• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The aorta exploded, shredding as if a small bomb had gone off inside it.

“I need some help here!”

All of the surgical heart–lung bypass roilers were in use, and an extra pair of hands wouldn’t be enough. The field couldn’t stop the blood, and even as he tried to tie off the blown artery, he knew it was too late. Massive shock took the man, and he flatlined before they could implement cerebrostasis. Jos tried to revive him, once he had a flexy-stat on the torn vessel and oxygenated expander flowing to replace the lost blood. Ten minutes he tried, but nothing seemed to work. He couldn’t restart the heart.

He had four more patients lined up. He knew what he had to do.

Jos pronounced the man and had a droid haul him away. There was no other choice. If he kept working on this one, the patients waiting would almost certainly die.

Or maybe you’ll kill them, too, the malicious little voice within whispered, as the next patient was placed before him.

He had never felt more tired in his life. Blast this war.

25

Den sat listening to the Ugnaught med-mechano specialist, Rorand Zuzz, feeling as if he had just been handed the key to Coruscant on a platinum platter. Zuzz had supplied him with useful information in the past, but nothing like this.

“You’re sure?”

“Y’kin take it t’the IGB ’n’ swap it f’creds, Dhur. Oh, yar.”

“How did you come by this information?”

Zuzz grinned. “Femnaught in Rimsoo Twelve, over’n Xenoby, she lustin’ f’me. She runs alla d’test on d’local crop.”

“Have another drink,” Den said. This was big. Huge. Monstrous. So important, in fact, that…

“Why haven’t I heard about this?”

The stubby little alien shrugged. “Dunno. Rachott, d’fem, say she runnin’ d’tests, passin’ ’em ’long, ’n’ no feke, the stuff’s gettin’ weaker ’n’ weaker. Somebody sittin’ on d’results. Who knows why?”

The server arrived with a fresh drink, and Zuzz grabbed it as if it were the last drop of liquid on the day side of a nonrotating planet.

Den continued to think about this. If the bota was indeed losing its potency, that was major news. The stuff was worth its weight in first-grade firestones, if not more, and if it died out, the price of any that still had full strength and full spectrum would rise right out of the galaxy. Once word got around, everybody and his ugly little sibling would be out there in the fields trying to grab up as much as they could. A being could retire on what he could hide in his pockets …

Yeah, this was a story, all right. A ticket-to-anywhere, the kind of piece that came along once in a Falleen’s lifetime. Spin it right—and he knew he could—it might even be a Poracsa Prize winner, and that would set him up for life.

Den had to confirm it, and fast. He had to break it before somebody else leaked it. This would put him on the map. They’d name journalism colleges for him…

He paid for another three drinks for his Ugnaught source, got up, and left the cantina. He had to find at least two more confirmations. Maybe even just one. Once it had been confirmed, he would get the story out, somehow. Even if his comm unit was on the crackle at the moment, there had to be a way. He’d tattoo it on a soldier mustering out, if he had to. Something.

As he started to cross the hot and fetid compound, he saw Eyar heading toward the chow hall. He moved to intercept her.

No doubt about it—she was one gorgeous fem.

She smiled, and they exchanged ritual greetings.

“You look excited about something,” she said.

“How could I be anything else but excited in your presence, Sweetflaps?”

She laughed. “I love a Sullustan who makes me laugh. But I ken something else in your attitude.”

“A story,” he admitted. “A big one, if it checks out.”

“Good for you!” Her voice was warm, generous, sincere.

Den looked at her, and for a moment, he felt a pang of regret for the wives and families he had never had time to build. It had always been the work, first, last, and in the middle. The lane not taken included watching the younglings venture out