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

by Steven Barnes

  But always, always, preserving and attending to breathing, motion, and alignment.

  When he was done they were sweaty but exhilarated, and begged for more.

  “No,” he said. “That is enough for one day. Just remember: the point, the value is not in the exercises, or not exclusively there. The greatest value is in transitioning between one exercise and the next. All life is movement between states, between moments. Work to make every moment a symphony of these three aspects. Evolve into your excellence. Use external tasks merely to test your integration and clarity. That is the road to becoming an exceptional warrior.”

  43

  In the innermost chambers of ChikatLik city, negotiations had moved into new and higher gear. Few in the capital knew anything but rumors: Five Family executives had been kidnapped, payrolls hijacked, transports destroyed, power stations sabotaged. The general mood suggested change, and major change at that. Things had been quieter than usual in the public section of Trillot’s lair, and back in her private chambers a pall had descended over the usual revelry.

  It was late now, and barely a sound could be heard in the entire twisting, turning nest of catacombs.

  Trillot rested on her couch, puffing from one of her pipes, attempting to self-medicate. Accelerating the shift from male to female was a touchy process: this fungus to relieve stress, and that leaf to eliminate fatigue. Another to stabilize her mood. However unpleasant, Trillot found this preferable to the monthlong fertility period as the cycle went from male to female. A time of almost overwhelmingly volatile emotions, X’Ting traditionally sealed themselves in their quarters for this period, preferably with a mate.

  No such isolation for Trillot! She had been awake for four days now, and although her system would eventually crash, necessitating thirty hours of coma-like slumber, for now she managed to keep the worst of it at bay. Meanwhile, spies brought her information from all over the city. She filtered it, deciding what was actionable and what she should pass on to Ventress, who had her own mysterious sources. The holovid she had asked Trillot to pass to Quill, for instance …

  Still, Snoil’s discovery of the entire synthstone business was disturbing. Even with their new information, this century-old folly was the ultimate wild card. Who knew what the Jedi might do with such leverage? The sooner Kenobi was dead, the better.

  These musings might have been enough to disrupt her sleep cycle, but there was more: her growing need to lurk outside Ventress’s bed chamber. Invariably, the experience left her trembling.

  Trillot was grateful for the narcotic currents coursing through her blood. What might have been profoundly disturbing in a more sober mood seemed merely a matter of curiosity. Strange. When she chose, Ventress appeared able to shield herself from the most powerful Jedi. But she had such contempt for Trillot that she allowed her ugliest dreams to seep from her sleeping mind.

  Trillot took another puff and closed her emerald eyes. Instead of darkness, a fantasy of fire and blood repeated itself again and again.

  Warships rose.

  Towers fell.

  The Republic might dissolve, the Separatists trigger a wave of secession that washed through the entire galaxy. Consideration of profits, however enormous, might soon be moot. As might survival itself.

  “Fire and blood,” she whispered.

  The council chambers had been locked in verbal turmoil for long hours when Obi-Wan entered. He very nearly smiled. Since the subterranean kidnapping and “battle,” the major subject of conversation was not whether they should acquiesce to the Republic’s request, but rather how they could most swiftly comply.

  This he knew even though he had not been present. A Jedi had means. Especially a Jedi with solid Republic credits to spread around.

  “Yes, I was called?”

  Snoil sat at the circular conference table across from the executives, half a dozen holodocs floating around his head. He gestured to Obi-Wan. “We’ve had a breakthrough. They’ve decided to meet the Chancellor’s terms.”

  A vast relief. The sooner he put this distasteful situation behind him, the better. “Excellent.”

  The immense room was filled wall to circular wall with representatives of the Five Families. And not just the executives who claimed the top slots—there were three dozen or more lower-tier Cestus Cybernetics executives thronging the room, poring over their holodocs, arguing and proposing. They added signatures and thumbprints on the touch-screens for instant upload to legal computers all over Cestus, and from there broadcast to Coruscant for instant verification.

  The air before Obi-Wan flickered, and a holodoc appeared. He turned to Snoil. “This meets your approval?”

  He noticed the crinkles of exhaustion on the Vippit’s stubby arms, and realized that Snoil must have found the past days of negotiation grueling. “Absolutely.”

  Obi-Wan signed as the Republic’s representative, and felt vastly satisfied. He and Duris shared a smile. “I assume that when the Supreme Chancellor reads the contract, he will approve. But barring some problem on that end, I believe that we have come to an agreement.”

  “And not a moment too soon, Master Jedi,” she said.

  One of Duris’s lawyers put a datapad in front of him. “And now, Master Kenobi, we need your signature on the following documents—”

  Suddenly and without formal announcement Quill entered the chamber, waving a rectangular holocard above his head as if it contained the secrets of the universe. His faceted eyes gleamed.

  “Wait! Hold the proceedings! Do not thumb that holodoc.”

  Duris stared at Quill with suspicion. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Better we ask the Jedi the meaning of this.” He placed the card in a datapad, smirking with triumph. An instantly recognizable image sprang into the air. It was not taken from a standard security cam—those had all been disabled down in the tunnels. It was, rather, an image taken by some unseen person who had reached the site even before Kenobi had arrived.

  Obi-Wan’s gut churned sourly. How had this happened? And how had the unknown observer concealed his or her presence?

  To these questions, he had no answers at all. He did, however, know what was about to appear, and realized that total disaster was at hand.

  Floating on the player’s projection field was the image of a Desert Wind fighter. A battle ensued between Jedi and rebel, revealed very clearly from this angle to be a mockery, a fraud, with a lightsaber passing a quarter meter broad of the target. The kidnapper fell down and flapped his arms theatrically. Obi-Wan “attacked” another, this battle even more obviously staged. The mood in the room had grown frigid. No one made a sound.

  This was disaster beyond belief. The mission was utterly compromised, had perhaps been from the beginning. His unknown adversary had waited until the worst possible moment to sabotage him.

  Obi-Wan could think of nothing to say.

  “I understand now,” Lady Por’Ten said, “how the Jedi have attained their impressive reputations.”

  G’Mai Duris stood, her secondary arms fidgeting nervously, her golden flesh gone pale with rage. Her immense form trembled as if in the throes of an avalanche. “You will leave. Immediately,” she said.

  His mind had stuttered, searching for a way out of the trap, for some explanation, however ineffectual. “G’Mai—” he began.

  She had drawn herself fully to her most impressive height, her bulk radiating power. “That is Regent Duris.” Her voice cut like an arctic wind. “You Jedi. What you cannot win by diplomacy you seek to gain by fear. And if not that, fraud.” She colored a bit at that last word.

  He shucked all pretense and tried to speak as directly as he could, knowing that all was lost. “If negotiations will not come to a positive conclusion, war will touch your shores.”

  “It already has,” said Duris, wings fluttering with distress. She was in an impossible position, whatever personal gratitude she might feel for him neutralized by his perfidy. “There has already been destruction, and bet
rayal, and the death of hope. If that is not war, I do not understand the concept.” She was trembling with rage and something more … fear.

  Her next words emerged low and hoarse. “I trusted you. Trusted …” Then Duris collected herself. “Go. While you can.”

  Obi-Wan bowed low, his eyes sweeping the room. His eyes met Quill’s, who didn’t bother to conceal his venomous sense of triumph.

  From what unseen corner had the blow been struck? He left, and after a moment Snoil followed him out. His last image was of G’Mai Duris on her throne. One of the most terrible things in this was not the war that threatened, not even the humiliation. It was the personal damage he had done to a good person, someone who had believed in him. She, more than anyone, understood what was at stake, and that she sat in the midst of a web of deceit. And now he had left her with no one to trust. No one at all.

  44

  Initially Trillot was nervous as Ventress swept into her chambers, but as soon as she saw her visitor’s mood, the X’Ting relaxed. “So. It is ended? The Jedi leaves?”

  Despite her scathingly cold smile, Ventress shook her head. “He’ll try to return. I know him.”

  “I tell you that my spies—”

  “See with their eyes,” she said with contempt. “The Families will make their move now. Quill has informed them that if Kenobi broadcasts his information to Palpatine, Cestus Cybernetics is done. I think we can trust them to be suitably … definitive in response.”

  Murdering a Jedi? What in the brood’s name had Trillot gotten herself into? Too late to complain now … nothing to do but ride it out. Trillot cursed the day she had agreed to help the Confederacy, the day she had betrayed the Jedi. Bantha muck. While she was at it, why not simply curse the day she was hatched? That was, in the final analysis, more to the point.

  45

  No honor guard appeared at the spaceport to see Obi-Wan and Doolb Snoil away. Considering the hash he had made of his attempts at diplomacy, the Jedi was glad to be allowed to leave at all.

  The guards who escorted him to the spaceport said not a word until they actually reached the site. One of them turned as if to speak, then paused, looking down at the ground. He walked away, shaking his head.

  Obi-Wan walked up the landing ramp into the Republic transport ship. Behind him, Snoil shuffled along with only the slightest of slime trails on the track. “Obi-Wan,” he said plaintively. “What happened?”

  “I am not certain, my friend,” he said, and as the door closed behind him, he strapped himself in. His mind was still far away. Something was wrong, had been wrong since his arrival. No. Not then. But things had disintegrated soon after. What had been the trigger? He did not know. Blast! If only he knew the source of the incriminating holo! He turned to the lawyer. “On Coruscant,” he said, “tell all that you know. You performed well. Whatever fault exists is mine—” He paused, the vaguest of suspicions forming in the back of his mind. “Or perhaps—”

  “What?”

  Obi-Wan sighed. “I don’t know, but I felt something. From the beginning, there have been factors beyond my understanding. I have missed something, and that blunder made all the difference.”

  “Oh dear,” Snoil said. “All of that planning and work. I never dreamed things could go so wrong.”

  Obi-Wan shook his head, but said nothing. He had no words to comfort his distraught friend. This was, in every possible way, a complete disaster.

  As soon as Xutoo made the basic preparations, the ship lifted off. As it rose, Obi-Wan turned to Snoil. “I’ve made my decision,” he said. “It is no longer safe for you on Cestus. You will go, but I must stay. My job here isn’t finished. I’m going to join Master Fisto.”

  Snoil’s eyestalks trembled with amazement as the Jedi began a checklist of preparations for jettisoning an escape pod. “But you were told to leave! It was a direct request, and any deviation would be a violation of Code Four-Nine-Seven Point Eight—”

  “I’ve gone a little too far to be worried about such niceties,” he said. “We have other mynocks to slice.” He managed a smile. “Good-bye, Doolb. You’re a good friend. Go home now. There’s no more work for a barrister here.”

  “But … sir!”

  Obi-Wan turned to Xutoo and gripped his shoulder. “Get him home safely.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  And so saying, Obi-Wan pressed a series of switches, and the capsule sealed. It seemed to sink into the wall behind it. A moment later there was a light shoosh sound, and the Jedi was gone.

  The ship had just crested the upper atmosphere, making the transition to vacuum. Ground-based and orbiting scanners tracked every ship exiting or leaving, but at this point, where the two sets of data overlapped, it was easiest to cloak activity.

  A red warning light blinked in front of him, indicating that the emergency system was about to begin its instructional sequence. Obi-Wan disabled it: the computer voice would merely be a distraction. He intended to pilot the craft by skill and instinct. The escape capsule had both manual and automatic settings, and could maneuver its way to a ground beacon, but Obi-Wan dared not allow its repulsors to fire too quickly: their radiation would be too easily detected.

  So he plummeted, counting on the capsule’s heat shielding and primitive aerodynamics, tweaking the glide angle slightly as he headed down toward the Dashta Mountains.

  He had to time this very, very carefully, waiting until he was low enough that his appearance on the scanner wouldn’t be connected with a disgraced diplomat’s transport. Let them think his capsule was merely an unlicensed pleasure craft.

  As Obi-Wan counted off the seconds, the heat became more and more oppressive. Crash foam, doubling as insulation, billowed up shoulder-high in protection. As the temperature of the outermost layer of shielding climbed to thousands of degrees, he was sobered to realize that he was dropping blind, his fate entrusted to the unknown pod technicians. He hated that dependence even more than he disliked flying, far preferring to trust his own profound connection to the Force. But there was no avoiding it. This time, he had to trust.

  It was time. His fingers found the repulsor button and …

  Nothing happened.

  As the ground raced toward him he watched the altimeter, fighting a surge of panic. Something was wrong. His metal tomb hurtled toward the ground at such speed that, if it struck, they wouldn’t retrieve enough midi-chlorians to enlighten a Jedi amoeba.

  Obi-Wan struggled to reach his lightsaber, the mushy thick foam filling the capsule making every effort a struggle. When he finally wrapped his hands around the silver handle, he angled it away from his body and triggered the blade. Foam smoldered. Sparks and smoke erupted in the narrow, cramped confines. The capsule juddered, wind beginning to peel away the external shielding beginning at the point where the lightsaber beam had damaged its aerodynamics. Critical seconds dragged past as the external layers sloughed away. But he’d achieved the desired effect: the repulsors’ trigger circuits ran through the capsule’s skin, very near his shoulder. If he couldn’t send a signal by pushing a button, the lightsaber’s energy field might power that circuit more directly.

  Nothing happened. All right, then … a few centimeters to the left.

  He tried again, burning a second hole in the capsule. More of the outer shielding peeled away, but luckily, this time the circuit fired.

  One huge jolt, and then another. Blessedly, the damaged external shielding shucked away clean. The capsule parted like two halves of a nut shell, and Obi-Wan was in a thin, transparent, winged capsule. Wind whistled through the lightsaber holes, but the inner life-support capsule, constructed of a nearly indestructible cocooned monofilament, held together better than the external shell.

  After the first few moments, air flowed freely. Watching pieces of metal flipping away around him, Obi-Wan held his breath as the automatic repulsor circuits took the capsule into a smooth glide path. A few rough moments, and then he was sailing in a long, shallow unpowered arc. His descent began to slow. The
wind howled against the outside skin. Below him, the desert floor was an endless stretch of brown and dull green spots. Far ahead, visible only as darker wrinkles beneath the cloud cover, lay the Dashta Mountains. In minutes he’d be close enough to see ground detail. Minutes to think, and plan, and allow his disappointment to simmer into pure energy. Obi-Wan watched a chunk of pod skin flipping away around him. Other chunks turned end-over-end, tumbling away from him. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if a blip showed up on a scanner. Not necessarily a had thing, he thought. If there is someone behind this, and if they damaged my escape pod, then they might be scanning the sky. If they see the metal debris, they might just conclude that their plot worked …

  Whoever they are. And whatever they want.

  Doolb Snoil watched the display as their ship rose, freeing itself of Cestus’s gravitational pull. Once free, it paused as the nav computers plotted their jump to hyperspace. He already missed his friend Obi-Wan, and was formulating an explanation to the Chancellor. What would he say? Was there any way to cast this disaster in a favorable light? He doubted it, but …

  Xutoo’s voice disturbed his reverie. “Ah, sir, we may have a problem.” There was an edge of something Snoil understood all too well in that voice: controlled panic.

  “Problem? Problem? Master Kenobi promised there would be no problem!”

  “I don’t think he took that into consideration, sir.”

  “What?”

  From a point between Cestus’s two moons, a small ship approached them, bearing in like a bird of prey. It was small and black, with an ominously spare design that said it was built for pure practicality. A war drone. A hunter-killer.

  Mind working at fevered overdrive, Snoil managed to rationalize the ship’s presence. Perhaps it’s just visiting Cestus, and has mistakenly aligned its flight path with our departure point—