Star Wars®: The Cestus Deception Read online

  Kit canted his head. “And what did you find?”

  “Please,” Lido Shan said, imitating the Chancellor’s tendency for oblique discourse. “In time. Let us begin with an assessment based on its displayed skills.” She paused, gathering herself. “The JK is a Force-sensitive bio-droid of a type previously considered impossible. For much of the last year, they’ve been sold throughout the galaxy. Even at inflated prices, they sell faster than they can be manufactured.”

  “Force-sensitive?” Kit scoffed. “Absurd! Why haven’t we seen these droids before?”

  “Because,” she replied, “they are the most exclusive, expensive personal security droids available.”

  “And exactly what is this cost?” Kit asked.

  “Eighty thousand credits.” Shan gestured, and a hologram maze of droid circuitry blossomed in the air around her. She ran her hands along the internal structure, tracing various features, then took a deep breath.

  “And now,” she said finally, “we come to the heart of the matter. The secret of their success is a unique living circuit design incorporating organics into the core processor, allowing greater empathy with the owners and superior tactical aggression toward intruders.”

  “Living circuits?” Kit asked.

  Lido Shan seemed to match the Nautolan’s ability at unblinking attention, but Obi-Wan watched as a yellowish mucosa filmed her eyes and then swiftly dissolved. “The processor is actually a life-support unit for a creature of unknown origin.”

  The hologram flickered, darkened. A coiled, snakelike, eyeless image appeared. A comparison scale suggested that the creature was the size of Obi-Wan’s clenched fist. “And this gives the droid its special qualities?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lido Shan said. “We believe so. We made a direct request for information from the manufacturers, but they refuse to discuss their secrets.”

  “And this manufacturer is…?”

  “Cestus Cybernetics. Are you familiar with Ord Cestus?”

  Obi-Wan scanned his memory. “The homeworld of Baktoid Armor?”

  “Excellent,” the Supreme Chancellor said.

  Lido Shan nodded. “Our Cestian contacts tell us that the animal is called a dashta eel. This dashta appears to be nonsentient, which in some ways is even more amazing, representing the first nonsentient creature ever found with a profound level of…well, of Force sensitivity.”

  “Dashta eels?” Obi-Wan glanced at Kit, who shook his head.

  “Possibly natives of Cestus’s Dashta Mountain range,” the Chancellor said. “Combined with the JK’s unique armament, they give the droid an anticipatory advantage in combat. We have tested it with a variety of opponents, and you, Master Fisto, are the first to prevail.”

  Kit bowed fractionally, the only sign of his acknowledgment or pleasure.

  “For that reason,” the Chancellor said, “Master Fisto’s thoughts would be invaluable.”

  Kit Fisto pursed his lips for a moment, as if reluctant to give an unconsidered answer. “Life will always have greater Force-harmony than any machine,” he said. “However…”

  However indeed. The Nautolan’s swift, worried glance revealed the rest of his thoughts as clearly as a shout.

  “When did these Jedi Killers first appear on the market?” Kit asked.

  “About a year ago,” Palpatine replied. “Soon after the Clone Wars began. Extensive Trade Federation contracts created a boom on Cestus, which subcontracted for the Baktoid Armor Workshop. After the Battle of Naboo, the Trade Federation distanced itself from the workshop, creating economic chaos. Financially desperate, Cestus turned to the Republic and requested our help. We made a substantial order—” He winced. “—but unfortunately we were spread too thin economically, and payment was not prompt. More chaos resulted. We may have misjudged the importance of this small planet. Lido Shan,” he said. “Speak of the Gabonnas.”

  Lido Shan sighed. “As soon as the war began, we placed certain highly important technical parts on restriction. Among these were Gabonna memory crystals, used by Ord Cestus in the manufacture of high-end Cesta security droids, its most famous nonmilitary product prior to the introduction of the JK line.”

  “And how did that lead to the current situation?” Obi-Wan asked.

  “With the restrictions,” Shan said, “Cestus’s rather delicate economic balance shifted to the negative. Gabonnas are the only memory crystals fast enough to power a class five personal security droid.” She said this flatly, perhaps supposing it to be common knowledge. “Most battle droids are class four, and can run on less extreme hardware.”

  The Chancellor shook his graying head. “Cestus was…unlucky, and perhaps foolish to place so many of its cocoons in one hutch.”

  “I see,” Obi-Wan said.

  Kit Fisto spoke for both of them. “So…the situation is quite unstable. Cestus no longer trusts us.”

  The Chancellor nodded. “You are doubly tasked, my Jedi friends. I have consulted with the Senate and the Jedi Council and we agree that you are to contact the Cestian Regent, one G’Mai Duris. Regain her trust by taking any necessary steps to preserve their existing social order. We must bring them back into the fold and stem the flow of these obscene Jedi Killers.” His mouth twisted, as if merely speaking those last words left a bad taste.

  “So,” Obi-Wan said, attempting to mentally reconstruct the time line. “To the Cestians, the Republic has twice caused economic chaos. I assume they appealed to the Trade Council?”

  “Indeed, and we tried to reach a compromise, even offering another, more lucrative military contract.”

  “And?” Kit asked.

  “Negotiations collapsed.”

  “Because?”

  “We were told that payment would have to be in advance.” The Chancellor’s face grew long. “This we cannot do on a contract of such magnitude.”

  “Perhaps it is merely my ignorance of commerce,” Kit growled, “but surely the Cestians know they flirt with disaster. How can the sale of a few thousand droids be worth such risk?” He leaned forward, his dark eyes swirling with intensity. “Explain.”

  Lido Shan closed her own eyes for a moment, and then spoke. “The JKs themselves represent only a fraction of Cestus’s total economic picture. But they’ve become fashionable, high-status objects, increasing the value of their entire product line.”

  “Of course, there are additional problems,” Palpatine admitted. “The lower-class population, which of course constitutes ninety-five percent of Cestus, is descended from…how do I say this delicately?” He pondered, and then abandoned the effort to be politically correct. “They are descended from uncivilized aboriginals and criminals, and inherited their forebears’ unfortunate antisocial tendencies. The wealthiest families, and duly elected government, might well be thrown into turmoil and collapse if a proper solution is not found.”

  Obi-Wan nodded to himself, thinking that there was much left unsaid here. “Why is the situation so severe?”

  “Because Cestus is a relatively barren world, which cannot support its current population without importing soil nutrients, food, medicines, and supplies. Every drop of water consumed by an offworlder must be carefully processed.”

  “I see.”

  “So. The first JKs appeared on the market, priced at a premium. This was noted, but was hardly something to be alarmed by. And then a second piece of intelligence reached us.”

  “That being?” Kit asked.

  “That the Confederacy had made an offer to buy thousands of these security droids. Perhaps tens of thousands.”

  Obi-Wan was stunned. “Has Count Dooku access to such wealth?”

  “Apparently,” Palpatine said with obvious regret.

  Kit Fisto’s black eyes narrowed. “I’d assumed that such bioconstructs could not be mass-produced.”

  “We’d made that assumption as well, Master Fisto. Apparently, we were wrong. We don’t know how, but we know why.”

  “They will be used as battle droids,” Ki
t said.

  Battle droids. Obi-Wan winced. “How can this be allowed? Certainly selling military ordnance to the Separatists is forbidden.”

  “Yes,” Lido Shan said. “But there are no laws against selling security droids to individual planets in the Confederacy, which is, technically speaking, all Cestus is actually doing. It’s irrelevant that the JKs can be converted into lethal implements merely by substituting memory crystals.”

  Obi-Wan hoped that his face concealed his thoughts, because his most primary emotion was dismay. The idea of bio-droids being converted to death machines was alarming. Such devices might even nullify the slight precognitive advantage enjoyed by Jedi in combat.

  It could not be allowed.

  “We’ve learned that Count Dooku offered to supply Cestus with its own Gabonnas, allowing the assembly lines to resume production. He also offered to supply technology allowing Cestus to streamline and increase production of droids and dashta eels.”

  “Cloning?”

  “Yes. The rumors suggest superiority to Kaminoan technology. Techniques that create endless colonies of living neural tissue, allowing their factories to production-line a process that was once quite exclusive and expensive.”

  “Those who place profit above freedom,” Kit said, “generally end with neither.” He paused, sensor tendrils waving gently. Perhaps, like Obi-Wan, he envisioned a battle against thousands of machines, each as dangerous as the metal opponent battled on the sands of T’Chuk coliseum. A terrifying wave of precognitive juggernauts.

  The Chancellor seemed encouraged that they so swiftly grasped the situation. Indeed, to Obi-Wan’s way of thinking, it was the Chancellor himself who barely understood the difficulties ahead. Wise in politics he might be, but Palpatine was still a novice in the ways of the Force.

  Obi-Wan found himself thinking aloud. “It might take a special decree to deny Cestus the right to manufacture and sell these droids.”

  “And meanwhile,” Kit said, “the galaxy waits, and watches.”

  “Indeed,” the Chancellor said. The light from the overhead window divided his face. “If the Trade Council dominates precious little Cestus, we will seem like bullying thugs. Before things deteriorate to that level, I, the Senate, and the Jedi Council insist we try diplomacy.”

  “With a lightsaber?” Kit asked.

  The palest of smiles crossed the Chancellor’s face. “Hopefully, it won’t come to that. My friends, you will travel to Ord Cestus and begin formal discussions. But the negotiations cover your other purpose: to convince Cestus, and through them the other interested star systems, that Count Dooku is too dangerous to deal with.”

  “And our resources, sir?” Kit asked.

  And now, finally, the Chancellor’s smile grew certain and strong. “The best of the best.”

  4

  Three hundred kilometers below, the ocean was quiet. From this peaceful vantage point, one would never guess that within those watery depths courageous soldiers were fighting, striving, slaying. Dying.

  A steady stream of single-person capsules erupted from the sides of the troop transport ships, blazing their fiery trails down through the atmosphere. Within the transports, corridors surged with unending streams of uniformed troopers. The hallways buzzed with activity, like blood vessels bursting with living cells. The troopers wore not blast armor but flexible black depthsuits. They ran in perfect order and rhythm, knees high and heads erect, heading toward their rendezvous with danger, perhaps death. Each stood exactly1.78 meters in height, with short black hair and piercing brown eyes. Their skin was pale bronze, with darker variations among those who had spent more time in the sun. Every face was identical, heavy eyebrows and blunt noses prominent above strong narrow mouths.

  Clone troopers, every one.

  A few were not common troopers, although at the moment few outsiders could have told them apart. These were the Advance Recon Commandos. Representing a tiny fraction of the total clones grown in the Kamino cloning labs, the ARC troopers were the deadliest soldiers ever created.

  Contrary to popular belief, even a standard trooper was not merely a mindless shock troop or laser cannon fodder. Trained in a wide spectrum of general military disciplines ranging from hand-to-hand combat to emergency medical techniques, they were also graded from basic soldier to commander based upon field performance. Theoretically, all troopers were equal, but experience and tiny variations in initial cloning conditions inevitably made some more equal than others.

  Within one of those ships, the Nexu, ran a man whose armor sported the blue captain’s color. His helmet and neck chip designated him A-98, known as Nate to his cohort. Although in other times and places he had led his brothers into combat, now he was merely one of identical thousands trotting to their destiny.

  The next clone in line locked himself into a cylindrical drop capsule, trusting Nate to do a spec check on the external monitors. Nate went through a mental list as familiar to him as the pattern of creases on his hard right hand. With a brisk, flat slap of that callused palm on its outer wall, he pronounced the capsule sound and secure. Through the heat and shock-resistant plate he could see his brother’s eyes. His own eyes, reflected back to him.

  With a bump and a chunk, the eyes retreated as the capsule sank into the wall, joining the conveyer belt.

  He turned, nodded at the next trooper in line, and locked himself into a tube. The man checked Nate’s settings, as Nate had a moment before for the man ahead of him. He heard the bang-slap against the capsule wall. A comforting sound. To blazes with all the flashing lights: there was nothing more reassuring than another trooper’s approval.

  The capsule, used on numerous previous drops, stank of sweat—and not his own, although the previous occupant had been a genetic twin. Nate detected traces of antiviral medications designed for functioning in an alien environment. He inhaled deeply, one part of his mind completely on autopilot as the rest of him went through his metal coffin’s checklist.

  That smell. Sweet, sharp, and organic. Triptophagea, he figured. Triptophagea was a drug used to prevent fever on half a dozen planets he could name offhand. Only one of them was the site of recently hot action, and he figured that that meant the previous occupant had been on Cortao within the last month.

  On a deeper level, he was aware that those thoughts were merely distractions from the drop’s danger. Risk was always a factor. Fear was a soldier’s constant companion. No dishonor in that: what a man felt mattered not at all. What he did meant everything. He was one of the few ARC troopers in all the galaxy, and as far as Nate was concerned, there was no better existence.

  The capsule juddered as it began to move down the transport line. The speaker in his helmet burped to life. “This is control to Trooper A-Nine-Eight. Estimated time of ejection one minute twenty-four seconds.”

  “One minute and twenty-four seconds,” Nate repeated, and clenched his fist in invisible salute. “One hundred percent,” he said, ARC-speak for perfect.

  One minute twenty. About eighty heartbeats, long enough for a thousand ugly thoughts to worm their way into an unguarded mind. He’d learned a hundred ways to deal with them, none more powerful than the personal ritual of his cohort meditation. He submerged in its comforting depths, shifting mental swatches of color and shape as he had since childhood, taking solace in the simplicity and beauty of each geometric pattern. He listened to his pulse as his heart slowed to forty beats per minute in response. Chanted the fourteen words engraved on his soul: It’s not what a man fights with, it’s what he fights for that counts.

  Nate fought for the honor of the Grand Army of the Republic, and to him, that obligation was a thing of beauty.

  Some thought clones could not appreciate beauty, but they were wrong. Beauty was efficiency and functionality. Beauty was purpose and a lack of waste.

  Most equated beauty with effeminacy or lack of utility.

  Troopers knew better.

  Bump. Another capsule gone. He lurched left as the capsule shift
ed right, rattling closer to the end of the line.

  Bump.

  “Fifty seconds,” control warned.

  BUMP. The shuddering became a hollow swooshing sound, felt in the bones more than heard in the ears. The capsule was moving along more smoothly now, and A-98 took the time to check his settings. There followed a moment of piercing silence. He held his breath, quieting his nerves, finding the place within himself that needed this, that lived for the moment to come.

  Then thought ceased as his capsule was spewed from the side of the ship toward the ocean below. Acceleration slammed him back against the capsule walls.

  Nate had time to check his visuals. This model was better than his previous capsule, which had kept him in darkness for most of the ride. This one had viewscreens: one giving a view from the capsule’s outer skin, the other on some kind of main feed from the Nexu, giving an entirely different perspective.

  From the perspective of the drop capsule the Nexu was a gigantic, angular flat metal shape, bristling with weapons and antennae, capable of carrying twenty thousand troops or megatons of weapons and supplies. Function at its finest.

  Then that view was lost, and A-98 was plunging down into Vandor-3’s outer atmosphere.

  The capsule shuddered as friction warmed its skin to two thousand degrees, heat that would have fried him in an instant if not for the thermoenergetic force screen that sucked heat into the capsule batteries.

  Nate checked his equipment as he plummeted toward the dark, churning ocean below. Sensors related the temperature, position, and acceleration. Tiny steering repulsors used the capsule’s stored energy to keep him on target.

  Everything was fine. Nothing to be done now. Nothing but to fall, and fight, and win. Or die.

  His stomach rocked with the sudden vibration as his capsule began to decelerate, the repulsors blasting as sensors warned that they had reached critical distance above the swelling waves.

  Within thirty seconds the capsule jolted again as he struck water. The capsule lights switched from yellow-orange to red emergency as some of the lesser systems began to fritz. Zero perspiration: glitches like that were to be expected. The miracle would have been if all systems had remained intact through the entire descent.