[Republic Commando] - 03(150)

The droid digested the code and when she withdrew the datapad, the text SKIRATA, FI: LEVEL 96, WARD 5, BAY A/4 appeared on the screen. So Fi wasn’t a number any longer, but a man with an inevitable surname. The sensor system took over from the droid, and Besany followed a flow of instructions, from a reminder from the turbolift to ALIGHT HERE to the sensors in the corridors directing her left and right via the datapad. A city-planet of a trillion beings needed medcenters on an industrial scale, but there was something soul crushing about a complex so vast, it needed its own global positioning system. It was no place to be when you were sick, scared, or dying.

But the GPS worked. Besany found herself facing a small room in a side ward with SKIRATA, FI-TEMP ADMIT DNR visible on the viewscreen next to the doors.

They opened as soon as she stepped forward, and there was Fi with a line plugged into the back of his hand, lying on uncreased white pillows with his arms neatly on top of the blankets like a man newly dead awaiting a final visit from the family. The only difference from what she recalled all those years ago was that Fi was wired up to sensors, with his vital signs displayed on a small panel on the wall.

He did look very young indeed. Besany hadn’t been imagining that, and somehow she’d expected to see visible injury even though Ordo had said there was none. It seemed per-verse that Fi could look so perfectly whole and yet be so close to death.

“Fi,” she said. “It’s Besany. Kal sent me to keep an eye on you. Just checking you’re okay.”

She stood there for a while, working out what she was going to say to the administrators, and then the doors opened behind her.

“This is an unauthorized entry,” said the med droid. “Who are you?”

Besany did it more out of habit than intent. She pulled out her Republic ID and shoved it in front of the droid’s photoreceptors, but didn’t put it in the data slot so it could identify her or her department. Something told her she was going to have to bend the rules again, and she didn’t want to be traced. “Government business. What’s happening with this patient?”

“There seems to have been an administrative error, Agent…”

Besany let the pause hang. “What kind? Billing?” It almost always was, and she could fix that. “Notification?”

“Are you from the Department of Defense?” It was all pure reflex now. “Would I discuss it with you if I was? Just update me on this patient. I understand some difficulty arose over treating him here.”

“He can’t stay here.”

“If this is about budget codes, my department will be most displeased.”

“No, we have to terminate the treatment.”

“You’ve got a line of saline in his arm and there’s nothing on the drug chart. You’re not short of beds. What treatment? I don’t see the chief of neurosurgery in here.”

“He’s not a citizen. He’s a clone soldier.”

“I know. And?”

“We have no agreement for long-term care with the Grand Army. In fact, as far as the Republic is concerned this patient doesn’t exist, and as he’s been declared brain-dead by the duty neurosurgical team, we would normally terminate life support, except he’s still breathing, which is highly abnormal.” The droid paused as if to check if Besany was following its train of logic with her inadequate organic brain. “Withdrawal of life support in his case means withdrawal of hydration or feeding, or both.”

“Starving him to death, for us lay-beings.”

“Indeed. This is clearly ethically undesirable, so euthanasia will be administered.”

Besany thought she’d misheard, but she hadn’t. “No,” she said, hearing her voice as if she were standing outside herself. “No, it will not be administered. I’ll get his care authorized. In fact, I’ll get him moved to private care.”

Did I hear that right? Do they really put patients down like that? Like sick pets?

“He’s Grand Army property, so unless you have a Defense requisition, you can’t take possession of him.”

“He’s a human being.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“His name’s Fi. If he hadn’t been engineered and hatched, he’d be about twenty-four years old. He’s a sniper. He’s a trained combat medic. He likes glimmik music. He’s an elite soldier.”

“He’s brain-dead.”

“He’s breathing.”

“I said this was a perplexing case.”

“Well, if you or any of your colleagues want to try eutha-nizing him, or whatever tidy euphemism you have for killing people in their beds, you’ll have to get past me.”