The Cestus Deception

by Steven Barnes

is the winner. Caiza Quill must yield his seat."

  G'Mai Duris drew herself up to full height, folding the fingers of

  primary and secondary hands formally. "My peers and elders," she

  said. "My dear friend Master Kenobi has told me an astonishing

  thing. For centuries we have known that our ancestors were cheated

  out of their land, land purchased with worthless baubles we believed

  were legal tender.

  "For years we had no means of redress, save to accept whatever

  sops Cestus Cybernetics threw our way. But that has changed." Her

  faceted eyes gleamed. "Master Kenobi brought a barrister with him

  from Coruscant, a Vippit who knows their laws well. And according

  to the central authority, if we should choose to press our suit, we can

  destroy Cestus Cybernetics. If we own the land beneath their factories,

  we can charge them whatever we wish for land usage, possibly

  even take the facilities themselves."

  "What?" the council's eldest said, faceted eyes widening in shock.

  "Is this truth?"

  Quill sputtered. "You would do nothing except destroy the planet!

  Destroy Cestus Cybernetics, and you destroy our economy!"

  The elder looked at Quill with contempt. "The hive was here before

  Cestus Cybernetics. It is not the hive that will suffer if this company

  changes hands . . . or even if it dies. It will be those who have

  sold themselves to offworlders for a promise of power."

  "But my lords," Duris said. "I have obligations to the offworlders,

  people who came to Cestus with skills and heart, and wanted only to

  build a life here. We cannot use this opportunity to destroy. We must

  use it to build, and heal."

  The elders nodded, as if pleased by her empathy.

  Quill quivered. "You have won nothing, Duris! I will block you, I

  swear. Regardless of what you think you have, what you think you

  know . . . this isn't over yet." He stormed out, humiliated and enraged.

  "Can he do that?" Obi-Wan asked.

  "Perhaps. Any member of the Five Families can veto any specific

  business deal. If he believes it is in his best interest, or just for the

  sake of hatred, he will try." An alarming thought occurred to her. "He

  might try to keep you from sending Palpatine this information. Perhaps

  you should send it immediately."

  Reluctantly, Obi-Wan shook his head. "The Chancellor will use it

  to shut Cestus Cybernetics down legally. No one wins. I think our

  best bet is to use this bit of information as final, emergency leverage."

  He looked at that supposition from every angle he could, and saw no

  flaw in his logic.

  So. Nothing about this assignment was to be easy. "But the Families

  have thought of all this as finances and politics. So long as they

  do, they can make decisions based upon ledger sheets. It is time we

  changed that, time we made their dilemma more . . . personal."

  Late that night Obi-Wan had a very secretive conversation with

  Kit Fisto. "Things are balanced precariously," he said. "I wanted your

  counsel."

  "Obi-Wan," Kit said, "I know that you are uncomfortable with deception,

  but these people have no idea how dangerous Dooku can be.

  If a few . . . theatrics can save lives, I believe we must go forward."

  Obi-Wan sighed. There was truth there, but he wished he didn't

  have the sense that Kit was actually looking forward to the coming

  action. "All right," he said finally. "We go. You'll have all the magcar

  details in a few moments. More important, have you been practicing?"

  "Of course," Kit answered. "Be ready for the performance of a lifetime."

  isps of fantazi smoke snaked through Trillot's catacomb maze

  like fire-kraken tendrils. Little droids hustled about, serving all: since

  the crippling of Trillot's bodyguard Remlout, a nervous group of underlings

  had suggested that perhaps their mistress would prefer to

  have the dispersement of the various salves and intoxicants under her

  direct control.

  At the moment, though, Trillot felt like she had anything but control.

  She was struggling to keep her voice and body language neutral

  as she spoke to Ventress, who stood before her as motionless as if she

  had grown there, eyes turned slightly upward, hardly aware that Trillot

  existed. What strange realms her mind might have been moving

  in, Trillot had no idea at all.

  "Do I have to tell Kenobi the truth?" Trillot asked again, fingers of

  primary and secondary hands fidgeting together.

  "Only if you are fond of breathing," Ventress replied. "He will

  know that you are either lying, or incompetent. In either case you are

  of no further use."

  Ventress's cold blue eyes widened like a chasm between worlds.

  The glands beneath Trillot's arms began to ooze surrender pheromones,

  and she hoped Ventress would not scent her distress. She

  bobbled her head eagerly. "Yes. Yes, of course. Madam?"

  "Yes?"

  She cleared her throat. "If I might be so bold as to ask: why is this

  single Jedi so important? Certainly we have greater—"

  Another withering glance.

  At that instant one of her bodyguards thrust his head into the

  room. "He's coming!"

  Trillot had turned for only a moment, a bare flickering of her head,

  but when she turned back, Ventress was already gone.

  Obi-Wan entered the pit, breathing shallowly to limit the effects

  of the noxious atmosphere. And yet. . . there was something in the

  air that made him want to breathe more deeply. He dared not, knowing

  that there was a limit to what his metabolism was capable of processing.

  "That scent," he said.

  "Scent?" Trillot asked.

  "Yes. Bantha musk, and . . . something else. Used as a body scent

  by certain Five Family females, or . . . " He could feel the gears turning

  in his head. Certainly some members of Cestus's female upper

  class might visit Trillot's den. Hardly surprising. But he doubted that

  he was merely reacting to such a casual, if corrupt, interaction. What,

  then?

  This was not good. For some reason, he had felt off-balance since

  first arriving on Cestus. In the city, at the ball, in the chambers, here

  in Trillot's chambers, at the cantina . . .

  _ Was there a connecting thread, or was he just tired?

  Trillot's mouth twisted. "Well, you've caught me." A vile, conspiratorial

  smile. "I do have a few, eh, friends among the upper class. I

  hope you can keep a secret."

  Obi-Wan kept his thoughts to himself. What perversions passed

  for entertainment among Cestus's upper crust were hardly his concern.

  And y e t . . .

  "Of course. Yes, surely that is it. Perhaps I caught that scent at the

  ball. Now." He exhaled, centering himself. "This is what I wish of

  you. Information."

  "On?"

  "The subterranean transit system. I assume you can provide?"

  "Of course."

  A beam of light projected from Trillot's chair. She made a few brief

  hand passes through it, and a web of nodes and moving lines materialized.

  Obi-Wan walked into the middle of it and concentrated.

  Now, for the first time in days, he felt completely
immersed in his

  plan. Perhaps, after all, his disturbance was mere nerves.

  "Here—" He pointed. "And here . . ."

  Hours later, Obi-Wan's astromech, using a scrambled technical

  link, beamed the map to the training camp, where it was evaluated by

  the commandos and a brooding Kit Fisto.

  "—to here," Nate concluded.

  The campfire crackled behind them. The training had been going

  well. They had the fighters they needed, trained to obey orders even

  under considerable stress. To the credit of the Cestians, their men

  and women had adapted to military discipline with admirable speed

  and efficiency.

  "That is the whole of it then," the general said, his unblinking eyes

  reflecting the map, the firelight, and the stars above them. Nate

  watched him, waiting for word, a sign. He did not understand General

  Fisto, and knew that he probably never would, but hoped that

  the mysterious Jedi would be pleased at their progress. For some reason,

  he craved this Nautolan's approval.

  Kit Fisto nodded. "You have done well," he said, and went back to

  the ship. The troopers nodded among themselves, laughing and

  sharing jokes and camaraderie, a rhythm that Nate fell into instantly.

  Forgetting the slight unease he had seen in the general's eyes. Just

  nerves. So much at stake. Resources so limited. So few options.

  And no room for failure at all.

  34

  Planets died, screaming their pain to the trackless void. Stars exploded

  into halos of fire, nebulae imploded into black holes. Ships filled with

  screaming men ruptured, admitting pitiless vacuum.

  Lying flat on her back, lids closed, body motionless, Ventress

  dreamed, her spirit stalking a universe of infinite rage.

  She dreamed of Ohma-D'un, the moon of Naboo where she had

  first encountered Obi-Wan Kenobi. The operation had devolved into

  a slaughterhouse. She had sorely underestimated the Jedi's courage

  and intelligence. Ventress was walking the true path that the Jedi had

  abandoned. Master Dooku had told her, taught her. The galaxy

  needed order, and the decadent Jedi had forgotten their primary obligation:

  to the Force itself, not to a corrupt and selfish regime. She

  had not made that error. Would not ever.

  Without preamble, Asajj Ventress awakened and came to a sitting

  position. The dreams had been the usual, nothing special about them

  at all. They were, indeed, merely her mind attempting to work out

  a problem of vectors and resources. She had given her fealty, and

  with a woman like Ventress, once word was given, there was no other

  course. She defined herself in terms of her obligations and contracts.

  There was no deeper identity to cause emotional dissonance. She

  simply did what had to be done.

  Somehow Master Kenobi was central to the problem. But as yet

  she had no idea what to do . . .

  Just outside her door, Trillot glided away, head aching. She had offered

  the terrifying Ventress a stateroom in her catacombs, and the

  creature had accepted. She had intended to spy upon the mysterious

  Count Dooku's messenger, but those efforts had taken an unpleasant

  turn. Trillot felt... infected when her visitor dreamed. She closed her

  eyes and saw images of death and destruction on a horrific scale.

  Fear ran so deep it was like a living creature burrowing through her

  stomachs. Hadn't she done everything possible to make Ventress

  happy? Supplied all information? Provided accommodation? Planted

  tracers on Quill and Lady Por'Ten? She had done all this and more . . .

  So why was she still so terrified?

  The churning black-and-red cloud behind her eyes throbbed unmercifully

  as Trillot slunk away. And when she crawled into her

  sleeping chamber that night and desperately sought the solace of

  sleep, that headache boiled into a cavalcade of nightmares that multiplied

  in intensity until dawn came, and she emerged to do battle

  with another day.

  35

  cestus's sun had risen on the eastern horizon, lengthening the

  mountain shadows until they resembled a mouth filled with broken

  teeth. Where the shadows did not reach, its fierce light seared the

  ground with a radiance that was bright and clear enough to curl the

  plants that would not emerge again until next twilight.

  As was his habit, Nate rose and dressed before dawn. He performed

  a series of ARC drills, bending, stretching, and tumbling,

  discovering no kink or wound sufficient to bind his motion. Energy

  felt good. He felt strong, tough, mean, and altogether lethal. Ready

  enough.

  He found General Fisto in the main cave, sitting in front of the

  shimmering map. The general sat balanced on knees and the balls of

  his feet, buttocks resting on his heels. Nate had seen the Nautolan sit

  in this fashion for hours, and winced a bit, knowing that his own legs

  would have cramped within minutes.

  "You're ready, sir?"

  The general rose. In his hand he held a handle with a length of

  flexible cordlike material attached. "It is time," the Jedi said.

  There was nothing more to say.

  36

  From the very beginning the pattern had been set: representatives

  of the Five Families traveled to the central palace for the day's round

  of negotiations, conversations, and arguments. Some arrived by private

  aircar or railcar. About a third traveled in a secure, private shuttle

  on the magcar system using the subterranean network beneath

  ChikatLik. It was the city's most secure transportation and had never

  been breached, even during the Uprisings that birthed Desert Wind.

  Today Lord and Lady Por'Ten, Debbikin the younger, and Quill

  took the underground magcar, and they used the opportunity to confer

  with each other as they sped through the depths.

  "And do you believe that the Jedi has reached the limit of his

  concessions?"

  Young Debbikin canted his head to the side, an imitation of his father's

  customary thinking posture. "It is hard to say. Father's spy on

  Coruscant says the mood there is unfavorable to negotiation. Palpatine

  is pure will: he would make war on a disloyal planet." He leaned

  in closer to the others, as if fearful of being overheard, although the

  moving car was doubtless one of the most secure locations on the entire

  planet. "But I feel that this situation, with every eye upon Cestus,

  gives us several interesting advantages. First: in direct negotiation, we

  can make an excellent case that we have a legal right to produce the

  droids. We can also make the case that the war has disrupted our

  supply lines, threatening our survival. Therefore, we are fighting not

  for our economic survival, but the very right to feed our people."

  Por'Ten's triple-jowled chin wobbled as if he had intimate familiarity

  with missing meals. "The starving children," he said sadly.

  "Now listen," young Debbikin continued. "This means that the

  Chancellor might be motivated to be generous, if we just have the

  courage to see this through."

  The leaders of the Five Families nodded and smiled, agreeing with
<
br />   the logic. "But you said that there was another motivation . . . ?"

  "Yes, indeed." Young Debbikin's voice dropped. "The war will not

  last forever. When it ends, if the Republic wins, we are in an excellent

  position: the value of our holdings will multiply greatly."

  "Yes . . . , " Quill said. He had said little since the beginning of the

  ride, and seemed a bit like an intensely dense storm cloud, lightning

  forking in his faceted eyes. "No matter what happens, we win."

  "Even if we leave Cestus, we will still possess controlling shares of

  Cestus Cybernetics, enough to keep a local veto yet set ourselves up

  on any world we desire. The Five Families will have leapt to galactic

  prominence."

  "Yes," Quill hissed. "And there is another possibility, can you not

  see? Whether we deal with Palpatine or Count Dooku, we must have

  greater leverage in the future. Duris must be removed."

  They looked at him coldly. "You were supposed to have that problem

  under control," Debbikin said. "You were admitted to the Families

  under that promise. In fact, I hear you have been removed from

  the hive council. What good are you to us now?"

  "I will handle things," Quill sputtered. "We have agreements you

  dare not break. I control the mines, Debbikin. The hive council can

  unseat me, but I am not so easily replaced." His gaze might have

  smelted durasteel. "I will bring Duris down, and find a more . . . pliable

  puppet for the throne, trust me."

  Thump.

  Suddenly the confident expression melted into one of confusion.

  "What was that—?

  They felt the sound before they heard it, a dull impact on the magcar's

  roof, a juddering as it changed direction.

  The tunnel walls outside the car blurred past, but it was the same

  blur that they had seen for years, the same strata of rocks that led between

  their private residences and the palace. Now, even though they

  still blurred, there was a subtle difference, enough to disturb them.

  And the direction had changed.

  "What is this?" Lord Por'Ten raised his voice. "Conductor?"

  The droid at the front of the car turned to him, metallic face expressionless.

  "I am sorry, but my controls have been overridden by an

  unknown source."

  The representatives looked around at each other, shock plainly

  painted on their faces.

  "Contact the security forces?"

  "I am sorry," the droid said again with that unnatural patience