Star Wars_ MedStar 02_ Jedi Healer - Michael Reaves [15]
The lightsaber’s power hum was a comforting drone, the hard-edged energy beam as familiar to her as her own arm. She could not remember a time when she had not wielded a lightsaber. As a child, there had been the low-powered practice models, with which she and other young Padawans had dueled. They were strong enough to deliver a powerful jolt; when one of them stung you, you knew it.
Pain was a most tasking instructor.
When she turned sixteen she had built her own fully powered unit, choosing a blue crystal as her beam’s signature hue. It had been hooked to her belt ever since— she knew every part of it as well as she knew her own fingers. As part of her training, she had taken it apart and reassembled it using only the Force. It was more than a weapon—it was an extension of her body, an almost organic part of her…
She smiled as she stepped forward, spinning the lightsaber rapidly before her, creating what seemed a solid shield of light. Thinking too much again. Concentrate on the moment.
At that instant, there came a blast of cold air, as if someone had opened a freezer door just behind her, shocking in its intensity. It was gone almost before she knew what it was, but the combination of her drifting thoughts and the frigid breeze startled her. She knew immediately that the lightsaber, now moving across her lower body and headed up and around, was—too low.
She heard rather than felt the tip of the pulsing blade slice through the top of her boot. The boot was spun-plast orthotic, pliable yet extremely tough. When she’d bought the boots, they’d come with a guarantee—wear them out and the manufacturer would replace them, free, for as long as the original owner lived. Spun-plast would turn the edge of a sharp durasteel blade, or even a vibroknife.
There were few material objects proof against a lightsaber, however, and tough as it was, spun-plast wasn’t among those.
Barriss quickly extinguished the lightsaber. She looked down and saw blood welling in the surgically neat slice across the top of her boot.
She was astonished—not by the wound, but by the error that had resulted in the accident. How many times had she done this form? Five thousand? Ten? This was a beginner’s mistake, a blunder that would be inexcusable in a Padawan child nowhere near her skill level.
Had she imagined it? It was tempting to think so, but when the moving air had rustled the croaker bushes, she had distinctly heard their unmistakable, mournful sound. The breeze had been real.
She hung the lightsaber on her belt, lifted her foot, and pulled the boot off, balancing easily on the other foot.
The cut was narrow and not too deep, maybe three centimeters long, and a couple of centimeters above her second and third toes. The epidermal edges were burned, but the cut was still bleeding freely; evidently the spun-plast had absorbed just enough of the blade’s energy to prevent complete cauterization of the wound. Barriss stood there, still balanced on one leg, staring at the injury. She shook her head.
She reached for the Force, felt it flowing through her, and concentrated on the cut. There was no danger of her bleeding to death from it, but she certainly didn’t fancy hopping back to the base for treatment, leaving a trail of blood behind her.
The steady flow ebbed, then stopped. She could feel the pain beginning to throb, now; she breathed deeply, made space for it, shunted it into that space. She mentally applied the Force to the wound again. The edges seemed to draw together a bit, but then gaped again.
“Better let me take a look at that,” came a voice from one side. She looked up, surprised. It was Lieutenant Divini, the new surgeon.
“I can manage it,” she said.
The boy—Uli, she remembered—whose issue coverall was clotted with swamp mud to midthighs, stepped forward and