The two exchanged a calm look. Then Squa Tront said, "No, we haven't. And neither has anyone else, because you just invented them."

Kaird laughed, and his mask made the snorting, gurgling noises that to the Kubaz indicated mirth. These two seemed to be unflappable, an essential quality for smugglers.

Thula gestured to her partner. "In any event, should we run afoul of the fair s.e.x, Squa has certain talents in that area. His methods differ from mine, but the result is the same." The Falleen grinned. "Though you'd never think so to look at him."

"I resent that," Squa said. "Among my species, I am considered well above average in looks."

"Not much to brag about." But Thula smiled as she said it, and Squa smiled in return.

Kaird detected a warmth in the Falleen's voice and expression, mirrored by that of her companion. An odd couple., indeed.

"Once hired," Thula said, "we'll be in a position to influence those with direct access to the product. A piece of easy. But-how much is it worth to Black Sun?"

Ah, now came the fun part. He had a lot of leeway in transactions like these. Two percent was standard, but he could go as high as 4. He would start by offering 1 percent of the net, which he could sweeten with a small advance, five thousand creds or so ...

"Let's not d.i.c.ker like a couple of Toydarians," Squa said in his dry, papery voice. "What say, we get... four percent? And a small advance, oh... five thousand credits?"

Kaird shook his head, and mentally cursed himself. It was hard to bargain with somebody who had empathic or telepathic abilities. He had a pretty good thought-shield defense when he concentrated on it, but he had relaxed and let it slip. A good lesson in that.

There was something charming about the two-something aside from their hormone-and mind-manipulating abilities. They were a pair of likable rogues. This was to be prized.

Emotions, thoughts, even the senses could be fooled in various ways, but spontaneous charisma wasal-ways in short supply.

"Done," he said. "But since you can see things you ought not to be able to see, you know what will happen if there are any problems. If, for instance, you suddenly decided to abscond with a hundred kilos of bota to setup shop on your own? See what my thoughts about that are."

Squa grew slightly paler, if that were possible. He swallowed dryly. "We'd never dream of such a thing," he said.

Thula, her skin faded back to its normal pale green, added, "We aren't stupid, or greedy-which is why we're here, alive. You don't need to be a Republic armorer to know a big gun when you see it. We do the job, we make money, you make money, everybody gets happy. And maybe someday, Black Sun will want to throw some more work our way."

Kaird smiled behind the mask, which, after a heartbeat, translated it into the Kubaz equivalent-the short proboscis curling up and over itself. "Always a pleasure doing business with professionals," he said. "I'll stay on-planet until you get things set up and running, then it's all yours."

He held up one hand, palm-down, in the traditional Kubaz sign for agreement. Both Thula and Squa Tront mirrored his gesture.

Excellent! A few days, a week or two, and Kaird could be on his way, leaving behind a new operation up and running, while he s.p.a.ced back to more interesting places and things.

He headed back to his quarters to change his disguise, and an odd thing happened: a cool breeze touched him as he walked across the compound. He could just feel it through the heavy and hot disguise, and it lasted but an instant, so short a time that he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. He stopped and looked around, but there was nothing to be seen, n.o.body even close to him.

He scowled-the mask turned it into a Kubaz frown, curling the short facial trunk up and under, tucking it close to the chin. Kaird didn't notice. A blast of air cold enough to feel even through all he was wearing? Coming, apparently, from nowhere? This was unnatural. And Black Sun operatives did not live to a ripe old age by ignoring the unnatural.

On a hunch, he looked up. The sky wore its usual bands of colors: pale green, yellow, a bit of blue and red. The spores were thick outside the force-dome, and there were some small clouds of the stuff floating around inside the energy shield, up high, but nowhere near enough to cause a health hazard.

Could the blast have come from outside the dome, somehow? He shook his head. That made no sense-if anything, it was hotter outside, not colder.

Kaird slowly continued on his way. Something strange had just happened and its cause was unknown-now.

But he would make it his business to know it. Soon.

10.

The announcement came over the hypersound speakers, sounding as if a quiet voice were speaking privately to each sentient being in the base. The announcer, however, was an Ugnaught, and his thick, Basic-mangling accent made it hard to decipher the words.

"Att'ntion. In free local days HoPNet 'N'tainmen', in, uh, collab-collab'ration wit' da R'public Mil'tary Ben'-fit As-so-ciation, brings you Jasod Revoc and His G'lactic Revue, you bet. Wit' Epoh Trebor, Lili Renalem, Annloc Yerj, Eyar Marath, an' Figrin D'an an' da Modal Nodes, yar."

Uli, who was examining a cephaloscan readout on his handheld, frowned and looked at Jos.

"What did he say?"

"He said the carnival is coming to town. The troops are going to be entertained-and so are we, theoretically. Unless, of course, we're in here playing mix-and-matcli with various viscera." Jos gestured to the FX-7 on duty to take over the resectioning of the trooper on the gurney before him. It had taken him nearly forty-five minutes to remove all the shrapnel that had been embedded in tte clone's mediastinum. Shrapnel extraction was the cause of nearly all the invasive work done in the Rimsoo-far more than slugthrower fire, sonic disruption trauma, vibroblades, or anything else from the murderous catalog that was ground war in a jungle. He figured he'd probably pulled a good ten kilos of twisted, seared metal from the insides of various troopers. The damage was always horrific. A chunk of durasteel traveling at near-sonic speed hit a body's midsection like a hunger-maddened reek, and chewed it up even worse.

"1 don't know about you," he continued, "but I am sorely in need of some laughs. Revoc's people perform pretty well, I hear." He grinned at Uli. "Of course, the kind of music they play might seem a little stodgy for your taste ..."

"I'm always up for a good band," Uli said. "Leap-jump, like that. My big goal now is to find a date-preferably carbon-based, humanoid, and female, though after three weeks here I'm learning not to be so picky."

Jos nodded thoughtfully as he stripped off his gloves and gown in the postop chamber. Had it really been three weeks since Uli had arrived? He realized that he hadn't thought of Zan lately, and felt a pang of self-reproach. Why? he asked himself. Any good physician knows that loss heals eventually-grief is a process. Zan would have wanted it that way.

Still, he felt obscure guilt. The truth was that Uli, despite his youth, made a pretty good cube mate. He was neat, and his tidiness had inspired Jos to be a bit more mindful of the immediate environment as well, so that the walls were no longer furry to the touch, at least. He certainly had a different perspective on a lot of things than Jos, but, unlike most people his age, he wasn't at all dogmatic in his beliefs. The two had had interesting conversations about everything from galactic politics to favorite Coruscant restaurants; Jos preferred the elegant-and expensive-Zothique, while Uli was partial to a greasy spoon called Dex's Diner. No doubt about it, the new had helped east the pa.s.sing of the old.

Three weeks. It had been nearly that long since Admiral Kersos had taken over. His great-uncle had yet to meet Tolk, save briefly in the OT-various administrate duties had kept Kersos...o...b..tside in the MedStar frigate for much of that time-and Jos had been making efforts to keep them apart. Even though Kersos had been guilty of the same sin Jos was contemplating, Jos was afraid that his uncle would not like her-or that Tolk might not like him. He was honestly not sure which eventuality would be worse.

Well, the two would undoubtedly encounter each otto socially at the HoloNer Entertainment show. And t.i.t wasn't at all sure he wanted to be there-or anywhereon the same hemisphere-when they did.

Column stared at the decoded message on the flat-screen, feeling somewhat queasy at the content. As mudi 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 havt 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 cliches contain more than a grain of truth-which is why they become cliches. 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 droida call straightaway," he said, affecting a posh upper-cla.s.s East Quadrant Coruscant accent. "I do hope you haven't suffered too much in these dreadful and barbaric circ.u.mstances, 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 person who pays attention to faces around here, you know. Now, tell Doctor Vondar."

She nibbled at her lower lip. "I've been contacted by the director of Surgical Nursing Services on MedStar."

"And... ?"

"And they want me to rotate up for a Continuing Medical Education short course in decubitus care. Six hours, lecture and lab."

He snorted. "A CME cla.s.s on bedsores'? What idiot came up with that one? We don't have patients here long enough to develop decubitus ulcers! Anyway, with the ma.s.sage fields it's not a-"

"I know. The order came directly from the admiral's office."

Jos frowned. "I see . . . anything else?"

"According to an old friend in SNS, as of this morning I am the only surgical nurse onplanet who has been ordered to take the cla.s.s. What do you think that means?"

The answer was fairly obvious. Why would the admiral's office order a single nurse to attend a course that was, given the nature of the Rimsoo treatments here, pretty much useless?

"Great-Uncle Erel," Jos said, his voice tight. "He wants to check you out-and he doesn't want me around when he does it."

She nodded. "That's how I figure it."

Jos sat up. "I can tell MedStar we can't spare you right now," he said.

She shook her head. "No. I'll have to talk to him sooner or later. Might as well be now.

I've been holding my breath ever since you told me who he was."

"Tolk-you don't have to-"

She leaned over and put her hand over his mouth. "Shush. I'm a big girl. I won't melt if your uncle looks at me crooked. If he is going to be family-" She stopped. "Are you having second thoughts?"

He put one hand on her cheek. "Never."

She smiled. "All right. Then I'll go see Uncle Admiral and we'll find out what's what.

It'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm a face reader, Jos. At least we'll know where we really stand with him."

He was still worried? And obviously she could see it in his expression. She grinned, took his hand from her cheek, and kissed his palm - and worrying about his uncle suddenly fell off the top of his to-do list.

11.

The MedStar frigates were the acme of the Republic medical corps' fleet. Equipped with state-of-the-art xeno-aiid biomedical facilities that would rival those of many planetside hospitals, MedStar-da.s.s vessels were designed to accept Rimsoo-stabilized ill or injured patients and, when necessary, continue their treatment. Such ships were extremely expensive, and there were but a handful of them presently in active service. Given the nature and length of the war, others were being built as quickly as Kuat Drive Yards could turn them out.

In war, the roads to victory-or defeat-always wound through mountains of bodies.

Column, seated in the transport headed for MedStar, gazed through the small, thick porthole at the verdant landscape rapidly dwindling below. The ship's A-Grav field ensured that the crew and pa.s.sengers remained at a comfortable planetary constant, but, judging by the quickness with which Drongar fell away from them, the spy estimated that the transport had to be pulling at least five ,g's. The reason for the swift ascent was to pa.s.s quickly through the spore strata. Column watched as colonies of the single-celled proto-animalcules splashed against the transparisteel port like insectoids against a windscreen. Smears of color, most of them various shades of red or green, were turned into liquid streaks by the transport's speed.

Drongaran life was both mutagenic and adaptogenic, and its rate of evolution seemed to be constant, rather than punctuated, as well as extremely rapid. Studies had found that the species on this world possessed DNA that granted undedifferentiation properties to virtually every cell of the organism, allowing it to adapt to environmental threats in an astoundingly short time. The swift mutability posed a real threat to the aliens who had come here to harvest bota. Spores, bacteria, viruses, RNA-ersatz, and no doubt millions of other tiny life-forms yet undiscovered roiled through and clogged everything on Dron-gar.

A ship traveling through the spore clouds had to hurry; tarry too long, and the teeming protolife attacked and overcame the seals, sometimes digesting material as quickly as might a strong caustic. It could do much the same-and frequently did-to alien biological systems such as lungs, livers, kidneys, gutsacs, spiracles, and so forth. Fortunately, the most damaging concentrations of spore swarms stayed just above the treetops, high enough to allow people relative safety at ground level. No one was sure why. It might, Column mused, have something to do with wind patterns. Or perhaps it was the heat. Whatever the reason, everyone was grateful that the myriadfoldof Drongaran life was not more inimical to offworlders.

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 ringer 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 st.i.tchery 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 vibro-scalpel, Uli did, no question. The uncertainty Jos had seen on the boy's first day had quickly been replaced by confidence verging on c.o.c.kiness. Jos knew that, even though Uli had spent the day s.n.a.t.c.hing lives back from the brink of eternity, death was still an abstract concept to someone that young.

"You holding up okay?"

Slightly startled by the question, Jos looked at the younger man. "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, you know. Tolk being gone and all . . ."

"She's not the only surgical nurse on the rotation."