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 Dron-gar. 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 myriadfoldof 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 ringer 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 action 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.
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 vibro-scalpel, 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
&nbs
p; 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 be-
fore 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 1 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 nextto 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 m 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 Fve
caused can thus be of value."
"But not alljedi are healers," Uli pointed out. "True. But all Jedi are
taught basic medical skills and first-aid techniques. And sometimes, of
course, we ate 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."
Barriss smiled, a small and sad expression. "Of course not. Decent folk
don't want to travel that path. Good people, people who love and care, would
rather not have those feelings."
"So how do I get rid of them?"
"You don't. You acknowledge them, but you don't allow them to control
you. Feelings don't come with 'right' or 'wrong' labels, Uli. You feel how
you feel. You are only responsible for how you act.
"That's where choice comes in. Even the Force, a great power for good,
can be used for ill,"
"That's the 'dark side' I've heard mentioned?"
Barriss frowned. "Jedi refer to the 'light side' and the 'dark side,'
but really, these are only words, and the Force is beyond words. It is not
evil, just as it isn't good- it simply is what it is. Power alone doesn't
corrupt-but it can f
eed corruption that already exists. A Jedi must
constantly choose one path or the other.
"Tell me, if you actually had a chance to meet Count Dooku, face to
face, and you had it within yourpowerto kill him-would you?"
He reflected on that for what seemed a long time. Bar-riss could hear
the rhurp-rhurp of the nearby croaker bushes, the high, thin buzzing of fire
gnats swarming around her, the leathery slap of an Ishi Tib's bare feet
striding through a nearby mud puddle. "Probably not," Uli said. "There you
are."
"But I'm not certain I wouldn't. After all, he's been directly or
indirectly responsible for planetary genocide. the destruction of things
like the Museum of Light on Tandis Four ..."
"This is true. On the other hand ... are you familiar with the
Vissencant Variations, by Bann Shoosha?"
He nodded. "Less than two years old, and already considered one of the
great musical works of the millennium. "
"They were a great favorite of Zan Yant's. The music was written to
celebrate the Shoosha family's escape from Brentaal. Had that battle not
taken place,1' Barriss said, "the Variations might never have existed."
Uli looked troubled. "But is any work of art worth thousands of lives?"
"Probably not. I'm not saying it is-I'm just saying things aren't
simple. That's really what it's all about, isn't it? Making choices and
living with the consequences?"
"I guess . . ." He still sounded doubtful.
Barriss relit her lightsaber. "Well," she said to Uli, as she resumed
her practice, "that's all we've got."
12
Seated near the top row of the hastily constructed bleachers, Jos, Den,
and Uli, along with several others of the trauma team, watched as various
species filled the rest of the seats rapidly. It was evening, and the short
tropical twilight was rapidly darkening into night. The area was lit,
brilliantly but without glare or shadows, by powerful full-spectrum LEDs.
Doctors, nurses, assistants, techs, workers, and other Rimsoo staff
personnel had one set of staggered plasticast row seating for themselves,
while the troopers and other enlisted personnel occupied two others.
Uli watched as the clones filled the rows, dozens of identical faces
and forms. "It's one thing to see them one at a time on repulsor gurneys,"
he commented to Jos. "But all lined up like that . . . well, it's pretty