Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [51]
His understanding of the Wookiee language was rudimentary on a good day. He could understand “Yes” or “No,” and a few other medical responses to questions like “On a scale of one to ten, how much does it hurt?” but he wasn’t going to be having any deep philosophical discussions with the big furry biped. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. He gestured to C-4ME-O, who was filling a nearby bacta tank with fluid. The droid wheeled over, ready to translate.
“Good day,” Uli said to the Wookiee. “How are you?”
“Wyaaaaaa. Ruh ruh?” The droid’s dulcet tones made the snarls and moans of Wookiee-speak oddly pleasing to the ear.
The patient moaned a response, which 4ME-O translated as, “For you, maybe.”
The old Wook had kept his sense of humor, even though he was obviously still feeling pretty bad. Uli was glad to see that: a willingness to fight was the single most important aspect of the healing process, no matter the species.
“We’re going to try something new,” he continued. “We think maybe you have some kind of parasite. Probably been dormant in your system for years, and the immunosuppressives somehow triggered it. The internal medicine team has a broad-spectrum medication, Nicosamide-Mebendazole Complex, that seems to work on a variety of occult mammalian parasites. If you have what we think you do, this should cure it.”
“Whuahh yun yorra ellihenn?”
“Well, the side effects are generally mild. There are a couple that might cause some discomfort.”
“Arrn whoon urr.” This was, according to C-4ME-O, an idiosyncratic phrase structure indicating an affirmation couched in weary cynicism. The droid translated it roughly as “Of course there are.” Hahrynyar motioned for Uli to continue.
“Um, sometimes there’s an associated diarrhea. And very rarely, it affects a patient’s finger- and toenails.”
“Yaag?”
“Well, the nails sort of … fall out.”
“Whuahh?”
“Oh, they grow back in a few months, good as new. And, as I say, it is quite rare.”
The next comment was one 4ME-O seemed reluctant at first to translate; when it did, Uli had to hide a smile. He hadn’t been aware that members of this species were so imaginative.
“I understand this is distressing, but you can’t leave the unit until you’re better, and you can’t go back to work until we are sure what you have isn’t contagious.”
The Wookiee scowled.
“Hey, I don’t make the rules, I just work here. You have a complaint, take it up with the Emperor.”
Hahrynyar snarled an offensive remark concerning Palpatine’s personal hygiene that Uli was ready to swear brought a blush to 4ME-O’s durasteel skin. Then the big Wook reluctantly conceded to the treatment.
After finishing his rounds, Uli went back to his office and looked at his calendar. Barring an emergency, he had nothing on his surgical schedule until tomorrow, and that was a routine triple bypass on a naval officer who was too fond of fats in his diet. The man was just a hair short of clinically obese; a kilo more, and he’d have to be put on medical waivers to continue serving. Given the nature of the war, that wouldn’t surprise Uli—the Empire’s need for warm bodies in some arenas was critical, as he well knew. Short, tall, thin, fat, it didn’t matter; they always needed more blaster fodder.
He shrugged. Every time he thought about it, it made him angry, but his anger didn’t matter. The war kept going. There were times when he thought he’d never get home again, that the war would never end, and that he’d die an old man on some pity-forsaken rock in the middle of nowhere, patching up the endless lines of wounded.
If only there was something he could do to change it.
COMMAND CENTER, OVERBRIDGE, DEATH STAR
Tarkin was pleased. As much as he distrusted Vader and his motives, the coming of the man in black had visibly improved functions wherever one looked. Nobody wanted to face the Sith Lord’s wrath, and the best way to avoid that was to do one’s job with the utmost efficiency. Vader was a catalyst;