Star Wars_ MedStar 02_ Jedi Healer - Michael Reaves [83]
“And how do the Jedi make these decisions?”
“Well,” she said with a slight smile, “some have been known to get drunk.”
Jos laughed. He couldn’t help it. And it felt good.
“It so happens,” Barriss continued, “that I have something I wish to see delivered to the Temple on Coruscant as soon as possible. There are very few to whom I would entrust such a mission. If you would be willing …?”
I-Five said, “I would be honored.”
31
Column stared at the message on the desktop. It had taken several hours to decipher the cumbersome triple code, but this time it had been worth the effort. The Separatists had gotten the missive sent from this location earlier. They had checked it out, and found that the bota was indeed losing its potency. Much quicker than the spy had expected, they had come to a decision: there would be an all-out attack on the Republic forces on Drongar in the next few days. Every mech and mercenary the other side could field would participate in the battle, with but one purpose: to capture and collect the remaining bota for the Separatists. Many would die or be destroyed on both sides; much of the bota in the fields might be ruined—but the message, short as it was, was quite unambiguous and explicit. They were coming. This Rimsoo, along with all the others, would shortly be overrun. They would not be taking prisoners—at least, none they intended to keep alive.
Column stared at the note with labile emotions and mixed feelings. Yes, it had been expected, if not so soon. Yes, it would be a blow to the Republic, which was the reason that Column had come to be here in the first place. This didn’t change the fact that the responsibility for the loss of life and matériel would be on Column’s head.
The decrypted message, printed on a plastisheet templast, started to curl at the edges. In another minute the process, a combustible oxidation that began the moment the plastisheet was exposed to air, would evaporate the note into nothingness.
Just as the spy’s third identity would soon come to an end.
No matter, either way. The note had served its purpose— Column had committed the contents to memory. The war here would also be effectively over, quite soon. The bota would be collected or destroyed or mutated into uselessness—they all came to the same result, insofar as the combatants were concerned.
Column would be gone by the time the attack came in force. There would be a reason to visit MedStar, and the transport supposed to take the spy there would be…diverted, so that it delivered its cargo to the Separatists’ territory. Column would, of course, have the vouchsafe codes that would allow the ship to pass unscathed. Then, the jump to hyperspace, and those left behind here would be no more than sad memories.
There would be another assignment, on another world, soon enough. The war elsewhere would continue, and Column, under another false identity, would go forth to continue to aid in the destruction of the Republic. However long the task took, it would happen, the spy knew. It would happen.
Column sighed. There was still much to be done here, and little time in which to accomplish it. Records, files, information, some of which might prove of value to Column’s masters, all must be gathered and condensed into data packets one could slip into one’s pocket or travel case. The end—at least here and now—was quite near.
It was nearly midnight. The long-snouted Kubaz costume was gone, and the fat suit was a lot of trouble to flesh up and don, so Kaird had his meeting with Thula dressed as The Silent monk. It was not as if anybody would see them together, so he wasn’t concerned about the impropriety of speaking.
He stood with his back against a thin-walled storage shed just past the main dining hall, apparently alone. Thula was inside the shed, invisible to