The Cestus Deception (19 page)

Late that night Obi-Wan had a very secretive conversation with Kit Fisto. “Things are balanced precariously,” he said. “I wanted your counsel.”

“Obi-Wan,” Kit said, “I know that you are uncomfortable with deception, but these people have no idea how dangerous Dooku can be. If a few… theatrics can save lives, I believe we must go forward.”

Obi-Wan sighed. There was truth there, but he wished he didn’t have the sense that Kit was actually looking forward to the coming action. “All right,” he said finally. “We go. You’ll have all the magcar details in a few moments. More important, have you been practicing?”

“Of course,” Kit answered. “Be ready for the performance of a lifetime.”

Wisps of fantazi smoke snaked through Trillot’s catacomb maze like fire-kraken tendrils. Little droids hustled about, serving all: since the crippling of Trillot’s bodyguard Remlout, a nervous group of underlings had suggested that perhaps their mistress would prefer to have the dispersement of the various salves and intoxicants under her direct control.

At the moment, though, Trillot felt like she had anything but control. She was struggling to keep her voice and body language neutral as she spoke to Ventress, who stood before her as motionless as if she had grown there, eyes turned slightly upward, hardly aware that Trillot existed. What strange realms her mind might have been moving in, Trillot had no idea at all.

“Do I have to tell Kenobi the truth?” Trillot asked again, fingers of primary and secondary hands fidgeting together.

“Only if you are fond of breathing,” Ventress replied. “He will know that you are either lying, or incompetent. In either case you are of no further use.”

Ventress’s cold blue eyes widened like a chasm between worlds.

The glands beneath Trillot’s arms began to ooze surrender pheromones, and she hoped Ventress would not scent her distress. She bobbled her head eagerly. “Yes. Yes, of course. Madam?”

“Yes?”

She cleared her throat. “If I might be so bold as to ask: why is this single Jedi so important? Certainly we have greater—”

Another withering glance.

At that instant one of her bodyguards thrust his head into the room. “He’s coming!”

Trillot had turned for only a moment, a bare flickering of her head, but when she turned back, Ventress was already gone.

Obi-Wan entered the pit, breathing shallowly to limit the effects of the noxious atmosphere. And yet… there was something in the air that made him want to breathe more deeply. He dared not, knowing that there was a limit to what his metabolism was capable of processing.

“That scent,” he said.

“Scent?” Trillot asked.

“Yes. Bantha musk, and… something else. Used as a body scent by certain Five Family females, or…” He could feel the gears turning in his head. Certainly some members of Cestus’s female upper class might visit Trillot’s den. Hardly surprising. But he doubted that he was merely reacting to such a casual, if corrupt, interaction. What, then?

This was not good. For some reason, he had felt off-balance since first arriving on Cestus. In the city, at the ball, in the chambers, here in Trillot’s chambers, at the cantina…

Was there a connecting thread, or was he just tired?

Trillot’s mouth twisted. “Well, you’ve caught me.” A vile, conspiratorial smile. “I do have a few, eh, friends among the upper class. I hope you can keep a secret.”

Obi-Wan kept his thoughts to himself. What perversions passed for entertainment among Cestus’s upper crust were hardly his concern. And yet…

“Of course. Yes, surely that is it. Perhaps I caught that scent at the ball. Now.” He exhaled, centering himself. “This is what I wish of you. Information.”

“On?”

“The subterranean transit system. I assume you can provide?”

“Of course.”

A beam of light projected from Trillot’s chair. She made a few brief hand passes through it, and a web of nodes and moving lines materialized. Obi-Wan walked into the middle of it and concentrated. Now, for the first time in days, he felt completely immersed in his plan. Perhaps, after all, his disturbance was mere nerves.

“Here—” He pointed. “And here…”

Hours later, Obi-Wan’s astromech, using a scrambled technical link, beamed the map to the training camp, where it was evaluated by the commandos and a brooding Kit Fisto.

“—to here,” Nate concluded.

The campfire crackled behind them. The training had been going well. They had the fighters they needed, trained to obey orders even under considerable stress. To the credit of the Cestians, their men and women had adapted to military discipline with admirable speed and efficiency.

“That is the whole of it then,” the general said, his unblinking eyes reflecting the map, the firelight, and the stars above them. Nate watched him, waiting for word, a sign. He did not understand General Fisto, and knew that he probably never would, but hoped that the mysterious Jedi would be pleased at their progress. For some reason, he craved this Nautolan’s approval.

Kit Fisto nodded. “You have done well,” he said, and went back to the ship. The troopers nodded among themselves, laughing and sharing jokes and camaraderie, a rhythm that Nate fell into instantly. Forgetting the slight unease he had seen in the general’s eyes. Just nerves. So much at stake. Resources so limited. So few options.

And no room for failure at all.

Planets died, screaming their pain to the trackless void. Stars exploded into halos of fire, nebulae imploded into black holes. Ships filled with screaming men ruptured, admitting pitiless vacuum.

Lying flat on her back, lids closed, body motionless, Ventress dreamed, her spirit stalking a universe of infinite rage.

She dreamed of Ohma-D’un, the moon of Naboo where she had first encountered Obi-Wan Kenobi. The operation had devolved into a slaughterhouse. She had sorely underestimated the Jedi’s courage and intelligence. Ventress was walking the true path that the Jedi had abandoned. Master Dooku had told her, taught her. The galaxy needed order, and the decadent Jedi had forgotten their primary obligation: to the Force itself, not to a corrupt and selfish regime. She had not made that error. Would not ever.

Without preamble, Asajj Ventress awakened and came to a sitting position. The dreams had been the usual, nothing special about them at all. They were, indeed, merely her mind attempting to work out a problem of vectors and resources. She had given her fealty, and with a woman like Ventress, once word was given, there was no other course. She defined herself in terms of her obligations and contracts. There was no deeper identity to cause emotional dissonance. She simply did what had to be done.

Somehow Master Kenobi was central to the problem. But as yet she had no idea what to do…

Just outside her door, Trillot glided away, head aching. She had offered the terrifying Ventress a stateroom in her catacombs, and the creature had accepted. She had intended to spy upon the mysterious Count Dooku’s messenger, but those efforts had taken an unpleasant turn. Trillot felt…
infected
when her visitor dreamed. She closed her eyes and saw images of death and destruction on a horrific scale.

Fear ran so deep it was like a living creature burrowing through her stomachs. Hadn’t she done everything possible to make Ventress happy? Supplied all information? Provided accommodation? Planted tracers on Quill and Lady Por’Ten? She had done all this and more…

So why was she still so terrified?

The churning black-and-red cloud behind her eyes throbbed unmercifully as Trillot slunk away. And when she crawled into her sleeping chamber that night and desperately sought the solace of sleep, that headache boiled into a cavalcade of nightmares that multiplied in intensity until dawn came, and she emerged to do battle with another day.

Cestus’s sun had risen on the eastern horizon, lengthening the mountain shadows until they resembled a mouth filled with broken teeth. Where the shadows did not reach, its fierce light seared the ground with a radiance that was bright and clear enough to curl the plants that would not emerge again until next twilight.

As was his habit, Nate rose and dressed before dawn. He performed a series of ARC drills, bending, stretching, and tumbling, discovering no kink or wound sufficient to bind his motion. Energy felt good. He felt strong, tough, mean, and altogether lethal.
Ready enough.

He found General Fisto in the main cave, sitting in front of the shimmering map. The general sat balanced on knees and the balls of his feet, buttocks resting on his heels. Nate had seen the Nautolan sit in this fashion for hours, and winced a bit, knowing that his own legs would have cramped within minutes.

“You’re ready, sir?”

The general rose. In his hand he held a handle with a length of flexible cordlike material attached. “It is time,” the Jedi said.

There was nothing more to say.

From the very beginning the pattern had been set: representatives of the Five Families traveled to the central palace for the day’s round of negotiations, conversations, and arguments. Some arrived by private aircar or railcar. About a third traveled in a secure, private shuttle on the magcar system using the subterranean network beneath ChikatLik. It was the city’s most secure transportation and had never been breached, even during the Uprisings that birthed Desert Wind.

Today Lord and Lady Por’Ten, Debbikin the younger, and Quill took the underground magcar, and they used the opportunity to confer with each other as they sped through the depths.

“And do you believe that the Jedi has reached the limit of his concessions?”

Young Debbikin canted his head to the side, an imitation of his father’s customary thinking posture. “It is hard to say. Father’s spy on Coruscant says the mood there is unfavorable to negotiation. Palpatine is pure will: he would make war on a disloyal planet.” He leaned in closer to the others, as if fearful of being overheard, although the moving car was doubtless one of the most secure locations on the entire planet. “But I feel that this situation, with every eye upon Cestus, gives us several interesting advantages. First: in direct negotiation, we can make an excellent case that we have a legal right to produce the droids. We can also make the case that the war has disrupted our supply lines, threatening our survival. Therefore, we are fighting not for our economic survival, but the very right to feed our people.”

Por’Ten’s triple-jowled chin wobbled as if he had intimate familiarity with missing meals. “The starving children,” he said sadly.

“Now listen,” young Debbikin continued. “This means that the Chancellor might be motivated to be generous, if we just have the courage to see this through.”

The leaders of the Five Families nodded and smiled, agreeing with the logic. “But you said that there was another motivation…?”

“Yes, indeed.” Young Debbikin’s voice dropped. “The war will not last forever. When it ends, if the Republic wins, we are in an excellent position: the value of our holdings will multiply greatly.”

“Yes…,” Quill said. He had said little since the beginning of the ride, and seemed a bit like an intensely dense storm cloud, lightning forking in his faceted eyes. “No matter what happens, we win.”

“Even if we leave Cestus, we will still possess controlling shares of Cestus Cybernetics, enough to keep a local veto yet set ourselves up on any world we desire. The Five Families will have leapt to galactic prominence.”

“Yes,” Quill hissed. “And there is another possibility, can you not see? Whether we deal with Palpatine or Count Dooku, we must have greater leverage in the future. Duris must be removed.”

They looked at him coldly. “You were supposed to have that problem under control,” Debbikin said. “You were admitted to the Families under that promise. In fact, I hear you have been removed from the hive council. What good are you to us now?”

“I
will
handle things,” Quill sputtered. “We have agreements you dare not break. I control the mines, Debbikin. The hive council can unseat me, but I am not so easily replaced.” His gaze might have smelted durasteel. “I will bring Duris down, and find a more… pliable puppet for the throne, trust me.”

Thump.

Suddenly the confident expression melted into one of confusion. “What was
that
—?”

They felt the sound before they heard it, a dull impact on the magcar’s roof, a juddering as it changed direction.

The tunnel walls outside the car blurred past, but it was the same blur that they had seen for years, the same strata of rocks that led between their private residences and the palace. Now, even though they still blurred, there was a subtle difference, enough to disturb them. And the direction had changed.

“What is this?” Lord Por’Ten raised his voice. “Conductor?”

The droid at the front of the car turned to him, metallic face expressionless. “I am sorry, but my controls have been overridden by an unknown source.”

The representatives looked around at each other, shock plainly painted on their faces.

“Contact the security forces?”

“I am sorry,” the droid said again with that unnatural patience available only to the unliving. “I must inform you that the entire car is surrounded by some kind of interference field.”

“Well I never!” Lady Por’Ten said and pulled out her personal comlink. After a bit of fiddling, she looked up; all the color had drained from her narrow face, her customary haughty manner muted. “He’s correct.”

“Where are they taking us?” Debbikin asked.

The droid paused for a moment before answering. “We have taken one of the obsolete tunnel systems and are currently being shunted onto a mine track. I project that our probable destination, based upon information dealing with other kidnap/murder scenarios—”

“
Murder?
” Lady Por’Ten shrieked.

Ignoring her distress, the droid continued. “I regret to inform you that there is approximately a thirteen percent chance that the intent of this action is, ultimately, the death of every person in this car.”

The Five Family executives glanced around at each other, mouths quivering in shock.

The car went a bit farther, made a sharp right turn. It stopped, and then slowly, inexorably, they felt it sink beneath them.

“Yes, as I anticipated, one of the mining tracks. This is not good, as it is not a part of the central system, and therefore may not show up on the maps. If the beacon has been disabled, which is probable, I project our chance of being rescued as approximately one in twelve.”

“One in… twelve?”

“Yes. Unless you would like the chance of us both being rescued and of all of you being recovered alive. In which case the chance is closer to one in six hundred fifty, based upon kidnap and homicide statistics—”

“Shut up!” Lord Por’Ten roared, and stood. The car had finally come to a stop. Now they could hear footsteps on the roof, their eyes following them as one portentous
thud
at a time, they moved back to the rear, and then stopped.

They glanced at each other, and Quill had opened his mouth to speak when a figure with thick ropes of tentacle wriggling from his head swung lightly down and smashed through the roof’s plastine partition. Jagged shards scattered as he landed without a sound, in marked contrast to the heavier tread heard up on the roof.

A Nautolan! But what did he want?

His eyes were huge and black, with no apparent irises, but with a filmy coating that seemed to shift in opacity from moment to moment depending on the angle of light. He was empty-handed, but there was a handle tucked into his belt, and Debbikin knew instantly that it represented a threat of some kind.

“Who are you?” Quill spluttered.

“My name is Nemonus. Greetings from Count Dooku,” the Nautolan said.

“Wha-what do you want?”

“You seek to change a bargain,” the intruder said.

“What? What are you talking about?”

The intruder turned, so slowly that he seemed like a machine in low gear, a disturbing contrast to the terrifying speed with which he had smashed through the roof. “You must learn that there is no place you can hide. A deal was struck. Those who renegotiate price may find other matters transformed as well.”

Although ordinarily the most imperious of men, Por’Ten completely melted before the intruder’s molten gaze. “Wha-what are you talking about?”

The intruder came closer. His lips thinned. The tentacles about his head curled slowly, insinuatingly, as he spoke, twitching with their own crazed energy. He whispered, yet in some odd way the whisper was louder than a shout. “My master promised to keep you out of the war. That you would not be involved. That can change, my friends. That can all change.”

Young Debbikin glanced at the others, nearing panic now. “No! We have kept our pledges to you. All of them.”

The intruder sneered. “Then why have you raised your prices, threatened to withhold shipment without further credits?”

There was a moment of relief as they glanced at each other. For a moment, they had feared that he knew of the negotiations with the Jedi Kenobi! No, this was something completely different, Cestus Cybernetics’demand for a 10 percent surcharge. Llitishi of sales and marketing had sworn that Count Dooku would agree if they but held firm.

“It is the war, the war!” Debbikin leaned closer, trying to establish a sense of intimacy. “Supply lines have been cut…”

The intruder was unimpressed. “We have made other arrangements for you.”

“Yes, but the timing is off, and we have to buy additional products so that all of the equipment matches. We are proceeding, but everything is taking longer, and therefore more expensive—”

The intruder raised his palm. Although he hadn’t so much as touched them, the force of his personality drove them backward into their seats. “You cannot be trusted.”

Quill was using his secondary hands to reach stealthily for the little hold-out blaster always attached to his wallet. They knew that he was descended from an assassin clan, and that those skills had been passed from one generation to the next for half a millennium. If their kidnapper made but a single mistake, the blaster would be out, the Nautolan would be dead, and they had a chance to regain control of the car. And Quill, incidentally, would have redeemed himself.

“How can you say that! Our dealings with you have placed Cestus in jeopardy with the Republic. We would not betray you. If we did, we would have no one!” The intruder’s back was to Quill. The blaster was almost in hand…

Tension crackled in the air. Debbikin kept his eyes on the intruder, striving not to reveal by eye movement or the slightest tremor of voice that anything was amiss.

For the first time the intruder seemed to change expressions. The film over his black eyes swirled. “Your Families need a lesson. The best I can imagine is one written in blood—”

Quill’s blaster was out and moving to the level, its tiny gleaming barrel rising to sight at the intruder’s back. But without turning, the intruder’s hand flickered. The gleaming handle at his belt blurred. Something that looked like a coil of glowing wire suddenly flexed, lashing backward toward Quill’s blaster. Three meters long it was, and thin as a thread, wrapping around the barrel. With the slightest twist of the intruder’s wrist, the blaster was sliced in half, the grip suddenly glowing white-hot. Quill dropped the blaster, howling from singed fingers, and thrust them into his mouth, sucking and nursing them.

“Now then.” Kit Fisto smiled grimly. “Shall we negotiate?”