The Cestus Deception

by Steven Barnes

  She shook her head. "Stupid. My heart didn't want to believe what

  my head already knew."

  The happy music of children singing and playing wafted to them.

  One, one, chitliks basking in the sun.

  Two, two, chitlik kista in the stew.

  Three, three, leave a little bit for me...

  An odd song. Of course, young clones sang on Kamino. They sang

  mnemonic tunes, imprinting the subconscious with recipes for explosives,

  ordnance manuals, equations for lines of sight and windage,

  and anatomical vulnerabilities for a hundred major species. Of course

  there were songs, and games. But these rhymes seemed merely concerned

  with the day, and the sun, and the world about them without

  specific instructions on the art of survival or death. He had never

  heard a ditty like that, and it intrigued him.

  "How much do you know about him?" Sheeka asked.

  He straightened his posture a bit, and again spoke words that had

  crossed his lips a hundred times. "He was the greatest bounty hunter

  in the galaxy, a great warrior, an honorable man. He accepted a contract

  and stuck with it to the end."

  "But how exactly did he die?"

  Nate cleared his throat, surprised to find it more constricted than

  he thought. "One of his clients was a traitor. Jango Fett didn't know

  this when he accepted the contract, and once he had given his

  word, there was no other choice. It took a dozen Jedi to kill him." At

  least, that was what Nate had always heard. Pride surged through his

  veins. There was no shame in what Jango had done. In fact, in the

  current decadent world, where most promises weren't worth bantha

  spit, he was proud to be the offshoot of so deadly and honorable a

  fighter.

  He looked at her sharply, expecting her to challenge his words.

  "So Jango was killed by the Jedi." She jerked a thumb at Kit Fisto.

  "And there they strut. Bother you?"

  He shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "No. We are under contract

  as well, a contract made with our blood. We were born to serve,

  and in that service find life's greatest gift: a meaningful existence."

  She shook her head, but there was no mockery in her expression.

  "He'd howl," she said. "Jango wasn't the philosophical type."

  Curiosity overwhelmed him. True, he had met Jango, been educationally

  bruised and battered at his hands. But no trooper had much

  idea what he was like as . . . well, as a man. Mightn't such knowledge

  make Nate a better trooper? "Tell me more," he said.

  Sheeka Tull cocked her head sideways, evaluating him, mischief

  alight in her eyes. "Maybe later," she said. "If you're good."

  "I'm the best of the best," he answered.

  "That," she said, dark face speculative, "remains to be seen."

  18

  A,-t their next stop on the plains west of the Dashta Mountains,

  members of two different farm communities had assembled to listen

  to the Jedi. There was no one hall large enough to hold them all, and

  General Fisto pulled Nate to the side. "You've had recruitment training?"

  "Yes," Nate confirmed. "Recruitment and training of indigenous

  troops."

  "Good. I want you to handle the smaller group. Report back to me

  how things go." The Jedi held his hand out.

  Nate took the offered hand and shook hard. "Yes, sir."

  Nate's group met in a prefabricated hut used to house cargo ships

  making overnight hops to the outlying fungus farms. About fifteen

  hundred males and females of a dozen different species crowded beneath

  its arched metal ceiling. All had come to see the representatives

  from the galaxy's core.

  The ARC captain strode to the makeshift podium, noting the

  number of fine young human males whose broad shoulders and thick

  arms might easily have swelled a trooper's uniform. It was not so

  easy for him to evaluate female and nonhumanoid training material.

  What were the fitness standards for a Juzzian? Whether sedentary or

  the hyperactive mountain-hopping variety, they appeared to be little

  more than cones with teeth.

  There was great value to the all-clone army, but he could also feel

  that these people had a strong connection to their farms. Given the

  right motivations, they might fight like demons to protect their land

  and families. "Citizens of the Republic!" He spoke as clearly as he

  could, projecting his voice as if trying to be heard above the din of

  battle. He looked to his left. Sheeka stood there, watching him. Reporting

  back to General Fisto? Or . . . ?

  "I come to you today not with empty words or promises. I have no

  soft phrases to place you at ease." They stirred restlessly. Good, it was

  important that he catch their attention.

  "It's time to choose sides," he said. "Your leaders' ambitions will

  drag you into ruin, but courageous action now will save you. There

  will be rewards for those who side with the Republic, and possible

  military careers for those with ability." That last comment was true

  enough, but lacked shading or depth. The Grand Army of the Republic

  was 100 percent clone, but local militias were often recruited

  to supplement it.

  His comments created a stir in the audience. Nate hoped to build

  upon it, continuing after a brief pause for effect.

  "People of Cestus! There is honor in honest labor, but there is also

  glory to be gained through risking life and limb to preserve those

  principles you hold dear. Let your actions now speak to what you

  dream of being, and not just what you have been."

  He noted that the young men looked at each other, and knew that

  Cestus's vast desolate spaces did not breed cowards. A hard life bred

  hard men. And women, too, he noted. More than a few of the young

  females had squared their shoulders. Clearly, they did not relish a life

  in obscurity, here in the Republic's hinterlands. He had to walk carefully,

  though, not to offend the elders, and shaped his next words to

  that effect.

  "I do not come to take your children, who should remain with you

  to learn the ways of their ancestors. But those who are of the age of

  consent, those who seek a different life and may have been trapped

  by a greedy corporation that would drain your life and youth and give

  nothing but empty promises in return—for those I offer another

  way."

  One strapping farm lad glanced to either side, shoulder-length yellow

  hair riffling with each motion. The man beside him had the same

  flat, broad face and yellow hair, but was at least twenty years older.

  Care and toil had rounded his shoulders, caused him to cast his eyes

  downward. Father. He may have been beaten, but his son was neither

  broken nor bowed. "Sounds awfully good to me," the boy said, and

  spat into the dust. "Name's OnSon. Skot OnSon. Lost our farm

  when those Five Family executives cut our water supply out by Kibo

  Sands."

  That last comment generated grumbles, but most were sympathetic.

  Clearly, OnSon's was no isolated case. "I don't need even that

  much motivation," another said. "Parents died last year of the shadow

  fever. I'v
e been working the farm by myself—I'd kiss a cave spider to

  get off this rock."

  Nate held up his hand as the agreement swelled. "Citizens!" he

  called. "You will be given a rendezvous. There, we will determine

  which of you have the strength to assist your Republic in its hour of

  need."

  He stepped back from the podium and listened to them as they argued.

  Passionate and opinionated, the discussion might rage for

  hours. There: he'd lit a torch. It would be up to others to fan the

  flames.

  19

  F.rom rug to translucent ceiling, every centimeter of Obi-Wans

  suite was designed for optimal luxury. Considering the weeks in the

  jungles of Forscan VI, Obi-Wan had initially found it charming. As

  the hours passed and Snoil hooked into Cestus's core computers,

  spending hour after hour absorbing mountains of legal data, Obi-

  Wan began to feel positively stifled. Snoil was researching when

  Obi-Wan finally surrendered to sleep, and was still at it when the

  Jedi awakened in the morning.

  Obi-Wan was aware that their every move was being watched—by

  forces loyal to the government, and perhaps spies for the Five Families,

  that ruling group he was certain lay behind what he now considered

  a puppet Regency. Governments came and went, but old money

  kept its influence through one administration after another, weathering

  them as mountains weather the changing seasons.

  Other eyes were probably on him as well, some of them unfriendly

  and unofficial. Cestus had a highly developed criminal class, many of

  its leaders descended from the hive that had once controlled the entire

  planet. They would have tendrils everywhere.

  Snoil's eye stalks wavered. He seemed to be fighting panic. "Never

  have I seen such a tangled web," he said. "Master Obi-Wan, it might

  take months just to dig out the actual power structure. Everything is

  owned by legal fictions, every treaty not with individuals but councils

  or corporations with no corporeal identity. My head hurts!"

  "How about this Regent? Would you say she has real power?"

  "Yes, and no," Snoil said. "G'Mai Duris represents a sop thrown to

  the remnants of the hive. After all, the original contracts were all

  with the X'Ting, so any survivors have to be honored. My guess is

  that she has public power, but takes orders in private."

  "From who?"

  The Vippit's head bobbed side to side. "Probably these Five Families."

  Then the air blossomed before them. A blue Zeetsa with elongated

  lashes bobbled politely. "The Regent has requested the honor of your

  company," she said. "Will you be able to attend?"

  "With pleasure," Obi-Wan replied, and stopped pacing.

  "An air taxi will arrive for you shortly," the Zeetsa said, and disappeared.

  "Good!" Obi-Wan brightened. "Time for the real work."

  Obi-Wan helped Snoil polish his shell—a communal activity

  among Vippits—and soon the barrister was ready to leave. They descended

  to the lobby as their air taxi arrived, and were soon zipping

  along the city's periphery, arriving at the throne room within minutes.

  Set in a cave large enough to comfortably hold the interstellar

  cruiser that had brought them to Cestus, the throne room was rather

  modestly furnished, less ostentatious than the Supreme Chancellor's

  own quarters. After all, Cestus was honeycombed with caverns both

  natural and hive-rendered. And if these had been formed by natural

  processes rather than hive activity or mining, then in a way this was

  merely an expression of Cestus's natural beauty.

  Here in this marble-tiled chamber the hive council met, and group

  meetings with the representatives of the guilds and various clans took

  place. Because of the small size of the day's audience, the room

  looked even more immense than it actually was.

  A tall, broad X'Ting female with a pale gold shell sat on the dais,

  and Obi-Wan recognized her immediately as Regent Duris. She was

  said to have worked her way up through years of service and talented

  politicking. Her reputation was strong and honest, and her face,

  though unwrinkled, was grooved with the kind of deep, mild smile

  lines that suggested a serious and steady disposition.

  Even seated on her throne, she radiated power, her expression polite

  but stern. So: this was to be a formal encounter.

  G'Mai Duris traced her ancestry back to the original hive queen,

  but only tangentially: the direct lineage had died out during the

  plagues. Still, considering Cestus's current situation, that qualified

  her.

  She rose, primary and secondary hands pulling her voluminous

  robes across her broad hips and thorax like shadows across a sheltering

  valley. This being carried herself with the regal pride and confidence

  that came only from generations of scrupulous breeding.

  "Greetings, Master Kenobi. Pardon the delay. Allow me to welcome

  you to our world. I am G'Mai Duris, Regent of Cestus."

  Obi-Wan bowed. "Supreme Chancellor Palpatine sends his greetings,"

  he said.

  "This is gratifying to hear," she replied. She was watching him very

  carefully, her faceted green eyes intense. "I was not certain there

  would be sympathetic ears in the Senate. We have gone so long with

  no sign that our problems or people were understood."

  Was there some hidden meaning behind her words? Obi-Wan

  sensed that the stresses upon Duris ranged beyond the normal.

  "When you meet him," he said carefully, "and I am certain that one

  day you will, you will find the Chancellor to be a man of supreme understanding.

  He empathizes with your plight, and hopes as much as

  you to find some kind of peaceful solution." There. He, too, could

  speak on multiple levels. The question was whether he had read

  Duris properly, and whether she could respond.

  "That would be my fondest wish," she said. "But make no mistake,

  Master Jedi: my people's welfare is my highest priority. More than

  my office. More than peace. More than my own life."

  Obi-Wan nodded, pleased with her. Although this meeting had

  been days in preparation, he was satisfied with the connection. This

  being was astute. "I can understand how you came to power. Your

  clarity on the responsibilities of office is admirable."

  G'Mai Duris nodded in turn. "Let this be the beginning of a

  deeper and more satisfying relationship between Ord Cestus and the

  rulers of the Republic."

  Obi-Wan held up a gently chiding finger. "The Republic has no

  rulers. Only custodians."

  "Of course," Duris said, bowing her head.

  Snoil spoke for the first time. "I am Barrister Doolb Snoil, representing

  the Coruscant College of Law. I make my case as clearly as

  possible," he said in his soft, high voice. "By both treaty and tradition,

  Cestus is a signatory to the Coruscant Accords. Although technically

  Cestus Cybernetics sells nothing illegal, we believe that the

  JK droids will be modified and used to kill Republic troops."

  "So you say," Duris replied.

  Snoil continued on unfazed. "Therefore, it is with greatest respect


  that I request you to cease production and/or import of any such

  droids as mentioned in part two paragraph six of the primary docufile."

  A knee-high blue sphere rolled forward. The Zeetsa who had sent

  the holo? Duris bent so that the creature could whisper in her ear.

  She listened intently, then studied several readouts of various documents

  floating in the air before them.

  Snoil continued to speak for almost another hour, citing Republic

  treaties and what he had come to understand of the current legal

  status of Cestus Cybernetics, the Five Families, the production of security

  droids, and possible repercussions. Duris responded with admirable

  clarity: she was an encyclopedia of legalities, always firm,

  never impolite, intelligent and strong.

  But, Obi-Wan knew, much of this was artifice. She had to be utterly

  terrified. An X'Ting of her station, more than anyone, understood

  the concept of extermination. History told her more than she

  wanted to know about what might happen should politics end and

  devastation begin.

  He hoped that it would not come to that, that this time that rarest

  of miracles would happen: people of goodwill would resolve conflict

  without violence.

  20

  In any recruitment operation, the ultimate question was: how many

  would respond? It was one thing for youthful would-be warriors to

  cheer in the fading warmth of a fine speech; quite another to rise the

  next day, after a night of dreams or nightmares, dress, and travel a

  distance to the place where they would be trained to lay down their

  lives for the Republic.

  The first prospects arrived before daylight the next day, when Nate

  and the commandos were getting the morning brew going over an

  open fire and finishing their breakfasts. The first to arrive was the

  tall, broad-faced young man with yellow hair named OnSon. Only a

  few steps behind him walked another boy, shorter but even thicker

  across the shoulders. They had been told to bring food to eat and

  share, and their backpacks were packed with dried meats and preserved

  vegetables. Nate immediately thought of a dozen field recipes

  that would transform the new supplies into mouthwatering collations.

  The newcomers were invited to rest at the fireside and share the

  brew. They had barely begun to speak when they heard a rolling roar,

  and a speeder bike whizzed by. A rough-looking X'Ting female