Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [61]
“Doctor.” A cool and noncommittal acknowledgment.
He looked at the flatscreen. “Says here that you’re originally from Ryloth, by way of Coruscant.”
“By way of a lot of places.”
“No major illnesses or injury on the record.”
“Nope. I had cavern fever as a child—I’m from the Darkside—but that was common enough. Most of the younglings caught that sooner or later. Other than that, nothing to speak of.”
Uli nodded. It had been a long time since his medical rotations and he’d never seen that many Twi’leks even then, though he had cut open a few since. Her chart indicated pretty standard stuff. He’d test her reflexes, listen to her heart, and then let the diagnoster check the rest, including a broadscan for any possible pan-species communicable diseases; not that it mattered much, since she’d already been here for a week and a half. Everything by the numbers; any third-year medical student could do it. He turned to the instrument table and fitted an auscultator to his ears, then turned back to her, saying, “Well, let’s have a listen to your heart. Would you mind—”
He stopped as she slid off the table, shucked her wrap, and tossed it onto the table, all in a single, smooth motion. Then she faced him.
Uli wore his professional expression. “I was going to say, Would you mind taking a deep breath?”
She shrugged. “You would have gotten around to asking eventually.”
Uli wasn’t sure in what context her remark was meant, and not in a big hurry to find out. Roothes was definitely an attractive female, no two ways about it; still, he was a doctor. He’d seen more than a few beings of various sexes naked before. It was all part of the job.
He poked and listened and examined, didn’t find anything remarkable, and noted such on the flatscreen chart. She was a well-nourished, well-developed sthenic Twi’lek female who looked a bit younger than her stated age and was within normal limits for a being of her species, at least according to the old-fashioned physical exam.
“Step in front of the diagnoster, please.”
She did so. The machine hummed as it sensed her presence on the exam pad. A bright light flashed, and in an instant she was weighed and measured, her various bodily systems—digestive, respiratory, nervous, circulatory, and musculoskeletal—scanned. The machine ran a battery of more than a hundred tests in a heartbeat, both generic and species-specific, and sent the results to his flatscreen. They testified that Memah Roothes was normal, healthy, and disease-free. No surprises.
“You can get dressed,” he told her.
She looked at him. “So I pass?”
“Yes. Everything checks out fine.”
“Two hours of my life I’ll never get back,” she muttered as she began to re-dress.
Uli left the room, suppressing a smile. He knew just how she felt.
28
CENTRAL COMMAND DECK, OVERBRIDGE, DEATH STAR
Tarkin found himself wishing once again that Daala were here. It surprised him how much he missed her company. She had military responsibilities at the Maw Installation, of course, but the truth was that the nature of that area of space, in which a congeries of black holes orbited one another in an elegant, complicated dance, made casual passersby unlikely in the extreme. And if that weren’t enough, the four Star Destroyers on duty there were more than capable of discouraging any errant ships, Rebel or otherwise.
And now that the station was being constructed here in the Horuz system, the importance of the work at the Maw was somewhat less than it had been. It was true that Qwi Xux’s other projects—the Sun Crusher, the World Devastators, and other potent superweapons—were still in development there, as well as the installation being full of valuable scientists and technicians, but if Daala were to leave for a week or two, there would be no problem whatsoever with her captains maintaining security in her absence.
Of course, Daala had officially