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

by Steven Barnes

  But despite the problems, without really saying a specific word, the Zantay Hills fungus farmers were offering Jangotat something he had never really had: not merely a bunk, but a home. Sheeka’s stepdaughter Tonoté came to sit at his other side, her red hair ruffled by the noon breeze blowing in off the desert.

  “Where will you go after?” Tonoté asked in her disarmingly fragile voice.

  “After what?”

  “After you stop being a soldier. Where will you go? Where is your home?”

  “The GAR is my home.”

  She leaned her small head against his shoulder. “But when you stop fighting. Where will you go?” Strangely, those words seemed to resonate in his mind. Where will you go …?

  You ’re not intended to “go” anywhere. You will die where you are told.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Why had he lied? The greatest wish of a trooper is to die in service.

  Isn’t it? The possibility of another fate had never really occurred to him. The clones hadn’t existed long enough for any of them to wither in their premature fashion, or retire … whatever that might mean to a being with such a truncated life span.

  There was simply no precedent.

  Tarl looked up at him adoringly, and Tonoté bent her long graceful neck to lean her little head against Jangotat’s shoulder. Sheeka watched from the window, smiled secretively, then closed the shutters again.

  69

  Sandstorms raged the next day, followed by one of Cestus’s brief, violent rains. It tamped down the dust but also created a canopy of dark, heavy clouds. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, and through much of the morning Jangotat wandered the muddy streets alone, seeking he knew not what. Something. Some understanding of these people that continued to elude him. They watched him as they flowed among the stone houses, and were friendly enough, but treated him as what he was: someone who was just passing through. Just on his way to somewhere else. The deepest smiles and sweetest laughter were confined to those who would stay, or might return.

  He was neither.

  Late that evening, news reached Sheeka that contact had been made with Desert Wind. Jangotat made his tearful good-byes with the village, and Sheeka’s children. He longed to return to the dashta cave to make another, equally difficult farewell, but intuition told him the request would be presumptuous. It was he who had been presented to the dashtas, not they to him. Their lair was a secret, and a risk had been taken even bringing him there. He could not, would not, ask for more.

  Sheeka took him to a neutral landing site, where a few minutes later a two-person speeder bike appeared, piloted by Desert Wind’s youngest member.

  “How are things going, Skot?” Sheeka asked.

  OnSon’s mouth managed to twist into the vestige of a smile. “We’re regrouped, and that’s more than I would have expected a week ago. It’s all right, except for Thak Val Zsing.”

  She started. “What of him?”

  OnSon sneered. “He betrayed us. I’m not sure what happened, but the old man lost it. He knew those killer droids were coming. Instead of warning us, he saved his own hide. Pretty messed up.” He looked at Jangotat. “Well. I didn’t really expect to see you up and around so soon.”

  Jangotat shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of help from …” He glanced at Sheeka, who shook her head subtly. “Friends.”

  “Friends are good to have,” OnSon said.

  Sheeka Tull’s beautiful dark face was calm and impassive. “Will I see you again?” she asked Jangotat quietly.

  “I don’t know.” Finally, the truth.

  She rested her head against his chest and pounded it softly with closed fists. “I don’t know why I do this to myself,” she said in a small voice. “I just have this soft place in my head for you strong, quiet, self-contained types.”

  His arms, arms that could not protect her, enfolded her small, wiry frame. “Don’t you mean a soft place in my heart?” he whispered into her hair.

  She glanced up at him, a hint of mischief lightening her face. “I meant exactly what I said.”

  Then Jangotat surprised himself, leaning down to kiss her thoroughly, without any concern for what OnSon or anyone else might see or think.

  And then he left. As the speeder bike raced on, he looked back at the dwindling, dust-blown figure of Sheeka Tull, intuiting that he would never see her again, but not knowing exactly what that might mean for either of them.

  70

  By roundabout routes young OnSon brought Jangotat back to the new camp. It was set up in an abandoned mine in a tumbled range of hills, completely overgrown and impossible to approach without being seen. He immediately approved of the location, and wished that they had found one as good before their first disaster. Such foresight might-have spared some of the spider clan.

  After hiding the speeder they moved through rocky overhangs—mindful of the possibility of spy satellites—and he was led into the cave.

  His surviving brothers welcomed him, of course. Memory of what had happened just prior to his injury was muzzy, but according to all accounts he had acquitted himself well.

  Crouching in the rocks at the outskirts of the camp lurked old Thak Val Zsing. Where before he seemed merely gray-bearded and a bit tired, now he was elderly. Derelict. Broken, a shadow of the boastful and boisterous man he had been just days before. The other members of Desert Wind avoided him like the plague, and twice he saw men spit into the dust at his feet. In a single unthinking instant, Thak Val Zsing had obliterated a lifetime of courage.

  Honor. Such a fragile thing.

  Jangotat spent hours exploring the new environs, familiarizing himself with the escape routes, and getting caught up on all the logistics. He was briefed on Obi-Wan’s JK encounter and the Clandes plant’s temporary closing.

  All those losses, and the near death of General Kenobi, and all that had been accomplished was a temporary shutdown. This was 10 percent.

  “What have you heard?” he asked Forry.

  “Word is General Kenobi still hasn’t got an uplink. Must be ready to pop.”

  “So … no news on the Clone Wars?”

  “None. Anything could be happening up there. Out there.” Forry shook his head. “This is about as ten percent as it gets.”

  Late that night a shuttle landed at the western pad, disgorging the two Jedi without fanfare or fuss. Obi-Wan and Kit slipped through the camouflaged Cave mouth and were immediately briefed by the clone commandos and brought up to date on all that had happened in their absence. Then the Jedi went off to a small side cave they had taken as their own lodging, and made preparations for sleep.

  Kit noticed an odd quietude about Obi-Wan, but his companion decided to speak before the Nautolan could inquire into his mood. “I remember her words, Kit.”

  “Whose words?”

  “G’Mai Duris. She warned me that this could turn into a no-win scenario, one where I might well fail to prevent the destruction of an entire, peaceful people.”

  Kit stirred the fire with his stick. Sparks circled up into the air. “Then we mustn’t fail. By the Thousand Tides, there must be a way.”

  “Yes,” Obi-Wan said, and managed a smile. “But knowing it, and saying it, is not the same as finding it.”

  71

  Anxious but loath to reveal the extent of his anxiety, Obi-Wan watched as Sirty struggled to repair their damaged equipment. After heroic exertions the trooper had managed to conceal a message on a tight-beamed commercial fertilizer order from Resta’s Kibo Lake farm, but he doubted they would be able to use that particular trick again. The forces arrayed against them were powerful, and clever indeed. The only safe thing to do was assume that no more than a single message could be sent or received in any single route.

  Sirty’s comlink squawked to life. “We have it, sir!”

  “Luck?” Obi-Wan asked.

  “Perseverance. I was able to tap into one of the backup circuits. Military equipment has built-in redundancy.”

  “Splendid.”


  Obi-Wan took his position as the communications equipment fired up. Within seconds he received an image of a male Falleen tech at a distant relay station.

  The high-collared, emerald-skinned hologram image raised an eyebrow. “I do not recognize your communications protocols.”

  “Automatic authentication has been damaged,” he said, and then provided a coded series of words, concluding with: “—This is Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight, on Republic business. Provide a link and you will be rewarded.”

  “Very well.”

  After six minutes of static Obi-Wan learned that his first choice, Master Yoda, was unavailable, in the field supervising an operation. He made a swift decision, changed his access codes, and Palpatine himself appeared. “Chancellor?”

  The politician’s wise and weathered face creased with pleasure. “Master Kenobi. The Council and I had begun to worry.”

  “There is cause,” the Jedi admitted. “Not all has gone well.”

  “Explain, please.”

  Obi-Wan took a deep breath and then proceeded. “Cestus is not an obscure planet producing a dangerous machine. It seems to be at the center of an invisible game board. Count Dooku has infiltrated deeply, focusing unforeseen resources here.”

  “To what end?” The Chancellor’s deep, resonant voice was calming.

  “To the end that my mission was compromised, and that we are forced to hide. We strike at the infrastructure when possible.”

  The Chancellor brooded before answering. “Do you expect this tactic to be successful?”

  “I do not know. But I request more time to try.”

  The Chancellor shook his head. “We need results, General Kenobi. I intend to assign a supercruiser to assist you.”

  Obi-Wan’s heart sped up. “But sir, don’t you think—”

  “I think that a warship positioned in orbit around Cestus would make them a bit more mindful, don’t you?”

  “But the Confederacy will use it as an excuse to counterattack with their own ships, and claim that they were merely protecting an innocent planet against Republic aggression.”

  “Well then, you had better resolve the situation before those ships arrive, hadn’t you?”

  The Chancellor terminated the transmission.

  Obi-Wan seethed. There it was. First “a ship” and then “before the ships arrive.” The Chancellor was sending a not-so-subtle message: if Count Dooku interfered, Palpatine would be happy to humble him. In fact, considering their problem in getting Confederacy forces to expose themselves, Obi-Wan wondered if this entire affair might not have been a feint, a mere drawing thrust, designed specifically to provoke an aggressive response.

  But no. If he thought that, the next thought, the very next thought was to wonder if Palpatine was capable of sacrificing all of their lives in exchange for victory …

  Despite his distrust of politicians, he did not, could not believe this.

  But if he did, what then?

  And if he could not resolve this, death could come in any of a dozen ways: slain by friendly fire, by security guards, by military bombardment …

  Or even at the unseen hands of their mysterious adversary.

  By sunrise the next day it was once again time to organize themselves into a cohesive unit. With Nate’s return, Obi-Wan sensed a chance to increase their efficiency.

  Plus … Obi-Wan sensed that something had happened to the soldier. While he had certainly healed his flesh and bone, even more interesting were the apparent changes in his psyche.

  “Jangotat, where exactly were you?” he asked the prodigal trooper when he first gave his abbreviated report.

  “I don’t know the exact location, sir, and I’d rather not convey that data.” A pause, followed by a swiftly added, “Unless the general insists, of course. Are you insisting, sir?”

  “No,” Obi-Wan said, after thinking carefully. “I assume you would relate anything of interest or concern to this operation.”

  “Affirmative, sir,” Jangotat answered, and returned to cleaning his weapons.

  That had been almost twenty hours earlier. Now Obi-Wan watched the troopers practicing unarmed combat among themselves, throws and holds and short, chopping blows with the side of the fist. Nothing fancy, but all with professional form and intensity, combined with an adequate knowledge of the interior targets. This was not merely demonstration, although recruits were watching. Nor was it merely exercise, although by the time they were finished all were sopping with sweat.

  No, he intuited that this was a diagnostic activity, a way for the troopers to assure themselves that every member of their ranks was up to Code in every conceivable manner.

  And he detected something else, as well—a sense of fluidity and grace in motion a little surprising to see from a mass-produced warrior. If he was not mistaken …

  Yes. There was a hip feint flowing into a heel kick, a storing of elastic energy in the muscles and tendons that be-spoke some small amount of more advanced training. In fact, he guessed that he knew exactly where they had obtained such knowledge.

  “Excuse me,” he said when they had finished an intense engagement. “I seem to recognize some elements of Jedi Flow drills. Has Master Fisto been instructing you?”

  They looked both pleased and embarrassed, and Obi-Wan realized they had been showing off for him.

  “Yes. A little. Just some basics, of course,” Forry added hurriedly, as if worried Obi-Wan might be offended.

  He laughed. “No, please. That’s fine. But … with your permission, might I join for a few falls?”

  Sputtering their delight, the troopers spread out as Obi-Wan stepped into the ring and faced off with Jangotat.

  He knew that the man would be strong, quick, and well trained. The additional flow was a beautiful thing to feel, and Obi-Wan allowed the engagement to continue for several minutes. It was just a game, of course, with the intent to shift and adjust dynamic balance, not merely overwhelm the opponent. What he hadn’t anticipated was the clone’s capacity for subtlety and improvisation. And his sensitivity to slight changes in pressure and speed was excellent.

  Obi-Wan tested his theory, playing with the other commandos, one after another. They were skilled, and fluid, but … Jangotat had something else. Emotional empathy. Insight. More of an ability to imagine what his opponent might have been thinking or feeling. It was hard to believe that the man had been wounded only a few days before. Where had he gone? What had he done?

  Obi-Wan faced Jangotat. “Let’s take this up a notch. First fall?”

  Jangotat nodded, setting himself.

  The two engaged, with Jangotat making the first aggressive move. Obi-Wan balanced the incoming force with a finely judged sidestep and pivot. When the dust cleared the captain was on the ground, neatly confined in a Juzzian arm-lock, nerve-pincercd at wrist and elbow. Obi-Wan stood with one foot on Jangotat’s shoulder, twisting and stimulating the nerves until Jangotat slapped the ground in surrender.

  He thanked them for the exercise, and had turned to walk away when the trooper hailed him. “Master Kenobi!”

  Obi-Wan stopped and waited for the soldier to catch up with him. “Yes?”

  “I—” He was about to say something, but then withheld it at the last moment. “We are greatly inferior to you.”

  That wasn’t what he had been about to say. Nonetheless, Obi-Wan responded to it. The last minutes of combat had taught him valuable things about the ARC trooper, all of them positive. “No! No! You are courageous, coordinated, tenacious … qualities anyone would admire.” He smiled. “Qualities I admire.” Obi-Wan sighed in exasperation. Something had awakened within the ARC trooper. Where ordinarily Obi-Wan would have celebrated that awakening of individual spirit, however, if the trooper sensed that Obi-Wan might be an ally in finding his individual truth, that revelation could hardly have been more inopportune than it was now.

  In another week they might all be dead. Still, it made no sense not to do what he could to comfort a troubled
soul. Finally, he asked the question he had long thought, and knew the official answer to, but had never dwelled upon. “I know that troopers are obedient to a fault. But in your heart, do you ever question orders?”

  Jangotat’s shoulders squared so swiftly that the posture could only have been a programmed response. “Soldiers do not question. Soldiers obey.” He paused, and Obi-Wan had the sense that the trooper’s mask had been dropped. This was a different man from the one who had originally taken ship with them. “Don’t they?”

  There was a question behind the question. And another behind that one as well. Obi-Wan walked for a few minutes, secure in the knowledge that Jangotat would follow. He found a small clearing and sat on a rock, inviting the trooper to sit beside him. “Many volunteer for the military life. Others are conscripted for a time, then after the alarm bells have died away return to their farms or families. But what of a man born for war, trained for war? I can sense your ambivalence, Jangotat. There are answers you would like to have. Considering how carefully your mind has been shaped, I’m impressed that you can even formulate your queries.” Obi-Wan sighed and scratched at one of the abrasions won during his recent struggle with the JK. “You cannot be free. You were born to fight in other men’s wars with no hope of gain or glory.”

  He closed his mouth, certain that he had said too much. Obi-Wan had never commented on this matter of clones and freeborn people. It was not his affair. Perhaps even now Jangotat regretted his inquiry.

  Surprisingly, Jangotat was not put off by Obi-Wan’s words or tones. “What about feelings?” he asked. “The Jedi are the best fighters I’ve ever seen. But you’ve got feelings.”