shrugged it off.
But he'd been wrong to think that helped. On days when death was with
him from the moment he started work to the moment he finished, when he
worked to the point of bleary-eyed dullness, over and over and over, it
still took its toll.
Tolk had been the antidote. Tolk had stood beside him,
and regardless of how the relationship might ostracize him from his
family and friends back home, she had been worth it.
But now . . .
Now his days were dark, and the nights darker. He could see no end to
it. This war could go on for years, decades; it had happened before. He
could grow old here, cutting and pasting ruined bodies until one hot morning
he would fall over and die himself.
What was the point?
As a doctor, Jos knew about depression. Postsurgical patients were
often low after life-altering events, and, while he would send the seriously
affected ones to minders, he had been trained to deal with the symptoms if
there wasn't proper backup available. But understanding depression didn't
make him immune to it. There was knowing, and then there was feeling.
The idea of leaving it all behind was tempting, oh, yes. He was capable
of it, if it came to that. He knew just where a slight nick with a
vibroscalpel would bleed the most. Take a little anticoagulant, open a major
blood vessel, then slowly fall asleep-and not wake up. Death would be
painless that way, or with any of a dozen drugs he could take off the shelf
that would do the trick just as well. A final salute, and then the Big Jump.
. .
Suicide was rare among his people-few Corellians took that route, and
none of Jos's family had ever done so, as far as he knew.
At the moment, it didn't feel like the worst thing that could happen to
him. He could easily make it look like an accident, thus sparing his family
the shame, and at least some of the grief.
Jos shook his head again. How had he come here? This was a place he had
never dreamed he could be, thinking in detail about how to end his own life.
He remembered what he had been trained to tell those patients who had
fallen so low: watt. Don't do something that can't be reversed. Life is
long; things change. A month, a year, five years from now, your situation
could reverse-look at how many people came from nothing, grew rich, lost it
all, and then rebuilt their fortunes. Look at those who were afflicted with
a debilitating or even fatal illness, who stayed around long enough for a
cure. Even those who lost a spouse, or a child or a parent, and later found
happiness. The bottom line was: alive, you have a chance. There are no
possibilities for the dead.
Jos sighed, a deep and ragged breath. Yes. Those were the things he
told his patients, and they were all true.
An old memory rose up from his days at Coruscant Med. The instructor, a
grizzled and gray human named Leig Duwan, who must have been well over a
hundred standard years old, had spoken of his days on Alderaan. The old man
smiled a lot, and he was grinning as he told the story,
There had been a bad time in Duwan's life-his father had died, his
mother had been hospitalized, and his sister had gone missing on a frontier
expedition. Duwan had failed an exam, and it looked as if he might be
dropped from medical school. He had, he'd told the class, seriously
considered suicide. Instead, he'd muddled through somehow, and eventually
things did get better.
One day, he met a man on the street. The man stopped him and said, "I
want to thank you, Doctor Duwan, for saving my life."
Duwan had heard this many times, of course, and he had deflected the
praise with practiced ease: "It's my job, citizen. No thanks are-"
"No," the man interrupted. "I wasn't your patient. I was undergoing a
period of deep depression and was suicidal. I had decided to end it-I'd
already obtained the means-and was on my way to a private place where I
would do it. But I gave myself one out: if, on my journey, any person I
passed was to smile at me-just one-I would not go through with it.
"I was on the street, outside the hospital, and you were on your way
in. You smiled and nodded at me. And here lam."
The point of his story, Duwan said, was not whether his medical
expertise had saved someone. The point was that, because he had gone through
stranger, he had saved that man's life. There were thousands more over the
years whom he had, with some skill and much luck, also managed to keep
alive. Being useful to others was not an unworthy thing, even if you had
nothing else.
Jos looked at the chrono. He had rounds to make, postop patients to
check. If he killed himself, somebody else would have to take over his
rounds. That would be an imposition, causing somebody to have to cover for
him.
It would be ... impolite.
He could manage to face another hour. That's all you have to do, he
told himself. Just an hour, the next hour. Do your rounds, make your
reports.
He could get through another hour. And after that. . .
Well. Time enough to worry about that when he got there. For now, this
hour was all that mattered.
28
Jos finished his rounds. He knew about the farewell party for the HNE
troupe, and normally there would be little reluctance on his part to join
them. But now ...
What if Tolk was there?
Seeing her in the OT was bad enough; he wasn't sure he could handle
seeing her in a social setting. What if she was there with someone else?
He shook his head. At least in the cantina he wouldn't be drinking
alone. Sooner or later he would run into her again. It just wasn't that big
a base.
To deep with it. Jos marched out of the OT, feeling much like a man
walking to his own execution.
It was crowded in the cantina. Also hot, noisy, and smelly. Maybe Jos
wouldn't encounter Tolk after all in this crowd.
That hope didn't last long. It was, in fact, Tolk who found him, before
he could get his first drink. He turned around and there she was, right
there, her gaze fixed on his face, searching it for-what?
He didn't know what to say. He knew he should say something, but she
was so lovely, even just in her scrubs, with her hair up and exhaustion
evident in her face, that she stole the breath from his lungs.
"Tolk . . . ," he managed. "I-"
"I've been thinking a lot, Jos. There's more to all this than just how
we feel about each other. There's more to this war than just here, what we
do-who we are to each other. I need some time to process it, on my own." She
took a breath. "I'm requesting a transfer to Rimsoo Three."
His mouth was dry. Rimsoo Three was over a thousand klicks north,
across the Sea of Sponges. "What are you saying? Can't we at least talk
about it?"
"No, not yet."
Jos blew out a big breath. He didn't want to say it, but it had to be
said: "Does this mean we're through?"
She hesitated. "It means we
're apart for a while."
There was no way to dissuade her, he saw. But if she transferred out,
he'd never see her again. Of that he was sure.
"I have to go," she said. And with that, she was gone.
Jos made his way to the bar. He was numb. What had happened? What had
gone wrong? What had he said or done?
He still couldn't believe it. Done. Gone. Just like that.
His mind scrambled frantically for some purchase, something to hold on
to. As chief surgeon, he could refuse to let her transfer out, could say she
was too valuable here-but what good would that do? How could they work
together? Play sabacc together? How could they-
Questions swirled around in his head like dust motes, like a swarm of
fire gnats.
He needed a drink.
He reached the bar, but before he could order anything, he heard a deep
growl. He turned to look.
Now there's something you don't see every day, he thought. A droid and
a Wookiee playing hologames.
The game was called dejarik; although Jos didn't play, he was familiar
with it. I-Five and the Wookiee sat at a small corner table amid all the
commotion. The Wookiee was covered with coal-black shaggy fur, save for a
star-shaped white patch high on the left quadrant of his chest. And at the
moment, he seemed really upset, even for a Wookiee-and that was saying
something.
"Never a boring minute, eh?"
Jos looked down and saw Den Dhur standing beside him. Den gestured
toward the dejarik table and sighed, "You might remember my mentioning once
or twice before that I was trying to help I-Five get drunk?"
"Yeah?"
"Well ..."
Kaird was, after a fashion, enjoying himself, even though he was of
necessity wearing the Kubaz suit. He didn't mind seeing people have a good
time, and the fact that he knew-and would do-something that would ruin their
high spirits did not diminish his enjoyment. When news of the change in the
bota became widespread, chaos would most likely ensue. The misfortunes of
war.
Too bad. While he wasn't sentimentally attached to anyone
here-sentimentality being a luxury he could ill afford-he admired a great
many of the doctors and soldiers and techs who populated this place. They
were, for the most part, honorable folk. Honor, as most people seemed to
think of it, was a code that limited one's options severely and, even worse,
was a good way to return to the Great Egg at hyperspeed. Kaird was a
practical being-he couldn't afford to have honor. But he surely did admire
it in others. If nothing else, it made it far easier to predict their
actions.
It was harder dealing with scalawags in some ways, easier in others.
Take Thula and Squa Tront, for example. Kaird would be quite
surprised-almost disappointed, in fact-if those two hadn't thought of ways
to shortchange him and Black Sun on the upcoming transaction. Not that he
really minded if they found a way to skim a little for themselves-that was
the nature of business, and to be expected. But he wasn't overly concerned.
Rogues they might be, but they also seemed smart enough to realize the
lunacy of attempting any major deception on Black Sun.
He dipped the mask's snout into his drink-one reason he liked the Kubaz
identity was because he could drink while in it. Pity he couldn't just let
go and enjoy the party to the fullest, but he was also here for a practical
reason. As it turned out, the human pilot Bogan had taken a double shift
recently, and as a result he would not be on standby for the admiral's ship
when Kaird needed him. This was easily remedied, however. There were another
two pilots in the rotation, and one of them was here in this cantina, right
now. This pilot, also a human-a lot of chose around the galaxy, Kaird had
noticed-was behaving in a responsible manner: since he was on standby, he
was not drinking, smoking, or sniffing anything intoxicating. Sebairns, his
name was, and while he seemed to be having a good time, smiling and
laughing, he had restricted himself to some kind of steeped brew made from a
local plant.
Because Kaird had access to all kinds of information, including medical
records, he had learned that Sebairns had an allergic condition for which
there was no cure or preventive treatment. If exposed to a certain common
legume, the human would develop a fairly severe anaphy-lactic reaction, the
symptoms of which might include urticaria and syncope secondary to ascites.
Kaird had gotten this information translated via the HoloNet. It meant that
the human could break out in a serious, itchy rash that could include large
hives; he could faint and, if left untreated, might even choke to death as
his windpipe closed. Not that it would get that bad in the middle of a
Rimsoo full of doctors-he'd be whisked off to a ward in a hurry, and all his
symptoms could be treated easily. But he wouldn't be able to work for a day
or two, which was more than enough for Kaird's purposes.
Kaird had watched the servers with care, and his moment came. He stood
and started away from his single-unit table, as if to answer a call of
nature. The droid server bearing a tray for Sebairns's table started in that
direction as well. Their paths would intersect, as Kaird had planned.
As Kaird neared the server, he said, "Pardon me, could you point out
the 'fresher?"
Even though the refresher was clearly marked in half a dozen languages
and graphic images, the droid had no doubt heard the question more than a
few times from inebriated patrons. It swiveled its head slightly and pointed
with its free appendage. "That way, sir. The door under the glowing sign."
While the droid was thus engaged, Kaird brought his hand around, as if
to scratch his snout, and in so doing allowed a small pinch of legume powder
to fall into the man's drink.
He then headed toward the 'fresher. He would return to his table in a
moment to make sure his target drank from the doctored cup and reacted
appropriately. Once that was done, his objective for tonight would be
accomplished.
It was unlikely that anyone would suspect the man's drink had been
tampered with-it wasn't poison, after all, and the attending medics would
recognize the reaction for what it was. Even if they did suspect it had been
deliberate, it wouldn't matter. There was no way to tie Kaird to the deed.
Even if the serving droid was questioned, and happened to recall a Kubaz
asking directions to the 'fresher, the Kubaz in question didn't exist. After
tonight, Kaird would have no more need for this particular costume, and it
would be rendered down to its molecular level by a recycling unit. Can't
find what doesn't exist.
He had, in one of his fat human disguises, obtained from one of the
entertainment group's members a copy of the most recent recording of
Galactic Sports Update. Upon this GSU recording was a recent Strag Sector
Match Championship. If you were not a skilled player, watching a game of
Strag was less interesting than watching mold grow; if you were ranked,
however, such matches were fasci
nating. Neither the Twi'lek Vorra, nor the
human pilot Bogan, would have seen this particular match; it hadn't been
holocast this far out yet. The corpulent human, whom Kaird had named Mont
Shomu, would arrange soon to be heard talking about this match, which he
happened to have a recording of, within Vorra's hearing. She would fall all
over herself to obtain it from him. The fat man would be loath to part with
it, however, being a fan of the game himself. Of course, he would be willing
to share a viewing of the match with her. And, naturally, she could bring a
friend . . .
Kaird smiled as he exited the 'fresher and returned to his table amid
the noise and heat of the busy cantina. There was a real joy in watching a
carefully made plan unfold.
"Let me get this straight," Jos said. "I-Five is drunk}*
"I've been watching him for hours," Den said, "and believe me, he's
soused. If that's the proper term for a droid."
"From a program."
"Yeah."
"Which he wrote."
"Right."
Jos looked over at the game table, where the various transparent
holocreatures that were the pieces of the game shifted and scratched
restlessly on their squares. I-Five didn't look any different from here,
save for a slightly increased luminosity in his photoreceptors and more
exaggerated movement. Jos shook his head. "It just keeps getting weirder."
He turned back to the bar and hoisted his drink.
"Ha!" I-Five said loudly. "My molator takes your hou-jix! I win!"
The Wookiee roared with rage. Jos looked back at the game just in time
to see the Wookiee stand, grab I-Five's right arm, and wrench it from the
droid's shoulder. Circuitry and servomotor couplings broke free in a shower
of sparks and sprays of lubricating fluid.
My, my.
"Bad loser," Den said.
"Looks like," Jos agreed.
They both leapt forward, grabbed the droid, and pulled him away from
the game board as the furious Wookiee harned and moaned in his own language
and waved the mechanical arm over his head. Jos glimpsed several of the
showfolk, including a burly Trandoshan, moving in quickly to calm down their
colleague.
I-Five felt no pain, of course. He seemed more confused than anything
else.
"I seem to be missing an arm," he said to Jos. "I'm sure I had it when
I came in."