She continued on as if she had prepared this speech for days. “And how much strength do you think it requires to keep your spirits high when everything you’ve spent a lifetime building…that your parents and grandparents spent a lifetime building…can be destroyed by the decision of someone too far away to touch?” She paused a moment. “And men like you.”
It was his turn to bristle. “Men like me protect you.”
“From other men like you.”
He might have taken offense at that, but instead he felt a bit sad, realizing that Sheeka was not as different as he had thought. She was just another outsider after all. “No. Men like me don’t start the wars. We just die in them. We’ve always died in them, and we always will. We don’t expect any praise for it, no parades. No one knows our names. In fact, by your standards we have no names at all.”
Something in his face, his voice, or his carriage reached through her anger, because suddenly she softened. “Nate…”
Sheeka reached out as if to take his hand, but he drew it away. “No. Is that what you wanted to hear? Well it’s true. We don’t have names. And no one will ever know who we are. But we do. We always do.” He felt his shoulders square as he said that simple truth. The troopers knew who they were, always. And always would. “We’re the Grand Army of the Republic.”
Sheeka shook her head. “Nate, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge you.”
His stance did not soften. She had dropped her guard. It was unfair to attack now, but he could not stop the training that was, in the final analysis, all he knew. “I haven’t had your choices. Every step of my life I’ve been told what to do.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice small now.
He took a step closer, looking down on her dark, lovely face. “And what do you know? We both ended up in the same place.”
He paused. She had nothing to say.
“So what difference did all those decisions make?”
Sheeka looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a moment that was too intense. Then a child running between them broke the moment. She managed a rueful smile, said, “Come on,” and led him back out of the cave.
The two of them sat on a hillside, watching the moons and listening to the happy sounds. Sheeka had spoken a bit of her life here on Cestus, of small pleasures and trials.
“So,” she concluded, “sometimes all we could do was wait, and hope. Don’t you think that requires endurance?”
“Is that what it was like?”
She gave no answer, just twisted a stalk of grass up and knotted it into a ball, throwing it downslope.
“I am sorry,” Nate said. “I live only to defend the Republic. I regret if that defense brings misery to some, but I won’t apologize for who and what I am.”
Without saying a word, Sheeka slid closer to him. When she started speaking again, his own thoughts ended, and he found himself losing interest in anything save the sound and cadence of her voice. “All you have to lose is your life, and you hold that cheaply enough. Are you so strong, Nate? Are you really as strong as the least fungus farmer?”
Their eyes locked again, and he felt the beginnings of an emotion he had never before experienced: despair. She would never understand him.
Then Sheeka, swollen with anger, seemed to deflate a bit. “No,” she said. “That’s wrong of me. I know one of the problems—it’s the whole name thing. I’m sorry. I’m used to calling droids by numbers and letters. People have names. You guys just have shorthand for your numbers.”
“I’m sorry—” he began, but she held up her hand.
“Do troopers ever have real names?” she asked.
“Rarely.”
“Would you mind if I gave you one?”
She was staring at him with such sincere intensity that he almost laughed. But couldn’t. The whole thing was amusing, really.
“What name did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking Jangotat,” she said quietly. “Mandalorian for ‘Jango’s brother.’ ”
He laughed, but found his voice catching a bit in mid-chuckle. Jangotat. “Sure,” he said. “If that makes it easier. Fine.”
Her answering smile burst with relief. “Thanks. Thanks, Jangotat. That’s a good name, you know,” she said, thumping him with her elbow. They both chuckled about that, until the mirth died away to a companionable silence.
Jangotat, he thought.
Jango’s brother.
A smile.
That I am.
42
The armored cargo transport lay broken, flames gushing from its shattered innards, its treads curled back from their axles like shreds of skin from peeled fruit. The cargo itself was scavenged or burned, its load of credit chits looted: the cash would be useful for purchasing goods, buying silence, and providing for the widows and orphans of any Desert Wind fatalities.
Black oily smoke curled from the transport’s ruptured belly and boiled to the clouds. Hands bound behind their backs, its crew had begun their twenty-kilometer trek back to ChikatLik. The message they carried would be heard loud and clear: Chaos is coming.
And as lovers of comfort and order, the Five Families would seek out a source of security. The Separatists had been shown to be too risky and dangerous, and possibly in collaboration with the forces of Desert Wind. The only option? A closer bond to the Republic.
“It goes well?” asked the newly christened “Jangotat.”
“Well enough,” Kit Fisto said, gazing through his electrobinoculars. “We strike, they grab at shadows, and we sever their limbs. Soon the Five Families will pray for order and safety.” The words were confident, but something more unsure lurked behind them.
“You don’t sound totally pleased, sir.”
“I am not comfortable with such deception, even though I admit its value.”
Jangotat concealed his pleasure. His perceptions were sharpening, something that kept soldiers alive. Maybe the whole “Jangotat” thing wasn’t so bad. Don’t be afraid to take chances. Think odd thoughts. All right, then. Here’s one this Jedi would never expect. “May I say, sir, that such nonconventional warfare saves lives.”
To his surprise, General Fisto’s mouth twisted in a rare display of mirth. “Does it indeed?”
“Yes, sir.”
The general put the electrobinoculars away. “Well. If a soldier of the Republic can find such a goal admirable, can a Jedi do less?”
He realized that this was, for the Nautolan, a joke, and smiled in return. The moment of shared levity gave Jangotat the courage to ask something that had been on his mind for two days now. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“What you did with Master Kenobi…could an ordinary man learn that?”
General Fisto stared at him with those vast, unblinking eyes. “No.”
“Some? Even a little?”
There was a long pause, and then the general nodded. “Well, perhaps. Yes. Some.”
“Would you teach me?”
“Nate…”
“Sir…” Jangotat looked to either side swiftly, saw that they were alone and lowered his voice. “Please don’t laugh at me…”
The Nautolan shook his head gravely. “Never.”
“I’m thinking of taking a name.”
General Fisto’s teeth gleamed. “I’ve heard that some do. What name are you thinking? Be careful,” he warned. “Names can be powerful.”
The trooper nodded. “So…a friend suggested: Jangotat. Brother of Jango.” He narrowed his eyes as if expecting rebuke. “Would that be…a good thing?”
Kit Fisto did him the respect of genuinely pondering the question. Then, after almost a minute, he answered, “Jango was a man of great strengths. A worthy foe. I would be proud to have his namesake at my side.” He slapped the trooper’s shoulder. “Jangotat.”
“Would you inform General Kenobi? I’ve already told my brothers.”
The Nautolan’s eyebrow arched. “And what did they say?”
Jangotat laughed. “Th
ey wished they’d thought of it first.”
Kit Fisto seemed to look at him a bit differently. “Among my people, the taking of a name is a serious thing,” he said. “An occasion for gift giving.”
“That isn’t why I—”
The general held his hand up. “You asked what it might be possible for you to learn. I have a small thing you may…enjoy. I can teach you and your brothers some of the most basic exercises taught Force-sensitive children in the Jedi Temple.”
“But I will never be as good as a Jedi, will I?” This was said without despair or resentment. Merely a question.
“No,” the Jedi said. “You will not. But you will know yourself, and the universe, better than you ever have.”
The two of them shared a smile. It was a moment of genuine openness between these two unlikely comrades, a precious thing between them.
“Then let’s get started,” Jangotat said.
The four troopers squatted in a circle outside their cave, crouching around Kit as he began his lesson. “There is a thing I can teach you,” the Nautolan said, “a game taught to the very youngest Padawan learners. It is a thing called Jedi Flow.” He paused. “Do all of you wish this?”
They were so attentive and open that Kit couldn’t resist a smile.
“All right,” he said, then paused, considering. “Jedi feel the Force as an ocean of energy in which they immerse themselves, floating with its currents, or directing its waves. For the average person, the subtle sensations of life are no ocean—but can still be a stream or river. Can you understand this?”
They nodded slowly.
“Your body holds memories of pain, anger, fear. It holds them in your tissues, conditioned responses that attempt to protect you from future injury.”
“Like scar tissue?” Forry asked.
“Exactly like it,” he said, approving. “Tight like a fist. It warps and twists you. When you collect enough of them, they are like armor. But Jedi wear no armor. Armor both protects and numbs. Jedi must expose themselves fully to the currents of the universe. I can teach you how to remove some of these wounds. Think of them as boulders, obstacles on the river of energy. Learn to flow around your fears and angers instead of crashing against them. Learn to do this well enough, and you can even direct the river to move the boulders for you, widening the riverbed, increasing the flow of energy.”
“But how?”
He searched for some simple way to express his thoughts. “Physical action is the unity of breathing, motion, and alignment. In other words, breath is created by the motion of your diaphragm, and the movement of your spine. Motion is created by breathing and proper posture. And alignment is created by a unity of breath and motion. To keep this triplet in mind as you practice your combat arts is to take a martial technique or physical challenge and transform it into something more.” Kit grinned his predatory, Nautolan smile. “Enough theory,” he said. “It is time for practice.”
For the next two hours Kit taught them exercises to refine their breathing, concentrating on exhalations only, allowing air pressure to fill their lungs passively as the rib cage expanded. He was gratified to see how rapidly they absorbed the lessons, and gave them more.
The Nautolan showed them how to turn two-dimensional calisthenics into three-dimensional gymnastics, moving static exercise positions through additional ranges of motion, turning poses into dynamic waveforms, and melding all with the triumverate of breathing, motion, and alignment. He also demonstrated how to take those exercises and combine them, flow in and out of them, creating their own combinations to address any specific fitness needs.
But always, always, preserving and attending to breathing, motion, and alignment.
When he was done they were sweaty but exhilarated, and begged for more.
“No,” he said. “That is enough for one day. Just remember: the point, the value is not in the exercises, or not exclusively there. The greatest value is in transitioning between one exercise and the next. All life is movement between states, between moments. Work to make every moment a symphony of these three aspects. Evolve into your excellence. Use external tasks merely to test your integration and clarity. That is the road to becoming an exceptional warrior.”
43
In the innermost chambers of ChikatLik city, negotiations had moved into new and higher gear. Few in the capital knew anything but rumors: Five Family executives had been kidnapped, payrolls hijacked, transports destroyed, power stations sabotaged. The general mood suggested change, and major change at that. Things had been quieter than usual in the public section of Trillot’s lair, and back in her private chambers a pall had descended over the usual revelry.
It was late now, and barely a sound could be heard in the entire twisting, turning nest of catacombs.
Trillot rested on her couch, puffing from one of her pipes, attempting to self-medicate. Accelerating the shift from male to female was a touchy process: this fungus to relieve stress, and that leaf to eliminate fatigue. Another to stabilize her mood. However unpleasant, Trillot found this preferable to the monthlong fertility period as the cycle went from male to female. A time of almost overwhelmingly volatile emotions, X’Ting traditionally sealed themselves in their quarters for this period, preferably with a mate.
No such isolation for Trillot! She had been awake for four days now, and although her system would eventually crash, necessitating thirty hours of coma-like slumber, for now she managed to keep the worst of it at bay. Meanwhile, spies brought her information from all over the city. She filtered it, deciding what was actionable and what she should pass on to Ventress, who had her own mysterious sources. The holovid she had asked Trillot to pass to Quill, for instance…
Still, Snoil’s discovery of the entire synthstone business was disturbing. Even with their new information, this century-old folly was the ultimate wild card. Who knew what the Jedi might do with such leverage? The sooner Kenobi was dead, the better.
These musings might have been enough to disrupt her sleep cycle, but there was more: her growing need to lurk outside Ventress’s bed chamber. Invariably, the experience left her trembling.
Trillot was grateful for the narcotic currents coursing through her blood. What might have been profoundly disturbing in a more sober mood seemed merely a matter of curiosity. Strange. When she chose, Ventress appeared able to shield herself from the most powerful Jedi. But she had such contempt for Trillot that she allowed her ugliest dreams to seep from her sleeping mind.
Trillot took another puff and closed her emerald eyes. Instead of darkness, a fantasy of fire and blood repeated itself again and again.
Warships rose.
Towers fell.
The Republic might dissolve, the Separatists trigger a wave of secession that washed through the entire galaxy. Consideration of profits, however enormous, might soon be moot. As might survival itself.
“Fire and blood,” she whispered.
The council chambers had been locked in verbal turmoil for long hours when Obi-Wan entered. He very nearly smiled. Since the subterranean kidnapping and “battle,” the major subject of conversation was not whether they should acquiesce to the Republic’s request, but rather how they could most swiftly comply.
This he knew even though he had not been present. A Jedi had means. Especially a Jedi with solid Republic credits to spread around.
“Yes, I was called?”
Snoil sat at the circular conference table across from the executives, half a dozen holodocs floating around his head. He gestured to Obi-Wan. “We’ve had a breakthrough. They’ve decided to meet the Chancellor’s terms.”
A vast relief. The sooner he put this distasteful situation behind him, the better. “Excellent.”
The immense room was filled wall to circular wall with representatives of the Five Families. And not just the executives who claimed the top slots—there were three dozen or more lower-tier Cestus Cybernetics executives thronging the room, poring over their holodocs, arguing and proposing. T
hey added signatures and thumbprints on the touch-screens for instant upload to legal computers all over Cestus, and from there broadcast to Coruscant for instant verification.
The air before Obi-Wan flickered, and a holodoc appeared. He turned to Snoil. “This meets your approval?”
He noticed the crinkles of exhaustion on the Vippit’s stubby arms, and realized that Snoil must have found the past days of negotiation grueling. “Absolutely.”
Obi-Wan signed as the Republic’s representative, and felt vastly satisfied. He and Duris shared a smile. “I assume that when the Supreme Chancellor reads the contract, he will approve. But barring some problem on that end, I believe that we have come to an agreement.”
“And not a moment too soon, Master Jedi,” she said.
One of Duris’s lawyers put a datapad in front of him. “And now, Master Kenobi, we need your signature on the following documents—”
Suddenly and without formal announcement Quill entered the chamber, waving a rectangular holocard above his head as if it contained the secrets of the universe. His faceted eyes gleamed.
“Wait! Hold the proceedings! Do not thumb that holodoc.”
Duris stared at Quill with suspicion. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Better we ask the Jedi the meaning of this.” He placed the card in a datapad, smirking with triumph. An instantly recognizable image sprang into the air. It was not taken from a standard security cam—those had all been disabled down in the tunnels. It was, rather, an image taken by some unseen person who had reached the site even before Kenobi had arrived.
Obi-Wan’s gut churned sourly. How had this happened? And how had the unknown observer concealed his or her presence?
To these questions, he had no answers at all. He did, however, know what was about to appear, and realized that total disaster was at hand.
Floating on the player’s projection field was the image of a Desert Wind fighter. A battle ensued between Jedi and rebel, revealed very clearly from this angle to be a mockery, a fraud, with a lightsaber passing a quarter meter broad of the target. The kidnapper fell down and flapped his arms theatrically. Obi-Wan “attacked” another, this battle even more obviously staged. The mood in the room had grown frigid. No one made a sound.
Star Wars®: The Cestus Deception Page 21
