There was little left to do save play out their hand as dealt. Obi-Wan stood, looking out at the horizon, at the dust devils spinning and churning. Beyond those, a rust-colored cloud crept across the ground, peaceful and lovely at this distance, one of the sandstorms that made surface living on Cestus such a hazard. Obi-Wan understood perfectly why Cestus had been chosen as a prison.
The four remaining clone troopers stayed behind with Kit. Obi-Wan walked back up into the ship, and the door sealed behind him.
He strapped himself into the empty chair next to CT-X270, checked to make sure Doolb Snoil was safe, and then nodded. “Let’s go, Xutoo,” he said.
* * *
Kit checked the instrumentation on his Aratech 74-Z speeder bike, modified military hardware as maneuverable as a hawk-bat and capable of speeds up to 550 kilometers per hour. Riding one reminded the Nautolan of storm-swimming, one of his favorite sports.
The four directional steering vanes were well adjusted and responsive to a touch. The repulsorlift engines purred like demicots and had no problem handling the heavy cargo bags strapped to the sides. All fuel cells were full, all diagnostics live. Good. He raised his hand, and the clone troopers mounted their own speeders as if they had practiced that single maneuver for a month. He breathed deeply. Fire burned his veins as his twin hearts went slightly out of rhythm with each other, preparing him for action. This was the moment that he lived for, the calm before the storm. Like swimming the surface during one of Glee Anselm’s mammoth hurricanes, or the practice of Form I, it was the storm itself that was the test, the challenge to see if he could maintain his balance in the whirlwind. Never had he fallen. One day he would, as all mortals did. But not today, he grinned fiercely. Not today.
He triggered the speeder. The purr became a growl as it lifted.
In perfect formation the five sailed through the gullies and along rivers through a tumble of low brown scrub brush.
Although most nearby objects whipped past in a blur, those more distant remained clear. Kit drank in the scenery, noting the far-off line of a caravan out along the scrub rock. The speeder bikes traveled too low to be seen, low enough for the speeders behind him to be swallowed in the storm of dust particles, baffling scanners.
At one moment they passed a small knot of nomadic X’Ting, the insectile people who had once dominated the planet. While still holding some political power, they now numbered but a few tens of thousands. The nomads raised their crimson arms and pointed at the line of speeder bikes as they raced past.
Again, nothing to really worry about. He convinced himself that this wasn’t an omen. Encountering the Cestians in the midst of such a desolate area was just happenstance. Nomadic native Cestians tended to be nontechnological, used no devices that emitted radiation anywhere in the electromagnetic spectrum. Nothing to worry about …
Cestus called to Kit. In this landscape he sensed the struggle of life against an unsparing nature. It reminded him of his homeworld’s surface territory, a land of great harshness, but one that bred a people of tremendous courage. Except for a lack of vast and roiling oceans, he might have been born here.
On the next speeder bike behind him, Nate traversed the same landscape, occupied by his own thoughts. The ARC captain scanned everything, searching for ambush spots, possible strongholds, lines of sight … everything he saw, everything he thought was connected to his duty. There was room in his mind for nothing else. Nor was anything else needed.
Kilometer by kilometer, they progressed toward their goal, the Dashta Mountains far to the west.
14
After assuming a trajectory plausible for a ship approaching from Coruscant, CT-X270, “Xutoo,” reentered Cestus’s atmosphere. The cruiser’s communications array fired, automated docking signal receivers decoding instructions for landing.
They headed straight for Cestus’s capital city, ChikatLik, an X’Ting word meaning “the center.” Xutoo handled the controls with supreme confidence, as if he had been born piloting ships.
Then again, for all practical purposes, he had.
They descended through the umber heart of a swirling kilometers-wide dust cloud that obscured most of the surface beneath them. The guidance computer projected wire-frame animations of their target, and revealed more of the surface detail than Obi-Wan’s naked eyes. One of Cestus’s primary features was the vast network of tunnels, created by volcanic activity, water erosion, and millennia of digging by the once vast X’Ting hives. It was these caves that had made it such a perfect choice for a prison planet, and it was into one of the larger lava tubes that their ship descended.
As they entered its mouth, the air cleared, and for the first time during their descent visual cues revealed valuable information. After a few seconds the sides became pleasantly painted and sculpted. Obi-Wan caught a few briefly snatched glimpses of graffiti, and then networks of pipe and steel, mazes of rigging clearly the product of endless generations of workers.
He noticed also that the laborers seemed to have done everything in their power to keep a sense of the original beauty, and he admired that. As much as the works of mortals could be, and often were, quite beautiful, there was always something about the natural world that touched Obi-Wan even more deeply, as if a testament to the truth and depth of the Force that conscious efforts could never approach.
They zoomed down another tunnel and turned left. Artificial light reflected around the corner. For a moment he was blinded.
ChikatLik’s offices and apartments blended with the volcanic structures so perfectly that it was difficult to see where they ended and mortal workings began. He saw a thousand elevated roads and pedestrian paths, but little aerial travel. Many of the curved, apparently stone paths streamed with slidewalks, a local transport system that seemed to have grown organically over the years until the entire city bustled like a close-up, impossibly intimate view of a living body’s interior.
Their ship spiraled down through the towers and roadways, heading to a central landing pad at the outskirts of their destination, some kind of major living complex. Where volcanic rock was obscured the walls had the texture of rough gray or black duracrete, perhaps some compound produced by the digestive systems of hive builders.
As the ship came softly to rest, one of the side screens showed a line of uniformed human males standing at attention. Obi-Wan knew that Xutoo had already killed the main engines so that no stray heat or radiation would spoil the approach.
Doolb Snoil’s emerald eyestalks quivered with excitement. “Look at the honor guard!”
“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied. “It must be rare to see representatives from Coruscant out here on the Rim. I fear that this has more than mere business significance.”
“Ah,” Snoil said. “I would expect some aspects of hive politics to survive. Expect complex, confusing social interactions, Master Jedi.”
Obi-Wan laughed. It was true: no longer was he a mere peacekeeper. Today he was an ambassador, an envoy from the central government. Like it or not, he would have to accept that role.
The guards were near-human Kiffar, who immediately snapped to attention as the door opened and the ramp touched down. “Master Kenobi, it is my pleasure to welcome you to ChikatLik,” the nearest guard said. “I’ve only just received word that the Regent is on parlay. Hive business. She returns tonight, and will meet with you tomorrow.”
Obi-Wan nodded sagely, and Snoil’s eyestalks bobbed with pleasure.
A band composed of assorted droid musicians blared a medley of melodic bleeps and hoots, doubtless the Cestian planetary anthem, as Obi-Wan, Snoil, and their astromech unit descended. The band next performed a passable rendition of the Republic’s official anthem, “All Stars Burn as One.” Once upon a time that song had quickened his blood, but for the last months Obi-Wan had begun to bristle whenever he heard it.
After their rendition was complete, the Kiffar guard saluted again. “Thank you,” Obi-Wan said, and Snoil’s eye-stalks ceased waving in accompaniment to the m
usic. In truth, it had been stirring.
“Welcome to Cestus. General Kenobi, Barrister Snoil.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant. I hope that all business can be completed quickly, that I might have an opportunity to appreciate the beauty of your world before I return home.”
The words flowed so smoothly that Obi-Wan laughed to himself. In truth, he might have made a passable politician. Peacemakers and power brokers had to meet to find common ground, and if he had chosen that path …
With that thought in his mind, and a resultant half smile curling his lips, Obi-Wan allowed himself and Snoil to be escorted to a railway running above the free-flying transport lanes.
“Few buildings on the planet’s surface,” Snoil asked. “Why?”
“The natural caverns were easy to exploit for prison space, and safer from dust storms and raiding aboriginals. That was long ago.”
“And now?” Obi-Wan asked.
“And now?” Their guide shrugged. “The plagues left a lot of hives empty. We just moved right in.”
As they followed the cart, a pair of droids carried their luggage from the ship and placed it in a separate cart, to follow them. Many of the buildings and structures were themselves imitations of stalactites and stalagmites, but there were flashes of different artistic or architectural movements as well, angular areas, evidence of a hundred different cultural influences.
They approached a particularly large and beautiful expanse of carved rock wall. Only on a second look did it resolve into a building. “Our destination,” the guard said.
“What is it?” Obi-Wan said. It was almost a kilometer across, one of the largest city constructs Obi-Wan had seen on a Rim world, so enormous that at first he had mistaken it for an organic part of the overall structure.
“The Grand ChikatLik was the first actual prison building built here,” their guide said. “It was converted fifty years ago, and now serves as our finest hotel.”
He could see it all more clearly now: a few hundred years of constant rebuilding, one apartment and cubicle grafted onto another had been smoothed into an overall design that was somewhere between a kind of insect hive and a gigantic office complex, something that transcended either artificial or organic design. Impressive.
Their cart zagged right, entered what appeared to be a lava tube, and emerged in the hotel lobby. The interior was quite literally cavernous, a lobby built around a luminous natural hot spring, lift tubes thrusting up through cascading shelves of frozen limestone.
The silvery protocol droid concierge approached them, fairly shivering with excitement. “Welcome! You are now guests of the most luxurious hotel on Ord Cestus.”
Snoil’s fleshy lips curled in appreciation. “After days on the shuttle, it’s good to have a room, not a cabin,” he squeaked.
Two X’Ting attendants materialized just as their luggage cart appeared behind them. The X’Ting were dull gold, with oval bodies and thin, apparently spindly legs. “Show these two very special guests to their accommodations,” the droid said. Perhaps fantasizing about generous tips from the distinguished guests, the attendants eagerly carried their luggage to droid carts, then guided the carts to the turbolifts. Obi-Wan noted that one of the X’Ting wore a name tag reading FIZZIK.
The lifts rose along the cave’s internal wall, rising rapidly but smoothly, then rotating so that the wall slid open to disclose a hallway.
The X’Ting attendants unloaded their luggage and carried it into the suite. The droid bowed. “I hope that these lodgings will prove satisfactory, sirs.”
Obi-Wan found himself answering more to the attendants than the protocol droid. “I’m certain that they’ll be fine.”
“You may wish to explore the city in the time before the lady arrives.”
“Very considerate. I’m certain we can entertain ourselves.”
The protocol droid left, motioning for Fizzik and the other X’Ting to leave with him, and they did.
Doolb Snoil began to speak, but the Jedi raised a single finger, bidding him to silence. Their astromech began a sweep of the room as Obi-Wan unpacked, every motion slow and controlled.
“Which room should I take?” Snoil asked.
“Whichever has the better view,” Obi-Wan said. “I remember you said you wanted to see the sights here …” He was prepared to continue in that vein, but fortunately their astromech unit beeped its “all clear” signal.
“I believe it’s safe. This room is free of any devices or eavesdropping scans. Our mech will tell us if this changes.”
“Thank the Broodmaster,” Snoil said, wiping one of his brows. “I tell you honestly, Master Obi-Wan. I find this spying-about most uncomfortable.”
“You needn’t worry about-any of that,” Obi-Wan said. “Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”
“And how do you see things proceeding?”
“As we said before—” He sat near Snoil, putting his own thoughts in order as he tried to incorporate what he had seen and heard since landing. “—we go to court, and see what there is to be seen.”
“And if our entreaties are ignored?”
“Then,” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “then things get tricky.”
15
Kit Fisto, Nate, and his three brothers had arrived stealthily, making their initial surveillance of the Dashta Mountain region specified by their mysterious contact, Sheeka Tull. Tull had designated a cave hidden beneath an overhanging rock shelf, opening onto a broad, flat stone theater that could be used as an emergency landing zone, although for security, the main staging area was located hundreds of meters downhill from the cave entrance.
On first glance the cave looked ideal, but Kit entered gingerly, sensor tendrils tingling. The shaggy desiccated body of some four-legged mammal half the size of a speeder bike lay just inside the cave. There were no immediately apparent wounds … had it simply crawled into the cave to die? He nudged the body aside and took another step forward. Nothing living to be seen. Side tunnels stretched off in multiple directions. Cave birds and some membranous reptilians flitted about overhead. Moss and old dusty webbing clotted some of the corners, but he found nothing alarming.
“There might be something here,” Nate said, coming up behind him.
“Perhaps we should find another cave,” CT-12/74 said. His nickname was Seefor.
“Not until we make contact with Tull,” Kit said.
Here in the shelter of a craggy valley almost completely devoid of all but the simplest vegetation, they spent the first hours building their base camp and sleeping quarters, assembling sections of modular housing. They were so engrossed in their work that they barely noticed when the first of the cave spiders appeared.
Kit cursed himself for not recognizing the webs or the ragged, furry, desiccated corpse for what they were, but when the first eight-legged monstrosity bounced out of the shadows to leap onto Sirty, the Nautolan moved instantly. The spider screamed as his lightsaber seared through a leg, then the trooper bucked it off, putting three shots into the beast before the body hit the ground.
They hardly had time to congratulate themselves: six cave spiders of equal size crawled from the darkness.
Kit ordered the troopers into perfect square formation, shoulder blasters at the ready as their eight-legged attackers emerged. Somewhere back in the caves was a nest, pure and simple, and they had responded to the challenge for their territory. No time to regret. This was action.
A cascade of cave spider silk jetted toward the trooper diagonal from Kit. Nate. The trooper shoulder-rolled and came up to firing position, blasted the rocks above the spider’s hiding place. As stones rained down on the unfortunate creature Nate rolled again and ran to one of the speeder bikes.
Fleeing? Absurd. In the GAR’s short, spectacular history, no trooper had ever shirked duty, fled a battle, or even disobeyed a superior’s order. But—
Immediately behind him a great shaggy eight-legged beast hissed and leapt. Kit pivoted, lightsaber singing. The
spider bounded out of the way, landing in a crouch. It bounded again, spitting venom. Kit dodged to the side, lightsaber swatting one of the caustic greenish gobs, and the fluid erupted into searing steam. The rocks before them rustled, and a swarm of young spiders, no higher than Kit’s knee, crawled out, their shining eyes hungry, envenomed fangs dripping.
He glimpsed movement and turned to see a gigantic red female, half the size of a bantha, crouching in the shadows, watching, her glowing eyes fixed on him. A general, directing her troops.
This Kit could understand. Well, as of the commencement of the Clone Wars Kit Fisto was a general as well, and he had his own troops. Come on! he snarled silently, irises expanding. He set his feet in a wider stance for balance, and waited.
Nate’s speeder bike started instantly. Under his expert hands it leapt off the cave floor and ran in a tight circle, buzzing the shadows, turning tight corners, drawing out the spiders. They spit silk and venom at him, and every time they did, his brothers below got a better fix. Incandescent laser bolts and the howling of Kit Fisto’s lightsaber filled the cave as the spiders fought back, casting bizarre, distorted shadows against the walls. The arachnids jumped, leapt, and crept. They spit venom that burned through armor, and sticky silk that threatened to bind arms and legs together. But nothing they did broke the Geonosis Square, a tactic that maximized the impact of both aggressive and defensive fire.
The trooper wove, using the speeder bike’s maneuverability to confuse the spiders. Their eight-legged adversaries were quicker on the ground, but seemed baffled by this highflying tactic. General Fisto gave a whistle so loud and high that it rattled Nate’s ears at twenty meters. The other troopers broke for their speeders, and within moments the cave was filled with screaming, dipping, blasting speeder bikes.
Nate laughed aloud, loving this moment. It was like being back with the selenome: You didn’t know what you were messing with, did you?
His laughter died as another row of arachnids crawled out of the top cavern. What in space—? They must have stumbled into the largest breeding ground in the entire mountains. This was the worst, what troopers called 10 percent, but it was too late to curse fate. Little to do now but fight.
The Cestus Deception: Star Wars (Clone Wars): A Clone Wars Novel Page 8