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 ostensibly 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 stage 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.

Jos pronounced the man and had a droid haul him away. There was no other choice. If he kept working on this one, the patients waiting would almost certainly die.

Or maybe you’ll kill them, too, the malicious little voice within whispered, as the next patient was placed before him.

He had never felt more tired in his life. Blast this war.