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

by Steven Barnes

  He hoped.

  So with that in mind, when Duris approached him with her mask held to her face, he took her arm with genuine pleasure. “Master Jedi,” she said. “It is such a delight that you could spare the time to join our little gathering.”

  “One could not travel halfway across the galaxy,” he said, “and not partake of Cestus’s famed hospitality.”

  Duris seemed to sparkle. Her immense intelligence and energy filled her considerable frame to bursting. She was the most vibrant and fully alive X’Ting he had yet encountered.

  A small crowd of dignitaries formed behind her, all masked, but some wearing costumes that actually concealed their profiles. “G’Mai,” one woman asked. “Please introduce us to our visitors.”

  “Of course,” Duris said. “Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi and Doolb Snoil of Coruscant, please meet the heads of the Five Families.” A short, slender man bowed. “Debbikin of research.” A half-faced X’Ting mask on the next woman’s imperious face did not disguise the elaborate makeup and tattooing of her lips. “Lady Por’Ten of energy.” The next man was tall and broad and pale, as if he had never seen the sun. “Kefka in manufacturing,” Duris said. Kefka was possibly human, with perhaps a bit of Kiffar mixed in by genetic splice. The next man’s blue skin proclaimed him of Wroonian extraction. “Llitishi of sales and marketing,” Duris proclaimed. The next in line was a slender X’Ting, one of perhaps five or six in the entire ballroom. “And my cousin Caiza Quill of mining.” He stood taller than Duris, almost level with Obi-Wan. Quill extended his right primary hand in a gesture of respect. He had a golden, stick-thin insectile body and vast faceted red eyes.

  Each bowed in turn. They made small talk. Then, expressing their eagerness to begin negotiations on the morrow, they retreated to allow the Jedi and Barrister Snoil to enjoy their evening.

  Duris led him onto the dance floor. “Are you familiar with the reel?” she asked.

  “More in theory than practice,” he said politely, momentarily wishing that a band of assassins might attack the party at this moment, giving him an excuse to decline.

  He was on the verge of begging off completely when he felt something. A sensation like a flux-wire brushing across his spine, and he knew that there was danger in this room. He glanced left and right, seeing nothing but dancers. Then—a glimpse, a silhouette on the far side of the room. A lithe, costumed figure. Male? Female? He wasn’t certain, and wasn’t even certain why his alarms had triggered. There appeared no obvious threat, but he wanted to be certain. Duris stood before him, waiting patiently for him to answer her implied request. Obi-Wan forced himself to smile. “Shall we experiment?”

  She laughed throatily and, he thought, with genuine mirth. He looked back over his shoulder. Barrister Snoil was surrounded by three masked females, one human, a Corthenian, and a Wookiee, who were engaging him in animated conversation. Good. Snoil’s torpid locomotion was a perfect excuse for declining dance, but at least he was pleasantly occupied.

  With that in mind, Obi-Wan extended his left hand, and she rested both primary and secondary right hands upon his forearm. He joined the line, took his place across from G’Mai Duris, and extended the tendrils of the Force.

  The band prompted them to enjoy Cestus’s own special dance variant. Even if the original form had been one as universal as the Alderaan Weaver’s Reel, they would have their own interpretations. And he knew that the guests were watching to see if he could adapt. This would tell them not only if he was of their social tribe, but how they might expect him to react in the future.

  Obi-Wan had dual obligations: to learn this dance as swiftly as possible, and to search out the elusive figure and determine why his senses were screaming at him. Something is wrong. Danger!

  There. White-smocked, deliberately genderless? Slipping between two humans and a native Cestian servant. Human? No. Extremely fluid in motion—

  Then Duris squeezed his arm. “Master Jedi! I had no idea that you were a courtier as well as warrior and diplomat. You dance superbly.”

  He chuckled to himself. For centuries, dance had been used at the Jedi Temple to facilitate rhythm and timing. On any world of the galaxy, when one found males or dominant females dancing, it was often a warrior art in disguise. Obi-Wan knew the movements of a dozen fierce and beautiful traditions.

  “I merely follow your lead, madam,” he said, smiling as he focused over her shoulder, seeking the elusive figure.

  Gone!

  The room swirled and Obi-Wan glided along with it, his Jedi reflexes and coordination drawing admiring glances almost at once.

  He remembered his childhood in the Temple. Master Yoda had devised so many ingenious ways to teach vital lessons. He remembered watching the great Jedi perform complex dance steps, admonishing his astonished young students to become “complete” movement artists. A warrior who cannot dance? Clumsy in both war and peace he is.

  At the very least, an ambassador who could not fumble his way through the Alderaan Reel was a poor ambassador, indeed.

  There was nothing suspicious to be seen, and in fact his sense of danger had faded, almost as if it had never been justified at all.

  “We’re all watching you, you know,” Duris whispered, coming closer. “Most have never seen an actual Jedi before.”

  Obi-Wan chuckled to himself and backed away from her as the music changed. He swirled and passed to the next lady in line, where the dance began anew.

  At the first opportunity he retired from the line, and on the pretext of seeking refreshment again scanned the entire room, from stalactites to stalagmites.

  Nothing.

  As if there had never been anything at all.

  Asajj Ventress hurried down the tunnel toward her waiting hovercar, discarding her X’Ting mask as she went. Fizzik awaited her there, in a chauffeur’s coat, and none of the guests trickling out of the ball paid them any attention.

  “Did you see him?” Fizzik asked.

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Of course,” she said. “He almost sensed me.” For months Count Dooku had taught her the Quy’Tek meditations. It was good to see the result. Her grin was as feral as a kraken’s fixed and meaningless smile. “Obi-Wan Kenobi.” She settled back into her seat and closed her eyes. “The game is mine.”

  “Wasn’t that very risky?” Fizzik said.

  She opened her eyes and gazed at him, perhaps wondering whether her pleasures would be best served by killing him here and now.

  “Life is risk,” she said, and then turned to watch the buildings flow past. For a moment her face assumed an unaccustomed softness as her thoughts deepened. “Perhaps death, as well.”

  At that, Fizzik fell silent.

  Ventress closed her eyes, laying plans.

  Jedi. She’d killed many Jedi, and yet did not hate them. Rather, she hated the fact that they had lost their way, that they had forgotten their true purpose in the world, becoming pawns of a corrupt and decadent Republic.

  While most Jedi were discovered in early infancy and raised in the Jedi Temple, Asajj Ventress had been discovered by Master Ky Narec on the desolate planet of Rattatak. An orphaned child starving in the wreckage of a war-torn city, Ventress had clung to anyone offering her hope, and over the next years came to worship the formidable Narec as a father figure. He had groomed the Force-strong child, uncovered and developed her potential. At that time she imagined that one day she might travel to Coruscant and stand before the Council, become part of the ancient Order.

  Then her Master was murdered. The Jedi Council, who had abandoned Ky Narec to his fate, now became the object of her blind rage. Consumed with vengeance, she became a destructive force beyond anything her Jedi Master could have dreamed.

  It was Count Dooku who discovered her on the Outer Rim. She had attacked him, been defeated and disarmed, but rather than slaying her he took her as an accomplice, completed her training, and set her feet on the proper path. It was Dooku to whom she owed total allegiance, as she owed nothing save death to t
he ruthless, corrupt Jedi.

  Yes. She had clashed with Jedi. Killed many. Faced Master Windu and come within a hairbreadth of defeating him. Faced Skywalker in battles they would both remember. Obi-Wan had escaped her hand twice, but would not again. This she swore by her allegiance to Dooku. This she swore by her dead Master Ky Narec.

  This she promised herself, purely for her own pleasure.

  Asajj Ventress’s closed eyelids fluttered, and her pink mouth curved upward in a smile.

  26

  The Jedi and his Vippit companion had retired to their shared quarters, but G’Mai Duris was still attending to her ball guests as the music slowed and the lights came up, signaling the evening’s end.

  She stood at the door, bidding farewell to her guests, when Caiza Quill and his partner Sabit appeared. A few months before, it had been Quill who had been the green-eyed female, Sabit the male, but even then Quill had been intimidating. At his weakest, he was more intimidating than Duris was at her strongest. Now, at his most aggressive, the weight of his pheromones was almost overwhelming.

  He leaned over her, exuding his scent. “Don’t think that I don’t know you’re trying to cultivate the Jedi as an ally,” he said. “Don’t think for a moment that I will tolerate that. Remember what happened to Filian.”

  She stiffened. How could she forget? Not five years before, Quill and her mate Filian had engaged in a formal combat, what the X’Ting called “going to the sand.” And there, before the council, the lethal Quill had slain her love. If she lived to a thousand, she would never forget the sight.

  “Do not weaken,” he said. “Do not waver. Or you will suffer.”

  And then he was gone.

  G’Mai Duris bid the rest of her guests farewell and took her shuttle back to her apartment. She had loved Filian completely. As they had spiraled through the eternal dance of male and female, each moment and way of being had been, in its turn, exquisite.

  But he had died before the fertilization dance could begin. So childless, alone with her empty egg sac, she rocked in the darkness, tears of terror and loneliness slicking her faceted emerald eyes.

  27

  As the new recruits practiced their maneuvers, Nate watched, noted, and made adjustments in this obstacle course or that targeting range. Forry approached him at an easy trot, the sort of pace that a common man would find exhausting in ten minutes, and a trooper could continue all day long.

  “Sir!” the commando said, saluting smartly. “More recruits arrive.”

  “How many?”

  Forry smiled with satisfaction. “Two dozen, sir!”

  Nate felt a warm flush. This was exactly the kind of news he had hoped for. “We’ll make a fight of this yet,” he said.

  Nate was well satisfied with what he saw, and was moving the intensity up a notch when Sheeka approached behind him.

  “So?” she asked. “What do you think?”

  He was pleased to realize that he felt confident to intuit her meaning.

  “Not too bad,” he said. “Farm boys and deep miners, but they can take orders.”

  “They’re tough folk,” Sheeka said. “A lot of them think it’s time to fight.”

  “And you?”

  “I just fly,” she said.

  “You might do just fine,” he said. “Strong legs and back, good reflexes. You might think about signing up.”

  She laughed. “No experience. And experience counts.” Then she glanced at him. “On the other hand, you weren’t always the old battle-scarred veteran, were you?”

  Nate shook his head. Then with a slight smile, he added, “True. But our simulations are … quite stimulating.” He moved his shoulders a bit, rolling out the stiffness and remembering Vondar-3.

  “I’m sure they are,” she said.

  He watched as the training droid’s arms flexed in multiple directions, giving each recruit the motivation he or she needed to excel. “They are eager enough—but they’d have their heads handed to them by experienced troops, or battle droids.”

  “I’ve watched you with them,” she said. “I think the four of you are just the man for the job.”

  For a moment he thought that she had misspoken herself, then realized that her straight face was only being maintained with effort. She laughed out loud.

  Nate felt his own lips twitching, understanding her joke, and that even though it was at his expense, he appreciated it.

  “Yes, we are,” he said.

  With that, he left her and went down to take a more personal hand in the training. It was not entirely lost on him that he squared his shoulders just a little more rigidly, that he moved a bit faster in demonstrating unarmed combat moves, that he was a hair more alert, because he knew Sheeka was watching. And although he felt a bit absurd for it, at the same time he enjoyed her attention, and hoped that she would be there when the day was done.

  28

  In ChikatLik, diplomatic operations proceeded at a glacial pace. Snoil spent the mornings and much of the afternoons poring over contracts, and finally twined his eye stalks in frustration. “Ah! I’ve lost ten years’ growth on my shell,” he whined. “Have you seen these?”

  “What?” asked Obi-Wan, who was working to establish secure communications with Coruscant. This necessitated linking through Xutoo at their docked ship. So far, a solar storm seemed to have distorted the link.

  “The little cracks and fissures here where the new chitin is forming.” Snoil craned his long neck to look back at his flat shell’s attractive curls and swoops. In truth, he was accurate: there were new cracks where the thinnest, newest shell segments should have been forming.

  “Ah, yes, I see,” Obi-Wan said, distracted. “What does it mean?”

  Snoil’s eye stalks coiled in distress. “Stress! Stress, I tell you.”

  “Well, I don’t want to add to your burden …”

  “Oh, please …”

  The hololink suddenly cleared, and Supreme Chancellor Palpatine floated in the air before him. Snoil immediately quieted.

  “Chancellor,” Obi-Wan said.

  “My Jedi friend. What news have you?”

  “I believe that the Regent is of good heart, but fears for her life if she acts her conscience.”

  “And what do you think her conscience would dictate?”

  “That which is best for all Cestus: suspension of manufacture.”

  “Then what is the problem?”

  “I believe the real power is in a group called the Five Families, owners of Cestus Cybernetics. And they think of little save profit.”

  “Then you may need to take matters to the next level. I believe you were given reliable contacts. Have you used them?”

  “I believe Master Fisto has met with one. I meet with the other tonight.”

  “I wish you fortune, Master Kenobi. Remember: little time remains, if we would avert disaster.”

  “Yes, sir,” Obi-Wan said, but before he could speak further the Chancellor was gone.

  He sighed, turning to Snoil. “Barrister,” he said. “If you had a wish list of … secure documents, what would be at the top?”

  Doolb moaned. “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I say?”

  “The truth.”

  His eye stalks twined around each other. “I think I would ask for the original papers of incorporation and land purchase. And, oh—the purchase orders themselves between Cestus Cybernetics and Count Dooku or his intermediaries.”

  “Will do.” He slapped Snoil’s shell with the flat of his hand. “If anyone asks, just tell them I’m sampling the native cuisine,” he said. “Take care.”

  And with that, Obi-Wan left their suite.

  Obi-Wan was able to slip into an empty room down the hall, and from there to exit through a window unmonitored by the security forces which doubtless kept a long-distance view of all his activities.

  He climbed up to the roof and rode a service chute down to the street, landing in an alleyway with his knees slightly bent, cushioning the shock. Three
steps and he blended with the crowd, none of whom took the slightest notice of him.

  Obi-Wan had heard of other planets that had begun as prison colonies, but never actually visited one. He was heartened by the overwhelming sense of energy and aliveness. Everywhere he looked the streets were filled with milling, thronging offworlders. Although there were only a smattering of X’Ting citizens to be seen, the city did remind him of a hive colony. Commerce was conducted every minute of the day, and every being he passed was trading in one way or another. One out of ten shops was boarded up, but the others buzzed with a frantic sense of activity, as if dancing on the edge of a precipice. How many Cestians understood the game her masters were playing? Even if without conscious awareness, these people seemed a little too bright and aware. This was nervousness, not exuberance.

  He hailed one of the cheaper, older air taxis, figuring that they were less likely to be tied into the surveillance grid. Even if they were, technically speaking he was doing nothing illegal or that would overtly damage his mission. The driver’s taxi holocard read GRITT CHIPPLE. Gritt was X’Ting, with the red thoracic fur indicating descent from a lower hive clan. “Your destination?” Gritt inquired.

  “The Night Shade.” Gritt Chippie flinched. Clearly, he knew the Night Shade, and was not entirely happy to travel there.

  “Hard credits,” Obi-Wan added, and offered the little X’Ting some Cestian chits. The driver’s red eyes lit up. The chits were onplanet and therefore easier to change, and not tied into the galactic credit grid like the Republic chits. Untraceable. Avarice overwhelmed fear. “Aye,” he said, and they zipped away.

  “You Jedi?”

  Obi-Wan nodded. He was not disguised, but had hoped that he might avoid notice.

  “Then I heard of you. You wan’ ride back from Night Shade?”

  “That might be good, yes.”

  The little one made a spitting sound that Obi-Wan interpreted as pleasure. “Then I wait for you. You be careful. Sometimes offworlders not safe.” Another spitting sound. “Sir.”