MedStar_ Battle Surgeons Part 7

Of course, it took only one...

He reached the knife a few minutes before Mathal could possibly circle around the length of the torus. There were three places that afforded a good view. One was at deck level, three steps away, in a shadowed cor-ner. The second was behind a ma.s.sive heating/cooling coil across the corridor, at least a dozen steps away. The third hiding spot was inside a ventilation shaft almost directly over the weapon's location, and, while two body-lengths in distance, it was a straight drop.

There was no real question of where he was going to hide. His ancestors, like those of the humans, had origi-nally come from the trees and the high ground.

Bleyd gathered himself, squatted low, and sprang. He caught the edge the ventilation shaft, pivoted aside the grate covering it with one hand while clinging to the edge, and pulled himself into the shaft feetfirst. He turned around, rotated the grate back into place. Sup-porting himself by the strength of his arms upside down in the narrow shaft, he began to breathe slowly and evenly, dropping his heart rate into hunting mode. A tense hunter could not move fast.

He did not have long to wait. Two minutes, three... and here came the human, stomping along and vibrating the deck loudly enough for a deaf old pride elder to hear.

Mathal arrived in the vicinity of the knife. He looked around warily, then s.n.a.t.c.hed the blade up. Bleyd heard him sigh in relief, and his grin became wider.

The knife was a good weapon, one of Bleyd's fa-vorites. It had a thick haft; the blade as long as the man's forearm and nearly as wide as his wrist. It was made of hand-forged and folded surgical stain-free flex-steel, a drop-point fighter with a circular guard of flex-bronze and a handle of hard and pebbled black ra.s.s bone, so it wouldn't slip in a sweaty or b.l.o.o.d.y grip. After all, it would hardly be sporting to provide one's prey with a poor weapon. And his research had told him that Mathal was an expert knife fighter. Bleyd knew he would need skill and strength to prevail. Luck was not a factor.

He took a final breath, pivoted the grate cover aside, and dived for the man, headfirst.

He screamed the blood cry of his pride: "Taarrnneeesseee..."

Mathal looked up, terror on his face. Too late, he raised the knife. Bleyd brushed it aside and reached for the man's throat.

Then they were joined...

The spy had less trouble with this kind of thing. After all, anyone could blow things up and a.s.sa.s.sinate tar-gets. While it was true that a certain amount of skill was required to do such acts without being caught-and the spy had more abilities in that direction than anyone here could possibly know-the real challenge in this project was in a different arena. The labyrinthine ways of bureaucrats and the military could be slow, but just as certain to accomplish the desired results when ma-nipulated properly. As the spy had been taught from childhood, any job could be done with the correct tools. In order to undermine a military organization or a gov-ernment hundreds of thousands strong, subtlety was a must. One thought of armies and navies as giant Sauropoda-huge beasts that lumbered ponderously along their paths, crus.h.i.+ng anything that got in their way, often without notice. A single person could not hope to stop or even turn such a beast by him - or her-self, no matter how physically strong or adept. Hence the old saying: "If a ronto stumbles, do not stand under it to break its fall."

No, the way to move something so ma.s.sive in a new direction was to convince the monster that the change of course was its own idea.

In theory, this was also simple. One planted the idea in the right place at the right time and waited for it to take hold. In practice, it was somewhat harder-a com-plex game of wits.

The recent transport destruction had created concern and not a little paranoia. But the threat was still too nebulous to turn the monster from its path so that it could be overwhelmed. A bit of mystery was all to the good, but military leaders were not swayed overmuch by the unseen. They lived and died by facts-or what they could be convinced to believe were facts.

The threat had to become more real. What Vaetes and his people needed to see at this point was an actual vil-lain. And there existed on the base someone who fit the bill perfectly.

Too bad he would have to suffer, but it was what it was.

12.

Zan sat on the backless folding stool he favored for playing his quetarra, tuning the instrument. When he wasn't playing it, it rested in a spun-fiber case that was light, but strong enough to support him jumping up and down on it without damage to the instrument.

Af-ter a few drinks one late evening, Zan had demonstrated this with considerable gusto.

Watching a Talusian Zabrak hopping around on an instrument case like a gi-ant, demented Geonosian leaf-leaper, his cranial horns nearly puncturing the low ceiling, was a sight that Jos was fairly certain he could have charged credits for peo-ple to see.

Jos was stretched out on his cot, reading the latest flatscan update of the Surgica Galactica Journal. Some hotknife thorax chopper had posted an article on mi-crosurgical laminotomy revision for spinal injury on the battlefield, and it was all Jos could do to keep from laughing out loud. "Use the pemeter scope to check for nerve impingement." Or: "Application of sthenic field and homeostatic phase induction is critical at this junc-ture."

Pemeter scopes? Sthenic fields? Homeostatic phase in-ductors? Oh, yeah, right. Outside of a twenty-million-credit surgical suite in a first-cla.s.s medcenter, your chances of finding any of these, much less all of them together, were about as good as reaching lightspeed by flapping your arms. It was obvious this guy had never been in the field. Love to see what the wonder slicer could do with just a vibroscalpel and a hemostat on a patient with a ruptured aorta...

Zan finished tuning his quetarra and strummed a chord.

After a moment, he began plucking the strings, softly at first, then a bit louder. Jos didn't mind listening to Zan play, despite what he said sometimes just to get a rise out of his friend.

The piece Zan played was fast, had a good beat, and after a few seconds Jos gave up reading and listened. Was that leap-jump? Was Zan actually playing some-thing written in the last hundred years? Wonders, it seemed, would never cease.

Jos didn't say anything. It wouldn't matter if he did, because when he was really into it, Zan tuned out all distractions. Once, about six months before, a fumble-fingered Gungan harvester who ought not to have been issued any weapon more dangerous than a stick had somehow activated one of the pulse bombs he carried on his hopper. The hapless amphibian had turned him-self, his vehicle, and a goodly section of the local land-scape into a smoking crater. He'd been three hundred meters away from their cubicle when it had gone off, and even at that distance the blast had been enough to knock over gla.s.ses, rattle the furniture, and shake a few pictures from the shelter's walls. Zan, who had been in the middle of some concerto or another, didn't miss a note. When he was done, he'd looked around, puzzled, at the mess. "If you don't like the music, just say so," he'd said to Jos.

Besides, Jos didn't want to interrupt the music, which had gone from the driving beat of leap-jump right into the heartbeat ba.s.s and melody of heavy isotope. Amaz-ing how his friend could make a single stringed instru-ment suggest the sounds of omni box, electroharp, and all the other instruments of a six-piece band...

After another minute or so, Zan stopped.

Trying to act casual, Jos said, "Interesting. What, uh, was that?"

Zan grinned. "That? 'Etude for Dawn,' the Sixteenth Vissencant Variation. Good to see you've become a cla.s.sical music fan at last, my lead-eared friend. "

Jos stared. "Didn't your mother ever tell you your horns would grow if you told a lie?"

"I admit I speeded it up a hair. And s.h.i.+fted the timing in a couple of places, brought up the ba.s.s line, but es-sentially... well, judge for yourself."

He began to play again, looking not at the fret board but directly at Jos, a small smile on his lips.

Jos listened. Sure enough, it was the same piece of music, but with an entirely different tone and mood - definitely cla.s.sical now.

"How'd you do that? One minute it's good, the next it's lift-tube music."

Zan laughed. "You're pathetic. A s.p.a.ce slug is less tone deaf."

Something about the way Zan was watching him, as if waiting for something to sink in, sank in. "All right," Jos said. "Fire the second round."

Now Zan really laughed. "If you had any education past the end of your scalpel, you'd know there were only fifteen Vissencant Variations. What I played was Duskin re Lemte's 'Cold Midnight,' a leap-jump/heavy isotope fusion just out on the HoloNet. I downloaded it a couple of days ago. Slow it down, add a little contra-puntal line, and it isn't bad. Re Lemte obviously had some cla.s.sical education on his way to the ma.s.s market. Not that you would know."

"You'll suffer for this," Jos said. "My revenge will be terrible. Maybe not swift or particularly inspired, but definitely terrible."

Zan chuckled and started playing again. "Couldn't be any worse than your musical taste."

Alone in her cubicle, fresh and clean from the sonic shower, Barriss Offee sat naked on the floor. Her legs were crossed and knotted, ankles over thighs, her back straight, in the position called Repose. Her hands rested, palms up, on her knees; her eyes were open, but unfocused. She breathed slowly, drawing the air in through her right nostril and whirling it deep into her belly, then expelling it slowly through her left nostril.

Floating meditation was, for her, one of the trickiest of the Jedi exercises. There were days when it was as smooth as mercury on a transparisteel plate: she would sit, and breathe, and be there-gravity would fall away, and she would rise like a balloon, to hover weightless half her body-length in the air. But at other times her mind refused to clear, and no matter how long or hard she concentrated, her rear stayed firmly on the floor.

Today was one of those times. Thoughts chased each other through the corridors of her mind like Tyrusian b.u.t.terfly-birds, chittering inanely. Master Unduli would be shaking her head, Barriss knew, if she could see her Padawan now.

The thought of her Master released a flood of mixed emotions. Back on Coruscant, Barriss had thought of herself as an average Padawan, a little more adept than some, a little less so than others. Not brilliant, but not particularly stupid, either. Her Master had told her this was part of the limitation Barriss had put upon herself. She could remember that lesson well. It had come after a long hand-to-hand combat workout at one of the training centers, followed by lightsaber practice that had left her arms sore and burning. They had moved to a high-walled balcony, two hundred flights above ground level, beneath the constant stream of traffic go-ing to and from the nearby skyhook way station. The balcony had been s.h.i.+elded, but Master Unduli had dropped the fields so that the sounds, the smells of burned fuel, the winds funneled by ma.s.sive buildings, and the glare of pa.s.sing advertising banners were a mul-tisensory a.s.sault. Along with the slightly sour odor of her own sweat and the physical exhaustion she felt, it was nothing less than overwhelming.

"Sit," her Master told her. "Do your Rising Medita-tion to a height sufficient that you can see over the wall to observe the small bakery directly across the way. For the purpose of this exercise, consider that it is vitally important that you be able to tell me how many pastries are visible in the window."

Barriss tried, but, of course, the balcony's floor held her fast.

After a few moments, her Master said, "Is there a problem, Padawan?"

"Yes, Master. I am trying, but-"

"By saying 'try,' you limit yourself. Jedi do not limit themselves by choice."

Barriss had nodded meekly. "Yes, Master."

"I need to know how many pastries there are in that bakery window. This is of primary importance. Con-tinue. I will return later."

And so saying, Master Unduli left.

But, of course, the pressure was too great. Barriss had not been able to levitate even a hair's thickness from the floor. She was still trying, her rear and thighs numb from the cold ferrocrete, when Master Unduli finally re-turned, hours later.

"I failed, Master."

"Yes? How so?"

"I could not manage to levitate."

Her Master smiled. "But was that the lesson, Padawan?"

Barriss stared at her, confused. "What?"

"One can fail at a task but still learn the lesson, Barriss. The first time I sat on this balcony trying to do Ris-ing Meditation, all that happened was that I got sore. A Jedi does not put limits on herself, but there are limits, and you must find them, and understand how to deal with them. Have you ever heard the story of the old man's river crossing?"

"I do not recall it."

"At the bank of a wide river on this world, long be-fore it was as it is today, an old man sat by the water, meditating. A second, younger man came along and saw the older one.

'What are you doing?' the younger man inquired.

" 'I am working on the ability to walk on water, so that I may cross the river,' the older man said.

" 'Ah. And how is it going?'

" 'Pretty well. I have been at it for forty years, and in another five or ten I believe I will have it.'

"'Ah,' said the younger man. "Well, good luck to you.'

"He bowed, then walked to a boat tied up nearby, climbed in, cast off, and rowed across the river." Master Unduli looked at her. "Do you understand the mean-ing of this story?"

Barriss thought about it for a moment. "If the impor-tant thing was crossing the river, then the younger man was wiser than the older one."

"Precisely. Why spend decades learning how to walk on water when there is a boat moored right next to you?" The Jedi paused, then asked, "What was most vi-tal in this exercise with which I tasked you?"

"How many pastries were in the bakery window."

"Exactly."

Barriss felt incredibly stupid as she suddenly under-stood what her Master meant.

Master Unduli smiled. "I see you comprehend at last."

"I could have simply stood up and looked over the wall," Barriss said. "What was important was not how I got the information-only that I got it."

Master Unduli nodded. "There is hope for you yet, my young Padawan..."

Barriss smiled at the memory. Then she took a deep breath, exhaled, and let her mind clear. A second later she floated upward from the floor, and hovered, weight-less and free, in the air...

13.

Jos had to admit that the formchair was comfortable. Ergonomically speaking, it did exactly what it was sup-posed to do: relax him somewhat, but not enough to make him drowsy. He had heard that the chair was equipped with biosensors that monitored heart rate, pulse, beta and theta wave activity, and so on, and re-layed the information to Merit, to better help him help those sitting there. Jos doubted it. Not that it couldn't be done, but he really didn't think Merit needed it. The Equani minder seemed always to know the right words to say, the right questions to ask, and the right times to be silent.

Like now.

Jos had been staring at the floor; now he looked up and met Merit's eyes again. They were large for the fur-covered face, slate gray in color; an Equani's eye pig-mentation always matched his fur, Jos had read in one of the many medicrons he'd had to study while a resi-dent. And right now they were fixed on him.

"Explore, for a minute, your feelings for Tolk," he said gently.

Jos leaned back, and the formchair obediently flowed, like warm mercury, into a new configuration to accom-modate him. Of course, Jos thought; it has to be able to adapt comfortably to any species. Even Hutts, proba-bly. He suppressed a shudder at the thought.

I sure hope someone wipes it down afterward...

"Jos," Merit said. His voice was quiet and noninsis-tent, but somehow it penetrated the surgeon's thoughts like a particle beam. "You're not trying very hard," the minder continued.

"You're right. Sorry."

"It's your time," Merit said. "You're allotted one hour a week to get things off your chest-or to 'up-chuck gizzard trichobezoars,' as the Toydarians so col-orfully put it. How you spend that time is up to you. You can talk to me-in which case I might be able to help you work through some things-or you can sit there and enjoy the furniture."

Jos grinned. "All right, Klo. I guess I'm going to talk about things whether I want to or not."

The minder smiled. "It's always hardest to help your-self." He waited a moment, then prodded gently, "About Tolk...?"

Jos sighed. "It's like I just noticed her yesterday. Be-fore that, she was just another pair of hands at the table-smart, don't get me wrong, she's an excellent nurse-but no more than that. Outside the room, she was someone to have a drink with, someone to com-plain about this pit of a planet with..."

"And now?"

"Now she's... more. But she can't be."

Merit said nothing, but his expression said, Go on. So Jos explained briefly about the beliefs of his family and his clan, about how he couldn't flout them by mar-rying an esker.

"They're your family's beliefs," Merit said. "But are they your beliefs?"