As citizens of the Republic, you have full right to redress of
grievances."
Thak Val Zsing pulled at his crimson beard with his fingers and
spat into the dust. "The Families couldn't care less about your rules.
You talk pretty, and offer us nothing."
That was a perfectly accurate answer, and Nate felt a bit flustered.
The Jedi suddenly appeared behind him. "I offer the opportunity
to serve your Republic," General Fisto said. Nate had been
so fixed on the members of Desert Wind that he hadn't heard a
sound.
The vast dark pools of the Nautolan's eyes captivated the anarchists.
Thak Val Zsing was the first to break out of the trance; the
others followed swiftly and began to grumble. "Serve how?"
"Come," the general said urgently. "Fight with us."
"In other words, take your orders."
"Be our comrades."
The sincerity in his words was mesmerizing, his Nautolan charisma
doubly effective on this desert world. Most of Desert Wind's
ragged members seemed to feel it like a blow to the chest.
Most, but not all. Thak Val Zsing shook his head. "Nope. Don't
like this. We've heard enough promises, and taken enough orders.
We'll win our own freedom."
"If you act on your own, you become common criminals," Fisto
said. "With us, you are patriots." Hard words, but these folk were at
the end of their resources. They had nothing to lose.
The ragged members of Desert Wind looked from Thak Val Zsing
to Kit Fisto and back again. One devil they knew, one they didn't.
Like most creatures, they went with what they knew. They would
continue to harry the government, and they would be eventually
caught, or jailed, or killed.
And that was the end of it, with nothing that anyone could really
do to stop it.
General Fisto extended his hand to Thak Val Zsing. "Wait," he
said.
"What?" Val Zsing was tired, but also proud.
"I could offer your people clemency if they work with us. When
our job is complete your crimes will be expunged, and you'll return to
your mines and farms and shops. I would not have you throw your
lives away."
Nate knew Val Zsing had to be warring with himself. This was a
good man, but too weary to have much optimism left in him; he had
been told too many lies to believe a Jedi, or a Jedi's clone soldiers. He
could hear the old man's thoughts as clearly as if he spoke them
aloud.
"What do the others say?" General Fisto asked.
"They say they trust me" Thak Val Zsing said, puffing his chest
out. "And I don't trust you. I only came here because they asked me
to. But now that I've seen ya . . ."
The general gazed across the faces of Desert Wind, then turned
back to Thak Val Zsing. "These are your people. How did you win
their hearts?"
"By blood," he said. Nate could see it in Thak Val Zsing's eyes. Despite
his bravado the man wanted to believe, but couldn't.
"I see," the Nautolan replied.
"There might be another way," Thak Val Zsing said slowly. The
battered warriors straightened and stared at him.
They looked at each other as if the confrontation was about to turn
into something physically unpleasant, and then Thak Val Zsing's
shoulders slumped.
Once, perhaps, the old man had been a great fighter, but those days
were long past. Still, the members of his group looked up to him, and
respected him as they would a father. Doubtless he'd shepherded
them through more than one tight squeeze.
How could the dynamic be altered? What resolution could
there be?
More than anyone else, Thak Val Zsing seemed to understand the
stakes. One last action. One last judgment. It might mean destruction
or salvation for his ragtag band. But what to do?
"Thirty years ago I took command of this group," Val Zsing said,
his eyes locked with the general's. "You could guide them, if you were
willing to pass the same test."
"Test?"
He nodded. "Brother Fate?" he said quietly.
A gray-tufted old X'Ting male in brown robes walked over. He
was accompanied by a somewhat bulkier X'Ting female, also in
brown robes. They carried a woven reed basket suspended between
them.
The basket was large enough to hold a human infant, and that was
what Nate initially supposed it held. He had heard of extremist
groups who worshiped some child or infant, supposing it the avatar
of a god, or the reincarnation of some sacred soul.
But a moment later he realized he had made an error. Whatever lay
in that basket was nothing human. It weighed more than an infant as
well: perhaps ten kilos. And it hissed. The basket wobbled slightly,
and from their efforts to keep it balanced, he knew that there was
something moving in there, something serpentine.
"Will you trust us as you ask us to trust you?" the old X'Ting female
said.
"What would you have me do?"
"Place your hand inside," she said.
"And?"
"And then we will see."
General Fisto looked at her, and then at Thak Val Zsing.
Nate held his breath. This was a test of both courage and intuition.
Trust and common sense. What was in the basket? The woven
sand-reed container was large enough to hold any of a thousand
venomous creatures. And if it bit the general, what then? Was Kit
Fisto supposed to magically transform the poison within his body?
To charm the beast so that it would not bite? Or was this entire
thing some kind of an elaborate assassination plan? Whatever it
was, he could not repress a hint of apprehension. What would the
Jedi do?
General Fisto's expression didn't change, but he nodded his head.
"Yes."
The old X'Ting couple laid the basket down. The cover still obscured
whatever was inside. The general rolled up the sleeve of his
robe and extended his hand into the container. Nate noticed that the
pace of entrance was neither slow nor fast, but continued at a single
unvaried medium rate.
General Fisto's eyes never left the old woman's. His arm had disappeared
up to the elbow, and the witnesses watched carefully.
And yet. . . what was he missing? There was something happening
here that defied definition.
Finally one of the other old females nodded, and the general, using
the same slow, steady pace, withdrew his arm from the basket.
Its underside glistened with something wet. He rolled his sleeve
down without wiping the wetness away. The Nautolan's face was
impassive.
The two brown-robed X'Tings retreated to a neutral position and
sat cross-legged, primary and secondary arms folded in a prayer position,
foreheads leaning against each other. The others formed a wall
between the clones and General Fisto and the basket. They were
hunched over and seemed to be studying something.
Then they returned. "He tells the truth," the woman said. And the
others nodded.
Thak Val Zsing exhaled mightily. Nate could tell that
he was relieved,
but his pride wouldn't let him speak it.
"Very well, then," Thak Val Zsing said. "The Guides . . . have
never been wrong before. All right. I yield the leadership of Desert
Wind." He paused. "And I hope I'm not making the biggest mistake
of my life."
As Kit Fisto walked back up to the cave, Nate ran up next to him
and spoke in a low voice. "What did you feel in the basket?" he asked.
"Some kind of rock viper?"
"I do not know," Kit said, barely moving his lips. "It did not try
to harm me. But I felt. . . something. A presence I have sensed before."
When Kit said no more, Nate accepted that and rejoined his
brothers.
Thak Val Zsing shook his head as they walked toward the cave.
"I wouldn't have believed it," he said. His eyes burned with challenge.
"I'm not the one who's trusting you, Jedi. Remember
that."
"I will," Kit promised.
"Well," he said, scratching his head. "A promise is a promise."
"It is good that you are a being of your word."
"Sometimes," said Thak Val Zsing, his shoulders slumping, "his
word is all a man has."
"You bring more than words," Kit replied. "Eat with us?"
Thak Val Zsing and his people jostled to find seats at their rude
table. As steaming platters heaped with fresh meat, mushrooms, and
hot bread were placed before them, he turned to Kit again. "We
haven't had a good meal in a week. Can you . . . ?"
"All you can eat," Kit said.
Thak Val Zsing and his people attacked their plates ferociously,
bolting down their food like starving Hutts. Finally they slowed,
belching and laughing, and it became possible to speak with them.
"I have read the files," Kit said, "but I'd like to know your views.
What happened on Cestus?"
"The story's an old one," Thak Val Zsing said. "I probably look like
a miner, by now. Truth is, I was a history professor. Lost my job when
the government cut social programs and utilities to the outlying
areas."
"The elected government? The regent G'Mai Duris?"
He snorted. "She's not the real power here, star-boy. Better play
catch-up. Anyway, I went to work in the mines. The rest, as they
say, is history." He grinned. "Look. Old story. You have oppressors
and the oppressed. That was true before the Republic ever
found these people: the X'Ting drove the spiders into the mountains,
and probably exterminated some others who were gone before
we ever arrived. We came, bought land from them for a few
trunks of worthless synthstones, and a couple of hundred years later
some mysterious 'plagues' killed about ninety percent of 'em. Convenient,
eh?"
"Extremely. You think these plagues no accident?"
Val Zsing snorted. "There's no evidence you could trouble your
precious Chancellor with. Any prison cramming together species
from around the galaxy is a forcing ground for exotic disease. Let's
just say that the Five Families weren't heartbroken."
Thak Val Zsing tore a great chunk out of a roasted bird and
chewed as juice ran down through his beard and onto his shirt.
"Maybe my great-grandfather laughed about it, but it's not funny
now. The Five Families own everything. Those of us at the bottom
barely have enough bread. Our babies cry in the night."
"I thought Cestus Cybernetics was wealthy," Kit said.
"Yes. But precious few of those credits make their way to the bottom."
"We're gonna change that," Skot OnSon said. "Overthrow the
government, take back our world."
world, Kit thought. And just whose world was it? The Five
Families? The immigrants? The X'Ting hive? What about those
wretched spiders the troopers had driven into the dark? He was sorry
to have taken their cave now, but happy to have restrained the troopers
from pursuit.
0bi-Wan and Barrister Snoil hadn't left their apartment since returning
from the throne room. The attendants seemed to hover
around them, hoping for tips, bringing them food and rather clumsily
trying to overhear their conversations. Finally Obi-Wan had to
ask the hotel's management to solve the problem.
Snoil had an unquenchable appetite for work. The Vippit rarely ate
and never slept. He pored over documents, consulted with Cestian
legal minds, relayed communications through their cruiser to Coruscant
for second and third opinions.
Through it all, Obi-Wan sensed not desperation but a kind of joy
at having an opportunity to discharge his old debt through excellent
performance. If he could just find a way through this legal warren,
understand the path that might lead to peaceful resolution, they
might all leave Cestus happy.
Obi-Wan helped where he could, offered advice, tried to take
some of the burden from Snoil's shell, but in the end he felt almost
useless. Their next meeting with G'Mai Duris was in no more than
eighteen hours, and as of yet they had no ammunition to turn the
tide.
But something would come up. Something always did . . .
23
hree hundred kilometers northeast of the command base stood
the saw-toothed expanse of the Tolmea mountain range. Its tallest
peak, Tolmeatek, rose thirty-two thousand meters from the valley
floor, its snowcapped summit a gleaming beacon for the adventurous.
Only within the last hundred years had any non-native managed the
climb without rebreathing apparatus. The very word tolmeatek meant
"untravelable" in X'Ting. The lesser mountains were of the same inhospitable
disposition, stark inclines and flash storms making the entire
region too dangerous for casual travel.
And ideal for clandestine activities. Within the shadow of mighty
Tolmeatek nestled another landing pad, also hidden from chance observation.
A three-X'Ting delegation gazed up into the stars until one of the
orbs began to change position. Oddly, it appeared tiny until the last
possible moment, when it seemed as if the minuscule object suddenly
expanded with impossible speed.
The greeters waited at their places, unmoving. Two wore shadowy
robes, one a recently acquired offworlder style cut for an insectile
X'Ting. A narrow landing ramp descended from the shining ship. A
female humanoid appeared in the doorway. She wore a floor-length
T
cloak and was clearly visible only in silhouette, but what they could
see made them hold their breath.
The cabin behind her was dark. Her profile was clean-shaven, with
a skull both symmetrical and large enough to suggest formidable intellect.
The pale skin covering it was so clear and flawless as to be almost
translucent. Six knife-shaped tattoos were arrayed on each side
of her head, daggers pointing at her ears. She seemed to sparkle a bit,
as if with some inner radiance. Doubtless, a trick of the light.
As she descended, they saw that her eyes were a flat and expressionless
blue, briefly examining Fizzik without any comment or
judgment. He was so far beneath her notice that he barely registered
at all, neither th
reat nor ally. For all the change in her expression he
might have been an astromech droid.
Fizzik was afraid of this woman, and found the sensation oddly
delicious.
He stepped forward, prepared to offer his planned greeting.
"Ma'am . . . ?"
The woman tilted her head slowly sideways, staring at him as if he
were an unaccustomed form of lower animal life. That odd sensation
within him, the fear-thing, swelled. Fizzik went silent.
She took two more steps and then touched her belt. All around the
ship, in a giant circle with a radius of perhaps twenty meters, the sand
sizzled. Fizzik had noticed a line of tiny sandwasps crawling across
the sand, mindlessly carrying their burdens back to their nest. Where
that line crossed the sand, half a dozen of the tiny creatures had
curled into smoking balls. The others on either side of the line were
unharmed.
For the first time, she spoke. "If your people approach my ship,"
she said, "you'll need new people."
"Yes, Mistress."
"Very good," she mocked. "Take me to Trillot."
Fizzik opened the back of a little snub-nosed tunnel speeder to
her, and she entered without another word. Her movements flowed,
as if she were more felinoid than humanoid. A savagely beautiful
predator.
The tunnel runner hovered and then pivoted, heading into one of
the nearby entrances. The little geebug was built for swift maneuvering
in the warren of tunnels beneath Cestus's surface.
These tunnels had been built by hive technicians eons ago, but had
only been electronically mapped fairly recently—a few standard decades,
perhaps. The geebug was also equipped with the very latest and
most powerful scanning equipment and skittered through the tunnels
like a thrinx on a griddle.
Fizzik sat beside the pilot in the front seat, but took a chance to
cast a glance back at the rear seat, to see, perhaps, if their guest was
at all discomfited by the series of near misses as they negotiated the
warren.
She seemed unflappable, her piercing blue eyes amused, full pale
lips curled up at the edges as they scraped through an especially close
call. She scanned the cave walls as they flew past, noting everything.
Their passenger turned and looked at him, curiosity lighting her face
at last. "So the Five Families fear to meet with me openly."
"It is considered risky. But you will be with them soon."
The Cestus Deception Page 14