The Cestus Deception Page 11

  doubt many of them were descendants of the original prisoners.

  The farmers and miners relaxed noticeably when Sheeka appeared,

  and she waved to them. She was known here. Good. That would

  make things far simpler than if they had to establish either trust or

  dominance.

  "Greetings to all of you," she said to them. "I'm glad you showed

  up, though I can't say I'm sure what this is about. But these are the

  people I told you to expect. I won't vouch for them. Keep your ears

  and eyes open, and make up your own minds."

  They nodded, and Nate had to respect her speech: Tull might be

  willing to bring them here, but even whatever leverage the Republic

  had upon her could not force her to sell her honor by pretending

  friendship. Good. He liked her more all the time.

  General Fisto stood at the bottom of the ramp and raised his

  hands. His tentacles curled and coiled hypnotically.

  "Miners!" he called. "You harvest ore from the soil. You transport,

  refine, and manufacture. You are this world's heart."

  The faces were doubtful, but intrigued. Nate noted that several of

  the younger ones looked at him as well, studying him as if wishing

  his helmet were transparent.

  "You stir the tides of commerce," the general went on. "It is your

  hands that hold the materials, skills, equipment, and raw material to

  build their luxuries."

  When several of them nodded, he knew General Fisto was speaking

  their language. The only question was whether or not they truly

  cared to hear his words.

  "But despite this fact, how often have you been included in their

  decisions?"

  "Never," someone muttered.

  "How often have you shared in their harvest? Do you grasp that

  their droids are among the galaxy's most prized possessions? There is

  nothing wrong with growing wealthy, but the wealth should be

  shared with those who do the dirtiest, most dangerous work." As he

  proceeded, the emotion in his voice grew more and more pronounced.

  "Your ancestors came here in chains. For all the power you

  wield, you may as well wear them still."

  He had their interest now, but he would need far more to make

  this gambit successful.

  "Even now, your masters court war with the Republic."

  This triggered a series of gasps and ugly murmurs. A few of them

  might have had no love for the Republic—the kind who might automatically

  side with Cestus against the strength of a thousand-ship

  fleet. Others felt no such bravado, and shifted nervously from foot to

  foot, as if fearing they stood in a bantha trap with closing jaws.

  "Why are they doin' that?" an older woman asked. The wind

  stirred the tips of her gray-streaked hair.

  "They sell these deadly droids to the Confederacy. They will be

  modified and used against the Republic." At this, Nate stood just a

  hair taller, and noticed that his brother Forry did as well. Eyes focused

  upon them. What thoughts flitted through their minds? Did

  they regard the troopers as potential enemies? Imagine them dying?

  Or killing? Studying them as potential allies? Wondering what it

  might be like to fight at the side of an ARC trooper? Certainly, some

  here had blood hot enough to crave such an adventure, such a test.

  "In fact, we have information suggesting that they plan to massmarket

  these droids offplanet, once the secret is secured."

  "What? It couldn't happen. The Guides—" a female miner began,

  but then the farmer to Nate's right gave her ribs a painful elbow

  thump, and she fell silent.

  Interesting.

  "Yes," Kit continued, as if he could read both Nate's mind and that

  of the woman who had just spoken. "You have been told that it is impossible

  for more than a few hundred of them to be produced, because

  of the dashta eels."

  The group was even more uncomfortable now, but Nate intuited

  that the problem was multifaceted. Some were afraid, a few outraged,

  and in one . . . two pairs of eyes he saw a skepticism so deep that he

  knew automatically: These know something.

  "But they are willing to gamble with your survival in order to make

  their fortunes."

  "How do you know that?" one young blond-haired man asked.

  "The Five Families live here. You can't sink half a sand-wagon, Nautolan."

  "Yes. They live here, but are not trapped here. Wealth makes many

  things possible. Those owning the designs will grow fat. You must

  ask yourself—would those who already restrict you to a subsistence

  living hesitate to beggar you completely?" An ugly murmur rumbled

  through the crowd. "You tell me: over the last years and decades, have

  they treated you as if your lives, your families, your needs and wants

  are of concern to them?"

  And now there was a wider range of nodding and agreement.

  One X'Ting female, a tuft of red fur vibrant between thorax and

  chin, her body broad with internal egg sac, stepped forward. This was

  rare. Where once millions had swarmed the hives, no more than fifty

  thousand X'Ting remained on the entire planet. She was larger than

  most of the human males, who gave her a wide berth. "What you

  want from us?" Her clumsy speech marked her as a low-caste. Her

  dusky face reddened with emotion, and her secondary arms fidgeted.

  "No more pretty-pretty talk. Heard them before. What you offer us,

  and what you want from us?"

  "I offer you nothing save what every planet in the Republic has

  been promised: a fair voice in the Senate, access to the shared resources

  of a thousand star systems, and our support in forcing your

  government to share the wealth with those who produce it. What I

  ask in return is this: if I prove my point to you, if we can prove that

  your leaders are prepared to sell your birthright, to betray the Republic,

  to leave you drowning in the ash of a war-torn planet while they

  escape to the stars with your children's heritage—if I can prove these

  things to you—"

  General Fisto's unblinking black eyes fixed on several of the young

  males in the group, and a few young females as well. To Nate's pleasure,

  he noted that they drew their shoulders back. They rocked back

  and forth, glancing at each other, as if tempted to step forward even

  now.

  At this cue Nate and Forry doffed their helmets and stood more

  rigidly. Their identical faces always caused a stir: some thought them

  twins; others had heard of the clone army, and just needed to put a

  face to the mental image.

  Sheeka Tull's eyes snapped wide. She stepped backward as if she'd

  been slapped. She looked from Nate to Forry and back again three

  times, and then retreated until he couldn't see her.

  "—that you allow your best and brightest to join us if they so

  choose," the general concluded.

  "That all?" the X'Ting woman asked.

  "That is enough. Do not reject my words out of hand. Let us find

  whatever support there is to be found. We wish nothing that you do

  not want to give."

  The people chattered among themselves, then ventured new questions.

  Na
te guessed that the most important issue was whether or not

  they had an actual choice in this matter. And he silently congratulated

  the general for deliberately—or instinctively—choosing the

  right tactic to appeal to these disenfranchised people. He noted that

  their young men and women were listening most closely, measuring

  General Fisto's words as if they were handfuls of gravel with gems

  possibly hidden in the mix.

  The general promised to keep the farmers posted as to progress,

  and they continued on to the next group. As they returned to the

  ship, Sheeka Tull took the Jedi aside and spoke to him urgently, gesticulating

  at the two clone troopers. Nate couldn't hear the conversation,

  but when it was done she looked a bit shell-shocked. She

  walked past Nate and Forry without looking at them, and took the

  pilot's seat without another word.

  For the rest of the day they followed the same routine. The darkskinned

  woman would introduce them, and General Fisto went into

  his spiel while Nate and Forry stood tall. The general made no direct

  reference to the clone troopers, but he knew they had to be wondering

  if these were the troopers they had heard so much of—and was

  there, possibly, a role for them in the planetary militias currently

  being organized in every corner of the galaxy?

  Nate knew the answer to that question, the same answer that generals

  and conquerors had known since the beginning of civilization:

  there is always room for another willing warrior.

  After the third talk, the Nautolan was engaged by a group of miners

  who seemed entranced by this exotic visitor from the galactic center.

  The general interacted with the group privately, with the result

  that four of them were invited to sup with the hosts and their families.

  A rumbling belly told Nate he'd placed his physical needs on

  hold for too long. Both from habit and because it added to their mystique,

  he and Forry ate apart from the others. A group of the miners'

  children pointed at them and giggled.

  To his surprise Sheeka Tull chose to sit beside him. Nate ate quietly

  for several minutes before he found himself studying the play of

  the dark skin of her neck against the red-and-white stripes of her

  pilot's jacket, and found himself intrigued.

  He decided to try a conversational gambit. "Good meat," he said.

  "What is it?"

  "Not meat," she said. "It's a mushroom bred by the X'Ting, adapted

  for human stomachs. They can make it taste like anything they like."

  He stared at his sandwich. The fungus had striations like meat.

  Tasted like meat. He bet it had a perfect amino acid profile, too. He

  chewed experimentally, and then just relaxed and enjoyed. "Why are

  you here?" he asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You weren't born here," he said.

  "And how do you know that?" She seemed genuinely curious.

  "Your pronunciation is different. You learned Basic after your native

  tongue."

  She laughed, but it was a long, low laugh, without derision. A good

  laugh, he decided. "Where'd you learn to think like that?"

  "Intelligence training. There's more to soldiering than just pulling

  triggers."

  "Now now, don't be so touchy." She grinned.

  He took a deep and satisfying bite of his sandwich. The mushroom

  was spicy and hot, juicy as a Kaminoan fanteel steak. Too often, ARC

  field rations were a flavorless gruel or lump, as if lack of genetic diversity

  justified a lack of savory variation in the mess tent. "So . . .

  how about my answer? How'd you end up here?"

  She leaned her head back against the tree. Her hair was full-bodied,

  but did not fall to her shoulders. It was worn in a short puff, almost

  like a hedge growing from her scalp. "Sometimes I feel like I've been

  everywhere, and done everything," she said.

  There was silence for a minute, and Forry went to fill his mug a

  second time. Nate caught Sheeka looking at him with what he supposed

  was approval, but still as if she had some sort of secret. She

  studied his face almost as if...

  As if...

  He managed to focus his thoughts. "Where's your family?" Why in

  space had he asked that} It was none of his business, and worse, it

  opened the door to potentially embarrassing personal questions.

  "My birth parents?"

  "You're not a clone, are you?" He meant it as a joke.

  Her face hardened. "Yes. I had parents."

  "You lost them." It wasn't a question. Looking down the hill, he

  could see the elders gathered around General Fisto, whose gestures

  were simultaneously measured and sweeping.

  For more than a minute she said nothing, and he hoped his words

  hadn't offended. Then finally, speaking so softly that at first he mistook

  her words for a trick of the wind, she began to speak. "A range

  war on Atrivis-Seven," she said. "It was a bad time." She stared down

  at the dirt. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to know war

  was coming, to feel it raging all around, and not have the skills to lift

  arms and join the fray. He hoped he never found out.

  She went on. "Maybe I was attracted to Ord Cestus because it was

  so . . . isolated. So far from the hub. I guess it wasn't isolated enough.

  I met someone."

  Something in her voice caught his interest, made him look at her

  more carefully. "A man?"

  She shrugged. "It happens," she said. "A miner named Yander."

  "You fell in love?" he asked.

  Her mood lightened. "That's what they call it. You understand

  love?"

  He frowned. What kind of question was that} "Of course," he said,

  and then reconsidered. It was possible, of course, that she meant

  something that he did not include among his own definitions.

  "It wasn't just him," she continued, now locked in her own private

  world of memories. "It was his three children, too. Tarl, Tonote, and

  Mithail. His whole community." She glanced away from him for a second,

  then back again. "I fell in love with all of them. We married. Yander

  and I had four good years together. More than a lot of people get."

  Something caught in her voice, and he cursed himself for invading

  her privacy. Then in the next thought he wondered why she had allowed

  herself to be questioned if the questions so obviously triggered

  pain. Finally, he managed the simple words "I'm sorry."

  "So am I." Sheeka Tull sighed. "So, anyway, I'm raising his kids.

  Never had a lot of family . . . I want to raise the one I have now.

  That's why I'm willing to take the chance to help you guys. Clean up

  my record."

  "What leverage do they have on you?"

  She shook her head. "Maybe when we know each other better."

  When} Not if} Interesting.

  "Does your new family live near here?"

  Again she shifted evasively, and he sensed that he had touched on

  a sensitive topic. "No. Not here. With their aunt and uncle. A fungusfarming

  community. It's just scratch, but we like it."

  "Scratch?"

  "They make enough to feed themselves, and a little to barter, but

  not enough to sell."


  So. She worked to care for her adopted family, who lived with the

  miner's brother and sister. She was reticent to discuss . . . the children?

  Or their location? Hard to say. Interesting.

  As he came out of his thoughts, again he had the sense that she

  was staring at him, and this time he felt uncomfortable. "Why do you

  look at me that way?"

  She shook her head. Then, as if she thought herself the biggest

  fool in the galaxy, she shook with peals of deep, rich laughter. "I suppose

  I keep expecting you to remember me. That's crazy, of course."

  She laughed again, and Nate just felt more confused. "You have to

  pardon me."

  "I don't understand."

  "I suppose I should have told you before. I knew Jango Fett."

  He didn't quite believe what he'd heard. Worse, he wasn't sure how

  to react. "You did?"

  She nodded. "Yes, twenty years ago, in quite another life. Seeing

  you was kind of a shock. When you took those helmets off—wow!"

  Her laugh was throaty and vibrant. "It's him, all right, and just about

  the age he was when we first met."

  Nate's head spun. "I should have expected that, I suppose. Certainly

  some of my brothers have also encountered people who had

  known him . . . I've just never spoken to one."

  "Wow." She scratched in the dirt with her toe, drawing another of

  the little symbols, and then scratching it out again. "Well, wonders

  never cease. How'd this happen? And the other troopers . . . they're

  all little Jangos?" He bristled, and she laid her hand on his arm. "Just

  a joke. You know, joke?"

  Finally he nodded, sensing that she meant no real harm. "The Republic

  called for a clone army," he said, and recited the words that he

  had heard and said a thousand times before. "They needed a perfect

  role model for a fighting man. In all the galaxy they found only one,

  Jango Fett."

  "Oh, he wasn't perfect, but he was a serious chunk." Her smile

  grew more mischievous. "And he's now the father of a whole army of

  bouncing baby clones. What does he think of that?"

  "He's dead."

  The pause that followed might have swallowed a decent-size star

  cruiser.

  "How did it happen?" she whispered. "I supposed I always knew

  that Jango was too intense to last forever. And yet . . . " Her voice

  trailed away.

  "And yet what?" Nate asked.

  "He always seemed invulnerable, like nothing could get to him."