The Cestus Deception

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The Cestus Deception Page 33

by Steven Barnes


  his own eyes. Three stories. According to his information the third

  floor held the most vital controls, so that was where he went.

  Obi-Wan floated from the shadow on the wall, ascending using

  even the narrowest of handholds, using his sensitivity to balance on

  footholds where a reptile might have fallen to its death. Once at the

  window he looked back down at the street. The alley was narrow, so

  that it wasn't easy to see him, but if anyone looked directly up, there

  would be a problem he would rather not deal with. So far, so good.

  The lock was not as easy. It was complicated and beyond his ability

  to pick. Security alarm? He felt around the edge, trying to sense the

  presence of a protective energy field. Yes. He could sense the conduits,

  but the power wasn't pulsing with any intensity. So the alarm

  circuit existed, but wasn't on during the day, when the purification

  plant probably swarmed with guards.

  Obi-Wan triggered his lightsaber and burned a hole through the

  lock and window. When sparks ceased to spit and the window cooled,

  he reached through and opened it.

  He slid through and was in. The room was empty, but not for

  long—the door slid open.

  He spun across the room and was in hiding before the door

  opened. A man walked in, and Obi-Wan rendered him unconscious

  before he was even aware of a threat. His victim wore an uncoweled

  uniform, one that would expose Obi-Wan's face. All he could do was

  hope that there were enough employees that he wouldn't be immediately

  detected.

  Fewer would die that way, and that was to be hoped for. Their

  original mission had gone awry. Hopefully, things were beginning to

  get on the right track . . .

  He stepped out into the control room, scanning swiftly. Smaller

  than he might have thought, with banks of control computers along

  the walls. This part of the operation was simple enough to be run by

  one or two attendants, and perhaps, just perhaps, he'd already taken

  out his opposition.

  Then optimism died. There, in the middle of the room, squatted

  the deceptively beautiful golden hourglass of a JK droid.

  Obi-Wan groaned. Any fool could have anticipated that Cestus

  would continue to make use of its own security droids. Still, hope is

  a terrible addiction to overcome. No way through it now, though. He

  had limited time, and it was all too possible that his companions were

  already selling their lives dearly.

  The glittering, elegant form would seem oh, so innocent to one

  who had never seen the droid in action. He approached it gingerly.

  What to do? Once it recognized him as an intruder he would have

  only moments to act. In all probability it was already too late. Disaster

  loomed if the JK raised an alarm. Only an idiot would relish the

  prospect of simultaneous duels with droid and guards.

  What was the JK's alarm perimeter? He was surprised that it

  wasn't the room itself, then realized that it might be possible for

  maintenance workers to enter a room as long as they kept a certain

  distance, behaved in a specific way, or carried electronic identification

  of some kind. Did the JK trigger on sound? Proximity? Was he even

  now being scanned for security codes embedded in badges or clothing?

  Were there spoken code words that might disarm the mechanism?

  Two things he was certain of. One, he didn't have those code

  words. Two, if he attempted to reach the controls it would attack.

  What to do?

  He had faced the JKs in the caves, and had little taste for another

  encounter.

  Speed. He needed speed. Gambling everything, Obi-Wan Kenobi

  drew his lightsaber and triggered it to life. He hurled it at the control

  panel at the same time that he threw himself directly at the JK.

  Its attention was split between orders to protect the equipment

  and those to apprehend the attacker. Tentacles extended rapidly from

  its side, snapping after the tumbling lightsaber, and might have

  caught it if not for the beam severing two of its arms.

  As the lightsaber hit the panel, the JK hissed as if it were alive. The

  energy blade sliced through the control paneling. Coils of wire

  bulged free, and sparks showered from the smoking metal; automatic

  shutdown went into effect. The JK seemed to realize it had been

  tricked into splitting attention, and turned itself fully back to Obi-

  Wan.

  Obi-Wan called to his lightsaber, but he saw at that moment that

  it was tangled in the panel's wiring. There was not another full second

  for thought—the JK was closing fast. Making a snap decision he

  raced toward the biodroid, pulling the lightwhip at his side as he did.

  The biodroid was on him, wrapping its arms around his legs.

  Pain. The mechanical arms surged with energy. The hair on Obi-

  Wans head flared away from his scalp and he fought shock as the

  charge threatened to shut down his nervous system and paralyze his

  diaphragm. As it pulled him closer, attempting a retinal scan, Obi-

  Wan triggered the lightwhip, and it spun out at an angle, ensnaring

  an entire quadrant of arms in a single instant. Sparks sprayed from

  the torn durasteel. He threw his hands in front of his eyes as the

  spray splashed across his face. He heard, but did not see, the mechanical

  arms as they tumbled to the ground, severed by the strands.

  But now he had lost both tools.

  The droid seemed to realize that it, too, had been wounded, and

  actually rolled back a step. Obi-Wan made a snap decision and lunged

  in, deciding that it would be least prepared to deal with an aggressive

  forward motion. It attempted to respond, but this time with a noticeable

  time lag in response. Stumps twitched as the JK attempted to

  strike him with phantom severed limbs, but the remaining arm

  lashed across his face, tearing skin and shocking with a sizzling jolt of

  pain—but by then he had moved to close quarters.

  His vision was still blurry, but the Force was strong in Obi-Wan.

  He could sense the place where the lightwhip had struck, weakening

  the JK's sparkling case. There. Obi-Wan closed his traitorous eyes,

  inhaled, finding the place within himself where there was no fear or

  doubt. Dwelling there. Every muscle in his hand was perfectly coordinated

  as it flashed down, gaining acceleration as it struck, a perfect

  transference of force to the already damaged surface. He heard the

  crack! and folded his arm, striking again and again with his elbow at

  the same spot. The injured droid tumbled over backward, sparks

  spraying all about them.

  He didn't know how many times he struck, only that when he was

  finished, the JK lay thrashing weakly on its side. Obi-Wan stood,

  feeling similarly weakened. He looked down at the droid with newfound

  respect. It had required two energy weapons and bruising

  hand-to-tentacle combat to stop the thing. His heart thundered in

  his chest, but he focused and continued about the business at hand.

  Obi-Wan had only to plant his explosives, and all was done. If they

  were disarmed before detonation, then he hoped
Desert Wind had

  done its job, planting beacons to guide a bombardment that would

  destroy the purification plant.

  Obi-Wan plucked his lightsaber from the ground, and then the

  lightwhip. He triggered it; the narrow luminescent thread flared for a

  moment and then died. Its power cell was exhausted, and regretfully

  he tossed it away. The device had served its master well, but now

  there were other concerns. No more time for toys.

  64

  T.wenty-five kilometers away, Kit Fisto crouched in the shadows of

  the aquifer station's bleached white rectangular walls, waiting. The

  security sweeps revolved once every twenty seconds, invisible, undetectable

  to anyone without superb apparatus—or profound Force

  sensitivity. He moved them through the energy maze one level at a

  time, until they were completely within the shadow of the station's

  walls. "I have to leave you now. If you manage to cut the power, make

  your way inside."

  "And you?" Thak Val Zsing asked.

  "I'll meet you there," he said. Kit peered down into a flat-bottomed

  duracrete riverbed outside the walls. Without another word he

  jumped and slid down its rough, slanted side toward the bed. He was

  able to slow his sliding descent, but knew that he wouldn't be able to

  get back out up the wall. If the plan went wrong, there would be

  trouble indeed.

  According to their information, water from the Dashta dam sluiced

  through the trench in hourly currents. There was no way around this

  next part, and he prepared himself. He heard the rumbling before he

  saw it, a great pounding wave that shook the duracrete and swept

  around the corner like a raging wall. Kit rolled into a ball as it struck

  him, allowing it to carry him along with it down the channel and to

  the mouth of the drop-off. Within moments he was flipping through

  the current as if he had never left Glee Anselm at all. Bang. The tide

  slammed Kit into the wall, but he relaxed with the force, riding it,

  feeling the pressures and intensities of the raging flow. A grid up

  ahead, metal bars twisted together to make fist-size holes. Kit's

  lightsaber flashed, foaming the water with clouds of gas bubbles. A

  circular swipe, and the bars parted as Kit's head slammed into the

  severed section, knocking it ahead of him. He eeled through, kicked

  himself away from another wall, and found himself in an even narrower

  channel, water pressure increasing the speed and intensity of

  the flow.

  Ahead the water was passing through a flash-heating ray, boiling it

  for a few seconds before passing the heated water on to another system

  of pipes.

  The ray brushed his skin, and Kit's nerves screamed with shock

  No!

  He swam upcurrent, caught between icy flow and the boiling heat

  ray. Fire and ice, he thought, suddenly aware that the cold had

  leached strength from his body.

  The current pushed him back toward the boiling water, and he

  pulled at the sides of the channel, trying to lift himself out. No purchase.

  The first thread of panic wormed its way into his mind, and Kit

  Fisto clamped down on it instantly, concentrating on each stroke,

  centering himself, allowing the Force to find his way between the onrushing

  currents one meter at a time, until he reached a ladder, only

  two meters overhead. Kit concentrated, dived down in a fast loop,

  and burst up out of the water to grab the bottom rung and lift himself

  out. He shivered: the snow runoff was as cold as the cauldron had

  been torrid. It took a moment before his body adjusted and the shaking

  diminished. Here on the far side of the scanners, he could climb

  the wall safely, make his way to a juncture box on the second level.

  Clinging to the wall, he waited.

  And waited.

  Something was wrong. Val Zsing and his people should have gotten

  through by now. He checked his chrono—

  And then suddenly the water flow beneath him died to a trickle.

  The power had been cut! A backup alarm began to ring. Distant

  shouts echoed in the corridor. There would be only a few moments

  before the power would come back on, but his men had heard those

  shouts or the alarm, and would make their move. It was his job to

  clear the way.

  Kit crawled along a ledge until he found a barred window, and used

  his lightsaber to slice through it, letting himself in.

  He heard the sound of racing feet just outside the door. A secondary

  alarm rang insistently, perhaps announcing the appearance of

  Desert Wind. He waited until the feet had passed, then made his

  way along the corridor.

  The pumping station's ground floor was some ten thousand square

  meters, with a ceiling that arched four stories overhead. The artificial

  streambed ran through the center of it, where every bit of water

  trickled past heat rays and the crackling arc of a flux light, the first

  line of purification. While not filtering the water as thoroughly as the

  station in town, it was the first line of defense, killing 80 percent of

  microorganisms and neutralizing many toxins.

  The floor bucked as an explosion shook the complex. This blast

  originated near one of the outer doors. Kit Fisto smiled grimly as

  more guards ran in that direction.

  With the present limited lighting and a distracting attack going

  on at the front, it would be easier for him to complete his mission.

  Not easy, perhaps, but easier. Clinging to the underside of the catwalk,

  breathing into the strain in his fingers and shoulders, Kit handwalked

  around the room's perimeter and dropped fifteen meters down

  to the deck, landing silently.

  He slipped into the room, and the single guard didn't even have

  time to turn around before Kit hurled himself forward. The guard

  managed to level his sidearm as Kit sliced it from his hand. The

  Nautolan continued the motion into a kick to the head, disabling the

  hapless Cestian before he could make a sound.

  He whirled, examining the control panel, shutting down the water

  flow to Clandes. The next phase was easy: destroying the panel to

  freeze the setting. Kit's lightsaber flashed, and within seconds the

  panel was a smoking ruin.

  He surveyed the damage swiftly: it would take days to get this station

  working again. The floor beneath his feet shook as an explosion

  ripped through the building.

  Good. More confusion, more damage. Hopefully, not more loss of

  life.

  Time to make good his escape.

  Kit Fisto left the room and instantly ran into the returning security

  team. He was a beat ahead of them, his lightsaber flashing as he

  was forced to defend himself without restraint. He tried to avoid

  lethal maneuvers. They are just trying to do their jobs. There came a

  time when such restraint was of no use at all, and after a whirlwind

  engagement, two men fell. A third brought his weapon to bear and

  the Jedi leapt over the railing, falling two stories to land in a crouch.

  More guards. His lightsaber seemed to move of its own accord, before

  the blasts were launched, and he
blocked two, three, four . . . and

  then was among them, tight-lipped and narrow-eyed.

  Guards screamed, dying there.

  This Cestus affair grows uglier by the moment, Kit Fisto thought bitterly.

  Then regrets and second guesses dissolved as a web of lightsaber

  light filled the air around him, and guards crumpled to the

  ground. He flirted with battle fever, the howling demon in his mind

  trapped behind the bars of discipline, but guiding him as he slid

  down Form I's razor edge.

  He heard the siren before he stopped, but just before, making him

  think that the sound had simply not impressed itself on his consciousness;

  his focus had been so tight that everything external had

  simply failed to register.

  Eight guards lay around him, moaning. Kit's mouth twisted in an

  oath he would have been ashamed for the Jedi Counsel to hear. This

  was exactly the sort of carnage he'd hoped to avoid.

  Out.

  On the way a huge technician swung a pry-bar at him. Sick at

  heart, the Jedi spun to the inside of the aggressive spiral and twisted

  it out of his hand. He shifted his attacker against the wall as his eyes

  rolled up, voluntary nervous system paralyzed by a strike to the nerve

  plexus beneath his arm. "Sleep," Kit Fisto whispered as the technician

  slumped. "All life is a dream."

  Or a nightmare, he thought. One from which more and more Cestians

  would never awaken.

  65

  Nothing even vaguely resembling good cheer lived in ChikatLik's

  halls of power. The word from the Clandes manufacturing facility

  was that the water flow was reduced by three-quarters, and it would

  take days if not weeks to get everything back online. In the meantime,

  if drinking water was not shipped into the city, Clandes risked

  an unprecedented humanitarian disaster.

  G'Mai Duris's three stomachs felt variously heavy, sour, and

  leaden. Who was doing all of this? The Jedi? Might Obi-Wan still

  live? After his ship had been blown from the sky, they had detected

  only a single escape capsule, containing the barrister. Who then?

  And in another sense it hardly mattered. It was obvious to her where

  all of this would ultimately end. There would be a naval bombardment,

  and the Republic's war would leave Cestus a smoking husk.

  And the worst thing of all was that she was about to meet a complication.

 

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