Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [110]
He was not the primary on this case, only one of the three-person team of surgeons digging into the admiral’s head. The stakes, as they were keenly aware, were very high. She was the only woman admiral in the Imperial Navy, and she was, according to the scut, Grand Moff Tarkin’s very personal friend. It was not beyond possibility that if she didn’t make it through the procedure, the Grand Moff might have them all shoved through the nearest lock into unforgiving space.
There were seven more surgical assistants in the room—three nurses and four droids. So far the operation was going well. All vital signs were good.
“Okay, we are removing the artifact now.” That was from Abu Banu, the station’s only real neurosurgeon. He was a Cerean, one of the few nonhuman species in any position of authority aboard the Death Star—no doubt because he was one of the best brain surgeons in the galaxy.
“Stand by the pressor field in case we get a bleeder,” Banu said.
Uli, who was running the field, nodded, but he didn’t need to be reminded. They all knew their jobs; Banu was talking for the recorder that was taking it all down. On a high-profile procedure like this, if something happened, somebody would get blamed, and the recording would help pin it down. Sometimes patients died who should have lived, but you didn’t want to be the man held responsible for allowing the Grand Moff’s lover to expire.
No pressure …
A small blood vessel began to ooze, and Uli dialed the pressor field up a hair—enough to stop the seepage, but not enough to put too much pressure on the naked brain upon which they were working.
“Sponge,” Banu said.
One of the droids extended a rock-steady arm and blotted the tiny bit of blood that the pressor hadn’t stopped.
“Roa, dab a little glue on that arteriole.”
Dr. Roa reached in with the applicator’s ultrafine tip and touched the torn vessel. A tiny bead of orthostat solution welled, flowed into the cut, and sealed it.
“Got it,” Roa said.
Banu straightened, and Uli heard his spine crack. No surprise there; Cereans were notorious for back trouble. It was the price paid for those huge craniums they carried around.
“Okay, crew, what do we think here?” Banu asked. “Uli?”
“The shrapnel went into the hippocampus and adjacent cortex, mostly dentate gyrus. Not much in the Cornu Ammonis fields, or the subiculum, but even so, I’d guess she’s going to have some memory problems. Old ones, maybe making new ones.”
“Dr. Roa?”
“I’m with Divini. Stick a piece of jagged, hot metal into CA-one, CA-two, and CA-three, wiggle it around, and you’ve got definite declarative memory loss. Can’t tell how much or how bad.”
Banu nodded. “I concur. Given the injury, I don’t see any problems with general cognitive function, but expressive and factual material will likely be compromised.”
“Anybody see anything else we need to fix?”
Nobody did.
“All right. Let’s close her up.”
Uli was degowning in the post-op changing room with the other two surgeons and the assistants when Grand Moff Tarkin strode in. Uli’s first thought was, He’s not supposed to be here. But—who was going to tell him that?
“Doctors. What is Admiral Daala’s condition?”
Uli and Roa looked at Banu. He was the head of the team, so it fell to him to explain it.
“Sir,” the Cerean said, “Admiral Daala sustained a neurological injury that chiefly impacted her right medial temporal lobe. She’s in good condition and stable.”
“What long-term damage will there be to her?”
“We can’t be sure yet. That portion of the brain is called the hippocampus—humans have two hippocampi, one on each side. This area is, in large measure, responsible for functions of memory.”
Tarkin looked impatient. “Yes. And?”
Banu looked at Uli and Roa, then back at Tarkin. “It’s all conjecture at this point, sir. She is in a medically induced coma, so that we may treat her properly to prevent swelling of her injured brain. When