing that you would always be outnumbered and outgunned and that you could still prevail, you stood a much better chance than if you allowed in the idea of defeat because the odds were against you.
Someone approached Barriss from behind. She reached out with the Force…
Uli.
“Hey,” came his voice.
Barriss turned, pleased that she had identified him before he spoke, and amused at herself for taking pride in such a trivial thing. “Hey, yourself.”
“How’s the foot? No residual impairment?”
“No, it’s fine. Completely healed.” As he smiled in rueful admiration of her healing abilities, she asked, “Are you going off to hunt for flare-wings again?”
He shook his head. “Just finished my shift in the OT, and I needed to move around a little.” He looked at her, not quite meeting her eyes. “May I ask you something?”
Barriss extinguished her lightsaber. “Sure.”
“How can you be a healer and use that lightsaber like you do?”
“Practice. Lots and lots of practice.”
Uli smiled and shook his head, but before he could reply, Barriss said, “You really mean why, not how, right?”
He nodded. “Right.”
A wingstinger buzzed past, looking for prey smaller than the two people standing in the hot sun. Barriss pointed to the hard shade of a nearby broadleaf tree, and they walked to it.
“Since these wars, the Jedi have become primarily warriors,” she said. “Made more powerful by their abilities to use the Force. Throughout history, as guardians, we have always sought to use our powers for the good of the galaxy—thus, for defense, rather than aggression. Even so, a warrior must know how to fight at levels from full-out battles to one-on-one personal combat. And part of that is taking responsibility for our actions.
“We believe that, if you must slay someone, if you must snuff out a life, then you must be willing to look that being straight in the eyes while you do it. The killing of a fellow sentient, even one who richly deserves it, is not a thing to be done lightly. Nor should it be a thing done easily. You should be close enough to see what it takes, to understand the pain and fear that enemies suffer when you dispatch them. You must feel some of their death.”
“So that’s why the lightsaber,” he said.
“That’s why the lightsaber. Because it puts you next to an enemy, face to face, not at some far remove. You can use a holoscoped blaster to put a bolt through your opponent a kilometer away—it’s more efficient, and there’s much less risk to you in so doing. But you don’t hear the death rattle, you don’t smell the fear, you don’t have to wipe your enemy’s blood from your face. If you must kill, then you need to know how great the cost is—to your opponent, and to you.”
“Okay, I understand that part. But—”
“How can I be a healer and a warrior at the same time?”
He nodded.
“They are but opposite sides of the
same coin. Take a life, spare a life—there’s always a balance. Most cultures teach that people are a mix of good and evil—seldom all of one or the other. In most folk, there is an innate decency. They live lives that are more virtuous than not, but there’s always an option to choose bad over good.
“I can’t create life, Uli, but I can restore it. Being a healer helps me keep in balance the fact that I have—and no doubt will again—taken lives. Sometimes, an opponent doesn’t deserve the ultimate penalty. If I amputate a hand or an arm, I will have accomplished what needed to be done. Allowing this enemy to die, then, is wrong. Being able to repair what damage I’ve caused can thus be of value.”
“But not all Jedi are healers,” Uli pointed out.
“True. But all Jedi are taught basic medical skills and first-aid techniques. And sometimes, of course, we are called upon to heal our friends—and our own—as well as our enemies.”
He nodded again. “Yes, I can see that.”
“Then why the question?”
He looked at the ground, as if his boots had suddenly become fascinating. Then he looked back at her. “I’m a surgeon. It runs in my family, but it’s also what I’ve wanted to do ever since I can remember. Fix patients, cure them, make them well. And yet…”
He was quiet, thinking. Barriss waited. She already knew what he was going to admit—the Force had told her, loud and clear—but it was important that he say it himself.
“And yet,” Uli said, “there’s a part of me that wants to kill. To hunt down the people who set this war in motion and exterminate them, by any and all means. I can feel it—that killing anger. I’m …that’s not how I want to see myself.”
Star Wars®: MedStar II: Jedi Healer Page 7
