The Cestus Deception

by Steven Barnes

fingers. Within the countless hallways and corridors, the

  lecture halls and exercise yards, libraries and meditation chambers

  were all designed with an intrinsic grace and flow. Within them, even

  the least gifted were sensitized to contemplate that Force binding the

  universe into a single organism.

  The Council itself met in chambers less prepossessing but no less

  dignified than those of the Chancellor. Its arched walls and hangings

  had been created by the galaxy's finest craftspeople. Such richness

  would cost a fortune to reproduce, but most of the furnishings were

  gifts from rulers and merchants whose lives, wealth, and honor had

  been protected by Jedi skills over the millennia.

  Obi-Wan had long since grown accustomed to the opulence, and

  gave it little notice as he stood at ease before the Council, awaiting

  their pronouncement.

  Master Yoda's wizened head tilted slightly sideways as Obi-Wan

  Kenobi and Kit Fisto consulted with them.

  "These are confusing times," Obi-Wan said. "In many ways, our

  former mandate has been suspended, and much of our authority curtailed."

  "Strife changes many things," Yoda said. "Unpredictable these

  Clone Wars prove to be."

  "But now I am sent on a sensitive diplomatic mission, involving

  treaties on multiple levels—such complexity that we require a barrister

  just to sort them out." Obi-Wan considered his next words carefully.

  "I have never refused a mission, but must tell you honestly that

  I feel ill prepared for this . . . this maze of commerce and politics."

  Master Yoda frowned. "Worry I do. No longer may Jedi look to the

  words and actions of Masters past for their guidance. Strange new

  times are these." The other Jedi in the room nodded in agreement.

  This subject had been debated long and hard, but in the end, the Jedi

  were obliged to fulfill the Senate's and the Chancellor's wishes.

  At the moment, Mace Windu's face resembled a somber mask

  sculpted of onyx duracrete. Of all the Jedi, it was Master Windu who

  held status closest to that of Yoda. "I agree, but the Republic has

  never been tested so severely. If asked to accept new roles, we must

  respond. If we cannot protect the Republic, to whom should the responsibility

  fall?"

  "It augurs well that Palpatine still seeks diplomatic solutions," Kit

  said.

  "Then why not send diplomats?" Obi-Wan asked, realizing as he

  did that he already knew the answer: diplomacy was only the first

  layer of the Chancellor's response. Palpatine knew that a Jedi's mere

  presence was a durasteel fist in a furred glove.

  "The war goes well," Master Windu said, "but we are forced into

  too many unfamiliar roles. If we are not careful, we may lose our

  clarity of purpose and intent. Too often, lightsabers are required

  where once words alone sufficed."

  Yoda nodded. "Once, Jedi had only to appear to quiet a crowd.

  Now common brawlers we become."

  "It is the matter of Antar Four, and even the Battle of Jabiim,"

  Windu said. Those grim memories triggered a murmur of regret.

  "There have been more victories than failures," Obi-Wan reminded

  them.

  "I agree," Master Windu said, "but the maintenance of social order

  requires both myth and reality." Once upon a time it had been

  difficult for Obi-Wan to comprehend Windu's meanings. The Master

  Jedi's profound meditations lifted him to a realm few could dream

  of, let alone experience. But in more recent years Obi-Wan had begun

  not merely to appreciate these pronouncements but almost to anticipate

  them. "And the myth has been fractured: only the reality

  remains. This situation on Cestus is delicate, and involves these

  Force-sensitive droids. Ultimately, a swift and clear resolution would

  save many lives." He leaned forward and fixed Obi-Wan with a gaze

  that might have cut diamonds. "Whatever misgivings you may have,"

  Master Windu said, "you are asked to accept this mission with your

  usual integrity and commitment. Master Kenobi, Master Fisto, for

  every conceivable reason, you must not fail."

  Kit Fisto bowed, and his sensory tendrils wavered eagerly, like sea

  fronds in an invisible current. "I gladly accept."

  "I also accept," Obi Wan said, then added, "I will bring Ord Cestus

  back into the fold. We will end these Jedi Killers."

  Yoda's eyes glowed warmly. "With the Force as our guide, into

  peace war may yet transform."

  10

  For three hours Obi-Wan lay in his cubicle's hard bed, slowing and

  synchronizing his body's rhythms to maximize the restorative benefits.

  Where an ordinary mind and body wavered in and out of the

  mental and physical zones of recuperation, every minute spent in this

  extreme state was worth three minutes of ordinary slumber. He

  emerged rested and ready, packing his gear and rendezvousing with

  Kit for the flight to Cestus.

  In the Temple's communal dining hall, the two Jedi shared a meal

  of thrantcill pate and hawk-bat eggs. While eating they spoke in

  quiet voices of trivial things, understanding that the days ahead

  would be intense. Memories of such quiet times were sustaining.

  They took an air taxi out to Centralia Memorial Spaceport. The

  port was one of Coruscant's oldest, some of its older pads actually

  preserved as monuments even as the rest of the spaceport expanded

  out into one of the galaxy's most modern facilities. There awaited the

  Jedi a refurbished Republic cruiser, its scarlet skin panels open at the

  aft wing as technicians made last-minute adjustments to the fuel atomizer

  cone and radiation dampers.

  They'd half finished supervising their ship's loading when a military

  shuttle arrived, its triwing configuration folded for docking. Five

  troopers in gleaming white armor exited.

  If Obi-Wan was entirely honest with himself, he had to admit that

  large groups of clone troopers made him slightly uncomfortable.

  Easy to understand and explain away. One factor was the fact that

  they were the absolute image of the notorious bounty hunter Jango

  Fett, who had come within a hair of killing him on three separate occasions.

  More disturbing still was the fact that, although genetically

  human, they had not led human lives: clone troopers were born and

  bred purely for war, without the nurturance of a mother's embrace, or

  the safety of a father's loving discipline.

  They looked human . . . they laughed and ate and fought and died

  like men. But if not human, what exactly were they?

  "General Kenobi." The trooper saluted. "CT-Three-Six/Seven-

  Three-Two reporting. May we take your gear, sir?" His bearing and

  attitude were clear and crisp, his eyes guileless. A memory floated to

  mind. Hadn't CT-36/732 been the trooper who'd fought the JK? The

  young man seemed healthy. No slightest gesture betrayed physical or

  emotional pain of any kind. Remarkable.

  "Yes, please stow it in our cabin." With admirable ease the trooper

  slung his gear over his left shoulder, a nod his only response.

  Obi-Wan was surprised by his slight aversion. It mirrored the
<
br />   prejudice he knew some others to feel, people who treated the troopers

  as if they were little more than droids. This was unworthy of him,

  of any Jedi. These terribly young men, no matter what their origin,

  were prepared to die in service to the Republic. What more could

  anyone ask? If their progenitor had been evil (and Obi-Wan was not

  entirely certain that that word fit the complex and mysterious Jango

  Fett), his clones had died already in their thousands. How many

  deaths would it take to wash away an assassin's stain?

  "Oh my, oh my," a falsetto voice cried behind them. Obi-Wan

  turned, recognition filtering its way through his other thoughts.

  Approaching slowly was a creature with a great flat turquoise shell

  covering a wet, fleshy body. The creature crept along on a single

  many-toed foot. A yellowish mucus trail glistened on the ground behind

  him.

  Obi-Wan smiled, all discomfiture vanishing. This one, he knew.

  "Barrister Snoil!" he said with genuine pleasure. Politicians Obi-Wan

  distrusted, and in most cases their minions were even worse. Regardless,

  Doolb Snoil was one of the three or four finest legal minds of his

  acquaintance, and had proven worthy of trust during sensitive negotiations

  on Rijel-12. Of Vippit extraction from the planet Nal Hutta,

  Snoil had attended one of Mrlsst's renowned legal universities before

  beginning his initial apprenticeship in the Gevarno Cluster. A celebrated

  career and a reputation for exhaustive research and absolute

  reliability had led Snoil to his current berth. If anyone could make

  sense out of this Cestus mess, it would be Snoil.

  "Master Kenobi!" he said, twin eyestalks wobbling in delight. "It's

  been almost twelve years."

  Obi-Wan noted the new rings and deposits on the turquoise shell,

  clear evidence that Doolb had been able to afford regular treatments

  and shipments of his native viptiel plants, high in the nutrients his

  people used to prepare themselves for the rigors of householding. In

  another few years, he reckoned, Snoil would return home to mate. If

  Nal Hutta's economics were anything like Kenobi remembered,

  Snoil would have his pick of the most desirable females. "I see by

  your shell that you have been prosperous."

  "One tries." His eyestalks swiveled around. "And—Master Fisto!

  Oh, my goodness. I did not know that you were accompanying us."

  Kit clasped Snoil's hand. "Good to have you along, Barrister. I

  know your home. Once upon a time I spent a week trench diving on

  Nal Hutta."

  "Goodness gracious! So dangerous! The fire-kraken—"

  "Are no longer an issue." Kit smiled broadly and continued up the

  ramp.

  Snoil raised one of his stubby hands, then the other, and rubbed

  them together eagerly. "Fear not!" he cried in his tremulous falsetto.

  "When the right moment arrives, Barrister Snoil will not be found

  wanting."

  Snoil crawled the rest of the way up the landing ramp. The Vippit

  was followed by five troopers moving equipment and armament

  aboard. They acknowledged the two Jedi and continued their work.

  A trooper displaying captain's colors saluted sharply. "General

  Kenobi?"

  "Yes?"

  "Captain A-Nine-Eight at your service. My orders." He handed

  Obi-Wan a thumbnail-sized data chip.

  Obi-Wan inserted the chip into his datapad, and it swiftly generated

  a hologram. He studied the mission resume and skill sets, and

  was satisfied. "Everything is in order," he nodded. "This is my colleague,

  Master Kit Fisto."

  The trooper regarded Kit with an emotion Obi-Wan recognized

  instantly: respect. "General Fisto, an honor to serve with you." Fascinating.

  To Obi-Wan, the trooper had merely been polite. His body

  language toward Kit suggested a greater level of esteem. Obi-Wan

  swiftly guessed why: the clone had seen vid of Kit's droid encounter.

  If there was one thing a soldier respected, it was another fighter's

  prowess.

  "Captain," Kit said. Obi-Wan said nothing, but he noted that, in

  some way that had escaped him, Kit and the clone trooper had made

  an emotional connection. This was a good thing. Kit was raring to

  go, always. Obi-Wan was cursed by a constant urge to understand

  the reason for his missions—Kit merely needed a target. He envied

  the Nautolan's clarity.

  The trooper turned to his four men. "Get the equipment aboard,"

  he said, and they hastened to obey.

  Kit turned to Obi-Wan. "They are utterly obedient," he noted,

  perhaps again anticipating Obi-Wan's own thoughts.

  "Because they have been trained to be," he said. "Not out of any

  sense of independent judgment or choice."

  Kit looked at him curiously, his sensor tendrils twitching. Then

  he and the Nautolan entered the ship and prepared for their journey.

  Within minutes all the gear was stowed, the checklists completed,

  the protocols passed. The ship hummed, and then hovered, then with

  an explosive acceleration broke free of Coruscant's gravity and lanced

  up into the clouds.

  Obi-Wan winced. His voyage from Forscan VI was gruelingly recent,

  but that was preferable to flying with a stranger at the controls.

  Better still was simply staying on the ground.

  Obi-Wan found his way up to the nose of the ship and settled into

  an acceleration couch as the ship rose. The clouds gave way to clear

  blue. The blue itself faded and darkened as they entered the blackness

  of space.

  Around the horizon's graceful curve hovered twelve giant transport

  ships, shuttling clone troopers from Coruscant bunkers to

  Vandor-3, the second most populous planet in Coruscant's system.

  He'd heard that Vandor-3's ocean was a brutal clone-testing ground.

  Officials had spoken of it as if discussing profit-and-loss balance

  sheets. Obi-Wan found that obscene, but still, what was the alternative?

  What was right and wrong in their current situation? The

  Separatists could turn out endless automata on assembly lines. Should

  the Republic recruit or conscript comparable living armies? Jango

  Fett, the GAR's original genetic model, had gladly placed himself in

  the most hazardous situations imaginable. A man of war if ever one

  had lived. Was it wrong to channel his "children" down the same

  path?

  Kit had appeared behind him. "They do nothing but prepare for

  war," he said, again mirroring Obi-Wan's thoughts.

  Obi-Wan smiled. That Jedi anticipation, manifesting in a different

  arena. He found himself relaxing, hoping now to be able to take advantage

  of Kit's sensitivity in the trying days ahead. "What manner

  of life is this?"

  "A soldier's," Kit replied, as if this was the only possible, or desirable,

  answer.

  And perhaps it was.

  Of course, he himself had left enough tissue about the galaxy for

  Kamino's master cloners to have created quite a different army. And

  if they had, to what purpose might it have been put?

  He laughed at that thought. And although the Nautolan arched

  an eyebrow in unasked query, Obi-Wan kept hi
s darkly amused speculations

  to himself.

  11

  For two hours Obi-Wan Kenobi and Kit Fisto had practiced with

  their lightsabers, increasing their pace slowly and steadily as the minutes

  passed. The cargo bay sizzled with an energized metallic tang as

  their sabers singed moisture from the air.

  A Jedi's life was his or her lightsaber. Some criticized the weapon,

  saying that a blaster or bomb was more efficient, making it easier for

  a soldier to kill from a distance. To those who reckoned such things

  statistically, this was an important advantage.

  But a Jedi was not a soldier, not an assassin, not a killer, although

  upon occasion they had been forced into such roles. For Jedi Knights,

  the interaction between Jedi and the life-form in question was a

  vital aspect of the energy field from which they drew their powers.

  Ship-to-ship combat, sentient versus nonsentient, warrior against

  warrior: it mattered not. The interaction itself created a web of

  energy. A Jedi climbed it, surfed it, drew power from it. In standing

  within arm's reach of an opponent, a Jedi walked the edge between

  life and death.

  Obi-Wan and Kit had been engaged for an hour now, each seeking

  holes in the other's defense. Obi-Wan swiftly discovered that

  Kit was the better swordfighter, astonishingly aggressive and intuitive

  in comparison with Obi-Wan's more measured style. But the

  Nautolan gave himself deliberate disadvantages, hampered himself

  in terms of balance, limited his speed, emphasized his nondominant

  side to force himself to full attention, the kind of full attention

  that can be best accessed only when life itself is at risk. To relax and

  feel the flow of the Force under such stress was the true road to

  mastery.

  A Master from the Sabilon region of Glee Anselm, Kit was a

  practitioner of Form I lightsaber combat: it was the most ancient

  style of fighting, based on ancient sword techniques. Obi-Wan's

  own Padawan learner, Anakin, used Form V, which concentrated

  on strength. The lethal Count Dooku had used Form II, an elegant,

  precise style that stressed advanced precision in blade manipulation.

  Obi-Wan himself specialized in Form III. This form grew out of

  laser-blast deflection training, and maximized defensive protection.

  For hours the two danced without music, at first falling into a preplanned

  series of moves and countermoves learned in the Temple