Chapter 22 : The Medical Bill
The illegal clinic smells like bacta and desperation. Industrial-grade antiseptic that burns nostrils but doesn't quite mask underlying scent of blood and fear. I'm sitting on examination table, ribs wrapped in compression bandages, breathing shallow to avoid pain that medication only dulls.
Three days since Black Sun ambush. Mobility is returning but everything hurts. The Bith doctor recommended two weeks recovery. I have maybe three days before next crisis forces movement.
R4 hovers near the window, scanning approaches obsessively. "Master should rest. Neural patterns indicate inadequate sleep. Rib healing compromised by stress."
"I'll rest when I'm dead."
"Probability of that outcome: 15.3%. Master's morbid humor noted."
The clinic door opens. Clone trooper enters—no armor, civilian clothes, but the face is unmistakable. Same features as millions of brothers. But this one has identifier: exhaustion carved into features that shouldn't age this fast, malnourishment evident despite genetic engineering for peak performance.
The Appraisal function triggers:
[ CT-6477 "PATCH" - CLONE MEDIC ]
[ SERVICE RECORD: 4 YEARS ACTIVE COMBAT ]
[ STRESS LEVEL: EXTREME ]
[ NUTRITIONAL STATUS: SEVERE DEFICIENCY ]
[ EMOTIONAL STATE: DESPERATE, BORDERLINE COLLAPSE ]
[ ASSESSMENT: GENUINE MEDICAL EMERGENCY, NO DECEPTION ]
"Kade Varro." His voice cracks slightly. "Marker said you might help. Said you supply medical equipment."
"Clone network spreading faster than expected. Marker talked."
"I'm weapons dealer primarily."
"I know. But you have access to supplies we can't get." He moves closer—not threatening, just exhausted. "My company just rotated back from Outer Rim. Felucia campaign. Fifty-three wounded. Twenty-three critical. Republic command prioritizes bacta for 'high-value personnel.'" The bitterness in those words could corrode durasteel. "Jedi, officers, anyone with rank. Standard clones get basic field medicine and prayers."
"The Republic doesn't prioritize its own soldiers?"
Patch laughs—hollow, broken sound. "We're not soldiers to them. We're equipment. Manufactured assets. They grow us in tubes, train us to fight, send us to die with gear that fails and medicine that's insufficient." He pulls out credit chip. "Fifty of us pooled everything. Three thousand credits. Our entire savings. That's six months of pay we're not spending on food or leave or anything except trying to save our brothers."
The chip sits on the examination table between us. Three thousand credits representing months of sacrifice from soldiers bred for war and abandoned by creators.
I run calculations automatically. Medical grade bacta: 2,500 credits per industrial container. Surgical scanners: 3,000 credits. Trauma tools: 2,500 credits. Total market value: 8,000 credits minimum for adequate treatment.
Patch's 3,000 isn't enough. Not remotely.
The System helpfully provides analysis:
[ MEDICAL SUPPLY REQUEST ]
[ ADEQUATE TREATMENT COST: 8000 CREDITS ]
[ CLIENT PAYMENT AVAILABLE: 3000 CREDITS ]
[ DISCOUNT: 62.5% BELOW MARKET VALUE ]
[ CHARITY TAX: 5000 CREDITS (50% OF DISCOUNT + PENALTY) ]
[ SERVICE FEE: 300 CREDITS ]
[ TOTAL COST TO SELLER: 10300 CREDITS TO PROVIDE ]
[ NET LOSS: 7300 CREDITS ]
Selling at his price would cost me seven thousand credits. Not break even. Not small profit. Actual loss that I'd absorb personally.
"Can't afford altruism. Business is business. Even with desperate soldiers."
But Patch is still talking, words tumbling out with desperate energy: "I know it's not enough. I know market value is higher. But we can't get proper medical supplies through Republic channels. Command says equipment failure is 'acceptable loss projection.' They're letting our brothers die because bacta costs money and we're replaceable."
"How many need treatment?"
"Twenty-three critical. Another thirty with serious injuries that will become critical without intervention." His voice cracks completely. "We're not asking for charity. We'll work off debt. Extra shifts. Hazard missions. Whatever you need. Just help us save them."
The guilt from Marker's sale returns stronger. These are soldiers serving corrupt system that treats them as disposable property. They fight and bleed and die for Republic that can't be bothered to provide adequate medical care.
And I'm about to exploit that abandonment for profit.
"I can provide lower-grade equipment for three thousand credits. Not premium quality—not what you need for all twenty-three—but enough to treat maybe eight. Ten if you're careful."
Patch's face crumbles. Hope dying in real time. "Only eight?"
"Market value for adequate supplies is eight thousand minimum. Your payment covers basic equipment only. Lower-grade bacta, standard scanners, minimal surgical tools."
"What about the other fifteen brothers?"
"They'll need additional resources I can't provide at that price point."
He stares at the credit chip. Months of sacrifice from fifty soldiers. "This is everything we have. If I tell them it only saves eight... they'll understand. But I'll have to choose which brothers live and which die from treatable injuries."
The statement hits harder than Black Sun blaster fire. He's a medic. His job is saving lives. Now he has to decide which brothers are worth saving with limited resources while others die slowly from wounds Republic won't treat.
"This is what the system does. This is the cost of Republic's priorities."
But acknowledging doesn't change math. I can't afford seven-thousand-credit loss. The System's charity tax would punish me brutally for attempting altruism. Even wanting to help costs too much.
"I'm sorry. That's what I can offer."
Patch takes the credit chip. His hands shake—exhaustion, malnutrition, stress. "We're not people to them. We're equipment with serial numbers. Manufactured property that talks. They grow us in tubes on Kamino, train us for ten years accelerated growth, deploy us at age ten chronologically but physically twenty. We serve, we fight, we die. And when we're wounded, they calculate whether bacta costs more than growing replacements."
He transfers the credits. "Thank you for helping even eight. That's eight brothers who won't die alone in medbay while Republic command debates equipment allocation."
The transaction completes. Three thousand credits received. I purchase lower-grade medical supplies from System catalog—enough to treat eight critically wounded, maybe ten with careful rationing.
[ MEDICAL SUPPLIES ACQUIRED ]
[ COST: 2400 CREDITS ]
[ SERVICE FEE: 300 CREDITS ]
[ NET PROFIT: 300 CREDITS ]
[ CURRENT BALANCE: 571595 CREDITS ]
[ SALES COMPLETED: 11 ]
Three hundred credits profit. I made money selling desperate soldiers minimal equipment while their brothers die from treatable wounds. The math is clean. The morality is poison.
I arrange delivery coordinates. Patch leaves with supplies and gratitude that cuts deeper than any guilt I've felt since transmigration.
"You're helping us when our own Republic won't. That means something."
The door closes. I'm alone with R4 and the knowledge that I just exploited Republic's abandonment of clone soldiers for three hundred credits profit.
The droid is silent for ninety seconds. Then: "Master charged full price to desperate soldiers serving corrupt government. Alternative: accept loss to save additional lives. Master chose profit."
"I can't afford seven-thousand-credit charity. The System penalizes altruism."
"Accurate. However, master could have accepted smaller profit margin. Could have provided better equipment for same price by reducing markup. Chose not to."
"Business is business."
"Master repeats this phrase frequently. Psychological defense mechanism. Allows master to justify profitable exploitation through linguistic shorthand. Pattern noted: phrase usage correlates with magnitude of moral compromise."
I want to argue. Want to explain that helping eight is better than helping zero. That I can't save everyone. That running a business means making hard choices about who gets resources.
But the rationalizations feel transparent. I charged full price because the System's penalties made charity too expensive. Because three hundred credits profit matters more than fifteen soldiers dying slowly in Republic medbays.
That night, encrypted messages arrive from five different clone networks. Word spreads faster than Security investigations. Desperate soldiers pooling meager savings, begging for medical supplies their own government won't provide.
Each message represents same calculation. Same impossible choice between profit and altruism that's not really altruism because I can't afford the costs.
R4 projects data: "Five medical requests. Total potential revenue: 14,000 credits. Total soldiers treatable at quoted prices: approximately 35. Total soldiers who will die without treatment: approximately 110. Master's choice: accept orders or refuse market."
"Accept all orders."
"Command acknowledged. Master should note: this establishes precedent. Clone networks will view master as reliable supplier. Requests will increase exponentially. Master is building business model on Republic's abandonment of engineered soldiers."
The analysis is accurate and damning. I'm not helping clones out of compassion. I'm exploiting systematic abuse for steady revenue stream. Hundreds of soldiers will die while I profit from selling inadequate supplies to the survivors.
"When did I become person who does this without hesitation?"
The answer is uncomfortable: gradually. One compromise at a time. Grax to Wrynn to Mira to Qorzo to Marker to Patch. Each transaction eroding boundaries until exploitation became business model and guilt became background noise easily ignored.
I confirm all five orders. Medical supplies to desperate soldiers. Profit margins maintained. Casualties accumulating.
The System processes transactions efficiently:
[ FIVE MEDICAL ORDERS CONFIRMED ]
[ ESTIMATED REVENUE: 14000 CREDITS ]
[ ESTIMATED TREATABLE CASUALTIES: 35 ]
[ ESTIMATED UNTREATABLE CASUALTIES: 110 ]
[ BUSINESS MODEL: HUMANITARIAN CRISIS EXPLOITATION ]
That designation—"humanitarian crisis exploitation"—appears in my mental spreadsheet without prompting. Clinical language for profiting from Republic's systematic mistreatment of manufactured soldiers.
I stare at it, waiting for horror. For the guilt that made me vomit after Wrynn's sale. For some proof I'm still human under the merchant exterior.
Nothing comes. Just hollow acceptance that this is who I am now. The person who catalogs suffering in revenue projections and casualty counts.
R4's photoreceptor dims. "Master's psychological state: concerning. Emotional response to exploitation: minimal. Pattern suggests complete moral boundary dissolution. Recommendation: psychiatric evaluation or career change."
"Too late for either."
"Acknowledged. Master's self-awareness does not constitute improvement. Observation: master knows precisely what master has become. Continues regardless. Assessment: master has accepted transformation from reluctant dealer to systematic profiteer."
The droid's analysis is too accurate. I know exactly what I'm doing. Know the costs. Know the casualties. Continue anyway because forward momentum is all that remains.
My ribs ache despite medication. The pain is manageable but persistent—physical reminder of Black Sun ambush, of combat inadequacy, of accumulating enemies who want me dead.
Patch's words echo: "We're not people to them. We're equipment with serial numbers."
The clones serve Republic that views them as disposable property. I profit from that disposal by selling inadequate supplies at full markup while soldiers die from treatable wounds.
"I'm part of the system now. Another cog in machinery grinding soldiers to dust."
The realization should devastate. Instead just feels inevitable. One more consequence of choices made since waking in blood-soaked alley with floating blue screens promising profit through violence.
I process the medical orders methodically. Each one represents soldiers pooling savings for equipment that won't save everyone. Each one represents me calculating profit margins while brothers die in medbays.
Business is business. Even when business means exploiting Republic's abandonment of engineered soldiers bred for war and discarded when wounded.
Especially when it means that.
Because the alternative—accepting losses to save more lives—costs too much. The System penalizes charity. The market rewards exploitation. And I've learned to optimize for profit regardless of consequences.
Morning brings news: three clone units deployed to Outer Rim campaigns. Heavy casualties expected. Medical supplies already insufficient before battles begin. Future orders guaranteed as wounded accumulate.
R4 projects revenue estimates: "If clone medical network scales as projected: 40,000-60,000 credits monthly recurring revenue from humanitarian crisis exploitation. Master's Store Level 2 progress accelerated by systematic profiteering from Republic military failures."
The numbers look good. Clean. They don't show the soldiers bleeding out in medbays. Don't show Patch choosing which eight brothers live while fifteen die. Don't show the accumulating debt I'm building in currency that can't be measured in credits.
I confirm readiness to process incoming orders. Business is business. Forward is the only direction that makes sense.
Even when forward leads deeper into systematic exploitation of suffering I'm helping perpetuate.
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