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

by Steven Barnes

  Obi-Wan chuckled. “If not, we wouldn’t strive to keep them under control.” Obi-Wan feared that he, like so many others, assumed that every trooper had his place, an infinite array of identical laser cannon fodder regressing like a hall of mirrors until it not only filled but defined the horizon.

  But Jangotat put the lie to that assumption. “Do you have a home?” he asked, almost shyly.

  “The Jedi Temple is my home. And has been since childhood.”

  “And you chose to become a Jedi?”

  “Yes. I was raised from infancy within the Temple’s walls. There was certainly a moment when I made a formal decision to become a Jedi Knight, but in fact my feet were placed on that path before I could walk.”

  “Weren’t you too young to make a decision like that?”

  Obi-Wan considered the question carefully. Was there any way that the boy he had been could have known what his present life would be? All of the dangers, the travails? Or the wonders? What would that boy have thought, had he known?

  He answered with deliberation. “If I had made that choice with my head, perhaps.”

  “Your heart?”

  “Some might say,” Obi-Wan replied. “But truth is that we sense the Force with our whole bodies. Every part of me knew that this would be my destiny. I knew I would not have the joys and comforts accorded normal folk. Even at that early age, I accepted that fact.” Obi-Wan reached a hand out to the clone, clasped his shoulder. “I made that choice.”

  “That choice was made for me,” Jangotat said.

  So they were on opposite sides of a divide: one a man who had forsaken all the normal trappings of life for an existence of service and adventure. The other, a replaceable cog in a faceless army, chosen before birth, poured into a mold that he was uniquely suited to fill.

  Had Obi-Wan made the choice, or had his midi-chlorians? In the final analysis had either he or Jangotat had any real choice at all …?

  Did anyone?

  72

  Shadows arced in silent pantomime against the cave wall, fueled by a roaring scrap-wood fire. As Obi-Wan scanned the assembled members of Desert Wind, he thought that all over the galaxy, throughout all ages past, courageous beings of a thousand breeds had held conclave in such caves, before such fires, for similar reasons.

  “We face tremendous obstacles,” he began.

  “But we done all right,” Resta said.

  “It’s true. And at a cost. And the cost is rising. We cannot afford it.”

  “How did this happen?” OnSon brushed his long blond hair back from his forehead, exposing a crescent moon of a scar. “We’ve worked so hard …”

  Obi-Wan was troubled to hear the pain in that young voice. “It’s true,” he replied. “And the fault is not in you. You have given your blood and sweat to us in full measure. We’ve failed you.” Kit Fisto stared into the embers impassively. Obi-Wan wished he could guess what his friend was thinking.

  The men and women, perhaps thinking that the Jedi was preparing to leave them, protested vocally. “No!” OnSon said. “Without you we would never have struck So hard and deep. This hasn’t been for nothing!”

  “No,” Kit Fisto said. “It has not. But we have been thwarted at every turn, and we believe that there are additional factors of which we are unaware.”

  “What factors?” Resta growled.

  “Information has reached the government, gathered either through spies or devices, or traitors, or …” And here his voice trailed off as he sank deeper into his thoughts.

  “Or what?”

  “Or someone who is both knowledgeable and ruthless. Someone who is able to …” His voice trailed off again. The spark of an intuitive flash stirred in his mind. That flash had first arisen during a deep meditation early that morning, while the rest of the camp was asleep. During his trance, he had sensed that there was a connection. During his stay on Cestus he had brushed auras with someone … or something … that had become a vital factor in this whole situation. But he had been behind the curve continuously since he had arrived. Everything had been perfect, and yet …

  He shook himself out of his self-induced trance and continued. “Everything that has happened has thrown our plans out of sequence, and as a result we are fairly certain that Supreme Chancellor Palpatine will soon have a supercruiser here to threaten Duris. If the situation has not progressed by that time, there is a very real possibility that they will begin a bombardment that leads to total war.” He paused to give time for his words to sink in. “If that happens everyone loses.”

  “What can we do?” Skot On Son asked.

  “I have an idea,” the Jedi replied, “that might end this conflict without another shot fired, and without crashing the entire economy. It’s dangerous, but it just might work.”

  73

  In the days since Fizzik had joined his sister Trillot’s organization, advancement had been rapid. It seemed that the gangster trusted nothing so much as blood relations. Fizzik found himself carrying out missions of greater and greater importance, but never allowed himself to forget how quickly his shift in fortunes could change. So when Fizzik was sent east to the Jantos trading post to meet with the Jedi, he was understandably anxious.

  “So,” Fizzik said, “what do you want?” His nerves twitched in this place. If his sister had wished him assassinated, the mission profile might have looked very similar.

  “I seek to make a purchase,” Obi-Wan said.

  “And what precisely is it that you desire?”

  “A class six Baktoid radiation suit.”

  “And to what use would you put such a suit?”

  “That is my affair.”

  Fizzik peered into the bearded Jedi’s blue eyes, wishing he were better at reading human facial expressions. This was a dangerous piece of information to carry. He knew that the Jedi were causing chaos in the industrial complexes, and anyone who aided or abetted sabotage could be executed.

  A radiation suit. Had he once heard rumor of a control system protected by a reactor? Possibly, but one never knew how trustworthy such rumors were. What was this Jedi up to?

  But Fizzik kept his thoughts to himself, stood, and bowed. His was not to reason why. His was merely to serve his sister until he found a more desirable berth.

  Which, considering the deteriorating conditions hereabout, might not be found on Cestus at all.

  “And you trust this Trillot?” Kit asked after Obi-Wan returned.

  “She’s given me everything I asked. Spoken truthfully in every way I can check. Our sources on Coruscant trust her.” He sighed.

  “I notice you don’t say that you trust her,” Kit observed.

  “I have a plan,” Obi-Wan said. “And it needs Trillot. And I am willing to take the risk. Trillot once spoke of a hidden control station, protected by a radiation field. It would be very expensive to obtain protection, but if I had it, I could enter the Cestus reactor complex and shut down Clandes’s entire production line without causing extreme damage to the infrastructure. I think that that might do it.”

  “And then, sir?” Forry asked.

  “We could call off the bombardment, and negotiate.”

  “But how much money have we raised from our raids?” OnSon asked. “Wasn’t it supposed to be a survivors’ fund?”

  “If this doesn’t work, there won’t be enough survivors left to divide a credit,” he said. “Our priorities have changed.”

  The worst part was the waiting. For a signal from Trillot. For a signal from the fleet. From the outlying farms, vulnerable to reprisals from the Cestian security forces.

  Waiting was always bad, but Obi-Wan used some of that time to spar with Jangotat. The trooper seemed to have an insatiable appetite for Jedi combat, and as long as he remembered the ARC’s limitations, Obi-Wan was inclined to share a bit more knowledge with him.

  With Obi-Wan’s permission, Jangotat demonstrated his understanding of the Jedi Flow drills until he was sopping with sweat.

  “Weil?”
Jangotat said, and then added, “General?”

  Obi-Wan tilted his head sideways, realizing that they had somehow wandered into a very odd relationship. “You’re doing well. Remember when you find a knot of tension in your body—don’t power through it. Relax, let it melt. Breathe into it. Your flesh remembers every pain, emotional or physical, you have ever suffered,” Obi-Wan said. “It is trying to protect you. Pain and fear compete with skill and awareness.”

  “General Fisto said that thoughts and fears are like boulders, and the Force is the river rushing between them. Most people grow so clogged with pains and regrets that the water can no longer flow from the mountain to the sea.”

  Obi-Wan laughed. “Very good. Much of Jedi training is designed to remove those obstructions.”

  “But General Fisto warned that I could never learn to be as good as a Jedi,” Jangotat said.

  Obi-Wan’s voice was gentle. “The joy in life comes not from surpassing another’s gifts, but in fully manifesting our own.”

  Jangotat weighed those words, then apparently decided that practice was better than analysis and spent another grueling hour wrenching his body into exotic shapes and surges, finding the deep wells of fear, and resentment, and loneliness locked in his muscles, releasing them. One meter, one moment at a time, Jangotat was finding his way to the sea.

  74

  Admiral Arikakon Baraka was in a foul mood. He had been forced to take part in the clone training exercise, and now he followed orders that were taking him far afield from the Separatist hunt, bringing the Nexu to a planet called Cestus. By the time he finished threatening this Rim world, the rest of the fleet would have already engaged in some major battle, and the glory would belong to others.

  This was no way to gain promotion, or the approval of his ancestors, which he craved even more.

  Nonetheless, Baraka monitored the navigation routes, commanded his men, ran drills on all critical systems, and prepared to do his job. He would grind these Cestians to dust, then head back for the major battle sure to take place somewhere in the Borleias drift.

  Only one thing stood between him and glory.

  And soon, there would be nothing at all.

  The speeder bikes purred to Obi-Wan’s touch, ready for the last leg of this adventure. Kit addressed the clone commandos as he finished packing his bags.

  “Suspend all operations,” the Nautolan said. “There must be no chance that any of you fall into enemy hands. Your bodies would be incontrovertible evidence against the Republic, paraded to the Thousand Worlds as evidence of Palpatine’s treachery. Unless you hear directly from us, if we do not return, try beaming another message through Resta’s farm. Signal Admiral Baraka to pick you up. Unless you receive a direct order do not leave this camp. Is that understood?”

  The troopers glanced at each other uneasily. “Isn’t it possible that we could launch a rescue if you run into trouble, General Kenobi?”

  Obi-Wan managed a confident nod. “Do not leave this camp except under direct orders, am I clear?”

  The troopers nodded, and the Jedi headed out into a strong headwind. The sandstorm continued to build as they traveled north toward ChikatLik. At times Obi-Wan looked behind him and couldn’t see Kit’s speeder; he had to trust that his companion was there.

  Just as he could see no sure solution to the situation at hand, but needed to have faith that such an answer did, indeed, exist.

  “We have the credits you requested. Where is our suit?” It had taken an entire day to make their way back into ChikatLik, and Obi-Wan’s nerves were badly frayed. This was an unforeseen additional complication.

  Trillot tittered. “There is nothing on this planet more highly protected than those suits. My nest is raided periodically—if it was found here, no legal defense or explanation would suffice.”

  Plausible enough, but …

  Obi-Wan noted her discomfort, and suddenly he sensed danger around him. “Well then, where is it?” What was wrong? All the words were right, and yet … and yet …

  “Follow me to my personal turbolift,” Trillot said. “I will take you to the dock myself. Where are the credits?”

  “Half now,” Kit said, laying a satchel on the table before him. His dark, unblinking eyes never left their hostess. “And half after we have our suit. Fair?”

  “Of course,” Trillot replied.

  Obi-Wan and Kit followed Trillot to the lift platform. They entered and the door closed behind them. As they descended, Kit turned to Trillot, his huge dark eyes reflecting the dim light. “I have heard of you, and am glad for this opportunity to meet. If there is difficulty, I promise you we’ll never meet again.”

  “I think we will have no further business” was the gangster’s pious reply.

  When the lift stopped, they were in a freighter-size hive cavern beneath the main city. As far as the eye could see, thousands upon thousands of deserted hive cubicles stretched around the walls. Obi-Wan smelled water: a subterranean lake, perhaps a river. The dock was surrounded with stacks of unopened crates. A hive converted to a smuggler’s lair, Obi-Wan thought. Smuggling goods through subterranean rivers? Ingenious. But …

  “Be cautious,” Obi-Wan said as they stepped out.

  “An unneeded warning,” Kit replied.

  A third voice entered the conversation. “And a belated one.” Instantly, a shimmering circle of light sizzled the air around Obi-Wan. He recognized it instantly: a Xythan force shield. A snare.

  “A new security device created by Cestus Cybernetics. It absorbs and returns all energy. Feel free to use your lightsaber.”

  Obi-Wan knew that last voice. Suddenly, and with shocking clarity, all that had happened in the last days made terrible, and possibly terminal, sense. “Asajj Ventress,” he said.

  She appeared out of the shadows, but it was not shadows alone that had protected her. In each hand she held a glowing red lightsaber with a curved handle.

  A dozen young X’Ting emerged from the boxes around her. Males, barely, out of their adolescence, judging by the light rings of fur around their necks. They swaggered and postured, but they were callow.

  “You have perfected the Quy’Tek meditations, Adept,” he said. “You can shield your Force.”

  “From fools, yes,” she said, and smiled. “Go ahead—use your lightsabers. The field will draw power from them.”

  “And those?”

  Trillot crept around the edge of the energy field. She seemed like a vex caught between two reeks. “They are loyal to the hive,” she said.

  “She has no love for you, Trillot,” Obi-Wan said.

  “And even less for you, I think.” The gangster tittered.

  Ventress turned to the gangster. “You may leave now, Trillot. Your protocol droid will translate my orders to the X’Ting.”

  Trillot went back up the turbolift as swiftly as it would move her.

  Ventress smiled. “I knew, in the end, I would defeat you.”

  “You call this a fair fight?” The acid in Obi-Wan’s voice did nothing to mask the lethal fury building within him. Now he understood all the death, all the critical failures since his arrival on Cestus. All attempts to bring this matter to a peaceful conclusion had been thwarted by this bald-pated witch, and the confusion he had felt until this moment was wiped away completely.

  “No,” she said calmly. “I call it victory.”

  Commander Baraka’s supercruiser emerged from hyper-space and moved into position over Cestus. A swift scan revealed no defenses capable of resisting a ship of the Nexu’s class, so he approached without haste, taking this opportunity to put his crew through a series of attack drills.

  Until ten hours passed, or they received a coded message, there was little to be done.

  Cestus lay before them, a world of wealth without warriors to protect it. They now needed only a message from the surface, or one from the Supreme Chancellor. It was just a matter of time.

  When the cruiser entered the system, alarm ripped through ChikatLik
like a whirlwind. Everyone knew someone who had heard the rumor that the city was to be destroyed. Thousands left the city in the first three hours, a stream of refugees that clotted the skylanes and roadways.

  G’Mai Duris went on the air, promising her citizens that the vessel was only there to protect the Republic’s interests. Since Cestus was a friend of the Republic, how could anyone think harm would come to them? The fact that this broadcast was also sent to every major star system along the Rim missed no one.

  Quietly, leaders of the Five Families made excuses and slipped away to their private haven beneath Kibo Lake. To most Cestians, it seemed their planet was trapped between the Republic and the Confederacy, and they hoped to ride it out, survival temporarily transformed into a more urgent motivation than profit.

  To the Five Families, a game was being played out that could end with their power broken, or raised to the highest levels. Palpatine might win. Count Dooku might win. No matter which, they intended to survive.

  True, a storm had been unleashed upon Cestus, but as long as they survived, Confederacy contracts might yet be honored. After all, the entire galaxy was watching, and this would be a perfect time for Count Dooku to provide an objective example of the advantages to be found in trading the Separatists.

  There were other factors, of course, factors discussed only among the Families, or by those who had reviewed very private evaluations distributed solely to the top families. But those factors, and their implications, would be meaningless if they did not survive the next few days …

  “This will end in … perhaps twenty hours.” Ventress glanced at the two Jedi, still trapped within the energy shield. “I regret that I will not have the opportunity to match lightsabers with you again, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Count Dooku wants you alive,” she said, prowling at the edge of the shield. So intense was her hunger that the tips of her twin sabers trembled. “But mightn’t he forgive me if I simply slew you in single combat?”