Star Wars®: The Cestus Deception

by Steven Barnes

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 mor
e 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 shuttle 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.

  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.”