MedStar_ Battle Surgeons Part 4

Jos nodded. "Probably would be," he said, "except for this little problem called interstellar war."

"Well, yes, that." Dhur paused. "Let me buy you a drink, Doc."

"Let me let you."

They stepped over to the bar. Dhur waved at the ten-der, who lumbered toward them. "Two Coruscant Coolers." As they waited for the drinks, Dhur said, "What do you know about Filba?"

Jos shrugged. "He's the supply sergeant. Processes requisitions, changes in orders from upstairs, that kind of thing. Smells like he uses the swamp for cologne. Outside of that-nothing, really. Who knows anything about Hutts? And why do you care?"

"Reporter's instinct. Hutts make news, more often than not. Also, Filba and I go back a ways. I don't want to be speciesist or anything, but you know the old say-ing: 'How do you know when a Hutt is lying? His-"

"-lips move,'" Jos finished. "Yeah, I heard that one. They say the same thing about Neimoidians."

"And Ryn, and Bothans, and Toydarians. It's a tough galaxy, or so I've heard." The reporter grinned at Jos, who grinned back. Though he came across as sarcastic and irascible, still there was something likable about the sc.r.a.ppy little fellow.

The bartender brought their drinks. Dhur dropped a credit on the bar. "Hate to break it to you, but I've heard it applied to humans, too."

Jos drained his mug. "I'm deeply shocked and of-fended. On behalf of humans across the galaxy, I'll have another drink." He signaled the tender, then added, "Filba can be a pain in the glutes, but he seems to do his job pretty well. Or maybe I should say 'jobs.' He's got his pudgy little fingers into everything, seems like. He's even in charge of the bota shipments."

Dhur was about to take a sip of his second drink; he stopped and lifted an eyebrow instead of his mug. "Ex-cuse me?"

"That's what I hear. Bleyd's given him full control over processing, harvesting, and shipments."

"Imagine that." Dhur seemed suddenly nervous. "Hey, did you hear about Epoh Trebor and his HoloNet Entertainment tour? Looks like Drongar's on their list."

"I'll make a note to get excited about that later." Jos had never been overly fond of the popular HoloNet star, although he seemed to be in a minority, judging from Epoh's ratings.

He was still curious about Dhur's inter-est in Filba, but before he could say anything more, the Sull.u.s.tan drained his cup and said, "Align with you later, Doc. Thanks for the drink."

"You paid for it," Jos reminded him.

"Right, so I did," Dhur said. "Well-you'll get the next round," and then he headed for the door as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.

Jos looked around, wondering if Filba had come in while they were talking. He didn't see him, and the Hutt was pretty easy to pick out in a crowd.

He frowned. Obviously something had gotten Dhur's dewflaps in an uproar, and it seemed to have to do with Filba. The base was expecting a few hours of relative peace and quiet before the next wave of wounded ar-rived, unless there was an emergency evac from the front lines, which was always a possibility. Jos had in-tended to spend the time getting some sleep. Sleep was even more precious than bota on this world. Maybe, though, he would stop by the supply hut, see how Filba was doing.

First, however, he would finish his drink.

7.

The spy had been on this miserable soggy mudball of a planet for more than two standard months now, and was intensely, seriously sick of it already. Two months since the agents in the higher echelons of the Republic military had arranged for the transfer to this Rimsoo. Two months in the heat and the sun, besieged con-stantly by all manner of flying pests... and the spores! Those irritating spores, constantly clogging up every-thing.

There were days when a filter mask was a neces-sity, or he would strangle before he could walk the length of the base.

The spy missed home with an unnerving desperation. The mild weather, the ocean breezes, the subtle scents of the fern trees... the nostalgic ache was dismissed with a growl and a headshake. No point in dwelling on the past. There was a job to do, and finally, the seeds that had been planted more than a year before were starting to come to fruition.

Although the exact nature of the machinations by which Count Dooku had accomplished this grand scheme were still unclear, ultimately they did not mat-ter. In fact, it was better to be ignorant so that, if caught, not even drugs or hypnoscans could extract the truth.

Not that exposure was very likely. This new ident.i.ty had been impressively doc.u.mented, and the position in the chain of command was high enough that almost every piece of important data coming through could be evaluated. The confederacy had laid the groundwork well. The spy glanced at a wall chrono, then sat down behind the large, impressive desk. Built into the desktop was a flatscreen that displayed various views of the Rims...o...b..ildings, the transport ship hangar, and the bota-processing docks. There really wasn't too much more to the place. Everything combined wouldn't be worth the waste of a single proton torpedo, except for one thing: the bota.

The different flatscreen scenes showed everything looking normal. That would change soon enough-in just a few minutes, in fact.

A push of a b.u.t.ton stopped the screen on the "s.p.a.ce-dock"-much too grandiose a term for a slab of ferro-crete ten meters square-where the shuttle, bearing a load of processed bota, was about to lift off. The spy watched as the transport rose silently on invisible repul-sor waves. It climbed quickly, building up speed for a quick dash through the main spore strata to minimize damage. It reached the height of a thousand meters in mere moments, dwindling to an all-but-impossible-to-see dot. Then the dot abruptly bloomed, blindingly white, becoming for a second brighter than Drongar Prime.

A few seconds later, the rumble of the explosion rolled over the base, like tumbling, crashing breakers of sound.

The spy couldn't feel any joy over this act. People had died in the doing of it, but it was necessary. One had to cling to that. It was part of a distant, but important, goal.

One had to keep that in mind.

Den Dhur was thinking hard. It would soon be time for him to go back to his cubicle and dig out the small but powerful comm unit he had bought on the black market for his war a.s.signments. It had cost him a pile of credits, but it was worth it. Disguised as a portable en-tertainment module, it was actually capable of sending a holocoded message packet through hypers.p.a.ce on a bandwidth that was all but undetectable by both Re-public and Confed monitor stations.

The problem was, there didn't seem to be a whole lot to report. While it wasn't general knowledge that the Drongar engagement was primarily about claiming the bota fields, it wasn't a big surprise, either. Den's prob-lem right now was that he didn't have a good story to follow.

That problem didn't last long.

Den was crossing the compound when he saw his shadow turn pitch black for a fraction of a second. He turned and looked up carefully, squinting so as to max-imize the polarization factor in his droptacs. Even with ambient light damped down, the bright spot overhead was intensely white, outshining the planet's sun. For a horrified second he thought some other, nearby star had gone nova. That would be a milking hot story, except that he wouldn't be around to report it.

He heard shouting, cries of shock and alarm, from be-hind him. Someone was standing beside him, looking up-Tolk, the Lorrdian nurse. "What happened?" she asked.

"Looks like the bota transport blew up."

As if to confirm this, the sound of the explosion crashed down, vibrating the bones of those who had skeletons. Den felt his teeth chatter in response to the low-frequency waves.

A nearby clone trooper-a lieutenant, according to his blue chevrons-whistled in awe. "Yow.

Their field must've gone critical. Probably slipped a superconduc-tor coupling."

"No way," an Ishi Tib tech engineer-Den recog-nized him as the one dancing in the cantina during the rain on his first day planetside-said. "My crew went over the housing this morning," he continued. "Checked the seals three times-those vacuum bubbles were tight. A greased neutrino couldn't have squeezed between the plates."

The trooper shrugged. "Whatever. How many aboard?"

"Two loaders," a human, whom Den didn't recog-nize, said. "And the pilot. "

The trooper shook his head and turned away. "Freak-ing shame."

You could call it that. Den glanced around. The open compound was full of onlookers now, all squinting up-ward even though there was nothing more to see. "What about debris?" a Caamasi nurse asked nervously.

"Debris?" the tech engineer snorted. "Only 'debris' from this gonna be gamma rays." He waved one arm overhead, indicating the sky just above the base. "Don't worry-energy shield over the whole place, remember?"

Others began to weigh in with their opinions on what had caused the transport's destruction. Den walked away, thinking.

One thing was for sure-Filba was going to have his own meltdown over this, if he hadn't already. Den pursed his lips thoughtfully, then changed his direction.

Den approached the Ops building, which housed the supplies and the comm station, with a little trepida-tion. Though he'd only been on Drongar for a few days, he knew Filba of old; they'd first crossed each other's paths on the rainy world of Jabiim, during one of the Republic army's last stands. Den had been re-porting on the battle, and Filba had been a requisitions officer who was dabbling in the weapons black mar-ket. The Hutt was, like so many others of his kind, willing to use anybody's back as a vibroblade sheath, and had nearly gotten Den killed trying to curry favor with the rebel Alto Stratus.

Den's dewflaps tightened at the memory of it. Filba was a craven opportunist, with dreams of being a crim-inal overlord, just like his hero, Jabba. Perhaps ulti-mately even a Black Sun vigo, from the few slurred hints he'd dropped now and then when in his cups. Den's opinion was that the Hutt didn't have much chance of being a big noise in the underworld.

All Hutts were in-vertebrates, but in Filba's case a backbone was sorely needed. Despite all his bl.u.s.ter, Filba was the first one under the table when "Incoming!" was heard-And, given his size, usually the only one who fits, Den thought.

Filba's primary a.s.signment was as quartermaster. As such, he was responsible for ordering and keeping track of any and all medical equipment, drugs, munitions and materiel, wetware, cybernetics, droids, sensors and communications gear, transport parts, food, and what-ever latest spore-fighting chemicals the Republic think-tanks had come up with-and these were just the tasks Den knew about. The Hutt also monitored the holo-comm station, sending and receiving orders and mes-sages, usually between Admiral Bleyd and Colonel Vaetes, but occasionally combat instructions from the fleet admiral to clone troop commanders. These jobs would seem to be more than enough for any six beings, but apparently the Hutt insisted on keeping track of the bota harvesting and shipments as well. Den wondered when Filba found time to sleep.

If I know Filba, the reporter thought-and, Mother help me, I do-his interest in the bota is more than just a job.

Filba's office was about what the reporter had ex-pected: neat and organized, but also crammed to the ceiling struts with shelves, receptacles, and cabinets. These in turn were crammed with all manner of things, but mostly held various media for data storage. Den saw racks of holocubes, flatscreens, plastisheet files, and so on... it made his head itch just to look at all that information.

The Hutt was facing a holoproj, conversing with someone in the reception field. That was all Den saw be-fore a trooper stepped in front of him, his blaster rifle at port arms.

"State your name and business," he said.

This clone was a noncombatant, no doubt detailed as part of Filba's security. His armor was clean and white. "If you don't have a good reason for being here, your head's coming off."

"Den Dhur. Reporter, Galactic Wave. Just wanted to get Filba's take on the-"

The Hutt's bulk loomed behind the clone guard. "It's all right," he said. The guard nodded and stepped away. Filba glared down at the Sull.u.s.tan, raising himself up to his full, enormous-to Den, anyway-height. Behind him, Den could see that the holoproj Filba had been speaking with was now gone.

"What do you want?" Filba growled.

"Don't try to intimidate me, slug-face, or I'll let some hot air out of you." Den had already pulled his record-ing rod from a pocket, and was posed to record Filba's words; now he poked it in the Hutt's belly as he spoke for added emphasis, regretting his action instantly when he pulled the rod, now dripping strings of slime, back.

Filba slumped nearly half a meter. He looked-if Den was reading the expression on the huge, toadlike face right-very nervous. Den wrinkled his nose, noticing that the Hutt's bodily secretions now smelled sour.

"I just spoke with Admiral Bleyd," Filba said. "Or rather, I listened while he spoke. He spoke quite loudly, and for a long time."

"Let me guess. He's not happy about the transport being vaporized."

"Nor am I." Filba wrung his hands; his fingers looked like damp yellow Kamino spongeworms.

"More than seventy kilos of bota were lost."

"Along with three lives," Den reminded him. "What do they call that? Oh, yeah: 'collateral damage.'"

His sarcastic tone made Filba glance sharply at him. The Hutt drew himself up and away, leaving a glisten-ing, wide trail of mucosal ooze. Den was just as happy to have some s.p.a.ce between him and Filba; the huge gastropod's fear-scent was making him queasy.

"People die in wars, reporter. What do you want?" Filba's tone was cold; obviously he regretted the Sullus-tan seeing him in a moment of weakness.

"Just a quote," Den said in a conciliatory tone. No point in antagonizing him further; Filba might be a coward, but his jurisdiction over Rimsoo Seven's ship-ping and receiving station, as well as much of the intel datastream, made him a powerful and influential indi-vidual-and a bad enemy once your back was turned. "Something official about the disaster that I can file with my story."

"Story?" Huge yellow eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What story?"

"Naturally I'm going to mention this in my next up-link. I'm a war correspondent. It's part of my job." Den realized he was sounding defensive. He closed his mouth.

"I can't allow that," Filba said primly. "It could dam-age morale."

Den stared at him. "Whose morale? The troops'? Nothing bothers them; cut off both arms and they'll kick you to death. And if you're talking about the base personnel, anyone who isn't in a coma or a bacta tank knows about it already. It was kind of an attention-getter."

"This conversation is over," Filba said, gliding away over his patina of slime. "You will not file any story on this incident." He made an offhand gesture, and Den was suddenly yanked upward from behind. The clone guard had picked him up by his collar and was now carrying him, feet dangling, out of the chamber.

Once outside, the guard set Den down-not force-fully, but not particularly gently, either.

"No more drop-ping in unannounced," he told Den. "Filba's orders."

Den was trembling with anger. "Tell Filba," he said, "that he can take his orders and-" He described graphically just how the Hutt could use his cloacal flap as a file folder. The clone guard paid no attention; he simply went back inside.

Den turned and stalked toward his cubicle, keenly aware that several clone troopers and a few officers of various species were watching. Some were smiling.

You will not file any story on this incident.

"Wrong," Den muttered. "Watch me."

8.

The explosion had drawn Jos outside the cantina, as it had most of the other occupants.

His vision was just a bit hazy-somehow, those two drinks had multiplied into four-but the transport's disintegration helped sober him up dramatically.

He saw Zan and one of the other surgeons, a Twi'lek named Kardash Josen, and joined them; they, like every-one else at the base, were speculating as to the disaster's cause. The prevailing theory was that the spores had mutated into something that could cause some kind of catastrophic reaction in the lift engines. And wasn't that a pleasant thought...

As they talked, Jos noticed Den Dhur striding across the compound toward his office, his dewflaps quivering with indignation and anger. Intrigued, Jos moved to in-tercept him. The reporter was muttering to himself, and probably would've walked right by Jos if the latter hadn't blocked his path. "Is there a problem? Anything I can do?" he asked, feeling a sudden rush of affection for the little guy; after all, he'd introduced Jos to Corus-cant Coolers.

"One side, Vondar. I'll show him who he's dealing with..."

"Whoa, whoa," Jos said, backing up in front of Dhur with his hands up until the latter finally came to a halt. "'Him' who?"

"That ambulatory clot of rancor phlegm, that's who! That condescending, officious sea sc.u.m! That-"

"Ah," Jos said. "Sounds like you and our esteemed quartermaster aren't getting along."

"When I get through with him, he'll be getting a long stretch of duty on the backside of Raxus Prime, or someplace even worse, if I can think of one." Dhur's dewflaps were vibrating so fast Jos could practically feel the breeze.

"Look," he said, "I'm the chief medical officer here, and you're our guest. If you have a problem with Filba, or anyone else-"

"It's Filba who's got the problem, Doc-he just doesn't know it yet." Dhur dodged around Jos. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some work to do." He dis-appeared into his cubicle.

Jos watched him go, slightly nonplussed. While Filba wasn't the easiest sentient to get along with, Jos had never seen the Hutt inspire this kind of anger in anyone. Usually the best Filba was capable of inducing was irri-tation. He wondered if Dhur's earlier preoccupation in the cantina had anything to do with this.