The Cestus Deception Read online

  of planetary Regent was still held by one of royal X'Ting lineage, one

  G'Mai Duris. Was this office elective? Hereditary? Was Duris a figurehead,

  or a genuine power?

  Another reference an hour later caught Obi-Wan's eye: mention of

  a group of guerrilla fighters called Desert Wind. Most of the surface

  farmers were poor, descended from the rank-and-file prisoners after

  their parole. Protesting a century of oppression, Desert Wind had

  sprung up twenty years back and tried to force Cestus's industrial

  rulers, a cabal of wealthy industrialists called the Five Families, to the

  bargaining table.

  Desert Wind had been crushed in the past year, but there were said

  to be a few left, still mounting raids on company caravans.

  The more deeply Obi-Wan and Kit peered, the more the truth of

  power on Cestus, and its delicate relationship with Coruscant,

  evaded them.

  "It's like digging through a sponge reef," the Nautolan snarled

  after eight hours of study. "We'd need a wizard to sort through this

  nonsense."

  "I don't know many wizards," Obi-Wan replied, "but I think a

  good barrister would be invaluable, and I know just the one."

  "Excellent," Kit said. "And another concern. If negotiations go

  poorly, we may wish to . . . pressure this Duris person."

  Obi-Wan flinched. The Nautolan was correct, but Obi-Wan preferred

  caution. "Have you a suggestion?"

  "Yes. You and the barrister deal with the politicians. We have—"

  He searched his screen for the information. "—two contacts on Cestus,

  a human female named Sheeka Tull and an X'Ting named Trillot.

  Between them, we should find the necessary leverage."

  "If they are trustworthy," Obi-Wan offered.

  Kit laughed. "Are you suggesting we can't trust our own people?"

  That question hung in the air, tension increasing every moment.

  Then Obi-Wan laughed. "Of course not."

  "Good," the Nautolan said. "As I was saying, I'll take an ARC and

  a few commandos and recruit native troops for emergency use."

  Obi-Wan grasped the logic instantly. If they brought Desert Wind

  back to life, the regent and these Five Families would be more nervous,

  less secure, possibly more receptive to Republic overtures. It

  wouldn't do to have a trooper's body captured: its genetic signature

  would be evidence of Coruscant's manipulations.

  For hours the two friends pored over the files, discussing possibilities

  and strategies, until they were satisfied that every action and

  counteraction had been considered.

  The rest would have to wait for actual arrival on Cestus.

  7

  Ten hours later A-98 reawakened, his recovery cycle complete.

  Nate glanced at his sleep capsule's heads-up screen, which reminded

  him to report to the op center for orders.

  Thirty seconds was spent in a quick mental survey of his body.

  Another half minute was invested in his morning mental ritual, completing

  the shift from deep sleep to full waking. True enough, in an

  emergency he or any trooper could make that shift in seconds, but he

  enjoyed more leisurely transitions as well.

  Self-inspection complete, he threw off his blanket and swung his

  feet down to the floor. After visiting the 'fresher, washing his face and

  brushing his teeth at the communal sink, he packed his few belongings

  into a duffel. According to Code an ARC trooper must be ready

  to go anywhere, do anything, at the beck of the commanding Jedi or

  Supreme Chancellor. One hundred percent of Nate's self-image was

  invested in being that perfect trooper.

  There was no other choice, no other existence. A-98 was ready. He

  had a few small mementos of previous military actions in his rucksack,

  his equipment, and three days' rations of food and water.

  Nate had been raised on Kamino, of course, one of a simultaneously

  decanted cohort of a thousand clone troopers. A dozen had

  been designated as Advance Recon Commandos. They had been

  trained together, taught together, and suffered their first missions together.

  Half had been chosen for personal training by Jango Fett

  himself, and had returned to their brothers bruised but steeped in

  lethal wisdom. ARC clusters were encouraged to develop their own

  traditions and identity, which was useful during competitions with

  other cohorts. Although they had initially shipped out together, over

  time that original cohort had broken, as most ARC troopers worked

  alone.

  He found himself seeking identification on the troopers he encountered,

  helmet or neck chips that told the time and place of decanting.

  A cohort brother could be relied upon to remember certain

  ceremonies and shared perils, always good for a bit of extra companionship.

  Family within family, a touch of home on a distant, hostile

  world.

  He fondly remembered twenty-kilometer training runs with his

  cohort, tried not to remember how many brothers he had watched

  die during his two extended campaigns and dozen smaller actions. In

  most instances ARC tactics were a blend of lightning attacks and applications

  of overwhelming force, with punishing combinations of

  aerial bombardment and devastating ground engagement.

  But as satisfying as those victories had been, he longed to take

  more personal and subtle action as well. He felt that there were aspects

  of himself yet untapped. He did not fear death, but one thing

  he did fear was the possibility of ending his life without discovering

  the depths of his abilities. That, as he understood such things, would

  be a waste.

  Nate shrugged his rucksack over his brawny shoulder and headed

  to the op center, wondering what the day's conversation would bring.

  Ten minutes later he was ushered into a small office tucked away

  beneath an ammo dump and a people-mover ferrying workers back

  and forth to the city.

  His commanding officer, a Mon Calamari major named Apted

  Squelsh, sat hunched over papers when Nate entered, and for a momerit

  seemed not to realize that she had company. Then she looked

  up. "A-Nine-Eight?"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Take a seat, please."

  Nate did so, easing into a hard-backed chair of densely veined

  Corellian hardwood. He ran a thick thumbnail along the arm's

  grooved channels as the major finished reading the screen, and then

  folded her hands to speak to him.

  "You performed admirably during yesterday's exercise," she began.

  "Your unit had a fifty percent reduction in both genuine and sim casualties,

  with no loss of speed or efficiency. That's what we like to

  hear."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  "I have a new assignment for you," Major Squelsh said, blinking

  her huge dark eyes. "I assume you are prepared?" Not a real question,

  but a bit of ritual byplay.

  "One hundred percent, ma'am." The ritual response.

  "Very good. You will accompany and assist two Jedi to a planet

  called Ord Cestus. Do you know it?"

  "No, ma'am, but I'll get up to speed immediately. My support?"

  "Four men," she said.

&n
bsp; At last! Actions like these were the doorway to advancement,

  sought after by any ARC trooper worth manka spit. "Ma'am?"

  "Yes?"

  "It concerns Admiral Baraka." He paused. "Is the admiral aware of

  the fatality statistics?"

  "Of course." Squelsh's eyes were level, her plump broad lips pressed

  together tightly.

  "And did he say anything you might want to share with us?"

  The major paused for an intense moment, then replied, "He said,

  'Well done.'"

  Nate held his face steady, unwilling to display his emotions to a

  commanding officer. "Thank you, ma'am."

  "That is all."

  Well done. They'd left flesh and blood and brothers all over that

  beach and in the pitiless depths, and "well done" was the best they

  could get.

  Typical.

  Nate left and took the beltwalk to the hololibrary to put in a few

  hours researching the target planet. True, he'd get a briefing packet

  before he left, but he found it valuable to do his own research as well.

  Briefing packets were generally quite specific to the mission, and prepared

  by researchers who had never humped heavy ordnance up a

  cliff.

  Nate was so immersed in his research that he barely noticed when

  another trooper began reading over his shoulder.

  "Hmmm," said the other trooper. "I'm Forry. I was near that sector

  last month."

  That perked up his interest. "Nate. Do you know a planet called

  Ord Cestus?"

  "Heard of it, Nate." Forry peeled a nervestick and bit off a shallow

  chaw. "Makes droids? Didn't they manufacture those MTTs?"

  Multitroop transports. Nearly unstoppable, their armor and twin

  blaster cannons had cut quite a swath on Naboo. "Maybe so," he said.

  "Anything else?"

  "Only know that much because of that demo yesterday. They made

  the JK model that Seven-Three-Two went against."

  A trooper had gone up against a droid of some kind? Not surprising,

  but the conversation suggested that it had been an exercise, not

  actual combat. "I hadn't heard. What happened?"

  Forry shrugged. "He was captured. JKs are some kind of special security

  model. It only took about twenty seconds, and he's still in the

  infirmary."

  Now his whole attention was riveted. "Do we have vid footage?"

  "Sure," Forry said. "I'll call it for you." He began to brush crystals

  on the desk in front of them, and holoimages blossomed to misty life.

  "Thanks. Planet's interesting. Generations ago Cestus was a prison

  rock."

  "Truth?"

  "One hundred percent. The descendants of those prisoners eventually

  settled there and became miners or farmers. They were exploited

  by the descendants of the prison guards, who owned the

  company."

  Forry shrugged again. "It's the same all over. Ah! Here we go . . . "

  The footage had been recorded in the T'Chuk arena, no more than

  forty hours earlier. He watched as the trooper made standard evasive

  moves, and even a few admirably tricky broken-rhythm maneuvers.

  Ultimately, none of them worked. Their brother went down, hard, in

  just a few miserable seconds.

  Disturbing.

  "You go up against, better zap it from a distance."

  They watched a replay. "Fast," Nate said. "As a Jedi?"

  "Faster," Forry said. "But speed isn't everything. Look at this . . ."

  He hit other controls. The footage of a Jedi with protruding head

  tentacles appeared.

  "From Glee Anselm," Nate said. "Don't see many Nautolans

  around. Jedi, eh?"

  "Who else would use one of those archaic light sticks?"

  They shared a good laugh at that. The Jedi were awesome fighters,

  but their adherence to illogical quasi-spiritual beliefs was beyond

  Nate's comprehension. Why would a fighting man trust anything beyond

  a steady eye, a strong back, and a fully charged blaster? He examined

  the Nautolan Jedi's image again. "So a Jedi actually came

  down from the Temple and rolled the dice. And?"

  "Watch for yourself."

  Nate triggered PLAY, and together they watched as the Jedi not

  only stood his ground against the JK, but actually forced it into retreat.

  Nate inhaled sharply as the Jedi beat the thing at its own game.

  In some ways his tactics weren't that different from those attempted

  by the trooper, but the results were impressively superior.

  "Beat it."

  "Umm-hmmm." Forry clucked admiringly. "Did you see that

  timing?"

  "Uh-huh. Never seen reflexes like that, either. You're right: the machine

  was faster, but it didn't make any difference."

  "Jedi." Forty laughed. It was hard to say whether the laughter was

  bitter or admiring. Perhaps a touch of both. "So they watched a

  trooper go down, and just had to get down there and show off."

  Nate caught the implication: the Jedi might have even programmed

  the droid. How could the droid move faster and still lose? Unless it

  was instructed to lose . . .

  Nonsense. They both knew a Jedi would never do such a thing.

  This was nothing but lingering unease, a defensive technique to hide

  the slight feeling of inferiority troopers sometimes felt around Temple

  dwellers.

  "They beat Jango," both of them said simultaneously. These three

  words were almost a litany. Whatever they could say about Jedi being

  strange, or egotistical, or bizarrely esoteric, in an arena on Geonosis

  they had slain the clone troopers' template, and that meant they were

  worthy of respect.

  "Good hunting," Forry said to him.

  "Good hunting," Nate replied. Then he paused. "You been given

  your next op yet?"

  "Nope," Forry said. "Dealing me in?"

  "If you want it."

  "One hundred percent. Let me check in and out, get my sack and

  tac."

  "You'll have orders within the hour." A crushing handshake, and

  Forry went his way.

  Brother gone, Nate opened a window. "Request status." A moment's

  pause, and then medical stats blurred past. He nodded in approval.

  CT-36/732, nicknamed Sirty, had not been wounded by the

  JK. His nervous system had been momentarily overloaded, and he

  had consequently suffered a few hours of irregular heart rhythm.

  Nothing alarming, but of course he had been taken to a med droid

  for observation.

  Sirty would be in fighting shape soon, and would make a perfect

  team member: the only trooper who had fought the JK.

  "Special request CT-36/732 be seconded to the Cestus operation."

  A "Request approved" message bleeped, and then the screen closed.

  For hours he studied, trying to get the kind of random background

  intel never covered in standard tac briefings. One just never knew

  which bit of data might save one's butt once the capacitors started

  sparking. Nate himself would be dead now, blown to jelly in the battle

  on Geonosis, if he hadn't studied power-cell recharge cycles and

  subsequently recognized when one of the wheel droids was entering

  a reflux pattern. Its capacitor's whine was barely audible, but he'd

  taken a chance, leapt from cover, and blasted it, sa
ving five of his

  cohort.

  That little maneuver resulted in a week's free food at the base cantina

  and a fast track to his captaincy.

  He dictated notes into his personal file for transfer to the Cestusbound

  transport ship. For hours he continued, fiercely maintaining

  focus.

  The lives of his brothers and, more important, the honor of the

  GAR were his to protect. And even more than that—this was his

  game, the game he was born and bred to play. In a way that no outsider

  could ever understand, this was fun.

  8

  0nly two hours remained.

  Nate and six of his brothers stood in a bricked, walled-off area outside

  the ribbed arch of the barracks, beneath Vandor-3's densely

  starred night sky, performing a cohort ship-out ceremony. Whenever

  a trooper headed off on assignment, his cohort wished him not only

  good luck, but good-bye. In the context of a trooper's life, this was

  more practicality than pessimism.

  If he did return, congratulations on a job well done.

  If he did not, well... what needed to be said had been said.

  "It is the proudest duty of a trooper to serve and seek a good

  death," said Glorii Profus, their Kaminoan mentop.

  The graceful, silver-skinned Profus was a combination psychiatric

  and spiritual adviser. Although clones never yielded to their fear, it

  would be wrong to think that they never experienced it. Emotion was

  as valuable as blasters and bombs, death an inevitable part of war itself.

  No trooper could, through any amount of skill or strength, avoid

  that unpleasant reality. And always, on all planets and through all

  times, soldiers had asked the same question: What if I die? And for a

  trooper, the most comforting answer was: You will die. But the GAR

  goes on forever.

  The Kaminoan gracefully arched his long silver neck and raised his

  cup, brimming with Tallian wine, the finest in the quadrant. His

  voice was cultured and comforting. "From water you are born. In fire

  you die. Your bodies seed the stars," he said, the ritual words that had

  comforted a million clones before they marched to their deaths, and

  might comfort a billion more.

  They raised their cups as one. "We seed the stars!" they said, together.

  And then they drank.

  9

  The Jedi Temple dominated Coruscant's cityscape for kilometers

  around, its five towering spires piercing the clouds like a titan's outstretched