Free Death Star by Michael Reaves Page A

much on the go ever since he’d gotten here, and now that his rotation was finally over, he’d been looking forward to some sleep. “Did he sound urgent?”
    “Actually, sir, his precise words were, ‘Get Divini’s butt up here on the double.’ ” The droid did a perfect imitation of Hotise’s voice.
    Uli had to smile at that. Hotise might be a career man, but he was honest and direct in his speech and actions. And he was just another cog in the Empire’s giant machine—no point in blaming him for the situation.
    Uli was wearing surgical blues, which he did not waste time changing. While standard service protocols ordinarily required more formal dress when attending a commanding officer in a noncombat area on board a ship, the medical units were less stringent. Most medics were draftees and didn’t give a Psadan’s patoot what the navy thought of them anyhow—they were just hoping to get out and go home. And like him, any doctor worth his laser scalpel knew he, she, or it was far too valuable to be stuck in a brig for failing to observe some piddling uniform code. The Empire was sometimes hidebound and slow, but not altogether foolish.
    When Uli entered, Hotise was seated behind his desk, tapping his fingers rapidly on two different input consoles. Holoimages danced and flashed over the consoles as the codes flowed. It was impressive to watch, like seeing someone able to write in two languages at the same time, one with each hand.
    “Sit. Be with you in a few seconds.”
    Uli parked himself in the chair, a flowform device that hummed and adjusted itself to his contours for a perfect support. Sitting down was a mistake, he belatedly realized. If he leaned back, he could fall asleep faster than …
    Hotise, true to his word, jarred Uli from his doze only a few seconds later. “The construction crew has gotten a couple of equatorial med stations operational—not full-service plexes, but they have two surgery suites, pre-op and recovery rooms, and twenty medical beds each. Not to mention bacta tank wards, nursing stations, supply rooms, offices … you know the drill. More than a Rimsoo, less than a medcenter.”
    “And …?”
    “And I want you to go run one.”
    “I’m not an administrator,” Uli said.
    “Teach your grandfather how to put his boots on, son. I know you’re not an administrator, but we’re shy a few dozen of those right now. Construction is running ahead of schedule, at least in our field, and we’re slow getting fresh help.
    “You’re qualified as chief surgeon, and I’ll send Fourmio along to handle the secretarial stuff. We need three surgeons and a couple of internal medicine docs, all with broad-species experience, plus nurses, aides, orderlies, and some computer operators. It’s no worse than running a clinic. Caseloads’ll be mostly workers getting banged up, some infections, age-related illnesses—the usual med-surg stuff on a construction site. Nothing you can’t handle. If you get bogged down, you can call for help.”
    There was no way out of this, Uli realized. Still, he couldn’t resist asking: “Why me?”
    “Well, frankly, son, I don’t have anybody else I can spare.”
    What did it matter? Uli asked himself. Here, there, or somewhere else—it was all the same, really. This wasn’t a combat situation, like so many in the past had been. Nevertheless, he could feel a tiny worm of uneasiness begin to writhe slowly in his gut. “All right,” he said.
    “Thought you’d say that—not like you have much ofa choice. Pack your gear—you leave on the third-shift shuttle.”
    As Uli headed for his quarters to gather his few belongings, he considered his life yet again. It had been two decades since his first assignment on Drongar. He’d helped staff a few more Rimsoos since then, and when the Clone Wars had ended he’d been more than ready to practice in the private sector. But that wasn’t the life he’d been dealt. And now, when he should have been long