There was also good news in all of this. If a spot opened up in the gang, you could always come for an interview... And put a hole in some poor fellow's forehead during the rookie check? Turn himself into an ordinary killer? He didn't think that was right. Along with the news came the thought that he needed an assistant. Loyal and diligent. Someone to whom he could entrust everything he couldn't do himself. He couldn't leave Jethro and the two raiders unsupervised, even considering that if they were freed, they wouldn't be able to do anything for another ten minutes. On the other hand, he could manage. But he needed to finish reading the records on the decks.
The records were not varied. Porn, gangster songs, action movies - there was enough of this stuff for a decent study of "Cultural Peculiarities of the Lower Strata of Society." The correspondence was the same - with each other, with pimps, with call girls. Judging by the correspondence, Larius did not participate in the entertainment; he always had an urgent matter.
Now he had to decide what to do. But first, the medic. He was about to dial Tardi's number, but realized he didn't have it. They hadn't gotten a new one yet. He dialed the number of the administrator droid at "The Last Haven," asking to connect him with the guest in room twenty-one.
The droid processed the information for a while, then transferred the call to the intercom in the room.
The answer didn't come immediately. When the pilot finally answered, his voice was choked, and someone's disgruntled mumbling could be heard in the background.
"Who is it?" Tardi asked instead of a greeting.
"We met today," the answer came almost immediately. "I wanted to inquire about your condition."
"Been better," came the reply. After a short pause, a faint sound was heard: "I found you a doctor."
"The hunter gets the prey..." Nemo smiled, because there was no point in being surprised. "I need her. Urgently. A deep laceration below the knee on a Duro."
"I'll pass it on," the pilot said with difficulty. "Where should she come?"
"If she's on a speeder, then to sector three hundred and sixth, fifty-fourth level, hangar zone, hangar number thirty-four. If not, I'll pick her up from wherever needed."
"On a speeder," Tardi whispered, already barely audible. "I'll pass it on."
"Have her call this number when she takes off. I need time for her journey."
When the conversation ended, Nemo sighed. He had found a doctor. A couple more issues remained to be resolved. For this, he knocked on the transparisteel. He needed to talk to Jethro.
The Duro stirred unhappily inside. A minute later, the cockpit canopy opened, and the pirate peeked out.
"Are you done already?" his lipless mouth contorted. "I thought the whole neighborhood would come running at the screams..."
"Just put a little pressure on one subject," Nemo waved it off, although he himself was unpleasant recalling the interrogation. "Tell me, who was in the shop? In that safe?"
The pilot's face instantly became inscrutable.
"One person. You don't know him."
Nemo almost flared up, but "almost" stopped him. He didn't consider it necessary to pressure the pilot, but... He needed information.
"Jethro, by the time you can walk normally, I want nothing to prevent you from working. But to accomplish this task, I have very little information, and you are depriving me of the crumbs I have. I don't care who he is, but I want to talk to him. In the near future."
The Duro sighed.
"I promised not to reveal him. What could he know that you need, and that I don't?"
"He was there when the fight was going on," Nemo said tiredly. Beating the pilot was useless, at least persuading him. He didn't want to use force or the Force. And he wasn't going to. "I'm interested in where the person named Larius went."
"He didn't take any part in the fight," the pilot turned away, doing something on the control panel. "But he was the one who threw me into the warehouse and told me not to stick my head out until they came for me."
"Are you talking about your mysterious stranger now?"
Duro peeked out of the cockpit again.
"And who were you asking about just now?"
"When I said I was interested in where the person named Larius went, didn't you listen?" Nemo asked. "He was the fifth attacker. But I didn't see him. I need your acquaintance to identify him. And then I'll deal with whoever hired the five."
"I'll tell him you want to see him," the Duro let out another sigh. "I can't order him, if he wants to, he'll find you himself. But if I were you, I'd deal with the client right away. Why waste time?"
"Most likely I will," a nod of agreement, "but I don't know what kind of fruit this Larius is, and I might not dodge a bolt in the back. At least I don't want to try. By the way. I found a doctor."
"That's good," the pilot perked up. "The wound is starting to hurt again. Will he be here soon?"
"They'll call me, I hope soon," Nemo looked at the pilot thoughtfully. "Do you have any painkillers? I don't want to damage the nervous system with repeated intervention."
"I'll endure," the pilot grumbled, sinking back into the chair. "I'll sleep for now. Wake me when he arrives."
"Uh-huh, but first tell me who sent you the message," Nemo forced a smile, "I know him, at least."
Duro turned around.
"From where?" he didn't even try to hide his surprise. "He was hiding behind the safe. I'm sure you don't know each other."
"Oh, how interesting," Nemo smiled: two variables merged into one. And its value was hidden in his head. "Then the task is somewhat simplified. Rest."
The hatch snapped shut – Jethro went to follow the advice.
He had to wait for the doctor, and in the meantime, Nemo entered all the cases that could or wanted to be pinned on Willy and his companions into the search.
The result was quite predictable. Willy's company had managed to appear on several planets – though, back then, the company was a quartet. Based on the sum of the accusations, Kessel promised the prisoners an obvious fate. Indefinite search and reward for their capture were guaranteed.
So there was the solution, Nemo smiled. Simple, humane, and legal. It was precisely because of the last point that Nemo hadn't thought of it. Turn this pair over to the authorities, and even get money for it. And the wonderful doctor who would arrive here would help with that. Opening a new tab, he booked the nearest hangar for a day.
"If you want to be a good doctor, you have to study it your whole life."
So her mother told little Pola. Esta Carrada owned a large clinic for pets on the upper levels of Coruscant. Even as a child, the girl helped her mother care for her patients, from ordinary felinks to animals of the most exotic species. Of course, Esta dreamed that her daughter, after receiving an education, would eventually take her place. After all, Pola was always an obedient daughter and a model girl. But she always supported her daughter in her hobbies. Wants to draw? The teacher is already waiting for her in the studio! The actress client said that the little one would become a ballerina? And Esta was already accompanying her daughter to a lesson in the Imperial capital, which had suddenly become so.
Pola's family accepted the establishment of the New Order with hope. It was the hope of many people tired of the Republic's corrupt inability to finally end the war and bring order to the Galaxy. Especially since Pola's father, military engineer Gilat Carrada, was offered some kind of secret job. Esta didn't go into details.
And Pola didn't feel any changes at all.
Years flew by quickly. She was already doing well in her mother's clinic with examinations and injections. And no one, in general, doubted what profession Pola would choose when she grew up, although she still practiced dancing, her room was littered with watercolors, and she raced on a speeder like crazy.
And then one of her young racing companions died. He faded slowly and quietly. And Pola, biting her lips, understood that she could do nothing to change it. It was terrifying to feel helpless when he was dying. Your childhood friend.
Yes, everyone knew she would be a doctor. Few knew – what kind. But no one expected her to enroll in the Imperial Military Medical Academy, to be honest... Her father tried to talk to her "heart to heart," her mother clutched her heart, blackmailing her with a heart attack, but this kind and gentle girl showed such firmness that her parents backed down.
And then the cadet days began. Discipline. Barracks. The deafening voice of the mighty Sheva Bear, a sergeant who would scold her for any little thing... Lectures, practicals, anatomical museums were replaced by shooting, physical training, hospital ships, laboratories, and then independent work with a huge amount of information. Cadet Carrada studied diligently and thoughtfully, learning not to rely solely on technical achievements. In field conditions, the ability to do everything herself, relying on her knowledge and experience, was valuable. In this, she undoubtedly succeeded. And then her studies ended.
The Imperial uniform fit her slender figure well, her heavy hair was gathered in a strict bun, and in her large gray eyes – expectation. "Lieutenant of the Imperial Medical Service Pola Carrada is assigned..."
She froze, standing at attention, trying not to miss her assignment – a new life awaited her, for which she had been preparing all this time... She felt like she was at a Cosmodrome, before a ship's launch... To serve the Empire, to save and heal its soldiers... No – just lives...
"Sir, yes, sir!" it burst clearly and loudly from her chest. Sergeant Bear would have appreciated it...
That's it. A freshly baked lieutenant of the Imperial Medical Service. Not the girl who raced speeders and performed risky stunts and artistic creations – not only on flimsies, and not only with a brush and stylus. Not the one who didn't miss a single exhibition in East Minor. Especially – one young artist, who was later killed by pirates...
And this deep, hidden pain would remain within her... But she would have to be ready for other deaths, suffering, blood, and grief. War is war. And she is a surgeon in it. Field.
And fate had already mapped out her life for a couple of years ahead... Everything would be there...
After one of the Imperial troop operations in the Outer Rim, she had to treat a rebel, a prisoner. A deep burn wound from a blaster shot. Nothing special. Except for the abnormally fast healing of the wound and unfamiliar microorganisms in the blood formula. While Pola was trying to figure out what it was, the unknown with the strange blood formula somehow managed to escape. Unfortunately, the top brass of the Empire were interested in the rebel. And the gears of the Imperial Security Bureau, grinding the fates of those who had any relation to the rebel, rolled over the doctor as well. Pola had to get acquainted with the interrogation procedure, which included a torture droid and "truth serum." She was outraged not so much by the physical pain as by the monstrous injustice shown towards her. But the flywheel had been set in motion, and it was impossible to stop it.
So, one fine morning, she woke up in the medical block of the Imperial detention center, not believing that this was happening to her in reality. Hoping for objectivity in the investigation turned out to be a hopeless дело. And she, apart from the war, had not seen anything else in her life...
Therefore, when a prisoner riot began in the detention center, Lieutenant Carrada realized that this was her chance. And Pola did everything to use it. She deceived, simulated convulsions, managed to inject the attendant with a neuroleptic and a muscle relaxant intended for the prisoner. Danger and hope sometimes mobilize such strength and character qualities in a person that they do not suspect in themselves. She changed into the attendant's clothes, took her card, credit chips, and weapon, left her on her bed, and slipped out of the block. No one paid attention to the girl in the attendant's clothes during the general commotion, screams, and shots. She managed to get out of the detention center. That very lucky chance that happens once in a hundred thousand. Or maybe even rarer...
She got lost in the crowd, began buying things one by one in cheap, crowded shops, gradually changing in the ladies' rooms... But in the town itself, whose territory was patrolled by Imperials, she could not stay without documents. The woman, dressed like all the villagers in rough, almost homespun clothes, with a head covering that hid her hair and half her face, walked away along deserted roads, at night, when no one could see her.
One day, she came across a camp of refugee settlers. And Pola stayed with them. An epidemic raged on the planet, killing people; aliens had immunity to it. After a few days, it became clear that not everyone would be lucky enough to find a new home. Signs of illness first appeared in an elderly couple, and then in a woman slightly older than Pola, whom everyone called Eny. One day, Carrada woke up and found that everyone else had left, leaving them alone. She was also considered infected because she had cared for the sick. All the medications she could find in the attendant's safe, everything that could somehow help – had been used. But for effective treatment, completely different ones were needed... Pola didn't have them. And she couldn't help them. The old people faded quietly, almost simultaneously, without regaining consciousness. And the woman fought desperately against death, thrashing in Pola's arms in a fever, calling someone, falling into unconsciousness, and looking at Pola with clear, otherworldly eyes...
There was a funeral pyre, in which not only those who died of illness burned, but also Pola's entire former life... Dust to dust... So be it. Pola Carrada disappeared, evaporated, Pola Carrada was no more. But Eny Wey – continued to live.
The transport to Nar Shaddaa rose on repulsors into the black sky and melted among the stars. No one recognized Pola in the thin settler with bitter eyes, staring blankly through the transparisteel. But it was no longer her, but Eny. Eny, who had to settle on Smuggler's Moon, learn to survive, learn not to suffocate in this atmosphere, learn to live without sunlight and stars, without trust, without warmth, without hope. To try not to become calloused in soul and to remain human. And to work, to work, to work... To fall asleep, barely touching the pillow. To not remember that somewhere on Coruscant she was called Pola. And she had parents and friends.
...A medic on Nar Shaddaa awaits patients and illnesses, fractures, operations, childbirth, tracheotomy, blaster wounds, cold weapon wounds, knocked-out eyes, fangs... One day she met Orriel Hespe, a local doctor. She worked for him... Illnesses, blaster wounds, wounds from drunken brawls, wounds from mafia showdowns, illnesses, illnesses, cardiac arrest due to overdose, amputation, operations... She became Orri's partner. Illnesses, illnesses, operations, blaster wounds, blaster wounds, blaster wounds, intoxication, poisoning, overdose, wounds, operations, operations, illnesses, illnesses, illnesses, wounds... A gift from a crime boss – a DL-44 blaster and an offer to become... Politely declined.
Operations... Wounds...
"Without sunlight... Without hope..."
On this day, the sunlight could only be called light conditionally, but that desert street would later be remembered by her as bathed in bright sunlight... She left her patient's apartment, somewhere on the middle levels of Nar Shaddaa, and turned the corner.
The way back was not easy for the ex-SIB agent. The dirty air seemed to contain no oxygen at all. Her exhausted lungs refused to breathe it.
"It's autumn soon on Dantooine..."
She couldn't go back there anymore. Another step hurled her towards the soiled plastocrete road. Tardi managed to put his hands out, the fall cost him scraped palms. With difficulty, he got up, sat down, leaned against the wall, and closed his eyes. Cold concrete under his head... If you imagine it's a boulder...