The Cestus Deception

by Steven Barnes

  catching it as it slowed to round the curve, but still, it rammed the

  breath out of him.

  He clung with desperate strength. Eighteen seconds until they

  reached the next point, and he counted them off to himself, smiling

  inwardly at the civilians gawping up at this strange apparition.

  Before any of them could react with anything but distress, he was

  gone again.

  Obi-Wan wedged himself between the ceiling and the wall, bracing

  with hands and feet. A cargo tunnel intersected here, and it was

  only ten seconds before he could hear it howling on its way to him,

  and he saw the single eye glaring only moments before it was beneath

  him. He dropped down onto an ore car. The jagged heap of rock was

  so steep that he almost slid off onto the tracks below. He scrabbled

  for purchase, found it, lost it, then found it again. The artificial hurricane

  ripped Obi-Wans legs out sideways, and he pulled them back

  in an instant too late. His right heel slammed into a wall, whipping

  him around and back, ripping at his grip, forcing him to release his

  hold and then to regain it a few chunks back.

  The wind lashed him mercilessly, and there was nothing to be

  done about that, not now. He knew that Cestian computers had

  modeled his Force-based analysis of the system kinetics, and would

  have found it accurate. By now they might even have adapted their

  own programs to enable them to track his whereabouts by reckoning

  the presence of an undeclared body hopping from car to car throughout

  the system.

  That, and the overhead monitors, made it clear that he was performing

  for an audience both critical and suspicious.

  From car to car he migrated, until he reached a junction where he

  could finally hop free, landing on the metal track beneath. He

  breathed in short, sharp bursts, refusing to give in to the fear lurking

  just below the surface of his concentration.

  Timing. Tinting.

  Obi-Wan bent down and felt the metal path that the magcar levitated

  along at cruising speed. The car was coming. Not long now, and

  it was also too late to make other plans. Nothing now but to carry

  through. A sudden flood of air pressure hit him like a tide, overriding

  his carefully constructed mental blocks.

  Now. Obi-Wan turned and sprinted down the tunnel as fast as he

  could, fleeing the car barreling down on him; he could hear its warning

  siren. At the last instant he leapt forward, using the last strength

  in his body to accelerate himself, and spun in midair.

  For an instant, his body propelled by superbly conditioned muscles

  and a nervous system in tune with the deepest currents of the Force,

  Obi-Wan's velocity came within five meters per second of the magcar's.

  He braced himself, exhaling perfectly in time with the impact,

  arms bent as shock absorbers. Breath smashed out of his body with a

  gigantic huff, but that very exhalation provided him with the cushioning

  that allowed him to survive the impact. If he hadn't almost

  matched the magcar s speed . . .

  If he hadn't spun to grasp . . .

  If the exhalation hadn't been perfectly timed . . .

  He would have been smashed down, dragged under, ground into

  splinters. As it was, Obi-Wan struggled to pull himself up higher and

  higher on the car, until, scraped and panting, he lay above it and settled

  in for the rest of the ride.

  In the council rooms, members of the Five Families fortunate

  enough not to be kidnapped were watching the entire display with

  shock. "What kind of creatures are these Jedi?" Llitishi whispered,

  mopping perspiration from his crinkled blue brow.

  "I don't know... but I am profoundly grateful to have them on our

  side," said the elder Debbikin, hoping for his son's safety. "I think

  that we must seriously reconsider our stance." There was much murmured

  agreement, followed by eager attempts to tap into the sensors

  for further data.

  39

  F.or more than an hour after the magcar's power had been cut and

  it had settled to the shaft floor, the mood in the diverted car continued

  to deteriorate. The captured leaders of the Five Families had

  watched with alarm as their solitary kidnapper was joined by three

  ruffians dressed in Desert Wind khakis. The intruders had exchanged

  a few quiet words, then gone about their plans. Clearly, they

  wished to separate their captives from the city grid as swiftly as possible.

  "What do you intend to do with us?" Lady Por'Ten whispered.

  "Wait," a masked Desert Wind soldier replied. "You'll see." The

  dark-eyed Nautolan said nothing.

  At first they had hoped for rescue, but as they watched their kidnappers

  set up electronic scramblers to confuse the tunnel sensors

  and monitors, they realized their chances of being found were slight.

  One man patrolled outside the car, leaving two within it with the

  Nautolan. Young Debbikin watched the one outside. He walked

  back and forth around the car . . . and then he was gone. For a moment

  there was confusion, and then the figure reappeared. Only . . .

  was it the same person? Had he been mistaken, or had the car's tinted

  windows revealed some kind of brief and violent struggle?

  Hope was a luxury they dared not indulge in. And y e t . . .

  "And now—" the taller of the Desert Wind ruffians began. He

  never had a chance to finish the words. A black noose dropped down

  under his chin. The cord tightened, and the man was hauled up

  through an emergency door in the car's roof, kicking and screaming,

  scrabbling at his neck with hooked fingers. Instantly their Nautolan

  kidnapper wheeled, snarling.

  Cloak fluttering around him like the plumage of some bird of prey,

  Obi-Wan Kenobi dropped down into the car. The tan-clad Desert

  Wind soldier was the first to reach him, and therefore the first to go

  down in a brief flicker of a lightsaber. He stumbled back, the shoulder

  of his jacket smoking and spitting sparks.

  The Nautolan glared at his adversary, and for a moment the

  hostages were all but forgotten.

  "Jedi!" the Nautolan snarled.

  Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed to slits, his courtly manner a distant

  memory. In an instant he had transformed from ambassador into the

  deadliest of warriors. "Nemonus," he hissed, then added, "Not the

  first time you've tried blood diplomacy."

  "Nor the last," the Nautolan growled. "But it is the last time I'll tolerate

  your meddling."

  Without another word the two leapt toward each other and the

  fight was on.

  As long as they lived, the men and women in that car would remember

  the next few moments. The Nautolan wielded his glowing

  whip in a sinuous blur, with demonic accuracy. It arced up and

  around, flexing and coiling like a living thing. Wherever it went and

  whatever he did, the Jedi was there first.

  There had been much speculation as to why a Jedi would prefer a

  lightsaber to a blaster. All of the disadvantages of such a short-range

  weapon were obvious. But now, watching the drama unfold before

  them, another fact
became obvious as well: Obi-Wan's lightsaber

  moved as if it were an extension of his body, a glowing arm or leg imbued

  with the mysterious power of the Force.

  The two adversaries were almost perfectly matched. One might

  have expected the lightwhip s greater length to give advantage, but in

  the confined space that simply wasn't true. Strangely, while the Nautolan's

  lash splashed sparks here and there, gouged hot metal from

  panels, and sent flecks of fire floating down to where they huddled

  on the ground, none of them was touched. The Nautolan was pure

  aggression. His face narrowed to a fighting grimace, spitting curses

  in strange languages, moving his torso with a boneless agility that

  seemed impossible for any vertebrate.

  Certainly the Jedi would cower. Would flee and save himself. Nothing

  could stand before such a bafflingly lethal onslaught—

  But Master Kenobi stood firm. He wove through that narrow

  space, his lightsaber flashing like desert lightning, deflecting every

  flicker of the whip. The Nautolan's speed and ferocity were matched

  by the Jedi's own cold and implacable determination. They leapt and

  tumbled, wheeling through the confined space, somersaulting so that

  they were virtually walking on the ceiling as they evaded and attacked,

  achieving a level of hyperkinesis simultaneously balletic and primal.

  Master Kenobi was the first to penetrate the other's guard, such

  that the lightwhip was barely able to enmesh the glowing energy

  blade in time to deflect. The cloth along the Nautolan's arm flared

  with brief, intense heat. They saw the abrupt change in the kidnapper's

  demeanor. The Nautolan snarled, and fear shone in his face.

  The Jedi was winning! In another engagement, two at the most,

  Master Kenobi would have solved the lightwhip's riddle, and go for

  the kill.

  The Nautolan lashed this way and that as if gathering his energies

  for renewed aggression. Then with a single smooth, eye-baffling

  motion he scooped up the wounded Desert Wind soldier as if he

  were a mere child. The Nautolan bounded up through the roof, and

  was gone. They heard his footsteps pattering down the tunnel. And

  then . . . nothing.

  Master Kenobi turned to them, his face beginning to relax back

  from its battle mask. If he had not chosen to speak, there might have

  been no words voiced in that car for an hour. "Are you hurt?" he

  asked.

  Quill was reduced to mere babbling. "No! I—that was amazing! I'd

  always heard stories of the Jedi, but never . . . I just want to say thank

  you! Thank you so much."

  Master Kenobi ignored him and went from one of them to the

  other, checking to see that all were well. Then he examined, analyzed,

  and disconnected the override device. Within moments light

  returned to the car. The droid began to wheel and pivot as if awakening

  from drugged slumber. He looked at Kenobi. "Ah! Master Jedi!

  I assume it is you who has returned my function."

  "That's true."

  "And your orders?"

  "Get these people back to the capital."

  "At once, sir."

  The droid fit his action to his words. The rescued hostages gave a

  ragged cheer—even Quill, whose faceted eyes shone with awe. Young

  Debbikin tugged at their savior's robes again. "Master Jedi," he asked.

  "How can I repay you?

  The Jedi smiled grimly. "Tell your father to remember his duty," he

  said.

  40

  Deep in the mountains a hundred klicks southeast of the capital

  raged a mighty celebration. There was much dancing and laughter,

  and more than a bit of drunken boasting.

  Nate leaned back against a rock, deeply satisfied. The operation

  had indeed gone smoothly, without a single life lost. His throat was a

  bit sore from General Kenobi's lariat, but the support brace concealed

  in the neck of his cowl had worked perfectly. The extra

  padding in the shoulder of OnSon's "Desert Wind" uniform had

  protected him from the carefully judged swipe of General Kenobi's

  lightsaber. In every way, from obtaining the crucial intelligence from

  the criminal Trillot to transferring it, from evaluation to creation of

  a plan, from penetrating the transport security network to diverting

  the car, from impersonating the exhausted forces of Desert

  Wind to subduing resistance among the Five Families, from simulating

  combat with General Kenobi to effecting their eventual escape

  . . .

  Every step had gone off without a hitch.

  There was another, additional bonus: from his perch atop the

  roof of the car he had been able to witness the "duel" between the

  two Jedi. Nate had thought that he had seen and learned everything

  about unarmed combats. Now he knew that, in comparison,

  Kamino's most advanced martial sciences were mere back-alley thuggery.

  Nate knew that the Jedi had something that would keep troopers

  alive, if he could only learn more about it.

  But how? That thought burning in his mind, he sat back and

  looked up at the stars, deliriously content to replay each motion of

  lightsaber and whip.

  Sheeka Tull had landed Spindragon a safe distance away, and

  walked into camp under a burgeoning double moon. She had just

  completed a tiring run connecting three of Cestus's six major city

  nodes, delivering volatile cargo illegal to ship through the subterranean

  tunnels.

  A familiar unhelmeted form in dark green fatigues approached

  her, waving his hand. "Ah, Sheeka. Good to see you."

  From brown skin to tightly muscled body, everything was familiar,

  but still she looked at him askance. "You're not Nate," she said, although

  the trooper's casual dress lacked military insignia or other

  identifying marks.

  Forry blinked then transformed into wide-eyed innocence. "Who

  else would I be?"

  She grinned and pointed. "Nice try. He has a little scar right here

  on his jawline. You don't."

  Sirty came up behind Forry, laughing at their brother's efforts to

  fool her.

  Forry grinned ruefully. "All right. You're right. Just a little game we

  like to play." He jerked his thumb. "Nate's on the other side of camp."

  "Nice try." She slapped him on the back and went to see her

  new .. . friend? Were they friends? She supposed that she could use

  that word for their relationship. Friends with her dead sweetheart's

  clone. It was a bit morbid, but also strangely exciting.

  She found him leaning back against a rock, lost in his own thoughts.

  He smiled and raised a cup of Cestian spore-mead as he saw her.

  "What do we celebrate?" she asked, suspecting that she already

  knew the answer.

  "A little operation that went even better than expected. And no, no

  one is dead."

  She searched his face. "Disappointed?"

  He glared at her. "Absolutely. I was hoping for human barbecue

  tonight."

  She leaned back against the rock with him. "Touche. I shouldn't

  blame you simply for enjoying your work. It's what you were trained

  to do."

  "Superbly," he agreed.
She was relieved that these lethal, bottlebred

  warriors had a sense of humor.

  "And you've been fully trained in all matters of soldierly behavior?"

  she asked.

  "Fully."

  She paused, and looked at him more carefully. "And do soldiers

  dance?"

  Now he seemed to lose that smile and become genuinely thoughtful.

  "Of course. The Jakelian knife-dance is a primary tool for teaching

  distance, timing, and rhythm in engagement."

  She groaned. Practicality again. "No. Dancing. You know: man,

  woman. Dancing?"

  He shrugged. "The cohorts compete with each other in dance.

  Team and individual events."

  Sheeka found herself fighting a growing sense of exasperation.

  "Haven't you ever done it for fun?"

  He squinted. "That is fun."

  "You exhaust me," she said, and then held her arms out. "Come

  on."

  He hesitated, and then came to her.

  The musicians were playing some fast-paced number with flute

  and drum. Their jig steps were bouncy and light. The other recruits

  grinned, laughed, chattered, and swung their partners around with

  the kind of enthusiasm that suggested a serious need to blow off

  steam. The troopers watched, tapping their feet to the rhythm. From

  time to time one of them would perform a series of precise, martial

  movements to the music, spiced with tumbling floor gymnastics. The

  recruits approved, clapping along and cheering.

  Just what happened today? She hesitated to ask. He had great coordination,

  but not much sense of moving in unity with a partner. Still,

  she liked it. She liked it a lot.

  "I heard things on the scanner," she said, innocently enough.

  "Really?" he asked. "What did they say?" He held her firmly and

  caught a half beat cleverly enough to spin her. Several of the other

  couples had as well, and the air filled with whoops of joy.

  "Oh, something about a group of Five Family types being kidnapped

  and then rescued."

  "Kidnapped? Rescued?" he said, wide-eyed. "Goodness. Sounds

  exciting."

  So. He wasn't going to say anything. Need-to-know, she supposed.

  Still, from the number of people celebrating, she knew that the operation

  had been substantial, and she guessed that she might be able

  to pry the details out of a farmer or miner.

  He must have noticed the thoughtful frown on her face, and misinterpreted

  its meaning a bit. "So," he said. "I get the sense that you