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

by Steven Barnes

  Fizzik wasn’t sure he wanted to know how a creature like Ventress might define good. It was difficult to tell whether she was serious, or merely enjoyed tormenting her host.

  In either case, the results were fascinating.

  “I trust that your journey was pleasant?” Trillot asked.

  Her expression did not change. “Irrelevant. I wish to know why I was not met by the Families. At the least, why I was not brought immediately to their presence.”

  “We have a new guest in the capital,” Trillot said, attempting to placate. “Until we know his precise business, a measure of additional discretion was thought wise.”

  She gazed at him, and although Ventress did not speak, Fizzik felt he could hear her thoughts. Miserable cowards.

  Fizzik had observed Trillot’s immense bodyguards as they watched their boss defer to this woman. There were also a dozen lean young male X’Ting around Trillot’s nest: thugs trying to get rich easy, looking for someone strong to follow. Not necessarily bad, but lost, and lost in dreams of glory past. There was no way of telling how they might react. They might exhibit typical hive behavior and simply follow. The more disloyal might sense an opportunity to jump track, to find a way to ingratiate themselves to a superior power. But there was another reaction as well, and Fizzik could see it brewing in the filmed eyes of one of the smaller bodyguards, a member of the X’Ting assassin clan. His name was Remlout.

  “Excuse me,” Remlout said in the high, reedy voice he assumed when speaking Basic. “I’ve heard a story about you.”

  She rose and turned to him. Again the comers of her mouth raised, as if she already knew what he was going to say, and welcomed it.

  “In all politeness,” Remlout sneered, “I’ve heard that you never, ever turn down a challenge. Is that true?”

  She glanced at his shoulders, his hands, his eyes. “You’ve been to Xagobah,” she said. “To learn Tal-Gun?”

  “Yes,” Remlout said, confused. Not many X’Ting ventured offplanet.

  Asajj Ventress smiled. “Your neck is pale: their blue sun’s burning has faded. You’ve been away from your teachers a long time.”

  He nodded, mouth slightly open in surprise.

  “Count Dooku told me that if I wished to progress in the arts, it was vital to take every challenge.” She cocked her head lazily at Trillot.

  Her smile widened. She turned to Trillot. “Would this displease you?”

  Trillot looked back and forth between Ventress and Remlout. Fizzik knew what his brother was thinking. Trillot did not like this woman, but for a variety of reasons was bound to honor her wishes. Fizzik had witnessed Remlout’s skills, but was uncertain they would be enough to defeat Ventress, and didn’t want to lose a bodyguard. On the other hand …

  Challenge simmered in the air.

  Trillot leaned back, grimacing as he strove to make his swelling egg sac less uncomfortable. The gang lord—not quite lady, not yet—templed his fingers together. “If both participants are willing, then it is not my place to say no.”

  Ventress nodded and turned to face Remlout, pivoting as if on ball bearings. Her fingers crooked like claws.

  Now Trillot added, “But please, Commander Ventress. It is hard to find good bodyguards.”

  “I won’t kill him,” she promised. “At your pleasure,” she said to her opponent.

  Remlout bowed. His vestigial wings fluttered with warning, and he spread his primary and secondary arms. The creatures who served at Trillot’s pleasure backed against the walls.

  Now the two of them were in a cleared space. Remlout stepped in an arc, circling Ventress.

  Remlout cartwheeled, and then balanced on his primary hands, his feet tracking Ventress as if they were scan detectors. Those primary hands were as broad and strong as most feet, and Fizzik knew that Remlout could stand like this for hours.

  Fizzik had seen this once before: Remlout making his formal challenge of any visitor who had a similar code of warrior ethics—or seemed to offend his master Trillot. The fact that he had made the challenge so soon was not remarkable in itself, but Fizzik suspected that there was something more going on here. He had seen foes attempt to penetrate Remlout’s defense only to be struck with such nimble violence that Remlout’s punishing feet might have been arms.

  Most cowered at the sight.

  Ventress was another matter altogether, however. She swayed back and forth, ripples surging through her body as if she were some kind of sea frond. Strange: she was clearly female, but she moved more like an X’Ting male.

  Remlout made his attack: left–right–left, feet jabbing out in a breathtaking three-strike combination. Ventress never shifted her legs, but somehow avoided the triple threat. Fizzik ran the sequence back through his mind: Ventress had moved bonelessly, with a spinal relaxation so extreme that she could have shifted only a centimeter or less, angling sideways, sliding from the path of each kick as if she had had all the time in the world.

  Something else had happened, something obscured by the flash and flex of limbs. Fizzik couldn’t see it, but Remlout was on the ground, writhing, face purpling, twisting on his side, hands reaching around for his shell.

  The assassin spasmed, the muscles in his back tightening again. Remlout’s face grew tauter and tauter, more deformed with strain, and he howled as if in the midst of the most monstrous and debilitating muscle spasm in history. His entire body arched, and with a series of rending pops Remlout’s supercontracted muscles splintered his own shell. He collapsed, drooling and almost motionless, his head wobbling in aimless circles.

  A medical droid rolled forward, performed a swift analysis, and then reported back to Trillot.

  Trillot looked at Ventress, eyes gone dark. Fizzik knew that his employer wanted to censure her, to remind her of her promise, but dared not.

  Ventress might have read Trillot’s mind. “He is not dead,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Indeed not,” Trillot replied. “And for that I am grateful.”

  She bowed graciously as several of Trillot’s employees picked up the hapless Remlout and carried him away. With every jostle, he screamed. They were not as gentle as they might have been, and Fizzik supposed that Remlout’s history as a bully now worked against him.

  He noted that, without another word being said, the body language of every creature in that room was suddenly more respectful and alert. It couldn’t have worked better for Ventress had she scripted it. She brushed imaginary dust from her spotless cloak and stood before Trillot once again. Fizzik counted the pulses at her jawline, clearly visible but unhurried. A knot of muscle at the base of one tattoo quivered in unhurried rhythm.

  Trillot seemed to have moved on, apparently wishing to change the subject as quickly as possible. “And there is one more development,” he said.

  “Yes?” Ventress stood immobile. The previous moment’s violent action might have meant nothing at all. But in the name of the galaxy, what had she done to poor Remlout? And would he, Fizzik, ever have the temerity to ask?

  “Yes,” Trillot said. “Now. As to the Jedi negotiating with our good lady Regent—”

  That, finally, caught the offworlder’s attention. “His name?”

  “Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

  Now, for the first time, Ventress’s attention was riveted. “Obi-Wan.” Her blue eyes flamed. Again, Fizzik sensed that it might be worth his life to inquire. “I know this one. He needs to die.”

  “Please,” Trillot implored. “There is business to be conducted. There may not be time …”

  Ventress cast a scathingly cold glare upon her host. “Did someone request your advice? I think not.” She closed her eyes, and in stillness she seemed like the center of a storm. She opened her eyes again. “I don’t believe in coincidence. Obi-Wan and I are here on the same business.” The tip of her pink tongue wet her lips. “I think I will kill him.”

  Trillot’s faceted gaze met hers, and Trillot lost, looking away. “I brought you here, thinking that with the Jedi
in the capital, we need special arrangements before the meeting—”

  Ventress’s head tilted slightly sideways, and her voice was snake-quiet. “No. Obi-Wan will attempt to subvert the Families. He may already have a spy among them. No. Who knows I am here?”

  “The families know Count Dooku is sending a representative,” Trillot said. “But not who or when.”

  “Splendid. Leave it thus. First I will destroy Kenobi. Then I speak business with your precious Five Families.”

  From her initial flare Ventress had grown abnormally quiet, almost like a negative space, drawing light and heat from the room around her. This woman was as dangerous as a sand viper. Never had he seen her like.

  “Yes, of course.” What else could Trillot say?

  Fizzik mused that he would certainly serve out the rest of his contract, but when it was complete … he wondered if the woman Ventress might conceivably need an assistant.

  24

  Protocol, Chancellor Palpatine had often said, is the oil greasing the wheels of diplomacy. After an exchange of pleasantries, they retired to Duris’s office for a more private conversation. Three of her advisers accompanied her, and although they refrained from most interjections, he knew they were fully engaged with the negotiation process.

  Barrister Snoil was debating a minor point as Shar Shar, the little Zeetsa, rolled forward. Duris bent so that the aide could whisper in her ear. She listened intently, then studied several holo documents projected on a screen before them.

  She looked up and smiled. “Barrister Snoil,” she said. “You are aware of the case of Gadon Three?”

  Snoil’s eyestalks retreated into themselves, and then extended again. “Yes,” he squeaked. “But there are at least four cases that might have some application here. Please be more specific.”

  Duris seemed pleased with Snoil’s erudition, and held up a finger at what, from their angle, seemed a shadowy silhouette. “A matter of breakaway Kif miners.”

  “Ah, yes.” He composed himself. “Approximately fifty standard years ago, the miners began selling high-energy ores on the open market. Some of these ores found their way to a colony allied with enemies of the Gadon regime. The Gadons came to the Republic for a ruling, and it was adjudged that the intent of the original sale had been above reproach. Therefore the final disposition of the ores was not the responsibility of the miners.”

  Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly. That had been a poor decision. The Republic hadn’t penalized the miners, because a similar situation was brewing in a nonallied cluster of planets the Chancellor hoped would provide the Republic vital raw material. A lenient ruling here could well make for good friendships elsewhere.

  Brilliant politics, but it had now backfired! Obi-Wan felt that long-vanished headache beginning to return.

  While he retreated into his mind, Duris and Snoil continued to banter back and forth. He knew this was just the opening salvo, but he was already out of his depth. They spoke of obscure treaties, taxes, rules and regulations.

  Legalities be spaced. This had to end!

  Obi-Wan waited for a lull in the conversation, and then raised his hand. “Pardon me, Regent Duris.” He calmed himself. Could she be so obtuse? “Do you imagine that the Republic will stand by and allow Cestus to manufacture these killing machines?” Obi-Wan was a bit surprised at the strident tone in his own voice. “There is only one way this can end.”

  For the moment, formality and mannered, measured approach had broken down. Blast! He was no politician. He saw only the death and destruction that would be visited on this planet if he was unable to help them see past their contracts.

  “And what is that?” Duris said frostily. She arched her segmented shell and squared her shoulders. Anger boiled beneath her composed surface as well. And something more. Fear?

  He steadied his voice. “With no JK droids reaching planets outside the Republic. Perhaps none of any kind leaving your workshops at all.”

  “Do you threaten us? The Republic had its chance to purchase our products, and chose to neglect payment. Then, they restricted Gabonna crystals. Tens of thousands lost employment, Master Jedi. Our economy was almost crippled. There were food and water riots across the planet.” She leaned forward. “Thousands died. Now you tell us not to conduct business with planets offering solid credits. Would the Supreme Chancellor authorize equal payments? In advance?”

  No. Palpatine would never do that—it would be perceived, rightly, as submitting to blackmail. “I am not here to threaten,” he said. “Merely to act as a conduit of communication between the Republic and the good people of Cestus. We know that you are fighting for the welfare of your people—”

  “All the people of Cestus,” she said. “Not just the X’Ting. Not just the hive council. My responsibilities are to every soul on this planet.”

  If true, a fine sentiment, Obi-Wan thought. “We, on the other hand, fight for the fate of an entire galaxy. You may rely upon one truth: we will not allow your machines to slaughter our troopers. Whether or not this entails the destruction of your civilization depends upon you.”

  For a moment there was silence in the room. Duris and Obi-Wan regarded each other intensely, a test of wills.

  Then she nodded her head slowly. “Before you destroy us,” she said, “perhaps you should better know what it is you will end.” Her voice tightened, and this was where her breeding and strength rose to the surface. She would not be rendered ineffective by her emotions, however fearful they might be. “This evening there is a hive ball in your honor. It would please me if you would attend. Perhaps some communication is best facilitated in a more informal setting.”

  Obi-Wan took a deep breath. He had little taste for such formal celebrations, but then again, protocol was important. “I am grateful for the invitation. I hope that Your Grace will not interpret anything I have said as a lack of respect for you or your people.”

  “We’ve both a job to do,” she said, and once again he had the odd sense that she was speaking on more than one level at a time. “But that does not mean we cannot be civil.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and bowed.

  25

  Obi-Wan’s formal robe was much like his everyday dress: flowing from floor to shoulder in a cascade of burnt sienna, but woven of demicot silk. Their astromech had buffed his boots to a high shine, and his spare tunic was cleaned.

  Snoil’s flat shell gleamed, and the folds of his skin were scraped clean of mucus and buffed as highly as Obi-Wan’s boots. A pair of flat boxes had arrived for them. When opened, each yielded a flexible mask. The slanted eyes, peaked eye ridges, and flat, wide mouths were clearly a caricature of X’Ting physiognomy. When Obi-Wan pulled it on and viewed himself in a mirror, the effect was striking. “And. what is this?”

  Snoil was actually blocking the doorway as Obi-Wan completed his own preparations. A bemused smile wreathed the cephalopod’s face.

  “Master Jedi,” the Vippit said. “You are resplendent.”

  “And you sparkle,” Obi-Wan said. “Now, Barrister Snoil, it is important that we understand what is happening here.”

  Snoil raised one of his stubby hands. “Master Jedi, I know that I may seem ungainly and somewhat gauche, but I have been involved in such missions before. This ball is clearly a tactic, not a social occasion. I will be alert.”

  Obi-Wan sighed with relief. His companion was acutely aware of these games. More aware, perhaps, than he. In this, it was possible that Snoil would take the lead, and for that he was grateful.

  “This is a hive ball,” Snoil said, examining his mask. “The hive may have little real power, but apparently the offworlders enjoy pretending that it does.”

  “Well,” Obi-Wan said, helping Snoil on with his disguise. He extended his arm, and Snoil slipped his own small, firm hand through it. Snoil’s arm was pleasantly smooth and cool, moist but not sticky. “Shall we join the fun?”

  The music enveloped them silkily even before Obi-Wan and Doolb Snoil had exited their sh
uttle car. Several hundred guests had already arrived. Most were human or humanoid, with a sprinkling of other sentient species among the bejeweled attendees. Many were in pairs or trios, although at least one clan-cluster hovered around the appetizers. Hospitality droids served food and drink at a prodigious rate. Only a handful were genuine X’Ting, Obi-Wan noted, although all the others wore the X’Ting masks. Respectful custom or ugly joke? He wasn’t at all certain.

  The masked and costumed attendees parted as Obi-Wan and Snoil moved forward. With polite nods and interested expressions, they let the two pass and suppressed their speculative whispers until the odd pair had gone by.

  The cream of Cestus’s society had turned out for this gathering, a glittering ensemble indeed. A multispecies band strummed varied wind and string instruments and at least one synthesizing keyboard, producing music that sounded much like the mating anthem of Alderaan’s Weaving clans, a perky melody that fairly demanded fancy footwork.

  As they entered his eyes found G’Mai Duris swiftly, performing some X’Tingian rhythmics reminiscent of the Alderaan Reel. The couples and trios performing the precision choreography stopped. The music stopped. All of the masked participants applauded the newcomers.

  If he was to assume that there was more than one meaning to everything that occurred here, then why had they chosen to welcome him in such an elaborate fashion? One answer came to mind: they hoped that elaborate displays would impress upon a galaxy-spanning traveler the idea that even here, on the Outer Rim, there was a civilization worth preserving.

  These smiles, these bows—they were sincere and hopeful. These Cestians wanted him to understand the fragile and lovely society that they had built up over the years, and it behooved him to open his heart to them. If he grasped their nature better, it might be easier to make crucial decisions, or devise appropriate tactics.