fingers. Within the countless hallways and corridors, the
lecture halls and exercise yards, libraries and meditation chambers
were all designed with an intrinsic grace and flow. Within them, even
the least gifted were sensitized to contemplate that Force binding the
universe into a single organism.
The Council itself met in chambers less prepossessing but no less
dignified than those of the Chancellor. Its arched walls and hangings
had been created by the galaxy's finest craftspeople. Such richness
would cost a fortune to reproduce, but most of the furnishings were
gifts from rulers and merchants whose lives, wealth, and honor had
been protected by Jedi skills over the millennia.
Obi-Wan had long since grown accustomed to the opulence, and
gave it little notice as he stood at ease before the Council, awaiting
their pronouncement.
Master Yoda's wizened head tilted slightly sideways as Obi-Wan
Kenobi and Kit Fisto consulted with them.
"These are confusing times," Obi-Wan said. "In many ways, our
former mandate has been suspended, and much of our authority curtailed."
"Strife changes many things," Yoda said. "Unpredictable these
Clone Wars prove to be."
"But now I am sent on a sensitive diplomatic mission, involving
treaties on multiple levels—such complexity that we require a barrister
just to sort them out." Obi-Wan considered his next words carefully.
"I have never refused a mission, but must tell you honestly that
I feel ill prepared for this . . . this maze of commerce and politics."
Master Yoda frowned. "Worry I do. No longer may Jedi look to the
words and actions of Masters past for their guidance. Strange new
times are these." The other Jedi in the room nodded in agreement.
This subject had been debated long and hard, but in the end, the Jedi
were obliged to fulfill the Senate's and the Chancellor's wishes.
At the moment, Mace Windu's face resembled a somber mask
sculpted of onyx duracrete. Of all the Jedi, it was Master Windu who
held status closest to that of Yoda. "I agree, but the Republic has
never been tested so severely. If asked to accept new roles, we must
respond. If we cannot protect the Republic, to whom should the responsibility
fall?"
"It augurs well that Palpatine still seeks diplomatic solutions," Kit
said.
"Then why not send diplomats?" Obi-Wan asked, realizing as he
did that he already knew the answer: diplomacy was only the first
layer of the Chancellor's response. Palpatine knew that a Jedi's mere
presence was a durasteel fist in a furred glove.
"The war goes well," Master Windu said, "but we are forced into
too many unfamiliar roles. If we are not careful, we may lose our
clarity of purpose and intent. Too often, lightsabers are required
where once words alone sufficed."
Yoda nodded. "Once, Jedi had only to appear to quiet a crowd.
Now common brawlers we become."
"It is the matter of Antar Four, and even the Battle of Jabiim,"
Windu said. Those grim memories triggered a murmur of regret.
"There have been more victories than failures," Obi-Wan reminded
them.
"I agree," Master Windu said, "but the maintenance of social order
requires both myth and reality." Once upon a time it had been
difficult for Obi-Wan to comprehend Windu's meanings. The Master
Jedi's profound meditations lifted him to a realm few could dream
of, let alone experience. But in more recent years Obi-Wan had begun
not merely to appreciate these pronouncements but almost to anticipate
them. "And the myth has been fractured: only the reality
remains. This situation on Cestus is delicate, and involves these
Force-sensitive droids. Ultimately, a swift and clear resolution would
save many lives." He leaned forward and fixed Obi-Wan with a gaze
that might have cut diamonds. "Whatever misgivings you may have,"
Master Windu said, "you are asked to accept this mission with your
usual integrity and commitment. Master Kenobi, Master Fisto, for
every conceivable reason, you must not fail."
Kit Fisto bowed, and his sensory tendrils wavered eagerly, like sea
fronds in an invisible current. "I gladly accept."
"I also accept," Obi Wan said, then added, "I will bring Ord Cestus
back into the fold. We will end these Jedi Killers."
Yoda's eyes glowed warmly. "With the Force as our guide, into
peace war may yet transform."
10
For three hours Obi-Wan lay in his cubicle's hard bed, slowing and
synchronizing his body's rhythms to maximize the restorative benefits.
Where an ordinary mind and body wavered in and out of the
mental and physical zones of recuperation, every minute spent in this
extreme state was worth three minutes of ordinary slumber. He
emerged rested and ready, packing his gear and rendezvousing with
Kit for the flight to Cestus.
In the Temple's communal dining hall, the two Jedi shared a meal
of thrantcill pate and hawk-bat eggs. While eating they spoke in
quiet voices of trivial things, understanding that the days ahead
would be intense. Memories of such quiet times were sustaining.
They took an air taxi out to Centralia Memorial Spaceport. The
port was one of Coruscant's oldest, some of its older pads actually
preserved as monuments even as the rest of the spaceport expanded
out into one of the galaxy's most modern facilities. There awaited the
Jedi a refurbished Republic cruiser, its scarlet skin panels open at the
aft wing as technicians made last-minute adjustments to the fuel atomizer
cone and radiation dampers.
They'd half finished supervising their ship's loading when a military
shuttle arrived, its triwing configuration folded for docking. Five
troopers in gleaming white armor exited.
If Obi-Wan was entirely honest with himself, he had to admit that
large groups of clone troopers made him slightly uncomfortable.
Easy to understand and explain away. One factor was the fact that
they were the absolute image of the notorious bounty hunter Jango
Fett, who had come within a hair of killing him on three separate occasions.
More disturbing still was the fact that, although genetically
human, they had not led human lives: clone troopers were born and
bred purely for war, without the nurturance of a mother's embrace, or
the safety of a father's loving discipline.
They looked human . . . they laughed and ate and fought and died
like men. But if not human, what exactly were they?
"General Kenobi." The trooper saluted. "CT-Three-Six/Seven-
Three-Two reporting. May we take your gear, sir?" His bearing and
attitude were clear and crisp, his eyes guileless. A memory floated to
mind. Hadn't CT-36/732 been the trooper who'd fought the JK? The
young man seemed healthy. No slightest gesture betrayed physical or
emotional pain of any kind. Remarkable.
"Yes, please stow it in our cabin." With admirable ease the trooper
slung his gear over his left shoulder, a nod his only response.
Obi-Wan was surprised by his slight aversion. It mirrored the
<
br /> prejudice he knew some others to feel, people who treated the troopers
as if they were little more than droids. This was unworthy of him,
of any Jedi. These terribly young men, no matter what their origin,
were prepared to die in service to the Republic. What more could
anyone ask? If their progenitor had been evil (and Obi-Wan was not
entirely certain that that word fit the complex and mysterious Jango
Fett), his clones had died already in their thousands. How many
deaths would it take to wash away an assassin's stain?
"Oh my, oh my," a falsetto voice cried behind them. Obi-Wan
turned, recognition filtering its way through his other thoughts.
Approaching slowly was a creature with a great flat turquoise shell
covering a wet, fleshy body. The creature crept along on a single
many-toed foot. A yellowish mucus trail glistened on the ground behind
him.
Obi-Wan smiled, all discomfiture vanishing. This one, he knew.
"Barrister Snoil!" he said with genuine pleasure. Politicians Obi-Wan
distrusted, and in most cases their minions were even worse. Regardless,
Doolb Snoil was one of the three or four finest legal minds of his
acquaintance, and had proven worthy of trust during sensitive negotiations
on Rijel-12. Of Vippit extraction from the planet Nal Hutta,
Snoil had attended one of Mrlsst's renowned legal universities before
beginning his initial apprenticeship in the Gevarno Cluster. A celebrated
career and a reputation for exhaustive research and absolute
reliability had led Snoil to his current berth. If anyone could make
sense out of this Cestus mess, it would be Snoil.
"Master Kenobi!" he said, twin eyestalks wobbling in delight. "It's
been almost twelve years."
Obi-Wan noted the new rings and deposits on the turquoise shell,
clear evidence that Doolb had been able to afford regular treatments
and shipments of his native viptiel plants, high in the nutrients his
people used to prepare themselves for the rigors of householding. In
another few years, he reckoned, Snoil would return home to mate. If
Nal Hutta's economics were anything like Kenobi remembered,
Snoil would have his pick of the most desirable females. "I see by
your shell that you have been prosperous."
"One tries." His eyestalks swiveled around. "And—Master Fisto!
Oh, my goodness. I did not know that you were accompanying us."
Kit clasped Snoil's hand. "Good to have you along, Barrister. I
know your home. Once upon a time I spent a week trench diving on
Nal Hutta."
"Goodness gracious! So dangerous! The fire-kraken—"
"Are no longer an issue." Kit smiled broadly and continued up the
ramp.
Snoil raised one of his stubby hands, then the other, and rubbed
them together eagerly. "Fear not!" he cried in his tremulous falsetto.
"When the right moment arrives, Barrister Snoil will not be found
wanting."
Snoil crawled the rest of the way up the landing ramp. The Vippit
was followed by five troopers moving equipment and armament
aboard. They acknowledged the two Jedi and continued their work.
A trooper displaying captain's colors saluted sharply. "General
Kenobi?"
"Yes?"
"Captain A-Nine-Eight at your service. My orders." He handed
Obi-Wan a thumbnail-sized data chip.
Obi-Wan inserted the chip into his datapad, and it swiftly generated
a hologram. He studied the mission resume and skill sets, and
was satisfied. "Everything is in order," he nodded. "This is my colleague,
Master Kit Fisto."
The trooper regarded Kit with an emotion Obi-Wan recognized
instantly: respect. "General Fisto, an honor to serve with you." Fascinating.
To Obi-Wan, the trooper had merely been polite. His body
language toward Kit suggested a greater level of esteem. Obi-Wan
swiftly guessed why: the clone had seen vid of Kit's droid encounter.
If there was one thing a soldier respected, it was another fighter's
prowess.
"Captain," Kit said. Obi-Wan said nothing, but he noted that, in
some way that had escaped him, Kit and the clone trooper had made
an emotional connection. This was a good thing. Kit was raring to
go, always. Obi-Wan was cursed by a constant urge to understand
the reason for his missions—Kit merely needed a target. He envied
the Nautolan's clarity.
The trooper turned to his four men. "Get the equipment aboard,"
he said, and they hastened to obey.
Kit turned to Obi-Wan. "They are utterly obedient," he noted,
perhaps again anticipating Obi-Wan's own thoughts.
"Because they have been trained to be," he said. "Not out of any
sense of independent judgment or choice."
Kit looked at him curiously, his sensor tendrils twitching. Then
he and the Nautolan entered the ship and prepared for their journey.
Within minutes all the gear was stowed, the checklists completed,
the protocols passed. The ship hummed, and then hovered, then with
an explosive acceleration broke free of Coruscant's gravity and lanced
up into the clouds.
Obi-Wan winced. His voyage from Forscan VI was gruelingly recent,
but that was preferable to flying with a stranger at the controls.
Better still was simply staying on the ground.
Obi-Wan found his way up to the nose of the ship and settled into
an acceleration couch as the ship rose. The clouds gave way to clear
blue. The blue itself faded and darkened as they entered the blackness
of space.
Around the horizon's graceful curve hovered twelve giant transport
ships, shuttling clone troopers from Coruscant bunkers to
Vandor-3, the second most populous planet in Coruscant's system.
He'd heard that Vandor-3's ocean was a brutal clone-testing ground.
Officials had spoken of it as if discussing profit-and-loss balance
sheets. Obi-Wan found that obscene, but still, what was the alternative?
What was right and wrong in their current situation? The
Separatists could turn out endless automata on assembly lines. Should
the Republic recruit or conscript comparable living armies? Jango
Fett, the GAR's original genetic model, had gladly placed himself in
the most hazardous situations imaginable. A man of war if ever one
had lived. Was it wrong to channel his "children" down the same
path?
Kit had appeared behind him. "They do nothing but prepare for
war," he said, again mirroring Obi-Wan's thoughts.
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 hi
s 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
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