Star Wars_ MedStar 02_ Jedi Healer - Michael Reaves [28]
Column sighed, knowing that this rumination on the local fauna and flora was simply a way to put off thinking about the job to come. The stroke of a finger on the holoproj control changed the image from an aerial view of Drongar to the magnified image of MedStar, waiting above in geosync orbit. What had to be done was an unpleasant agenda, no two ways about it. A spy was, at times, not simply a gatherer of information. There sometimes came a crux when a more active role was required. Sometimes one had to cross into the territory of saboteur. It was part of the business—hard, but unavoidable.
Column reflected upon this unhappy, but necessary fact for…what? the thousandth time? Reflection did not change things, however. It was war. People died in war, some deserving, some not, and, wishes to the contrary, spies and saboteurs in the enemy’s camp had to bear responsibility for violent acts. If not Column, somebody else would be here. Perhaps, Column liked to think, that agent would have fewer qualms about death and destruction.
Not that Column could be considered scrupulous; there had been actions for which the spy had been directly responsible over the past few months that had claimed both lives and property. Actions that were, as the ancient Ithorian revolutionary Andar Suquand had said, “Casting sand in the gears of the machine.” Such an action wasn’t going to stop the war, but it would slow things down a bit.
Sometimes, that was all one could hope to do.
This coming action would be more akin to throwing pebbles than sand, at least locally. After Column was finished, gears would metaphorically grind to a stop, camshafts would break, and the repairs would cost time, money, and valuable labor—all of which would be a drain on the Republic’s war chest. Not a big drain, to be sure; in fact, given the length and breadth and depth of the Clone Wars, as the aggregate battles were beginning to be called, it would hardly be noticed. But wars were often won, not with a few major breaches, but with many tiny punctures. Even pinholes, were there enough of them, would empty the largest container.
Column glanced again at the holoproj built into the next row’s seat back. MedStar slowly grew in size, all alone against the backdrop of space, as the transport approached. Column sighed again. What had to be done would be done. Such was the nature of war.
Jos came out of a series of simple and dull procedures, routine stitchery that any first-year resident could do. But simple or not, they were time-consuming when piled on half a dozen or more deep.
As he tossed his dirty surgical gown into the recycle hopper, Uli emerged from the OT, looking as if he had just had ten hours of restful sleep, a sonic shower, and a cup of hot bajjah.
Truly, youth was wasted on the young.
“Hey, Jos,” the kid said. “They just kept ’em coming today, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, they do that sometimes. Too many times. How’d it go?”
“Great. Two bowel resections, a cardiac transplant, a liver repair. All still alive, no sweat.”
Jos smiled and shook his head. None of those procedures was cut-by-the-numbers, even back in the real galaxy. This kid shrugged off stuff that would have had Jos sweating transponder battery acid when he’d been a third-year surgical resident. He had a platinum vibroscalpel, Uli did, no question. The uncertainty Jos had seen on the boy’s first day had quickly been replaced by confidence verging on cockiness.