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She heard a low moan, and turned to see one of the several nonclone patients, a Rodian lieutenant called Zheepho, thrashing in his bed, struggling against the pressor field holding him in place. Zheepho had chronic smashbone fever, which had apparently been dormant for years, but had recently recurred. The intensity of the muscular contractions caused by the pathogen—a form of microorganism not quite a bacterium, nor exactly a virus, but somewhere in between—was such that the infected’s ligaments would tear and bones sometimes snap during the more violent episodes of tetany. The illness carried a 50 percent mortality rate, even when treated. There was no cure, and most of the muscle relaxants they had on hand were not effective on Rodians. A brain-stem surgical disconnect would stop both afferent and efferent nerve conduction, but—besides the small matter of leaving the patient totally paralyzed as far as voluntary movement was concerned—it wouldn’t stop the convulsions, because the infection was in the muscle tissue itself, not just the CNS.

Maybe the bota would help. Zheepho was in much pain, and could soon die if something wasn’t done. In over half of the cases, the infection spread to the organs, and something vital—heart, liver, or lungs, most likely— would shut down. Barriss had checked, but the literature—at least what she could access here—held no mention of the effects of bota on Rodians.

But it wasn’t as if he had much to lose. There were no fatal side effects of bota on any known species. And the continued episodes of tetany could very well damage Zheepho beyond the Rimsoo’s ability to properly treat, even if he survived the illness itself.

She approached the thrashing Rodian. She’d have to drop the pressor field to inject him. A deltoid or thigh jab would do the job. The popper would blast the aerosolized drug right into the muscle tissue—if she could do it before he spasmed again. She might have to use the Force to hold him still.

She reached the bed. “Zheepho,” she said. “I’m Barriss Offee, a Jedi healer.”

“Ex-excuse m-m-me if I d-don’t g-g-get up, H-H-Healer,” he managed to say between gritted lip plates.

“I have a treatment here that might help you,” she said. She held up the popper. “But there is some risk, which I can’t calculate properly.”

The Rodian clenched all over, tightening like a giant fist. The spasm lasted twenty seconds. Blue-green perspiration broke out on his tensed body. When the spasm subsided, he croaked, “Right n-now, Healer, I would g-gladly take p-p-poison if y-you offered it—ahhh—!”

Another contraction gripped him, shorter this time.

“I’ll have to drop the field. Try to hold as still as you can.”

“No p-p-problem,” he managed.

She felt less confident than she sounded. She couldn’t do this by swaying his mind, since the spasming muscles weren’t under his control. She’d have to hold him in place physically, with a controlled and sustained Force push, and that would be tricky to do without injuring him, especially given the fragile condition he was already in.

She found the connection with the Force that she needed, and thrust forward with her mind, pinning him down. He lay still, and she readied the popper. She’d drop the restraining field, reach in fast, hit him, and be out in a second or two. Ready… go!

She thumbed off the pressor field and reached in with both hands, using one to steady his leg. She pressed the popper to his thigh and reached for the trigger—

A major spasm wracked the Rodian. The unexpected severity of it shook Barriss’s grasp of the Force.

Hurry—!

But as she triggered the fire button on the popper, Zheepho’s leg jerked, as if a thousand volts of electricity had galvanized it. The popper bounced off his thigh. She was still gripping his leg as a second spasm hit him, throwing her momentarily off balance. Barriss lurched forward, and the injector came down—on the back of her other hand.

The popper sprayed the suspension extract through her skin. Some of it went into a vein—she could feel the cold rush. Quickly, she pulled back, relit