Star Wars_ MedStar 02_ Jedi Healer - Michael Reaves [26]
Well, the two would undoubtedly encounter each other socially at the HoloNet Entertainment show. And he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be there—or anywhere on the same hemisphere—when they did.
Column stared at the decoded message on the flat-screen, feeling somewhat queasy at the content. As much as the spy hated the idea, the powers-that-be had ordained a course of upcoming action that would involve violence.
Extreme violence.
The Separatists wanted this world and its valuable bota. They intended to try to swing the precarious balance of power their way, and the manner in which they planned to accomplish this was, in a word, despicable.
Just the thought of the consequences of this action was enough to cause nausea. It would not fall entirely to Column to implement this sabotage; still, the spy would have to instigate a vital element of the plan at the appropriate moment. And as a result, some of the Republic’s forces were certain to die—perhaps many of them, and among their number would be quite a few noncombatants. Yes, they were mostly military personnel, but this was largely by virtue of conscription—Column had met very few medics who elected to join the army or navy by choice. While there were always those who thought military service was a valid idea, helping the wounded and sick, by and large surgeons, medical doctors, nurses, and techs were draftees. They had no choice in the matter—it was be inducted or be imprisoned. Some made the latter choice, though they were in the minority. Eventually, the war would be over, win or lose, and if they survived, the conscripts would go home, back to their lives. But electing to go to prison in lieu of the military could follow a person for a lifetime. It was not an easy choice. Before this war had begun, before there was an agent with the alias of Column or Lens, the bearer of both names had known moralistic objectors in other wars who had taken stances against the concept. Some could withstand the onus; some broke beneath the weight of that choice, crushed like a wingstinger under a heavy boot.
Column sighed. In times like these, only the distant goal could remain clear. The objects and people near to hand were fuzzy, and, like the tiniest parts of matter, did not bear close examination. To peer too closely at them while knowing what was inevitably going to happen was to court madness. How could a being smile at those close by, interact with them, share their hopes, dreams, and frustrations, while simultaneously taking part in a plot that would end in the deaths of at least some of them?
No, the immediate ugliness had to be ignored. When all this was done, when the Republic had been roundly defeated and old-but-not-faded wrongs had been righted— then there would be time enough to grieve.
Often clichés contain more than a grain of truth— which is why they become clichés. In this case, sometimes the ends really did justify the means, no matter how heinous they seemed in the moment.
That’s how one had to look at it. To see it any other way would cause paralysis. And, whatever else might happen, the Republic had to lose this war.
It had to lose.
Tolk sat on the end of Jos’s cot and blotted her wet hair with a syncloth towel.
“Your ’fresher’s sonic dryer is broken again,” she said.
Lying on the bed and watching her, Jos smiled. “Do tell? I’ll have the butler droid give the mechanic droid a call straightaway,” he said, affecting a posh upper-class East Quadrant Coruscant accent. “I do hope you haven’t suffered too much in these dreadful and barbaric circumstances, my dear.”
She smiled back, finished blotting her hair, and threw the damp towel at him. It hit him in the face before he could get a hand up to block. He laughed, and her smile broadened.
Then, abruptly, it faded.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She started to get up; he reached, gently pulled her back. “You aren’t the only