Chapter 6
After a few tense
minutes of searching, (Fidel was insistent—people respond quickly
when one points a blaster at them) Fidel managed to find a medic who
had a private business and was fairly cheap (I wonder why). "What
can I do for you, Sir? You do not appear to need medical attention…"
The elderly medic's face turned to utter shock when he saw who
Fidel carried in. "I'm not the one that needs it." Di'kut. Fidel said, mentally thinking the Mandalorian curse. "B-Boba
Fett! I-we-I… Um, I'm not going operate on him! Or stick him in
a bacta tank for that matter! He's a bounty hunter! He's
Boba Fett!" No, Duh. Fidel felt the strong urge to roll his eyes.
Talk about pointing out the obvious… "Do you know what could
happen to me if people found out that Boba Fett was
here! I could be killed! No no no, I can't take care of
him." Fidel was starting to get anxious. Whatever Boba Fett was, he
was not invincible. "Sir, I'll pay the cost—plus more to
make sure you don't, er, let the proverbial felinx out of the bag,
concerning who you are taking care of right now." The medic
squinted up at him. "How much more you talkin'?"
Fidel grumbled inwardly
before naming his sum. The medic scratched his nearly bald head. "I
dunno, Son. That ain't exactly a fortune. But since it's more
than I'd normally get, I'll help you out this time 'round."
Oh, you're too kind. Helping Fidel carry Fett, they
carefully placed the bounty hunter on an operating table before the
medic started to carefully cut away the fabric and peel away the
armor. With years of experience showing, the medic began gently
prodding the wound, trying to get a ballpark figure about how much
damage had been done. "How bad is it?" The medic continued his
evaluation while answering. "Well the blaster bolt entered her, in
the left part of his torso-"the medic lightly drew his hand over
Boba Fett's stomach, simulating the bolt's path, "cracked two
ribs and, I think, punctured his lung." Fidel fought the bile that
was starting its inexorable climb up his throat. "What does that
mean?" he asked uncomfortably. Medicine was definitely not
his forte. The medic looked up from Boba Fett's heaving form.
"Bacta submersion immediately. If he's not dunked soon,
he'll cross to 'the other side' if you get my meaning." Fidel
nodded. "Alright, go ahead. I'll pay you once he's in, and then
leave…" The medic continued to look at him. "Wh-what! You're
the medic! I'm only paying!"
"Listen, Young One,"
Young One! Who did this guy think he was? "I don't want
to assume any responsibility for the condition Mr. Fett finds himself
in when he wakes up, if you get my drift." Fidel did indeed 'get
his drift'. He had been contemplating on how to solve this very
predicament. "Uh, can't you just, you know, dunk him fully
clothed?"
"Oh yes, Son, we can!
But what about his helmet?" The medic tapped his finger to his
head. "I am not going to be the recipient of his wrath when
he comes to!" Oh yes be afraid, be very afraid! Fidel
thought dryly. "But," the medic began thoughtfully, "I could
submerge him from the waist down only." The medic nodded
firmly. "Yep, that'll work." The old geezer smiled toothily at
him. "Alright. Thanks, Sir. Um, here are the credits." Fidel
deposited the payment into the medic's greedy hands. "Thanks
again, Sir."
"No problem."