MedStar_ Battle Surgeons Part 5

He decided to go ask the Hutt for his side of it. Usu-ally he was inclined to let the princ.i.p.als in these matters work things out by themselves-as a doctor he had learned very early that often the best way to effectuate healing was to just get out of the way and let nature, or the Force, or whatever determined such outcomes, work its way. But, as he had told Dhur, one of his duties was to help Vaetes keep the peace.

He turned to head for the Hutt's sanctum when he noticed the Jedi healer emerging from her quarters. He changed course.

"Not shaping up to be a very good morning, is it?" he asked as he drew near.

She looked up at him from within her hood, and he was shocked at her pallor. "Padawan Offee, if you don't mind my saying so, you look like you either just saw a ghost, or just became one. You need a shot of cordrazine stat-"

"I'll be fine," she said. "It's just a momentary reac-tion." She smiled sadly. "Your colonel was right-one gets used to all this very quickly. Too quickly."

Jos's puzzlement must have shown on his face, be-cause Barriss added, "I-felt the destruction. Through the Force. Not the agony of their deaths-that was al-most instantaneous. But the recoil in the Force, the re-action to whatever motivated this heinous act-that was... intense."

" 'Heinous'? Are you saying that what happened to the transport wasn't an accident?"

She looked into his eyes; though her flesh was pale, her eyes were bright and intense.

"Yes, Captain Vondar, that is exactly what I'm saying. It was not a malfunction caused by spores, or system failure, or anything like that. It was sabotage. It was murder."

Admiral Bleyd received the news while taking his daily sauna. His secretary droid delivered it, because none of the other organic beings on board the MedStar could comfortably enter the steam-filled chamber. Bleyd kept the temperature so hot it would blister the skins of most of the officers and staff. To him, how-ever, it was comfortable.

He read the flimsi, then crumpled the thin sheet. When he opened his hand, the sheet's molecular mem-ory immediately re-formed it, without even wrinkles. This did little to improve the admiral's mood.

Dressed and back in his office, he paced angrily. Who was responsible for this? He did not for one microsec-ond believe that it had been an accident. It was sabotage, subversion, and no doubt the beginning of a covert cam-paign to promote demoralization. Was it a ploy of the Separatists? Though the popular front promulgated by the HoloNet was that this was a war to stop the mad-man Dooku from spreading anarchy throughout the galaxy, in reality it was about commerce and capitalism, as most wars-even "holy" ones-were. The Confeder-acy and the Republic had not fielded armies and navies across the galaxy in the service of lofty ideals and sen-tients' rights. It was all about economics. The Sepa-ratists and the Republicans on Drongar were fighting over bota and the potential riches attached to it, whether they knew it or not. Therefore, it didn't make a lot of sense for a Separatist to sabotage a s.h.i.+pment of the only precious commodity that the planet had to offer.

But there were other players in this game; players of stealth, who moved pieces even more transparent than a dejarik holomonster.

Players like Black Sun.

Bleyd cursed himself for a fool. He had, perhaps, let his greed and his eagerness to achieve wealth and status spur him into a rash alliance. The plot had been simple-too simple, no doubt. Filba, in charge of the s.h.i.+pping or-ders, had been skimming a few kilos here and there of the processed plant. Because of its adaptogenic quali-ties, bota was in even more demand than spice in some corners of the galaxy. Its potential value was so great, in fact, that its use as a medication by the Rimsoos here on Drongar had been strictly interdicted-a rich bit of irony, that.

But transporting bota, even at hyper lightspeeds, was difficult because of its extremely limited shelf life. And that was where Filba had outdone himself. The Hutt had discovered a way to ferry the contraband across the galaxy without loss of quality. How he had come across this knowledge, Bleyd was still not sure. Filba was many things, but definitely not a scientist, so it could not have been born in the Hutt's scheming brain. Most likely he had found and followed a trail on the HoloNet, or bribed someone for the information. The important thing was that, as far as they knew, the pro-cess had not yet been discovered by either the Sepa-ratists or the Republic.

Bota's decay process stopped if it was embedded in blocks of carbonite.

Preserved this way, it could be s.h.i.+pped anywhere-if the blockades of both sides could be dodged. That was where Black Sun had initially come in. Filba had con-nections to the interstellar criminal organization, and they had struck a bargain: for a percentage, Black Sun would provide a YT-1300f freighter, with a modified hyperdrive, that could slip past both Republic and Con-fed blockades and smuggle blocks of carbonite carrying bota to the far corners of the galaxy.

But it was now quite apparent that Black Sun was not satisfied with just a cut of the illegal profits they were making. They wanted the nexu's share. Bleyd a.s.sumed that this calamity was some kind of a warning shot. No doubt they would be contacting him and Filba soon to-Bleyd stopped pacing as a new thought struck him. Was Filba double-crossing him?

It was no secret that the Hutt wanted to be a vigo. And what better way to ingratiate himself with the crime cartel than opening the way for Black Sun to take over a profitable smug-gling operation?

Bleyd nodded. Yes. He had to consider that possibility.

He stepped over to the observation port, looked down at the planet. The terminator line was just reaching the peninsula where RMSU-7 was based. The thick trans-paristeel showed his reflection, overlaid on the planet below him. An appropriate image, he thought.

Because if Filba has betrayed me, there's no place on this world or any other where he can hide...

9.

Not all of the troops' medical problems were traumatic. There was a section at the Rimsoo that housed patients who had illnesses or infections not related to battle, but which were bad enough to require monitor-ing. Allergies, idiopathic fevers, and a fair number of respiratory sicknesses-not surprising, since the air was full of spores, pollen, and other as-yet-unknown agents. Every planet had its own particular set of med-ical problems-bacteria, viruses, and, as here, spores. The state of galactic medicine was such that most pa-tients on most planets could be healed, or at least kept alive, most of the time-but not always. And sometimes the side effects of the treatment were as bad as the cure.

Barriss Offee had agreed to do a rotation in the ward because her use of the Force was particularly well adapted to this kind of medical treatment. The Force could not in itself close a gaping wound-at least she did not have that kind of control-but it could help a sick person's weakened immune system overcome at-tacks from pathogens.

As she scrubbed down, the Padawan had other things on her mind. That the transport had blown up had not been an accident-this she knew with certainty. Was that sabotage somehow connected to her mission regarding the bota? There was no logical reason to a.s.sume so, but she felt that it was. Was that the Force prompting her? Or was it simply intuition, or even mere imagination?

Her contacts with the staff on Drongar had not pro-duced any dark undertones in the Force thus far. The doctors, surgeons, nurses, and support people all seemed to be more or less what they claimed. Yes, there were things going on behind their facades, tensions that they hid, pa.s.sions that they suppressed, but nothing that smacked of espionage or thievery.

Of course, she hadn't met everyone yet, and there were some species that she simply couldn't read at this point in her training. The minds of Hutts, for instance. Hutts'

inner selves were very slippery; when she reached for the core of one, it felt as if she were trying to pick up a transparisteel ball covered in ramjet lube. She was best with her own kind-so much so that at times during the last couple of years she had felt hope-lessly provincial.

An FX-7 med droid handed her the flatscreen chart of the patient in the Green Bed. Because the clones all looked exactly alike, each wore a Rimsoo ID tag around his right wrist. The staff had also taken to putting little colored pulse-stickers on the beds, and so, it had been explained to her, most of the nurses and doctors tended to refer to them as the Red Bed, the Blue Bed, the Purple Bed, and so on.

The man in the Green Bed had an MUO-malady of unknown origin-that somehow caused his blood ves-sels to dilate suddenly, as if he were plunging into deep shock. The causative agent had not yet been found. The result kept his blood pressure so low that if he tried to stand, or even sit up quickly, he pa.s.sed out from lack of blood feeding his brain. The planetside specialist in xen.o.biotics, a human woman named Ree Ohr, called it orthostatic hypotensive syncope of idiopathic origin - which, translated, meant: "somebody who faints every time he tries to stand or sit up quickly, and we don't know why." Doctors put great store into labels, as if naming an illness were in itself somehow going to cure it. The Jedi healers tried to be more holistic in their ap-proach to treating the ill.

Let's see how well it works here, she thought.

She went to his bedside. The trooper-his designa-tion, according to the chart, was CT-914-seemed fine as long as he was lying down. They had just put him on a histaminic r.e.t.a.r.dant whose side effect was to de-crease blood pressure. If they could not cure the illness, they would treat the signs or symptoms as best they could.

"h.e.l.lo. I'm Padawan Offee. How are you feeling to-day?"

"I feel well," he said. He did not amplify that.

"Sit up, please."

He did so. Two seconds later his eyes rolled up to show white, and he collapsed back onto the bed, un-conscious.

So much for the new medication.

After a few more seconds, the trooper recovered. He opened his eyes.

"Tell me what just happened," Barriss said.

"I sat up and blacked out. Again."

She had not been on this world very long, but she had learned that the clone troopers tended to be somewhat literal and taciturn in their communication. When asked a question, they responded with precision, but didn't generally volunteer things.

"How long were you unconscious?"

"Thirteen seconds."

The confidence in his voice surprised her. "And how do you know this?"

"There's a chrono on the wall behind you."

Barriss looked over her shoulder. So there was. Feeling slightly foolish, she said, "I'm a Jedi healer, CT-Nine-one-four. I have certain abilities that might be helpful. I will, with your permission, try to help you."

A small smile appeared on his face. "Is there another choice for me, Jedi Offee?"

That brought a smile to her face, as well. A joke. The first one she'd ever heard a clone make; not that she'd conversed with all that many.

She exhaled, pus.h.i.+ng as much air out of her lungs as she could, then relaxed, letting them fill again. She re-peated the action. Tidal breathing, her mentor had called it. It always worked; she felt herself relaxing, moving into a state of mind more receptive to the Force. A clear, calm place, unburdened with recollections and antic.i.p.ations. A place where she was no longer Padawan Barriss Offee, no longer anyone at all; merely a conduit for the living Force.

It was there for her, as it always was. She reached out with it and into the trooper's energy field, seeking the wrongness.

Ah. There it was. A disturbance in his neural net, cen-tered in the hypothalamus. There did not seem to be any pathogenic cause-she sensed no forms of micro-scopic life except those that should be there. Yet some-how, the man's hindbrain had been injured. She could "see" a glowing red malignancy, and, using the Force, she soothed the injury, "stroked" it with etheric ripples until the glow faded.

Then she withdrew. Returning was always slightly disorienting. She centered herself, then opened her eyes. CT-914 was watching her.

She said, "Sit up, please."

The patient did so. After a few seconds, he was still conscious.

"Let's see if you can stand."

He swung his legs over the edge of the hardfoam bed, put his feet on the floor, and stood.

"Do you feel faint?" she asked.

"No. I feel optimal." He bent, knees locked, put his hands flat on the floor, raised up on the b.a.l.l.s of his bare feet, stretched his arms wide. "No dizziness or disorien-tation whatsoever," he reported.

"Good. Please get back in the bed. Someone will check on you in a little while. If the affliction doesn't come back, you'll be released."

He got back into the bed. "Thank you, Jedi Offee. It'll be good to get back to my unit and my mission."

"You're welcome."

As Barriss turned and started toward the next patient, she noticed the chrono on the wall.

Its reading sur-prised her; a little more than an hour had pa.s.sed since she had first spoken to CT-914. She had stood there for an hour, immersed in the Force, and yet it had felt as if only a few seconds had pa.s.sed.

Such things still amazed her.

The Indigo Bed was next...

The call had come much sooner than even Bleyd had antic.i.p.ated. In fact, it had come in person.

Seated across the desk from Bleyd, Black Sun's representative was more than simply self-confident-he was obnoxiously smug. And why shouldn't he be? He was a career criminal, a delegate of the biggest gangster syndicate in the galaxy. In addition to that, Mathal, as he called himself, was large and very muscular, with a blaster strapped low on his right leg and a vibroblade sheathed on his left hip. And he looks like he knows how to use them, Bleyd thought. Good.

Mathal had just delivered Black Sun's offer. It was more like an ultimatum. They didn't want more bota.

They wanted it all.

"We can get top price for as much as you can deliver," he said.

Bleyd would have raised an eyebrow, had he one. As it was, he smiled and nodded, all the while thinking that the human was a fool. Did he think that there were no safeguards on the planet at all? Even for the commander of the Republic med units here, there were steps too risky to take, and bleeding off any more of the precious crop than he and Filba were currently doing would surely be noticed.

Mathal and his bosses didn't care. They were greedy, they wanted to make a killing, and if that left Bleyd a wisp of smoke drifting from a crater-well, too bad.

"So, the deal is, you up your production and s.h.i.+p-ments. We set up a big transport outside sensor range - we got a Damorian Nine Thousand, carry half the planet, forget about that milking YT-Thirteen-hundred-f they've been using-you ferry the stuff up, fill the hold, we pay you and s.p.a.ce. Everybody makes ma.s.sive creds, everybody gets happy."

Bleyd wanted to laugh. Right. And my face goes on every criminal-wanted holocast from here to Corus-cant, while you remain anonymous. There's a deal.

Even if Black Sun let him live after the transaction - and he wasn't belting his yithrael on that-even if he came out of it with a fortune, it wouldn't be enough to make life on the run worth it. Always looking over your shoulder for Republic peace officers? Never able to re-lax, never able to watch moonrise on Saki again? No, thank you. Bleyd knew that the only way to be a suc-cessful criminal was to commit a crime that n.o.body knew about. It didn't have to be perfect-simply one that couldn't be traced to your door. Buy an unregis-tered blaster, zap someone with whom you had no dis-cernible connection on some starless night, run far and fast, and chances were excellent that they'd never attach you to the murder. But hijack a freighterload of high-profile contraband like bota? Might as well start get-ting used to prison food now.

But to Mathal, he said, "All right. It might take a lit-tle while to arrange it."

The man smiled, showing his puny teeth. "We can have a transport here in, say, a local half month. Should be plenty of time, don't you think?"

Bleyd smiled in return. Observe my fangs, human. "Why, yes, that should work fine."

Of course, it doesn't matter what I say, since it isn't going to happen-and you aren't going to carry the tale back to your masters.

"Then I guess our business is done," Mathal said. "Except for your, ah... helper. Is the slug still in-volved in this?"

"Filba is a loyal and trusted employee," Bleyd said, offering the lie up easily. The truth was that he trusted Filba as far as he could throw him one-handed in spit-ting distance of an event horizon.

"Excellent. I'll get back to my vigo and we'll set up the operation."

Wrong again, my friend, Bleyd thought. The "operation"-in which I take out your viscera-begins right now.

Aloud, he said, "Yes, yes. Oh, one other thing-I have a small, but particularly good batch of bota cast in car-bonite, extremely high-grade product. I would like to send it to your vigo as a gesture of goodwill."

"High grade, eh? How much?"

"Not much." Bleyd shrugged self-deprecatingly. "Five kilos or so."

"Excellent," the human said. "My vigo will be pleased."

"And I am pleased to hear it." Bleyd stood. "I've had to hide it, of course. Would you care to accompany me? It's on the quarantine deck."

Mathal looked uncertain. "Quarantine? As in conta-gious disease?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Anything that comes up from the planet has to be sterilized-irradiated-purely as a safety precaution. Drongar, as I'm sure you know, is a positive sump of exotic pathogens. The deck is clean now, and I'm keeping it off-limits to make sure n.o.body happens across some items I don't want noticed-such as the one I have for you."

Mathal nodded. "Smart. You know, when this war is over, you might consider coming to work for Black Sun, Admiral. A being like you could do all right there."

"You are too kind." Bleyd politely gestured for the other to precede him. "Shall we go and collect your vigo's gift?"

"I'm game," Mathal said.

This time Bleyd really had to fight to contain his smile.

Den Dhur waved at the tender, got his attention, pointed at the nearly empty gla.s.ses on the table, and held up two fingers. The tender, a different one than the taciturn Ortolan, nodded.