The Cestus Deception: Star Wars (Clone Wars): A Clone Wars Novel Page 7

  “Oh my, oh my,” a falsetto voice cried behind them. Obi-Wan turned, recognition filtering its way through his other thoughts. Approaching slowly was a creature with a great flat turquoise shell covering a wet, fleshy body. The creature crept along on a single many-toed foot. A yellowish mucus trail glistened on the ground behind him.

  Obi-Wan smiled, all discomfiture vanishing. This one, he knew. “Barrister Snoil!” he said with genuine pleasure. Politicians Obi-Wan distrusted, and in most cases their minions were even worse. Regardless, Doolb Snoil was one of the three or four finest legal minds of his acquaintance, and had proven worthy of trust during sensitive negotiations on Rijel-12. Of Vippit extraction from the planet Nal Hutta, Snoil had attended one of Mrlsst’s renowned legal universities before beginning his initial apprenticeship in the Gevarno Cluster. A celebrated career and a reputation for exhaustive research and absolute reliability had led Snoil to his current berth. If anyone could make sense out of this Cestus mess, it would be Snoil.

  “Master Kenobi!” he said, twin eyestalks wobbling in delight. “It’s been almost twelve years.”

  Obi-Wan noted the new rings and deposits on the turquoise shell, clear evidence that Doolb had been able to afford regular treatments and shipments of his native viptiel plants, high in the nutrients his people used to prepare themselves for the rigors of householding. In another few years, he reckoned, Snoil would return home to mate. If Nal Hutta’s economics were anything like Kenobi remembered, Snoil would have his pick of the most desirable females. “I see by your shell that you have been prosperous.”

  “One tries.” His eyestalks swiveled around. “And—Master Fisto! Oh, my goodness. I did not know that you were accompanying us.”

  Kit clasped Snoil’s hand. “Good to have you along, Barrister. I know your home. Once upon a time I spent a week trench diving on Nal Hutta.”

  “Goodness gracious! So dangerous! The fire-kraken—”

  “Are no longer an issue.” Kit smiled broadly and continued up the ramp.

  Snoil raised one of his stubby hands, then the other, and rubbed them together eagerly. “Fear not!” he cried in his tremulous falsetto. “When the right moment arrives, Barrister Snoil will not be found wanting.”

  Snoil crawled the rest of the way up the landing ramp. The Vippit was followed by five troopers moving equipment and armament aboard. They acknowledged the two Jedi and continued their work.

  A trooper displaying captain’s colors saluted sharply. “General Kenobi?”

  “Yes?”

  “Captain A-Nine-Eight at your service. My orders.” He handed Obi-Wan a thumbnail-sized data chip.

  Obi-Wan inserted the chip into his datapad, and it swiftly generated a hologram. He studied the mission résumé and skill sets, and was satisfied. “Everything is in order,” he nodded. “This is my colleague, Master Kit Fisto.”

  The trooper regarded Kit with an emotion Obi-Wan recognized instantly: respect. “General Fisto, an honor to serve with you.” Fascinating. To Obi-Wan, the trooper had merely been polite. His body language toward Kit suggested a greater level of esteem. Obi-Wan swiftly guessed why: the clone had seen vid of Kit’s droid encounter. If there was one thing a soldier respected, it was another fighter’s prowess.

  “Captain,” Kit said. Obi-Wan said nothing, but he noted that, in some way that had escaped him, Kit and the clone trooper had made an emotional connection. This was a good thing. Kit was raring to go, always. Obi-Wan was cursed by a constant urge to understand the reason for his missions—Kit merely needed a target. He envied the Nautolan’s clarity.

  The trooper turned to his four men. “Get the equipment aboard,” he said, and they hastened to obey.

  Kit turned to Obi-Wan. “They are utterly obedient,” he noted, perhaps again anticipating Obi-Wan’s own thoughts.

  “Because they have been trained to be,” he said. “Not out of any sense of independent judgment or choice.”

  Kit looked at him curiously, his sensor tendrils twitching. Then he and the Nautolan entered the ship and prepared for their journey.

  Within minutes all the gear was stowed, the checklists completed, the protocols passed. The ship hummed, and then hovered, then with an explosive acceleration broke free of Coruscant’s gravity and lanced up into the clouds.

  Obi-Wan winced. His voyage from Forscan VI was gruelingly recent, but that was preferable to flying with a stranger at the controls. Better still was simply staying on the ground.

  Obi-Wan found his way up to the nose of the ship and settled into an acceleration couch as the ship rose. The clouds gave way to clear blue. The blue itself faded and darkened as they entered the blackness of space.

  Around the horizon’s graceful curve hovered twelve giant transport ships, shuttling clone troopers from Coruscant bunkers to Vandor-3, the second most populous planet in Coruscant’s system. He’d heard that Vandor-3’s ocean was a brutal clone-testing ground. Officials had spoken of it as if discussing profit-and-loss balance sheets. Obi-Wan found that obscene, but still, what was the alternative? What was right and wrong in their current situation? The Separatists could turn out endless automata on assembly lines. Should the Republic recruit or conscript comparable living armies? Jango Fett, the GAR’s original genetic model, had gladly placed himself in the most hazardous situations imaginable. A man of war if ever one had lived. Was it wrong to channel his “children” down the same path?

  Kit had appeared behind him. “They do nothing but prepare for war,” he said, again mirroring Obi-Wan’s thoughts.

  Obi-Wan smiled. That Jedi anticipation, manifesting in a different arena. He found himself relaxing, hoping now to be able to take advantage of Kit’s sensitivity in the trying days ahead. “What manner of life is this?”

  “A soldier’s,” Kit replied, as if this was the only possible, or desirable, answer.

  And perhaps it was.

  Of course, he himself had left enough tissue about the galaxy for Kamino’s master cloners to have created quite a different army. And if they had, to what purpose might it have been put?

  He laughed at that thought. And although the Nautolan arched an eyebrow in unasked query, Obi-Wan kept his darkly amused speculations to himself.

  11

  For two hours Obi-Wan Kenobi and Kit Fisto had practiced with their lightsabers, increasing their pace slowly and steadily as the minutes passed. The cargo bay sizzled with an energized metallic tang as their sabers singed moisture from the air.

  A Jedi’s life was his or her lightsaber. Some criticized the weapon, saying that a blaster or bomb was more efficient, making it easier for a soldier to kill from a distance. To those who reckoned such things statistically, this was an important advantage.

  But a Jedi was not a soldier, not an assassin, not a killer, although upon occasion they had been forced into such roles. For Jedi Knights, the interaction between Jedi and the life-form in question was a vital aspect of the energy field from which they drew their powers. Ship-to-ship combat, sentient versus nonsentient, warrior against warrior: it mattered not. The interaction itself created a web of energy. A Jedi climbed it, surfed it, drew power from it. In standing within arm’s reach of an opponent, a Jedi walked the edge between life and death.

  Obi-Wan and Kit had been engaged for an hour now, each seeking holes in the other’s defense. Obi-Wan swiftly discovered that Kit was the better swordfighter, astonishingly aggressive and intuitive in comparison with Obi-Wan’s more measured style. But the Nautolan gave himself deliberate disadvantages, hampered himself in terms of balance, limited his speed, emphasized his nondominant side to force himself to full attention, the kind of full attention that can be best accessed only when life itself is at risk. To relax and feel the flow of the Force under such stress was the true road to mastery.

  A Master from the Sabilon region of Glee Anselm, Kit was a practitioner of Form I lightsaber combat: it was the most ancient style of fighting, based on ancient sword techniques. Obi-Wan’s own Padawan learner, An
akin, used Form V, which concentrated on strength. The lethal Count Dooku had used Form II, an elegant, precise style that stressed advanced precision in blade manipulation.

  Obi-Wan himself specialized in Form III. This form grew out of laser-blast deflection training, and maximized defensive protection.

  For hours the two danced without music, at first falling into a preplanned series of moves and countermoves learned in the Temple under Master Yoda’s tutelage. As they grew more accustomed to each other’s rhythms, they progressed into a flowing web of spontaneous engagement. Slowly, minute by minute, they increased pace, stuttered the rhythm, increasing the acuteness of attack angles and beginning to utilize feints and distractions, binds, rapid changes in level, and to introduce random environmental elements into the interaction:, furniture, walls, slippery floors. To an observer it would have seemed that the two were trying to slaughter each other, but the two knew that they were engaged in the most profound and enjoyable aspect of Jedi play, lightsaber flow.

  At a crucial instant Kit hissed, more to himself than Obi-Wan, then stepped back, disengaged, and switched his lightsaber off.

  Obi-Wan switched his off as well. “What is it, my friend?” he asked.

  “The bio-droid,” Kit said, anger heating his voice. “I should have performed better.”

  “You were brilliant. What more could you have done?”

  Kit sat heavily, his smooth green forearms resting on his knees, sensor tendrils curling and questing like a nest of angry sand vipers. “I should have gone closer to the edge,” he said, the irises within the unblinking eyes expanding until they appeared to glow. “Released myself into the Force, become more unpredictable. More … random.”

  Obi-Wan heard the concern in the Nautolan’s voice. Form I was wild, raw … and deadly. It also required too much emotional heat for Obi-Wan’s taste. “That would have been dangerous,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Not to your body, perhaps, but to your spirit.”

  Kit looked up at him, irises contracting again. “It is the way of Form One.”

  And here Obi-Wan knew he needed to tread softly. Combat style was an exceedingly personal choice. “Agreed,” Obi-Wan replied, “but Form One represents greater risk to you as well, my friend.”

  Kit said nothing for a time, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded. “We all take risks.”

  That simple truth momentarily silenced Obi-Wan. There it was: Kit knew that Form I placed him in greater jeopardy, but his sense of duty made it worthwhile. In that moment Obi-Wan’s respect for the Nautolan rose to the highest levels.

  For now, the best thing that he could do was help get Kit’s mind off the subject. He stood, briskly slapping his palms together. “But come!” he said. “If our ruse is to succeed we must practice a while longer. Then I need to get back to work on the lightwhip.”

  That seemed to lift Kit’s spirits. “When will it be ready to test?”

  Obi-Wan sighed. “I’ve never actually built one, but saw a bounty hunter wield one once, in the Koornacht Cluster. The theory is clear enough, and I found a diagram in the archives. Just remember: if covert action becomes necessary, all suspicion must fall on Count Dooku. If you are seen wielding a lightsaber, you’ll be identified as a Jedi.”

  “Less conversation.” Kit grinned. “More practice.”

  They returned to their dance, each sensitive to his differences but comfortable in them as well. On and on they went, until exertion drove all thought from their conscious minds, until all discussions were forgotten, and all that remained was a pure joy of moving, separately and together, in the way of the Force.

  12

  Concluding his practice session, Obi-Wan freshened himself and donned a new robe. He then went out to the lower deck lounge. There, in a more comfortable environment than the formal dining room just fore of them, he found Barrister Snoil studying at two computer workstations, each of his eyestalks engaged with a different holographic display.

  “A useful skill,” Obi-Wan said, just behind the barrister’s right ear. “You comprehend both simultaneously?”

  Snoil turned, startled. “Master Kenobi! I didn’t realize you were there. As to your question … yes, my people can split attention between sides of their brain,” he said. “The full reintegration will not take place until sleep tonight.” Genuine concern creased Snoil’s glistening face. “Actually, I am glad you are here. I was hoping we might confer.”

  “On what matter?”

  “These treaties!” His falsetto rose to a squeak. “A nightmare! Ord Cestus was never supposed to be a major industrial power. When it was initially set up, Coruscant granted it quite favorable trade terms. The point was for the prison to be self-sufficient, and not a burden to the Republic.”

  “And now?”

  “And now the prison exists as a legal fiction only, a definition expanded to include the entire planet. Cestus markets goods under a corrections license.”

  Snoil paused, eye stalks wavering almost hypnotically. He canted his head slightly to the side, as if considering a new thought. When he spoke next, his voice sparked with renewed enthusiasm. “Delicate. Delicate. If we threaten a suspension of activity while their status is reevaluated, that should panic them.”

  “Right into Dooku’s arms,” Obi-Wan said, and shook his head. “Hardly a desirable outcome.”

  “True,” the Vippit replied, then lowered his voice. “I was actually more concerned about another subject.”

  “That being?”

  “Well … it is my Time,” he said, emphasizing the last word.

  “For children?”

  Snoil nodded emphatically. “Oh yes. Master Obi-Wan, I am so happy you called me. For years I’ve owed you a great debt.”

  Obi-Wan laughed. “We’re friends. You owe me nothing.”

  “You saved my life,” he said fervently, and his twin eye-stalks bobbled. “I was under contract on Rijel-Twelve when the clans revolted. If you hadn’t evacuated Republic staff, my empty shell would lie there still.”

  Well, yes, Obi-Wan had handled a bad bit of business there, but …

  Snoil would not be denied. “Until I repay the favor, I cannot marry.”

  Obi-Wan couldn’t wait to hear the explanation. The galaxy’s wonders never ceased to amuse and amaze him. “No? Why not?”

  Genuine anguish filled Snoil’s voice. “Because you can call upon me for a service whenever you wish. No well-born female would bond with me until I have cleared this debt, because I cannot negotiate wholly with her.”

  “This is your people’s way?”

  Snoil nodded.

  Obi-Wan laughed heartily. “Well, my friend, my confidence in our mission just soared. It seems you have more reason to see this job through than I.”

  13

  Over the three hundred years since initial entry into the Republic, Cestus’s native population had decreased by 90 percent, while the immigrant population had increased to several million. Their needs were so different from those of the original inhabitants that, without interstellar commerce, that population would starve or be forced into migration and poverty.

  Hundreds of years earlier, Cestus had been a world of amber sands and coppery-brown hills, mostly rock with a few blue pools of surface water and the scaled ridges of continental mountain ranges. Its poor soil was home to a thousand varieties of hardy plants whose root acids constantly struggled to break down rock into absorbable nutrients. Most notable among its vegetation were some eight hundred varieties of edible and medicinal mushrooms, none of which had ever been exported.

  However poor it might once have been, with the rigorous filtering of Cestus’s water and addition of various nutrients, the planet’s soil offered up two dozen vegetables suitable for consumption. After fifteen generations of cultivation, significant patches of green now stretched across the brown expanse, some few of them visible even from space.

  From high orbit, it would have been difficult to see the industrial areas that produced th
e Baktoid armor or dreaded bio-droids, or see any reason at all to think that this secluded planet might become a crucial balance point in a drama playing out across the galaxy. However difficult to believe, it was a sobering truth.

  * * *

  Their transport cruiser made its initial descent to a section of the Dashta plain selected for the tiny amount of electromagnetic activity in the area: evidence that there was little or no entrenched population. The offworlders wished to avoid prying eyes. Ahead lay work best done in privacy.

  For an hour the troopers humped crates and rucksacks full of gear out of the ship. Kit insisted on carrying his own equipment, and the troopers were happy to let him do it: the Jedi was as strong as any two of them. For half the trip Obi-Wan had labored on the weapon now coiled at Kit’s side. Kit had a reputation for improvisation, and within hours he handled the lightwhip as if he had been spawned with it.

  Obi-Wan turned to Kit and extended his hand. “Well,” he said, “this is where we part.”

  “For now,” Kit said. “We’ll set up base camp in the caves south of here, and should be ready for operations in a day. After that, we’ll be ready for whatever comes.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Obi-Wan said. “Communication on astromech remote maintenance channels shouldn’t alert their security. We’ll disguise our conversation as modulations of the basic carrier frequency.”

  Kit nodded, but the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes. “A good idea. May the Force be with you.”