The Cestus Deception (12 page)

At 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’ve 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.

From rug to translucent ceiling, every centimeter of Obi-Wan’s 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.

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 doffed her helmet. She smoothed her upper thorax’s tufts of red wiry fur with her primary hands, dismounted from her speeder, and strode over to them, throwing a coarse-clothed sack onto the ground. When she spoke, the roughness of her words reinforced her lower-caste image. “I Resta,” she said. “Own farm ’bout hundred klicks south of ChikatLik. Resta on same power grid, and they raise juice price so high husband have to take job in mines.” There was not a shred of self-pity in her blazing, faceted green eyes. “Husband die in mines. Now Resta losing farm, and all so that power can go to some Five Fam’fun-fun place. Resta sick to death of backin’ up. Resta not backin’ up no more.” She added, “Gotty problem?” to the miners and farmers around her. Challenge rolled off her like heat waves dancing above a desert mirage.

Nate struggled to interpret the words. Apparently, due to the opening of some Five Family vacation spa, the price of power had soared, driving Resta into poverty.

“She don’t belong here,” one of the miners grumbled, triggering a wave of muttering.

Nate approached her and took her red-skinned hands in his, examining each of her four palms in turn. Thick calluses over the chitinous flesh. Broken nails. This female had struggled with Cestus’s poor soil for decades. Most of her surviving people had been driven into the wastelands, but not this one. She was tough enough, and good enough, assuming that she could pass the tests.

This female would despise soft words. “You’ll do” was all he said.

He turned to the complainer. “One more word and you can pack and leave. This fight is for all Cestians with heart. Close yours to this one, and you’re gone. This is her planet more than yours.”

The man tried to stare Nate down, not realizing that it was impossible. Within moments he dropped his eyes, muttering an apology.

All that morning a steady stream of arrivals heartened them, until there were almost two hundred prospects. Fine. Nate knew that General Fisto was off slinging more recruitment speeches. It was up to the troopers to turn these farmers and miners into fighters, unless they wished to leave clone protoplasm scattered incriminatingly about.

Throughout the last days the troopers had labored to build an obstacle course. As the morning’s shadows shortened they ran the recruits through their paces, forming them into lines by height, dividing them into four groups so that they could compete against each other. Running narrow rails, suspending themselves from overhead bars, lugging rocks back and forth across a field until they puked from exhaustion, the recruits suffered through standard trooper field training.

During the sun’s waning Forry added calisthenics, and more running, jumping, and carrying. Nate was pleased to see that every one of the new prospects was game.

For some reason he was especially pleased to see that Resta was keeping up with the offworlders. She might have been a bit slower, but she was as strong as a Noghri, and seemed to have an unquenchable tolerance for pain.

By the time they broke for rest and food, only ten of them had dropped out, trudging home with heads down. One, Nate noted with pleasure, was the miner who had complained about Resta.

Good. The first day’s grueling schedule was designed to make about half the group quit. From then on, those who remained could consider themselves tough, fire-breathing survivors. It was the kind of thing that bred camaraderie, the most important factor in a combat unit.

After the meal break, his brothers began to divide the recruits into smaller units, testing them again and again. Not one had picked up a weapon of any kind. It was not yet time.

Spindragon
arrived when the day was halfway done, ferrying General Fisto back to camp. The Nautolan asked tersely how many recruits had come and how many had survived the early training, then retreated to the cave for whatever mysterious preparations or planning Jedi indulged in.

Sheeka herself watched the recruits’exertions and frowned. “Why all of this?” she asked. “Jango used to say it took months to get someone into real shape.”

He smiled and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Gives us a chance to observe them. See who fits in and who doesn’t. Who can handle physical pain? Fear? Fatigue? We’ve got no time for dilettantes.”

She nodded, as if she might have already anticipated such a response. She seemed an interesting woman: pilot, step-mother, galaxy-spanning wanderer, and former girlfriend of the immortal Jango himself.

Sheeka interrupted his thoughts. “You told me what the army says about Jango. But there is always more than one way to look at a story, right?”

“Yes.”

“So there are other people, who say other things.”

Of course there were. Always. He had heard their snide comments, had watched their eyes narrow and the corners of their lips turn down when a clone trooper passed. “Yes,” he said.

“And what do
they
say?”

“What do they say? That he was a criminal, a bounty hunter, an assassin, a traitor to the Republic.” The snidely whispered words echoed in his ears, and he found himself slightly annoyed just to remember them. Had he no original thoughts of his own to offer? “It is our duty and honor to erase his stain.”

“Is that how you feel?” she asked. “Is that all there is?” A short, hard laugh. “He was a man who walked between the worlds, but when I knew him he was honorable, and brave, and a great… fighter. Bounty hunter.” She shrugged. “Whatever. Not too smart to learn everything possible about someone from his enemies.”

He thought about this for a few moments before answering. “What would I have to do to be more like him?”

She looked him up and down, from his spit-polished boots to his chiseled face. And her smile softened a bit, grew more contemplative. “Not be afraid of being human,” she said. “Not be so scared of feelings. He rarely showed them, but he had them. Not be so scared.”

Nate bristled. What in the world was this woman prattling about? “I’m not scared of anything.”

She barked laughter. Despite his anger, he admired its clarity and timbre. “Bantha spit,” she said. “I’ve been watching you and your brothers. You’re afraid of everything. Of saying the wrong things. Feeling the wrong things. Probably of dying in the wrong position.”

There it was. Thank the cloners that troopers had no such prejudices! “You don’t know anything about my life, or my death. Of course, that never stops civilians from judging, does it?” The last emerged as something very close to a snarl.

Nonetheless, she was completely unshaken. “Who’s generalizing now?” she asked.

He glowered at her, but no more words came to mind.

“No?” she asked. “Then accept a challenge.”

“A challenge?” Despite himself, he was intrigued. Distantly, he heard the shouts and grunts of effort. It was almost time for him to go and relieve the others.

“Yes,” she said. “You know how to be a soldier. I’ve seen that. My challenge is for you to react to the world as just a human being. When you see a sunset, do you think of anything but night-vision lenses? When you see a sunblossom, do you only imagine the poisons that might be extracted from it? When you see a baby, do you think of anything except what kind of hostage it might make?”

Nate stiffened. “Advance Recon Commandos don’t take hostages,” he said.

Sheeka’s lovely face managed to darken even further. “Don’t be so blasted literal!” she said in frustration. “I’m trying to communicate with you, and all I can touch is your shell. Who
are
you?”

The sounds of children playing seemed to have receded, grown farther away. “I know who I am.” He paused. “As much as any of us ever do,” he said, rising. “These mushrooms taste like dirt,” he lied. “I’m getting some meat.” He tossed his food into a trash container, and then rejoined the exhausted recruits.