Star Wars®: The Cestus Deception

by Steven Barnes

  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 his 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 under Master Yoda’s tutelage. As they grew more accustomed to each other’s rhythms, they progressed into a flowing web of spontaneous engagement. Slowly, minute by minute, they increased pace, stuttered the rhythm, increasing the acuteness of attack angles and beginning to utilize feints and distractions, binds, rapid changes in level, and to introduce random environmental elements into the interaction: furniture, walls, slippery floors. To an observer it would have seemed that the two were trying to slaughter each other, but the two knew that they were engaged in the most profound and enjoyable aspect of Jedi play, lightsaber flow.

  At a crucial instant Kit hissed, more to himself than Obi-Wan, then stepped back, disengaged, and switched his lightsaber off.

  Obi-Wan switched his off as well. “What is it, my friend?” he asked.

  “The bio-droid,” Kit said, anger heating his voice. “I should have performed better.”

  “You were brilliant. What more could you have done?”

  Kit sat heavily, his smooth green forearms resting on his knees, sensor tendrils curling and questing like a nest of angry sand vipers. “I should have gone closer to the edge,” he said, the irises within the unblinking eyes expanding until they appeared to glow. “Released myself into the Force, become more unpredictable. More…random.”

  Obi-Wan heard the concern in the Nautolan’s voice. Form I was wild, raw…and deadly. It also required too much emotional heat for Obi-Wan’s taste. “That would have been dangerous,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Not to your body, perhaps, but to your spirit.”

  Kit looked up at him, irises contracting again. “It is the way of Form One.”

  And here Obi-Wan knew he needed to tread softly. Combat style was an exceedingly personal choice. “Agreed,” Obi-Wan replied, “but Form One represents greater risk to you as well, my friend.”

  Kit said nothing for a time, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, nodded. “We all take risks.”

  That simple truth momentarily silenced Obi-Wan. There it was: Kit knew that Form I placed him in greater jeopardy, but his sense of duty made it worthwhile. In that moment Obi-Wan’s respect for the Nautolan rose to the highest levels.

  For now, the best thing that he could do was help get Kit’s mind off the subject. He stood, briskly slapping his palms together. “But come!” he said. “If our ruse is to succeed we must practice a while longer. Then I need to get back to work on the lightwhip.”

  That seemed to lift Kit’s spirits. “When will it be ready to test?”

  Obi-Wan sighed. “I’ve never actually built one, but saw a bounty hunter wield one once, in the Koornacht Cluster. The theory is clear enough, and I found a diagram in the archives. Just remember: if covert action becomes necessary, all suspicion must fall on Count Dooku. If you are seen wielding a lightsaber, you’ll be identified as a Jedi.”

  “Less conversation.” Kit grinned. “More practice.”

  They returned to their dance, each sensitive to his differences but comfortable in them as well. On and on they went, until exertion drove all thought from their conscious minds, until all discussions were forgotten, and all that remained was a pure joy of moving, separately and together, in the way of the Force.

  12

  Concluding his practice session, Obi-Wan freshened himself and donned a new robe. He then went out to the lower deck lounge. There, in a more comfortable environment than the formal dining room just fore of them, he found Barrister Snoil studying at two computer workstations, each of his eyestalks engaged with a different holographic display.

  “A useful skill,” Obi-Wan said, just behind the barrister’s right ear. “You comprehend both simultaneously?”

  Snoil turned, startled. “Master Kenobi! I didn’t realize you were there. As to your question…yes, my people can split attention between sides of their brain,” he said. “The full reintegration will not take place until sleep tonight.” Genuine concern creased Snoil’s glistening face. “Actually, I am glad you are here. I was hoping we might confer.”

  “On what matter?”

  “These treaties!” His falsetto rose to a squeak. “A nightmare! Ord Cestus was never supposed to be a major industrial power. When it was initially set up, Coruscant granted it quite favorable trade terms. The point was for the prison to be self-sufficient, and not a burden to the Republic.”

  “And now?”

  “And now the prison exists as a legal fiction only, a definition expanded to include the entire planet. Cestus markets goods under a corrections license.”

  Snoil paused, eye stalks wavering almost hypnotically. He canted his head slightly to the side, as if considering a new thought. When he spoke next, his voice sparked with renewed enthusiasm. “Delicate. Delicate. If we threaten a suspension of activity while their status is reevaluated, that should panic them.”

  “Right into Dooku’s arms,” Obi-Wan said, and shook his head. “Hardly a desirable outcome.”

  “True,” the Vippit replied, then lowered his voice. “I was actually more concerned about another subject.”

  “That being?”

  “Well…it is my Time,” he
said, emphasizing the last word.

  “For children?”

  Snoil nodded emphatically. “Oh yes. Master Obi-Wan, I am so happy you called me. For years I’ve owed you a great debt.”

  Obi-Wan laughed. “We’re friends. You owe me nothing.”

  “You saved my life,” he said fervently, and his twin eyestalks bobbled. “I was under contract on Rijel-Twelve when the clans revolted. If you hadn’t evacuated Republic staff, my empty shell would lie there still.”

  Well, yes, Obi-Wan had handled a bad bit of business there, but…

  Snoil would not be denied. “Until I repay the favor, I cannot marry.”

  Obi-Wan couldn’t wait to hear the explanation. The galaxy’s wonders never ceased to amuse and amaze him. “No? Why not?”

  Genuine anguish filled Snoil’s voice. “Because you can call upon me for a service whenever you wish. No well-born female would bond with me until I have cleared this debt, because I cannot negotiate wholly with her.”

  “This is your people’s way?”

  Snoil nodded.

  Obi-Wan laughed heartily. “Well, my friend, my confidence in our mission just soared. It seems you have more reason to see this job through than I.”

  13

  Over the three hundred years since initial entry into the Republic, Cestus’s native population had decreased by 90 percent, while the immigrant population had increased to several million. Their needs were so different from those of the original inhabitants that, without interstellar commerce, that population would starve or be forced into migration and poverty.

  Hundreds of years earlier, Cestus had been a world of amber sands and coppery-brown hills, mostly rock with a few blue pools of surface water and the scaled ridges of continental mountain ranges. Its poor soil was home to a thousand varieties of hardy plants whose root acids constantly struggled to break down rock into absorbable nutrients. Most notable among its vegetation were some eight hundred varieties of edible and medicinal mushrooms, none of which had ever been exported.

  However poor it might once have been, with the rigorous filtering of Cestus’s water and addition of various nutrients, the planet’s soil offered up two dozen vegetables suitable for consumption. After fifteen generations of cultivation, significant patches of green now stretched across the brown expanse, some few of them visible even from space.

  From high orbit, it would have been difficult to see the industrial areas that produced the Baktoid armor or dreaded bio-droids, or see any reason at all to think that this secluded planet might become a crucial balance point in a drama playing out across the galaxy. However difficult to believe, it was a sobering truth.

  Their transport cruiser made its initial descent to a section of the Dashta plain selected for the tiny amount of electromagnetic activity in the area: evidence that there was little or no entrenched population. The offworlders wished to avoid prying eyes. Ahead lay work best done in privacy.

  For an hour the troopers humped crates and rucksacks full of gear out of the ship. Kit insisted on carrying his own equipment, and the troopers were happy to let him do it: the Jedi was as strong as any two of them. For half the trip Obi-Wan had labored on the weapon now coiled at Kit’s side. Kit had a reputation for improvisation, and within hours he handled the lightwhip as if he had been spawned with it.

  Obi-Wan turned to Kit and extended his hand. “Well,” he said, “this is where we part.”

  “For now,” Kit said. “We’ll set up base camp in the caves south of here, and should be ready for operations in a day. After that, we’ll be ready for whatever comes.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Obi-Wan said. “Communication on astromech remote maintenance channels shouldn’t alert their security. We’ll disguise our conversation as modulations of the basic carrier frequency.”

  Kit nodded, but the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes. “A good idea. May the Force be with you.”

  There was little left to do save play out their hand as dealt. Obi-Wan stood, looking out at the horizon, at the dust devils spinning and churning. Beyond those, a rust-colored cloud crept across the ground, peaceful and lovely at this distance, one of the sandstorms that made surface living on Cestus such a hazard. Obi-Wan understood perfectly why Cestus had been chosen as a prison.

  The four remaining clone troopers stayed behind with Kit. Obi-Wan walked back up into the ship, and the door sealed behind him.

  He strapped himself into the empty chair next to CT-X270, checked to make sure Doolb Snoil was safe, and then nodded. “Let’s go, Xutoo,” he said.

  Kit checked the instrumentation on his Aratech 74-Z speeder bike, modified military hardware as maneuverable as a hawk-bat and capable of speeds up to 550 kilometers per hour. Riding one reminded the Nautolan of storm-swimming, one of his favorite sports.

  The four directional steering vanes were well adjusted and responsive to a touch. The repulsorlift engines purred like demicots and had no problem handling the heavy cargo bags strapped to the sides. All fuel cells were full, all diagnostics live. Good. He raised his hand, and the clone troopers mounted their own speeders as if they had practiced that single maneuver for a month. He breathed deeply. Fire burned his veins as his twin hearts went slightly out of rhythm with each other, preparing him for action. This was the moment that he lived for, the calm before the storm. Like swimming the surface during one of Glee Anselm’s mammoth hurricanes, or the practice of Form I, it was the storm itself that was the test, the challenge to see if he could maintain his balance in the whirlwind. Never had he fallen. One day he would, as all mortals did. But not today, he grinned fiercely. Not today.

  He triggered the speeder. The purr became a growl as it lifted.

  In perfect formation the five sailed through the gullies and along rivers through a tumble of low brown scrub brush.

  Although most nearby objects whipped past in a blur, those more distant remained clear. Kit drank in the scenery, noting the far-off line of a caravan out along the scrub rock. The speeder bikes traveled too low to be seen, low enough for the speeders behind him to be swallowed in the storm of dust particles, baffling scanners.

  At one moment they passed a small knot of nomadic X’Ting, the insectile people who had once dominated the planet. While still holding some political power, they now numbered but a few tens of thousands. The nomads raised their crimson arms and pointed at the line of speeder bikes as they raced past.

  Again, nothing to really worry about. He convinced him-self that this wasn’t an omen. Encountering the Cestians in the midst of such a desolate area was just happenstance. Nomadic native Cestians tended to be nontechnological, used no devices that emitted radiation anywhere in the electromagnetic spectrum. Nothing to worry about…

  Cestus called to Kit. In this landscape he sensed the struggle of life against an unsparing nature. It reminded him of his homeworld’s surface territory, a land of great harshness, but one that bred a people of tremendous courage. Except for a lack of vast and roiling oceans, he might have been born here.

  On the next speeder bike behind him, Nate traversed the same landscape, occupied by his own thoughts. The ARC captain scanned everything, searching for ambush spots, possible strongholds, lines of sight…everything he saw, everything he thought was connected to his duty. There was room in his mind for nothing else. Nor was anything else needed.

  Kilometer by kilometer, they progressed toward their goal, the Dashta Mountains far to the west.

  14

  After assuming a trajectory plausible for a ship approaching from Coruscant, CT-X270, “Xutoo,” reentered Cestus’s atmosphere. The cruiser’s communications array fired, automated docking signal receivers decoding instructions for landing.

  They headed straight for Cestus’s capital city, ChikatLik, an X’Ting word meaning “the center.” Xutoo handled the controls with supreme confidence, as if he had been born piloting ships.

  Then again, for all practical purposes, he had.

  They descended through t
he umber heart of a swirling kilometers-wide dust cloud that obscured most of the surface beneath them. The guidance computer projected wire-frame animations of their target, and revealed more of the surface detail than Obi-Wan’s naked eyes. One of Cestus’s primary features was the vast network of tunnels, created by volcanic activity, water erosion, and millennia of digging by the once vast X’Ting hives. It was these caves that had made it such a perfect choice for a prison planet, and it was into one of the larger lava tubes that their ship descended.

  As they entered its mouth, the air cleared, and for the first time during their descent visual cues revealed valuable information. After a few seconds the sides became pleasantly painted and sculpted. Obi-Wan caught a few briefly snatched glimpses of graffiti, and then networks of pipe and steel, mazes of rigging clearly the product of endless generations of workers.

  He noticed also that the laborers seemed to have done everything in their power to keep a sense of the original beauty, and he admired that. As much as the works of mortals could be, and often were, quite beautiful, there was always something about the natural world that touched Obi-Wan even more deeply, as if a testament to the truth and depth of the Force that conscious efforts could never approach.

  They zoomed down another tunnel and turned left. Artificial light reflected around the corner. For a moment he was blinded.

  ChikatLik’s offices and apartments blended with the volcanic structures so perfectly that it was difficult to see where they ended and mortal workings began. He saw a thousand elevated roads and pedestrian paths, but little aerial travel. Many of the curved, apparently stone paths streamed with slidewalks, a local transport system that seemed to have grown organically over the years until the entire city bustled like a close-up, impossibly intimate view of a living body’s interior.

  Their ship spiraled down through the towers and roadways, heading to a central landing pad at the outskirts of their destination, some kind of major living complex. Where volcanic rock was obscured the walls had the texture of rough gray or black duracrete, perhaps some compound produced by the digestive systems of hive builders.