THE CESTUS

DECEPTION

STEVEN BARNES

BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

Star Wars: The Cestus Deception is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents

either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey® Book

The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright © 2004 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group,

a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by

Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of

Random House, Inc.

www.starwars.com

www.delreydigital.com

The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for this title is available from the Library of

Congress.

ISBN 0-345-45897-4

Text design by Susan Turner

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: June 2004

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For my new son, Jason Kai Due-Barnes.

Welcome to life, sweetheart.

D R A M A T I S P E R S O N A E

CORUSCANT GROUP

Obi-Wan Kenobi; Jedi Knight (male human)

KitFisto; Jedi Master (male Nautolan)

Doolb Snoil; barrister (male Vippit of Nal Hutta)

Admiral Arikakon Baraka; supercruiser commander (male Mon

Calamari)

Lido Shan; technician (humanoid)

CLONE COMMANDOS

A-98, "Nate"; ARC Trooper, recruitment and command

CT-X270, "Xutoo"; pilot

CT-36/732, "Sirty"; logistics

CT-44/444, "Forry"; physical training

CT-12/74, "Seefor"; communications

CESTIANS

Trillot; gang leader (male/female X'Ting)

Fizzik; broodmate of Trillot (male X'Ting)

Sheeka Tull; pilot (female human)

Resta Shug Hai; Desert Wind member (female X'Ting)

ThakVal Zsing; leader of Desert Wind (male human)

Brother Nicos Fate (male X'Ting)

Skot OnSon; Desert Wind member (male human)

FIVE FAMILIES OF CESTUS CYBERNETICS

Debbikin; research (male human)

Lady Por'Ten; energy (female human)

Kefka; manufacturing (male humanoid)

Llitishi; sales and marketing (male Wroonian)

Caiza Quill; mining (male X'Ting)

CESTUS COURT

C'MaiDun's; Regent (female X'Ting)

SharShar; Regent Duris's assistant (female Zeetsa)

CONFEDERATION

Count Dooku; leader of the Confederacy of Independent Systems

(male human)

Commander AsajjVentress; Commander of the Separatist Army

(female humanoid)

THE CESTUS

DECEPTION

V O L U M E 5 3 1 N U M B E R 4 6

H 0 L 0 N E T N E W S

1 3 : 3 . 7

Baktoid Closes Down

Five More Plants

TERMIN, METALORN—In a statement issued to shareholders, Baktoid

Armor Workshop confirmed that it will close down five more plants in

the Inner Rim and Colonies as a direct result of Republic regulations

that have hindered its battle droid program.

Baktoid plants on Foundry, Ord Cestus, Telti, Balmorra, and Ord Lithone

will close by month's end. An estimated 12.5 million employees

will be laid off as a result.

Legislation passed by the Senate eight years ago forced the disbanding

of the Trade Federation's security forces, the largest single consumer

of Baktoid's combat automata and vehicles. Further licensing

restrictions on the sale of battle droids made the purchase of such

hardware prohibitively expensive for most of Baktoid's clientele ...

1

F or half a millennium Coruscant had glittered, a golden-towered

centerpiece to the Republic's galactic crown. Its bridges and arched

solaria harked back to ages past, when no leader's words seemed too

grand, no skyscraper too spectacular, and titanic civic sprawls boldly

proclaimed the rational mind's conquest of the cosmos.

With the coming of the Clone Wars, some believed such glorious

days were past. Whether the news holos spoke of victory or defeat, it

was all too easy to imagine flaming ships spiraling to their doom beneath

distant skies, the clash of vast armies, the death of uncounted

and uncountable dreams. It was almost impossible not to wonder if

one day war's ravening maw might not envelop this, the Republic's

jeweled locus. This was a time when the word city symbolized not

achievement, but vulnerability. Not haven, but havoc.

But despite those fears, Coruscant's billions of citizens kept faith

and continued about their myriad lives. A flock of hook-beaked

thrantcills flew in perfect diamond formation through Coruscant's

placid, pale blue sky. For a hundred thousand standard years they had

winged south for the winter, and might for yet another. Their flat

black eyes had watched civilization force Coruscant's animal life into

inexorable retreat. The planet's former masters now scavenged in

her duracrete canyons, their natural habitats replaced with artificial

marshes and permacrete forests. This, others argued, was a time of

marvels and marvelous beings from a hundred thousand different

worlds. This was a time for optimism, for dreams, and for unbridled

ambition.

A time of opportunity, for those with vision to see.

The red-and-white disk of a two-passenger Limulus-class transport

sliced through Coruscant's cloud-mantle. In the morning sun it

glittered like a sliver of silvered ice. Spiral-dancing to inaudible

music, it had detached its hyperdrive ring in orbit, slipping through

wispy clouds to land with a shush as gentle as a kiss. Its smooth, glassy

side rippled. A rectangular outline appeared and then slid up. A tall,

bearded man wrapped in a brown robe stepped into the doorway and

hopped down, followed by a second, clean-shaven passenger.

The bearded man's name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. For more years

than he cared to count, Obi-Wan had been one of the most renowned

Jedi Knights in the entire Republic. The second, a startlingly

intense younger man with fine brown hair, was named Anakin Skywalker.

Although not yet a full Jedi Knight, he was already famed as

one of the galaxy's most powerful warriors.

For thirty-six hours the two had juggled flying and navigational

duties, using their Jedi skills to hold their needs for sleep and sustenance

to a minimum. Obi-Wan was tired, irritable, famished, and

felt as if someone had poured sand into his joints. Anakin, he noticed,

seemed fresh and ready for action.

The recuperative powers of youth, Obi-Wan thought ruefully.

Only an emergency directive from Supreme Chancellor Palpatine

himself could have summoned the two from their assignment on

Forscan VI.

"Well, Master," Anakin said. "I suppose this is where we part company."

"I'm not certain what this is about," the older man replied, "but

your time will be well spent studying at the Temple."

Obi-Wan and Anakin continued down the skywalk. Far beneath

them the city streets buzzed with traffic, the walkways and groundlevel

construction occasionally interrupted by wisps of cloud or stray

thrantcills. The web of streets and bridges behind and below them

was dazzling, but Obi-Wan noticed the beauty little more than he

had the height, the fatigue, or the hunger. At the moment, his mind

was occupied by other, more urgent concerns.

As if his Padawan could read his thoughts, Anakin spoke. "I hope

you're not still annoyed with me, Master."

There it was, another reference to Anakin's rash actions on Forscan

VI. Forscan VI was a colony planet at the edge of the Cron drift, currently

unaffiliated with either Republic or Confederacy. Elite Separatist

infiltration agents had set up a training camp on Forscan, their

"exercises" playing havoc with the settlers. The most delicate aspect

of the counteroperation was repelling those agents without ever letting

the colonists know that outsiders had assisted them. Tricky.

Dangerous.

"No," Obi-Wan said. "We contained the situation. My approach is

more . . . measured. But you displayed your usual initiative. You

weren't disobeying a direct order, so . . . we'll mark it down to creative

problem solving, and leave it at that."

Anakin breathed a sigh of relief. Powerful bonds of love and mutual

respect connected the two men, but in times past Anakin's impulsiveness

had tested those bonds sorely. Still, there was little doubt

that the Padawan would receive Obi-Wan's highest recommendations.

Years of observation had forced Obi-Wan to grant that

Anakin's seeming impetuosity was in fact a deep and profound understanding

of superior skills.

"You were right," Anakin said, as if Obi-Wan's mild answer gave

him permission to admit his own errors. "Those mountains were impassable.

Confederacy reinforcements would have bogged down in

the ice storm, but I couldn't take the chance. There were too many

lives at stake."

"It takes maturity to admit an error," Obi-Wan said. "I think we

can keep these thoughts between us. My report will reflect admiration

for your initiative."

The two comrades faced, and gripped each other's forearms.

Obi-Wan had no children, and likely never would. But the unity of

Padawan and Master was as deep as any parent-child bond, and in

some ways deeper still. "Good luck," Anakin said. "Give my regards

to Chancellor Palpatine."

A hovercar slid in next to the walkway, and Anakin hopped

aboard, disappearing into the sky traffic without a backward glance.

Obi-Wan shook his head. The boy would be fine. Had to be fine. If

a Jedi as gifted as Anakin could not rise above youthful hubris, what

hope was there for the rest of them?

But meanwhile there was a more immediate matter to consider.

Why exactly had he been called back to Coruscant? Certainly it must

be an emergency, but what kind of emergency . . . ?

The appointed meeting place was the T'Chuk sporting arena, a

tiered shell with seating for half a million thronging spectators. Here

chin-bret, Coruscant's most popular spectator sport, was played before

hundreds of thousands of cheering fans. Today, however, no expert

chin-bretier leapt in graceful arcs across the sand; no pikers

vaulted about returning serves. No cerulean-vested goalkeepers

veered like mad demicots, hoisting their team's torch aloft. Today the

vast stadium was empty, cleared and sequestered, hosting a very different

sort of gathering.

As he emerged from the echoing length of pedestrian tunnel, Obi-

Wan scanned the tiered stands. Most of the rows were as empty as a

Tatooine desertscape, but a few dozen witnesses were gathered in the

box-seat section. He recognized a scattering of high-level elected officials,

some important but ordinarily reclusive bureaucrats, a few

people from the technical branches, and even some clone troopers.

Instinct and experience suggested that this was a war council.

Over time the Clone Wars' initial chaos had settled into a tidal

rhythm; loyalties declared, alliances formed. The galaxy was too vast

for war to touch all its myriad shores, but at any given time battles

raged on a hundred different worlds. While that number represented

an insignificant fraction of the billions of star systems swirling about

the galaxy, due to long-standing alliances and partnerships, what

happened to millions of living beings had the potential to affect trillions.

Already kingdoms, nations, and families had been ravaged by the

wars. As the numbers grew and weapons inevitably became more

and more powerful, devastation might well spiral out of control, offsetting

the countless eons of struggle that had finally birthed a

galaxywide union. The labor of a thousand generations, vanished?

Never!

Lines had been drawn: Separatists on the one side, and the Republic

on the other. For Obi-Wan as well as many others, that line

was drawn with his own life's blood. The Republic would stand, or

Obi-Wan and every Jedi who had ever strode the Temple's halls

would fall. It was a simple equation.

And in simplicity there was both clarity and strength.

2

T' Chuk arena's sand-covered floor was empty save for a pale, slender

humanoid female. She wore a white technician's cloak, and her

black hair was cropped short. She stood tinkering with a gleaming

chrome hourglass-shaped construct that Obi-Wan found a bit puzzling:

it looked more like an edgy work of art, a Mavinian clusterwedding

organ, or perhaps a Juzzian colony marker, than anything

dangerous enough to concern a Jedi. Rows of narrow pointed legs at

the base were the only apparent means of locomotion.

What in the thousand worlds was this about?

The technician fiddled with the device, running various wires from

it to a pod at her waist. Perhaps it was some sort of advanced med

droid?

The audience grew increasingly restless as she detached the wires,

then turned and addressed them.

"My name is Lido Shan, and I thank you for your patience," she

said, ignoring their obvious lack of same. "I believe that our first

demonstration is ready for your graces." Shan gave a little bow and

swept her hand toward the gleaming construct. "I present the

JK-thirteen. To demonstrate its prowess, we have selected a Confederacy

destroyer droid, captured on Geonosis and reconstructed to

original manufacturer specifications."

The JK stood chest-high with a glassy finish, aesthetically pleasing

in ways few droids ever managed. A child's toy, a museum display,

a conversation piece, some fragile and delicate bit of electronics,

perhaps. On the other hand, the black, wheel-like destroyer droid

looked comparatively primitive, battered and patched, but still as

menacing as a wounded acklay.

With a hiss of compressing and decompressing hydraulics, the destroyer

droid rolled forward, crunching the sand into tread ridges as

it did. The JK model hunched down, gleaming, but in a strange way

seemed oddly helpless. It seemed almost to quiver as it crouched. The

impression of helplessness was reinforced by the size differential: the

JK was perhaps half the battle droid's mass.

At first Obi-Wan wondered if he was simply to witness another

demonstration of destroyer droid power and efficiency. Hardly necessary:

he still carried scars from the blasted things. No, that was an

absurd assumption: Palpatine couldn't possibly have summoned him

from Forscan for so mundane a purpose. In the next instant the destroyer

droid rolled within five meters of the JK, and all questions

were answered.

In a single moment the JK divided into segments, assuming a

spiderlike configuration. In that instant its pose seemed less of a

cowering leaf eater than one of those cunning creatures that mime

helplessness to lure their prey into range.

The destroyer droid spat red fire at its adversary. The sand rippled

as the JK projected not a single force field, but a series of rotating energy

disks that absorbed the blasts with ease. That was a surprise:

typically a machine required less sophistication to deflect energy than

to absorb it. This display implied some kind of advanced capacitance

or grounding technology. The attacking droid continued its rain of

fire, unable to comprehend that its pure-power approach had proved

inefficient.

Like most machines, it was powerful but stupid.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. Something . . . something unusual was

happening. The JK sprouted tentacles from the sides and top, tendrils

snaking out so swiftly that the destroyer droid had not the

slightest chance of evasion. Now Obi-Wan, and indeed most of the

witnesses, leaned toward the action as the war droid struggled helplessly

in the JK's tentacled grip. Initially the tendrils were thick and

ropy. Even as he watched they grew thinner, and then thinner still,

webbing the attacker with fibers that finally reduced to an almost invisible

fineness.

The tendrils chewed into the destroyer droid s casing like hundreds

of silk-thin fibersaws. The droid finally seemed to comprehend

its peril and commenced a desperate struggle, emitting disturbingly

lifelike keening sounds.

The droid's struggles ceased. It quivered, vibrating in place until it

threatened to shake itself apart. Smoke oozed from its slivered casing.

Then, like some piece of overripe metallic fruit, it simply divided

into sections. Each crashed to the sand in individual chunks, spitting

sparks and leaking greenish fluid. The pieces rattled into the dust,

trembled. A second later, stillness and silence reigned.

For a moment the crowd was stunned into silence. Obi-Wan could

well empathize. The tactic had been unconventional, the weapon

deadly, the result indisputable.

"Droid against droid," the globe-headed Bith beside him scoffed.

"Games for children. Surely this is not worthy of a Chancellor summons."

Beneath them, Lido Shan was unruffled. "Your indulgence, please,"

she said. "We wished merely to establish a baseline, a reference point

against an opponent both familiar and formidable. This class four

combat droid was stopped in less than . . . forty-two seconds."

Behind Obi-Wan an amphibious Aqualish's translation pod gargled

a question. "But what of living opponents?"

The technician nodded, as if she had anticipated such a query.

"Our very next demonstration involves an Advanced Recon Commando."

On cue, a single clone trooper, a commando in full battle armor,

armed with an infantry-grade blaster rifle, stepped forward from

his hiding place beneath the lip of the arena wall. Clone Commandos

were specialized troopers. They had been modified from

the basic trooper template to allow for specific training protocols.

A blast helmet concealed his features, but his posture bespoke aggressive

readiness. An uneasy mutter wound its way through the

crowd.

The amphibian seemed taken aback. "I . . . would not wish to be

responsible for a death . . ."

The technician fixed the Aqualish with a pitying gaze, as if every

response had been anticipated. "Don't worry." Her motions were

measured and relaxed as she manipulated a few controls. "The machine

is calibrated for nonlethal apprehension."

Although that pronouncement quieted most of the witnesses, Obi-

Wan felt even more uneasy. This droid, with its ethereal beauty and

unconventional lethality, had something to do with his mission. But

what? "What exactly is the trooper's objective?" Obi-Wan called

down.

The corners of Lido Shan's lips pulled upward. "To fight his way

past the JK and capture me."

The muttering witnesses regarded her with disbelief and something

more disturbing: anticipation. They knew they were about to

witness something memorable. But which did they desire most? The

JK defeated, or this snooty technician given her comeuppance?

The trooper edged forward warily until he was about two dozen

meters from the creature . . .

Obi-Wan shook his head. Creature? Had he really done that?

Thought creature instead of droid? What had triggered that?

The trooper raised his blaster to his shoulder and fired a crimson

bolt of light. The spinning absorption disks reappeared, sucking the

energy bolts with a liquid crackling sound.

But the mere fact that the droid needed a force screen seemed to

encourage the trooper. He feinted to the right and then rolled to the

left, sprang nimbly off his shoulder to fire again, repeatedly changing

position as the droid continued its defensive action.

Obi-Wan opened his senses, stretching out with the Force. He

could almost feel the man's racing heart, taste his nervousness, sense

the choices weighed as he wove his evasive web. Left, right, left. . .

the next move would be to the—

Left again.

As the great Jedi watched, the JK spat out a webbing of strands as

thick as his small finger, ensnaring the clone helplessly in midleap.

He might have been no more than a wounded thrantcill, bagged by

any musk merchant with a net. The timing was superb. No. More

than superb: it had been perfect. What kind of programming made

such precision possible? Obi-Wan could swear that the aim had been

almost precognitive, almost...

But that was impossible.

Struggling in the net as the JK dragged him closer, the trooper

pulled his blaster around to draw a bead on the technician. Obi-

Wan's eyes flickered to the technician: she seemed unconcerned. In

the moment before the barrel would have fixed on her, an orange

spark flowed out along the tentacles. The trooper rocked with a single

hard, violent shiver, thrashed his heels against the sand, and then

lay still. The JK pulled him close, one tentacle lifting his trunk high

enough for a second, more slender probe to flash a beam of light

against the trooper's closed eyes. The JK lowered the trooper back to

the sand, then stood still and watchful.

For a moment the crowd's every intake of breath seemed frozen in

their collective throats. Then the JK's web unraveled, flowing back

into the droid. The trooper groaned and rolled over onto his side.

Another moment and he levered himself to his knees, wobbly but

unharmed. Another trooper helped him retreat beneath the arena

wall's curved lip.

The audience applauded, with the exception of Obi-Wan and

another Jedi who edged his way through the crowd to stand beside

him. Obi-Wan felt relief as the familiar form approached, and also as

he saw that the newcomer was no more inclined toward applause

than he.

The newcomer was two centimeters taller than Obi-Wan, yellowish

green in skin tone, with the ropy cranial sensor tentacles and unblinking

eyes typical of a Nautolan. This was Kit Fisto, veteran of

Geonosis and a hundred other lethal hot spots. He neither smiled

nor applauded the JK's actions: no Jedi would ever look at another

being's injury, no matter how superficial or temporary, as entertainment

of any kind. Was it mere coincidence that the Nautolan was

here, or had he, too, been summoned?

Kit looked down at Obi-Wan's hands, noted their tension. "Such

displays are not to your liking?" he asked. His voice had a moist sibilance

even when speaking of mundane issues. The surfaces of Fisto's

unblinking black eyes swirled. This was repressed anger, but few

non-Nautolans would have known that.

"I see little regard for the trooper's welfare," Obi-Wan said.

Kit gave a humorless chuckle. "The reefs of policy and privilege

make war seem merely some distant entertainment."

The globe-headed being in front of them turned his head 180 degrees

without moving his shoulders. "Come now, sir. It's just a clone,

after all."

Just a clone. Flesh and blood, yes, but bred in a bottle, merely another

of 1.2 million clone troopers born with no father to protect

them, and no mother to mourn.

Yes. Merely a clone.

Obi-Wan had no interest in arguing. To these, who had little fear

of dying in combat, whose offspring would also be spared a soldier's

terrible choices, clone troopers were a supreme convenience. This

troglodyte had merely spoken his honest opinion.

"Excellent, excellent," said another witness, a leathery creature

sporting a cyclopean cluster of eyes in the center of his head. "Excellent.

I now understand how the JKs earned their reputation among

the criminal class."

The two exchanged a swift, odd glance, piquing Obi-Wan's curiosity.

"Which i s . . . ?"

The two turned back to the arena, pretending not to hear his question.

Obi-Wan was not so easily fooled. Alarm trilled along his spine.

These waters ran deep indeed.

The leathery one spoke again. "You wish us to be concerned," he

said to Lido Shan. "We are prepared to acknowledge the potency of

such a device. B u t . . . ahem . . . we are fortunate enough to have Jedi

among us today. Would it be impolite to request a demonstration?"

Obi-Wan watched as dozens of eyes turned toward them, evaluating,

triggering whispers. He watched fingers, tentacles, and claws

touch furtively, and was certain that credits were changing hands.

Gambling on the outcome?

Kit Fisto leaned closer without ever looking directly at him. "What

do you make of this?"

Obi-Wan shrugged. "I've little urge to satisfy their curiosity."

"Nor I," Kit said, and his tendrils swirled with a life of their own.

He then turned and addressed the technician. "Tell me," he said.

"Does JK-thirteen have meaning beyond a standard alphanumeric

designation?"

There it was, the question Obi-Wan himself had hesitated to ask.

A thin current of whispers rippled in the arena. The technician

shuffled her feet hesitantly. "Not officially . . . , " she began.

"But unofficially?" Obi-Wan prodded.

The tech cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Among smugglers and

the lower classes," she said, "some call them 'Jedi Killers.' "

"Charming," he said, more to himself than anyone else, momentarily

too stunned to answer. Jedi Killer? What was this obscenity?

Beside him, Kit doffed his cloak, face set in its implacable pale

green mask. His cranial tendrils, Obi-Wan noticed, were restless

even as his unblinking eyes focused on the droid.

"What are you doing?" Obi-Wan asked, knowing the inevitable

answer. In fact, almost certainly, this was why Kit had been invited:

his volatility and courage were renowned.

"I would feel this thing for myself," Kit said, voice deadly calm. He

then raised his voice in challenge. "Technician! At your pleasure."

The Nautolan's head sensors wavered in the still air. The droid regarded

him without reaction. With a single glance back at Obi-Wan,

Kit somersaulted to the floor of the arena with a poise and fluidity no

chin-bret point guard could have dreamed of, landing without a

sound.

He stood a dozen meters away from the JK. As before, the droid

seemed harmless. Master Fisto's lightsaber flashed in his hand, and

its emerald length rose from the hilt, scorching the air as it blossomed.

The droid emitted a hum that climbed in pitch and intensity until

Obi-Wan's skin crawled. It remained motionless except for its surface,

which once again segmented into an arachnid configuration. It

seemed to sniff the air. Its insectile whine changed, as if it were wary

of its new opponent.

It extended tentacles again, but this time they wiggled in an oddly

sluggish fashion. Strange indeed. Although previously appearing

flexible and alert, was it now about to use the same tactics it had used

against the commando? Perhaps the droid was not so advanced as he

had initially feared . . .

Kit's lightsaber swatted the first tendril from the air with contemptuous

ease. Obi-Wan found his attention straying from the JK, focusing

instead on Kit, admiring the strength of his stance, the clarity

of his angles as he chose lines of engagement. Kit favored the Form I

style of combat, a fierce—

Wait.

Warning sirens howled in Obi-Wan's mind. Something was terribly

wrong. Intellect raced to keep pace with intuition. The JK's repetition

of previous patterns had lulled him into complacency. The

tendrils were only a feint. Where, then, was the real attack?

He leaned forward, examining the droid more carefully. Its feet.

The spiky protrusions were sunken in the sand. And projecting outward

from the treads themselves, burrowing under the surface . . .

Were more tendrils, color-camouflaged to resemble sand. This

thing attacked on two levels simultaneously, a strategy beyond most

living warriors. Even more disturbing, it was deliberately misleading

Kit by performing at multiple levels of tempo and efficiency, literally

juggling its tactics, luring him to overconfidence.

The sand tendrils were within centimeters of their target before

Kit sensed them. His lidless black eyes grew wider still as the sand

erupted. A stalk snaked around his foot, trying to yank him onto his

back. Other vines raced to assist the first group.

The onlookers gasped in amazement as they realized that they

were about to see the unthinkable: a mere droid defeating a mighty

Jedi!

But Kit was far from vanquished. As if he, too, had merely been

playing a game, he crouched and leapt forward, spinning on his

body's vertical axis like some kind of carnival acrobat, surging directly

at the JK. He rode the JK's yanking motion instead of fighting it,

slipping between the tendrils, the Nautolan's sense of timing faster

and more precise than conscious thought.

Whatever its powers, the droid had not anticipated such an assault,

nor could it adjust in time. It released him and retreated up a

step, all tendrils lashing at the Jedi. Kit's lightsaber rained sparks.

Tentacles flopped onto the sand, some of the larger pieces twitching,

more like separate creatures than severed limbs.

The Nautolan hit the sand, rolled, and bore in again instantly, his

face tightened into a fighting snarl.

Now the JK battled at maniacal intensity, and Obi-Wan wondered:

What is it trying to do? Again and again the tendrils lashed at

Kit's head. Had Lido Shan failed to give the droid proper inhibiting

commands? If so, and the gleaming monstrosity had a single opportunity,

it would slay the Nautolan. Obi-Wan's hand crept toward his

lightsaber, the weight of thirty-six grueling flight hours banished

from his limbs. If the need arose—

But Kit had entered lightsaber range. At this more intimate distance,

the droid was at a disadvantage. Now Kit was the predator, the

JK reduced to the role of prey. Hissing, it retreated on its slender

golden legs, tentacles wavering, as if it couldn't crunch data fast

enough to counter the unorthodox attack. Kit's emerald lightsaber

blade was here, there, everywhere: unpredictable, irresistible. The spinning

energy disks no longer absorbed the strikes: now they merely

deflected them, sparks raining in all directions.

Kit accelerated into a blur of motion complex and rapid enough to

baffle even Obi-Wan's experienced gaze. The Nautolan Jedi's lightsaber

wove between the energy shields, descending on the JK's housing

for the first time. The droid emitted a painfully thin shriek. Its

gleaming legs shivered.

It collapsed to the sand. It twitched, struggling to rise. And then

spilled onto its side, spewing smoke and sparks.

The arena was silent as the crowd absorbed what they had just

witnessed. Doubtless, some had never seen a Jedi in full action. It

was one thing to hear whispered stories about mysterious Temple

dwellers; another thing entirely to see the almost supernatural skills

for oneself. A century hence, some might be regaling their greatgrandchildren

with tales of this demonstration.

But there was another aspect of the affair that most eyes had

missed, a strange phenomenon that had manifested first with the

trooper, but seemed even more pronounced with Kit Fisto: the JK

had anticipated the Nautolan's responses.

A bitter metallic taste soured Obi-Wan's mouth, a sensation he

recognized as the first whisper of fear. "What is this device?" he

asked. "I note that the shields absorb, rather than deflecting."

The technician nodded. "And what does that suggest to you,

Master Jedi?"

"It is no battlefield implement. It is designed to protect its environment,

even from ricochets."

"Excellent," she said.

"And judging by its cosmetic appearance, the JK is some manner of

personal security droid."

Lido Shan held up her hands, requesting silence. "That concludes

the demonstration," she said. "There will be briefings for some of

you. As for the others, the Supreme Chancellor appreciates your

presence."

The crowd drifted away, a few of them pausing to congratulate Kit.

Perhaps they had considered descending to shake his hand or slap his

back, but neither gesture seemed appropriate given the tightness

around Kit's dark, unblinking eyes.

Obi-Wan jumped down from the stands and handed the Nautolan

his cloak. Without a word Kit accepted it, and together they walked

up the stairs toward the exit. Obi-Wan looked back at the sand,

where service droids were still vacuuming up oil and fluids. What

would he, Obi-Wan, have done given the same challenge? He allowed

himself no doubt that he would have emerged victorious, but

simultaneously realized that Kit's chaotic, unpredictable approach

had given the Nautolan an advantage against the machine. ObiWan's

own more measured response might well have proven less effective.

On their way out they passed a knot of troopers, all carved from the

same rock, all with the same broad shoulders and shielded faces,

the same military bearing and polish. With surprising tenderness they

cared for their defeated brother, and Obi-Wan wondered . . .

The Nautolan's tendrils lifted and Kit turned, seeming to read his

mind. "Obi-Wan?"

"For a moment I wondered if I had met him before."

"And?"

"And I realized how foolish that thought was."

"Foolish?" Kit asked.

"Yes. I've met every one of them."

True enough. Yet watching them caring for one of their own as if

none of the witnesses existed, he wondered if he, or any outsider,

really knew them at all.

3

T, he Chancellor's briefing room was as tall as four Wookiees, its

marble ceiling supported by massive duracrete pillars. Its vast bay

window peered out on Coruscant's magnificent skyline: the Bonadan

embassy and revolving Skysitter Restaurant were directly across the

avenue. The dense duracrete forest conveyed a sense of grandeur that

impressed dignitaries from the Outer Rim but always left Obi-Wan

wondering if something more productive might have been done with

the space.

At the moment a cluster of scaled and emerald-eyed Kuati dignitaries

busily exchanged formal pleasantries and good-byes with

the Chancellor and his robed assistants. The two Jedi stood in a corner

of the room as the ambassadors executed elaborate ceremonial

bows.

As they waited, Obi-Wan noted that Kit seemed a bit ill at ease.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly. "Did the droid come too close

for comfort?" In truth, he could not remember Kit ever seeming

other than utterly self-possessed.

"My life does not revolve around comfort," the Nautolan said.

"Still... it was, as I've heard humans say, a 'close shave.' "

And strangely, even those words told Obi-Wan how challenging

20 STAR WARS: THE CESTUS DECEPTION

the JK had been. That last statement was as revelatory as the Nautolan

Jedi had ever been.

As the diplomats exited the room, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine

finally addressed them, his broad, strong forehead creased with worry,

lips drawn into a thin, tight line.

"My pardon for the inconvenience and mystery, my friends," he

said. "I hope that you will shortly understand the need for both."

"Chancellor," Obi-Wan said, in no mood for formal pleasantries.

"Are you prepared to share this 'Jedi Killer's' secret with us?"

The Chancellor winced. "I admit to being mystified. Even our

lowest citizens would not find such a vulgar appellation amusing."

After a pause for thought, he continued. "In the interest of providing

context, please indulge a digression." Palpatine waved them toward a

pair of chairs. The Chancellor sat at his great desk, rectangles of light

and shadow dividing his face into quadrants. He turned to the shorthaired

female technician, who had silently entered the room while

the Chancellor spoke. "Lido Shan?"

"With pleasure, sir," she said. "When this device first came to our

attention, our first priority was to determine exactly how it performs

in such an unusual manner. Ordinary scans showed little of note in

the inner workings, save for a completely shielded central processor

unit."

"Naturally, that processor was the focus of your investigations,"

Obi-Wan said.

"Naturally," Lido Shan replied, allowing her pale lips to curl into a

smile. "Opening the processor invalidates the warranty, but we

thought it worth the risk."

Kit canted his head. "And what did you find?"

"Please," Lido Shan said, imitating the Chancellor's tendency for

oblique discourse. "In time. Let us begin with an assessment based

on its displayed skills." She paused, gathering herself. "The JK is a

Force-sensitive bio-droid of a type previously considered impossible.

For much of the last year, they've been sold throughout the galaxy.

Even at inflated prices, they sell faster than they can be manufactured."

"Force-sensitive?" Kit scoffed. "Absurd! Why haven't we seen these

droids before?"

"Because," she replied, "they are the most exclusive, expensive personal

security droids available."

"And exactly what is this cost?" Kit asked.

"Eighty thousand credits." Shan gestured, and a hologram maze of

droid circuitry blossomed in the air around her. She ran her hands

along the internal structure, tracing various features, then took a deep

breath.

"And now," she said finally, "we come to the heart of the matter.

The secret of their success is a unique living circuit design incorporating

organics into the core processor, allowing greater empathy

with the owners and superior tactical aggression toward intruders."

"Living circuits?" Kit asked.

Lido Shan seemed to match the Nautolan's ability at unblinking

attention, but Obi-Wan watched as a yellowish mucosa filmed her

eyes and then swiftly dissolved. "The processor is actually a lifesupport

unit for a creature of unknown origin."

The hologram flickered, darkened. A coiled, snakelike, eyeless

image appeared. A comparison scale suggested that the creature was

the size of Obi-Wan's clenched fist. "And this gives the droid its special

qualities?" he asked.

"Yes," Lido Shan said. "We believe so. We made a direct request

for information from the manufacturers, but they refuse to discuss

their secrets."

"And this manufacturer is . . . ?"

"Cestus Cybernetics. Are you familiar with Ord Cestus?"

Obi-Wan scanned his memory. "The homeworld of Baktoid

Armor?"

"Excellent," the Supreme Chancellor said.

Lido Shan nodded. "Our Cestian contacts tell us that the animal is

called a dashta eel. This dashta appears to be nonsentient, which in

some ways is even more amazing, representing the first nonsentient

creature ever found with a profound level of... well, of Force sensitivity."

22 STAR WARS: THE CESTUS DECEPTION

"Dashta eels?" Obi-Wan glanced at Kit, who shook his head.

"Possibly natives of Cestus's Dashta Mountain range," the Chancellor

said. "Combined with the JK's unique armament, they give

the droid an anticipatory advantage in combat. We have tested it

with a variety of opponents, and you, Master Fisto, are the first to

prevail."

Kit bowed fractionally, the only sign of his acknowledgment or

pleasure.

"For that reason," the Chancellor said, "Master Fisto's thoughts

would be invaluable."

Kit Fisto pursed his lips for a moment, as if reluctant to give an unconsidered

answer. "Life will always have greater Force-harmony

than any machine," he said. "However . . ."

However indeed. The Nautolan's swift, worried glance revealed

the rest of his thoughts as clearly as a shout.

"When did these Jedi Killers first appear on the market?" Kit

asked.

"About a year ago," Palpatine replied. "Soon after the Clone Wars

began. Extensive Trade Federation contracts created a boom on Cestus,

which subcontracted for the Baktoid Armor Workshop. After

the Batde of Naboo, the Trade Federation distanced itself from the

workshop, creating economic chaos. Financially desperate, Cestus

turned to the Republic and requested our help. We made a substantial

order—" He winced. "—but unfortunately we were spread too

thin economically, and payment was not prompt. More chaos resulted.

We may have misjudged the importance of this small planet.

Lido Shan," he said. "Speak of the Gabonnas."

Lido Shan sighed. "As soon as the war began, we placed certain

highly important technical parts on restriction. Among these were

Gabonna memory crystals, used by Ord Cestus in the manufacture

of high-end Cesta security droids, its most famous nonmilitary product

prior to the introduction of the JK line."

"And how did that lead to the current situation?" Obi-Wan asked.

"With the restrictions," Shan said, "Cestus's rather delicate economic

balance shifted to the negative. Gabonnas are the only memory

STEVEN BARNES 23

crystals fast enough to power a class five personal security droid." She

said this flatly, perhaps supposing it to be common knowledge. "Most

battle droids are class four, and can run on less extreme hardware."

The Chancellor shook his graying head. "Cestus was . . . unlucky,

and perhaps foolish to place so many of its cocoons in one hutch."

"I see," Obi-Wan said.

Kit Fisto spoke for both of them. "So . . . the situation is quite unstable.

Cestus no longer trusts us."

The Chancellor nodded. "You are doubly tasked, my Jedi friends. I

have consulted with the Senate and the Jedi Council and we agree

that you are to contact the Cestian Regent, one G'Mai Duris. Regain

her trust by taking any necessary steps to preserve their existing social

order. We must bring them back into the fold and stem the flow

of these obscene Jedi Killers." His mouth twisted, as if merely speaking

those last words left a bad taste.

"So," Obi-Wan said, attempting to mentally reconstruct the time

line. "To the Cestians, the Republic has twice caused economic

chaos. I assume they appealed to the Trade Council?"

"Indeed, and we tried to reach a compromise, even offering another,

more lucrative military contract."

"And?" Kit asked.

"Negotiations collapsed."

"Because?"

"We were told that payment would have to be in advance." The

Chancellor's face grew long. "This we cannot do on a contract of

such magnitude."

"Perhaps it is merely my ignorance of commerce," Kit growled,

"but surely the Cestians know they flirt with disaster. How can the

sale of a few thousand droids be worth such risk?" He leaned forward,

his dark eyes swirling with intensity. "Explain."

Lido Shan closed her own eyes for a moment, and then spoke.

"The JKs themselves represent only a fraction of Cestus's total economic

picture. But they've become fashionable, high-status objects,

increasing the value of their entire product line."

"Of course, there are additional problems," Palpatine admitted.

"The lower-class population, which of course constitutes ninetyfive

percent of Cestus, is descended from . . . how do I say this

delicately?" He pondered, and then abandoned the effort to be politically

correct. "They are descended from uncivilized aboriginals and

criminals, and inherited their forebears' unfortunate antisocial tendencies.

The wealthiest families, and duly elected government, might

well be thrown into turmoil and collapse if a proper solution is not

found."

Obi-Wan nodded to himself, thinking that there was much left

unsaid here. "Why is the situation so severe?"

"Because Cestus is a relatively barren world, which cannot support

its current population without importing soil nutrients, food, medicines,

and supplies. Every drop of water consumed by an offworlder

must be carefully processed."

"I see."

"So. The first JKs appeared on the market, priced at a premium.

This was noted, but was hardly something to be alarmed by. And

then a second piece of intelligence reached us."

"That being?" Kit asked.

"That the Confederacy had made an offer to buy thousands of

these security droids. Perhaps tens of thousands."

Obi-Wan was stunned. "Has Count Dooku access to such wealth?"

"Apparently," Palpatine said with obvious regret.

Kit Fisto's black eyes narrowed. "I'd assumed that such bioconstructs

could not be mass-produced."

"We'd made that assumption as well, Master Fisto. Apparently, we

were wrong. We don't know how, but we know why."

"They will be used as battle droids," Kit said.

Battle droids. Obi-Wan winced. "How can this be allowed? Certainly

selling military ordnance to the Separatists is forbidden."

"Yes," Lido Shan said. "But there are no laws against selling security

droids to individual planets in the Confederacy, which is, technically

speaking, all Cestus is actually doing. It's irrelevant that the

JKs can be converted into lethal implements merely by substituting

memory crystals."

Obi-Wan hoped that his face concealed his thoughts, because his

most primary emotion was dismay. The idea of bio-droids being

converted to death machines was alarming. Such devices might even

nullify the slight precognitive advantage enjoyed by Jedi in combat.

It could not be allowed.

"We've learned that Count Dooku offered to supply Cestus with

its own Gabonnas, allowing the assembly lines to resume production.

He also offered to supply technology allowing Cestus to streamline

and increase production of droids and dashta eels."

"Cloning?"

"Yes. The rumors suggest superiority to Kaminoan technology.

Techniques that create endless colonies of living neural tissue, allowing

their factories to production-line a process that was once quite

exclusive and expensive."

"Those who place profit above freedom," Kit said, "generally end

with neither." He paused, sensor tendrils waving gently. Perhaps, like

Obi-Wan, he envisioned a battle against thousands of machines,

each as dangerous as the metal opponent battled on the sands of

T'Chuk coliseum. A terrifying wave of precognitive juggernauts.

The Chancellor seemed encouraged that they so swiftly grasped

the situation. Indeed, to Obi-Wan's way of thinking, it was the

Chancellor himself who barely understood the difficulties ahead.

Wise in politics he might be, but Palpatine was still a novice in the

ways of the Force.

Obi-Wan found himself thinking aloud. "It might take a special

decree to deny Cestus the right to manufacture and sell these droids."

"And meanwhile," Kit said, "the galaxy waits, and watches."

"Indeed," the Chancellor said. The light from the overhead window

divided his face. "If the Trade Council dominates precious little

Cestus, we will seem like bullying thugs. Before things deteriorate to

that level, I, the Senate, and the Jedi Council, insist we try diplomacy."

"With a lightsaber?" Kit asked.

The palest of smiles crossed the Chancellor's face. "Hopefully, it

won't come to that. My friends, you will travel to Ord Cestus and

begin formal discussions. But the negotiations cover your other purpose:

to convince Cestus, and through them the other interested star

systems, that Count Dooku is too dangerous to deal with."

"And our resources, sir?" Kit asked.

And now, finally, the Chancellor's smile grew certain and strong.

"The best of the best."

4

T, hree hundred kilometers below, the ocean was quiet. From this

peaceful vantage point, one would never guess that within those

watery depths courageous soldiers were fighting, striving, slaying.

Dying.

A steady stream of single-person capsules erupted from the sides

of the troop transport ships, blazing their fiery trails down through

the atmosphere. Within the transports, corridors surged with unending

streams of uniformed troopers. The hallways buzzed with activity,

like blood vessels bursting with living cells. The troopers wore

not blast armor but flexible black depthsuits. They ran in perfect

order and rhythm, knees high and heads erect, heading toward their

rendezvous with danger, perhaps death. Each stood exactly 1.78 meters

in height, with short black hair and piercing brown eyes. Their

skin was pale bronze, with darker variations among those who had

spent more time in the sun. Every face was identical, heavy eyebrows

and blunt noses prominent above strong narrow mouths.

Clones troopers, every one.

A few were not common troopers, although at the moment few

outsiders could have told them apart. These were the Advance Recon

Commandos. Representing a tiny fraction of the total clones grown

in the Kamino cloning labs, the ARC troopers were the deadliest soldiers

ever created.

Contrary to popular belief, even a standard trooper was not merely

a mindless shock troop or laser cannon fodder. Trained in a wide spectrum

of general military disciplines ranging from hand-to-hand combat

to emergency medical techniques, they were also graded from

basic soldier to commander based upon field performance. Theoretically,

all troopers were equal, but experience and tiny variations in initial

cloning conditions inevitably made some more equal than others.

Within one of those ships, the Nexu, ran a man whose armor

sported the blue captain's color. His helmet and neck chip designated

him A-98, known as Nate to his cohort. Although in other times and

places he had led his brothers into combat, now he was merely one of

identical thousands trotting to their destiny.

The next clone in line locked himself into a cylindrical drop capsule,

trusting Nate to do a spec check on the external monitors. Nate

went through a mental list as familiar to him as the pattern of creases

on his hard right hand. With a brisk, flat slap of that callused palm

on its outer wall, he pronounced the capsule sound and secure.

Through the heat and shock-resistant plate he could see his brother's

eyes. His own eyes, reflected back to him.

With a bump and a chunk, the eyes retreated as the capsule sank

into the wall, joining the conveyer belt.

He turned, nodded at the next trooper in line, and locked himself

into a tube. The man checked Nate's settings, as Nate had a moment

before for the man ahead of him. He heard the bang-slap against the

capsule wall. A comforting sound. To blazes with all the flashing

lights: there was nothing more reassuring than another trooper's approval.

The capsule, used on numerous previous drops, stank of sweat—

and not his own, although the previous occupant had been a genetic

twin. Nate detected traces of antiviral medications designed for functioning

in an alien environment. He inhaled deeply, one part of his

mind completely on autopilot as the rest of him went through his

metal coffin's checklist.

That smell. Sweet, sharp, and organic. Triptophagea, he figured.

Triptophagea was a drug used to prevent fever on half a dozen planets

he could name offhand. Only one of them was the site of recently

hot action, and he figured that that meant the previous occupant had

been on Cortao within the last month.

On a deeper level, he was aware that those thoughts were merely

distractions from the drop's danger. Risk was always a factor. Fear

was a soldier's constant companion. No dishonor in that: what a man

felt mattered not at all. What he did meant everything. He was one

of the few ARC troopers in all the galaxy, and as far as Nate was concerned,

there was no better existence.

The capsule juddered as it began to move down the transport

line. The speaker in his helmet burped to life. "This is control to

Trooper A-Nine-Eight. Estimated time of ejection one minute twentyfour

seconds."

"One minute and twenty-four seconds," Nate repeated, and

clenched his fist in invisible salute. "One hundred percent," he said,

ARC-speak for perfect.

One minute twenty. About eighty heartbeats, long enough for a

thousand ugly thoughts to worm their way into an unguarded mind.

He'd learned a hundred ways to deal with them, none more powerful

than the personal ritual of his cohort meditation. He submerged in

its comforting depths, shifting mental swatches of color and shape as

he had since childhood, taking solace in the simplicity and beauty of

each geometric pattern. He listened to his pulse as his heart slowed

to forty beats per minute in response. Chanted the fourteen words

engraved on his soul: It's not what a man fights with, it's what he fights

for that counts.

Nate fought for the honor of the Grand Army of the Republic, and

to him, that obligation was a thing of beauty.

Some thought clones could not appreciate beauty, but they were

wrong. Beauty was efficiency and functionality. Beauty was purpose

and a lack of waste.

Most equated beauty with effeminacy or lack of utility.

Troopers knew better.

Bump. Another capsule gone. He lurched left as the capsule shifted

right, rattling closer to the end of the line.

Bump.

"Fifty seconds, " control warned.

BUMP. The shuddering became a hollow swooshing sound, felt in

the bones more than heard in the ears. The capsule was moving along

more smoothly now, and A-98 took the time to check his settings.

There followed a moment of piercing silence. He held his breath,

quieting his nerves, finding the place within himself that needed this,

that lived for the moment to come.

Then thought ceased as his capsule was spewed from the side of

the ship toward the ocean below. Acceleration slammed him back

against the capsule walls.

Nate had time to check his visuals. This model was better than his

previous capsule, which had kept him in darkness for most of the

ride. This one had viewscreens: one giving a view from the capsule's

outer skin, the other on some kind of main feed from the Nexu, giving

an entirely different perspective.

From the perspective of the drop capsule the Nexu was a gigantic,

angular flat metal shape, bristling with weapons and antennae, capable

of carrying twenty thousand troops or megatons of weapons and

supplies. Function at its finest.

Then that view was lost, and A-98 was plunging down into Vandor-

3's outer atmosphere.

The capsule shuddered as friction warmed its skin to two thousand

degrees, heat that would have fried him in an instant if not for the

thermoenergetic force screen that sucked heat into the capsule batteries.

Nate checked his equipment as he plummeted toward the dark,

churning ocean below. Sensors related the temperature, position, and

acceleration. Tiny steering repulsors used the capsule's stored energy

to keep him on target.

Everything was fine. Nothing to be done now. Nothing but to fall,

and fight, and win. Or die.

His stomach rocked with the sudden vibration as his capsule began

to decelerate, the repulsors blasting as sensors warned that they had

reached critical distance above the swelling waves.

Within thirty seconds the capsule jolted again as he struck water.

The capsule lights switched from yellow-orange to red emergency as

some of the lesser systems began to fritz. Zero perspiration: glitches

like that were to be expected. The miracle would have been if all systems

had remained intact through the entire descent.

Sensors revealed that the capsule's skin temperature was dropping

rapidly: he was plunging deep now. Nate clenched his mouthpiece

between his teeth, testing it to make sure that the cool wind of lifegiving

oxygen flowed freely. In just a few moments it would be too

late to make adjustments. In a few moments, the game would commence.

The comm crackled with intercepted chatter: "We lost one in quad rant

four, another in quadrant two. Stay alive, people!"

"Sounds like a plan," he muttered, as much to himself as anyone

who might have been listening. And there was no reason to mourn

when the next moment might well extinguish his own flame: his own

warning light flashed. His capsule had malfunctioned. Cold water

gushed in through the cracks, flooding him from ankles to knees.

"Warning!" his emergency system brayed at him. "Hull breach. Warning!

Hull breach ..."

Thanks for the heads-up, he thought, his entire right side already

sopping wet. Well, Nate reflected bitterly, that was what happened

when contracts went to the lowest bidder.

"We have breaches in three units on the left flank. Emergency procedures

in effect. Request permission to terminate operation."

"Negative!" the commander said, not the slightest centigram of pity

in his voice. Nate both admired and resented that quality. "Proceed to

objective. "

The first voice tried again. "Request permission to implement rescue

operation."

"Negative, Trooper! Designated units will provide backup support. Stay

on target."

"One hundred percent," the trooper replied.

Claustrophobia and the caterwauling of doomed men would dismay

most, but Nate completed his emergency checklist with machinelike

precision, punching buttons and pushing levers even as rising

water increased the air pressure until his head threatened to explode.

As the pod juddered and shook, a red diode at eye level counted

down to zero. Air hissed into his mouth as the pod's outer hull broke

away and water engulfed his world. The pod split along its longitudinal

axis: the top half flipped away into the deep as the pod's lower

half transformed into a sled.

All around him, hundreds of his brothers floated into formation.

He was merely one of an apparently endless multitude maneuvering

through the murk. As far as the eye could see, troopers swam and

sledded in endless geometric array.

He adjusted the grip and the steering, happy to regain control of

his fate. A strange kind of contentment enfolded him. This was the

life for a man. His destiny in his own hands, flanked by his brothers,

spitting in death's bloody eye. He pitied those timid beings who had

never experienced the sensation.

Each sled was fitted with its own nose cam, transmitting images

into a low-frequency network, generating a fist-size hologram Nate

could rotate to examine from any angle.

Trooper formations had the geometric precision of snowflakes or

polished gemstones. One might easily have assumed such complex

and beautiful patterns to have been rehearsed in advance, but that assumption

would be incorrect. The formation was merely the inevitable

outcome of countless troopers responding to simple instructions ingrained

during their intense, truncated childhoods.

Nate turned his attention from the overall patterns to his own specific

tasks. All he needed to do was protect six troopers: those above

and below, left and right, front and back. And, of course, trust that

they would do the same for him. If he did that, keeping the proper

distance, allowing for environmental factors, the clone formations

naturally assumed the proper shape for attack and defense. Once battle

was actually joined, other core instructions produced other effects.

They moved through the murk, lights flashing out from the individual

sleds, illuminating the irregular shapes of plant and animal life

arrayed along the ocean floor. Except for the occasional comm

crackle in his ears and the thrum of the sled engine, all was silence.

All was 100 percent and straight-ahead.

Nate focused on the task at hand, no thoughts of past or future

clouding his mind. His arms gripped the handles, his legs kicked a

bit, even though the sled had its own propulsion. He enjoyed the

sense of his body's impressive resources. A soldier needed infinite endurance,

a powerful back, a deep and textured knitting of muscle in

the abdomen. Some made the mistake of thinking that it was a

trooper's upper-body strength that was special. That was all most

civilians remembered if they ever saw a trooper without his armor:

the densely knotted shoulders and forearms, the thick, blunt, surprisingly

dexterous fingers.

But no, the difference was in his legs, capable of carrying twice his

own weight up a thirty-degree incline at a steady march. It was in his

back, capable of hoisting one of his brothers up and carrying him to

safety with no sense of strain. No, a soldier in the field didn't care

about how he looked. What mattered was performance under fire.

A voice in his ear chattered. "We have contact, right flank. Some kind

of undersea snake or tendril ..."

This was it!

"Evasive maneuvers! Triangulate on sector four-two-seven." A hologram

immediately shimmered in the water before his eyes, showing

where that sector lay. Good. He had yet to see anything that he could

call a landmark. The moment he saw something, his training, his

"inner map" system, would kick in, but for now he had to rely upon

technology.

Something expected but still disturbing cut into his calm: the

sound of a trooper's plaintive, truncated scream. Then: "We've lost

one. "

Nate felt the wave of water pressure before his eyes or sensors revealed

a threat. All around him his brothers scattered, evading. He

watched as a fleshy, cup-lipped tentacle ripped the trooper two rows

from his left into the deep, leaving clusters of bubbles behind. The

dark clouds billowed in the thousand-eyed glare of their headlamps.

And now he could see what they faced, and cursed himself: how

in space had he missed it? The entire ocean floor was covered with

immense clusters of what had initially seemed like rock, but were

now revealed to be a gigantic, undifferentiated colony of hostile lifeforms.

Billions of them, a reef stretching in all directions for kilometers,

a city of mindless, voracious mouths. Even the tentacles themselves

were not mere appendages. Rather, each was composed of millions of

smaller organisms, cooperating in some strange way to improve their

odds of obtaining sustenance.

His mind combed thousands of information files in a few seconds.

Selenome, he decided. Deadly. Native to only one planet, and it sure as

space wasn't this one —

Another voice in his ear: "How many of these things are there?"

"Just one freaking big one, enough to kill you if you don't shut up and do

your job. Keep the channel clear. Right flank —tighten up. Watch each

other's blind spots."

Then there was no more talk, only action. Energy bolts sizzled

through the water, freeing vast billowing gas clouds that threatened

to obscure their view.

Once again, their understanding and instinct-level programming

proved invaluable. If he could so much as see a single trooper, he

could estimate the position of others. If he could glimpse the ocean

floor, he could guess the size and shape and position of the rest of the

formation, and hence determine where and when and whom it was

safe to shoot.

When a man was sucked screaming into the depths, it tore no fatal

hole in their formations: those around him merely closed in and continued

to fight. The creature at the ocean floor might have been a

self-regenerating horror, a colony creature with no natural enemy

save starvation, but the Grand Army of the Republic was its equal.

The GAR would live forever, the whole infinitely more durable than

any individual part.

"I'm clear! I'm clear!" another voice called.

"We lost another one! Watch your blinds, and cover your brothers!"

"Tendril on your nine!"

"Got it covered. "

Nothing about a selenome could be considered routine in the

slightest, but Nate, although he had never faced such a challenge, already

knew how to fight it. Again, complex behaviors arising from

simple instructions.

His blasters were calibrated for underwater combat and demolition.

Nate squeezed the trigger in short, controlled bursts, swooping

left and right, up and down, evading the searching tentacles. He and

his legion of brothers danced to a martial melody, shearing chunks of

tentacle until the water was a boiling froth of selenome bits.

We're the GAR, he thought savagely, grinning as one of his brothers

evaded a questing tendril by a hairbreadth. You had no flaming idea

who you were messing with, did you, you flak-catching, sewage-sucking —

A fleshy tendril's grip jolted adrenaline through his veins. Toothed

suckers smacked at his sled. Its lights flickered and died. The tentacle

chewed at his depthsuit, mouthing at him as it fought to pull him

down into the selenome's gaping maw.

Fear chilled his combat fever, and he clamped down on it instantly.

What had Jango said? Put your fear behind you where it belongs. Then

blast everything in front of you into splinters. You'll do fine.

A thousand thousand times he'd repeated those words, and he'd

never needed them more.

The tentacle squeezed powerfully enough to break an ordinary

man's ribs and grind his spine to paste. Troopers were not ordinary

men. Nate inhaled sharply. The captured air transformed his midsection

into durasteel, capable of resisting as long as he could postpone

exhalation. Like any trooper, Nate could hold his breath for almost

four minutes.

Of course, once he was forced to exhale his rib cage would collapse

and the selenome would crush him, then devour his shattered body

in the darkness. He couldn't concern himself with that. He refused to

entertain the possibility of failure. Instead, he freed his rifle and doubled

over, firing in short controlled bursts until the tentacle ripped

free.

The water boiled black.

"Break off!" the voice in his ear bawled. He didn't know if that was

a general order or one intended only for those in his wave, but it

hardly mattered. He swam up through the cloudy water. Around him

twitched floating chunks of selenome, and pieces of other things he

had no intention of inspecting closely. Later, perhaps, in the inevitable

dreams to follow.

The ocean floor sloped up to meet him. In a few more meters his

feet had traction, and Nate swam and then crawled his way to the

surface. Now he towed his broken sled, instead of the other way

around.

Nate ripped the mouthpiece out of his lips and sobbed for breath

as the waves crashed around him. He wasn't through yet. A quick

glance to either side revealed his exhausted brothers, still crawling

out of the waves in their hundreds, dragging their equipment behind

them. He flopped over onto his back, spitting water and staring in

paralytic fatigue at the silvered sky.

The clouds parted. A disklike hovercraft floated down, bristling

with armament. Nate closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. This next

part he could predict perfectly.

"All right, keep moving, "Admiral Baraka called down to them. "The

exercise is over when I say it is."

Baraka's hovercraft continued down the beach, repeating the same

announcement over and over again. Two troopers at Nate's side spat

water. They glanced up and shook their heads. "Keep moving?" one

said in amazement. "I wonder how fast he'd drag his carcass off the

sand if he'd just fought a selenome."

"I'd give a week's rations to find out," Nate muttered.

"How many of us made it?" the other asked.

"Enough," Nate said, and pushed his way up to his feet, collecting

his gear and pulling it up the beach. "More than enough."

From his position on the hovercraft, Baraka called down: "Keep

moving! This exercise has not concluded! I repeat, has not concluded

..." Admiral Arikakon Baraka was an amphibious Mon Calamarian.

Mon Calamari were goggle-eyed and web-handed, with

salmon-colored skin and a measured and peaceful manner easy for

their opponents to underestimate. But the Mon Calamari warrior

clan was second to none, and Baraka held high honors in its ranks.

He didn't particularly like clones, but there were prices to be paid for

remaining within the Republic's vast and sheltering arms. In one way

clones were an advantage: there was no need to conscript civilians or

recruit the homeless. That led to an army composed only of professionals.

Baraka heartily supported the notion of experienced, professional

tacticians and strategists supplementing Kamino's more theoretical

training. After all, when it came down to it the Kaminoans were

cloners, not warriors. Baraka had won scars in a hundred battles.

Should all that hard-won knowledge die because the Chancellor

wanted more of the power collected in his hands? Never! In a soldier,

focus and experience reigned supreme: The tide will slacken, the

whirlpool will shrink, the krakana will cower. Such is the power of a fo cused

individual. Mon Calamari philosopher Toklar had penned

those words a thousand years ago, and they still rang true.

So beings like Admiral Baraka came to Vandor-3, the second inhabitable

planet in Coruscant's star system, one of many underpopulated

worlds where clone training operations were commonly conducted.

Clone troopers shipped out to work side by side with native troops

on a hundred different systems. They weren't bad soldiers—in fact,

he admired their tolerance for pain and ravenous appetite for training.

Destined to be a professional soldier from birth as had his father

and grandfather before him, Baraka feared that the birth of the clone

army was the death of a tradition that had lasted for a dozen generations.

His sergeant and pilot were both clone troopers, just two more

broad-shouldered, tan-skinned human males. Beneath their blast

helmets, they had the same flat, broad faces as those crawling from

the surf below. "We estimate one point seven percent mortality during

these drills," the sergeant said.

"Excellent," Admiral Baraka replied. Clones are cheaper to grow than

to train. Even he was appalled by the coldness of that thought, but

was unable to generate a smidgen of guilt. All along the beach, he saw

nothing save hundreds and ultimately thousands of troopers crawling

from the waves, their wet, ragged tracks like those of crippled crustaceans.

They were an officer's dream: an absolutely consistent product

that made it possible to plan campaigns with mathematical precision.

No commander in history had ever known exactly how his troops

would react. Until now.

Yet still... still... there was a part of Baraka that felt uncomfortable.

Was it just the idea of being rendered obsolete? Or was it something

else, something even more disturbing that resisted labels?

He couldn't decide. Admiral Baraka had a distant sense that his

lack of respect for the clones' dignity and worth had decreased his

own, but couldn't help himself.

"Keep moving! Keep moving!" he squalled into his microphone.

"This exercise has not concluded. I repeat, has not concluded until

the objective has been taken ..."

He flew on, quietly noticing his pilot's and sergeant's helmets

turning toward each other. If they hadn't been trained so exactingly,

his disdain would probably make them hate him. Considering the

killing pressure he placed them under, lesser troopers would have

gladly roasted him alive.

But not clone troopers, of course.

As laser cannon fodder went, they were the very best.

5

H is day of drills thankfully completed, Nate lay back against the

transport's waffled floor as it flew him and fifty of his brothers back

to the barracks. Vandor-3 was the severest training exercise he'd yet

endured. According to rumor, the mortality rate had edged close to

the maximum 2 percent. He did not resent that statistic, however.

Nate understood full well that ancient axiom: The more you sweat in

training, the less you bleed in combat.

He and the other troopers were wounded and weary. Some still

trembled with the aftereffects of adrenaline dump. A few chewed

nervesticks; one or two sat cross-legged and eyes closed. Some slept,

and a few chatted in low tones, mulling over the day's events.

To outsiders, they were all the same, but clones saw all of the differences:

the scars, the tanning, the difference in body language due

to various trainings, vocal intonation variations due to different service

stations, changes in scent due to diet. It didn't matter that they'd

all begun life in identical artificial wombs. In millions of tiny ways,

their conditioning and experiences were different, and that created

differences in both performance and personality.

He peered out of one of the side viewports, down on one of

the towns at the outskirts of Vandor-3's capital city. This was a small

industrial burg, a petroleum-cracking plant of some kind, surrounded

by square kilometers of barren, unused land. This was where the barracks

had been built, a temporary city built purely for housing and

training fifty thousand troopers.

The barracks was modular, built for quick breakdown or construction,

and he had been camped there for the last week, waiting his

turn to go through the training drop.

Clone troopers who had already suffered through the drop gave no

clue as to the rigors ahead. He'd seen their suction-cup wounds, of

course, but the troopers who had already survived the selenome quieted

when a trooper lacking a Vandor-3 drop ribbon approached.

Early warning of any kind would inevitably degrade the experience.

To an outsider such a warning might seem a courtesy, but troopers

knew that prior knowledge reduced the severity and emotional stress

of the exercise, and therefore decreased a brother's future chances of

survival.

The transport dropped them off in front of a huge gray prefab

building, housing perhaps three of the troop city's fifty thousand.

Floating on a haze of fatigue, Nate dragged his gear from the transport

and through the hallways, nodding sardonically to the troopers

already sporting the drop ribbons as they applauded, thumbs-upped,

or saluted him, acknowledging what he had just endured.

They had known, he had not. Now he did.

That was all.

He caught a turbolift up to the third level, counting down the

ranks of bunks until reaching his own. Nate dropped his gear onto

the floor beside his bed, stripped off his clothes, and trudged to the

shower.

Nate glimpsed himself in mirrored surfaces as he passed. He had

no vanity as ordinary men considered such things, but was intimately

aware of his body as a machine, always on the alert for signs that

something was wrong, out of place, compromised, damaged. Always

aware that the slightest imperfection might negatively affect performance,

endangering a mission or a brother's life.

Nate's body was a perfect meld of muscle and sinew, balanced

ideally along every plane, optimally muscled, with perfect joint stability

and an aerobic capacity that would have humbled a champion

chin-bretier. His skin sported recently acquired bruises and abrasions,

new wounds to be patched or healed, but such trauma was inevitable.

A-98 entered the refresher station, moving along to the steaming

tile-floored confines of the shower room. He leaned against the

gushing water, gasping as it struck his new abrasions. After emerging

from the ocean onto the bloody beach they had spent another six

hours struggling up a hill to capture a stun-gun-protected flag, working

against captured or simulated battle droids. A full day of glorious,

grueling torture.

The soap squirted out of one of his brothers' hands, and Nate

caught it. Then, to the amusement of those around him, he tossed

the slippery bar from one hand to another like a carnival performer.

That action triggered a brief wave of spontaneous silliness and

dazzling jugglery as the troopers flipped the bars of soap back and

forth to each other almost without watching, as if they were linked by

a single enormous nervous system.

It went on for several hilarious minutes, then died down due to

shared exhaustion. They soaped themselves, wincing as astringent

foam flowed into cuts and bruises.

This was his life, and Nate could imagine no other.

Kamino's master cloners had ensured that the troopers were no

mere ordinary rank-and-file infantry. Ordinary sentient soldiers

the galaxy over could be trained from ignorance to basic skill in

six to twelve weeks. Standard clone troopers went from infant to

fully trained trooper in about nine years, but in waves numbering

in tens of thousands. Clone Commandos were a specialized breed,

trained for special operations, recruitment of indigenous troops,

and training. The Advanced Recon Commandos were a level higher

still.

Ablutions completed, Nate left the shower room and returned to

his bunk. Troopers were quite economical in terms of space: they

slept in pods when there was no room for individual quarters. They

were simultaneously a multitude and a singularity, thousands of identical

human units cloned from a single physical and mental combat

paragon, a bounty hunter whose name had been Jango Fett.

Their lives were simple. They trained, ate, traveled, fought, and

rested. Occasionally they were allowed special stress relief, leading

to interaction with ordinary sentient beings, but their training had

prepared them for the simplest, most direct experience of life imaginable.

They were soldiers. They had known nothing else. They

dreamed of nothing else.

Nate found his bunk capsule, kicked his gear into the slot beneath

it, and tumbled in, covering his nakedness with the thermal sheet.

It automatically assumed seventeen degrees Celsius, the perfect

body temperature to provide comfort and optimal healing: one of a

trooper's few luxuries in life.

Almost immediately, crushing fatigue bore him down into darkness.

As it did, where other men might have released into sleep or

tossed and turned, mulling trivial matters, Nate closed his eyes and

entered rest mode, rapidly dropping toward dream time. Sleep would

come quickly when he decided to let it: another valuable part of his

training. No tossing and turning for a trooper. One never knew when

an opportunity for sleep would come again. When necessary, Nate

could sleep on the march.

But before slumber he was trained to use the thin edge of consciousness,

the place between sleeping and waking, to organize information.

His subconscious resurrected the day's events, everything

from his ascent to the Nexu to the initial mission briefing, the drop,

and the battle with the selenome, struggling onto the beach, and

storming the hill afterward.

Recalled information flowed into preselected mental patterns for

storage, contributing to the overall chances of survival and, even more

important, of successfully completing assignments.

He remained in this state for fifty minutes, as the tug of the day's

fatigue grew more insistent. He could stave off that fatigue for unnaturally

long periods of time, but saw no reason to do so. He had

performed well, and deserved his rest. And anyway: his dreams

would continue to evaluate and organize, even if mostly in symbolic

form. That was good enough.

A-98 surrendered consciousness and allowed his body to heal itself.

After all, tomorrow was another day.

Best be prepared.

6

I n the Jedi Temple's Archives, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Kit Fisto

studied their assignment, the industrial powerhouse known as Ord

Cestus.

Obi-Wan found Cestus an interesting study, a relatively barren

rock rich in certain ores, but miserable for most agricultural farming.

Much of its surface was desert. The native life-forms included a

hive-based insectile people known as the X'Ting, and a variety of

large, deadly, and reputedly nonsentient cave spiders.

The current population stood in the millions, with several advanced

cities unsustainable without imported resources: fertilizers

and soil nutrients, medications, and spices used to modify the water

supply for non-natives.

"Dangerous," Kit said, studying at his side. "A simple rationing

drove them into Count Dooku's arms. That could never have happened

to a self-sufficient people."

This was simple truth. In war, secure supply lines were as crucial as

trained soldiers.

Three hundred standard years before, the relatively primitive

X'Ting—a single colony with multiple hives spread around the

planet—had contracted with Coruscant, offering land for a galactic

prison facility.

At some point Cestus Penitentiary began a program designed to

train and utilize prisoner skills. This became really interesting when

a series of financial scandals and an industrial tragedy on Etti IV sent

a dozen minor officers of Cybot Galactica, the Republic's second

largest manufacturer, to prison for twenty standard years. The twelve

hadn't been on Cestus for two years before cutting a deal with prison

officials to begin research and fabrication of a line of droid products.

Access to vast amounts of raw material and virtually free labor released

a flood of wealth.

The twelve were quickly and quietly work-furloughed into opulent

homes. Select guards and officials became wealthier still, and a corrupt

dynastic conglomerate was born: Cestus Cybernetics, producing

an excellent line of personal security droids. The next events were difficult

to sort out. Large tracts of land were purchased from the hive at

fire-sale prices. Then, following terrible plagues among the X'Ting,

Cestus Cybernetics gained almost complete control of the planet.

Still, life, even for the average offworlder, had been rough before

Cestus Cybernetics subcontracted to the fabulously wealthy and successful

Baktoid Armor Workshops. It retooled completely, tapping

into an interstellar market in high-end military hardware. The

economy expanded, and then crashed when the Trade Federation cut

ties after the Naboo fiasco . . .

Boom. Then, crash. Cycles of growth and decay followed one another

with numbing regularity.

Obi-Wan scanned the roster of current leaders. Following last century's

plagues, after the near destruction of the entire hive, the office

of planetary Regent was still held by one of royal X'Ting lineage, one

G'Mai Duris. Was this office elective? Hereditary? Was Duris a figurehead,

or a genuine power?

Another reference an hour later caught Obi-Wan's eye: mention of

a group of guerrilla fighters called Desert Wind. Most of the surface

farmers were poor, descended from the rank-and-file prisoners after

their parole. Protesting a century of oppression, Desert Wind had

sprung up twenty years back and tried to force Cestus's industrial

rulers, a cabal of wealthy industrialists called the Five Families, to the

bargaining table.

Desert Wind had been crushed in the past year, but there were said

to be a few left, still mounting raids on company caravans.

The more deeply Obi-Wan and Kit peered, the more the truth of

power on Cestus, and its delicate relationship with Coruscant,

evaded them.

"It's like digging through a sponge reef," the Nautolan snarled

after eight hours of study. "We'd need a wizard to sort through this

nonsense."

"I don't know many wizards," Obi-Wan replied, "but I think a

good barrister would be invaluable, and I know just the one."

"Excellent," Kit said. "And another concern. If negotiations go

poorly, we may wish to . . . pressure this Duris person."

Obi-Wan flinched. The Nautolan was correct, but Obi-Wan preferred

caution. "Have you a suggestion?"

"Yes. You and the barrister deal with the politicians. We have—"

He searched his screen for the information. "—two contacts on Cestus,

a human female named Sheeka Tull and an X'Ting named Trillot.

Between them, we should find the necessary leverage."

"If they are trustworthy," Obi-Wan offered.

Kit laughed. "Are you suggesting we can't trust our own people?"

That question hung in the air, tension increasing every moment.

Then Obi-Wan laughed. "Of course not."

"Good," the Nautolan said. "As I was saying, I'll take an ARC and

a few commandos and recruit native troops for emergency use."

Obi-Wan grasped the logic instantly. If they brought Desert Wind

back to life, the regent and these Five Families would be more nervous,

less secure, possibly more receptive to Republic overtures. It

wouldn't do to have a trooper's body captured: its genetic signature

would be evidence of Coruscant's manipulations.

For hours the two friends pored over the files, discussing possibilities

and strategies, until they were satisfied that every action and

counteraction had been considered.

The rest would have to wait for actual arrival on Cestus.

7

T en hours later A-98 reawakened, his recovery cycle complete.

Nate glanced at his sleep capsule's heads-up screen, which reminded

him to report to the op center for orders.

Thirty seconds was spent in a quick mental survey of his body.

Another half minute was invested in his morning mental ritual, completing

the shift from deep sleep to full waking. True enough, in an

emergency he or any trooper could make that shift in seconds, but he

enjoyed more leisurely transitions as well.

Self-inspection complete, he threw off his blanket and swung his

feet down to the floor. After visiting the 'fresher, washing his face and

brushing his teeth at the communal sink, he packed his few belongings

into a duffel. According to Code an ARC trooper must be ready

to go anywhere, do anything, at the beck of the commanding Jedi or

Supreme Chancellor. One hundred percent of Nate's self-image was

invested in being that perfect trooper.

There was no other choice, no other existence. A-98 was ready. He

had a few small mementos of previous military actions in his rucksack,

his equipment, and three days' rations of food and water.

Nate had been raised on Kamino, of course, one of a simultaneously

decanted cohort of a thousand clone troopers. A dozen had

been designated as Advance Recon Commandos. They had been

trained together, taught together, and suffered their first missions together.

Half had been chosen for personal training by Jango Fett

himself, and had returned to their brothers bruised but steeped in

lethal wisdom. ARC clusters were encouraged to develop their own

traditions and identity, which was useful during competitions with

other cohorts. Although they had initially shipped out together, over

time that original cohort had broken, as most ARC troopers worked

alone.

He found himself seeking identification on the troopers he encountered,

helmet or neck chips that told the time and place of decanting.

A cohort brother could be relied upon to remember certain

ceremonies and shared perils, always good for a bit of extra companionship.

Family within family, a touch of home on a distant, hostile

world.

He fondly remembered twenty-kilometer training runs with his

cohort, tried not to remember how many brothers he had watched

die during his two extended campaigns and dozen smaller actions. In

most instances ARC tactics were a blend of lightning attacks and applications

of overwhelming force, with punishing combinations of

aerial bombardment and devastating ground engagement.

But as satisfying as those victories had been, he longed to take

more personal and subtle action as well. He felt that there were aspects

of himself yet untapped. He did not fear death, but one thing

he did fear was the possibility of ending his life without discovering

the depths of his abilities. That, as he understood such things, would

be a waste.

Nate shrugged his rucksack over his brawny shoulder and headed

to the op center, wondering what the day's conversation would bring.

Ten minutes later he was ushered into a small office tucked away

beneath an ammo dump and a people-mover ferrying workers back

and forth to the city.

His commanding officer, a Mon Calamari major named Apted

Squelsh, sat hunched over papers when Nate entered, and for a momerit

seemed not to realize that she had company. Then she looked

up. "A-Nine-Eight?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Take a seat, please."

Nate did so, easing into a hard-backed chair of densely veined

Corellian hardwood. He ran a thick thumbnail along the arm's

grooved channels as the major finished reading the screen, and then

folded her hands to speak to him.

"You performed admirably during yesterday's exercise," she began.

"Your unit had a fifty percent reduction in both genuine and sim casualties,

with no loss of speed or efficiency. That's what we like to

hear."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"I have a new assignment for you," Major Squelsh said, blinking

her huge dark eyes. "I assume you are prepared?" Not a real question,

but a bit of ritual byplay.

"One hundred percent, ma'am." The ritual response.

"Very good. You will accompany and assist two Jedi to a planet

called Ord Cestus. Do you know it?"

"No, ma'am, but I'll get up to speed immediately. My support?"

"Four men," she said.

At last! Actions like these were the doorway to advancement,

sought after by any ARC trooper worth manka spit. "Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"It concerns Admiral Baraka." He paused. "Is the admiral aware of

the fatality statistics?"

"Of course." Squelsh's eyes were level, her plump broad lips pressed

together tightly.

"And did he say anything you might want to share with us?"

The major paused for an intense moment, then replied, "He said,

'Well done.'"

Nate held his face steady, unwilling to display his emotions to a

commanding officer. "Thank you, ma'am."

"That is all."

Well done. They'd left flesh and blood and brothers all over that

beach and in the pitiless depths, and "well done" was the best they

could get.

Typical.

Nate left and took the beltwalk to the hololibrary to put in a few

hours researching the target planet. True, he'd get a briefing packet

before he left, but he found it valuable to do his own research as well.

Briefing packets were generally quite specific to the mission, and prepared

by researchers who had never humped heavy ordnance up a

cliff.

Nate was so immersed in his research that he barely noticed when

another trooper began reading over his shoulder.

"Hmmm," said the other trooper. "I'm Forry. I was near that sector

last month."

That perked up his interest. "Nate. Do you know a planet called

Ord Cestus?"

"Heard of it, Nate." Forry peeled a nervestick and bit off a shallow

chaw. "Makes droids? Didn't they manufacture those MTTs?"

Multitroop transports. Nearly unstoppable, their armor and twin

blaster cannons had cut quite a swath on Naboo. "Maybe so," he said.

"Anything else?"

"Only know that much because of that demo yesterday. They made

the JK model that Seven-Three-Two went against."

A trooper had gone up against a droid of some kind? Not surprising,

but the conversation suggested that it had been an exercise, not

actual combat. "I hadn't heard. What happened?"

Forry shrugged. "He was captured. JKs are some kind of special security

model. It only took about twenty seconds, and he's still in the

infirmary."

Now his whole attention was riveted. "Do we have vid footage?"

"Sure," Forry said. "I'll call it for you." He began to brush crystals

on the desk in front of them, and holoimages blossomed to misty life.

"Thanks. Planet's interesting. Generations ago Cestus was a prison

rock."

"Truth?"

"One hundred percent. The descendants of those prisoners eventually

settled there and became miners or farmers. They were exploited

by the descendants of the prison guards, who owned the

company."

Forry shrugged again. "It's the same all over. Ah! Here we go . . . "

The footage had been recorded in the T'Chuk arena, no more than

forty hours earlier. He watched as the trooper made standard evasive

moves, and even a few admirably tricky broken-rhythm maneuvers.

Ultimately, none of them worked. Their brother went down, hard, in

just a few miserable seconds.

Disturbing.

"You go up against, better zap it from a distance."

They watched a replay. "Fast," Nate said. "As a Jedi?"

"Faster," Forry said. "But speed isn't everything. Look at this . . ."

He hit other controls. The footage of a Jedi with protruding head

tentacles appeared.

"From Glee Anselm," Nate said. "Don't see many Nautolans

around. Jedi, eh?"

"Who else would use one of those archaic light sticks?"

They shared a good laugh at that. The Jedi were awesome fighters,

but their adherence to illogical quasi-spiritual beliefs was beyond

Nate's comprehension. Why would a fighting man trust anything beyond

a steady eye, a strong back, and a fully charged blaster? He examined

the Nautolan Jedi's image again. "So a Jedi actually came

down from the Temple and rolled the dice. And?"

"Watch for yourself."

Nate triggered PLAY, and together they watched as the Jedi not

only stood his ground against the JK, but actually forced it into retreat.

Nate inhaled sharply as the Jedi beat the thing at its own game.

In some ways his tactics weren't that different from those attempted

by the trooper, but the results were impressively superior.

"Beat it."

"Umm-hmmm." Forry clucked admiringly. "Did you see that

timing?"

"Uh-huh. Never seen reflexes like that, either. You're right: the machine

was faster, but it didn't make any difference."

"Jedi." Forty laughed. It was hard to say whether the laughter was

bitter or admiring. Perhaps a touch of both. "So they watched a

trooper go down, and just had to get down there and show off."

Nate caught the implication: the Jedi might have even programmed

the droid. How could the droid move faster and still lose? Unless it

was instructed to lose . . .

Nonsense. They both knew a Jedi would never do such a thing.

This was nothing but lingering unease, a defensive technique to hide

the slight feeling of inferiority troopers sometimes felt around Temple

dwellers.

"They beat Jango," both of them said simultaneously. These three

words were almost a litany. Whatever they could say about Jedi being

strange, or egotistical, or bizarrely esoteric, in an arena on Geonosis

they had slain the clone troopers' template, and that meant they were

worthy of respect.

"Good hunting," Forry said to him.

"Good hunting," Nate replied. Then he paused. "You been given

your next op yet?"

"Nope," Forry said. "Dealing me in?"

"If you want it."

"One hundred percent. Let me check in and out, get my sack and

tac."

"You'll have orders within the hour." A crushing handshake, and

Forry went his way.

Brother gone, Nate opened a window. "Request status." A moment's

pause, and then medical stats blurred past. He nodded in approval.

CT-36/732, nicknamed Sirty, had not been wounded by the

JK. His nervous system had been momentarily overloaded, and he

had consequently suffered a few hours of irregular heart rhythm.

Nothing alarming, but of course he had been taken to a med droid

for observation.

Sirty would be in fighting shape soon, and would make a perfect

team member: the only trooper who had fought the JK.

"Special request CT-36/732 be seconded to the Cestus operation."

A "Request approved" message bleeped, and then the screen closed.

For hours he studied, trying to get the kind of random background

intel never covered in standard tac briefings. One just never knew

which bit of data might save one's butt once the capacitors started

sparking. Nate himself would be dead now, blown to jelly in the battle

on Geonosis, if he hadn't studied power-cell recharge cycles and

subsequently recognized when one of the wheel droids was entering

a reflux pattern. Its capacitor's whine was barely audible, but he'd

taken a chance, leapt from cover, and blasted it, saving five of his

cohort.

That little maneuver resulted in a week's free food at the base cantina

and a fast track to his captaincy.

He dictated notes into his personal file for transfer to the Cestusbound

transport ship. For hours he continued, fiercely maintaining

focus.

The lives of his brothers and, more important, the honor of the

GAR were his to protect. And even more than that—this was his

game, the game he was born and bred to play. In a way that no outsider

could ever understand, this was fun.

8

0 nly two hours remained.

Nate and six of his brothers stood in a bricked, walled-off area outside

the ribbed arch of the barracks, beneath Vandor-3's densely

starred night sky, performing a cohort ship-out ceremony. Whenever

a trooper headed off on assignment, his cohort wished him not only

good luck, but good-bye. In the context of a trooper's life, this was

more practicality than pessimism.

If he did return, congratulations on a job well done.

If he did not, well... what needed to be said had been said.

"It is the proudest duty of a trooper to serve and seek a good

death," said Glorii Profus, their Kaminoan mentop.

The graceful, silver-skinned Profus was a combination psychiatric

and spiritual adviser. Although clones never yielded to their fear, it

would be wrong to think that they never experienced it. Emotion was

as valuable as blasters and bombs, death an inevitable part of war itself.

No trooper could, through any amount of skill or strength, avoid

that unpleasant reality. And always, on all planets and through all

times, soldiers had asked the same question: What if I die? And for a

trooper, the most comforting answer was: You will die. But the GAR

goes on forever.

The Kaminoan gracefully arched his long silver neck and raised his

cup, brimming with Tallian wine, the finest in the quadrant. His

voice was cultured and comforting. "From water you are born. In fire

you die. Your bodies seed the stars," he said, the ritual words that had

comforted a million clones before they marched to their deaths, and

might comfort a billion more.

They raised their cups as one. "We seed the stars!" they said, together.

And then they drank.

9

T he Jedi Temple dominated Coruscant's cityscape for kilometers

around, its five towering spires piercing the clouds like a titan's outstretched

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

F or 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

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 his darkly amused speculations

to himself.

11

F or 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

under Master Yoda's tutelage. As they grew more accustomed to each

other's rhythms, they progressed into a flowing web of spontaneous

engagement. Slowly, minute by minute, they increased pace, stuttered

the rhythm, increasing the acuteness of attack angles and beginning

to utilize feints and distractions, binds, rapid changes in

level, and to introduce random environmental elements into the interaction:

furniture, walls, slippery floors. To an observer it would

have seemed that the two were trying to slaughter each other, but the

two knew that they were engaged in the most profound and enjoyable

aspect of Jedi play, lightsaber flow.

At a crucial instant Kit hissed, more to himself than Obi-Wan,

then stepped back, disengaged, and switched his lightsaber off.

Obi-Wan switched his off as well. "What is it, my friend?" he

asked.

"The bio-droid," Kit said, anger heating his voice. "I should have

performed better."

"You were brilliant. What more could you have done?"

Kit sat heavily, his smooth green forearms resting on his knees,

sensor tendrils curling and questing like a nest of angry sand vipers.

"I should have gone closer to the edge," he said, the irises within the

unblinking eyes expanding until they appeared to glow. "Released

myself into the Force, become more unpredictable. More . . . random."

Obi-Wan heard the concern in the Nautolan's voice. Form I was

wild, raw... and deadly. It also required too much emotional heat for

Obi-Wan's taste. "That would have been dangerous," he said, choosing

his words carefully. "Not to your body, perhaps, but to your

spirit."

Kit looked up at him, irises contracting again. "It is the way of

Form One."

And here Obi-Wan knew he needed to tread softly. Combat style

was an exceedingly personal choice. "Agreed," Obi-Wan replied, "but

Form One represents greater risk to you as well, my friend."

Kit said nothing for a time, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly,

nodded. "We all take risks."

That simple truth momentarily silenced Obi-Wan. There it was:

Kit knew that Form I placed him in greater jeopardy, but his sense of

duty made it worthwhile. In that moment Obi-Wan's respect for the

Nautolan rose to the highest levels.

For now, the best thing that he could do was help get Kit's mind

off the subject. He stood, briskly slapping his palms together. "But

come!" he said. "If our ruse is to succeed we must practice a while

longer. Then I need to get back to work on the lightwhip."

That seemed to lift Kit's spirits. "When will it be ready to test?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "I've never actually built one, but saw a bounty

hunter wield one once, in the Koornacht Cluster. The theory is clear

enough, and I found a diagram in the archives. Just remember: if

covert action becomes necessary, all suspicion must fall on Count

Dooku. If you are seen wielding a lightsaber, you'll be identified as a

Jedi."

"Less conversation." Kit grinned. "More practice."

They returned to their dance, each sensitive to his differences but

comfortable in them as well. On and on they went, until exertion

drove all thought from their conscious minds, until all discussions

were forgotten, and all that remained was a pure joy of moving, separately

and together, in the way of the Force.

12

C, oncluding his practice session, Obi-Wan freshened himself and

donned a new robe. He then went out to the lower deck lounge.

There, in a more comfortable environment than the formal dining

room just fore of them, he found Barrister Snoil studying at two

computer workstations, each of his eyestalks engaged with a different

holographic display.

"A useful skill," Obi-Wan said, just behind the barrister's right ear.

"You comprehend both simultaneously?"

Snoil turned, startled. "Master Kenobi! I didn't realize you were

there. As to your question . . . yes, my people can split attention between

sides of their brain," he said. "The full reintegration will not

take place until sleep tonight." Genuine concern creased Snoil's glistening

face. "Actually, I am glad you are here. I was hoping we might

confer."

"On what matter?"

"These treaties!" His falsetto rose to a squeak. "A nightmare! Ord

Cestus was never supposed to be a major industrial power. When it

was initially set up, Coruscant granted it quite favorable trade terms.

The point was for the prison to be self-sufficient, and not a burden to

the Republic."

"And now?"

"And now the prison exists as a legal fiction only, a definition expanded

to include the entire planet. Cestus markets goods under a

corrections license."

Snoil paused, eye stalks wavering almost hypnotically. He canted

his head slightly to the side, as if considering a new thought. When

he spoke next, his voice sparked with renewed enthusiasm. "Delicate.

Delicate. If we threaten a suspension of activity while their status is

reevaluated, that should panic them."

"Right into Dooku's arms," Obi-Wan said, and shook his head.

"Hardly a desirable outcome."

"True," the Vippit replied, then lowered his voice. "I was actually

more concerned about another subject."

"That being?"

"Well... it is my Time," he said, emphasizing the last word.

"For children?"

Snoil nodded emphatically. "Oh yes. Master Obi-Wan, I am so

happy you called me. For years I've owed you a great debt."

Obi-Wan laughed. "We're friends. You owe me nothing."

"You saved my life," he said fervently, and his twin eyestalks bobbled.

"I was under contract on Rijel-Twelve when the clans revolted.

If you hadn't evacuated Republic staff, my empty shell would lie there

still."

Well, yes, Obi-Wan had handled a bad bit of business there,

b u t . . .

Snoil would not be denied. "Until I repay the favor, I cannot marry."

Obi-Wan couldn't wait to hear the explanation. The galaxy's wonders

never ceased to amuse and amaze him. "No? Why not?"

Genuine anguish filled Snoil's voice. "Because you can call upon

me for a service whenever you wish. No well-born female would

bond with me until I have cleared this debt, because I cannot negotiate

wholly with her."

"This is your people's way?"

Snoil nodded.

Obi-Wan laughed heartily. "Well, my friend, my confidence in our

mission just soared. It seems you have more reason to see this job

through than I."

13

0 ver the three hundred years since initial entry into the Republic,

Cestus s native population had decreased by 90 percent, while the

immigrant population had increased to several million. Their needs

were so different from those of the original inhabitants that, without

interstellar commerce, that population would starve or be forced into

migration and poverty.

Hundreds of years earlier, Cestus had been a world of amber sands

and coppery-brown hills, mostly rock with a few blue pools of surface

water and the scaled ridges of continental mountain ranges. Its poor

soil was home to a thousand varieties of hardy plants whose root

acids constantly struggled to break down rock into absorbable nutrients.

Most notable among its vegetation were some eight hundred

varieties of edible and medicinal mushrooms, none of which had ever

been exported.

However poor it might once have been, with the rigorous filtering

of Cestus's water and addition of various nutrients, the planets soil

offered up two dozen vegetables suitable for consumption. After fifteen

generations of cultivation, significant patches of green now

stretched across the brown expanse, some few of them visible even

from space.

From high orbit, it would have been difficult to see the industrial

areas that produced the Baktoid armor or dreaded bio-droids, or see

any reason at all to think that this secluded planet might become a

crucial balance point in a drama playing out across the galaxy. However

difficult to believe, it was a sobering truth.

Their transport cruiser made its initial descent to a section of the

Dashta plain selected for the tiny amount of electromagnetic activity

in the area: evidence that there was little or no entrenched population.

The offworlders wished to avoid prying eyes. Ahead lay work

best done in privacy.

For an hour the troopers humped crates and rucksacks full of gear

out of the ship. Kit insisted on carrying his own equipment, and the

troopers were happy to let him do it: the Jedi was as strong as any two

of them. For half the trip Obi-Wan had labored on the weapon now

coiled at Kit's side. Kit had a reputation for improvisation, and

within hours he handled the lightwhip as if he had been spawned

with it.

Obi-Wan turned to Kit and extended his hand. "Well," he said,

"this is where we part."

"For now," Kit said. "We'll set up base camp in the caves south of

here, and should be ready for operations in a day. After that, we'll be

ready for whatever comes."

"I'm sure you will," Obi-Wan said. "Communication on astromech

remote maintenance channels shouldn't alert their security. We'll disguise

our conversation as modulations of the basic carrier frequency."

Kit nodded, but the smile on his lips didn't reach his eyes. "A good

idea. May the Force be with you."

There was little left to do save play out their hand as dealt. Obi-

Wan stood, looking out at the horizon, at the dust devils spinning

and churning. Beyond those, a rust-colored cloud crept across the

ground, peaceful and lovely at this distance, one of the sandstorms

that made surface living on Cestus such a hazard. Obi-Wan understood

perfectly why Cestus had been chosen as a prison.

The four remaining clone troopers stayed behind with Kit. Obi-

Wan walked back up into the ship, and the door sealed behind him.

He strapped himself into the empty chair next to CT-X270,

checked to make sure Doolb Snoil was safe, and then nodded. "Let's

go, Xutoo," he said.

Kit checked the instrumentation on his Aratech 74-Z speeder

bike, modified military hardware as maneuverable as a hawk-bat and

capable of speeds up to 550 kilometers per hour. Riding one reminded

the Nautolan of storm-swimming, one of his favorite sports.

The four directional steering vanes were well adjusted and responsive

to a touch. The repulsorlift engines purred like demicots and had

no problem handling the heavy cargo bags strapped to the sides. All

fuel cells were full, all diagnostics live. Good. He raised his hand, and

the clone troopers mounted their own speeders as if they had practiced

that single maneuver for a month. He breathed deeply. Fire

burned his veins as his twin hearts went slightly out of rhythm with

each other, preparing him for action. This was the moment that he

lived for, the calm before the storm. Like swimming the surface during

one of Glee Anselm's mammoth hurricanes, or the practice of

Form I, it was the storm itself that was the test, the challenge to see

if he could maintain his balance in the whirlwind. Never had he

fallen. One day he would, as all mortals did. But not today, he grinned

fiercely. Not today.

He triggered the speeder. The purr became a growl as it lifted.

In perfect formation the five sailed through the gullies and along

rivers through a tumble of low brown scrub brush.

Although most nearby objects whipped past in a blur, those more

distant remained clear. Kit drank in the scenery, noting the far-off

line of a caravan out along the scrub rock. The speeder bikes traveled

too low to be seen, low enough for the speeders behind him to be

swallowed in the storm of dust particles, baffling scanners.

At one moment they passed a small knot of nomadic X'Ting, the

insectile people who had once dominated the planet. While still

holding some political power, they now numbered but a few tens of

thousands. The nomads raised their crimson arms and pointed at the

line of speeder bikes as they raced past.

Again, nothing to really worry about. He convinced himself that

this wasn't an omen. Encountering the Cestians in the midst of such

a desolate area was just happenstance. Nomadic native Cestians

tended to be nontechnological, used no devices that emitted radiation

anywhere in the electromagnetic spectrum. Nothing to worry

about...

Cestus called to Kit. In this landscape he sensed the struggle of life

against an unsparing nature. It reminded him of his homeworld's

surface territory, a land of great harshness, but one that bred a people

of tremendous courage. Except for a lack of vast and roiling oceans,

he might have been born here.

On the next speeder bike behind him, Nate traversed the same

landscape, occupied by his own thoughts. The ARC captain scanned

everything, searching for ambush spots, possible strongholds, lines of

sight... everything he saw, everything he thought was connected to

his duty. There was room in his mind for nothing else. Nor was anything

else needed.

Kilometer by kilometer, they progressed toward their goal, the

Dashta Mountains far to the west.

14

A, fter assuming a trajectory plausible for a ship approaching from

Coruscant, CT-X270, "Xutoo," re-entered Cestus's atmosphere. The

cruiser's communications array fired, automated docking signal receivers

decoding instructions for landing.

They headed straight for Cestus's capital city, ChikatLik, an

X'Ting word meaning "the center." Xutoo handled the controls with

supreme confidence, as if he had been born piloting ships.

Then again, for all practical purposes, he had.

They descended through the umber heart of a swirling kilometerswide

dust cloud that obscured most of the surface beneath them. The

guidance computer projected wire-frame animations of their target,

and revealed more of the surface detail than Obi-Wan's naked

eyes. One of Cestus's primary features was the vast network of tunnels,

created by volcanic activity, water erosion, and millennia of

digging by the once vast X'Ting hives. It was these caves that had

made it such a perfect choice for a prison planet, and it was into one

of the larger lava tubes that their ship descended.

As they entered its mouth, the air cleared, and for the first time

during their descent visual cues revealed valuable information. After

a few seconds the sides became pleasantly painted and sculpted.

Obi-Wan caught a few briefly snatched glimpses of graffiti, and then

networks of pipe and steel, mazes of rigging clearly the product of

endless generations of workers.

He noticed also that the laborers seemed to have done everything

in their power to keep a sense of the original beauty, and he admired

that. As much as the works of mortals could be, and often were, quite

beautiful, there was always something about the natural world that

touched Obi-Wan even more deeply, as if a testament to the truth

and depth of the Force that conscious efforts could never approach.

They zoomed down another tunnel and turned left. Artificial light

reflected around the corner. For a moment he was blinded.

ChikatLik's offices and apartments blended with the volcanic

structures so perfectly that it was difficult to see where they ended

and mortal workings began. He saw a thousand elevated roads and

pedestrian paths, but little aerial travel. Many of the curved, apparently

stone paths streamed with slidewalks, a local transport system

that seemed to have grown organically over the years until the entire

city bustled like a close-up, impossibly intimate view of a living body's

interior.

Their ship spiraled down through the towers and roadways, heading

to a central landing pad at the outskirts of their destination, some

kind of major living complex. Where volcanic rock was obscured the

walls had the texture of rough gray or black duracrete, perhaps some

compound produced by the digestive systems of hive builders.

As the ship came softly to rest, one of the side screens showed a

line of uniformed human males standing at attention. Obi-Wan

knew that Xutoo had already killed the main engines so that no stray

heat or radiation would spoil the approach.

Doolb Snoil's emerald eyestalks quivered with excitement. "Look

at the honor guard!"

"Yes," Obi-Wan replied. "It must be rare to see representatives

from Coruscant out here on the Rim. I fear that this has more than

mere business significance."

"Ah," Snoil said. "I would expect some aspects of hive politics to

survive. Expect complex, confusing social interactions, Master Jedi."

Obi-Wan laughed. It was true: no longer was he a mere peacekeeper.

Today he was an ambassador, an envoy from the central government.

Like it or not, he would have to accept that role.

The guards were near-human Kiffar, who immediately snapped to

attention as the door opened and the ramp touched down. "Master

Kenobi, it is my pleasure to welcome you to ChikatLik," the nearest

guard said. "I've only just received word that the Regent is on parlay.

Hive business. She returns tonight, and will meet with you tomorrow."

Obi-Wan nodded sagely, and Snoil's eyestalks bobbed with pleasure.

A band composed of assorted droid musicians blared a medley of

melodic bleeps and hoots, doubtless the Cestian planetary anthem, as

Obi-Wan, Snoil, and their astromech unit descended. The band next

performed a passable rendition of the Republic's official anthem, "All

Stars Burn as One." Once upon a time that song had quickened his

blood, but for the last months Obi-Wan had begun to bristle whenever

he heard it.

After their rendition was complete, the Kiffar guard saluted again.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan said, and Snoil's eyestalks ceased waving in

accompaniment to the music. In truth, it had been stirring.

"Welcome to Cestus. General Kenobi, Barrister Snoil."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Thank you, Sergeant. I hope that all business

can be completed quickly, that I might have an opportunity to appreciate

the beauty of your world before I return home."

The words flowed so smoothly that Obi-Wan laughed to himself.

In truth, he might have made a passable politician. Peacemakers and

power brokers had to meet to find common ground, and if he had

chosen that path . . .

With that thought in his mind, and a resultant half smile curling

his lips, Obi-Wan allowed himself and Snoil to be escorted to a railway

running above the free-flying transport lanes.

"Few buildings on the planet's surface," Snoil asked. "Why?"

"The natural caverns were easy to exploit for prison space, and

safer from dust storms and raiding aboriginals. That was long ago."

"And now?" Obi-Wan asked.

"And now?" Their guide shrugged. "The plagues left a lot of hives

empty. We just moved right in."

As they followed the cart, a pair of droids carried their luggage

from the ship and placed it in a separate cart, to follow them. Many

of the buildings and structures were themselves imitations of stalactites

and stalagmites, but there were flashes of different artistic or architectural

movements as well, angular areas, evidence of a hundred

different cultural influences.

They approached a particularly large and beautiful expanse of

carved rock wall. Only on a second look did it resolve into a building.

"Our destination," the guard said.

"What is it?" Obi-Wan said. It was almost a kilometer across, one

of the largest city constructs Obi-Wan had seen on a Rim world, so

enormous that at first he had mistaken it for an organic part of the

overall structure.

"The Grand ChikatLik was the first actual prison building built

here," their guide said. "It was converted fifty years ago, and now

serves as our finest hotel."

He could see it all more clearly now: a few hundred years of constant

rebuilding, one apartment and cubicle grafted onto another had

been smoothed into an overall design that was somewhere between a

kind of insect hive and a gigantic office complex, something that

transcended either artificial or organic design. Impressive.

Their cart zagged right, entered what appeared to be a lava tube,

and emerged in the hotel lobby. The interior was quite literally cavernous,

a lobby built around a luminous natural hot spring, lift tubes

thrusting up through cascading shelves of frozen limestone.

The silvery protocol droid concierge approached them, fairly shivering

with excitement. "Welcome! You are now guests of the most

luxurious hotel on Ord Cestus."

Snoil's fleshy lips curled in appreciation. "After days on the shuttle,

it's good to have a room, not a cabin," he squeaked.

Two X'Ting attendants materialized just as their luggage cart appeared

behind them. The X'Ting were dull gold, with oval bodies

and thin, apparently spindly legs. "Show these two very special guests

to their accommodations," the droid said. Perhaps fantasizing about

generous tips from the distinguished guests, the attendants eagerly

carried their luggage to droid carts, then guided the carts to the turbolifts.

Obi-Wan noted that one of the X'Ting wore a name tag

reading FIZZIK.

The lifts rose along the cave's internal wall, rising rapidly but

smoothly, then rotating so that the wall slid open to disclose a hallway.

The X'Ting attendants unloaded their luggage and carried it into

the suite. The droid bowed. "I hope that these lodgings will prove

satisfactory, sirs."

Obi-Wan found himself answering more to the attendants than

the protocol droid. "I'm certain that they'll be fine."

"You may wish to explore the city in the time before the lady

arrives."

"Very considerate. I'm certain we can entertain ourselves."

The protocol droid left, motioning for Fizzik and the other

X'Ting to leave with him, and they did.

Doolb Snoil began to speak, but the Jedi raised a single finger, bidding

him to silence. Their astromech began a sweep of the room as

Obi-Wan unpacked, every motion slow and controlled.

"Which room should I take?" Snoil asked.

"Whichever has the better view," Obi-Wan said. "I remember you

said you wanted to see the sights here . . ." He was prepared to continue

in that vein, but fortunately their astromech unit beeped its "all

clear" signal.

"I believe it's safe. This room is free of any devices or eavesdropping

scans. Our mech will tell us if this changes."

"Thank the Broodmaster," Snoil said, wiping one of his brows. "I

tell you honestly, Master Obi-Wan. I find this spying-about most

uncomfortable."

"You needn't worry about any of that," Obi-Wan said. "Just do

your job, and I'll do mine."

"And how do you see things proceeding?"

"As we said before—" He sat near Snoil, putting his own thoughts

in order as he tried to incorporate what he had seen and heard since

landing. "—we go to court, and see what there is to be seen."

"And if our entreaties are ignored?"

"Then," Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, "then things get tricky."

15

K it Fisto, Nate, and his three brothers had arrived stealthily, making

their initial surveillance of the Dashta Mountain region specified

by their mysterious contact, Sheeka Tull. Tull had designated a cave

hidden beneath an overhanging rock shelf, opening onto a broad, flat

stone theater that could be used as an emergency landing zone, although

for security, the main staging area was located hundreds of

meters downhill from the cave entrance.

On first glance the cave looked ideal, but Kit entered gingerly, sensor

tendrils tingling. The shaggy desiccated body of some fourlegged

mammal half the size of a speeder bike lay just inside the cave.

There were no immediately apparent wounds . . . had it simply

crawled into the cave to die? He nudged the body aside and took another

step forward. Nothing living to be seen. Side tunnels stretched

off in multiple directions. Cave birds and some membranous reptilians

flitted about overhead. Moss and old dusty webbing clotted

some of the corners, but he found nothing alarming.

"There might be something here," Nate said, coming up behind

him.

"Perhaps we should find another cave," CT-12/74 said. His nickname

was Seefor.

"Not until we make contact with Tull," Kit said.

Here in the shelter of a craggy valley almost completely devoid of

all but the simplest vegetation, they spent the first hours building

their base camp and sleeping quarters, assembling sections of modular

housing. They were so engrossed in their work that they barely

noticed when the first of the cave spiders appeared.

Kit cursed himself for not recognizing the webs or the ragged,

furry, desiccated corpse for what they were, but when the first eightlegged

monstrosity bounced out of the shadows to leap onto Sirty,

the Nautolan moved instantly. The spider screamed as his lightsaber

seared through a leg, then the trooper bucked it off, putting three

shots into the beast before the body hit the ground.

They hardly had time to congratulate themselves: six cave spiders

of equal size crawled from the darkness.

Kit ordered the troopers into perfect square formation, shoulder

blasters at the ready as their eight-legged attackers emerged. Somewhere

back in the caves was a nest, pure and simple, and they had responded

to the challenge for their territory. No time to regret. This

was action.

A cascade of cave spider silk jetted toward the trooper diagonal

from Kit. Nate. The trooper shoulder-rolled and came up to firing

position, blasted the rocks above the spider's hiding place. As stones

rained down on the unfortunate creature Nate rolled again and ran to

one of the speeder bikes.

Fleeing? Absurd. In the GAR's short, spectacular history, no

trooper had ever shirked duty, fled a battle, or even disobeyed a superior's

order. But—

Immediately behind him a great shaggy eight-legged beast hissed

and leapt. Kit pivoted, lightsaber singing. The spider bounded out of

the way, landing in a crouch. It bounded again, spitting venom. Kit

dodged to the side, lightsaber swatting one of the caustic greenish

gobs, and the fluid erupted into searing steam. The rocks before

them rustled, and a swarm of young spiders, no higher than Kit's

knee, crawled out, their shining eyes hungry, envenomed fangs dripping.

He glimpsed movement and turned to see a gigantic red female,

half the size of a bantha, crouching in the shadows, watching, her

glowing eyes fixed on him. A general, directing her troops.

This Kit could understand. Well, as of the commencement of the

Clone Wars Kit Fisto was a general as well, and he had his own

troops. Come on! he snarled silently, irises expanding. He set his feet

in a wider stance for balance, and waited.

Nate's speeder bike started instantly. Under his expert hands it

leapt off the cave floor and ran in a tight circle, buzzing the shadows,

turning tight corners, drawing out the spiders. They spit silk and

venom at him, and every time they did, his brothers below got a better

fix. Incandescent laser bolts and the howling of Kit Fisto's

lightsaber filled the cave as the spiders fought back, casting bizarre,

distorted shadows against the walls. The arachnids jumped, leapt,

and crept. They spit venom that burned through armor, and sticky

silk that threatened to bind arms and legs together. But nothing they

did broke the Geonosis Square, a tactic that maximized the impact of

both aggressive and defensive fire.

The trooper wove, using the speeder bike's maneuverability to confuse

the spiders. Their eight-legged adversaries were quicker on the

ground, but seemed baffled by this high-flying tactic. General Fisto

gave a whistle so loud and high that it rattled Nate's ears at twenty

meters. The other troopers broke for their speeders, and within moments

the cave was filled with screaming, dipping, blasting speeder

bikes.

Nate laughed aloud, loving this moment. It was like being back

with the selenome: You didn't know what you were messing with, did

you?

His laughter died as another row of arachnids crawled out of the

top cavern. What in space—? They must have stumbled into the largest

breeding ground in the entire mountains. This was the worst,

what troopers called 10 percent, but it was too late to curse fate. Little

to do now but fight.

At least six of the large spiders, and dozens of the smaller ones, had

perished in blasts, lightsaber strokes, and showers of falling rock

before they retreated shrieking into the caves. The largest, the enormous

red-furred female, protected the others as they fled.

The troopers started to pursue, but the general raised his hands.

"No!" he called. "They're broken. Let the brood go."

The female locked eyes with the general. Surprisingly, she lowered

her head as if making obeisance, then backed into the shadows and

disappeared.

The troopers landed their craft, peering into the darkness to

be certain no mistake had been made before holstering their weapons.

"Perimeter sensors up immediately" General Fisto said.

"So we're staying here, sir?" Nate asked.

General Fisto's answering smile was not pretty. "Might as well assume

all these caves are spider-infested. At least we know this one is

clear."

"Besides that," Sirty whispered to Nate when General Fisto turned

away, "we fought for it. It's ours."

As the others set up in the cave, Kit Fisto carried his broadcasting

unit a kilometer out to a completely desolate area with no line of

sight to their new camp. There he triggered his beacon and sat in

wait.

After five seconds he turned it off. He waited five minutes, then

broadcast for another five seconds, and set the automatic monitor to

continue in like sequence: five minutes off, five seconds on.

After an hour he heard an answering squeal in proper coded series.

He turned off the monitor and waited.

The sun was nearing the western horizon when a battered cargo

ship appeared from the south. It flew in a slow, groaning circle and

then settled toward the ground, frying the underbrush as it did. That

thermal inefficiency implied an older model, and in merely adequate

repair.

The panel door opened and a ramp descended. Kit heard a bleeping

sound, and then a human female appeared at the top.

Kit had few standards by which to assess human beauty. Based on

her movements and posture, however, this female was in excellent

physical condition, her unblemished black skin and lustrous short

hair suggested a healthy immune system, and she seemed quite aware

and alert. Good. They would need these qualities to successfully implement

their plans.

The woman studied Kit, her expression one of exasperation. "A

Nautolan. Pretty far from an ocean, aren't you?"

The Jedi was unamused. "I'm waiting," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "No sense of humor. All right: Alderaan has

three moons.'"

" 'Demos Four but two,' " Kit replied without hesitation.

She nodded as if he had confirmed more than identity. "Name's

Sheeka Tull. I was told to expect you."

"What precisely were you told?"

She scuffed her toe across a line in the ground, raising a tiny plug

of fine, dry dust. "They said if I helped you, certain things in my past

would be forgotten. That right?" She looked back up at him, defiance

sparkling in her eyes. He nodded, and she seemed relieved. "So.

What do you need?"

"What I need is a reliable contact. There were cave spiders."

She shook her head. "There are spiders all through these mountains,

but I didn't see any when I checked out that cave. Sorry."

Kit locked eyes with her, a test of wills. Was she telling the truth?

She was his contact, given by the Chancellor's most trusted tacticians.

Trust was his only option. "Very well. I must speak to the anarchists

known as Desert Wind," he said.

"They took quite a beating last year," Sheeka Tull said. "What do

you want with them?"

"You have no need to know that," he replied.

"No." Her eyes narrowed. "That is exactly what I need to know. If

you won't tell me, I can't help you. I wouldn't dare."

Kit watched her. If he had known her longer, he might have determined

if she was telling the truth, or bluffing. A useful ability, but

again, calibration was everything. He had to make a field decision,

one that was tough no matter how he looked at it. "We need to create

an effective force capable of sabotage and deception, in case the

government needs to be overthrown."

He knew that his words rocked her, but she hid her flinch very

well. "Well. Thanks for the honesty."

"You can take us to Desert Wind?"

"No. But I can take you to the people who know them."

"Fair enough."

"After you're finished here, you never heard of me." She stood with

her small fists balled against her waist.

"Fair enough."

She nodded, and drew a little circle in the dust with the point of

her toe. "All right, then," she said. "Time for you to meet Spin dragon."

16

T, he insectile Cestian's name was Fizzik, and at the moment he was

at his most aggressively ambitious, in the peak of his species' threeyear

cycle between male and female genders. In his current state, the

coursing of masculine hormones was a nerve-dulling intoxicant, and

made him willing to take almost any risk to obtain the medicine that

would balance the hormones more smoothly. The plant capable of

easing, or even accelerating, the transition was called viptiel, native to

a world called Nal Hutta. Far too expensive for a mere hotel attendant.

And that was why Fizzik decided to sell his soul to his distant

brother Trillot. He waddled his bright gold oval through the crowd

until he found a certain alley, disguised as a minor lava tube. Everywhere,

the walls were slathered with promotions for various exhibits

and attractions, and both flat and holographic commercials attempted

to lure stray credits from unwary pockets.

Fizzik had not been here for a year and a half. If there were a few

who might have recognized him, they probably failed due to the fact

that he had been female the last time he had passed this way.

Once, hundreds of standard years ago, the planet had belonged

to the X'Ting, who had driven their only rivals, the spider clans,

into the distant mountains. But the coming of the Republic had

changed everything. At first hailed as a triumph for the hive, in

time the offworlders controlled everything. Regardless of what anyone

said, the last century's plagues had been no more or less than

attempted genocide: the hives had all but collapsed, and Cestus

Cybernetics became the planet's de facto ruler. Most surviving

X'Ting were relegated to cesspools such as this wretched slum.

Some, of course (for instance, that worthless drone Duris, or Quill,

the current head of the hive council), had sold their people out in exchange

for power. Those traitors were the pampered pets of the Five

Families.

In his female persona, Fizzik often secured domestic work amid

the offworlder upper classes. When he cycled back to male, most offworlder

employers found his powerful pheromones sufficiently unpleasant

to terminate his employment. So . . . down to the gutter

again, scraping for a living until his emerging feminine persona

earned him a better berth. Moving between social tissues over the

years had earned him a wide network of contacts—a net wide

enough, in fact, to have snared a valuable bit of information: that the

Grand ChikatLik's newest arrivals were critically important visitors

from Coruscant. There was every chance he might be able to sell

such information to one of the most powerful X'Ting in the capital,

the being who held the threads connecting the criminal underworld

to the labor organizers to the true masters of Old Cestus: Fizzik's

brother Trillot.

In a few minutes he arrived at a heavy, oval iron door set in a shadowed

corridor off bustling Ore Boulevard. In one sense, it was important

to know the code words. In another, those who came to this

door and sought entrance without having funds to spend or something

to sell would find themselves on the wrong end of a flameknife.

The guards, one blue-skinned humanoid Wroonian and a gigantic

furred Wookiee, glared down on Fizzik with no discernible shift in

their facial expressions.

"Need to see my brother," Fizzik said, and added a code word

known only to hive siblings.

The guards nodded blandly and opened the door. One walked

ahead of him, although he looked around as they moved down the

shadowed corridor.

The hallway was lined with small alcoves, in which various galactic

life-forms reclined in shadow, alone or in pairs, staring out at him

with vast, glassy eyes before sinking back into whatever thoughts or

dreams had occupied them.

"What you need Trillot for?" the Wroonian asked.

"Got information. His ears only."

The guard grunted. "What you say? You want to eat diamonds?"

Fizzik despaired. One would think that a being of Trillot's wealth

and power would employ the very best help, but that rarely seemed to

be the case. "Just take me there."

"His brood-mother what}" the guard said, turning. His face now

betrayed a trace of emotion, and it was not at all pleasant.

Fizzik realized the trap he had entered. The alcoves around him

rustled with curious eyes. This was nothing less than a shakedown.

He thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of credits.

His last. Oh, well, life was a gamble. If this one paid off, in a few

minutes he would be flush. If not . . . well, the dead had no use for

money.

As soon as the credits touched the thug's hands, the Wroonian

smiled broadly. "Oh!" he said. "Oh! You want to see Trillot." He

made the credits disappear, and then swept a curtain aside.

At first Fizzik could see only a broad couch, but as his eyes adjusted

to the darkness, he was able to make out his brother.

Trillot was three broods senior to Fizzik. Like Fizzik, he was a

minor child of a noble but impoverished brood-mother, his only inheritance

a yearning for the wealth and power of ages past. Unlike

Fizzik, however, Trillot had talent and a willingness to take risks.

After a false start working in communications for Cestus Cybernetics,

he found his niche in labor relations. Trillot's three-year cycle between

male and female personae tended to keep his immigrant

opponents and rivals slightly off-guard. Fizzik knew that, unlike

most X'Ting, Trillot used an imported cocktail of viptiel and other

exotic herbs to collapse the month-long breeding period at either end

of the gender cycle into mere hours of numbed transformation. No

incapacity, no fertility. No mewling grubs for one as ambitious as

Trillot.

Five years later Trillot had proven his worth to a local Tenloss syndicate,

and two years after that he resigned from Cestus Cybernetics

to work directly for the overboss himself.

A mysterious series of tragic accidents had cleared the way for Trillot's

ascension. Well, unexplained as long as Trillot himself chose not

to comment.

Everything that followed was almost preordained. Seeing Trillot's

utter ruthlessness and perhaps sensing the inevitability of his ascension,

the overboss fled Cestus, leaving the power in Trillot's capable

hands.

It was too little, too late. The overboss met with an accident, almost

as if someone wished to ensure he would never return to attempt

to claim what had once been his.

Trillot's power in ChikatLik had never really been challenged.

Were he not cautious, such a challenge have might come in the

lethargic monthlong transition between genders suffered by most of

his kind. Another motivation to use the illegal viptiel cocktail that allowed

him to make this transition in a single painful night. Trillot

was aggressive at all times.

In the twilight zone between labor and management, between

white and black market, between upper and lower class, between offworlder

and X'Ting hive council, there was no fixer like Trillot, and

everyone knew it.

Like most male X'Ting he was a deceptively delicate, insectile

creature. His every motion seemed as carefully cultivated and pondered

as a master's game of dejarik. A high, crystalline brow over

faceted eyes and an elongated oval for a body gave the impression of

vast intelligence and great gentility. Fizzik know that only the former

impression was correct.

But Trillot's thorax was red and swelling, a clear sign of feminization.

Such a rapid shift had to be agonizing, and Fizzik wondered

what herbs and drugs Trillot used to control the pain. And then more

to clarify his mind from all the others. And then more to protect

himself from the toxic effects of the previous dosages. And then

more . . .

Fizzik was dizzy just thinking about it.

Trillot spoke to the guard in a clicking, popping language that

seemed odd emerging from his strangely prim mouth. The guard answered

in the same indecipherable tongue. Then his head pivoted to

face his guest. "Ah. Fizzik," he said. Fizzik had heard more warmth

and welcome in the voice of an execution droid. "It seems you have

information for me. Ah, come along. No, no. Of course, if your information

is sound, there will be compensation."

"I wish only to serve my elder brother." Fizzik lowered his eyes respectfully.

"Ah." Trillot s body seemed to move one section at a time, so that

one part of it always remained still while the rest was in motion. It

was unnerving to watch. Although of the same species, Fizzik had

never possessed such plasticity. Trillot walked a bit awkwardly, his

swelling egg sac unbalancing his stride. They traversed a dark corridor

lined with alcoves, from which the glittering eyes of a dozen

species watched them pass. Trillot seemed to have attracted Cestus's

entire underclass. Fizzik knew that the offworlder majority on the

planet had dominated many of the other species to the point that less

than 3 percent were native Cestians.

The passage through the corridor was punctuated with low, respectful

bows from Trillot's coterie of hideous bodyguards. Suddenly

Trillot stopped and sniffed the air. Now for the first time, Fizzik saw

something like emotion cross the golden face. If he had to make a

guess, he would have said that his elder sibling was unhappy. This

would not be pretty.

"I smell Xyathone," Trillot said. He looked at the guard. "Do you

smell it?"

"No, sir," the guard replied in a Bothan dialect that Fizzik actually

understood. Trillot was rumored to speak more than a hundred languages,

and Fizzik was inclined to believe.

"I do." He moved closer to one of the alcoves. A thin tendril of

steam wound its way from beyond, and Fizzik pulled the curtain

aside.

Two Chadra-Fan were curled into the darkness, inhaling vapor

from a boiling flask. Trillot sniffed again, deeply. He spoke to them

in their own language, and then turned. "Guntar!" he called.

The guards hustled, and for that moment Fizzik thought Trillot

had forgotten him completely. They returned shortly, dragging a fat

little gray ball of a Zeetsa behind them. Trillot looked down on the

sphere as it prostrated itself. "Did you sell my guests the mushroom?"

Lips appeared on the sphere's surface. "Yes," Guntar babbled. "Of

course. Nothing but the best—"

"And why then has it been cut with Xyathone?"

The little Zeetsa was the very picture of outraged innocence.

"What? I did not know, I swear—"

"Do you indeed? Then perhaps your senses are insufficiently acute.

You should have smelled it. Tasted it in the mixing. Do you say that

that insignificant nose and tongue of yours aren't up to the task?"

There was a pause, and Fizzik tensed. There would be no happy

resolution to this matter.

"I . . . I suppose . . ."

"You know how I loathe inefficiency." To his guards: "See that the

offending organs are removed."

The ball screamed as the guards dragged him away. Trillot turned

back to the Chadra-Fan. He spoke to them in their chittering

tongue. They replied, and he drew the curtains shut. To the guards:

"See that they get the best. From my personal stock."

"Yes, sir."

Trillot pulled the corners of his mouth into something approximating

a smile. "Come with me now, Fizzik. It will take a few minutes

to reach my sanctum. I suggest that you use them composing

your report. After all—" From somewhere in the darkness behind

them echoed a stomach-curdling scream. "—you know how I loathe

inefficiency."

17

F or hours the clone troopers had busied themselves in the cool,

deep shadows of the Dashta Mountains. They glued, fitted, and

welded, joining together hundreds of preformed durasteel sections,

melding them with native materials to create the nucleus of a fine

command center.

"So where's our first strike?" Forry asked Nate as they worked.

He shrugged in response. "Give me a spot-weld, right here." Their

astromech unit extended a soldering probe. "First of all," he said,

shielding his eyes against a bright, sharp shower of sparks, "there's

reason to think we might not get used at all. General Kenobi s supposed

to protect the entrenched political and economic forces."

"Yeah, right," Sirty said.

"But if it does go down?"

Nate grunted. "Then I'd guess we'll hit Cestus Cybernetics."

"Sounds like a plan."

Their comlink bleeped; a tone said that they'd be expecting

friendly visitors in a little under a minute, and they were not to respond

with force. That beacon triggered long before they heard the

distant but distinct swoosh of air. A few seconds later General Fisto's

speeder bike appeared.

Nate wandered out to the pad, feeling loose, dangerous, and satisfied.

In a matter of hours they had turned this mountain hole into a

reasonable headquarters.

He watched the Nautolan's speeder glide over the smooth and

jagged rock surfaces, heading north. Nate followed on foot, arriving

in time to watch a cargo ship arrive on the open spot they'd chosen as

their secondary landing zone.

The door opened, and the walkway extended. A dark-skinned

human female exited, following Kit back up toward the cave. Nate

saluted as Kit passed. The woman glanced at him with little curiosity

as she and Kit entered the cave. The Jedi received salutations from

the other clones. He briefly evaluated the work that they had already

performed, then took the woman to a scanner and showed her some

material. They conferred briefly, and Kit said: "Captain, Forry, I wish

you to accompany us."

"Yes, sir," they said simultaneously.

Spindragon was a suborbital YT-1200 medium freighter. She was

old, melded with parts from other similar models, with a rounded

hull and an elongated, tubular cockpit. Nate spent a few minutes examining

the welds. Although it was obvious that a dozen different

soldering mixtures had been used, as well as a bit of Corellian epoxy,

they seemed strong enough to stand up to high-g turns, and he gave

his approval.

The interior was barely more than functional: little bits of decoration

suggested an attempt at aesthetics, but nothing frilly enough to

decrease utility.

The woman cocked her head sideways at the ARC trooper, trying

to peer through his helmet. "I didn't catch your name," she said.

"Trooper A-Nine-Eight."

She snorted. "Is there a short version of that?"

"Call me Nate," he said. Curiosity flickered in her dark eyes, and

her lips pursed as if Sheeka Tull was tempted to ask a question. She

didn't surrender to temptation, but he guessed that she hadn't shuffled

him into the nonbeing category to which most citizens automatically

relegated clones.

Within minutes they were all strapped in and ready to go. She rose

from their landing pad and spiraled up into the sky, flying southeast

for about fifteen minutes, then north for another ten.

A small manufacturing complex lay before them. Nate made a

quick tactical assessment: several mine dropshaft shacks, living quarters,

a small refinery, some shipping docks, landing docks, water filtration

equipment, and communications towers. Next to a series of

condensation coils nestled a blue bubble that he figured was a polarizing

hothouse, using shielded plastics to change their sun's spectral

range so that a wider variety of plants could be grown. Typical settlement.

Fragile. Easy to destroy.

But he remained silent. A major part of his job was just being

visually impressive. Most citizens had never seen clone troopers, although

they had doubtless heard tales.

He and Forry were first down the ramp when it extended, followed

by Sheeka Tull and the Jedi.

The community seemed to have turned out for them, but he noticed

that there were precious few X'Ting in the crowd. Most were humans,

a few were Wookiees, and there was a smattering of other species. No

doubt many of them were descendants of the original prisoners.

The farmers and miners relaxed noticeably when Sheeka appeared,

and she waved to them. She was known here. Good. That would

make things far simpler than if they had to establish either trust or

dominance.

"Greetings to all of you," she said to them. "I'm glad you showed

up, though I can't say I'm sure what this is about. But these are the

people I told you to expect. I won't vouch for them. Keep your ears

and eyes open, and make up your own minds."

They nodded, and Nate had to respect her speech: Tull might be

willing to bring them here, but even whatever leverage the Republic

had upon her could not force her to sell her honor by pretending

friendship. Good. He liked her more all the time.

General Fisto stood at the bottom of the ramp and raised his

hands. His tentacles curled and coiled hypnotically.

"Miners!" he called. "You harvest ore from the soil. You transport,

refine, and manufacture. You are this world's heart."

The faces were doubtful, but intrigued. Nate noted that several of

the younger ones looked at him as well, studying him as if wishing

his helmet were transparent.

"You stir the tides of commerce," the general went on. "It is your

hands that hold the materials, skills, equipment, and raw material to

build their luxuries."

When several of them nodded, he knew General Fisto was speaking

their language. The only question was whether or not they truly

cared to hear his words.

"But despite this fact, how often have you been included in their

decisions?"

"Never," someone muttered.

"How often have you shared in their harvest? Do you grasp that

their droids are among the galaxy's most prized possessions? There is

nothing wrong with growing wealthy, but the wealth should be

shared with those who do the dirtiest, most dangerous work." As he

proceeded, the emotion in his voice grew more and more pronounced.

"Your ancestors came here in chains. For all the power you

wield, you may as well wear them still."

He had their interest now, but he would need far more to make

this gambit successful.

"Even now, your masters court war with the Republic."

This triggered a series of gasps and ugly murmurs. A few of them

might have had no love for the Republic—the kind who might automatically

side with Cestus against the strength of a thousand-ship

fleet. Others felt no such bravado, and shifted nervously from foot to

foot, as if fearing they stood in a bantha trap with closing jaws.

"Why are they doin' that?" an older woman asked. The wind

stirred the tips of her gray-streaked hair.

"They sell these deadly droids to the Confederacy. They will be

modified and used against the Republic." At this, Nate stood just a

hair taller, and noticed that his brother Forry did as well. Eyes focused

upon them. What thoughts flitted through their minds? Did

they regard the troopers as potential enemies? Imagine them dying?

Or killing? Studying them as potential allies? Wondering what it

might be like to fight at the side of an ARC trooper? Certainly, some

here had blood hot enough to crave such an adventure, such a test.

"In fact, we have information suggesting that they plan to massmarket

these droids offplanet, once the secret is secured."

"What? It couldn't happen. The Guides—" a female miner began,

but then the farmer to Nate's right gave her ribs a painful elbow

thump, and she fell silent.

Interesting.

"Yes," Kit continued, as if he could read both Nate's mind and that

of the woman who had just spoken. "You have been told that it is impossible

for more than a few hundred of them to be produced, because

of the dashta eels."

The group was even more uncomfortable now, but Nate intuited

that the problem was multifaceted. Some were afraid, a few outraged,

and in one . . . two pairs of eyes he saw a skepticism so deep that he

knew automatically: These know something.

"But they are willing to gamble with your survival in order to make

their fortunes."

"How do you know that?" one young blond-haired man asked.

"The Five Families live here. You can't sink half a sand-wagon, Nautolan."

"Yes. They live here, but are not trapped here. Wealth makes many

things possible. Those owning the designs will grow fat. You must

ask yourself—would those who already restrict you to a subsistence

living hesitate to beggar you completely?" An ugly murmur rumbled

through the crowd. "You tell me: over the last years and decades, have

they treated you as if your lives, your families, your needs and wants

are of concern to them?"

And now there was a wider range of nodding and agreement.

One X'Ting female, a tuft of red fur vibrant between thorax and

chin, her body broad with internal egg sac, stepped forward. This was

rare. Where once millions had swarmed the hives, no more than fifty

thousand X'Ting remained on the entire planet. She was larger than

most of the human males, who gave her a wide berth. "What you

want from us?" Her clumsy speech marked her as a low-caste. Her

dusky face reddened with emotion, and her secondary arms fidgeted.

"No more pretty-pretty talk. Heard them before. What you offer us,

and what you want from us?"

"I offer you nothing save what every planet in the Republic has

been promised: a fair voice in the Senate, access to the shared resources

of a thousand star systems, and our support in forcing your

government to share the wealth with those who produce it. What I

ask in return is this: if I prove my point to you, if we can prove that

your leaders are prepared to sell your birthright, to betray the Republic,

to leave you drowning in the ash of a war-torn planet while they

escape to the stars with your children's heritage—if I can prove these

things to you—"

General Fisto's unblinking black eyes fixed on several of the young

males in the group, and a few young females as well. To Nate's pleasure,

he noted that they drew their shoulders back. They rocked back

and forth, glancing at each other, as if tempted to step forward even

now.

At this cue Nate and Forry doffed their helmets and stood more

rigidly. Their identical faces always caused a stir: some thought them

twins; others had heard of the clone army, and just needed to put a

face to the mental image.

Sheeka Tull's eyes snapped wide. She stepped backward as if she'd

been slapped. She looked from Nate to Forry and back again three

times, and then retreated until he couldn't see her.

"—that you allow your best and brightest to join us if they so

choose," the general concluded.

"That all?" the X'Ting woman asked.

"That is enough. Do not reject my words out of hand. Let us find

whatever support there is to be found. We wish nothing that you do

not want to give."

The people chattered among themselves, then ventured new questions.

Nate guessed that the most important issue was whether or not

they had an actual choice in this matter. And he silently congratulated

the general for deliberately—or instinctively—choosing the

right tactic to appeal to these disenfranchised people. He noted that

their young men and women were listening most closely, measuring

General Fisto's words as if they were handfuls of gravel with gems

possibly hidden in the mix.

The general promised to keep the farmers posted as to progress,

and they continued on to the next group. As they returned to the

ship, Sheeka Tull took the Jedi aside and spoke to him urgently, gesticulating

at the two clone troopers. Nate couldn't hear the conversation,

but when it was done she looked a bit shell-shocked. She

walked past Nate and Forry without looking at them, and took the

pilot's seat without another word.

For the rest of the day they followed the same routine. The darkskinned

woman would introduce them, and General Fisto went into

his spiel while Nate and Forry stood tall. The general made no direct

reference to the clone troopers, but he knew they had to be wondering

if these were the troopers they had heard so much of—and was

there, possibly, a role for them in the planetary militias currently

being organized in every corner of the galaxy?

Nate knew the answer to that question, the same answer that generals

and conquerors had known since the beginning of civilization:

there is always room for another willing warrior.

After the third talk, the Nautolan was engaged by a group of miners

who seemed entranced by this exotic visitor from the galactic center.

The general interacted with the group privately, with the result

that four of them were invited to sup with the hosts and their families.

A rumbling belly told Nate he'd placed his physical needs on

hold for too long. Both from habit and because it added to their mystique,

he and Forry ate apart from the others. A group of the miners'

children pointed at them and giggled.

To his surprise Sheeka Tull chose to sit beside him. Nate ate quietly

for several minutes before he found himself studying the play of

the dark skin of her neck against the red-and-white stripes of her

pilot's jacket, and found himself intrigued.

He decided to try a conversational gambit. "Good meat," he said.

"What is it?"

"Not meat," she said. "It's a mushroom bred by the X'Ting, adapted

for human stomachs. They can make it taste like anything they like."

He stared at his sandwich. The fungus had striations like meat.

Tasted like meat. He bet it had a perfect amino acid profile, too. He

chewed experimentally, and then just relaxed and enjoyed. "Why are

you here?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't born here," he said.

"And how do you know that?" She seemed genuinely curious.

"Your pronunciation is different. You learned Basic after your native

tongue."

She laughed, but it was a long, low laugh, without derision. A good

laugh, he decided. "Where'd you learn to think like that?"

"Intelligence training. There's more to soldiering than just pulling

triggers."

"Now now, don't be so touchy." She grinned.

He took a deep and satisfying bite of his sandwich. The mushroom

was spicy and hot, juicy as a Kaminoan fanteel steak. Too often, ARC

field rations were a flavorless gruel or lump, as if lack of genetic diversity

justified a lack of savory variation in the mess tent. "So . . .

how about my answer? How'd you end up here?"

She leaned her head back against the tree. Her hair was full-bodied,

but did not fall to her shoulders. It was worn in a short puff, almost

like a hedge growing from her scalp. "Sometimes I feel like I've been

everywhere, and done everything," she said.

There was silence for a minute, and Forry went to fill his mug a

second time. Nate caught Sheeka looking at him with what he supposed

was approval, but still as if she had some sort of secret. She

studied his face almost as if...

As if...

He managed to focus his thoughts. "Where's your family?" Why in

space had he asked that} It was none of his business, and worse, it

opened the door to potentially embarrassing personal questions.

"My birth parents?"

"You're not a clone, are you?" He meant it as a joke.

Her face hardened. "Yes. I had parents."

"You lost them." It wasn't a question. Looking down the hill, he

could see the elders gathered around General Fisto, whose gestures

were simultaneously measured and sweeping.

For more than a minute she said nothing, and he hoped his words

hadn't offended. Then finally, speaking so softly that at first he mistook

her words for a trick of the wind, she began to speak. "A range

war on Atrivis-Seven," she said. "It was a bad time." She stared down

at the dirt. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to know war

was coming, to feel it raging all around, and not have the skills to lift

arms and join the fray. He hoped he never found out.

She went on. "Maybe I was attracted to Ord Cestus because it was

so . . . isolated. So far from the hub. I guess it wasn't isolated enough.

I met someone."

Something in her voice caught his interest, made him look at her

more carefully. "A man?"

She shrugged. "It happens," she said. "A miner named Yander."

"You fell in love?" he asked.

Her mood lightened. "That's what they call it. You understand

love?"

He frowned. What kind of question was that} "Of course," he said,

and then reconsidered. It was possible, of course, that she meant

something that he did not include among his own definitions.

"It wasn't just him," she continued, now locked in her own private

world of memories. "It was his three children, too. Tarl, Tonote, and

Mithail. His whole community." She glanced away from him for a second,

then back again. "I fell in love with all of them. We married. Yander

and I had four good years together. More than a lot of people get."

Something caught in her voice, and he cursed himself for invading

her privacy. Then in the next thought he wondered why she had allowed

herself to be questioned if the questions so obviously triggered

pain. Finally, he managed the simple words "I'm sorry."

"So am I." Sheeka Tull sighed. "So, anyway, I'm raising his kids.

Never had a lot of family . . . I want to raise the one I have now.

That's why I'm willing to take the chance to help you guys. Clean up

my record."

"What leverage do they have on you?"

She shook her head. "Maybe when we know each other better."

When} Not if} Interesting.

"Does your new family live near here?"

Again she shifted evasively, and he sensed that he had touched on

a sensitive topic. "No. Not here. With their aunt and uncle. A fungusfarming

community. It's just scratch, but we like it."

"Scratch?"

"They make enough to feed themselves, and a little to barter, but

not enough to sell."

So. She worked to care for her adopted family, who lived with the

miner's brother and sister. She was reticent to discuss . . . the children?

Or their location? Hard to say. Interesting.

As he came out of his thoughts, again he had the sense that she

was staring at him, and this time he felt uncomfortable. "Why do you

look at me that way?"

She shook her head. Then, as if she thought herself the biggest

fool in the galaxy, she shook with peals of deep, rich laughter. "I suppose

I keep expecting you to remember me. That's crazy, of course."

She laughed again, and Nate just felt more confused. "You have to

pardon me."

"I don't understand."

"I suppose I should have told you before. I knew Jango Fett."

He didn't quite believe what he'd heard. Worse, he wasn't sure how

to react. "You did?"

She nodded. "Yes, twenty years ago, in quite another life. Seeing

you was kind of a shock. When you took those helmets off—wow!"

Her laugh was throaty and vibrant. "It's him, all right, and just about

the age he was when we first met."

Nate's head spun. "I should have expected that, I suppose. Certainly

some of my brothers have also encountered people who had

known him . . . I've just never spoken to one."

"Wow." She scratched in the dirt with her toe, drawing another of

the little symbols, and then scratching it out again. "Well, wonders

never cease. How'd this happen? And the other troopers . . . they're

all little Jangos?" He bristled, and she laid her hand on his arm. "Just

a joke. You know, joke?"

Finally he nodded, sensing that she meant no real harm. "The Republic

called for a clone army," he said, and recited the words that he

had heard and said a thousand times before. "They needed a perfect

role model for a fighting man. In all the galaxy they found only one,

Jango Fett."

"Oh, he wasn't perfect, but he was a serious chunk." Her smile

grew more mischievous. "And he's now the father of a whole army of

bouncing baby clones. What does he think of that?"

"He's dead."

The pause that followed might have swallowed a decent-size star

cruiser.

"How did it happen?" she whispered. "I supposed I always knew

that Jango was too intense to last forever. And yet . . . " Her voice

trailed away.

"And yet what?" Nate asked.

"He always seemed invulnerable, like nothing could get to him."

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'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.

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

I n 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, stepmother, galaxyspanning

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.

For the rest of the day Nate attempted to focus his attention on the

trainees. He kept a wary eye on how they did on the obstacle course,

discerning which of them were in the best physical and mental condition,

which ones had the best emotional control, which might have

leadership potential.

But every few minutes he broke concentration and scanned the

entire craggy area, as protocol directed. And he noticed that no matter

when he did so, his eyes sought the face and form of the infuriating

Sheeka Tull. Sometimes he found her beneath a rock overhang,

sometimes helping with the food. Once he glimpsed her interacting

with General Fisto, and pointing in the direction of her ship.

And once, when he didn't see her at all, he felt a strange disappointment.

That lasted but a moment: Nate wrested his attention back to the

task at hand.

As the day rolled on, trainees were presented with an endless series

of sweaty, torturous obstacles. Invariably the clones negotiated the

tests first, with a level of agility and effortless ease that made the Cestus

volunteers shake their heads in disbelief.

Child's play, for one who spent his childhood in the training rooms

of the Kamino cloners.

By the day's end, 40 percent of the volunteers had quit. Those remaining

were a hard, tough lot who glared at each other and cursed

under their breaths at the troopers, but they cursed as a group. They

had survived the best that these armored sadists from Coruscant

could offer. They were ready for the next level.

Nate organized his thoughts and made his report to General Fisto.

As he approached the back of the cave a meter-long thread of light

blazed briefly, snaked and coiled through the air, then died again.

The strange phenomenon repeated. His nose itched with the stink of

burning metal, and the glare of the flexible line hurt his eyes until he

had to turn his head away.

When General Fisto heard his approach, the light disappeared,

and he pivoted with a loose-limbed adroitness so smooth that he

might almost have turned inside out, seemed to flow through himself.

"Yes?"

"We've concluded the day's testing."

"And?"

"I believe that we have forty-eight good recruits."

Something like light glowed in the depths of the general's unblinking

eyes. "This is good. And tomorrow?"

"We'll pick up a few more. I can either accompany you in recruitment,

or stay here and continue training."

"Continue the training," General Fisto said after a moment's consideration.

"Divide them into groups according to day and time of

initial recruitment. Allow those who enlisted first to have the greatest

status."

"Yes, sir," Nate said. The general was underestimating ARCs if he

thought that such a hierarchy was not already part of their command

structure. On the other hand, it was not his place to educate or correct

Jedi.

For some reason, that thought made him think of Sheeka Tull

again, and her insolent evaluation of him. There was something

about her he found almost unendurably irritating.

He wandered back outside the cave, and without telling his feet

what to do, they headed in the direction of Sheeka Tull's ship. After

all, the day's work was completed. His three brothers would take care

of any cleaning of weapons or policing of the obstacle course area. He

could take a few minutes. Just a stroll, he lied.

He found Sheeka at a folding table outside her ship, scrubbing at

the rust on one of Spindragon's Corellian flux converters and enjoying

the stars. She didn't seem surprised to see him, but didn't hail him

until he came closer. "Nate," she said.

"And how do you know that it's me, and not one of the others?" he

challenged.

She laughed. "You walk a little differently. By any chance have you

got a leg wound?"

He stopped for a minute. A broca, a huge reptilian creature that

haunted the swamps of a misbegotten black hole called Altair-9, had

nearly torn his hip away. He had thought the damage healed. Interesting.

This woman was as observant as a trooper!

"Yes," he said, but kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.

She smiled at him, went back to her cleaning. "How did the day

go?"

"Some good prospects. We pushed them hard and lost only forty

percent. Strong stock on Cestus."

Sheeka smiled again, evidently pleased with his answer. She went

back to her cleaning, and he just sat, watching the stars. He knew

that many of those blazing orbs had planets of their own, and wondered

how many would be embroiled in battle before the Clone Wars

ended.

After a time her attention returned to Nate. He felt content merely

waiting for her to speak. When she did, her question surprised him.

"What do you see when you look at me?" She chose that moment to

yawn and stretch a bit, and for the first time he felt the impact of her

as a woman, and was surprised at the fierceness of his reaction. Nothing

male and humanoid could fail to notice her mesmerizing meld of

strength and softness, the long elegant lines of her legs, the delicate

arch of her neck . . .

Nate stopped himself, remembering that she had asked him a

question. He searched, found one answer that bordered on the obscene,

and subsequently edited himself. Finally he said, "A human female

whose skin tone matches that of General Windu."

"Who?" She laughed. It was rich and deep, and he realized that his

first sense of being mocked was completely wrong. He found that he

admired her laugh; it was warming to him in a way that let him reduce

emotional control for a few precious minutes. Interesting.

He found himself asking a question before he had stopped and

evaluated it. "And what do you see when you look at me?"

Almost instantly he regretted saying it, because that smile softened,

became wistful and a bit sad. "The shadow of the best—" She

paused, as if changing a word in midsentence. "—best fighter I ever

knew." She reached out and brushed her hand along his jaw, then

rose as gracefully as a sunblossom spinning in the solar wind and returned

to her ship.

21

A fter the first few days, the stream of newbies had slowed to a

trickle. Therefore, Nate was surprised to see a group of lean, dirty

men and women approach. They arrived in a motley variety of battered

hovercarts dusty enough to suggest they had hauled far more

ore than passengers. Their apparent leader was a tall old red-bearded

human male who looked wide across the shoulders and loose in the

gut, well weathered and deeply tired. "We want parley with your

leader," he said.

Sirty looked him up and down. "And who makes this request?"

"Name's Thak Val Zsing," the newcomer said.

"You're looking for me," Nate said, stepping forward.

Thak Val Zsing looked from Sirty to Nate, and a humorless grin

split his face. His teeth were broad, cracked, and brownish.

"Recruits, sir?" Sirty asked.

Val Zsing s expression soured. "Didn't say that."

"Well then—?"

"We're Desert Wind, and if we like what we see, we're here to

fight."

So. These were the anarchists who had been so brutally crushed by

Cestian security forces just months ago. If they were even a quarter

of their former strength, he was a Jawa. And they were ready to fight

again? Brave if not smart. "Even Coruscant has heard of your

courage."

Thak Val Zsing nodded, satisfied by that answer. "You know who

we are. We're not so sure about you yet." The men and women

behind him nodded. Nate scanned their clothing and armaments.

Old. Badly patched. Their skin was ragged from fatigue and malnutrition.

It looked as if their weapons were in better shape than they

were. Still, tired and half broken they may have been, but these were

people holding a serious grudge.

"Every one of us is prepared to die to overthrow this decadent system."

Ah, then. They had every reason to blame the government for their

problems, but he couldn't use Desert Wind in its present form: they

were too brittle and angry. This was a delicate situation, and he had

to play it carefully. "Maybe you've misunderstood our intentions," he

said. "We're not here to overthrow the legal government. We are here

to ensure that that government obeys the Republic's rules and regulations.

As citizens of the Republic, you have full right to redress of

grievances."

Thak Val Zsing pulled at his crimson beard with his fingers and

spat into the dust. "The Families couldn't care less about your rules.

You talk pretty, and offer us nothing."

That was a perfectly accurate answer, and Nate felt a bit flustered.

The Jedi suddenly appeared behind him. "I offer the opportunity

to serve your Republic," General Fisto said. Nate had been

so fixed on the members of Desert Wind that he hadn't heard a

sound.

The vast dark pools of the Nautolan's eyes captivated the anarchists.

Thak Val Zsing was the first to break out of the trance; the

others followed swiftly and began to grumble. "Serve how?"

"Come," the general said urgently. "Fight with us."

"In other words, take your orders."

"Be our comrades."

The sincerity in his words was mesmerizing, his Nautolan charisma

doubly effective on this desert world. Most of Desert Wind's

ragged members seemed to feel it like a blow to the chest.

Most, but not all. Thak Val Zsing shook his head. "Nope. Don't

like this. We've heard enough promises, and taken enough orders.

We'll win our own freedom."

"If you act on your own, you become common criminals," Fisto

said. "With us, you are patriots." Hard words, but these folk were at

the end of their resources. They had nothing to lose.

The ragged members of Desert Wind looked from Thak Val Zsing

to Kit Fisto and back again. One devil they knew, one they didn't.

Like most creatures, they went with what they knew. They would

continue to harry the government, and they would be eventually

caught, or jailed, or killed.

And that was the end of it, with nothing that anyone could really

do to stop it.

General Fisto extended his hand to Thak Val Zsing. "Wait," he

said.

"What?" Val Zsing was tired, but also proud.

"I could offer your people clemency if they work with us. When

our job is complete your crimes will be expunged, and you'll return to

your mines and farms and shops. I would not have you throw your

lives away."

Nate knew Val Zsing had to be warring with himself. This was a

good man, but too weary to have much optimism left in him; he had

been told too many lies to believe a Jedi, or a Jedi's clone soldiers. He

could hear the old man's thoughts as clearly as if he spoke them

aloud.

"What do the others say?" General Fisto asked.

"They say they trust me" Thak Val Zsing said, puffing his chest

out. "And I don't trust you. I only came here because they asked me

to. But now that I've seen ya . . ."

The general gazed across the faces of Desert Wind, then turned

back to Thak Val Zsing. "These are your people. How did you win

their hearts?"

"By blood," he said. Nate could see it in Thak Val Zsing's eyes. Despite

his bravado the man wanted to believe, but couldn't.

"I see," the Nautolan replied.

"There might be another way," Thak Val Zsing said slowly. The

battered warriors straightened and stared at him.

They looked at each other as if the confrontation was about to turn

into something physically unpleasant, and then Thak Val Zsing's

shoulders slumped.

Once, perhaps, the old man had been a great fighter, but those days

were long past. Still, the members of his group looked up to him, and

respected him as they would a father. Doubtless he'd shepherded

them through more than one tight squeeze.

How could the dynamic be altered? What resolution could

there be?

More than anyone else, Thak Val Zsing seemed to understand the

stakes. One last action. One last judgment. It might mean destruction

or salvation for his ragtag band. But what to do?

"Thirty years ago I took command of this group," Val Zsing said,

his eyes locked with the general's. "You could guide them, if you were

willing to pass the same test."

"Test?"

He nodded. "Brother Fate?" he said quietly.

A gray-tufted old X'Ting male in brown robes walked over. He

was accompanied by a somewhat bulkier X'Ting female, also in

brown robes. They carried a woven reed basket suspended between

them.

The basket was large enough to hold a human infant, and that was

what Nate initially supposed it held. He had heard of extremist

groups who worshiped some child or infant, supposing it the avatar

of a god, or the reincarnation of some sacred soul.

But a moment later he realized he had made an error. Whatever lay

in that basket was nothing human. It weighed more than an infant as

well: perhaps ten kilos. And it hissed. The basket wobbled slightly,

and from their efforts to keep it balanced, he knew that there was

something moving in there, something serpentine.

"Will you trust us as you ask us to trust you?" the old X'Ting female

said.

"What would you have me do?"

"Place your hand inside," she said.

"And?"

"And then we will see."

General Fisto looked at her, and then at Thak Val Zsing.

Nate held his breath. This was a test of both courage and intuition.

Trust and common sense. What was in the basket? The woven

sand-reed container was large enough to hold any of a thousand

venomous creatures. And if it bit the general, what then? Was Kit

Fisto supposed to magically transform the poison within his body?

To charm the beast so that it would not bite? Or was this entire

thing some kind of an elaborate assassination plan? Whatever it

was, he could not repress a hint of apprehension. What would the

Jedi do?

General Fisto's expression didn't change, but he nodded his head.

"Yes."

The old X'Ting couple laid the basket down. The cover still obscured

whatever was inside. The general rolled up the sleeve of his

robe and extended his hand into the container. Nate noticed that the

pace of entrance was neither slow nor fast, but continued at a single

unvaried medium rate.

General Fisto's eyes never left the old woman's. His arm had disappeared

up to the elbow, and the witnesses watched carefully.

And yet. . . what was he missing? There was something happening

here that defied definition.

Finally one of the other old females nodded, and the general, using

the same slow, steady pace, withdrew his arm from the basket.

Its underside glistened with something wet. He rolled his sleeve

down without wiping the wetness away. The Nautolan's face was

impassive.

The two brown-robed X'Tings retreated to a neutral position and

sat cross-legged, primary and secondary arms folded in a prayer position,

foreheads leaning against each other. The others formed a wall

between the clones and General Fisto and the basket. They were

hunched over and seemed to be studying something.

Then they returned. "He tells the truth," the woman said. And the

others nodded.

Thak Val Zsing exhaled mightily. Nate could tell that he was relieved,

but his pride wouldn't let him speak it.

"Very well, then," Thak Val Zsing said. "The Guides . . . have

never been wrong before. All right. I yield the leadership of Desert

Wind." He paused. "And I hope I'm not making the biggest mistake

of my life."

As Kit Fisto walked back up to the cave, Nate ran up next to him

and spoke in a low voice. "What did you feel in the basket?" he asked.

"Some kind of rock viper?"

"I do not know," Kit said, barely moving his lips. "It did not try

to harm me. But I felt. . . something. A presence I have sensed before."

When Kit said no more, Nate accepted that and rejoined his

brothers.

Thak Val Zsing shook his head as they walked toward the cave.

"I wouldn't have believed it," he said. His eyes burned with challenge.

"I'm not the one who's trusting you, Jedi. Remember

that."

"I will," Kit promised.

"Well," he said, scratching his head. "A promise is a promise."

"It is good that you are a being of your word."

"Sometimes," said Thak Val Zsing, his shoulders slumping, "his

word is all a man has."

"You bring more than words," Kit replied. "Eat with us?"

Thak Val Zsing and his people jostled to find seats at their rude

table. As steaming platters heaped with fresh meat, mushrooms, and

hot bread were placed before them, he turned to Kit again. "We

haven't had a good meal in a week. Can you . . . ?"

"All you can eat," Kit said.

Thak Val Zsing and his people attacked their plates ferociously,

bolting down their food like starving Hutts. Finally they slowed,

belching and laughing, and it became possible to speak with them.

"I have read the files," Kit said, "but I'd like to know your views.

What happened on Cestus?"

"The story's an old one," Thak Val Zsing said. "I probably look like

a miner, by now. Truth is, I was a history professor. Lost my job when

the government cut social programs and utilities to the outlying

areas."

"The elected government? The regent G'Mai Duris?"

He snorted. "She's not the real power here, star-boy. Better play

catch-up. Anyway, I went to work in the mines. The rest, as they

say, is history." He grinned. "Look. Old story. You have oppressors

and the oppressed. That was true before the Republic ever

found these people: the X'Ting drove the spiders into the mountains,

and probably exterminated some others who were gone before

we ever arrived. We came, bought land from them for a few

trunks of worthless synthstones, and a couple of hundred years later

some mysterious 'plagues' killed about ninety percent of 'em. Convenient,

eh?"

"Extremely. You think these plagues no accident?"

Val Zsing snorted. "There's no evidence you could trouble your

precious Chancellor with. Any prison cramming together species

from around the galaxy is a forcing ground for exotic disease. Let's

just say that the Five Families weren't heartbroken."

Thak Val Zsing tore a great chunk out of a roasted bird and

chewed as juice ran down through his beard and onto his shirt.

"Maybe my great-grandfather laughed about it, but it's not funny

now. The Five Families own everything. Those of us at the bottom

barely have enough bread. Our babies cry in the night."

"I thought Cestus Cybernetics was wealthy," Kit said.

"Yes. But precious few of those credits make their way to the bottom."

"We're gonna change that," Skot OnSon said. "Overthrow the

government, take back our world."

world, Kit thought. And just whose world was it? The Five

Families? The immigrants? The X'Ting hive? What about those

wretched spiders the troopers had driven into the dark? He was sorry

to have taken their cave now, but happy to have restrained the troopers

from pursuit.

0 bi-Wan and Barrister Snoil hadn't left their apartment since returning

from the throne room. The attendants seemed to hover

around them, hoping for tips, bringing them food and rather clumsily

trying to overhear their conversations. Finally Obi-Wan had to

ask the hotel's management to solve the problem.

Snoil had an unquenchable appetite for work. The Vippit rarely ate

and never slept. He pored over documents, consulted with Cestian

legal minds, relayed communications through their cruiser to Coruscant

for second and third opinions.

Through it all, Obi-Wan sensed not desperation but a kind of joy

at having an opportunity to discharge his old debt through excellent

performance. If he could just find a way through this legal warren,

understand the path that might lead to peaceful resolution, they

might all leave Cestus happy.

Obi-Wan helped where he could, offered advice, tried to take

some of the burden from Snoil's shell, but in the end he felt almost

useless. Their next meeting with G'Mai Duris was in no more than

eighteen hours, and as of yet they had no ammunition to turn the

tide.

But something would come up. Something always did . . .

23

hree hundred kilometers northeast of the command base stood

the saw-toothed expanse of the Tolmea mountain range. Its tallest

peak, Tolmeatek, rose thirty-two thousand meters from the valley

floor, its snowcapped summit a gleaming beacon for the adventurous.

Only within the last hundred years had any non-native managed the

climb without rebreathing apparatus. The very word tolmeatek meant

"untravelable" in X'Ting. The lesser mountains were of the same inhospitable

disposition, stark inclines and flash storms making the entire

region too dangerous for casual travel.

And ideal for clandestine activities. Within the shadow of mighty

Tolmeatek nestled another landing pad, also hidden from chance observation.

A three-X'Ting delegation gazed up into the stars until one of the

orbs began to change position. Oddly, it appeared tiny until the last

possible moment, when it seemed as if the minuscule object suddenly

expanded with impossible speed.

The greeters waited at their places, unmoving. Two wore shadowy

robes, one a recently acquired offworlder style cut for an insectile

X'Ting. A narrow landing ramp descended from the shining ship. A

female humanoid appeared in the doorway. She wore a floor-length

T

cloak and was clearly visible only in silhouette, but what they could

see made them hold their breath.

The cabin behind her was dark. Her profile was clean-shaven, with

a skull both symmetrical and large enough to suggest formidable intellect.

The pale skin covering it was so clear and flawless as to be almost

translucent. Six knife-shaped tattoos were arrayed on each side

of her head, daggers pointing at her ears. She seemed to sparkle a bit,

as if with some inner radiance. Doubtless, a trick of the light.

As she descended, they saw that her eyes were a flat and expressionless

blue, briefly examining Fizzik without any comment or

judgment. He was so far beneath her notice that he barely registered

at all, neither threat nor ally. For all the change in her expression he

might have been an astromech droid.

Fizzik was afraid of this woman, and found the sensation oddly

delicious.

He stepped forward, prepared to offer his planned greeting.

"Ma'am . . . ?"

The woman tilted her head slowly sideways, staring at him as if he

were an unaccustomed form of lower animal life. That odd sensation

within him, the fear-thing, swelled. Fizzik went silent.

She took two more steps and then touched her belt. All around the

ship, in a giant circle with a radius of perhaps twenty meters, the sand

sizzled. Fizzik had noticed a line of tiny sandwasps crawling across

the sand, mindlessly carrying their burdens back to their nest. Where

that line crossed the sand, half a dozen of the tiny creatures had

curled into smoking balls. The others on either side of the line were

unharmed.

For the first time, she spoke. "If your people approach my ship,"

she said, "you'll need new people."

"Yes, Mistress."

"Very good," she mocked. "Take me to Trillot."

Fizzik opened the back of a little snub-nosed tunnel speeder to

her, and she entered without another word. Her movements flowed,

as if she were more felinoid than humanoid. A savagely beautiful

predator.

The tunnel runner hovered and then pivoted, heading into one of

the nearby entrances. The little geebug was built for swift maneuvering

in the warren of tunnels beneath Cestus's surface.

These tunnels had been built by hive technicians eons ago, but had

only been electronically mapped fairly recently—a few standard decades,

perhaps. The geebug was also equipped with the very latest and

most powerful scanning equipment and skittered through the tunnels

like a thrinx on a griddle.

Fizzik sat beside the pilot in the front seat, but took a chance to

cast a glance back at the rear seat, to see, perhaps, if their guest was

at all discomfited by the series of near misses as they negotiated the

warren.

She seemed unflappable, her piercing blue eyes amused, full pale

lips curled up at the edges as they scraped through an especially close

call. She scanned the cave walls as they flew past, noting everything.

Their passenger turned and looked at him, curiosity lighting her face

at last. "So the Five Families fear to meet with me openly."

"It is considered risky. But you will be with them soon."

She snorted derisively. "What is all this?" she asked, gesturing at

the walls.

He found her voice a kind of coppery music. "The planet is honeycombed

with mines and tunnels. They are the easiest way of traveling

without detection."

She chuckled, although what might have piqued her amusement

was beyond him. She turned at last to face him. "And you are—?"

"Fizzik, brother to Trillot, who awaits your arrival."

When she offered no introduction in return, he shrank back. He

stared at her, and as he did her eyes grew vast and dark. "Perhaps," he

said, "I should just let you rest from your no doubt long and arduous

journey."

Their passenger closed her eyes. And no matter how abrupt their

spins and turns, what jolts the tunnel runner got from near misses,

she did not open them again until the vehicle came to a halt.

The instant the vehicle shushed to stillness her eyes snapped open,

and Asajj Ventress was as alert as a Gotal on the hunt. Her short nap

had apparently refreshed and renewed her. That is, if such a creature

required refreshment and renewal.

They had arrived in a cave below the heart of the city. Five of Trillot's

most trusted aides awaited them. Whereas she had exited the

ship like a queen or some kind of dark princess, here she opened the

front of her cloak and assumed another aspect, which Fizzik recognized

as that of a military leader. Beneath the black skintight suit her

body was as sinewy as a snake, only her breasts and hips feminizing

an otherwise androgynously muscular physique.

Trillot had briefed Fizzik about Commander Ventress, of course.

Rumors had floated about, and even his brother wasn't certain which

to believe. Some said she was a Jedi herself; that she had left the ancient

Order, taking her weapons with her. Others said that she was

an acolyte of some shadowy group superior to even the feared Jedi

Knights.

The ring of greeters parted, and they stepped to a turbolift platform

large enough for four. He noted that the aides did not deign to

step aboard, as if they wished to keep a safe distance. The two rode

up together.

She smelled of acid fruit.

Darkness enfolded and then released them as they reached the

upper level.

As they emerged into Trillot's headquarters, the hard, cold creatures

who awaited them seemed to part like shallow water. No one

dared touch her; none approached her. A kind of silence descended

over the entire floor as he escorted her to her meeting.

Trillot was seated at his desk as she entered his office. He was

bloated now, his transformative hormones in full effect, accelerated

by the alien herbs. He squirmed and fidgeted almost continuously, as

if he could find no comfortable position.

Oddly, Ventress seemed somewhat deferential. From a pack so

cunningly hidden upon her taut body that he had missed it entirely,

she withdrew several items and politely placed them on the table before

Trillot.

The golden gang lord's faceted red eyes moved back and forth

across the items, and he waited. The air shifted, and he smelled the

slightest musky tang. Trillot, he knew, exuded musk from neck

glands when going through the Change, but that smell intensified

when he was nervous. In all the years he had known his brother,

Fizzik had smelled it only twice before.

The woman nodded deeply. The bag shuddered. Something black

and red thrust its head out of the flap, forked tongue flickering as if

tasting alien air.

"Gifts," Ventress said. Was that the very tiniest trace of mockery in

her voice? "Of salt, water, and meat."

Trillot stared, uncertain what to do. Ritual meals were common, a

highly developed art in X'Ting hive politics. But Trillot was no royal,

not even a noble. What could he make of this? Mockery or not, he

dared not respond impolitely. His gaze shifted to Ventress and then

back to the table. The red-and-black head proved to be the head of a

banded snake, emerging from the bag slowly. No . . . it wasn't a snake.

Its small stubby legs paddled as it attempted to escape its confines. It

moved sluggishly, as if it had been drugged.

Trillot looked at his protocol droid, and then back at the crawling

creature .. . no, creatures, because a second had emerged.

The protocol droid bent and said quietly: "I believe that you are expected

to ingest the windsnakes. With relish, sir."

Yes, that was definitely a tiny smile on Ventress's face, but whether

genuine or artificial he couldn't say.

Trillot studied her for a moment, and Fizzik wondered what his

employer was going to do. Again, an unexpected flash of emotion.

This woman became more intriguing with every passing moment.

With a movement swift enough to baffle sight, Trillot's hand

snapped out, grasped one of the windsnakes just behind the head,

and dashed its body against the table. Even more swiftly the second

time, he repeated the maneuver with the other one.

"Send for Janu," he said. A droid scurried out of the room, and a

moment later an enormous brown creature with a distended chin and

a raised, horny crest dividing its head waddled into the room, great

dusky folds of skin cascading down to the floor. "Yes, sir?"

"Water, salt, and two succulent windsnakes. What recipe can you

concoct?"

Janu tilted his waffled head sideways as if measuring. He picked up

the limp bodies and sniffed them, bringing them close to his flat, wet

nostrils. Then, suddenly, his thick lips split in a grin. "Ah! Glymph

pie. Windsnakes come from Ploo Two, and the Glymphids are famous

for a variety of casseroles. I can procure fantazi mushrooms—"

"No," Trillot said, voice cracking a bit. Fizzik sharpened his eyes.

Ah! The vocal change was another dead giveaway: his brother was

thick in the shift toward his female state. Soon his eyes would change

from rust-red to emerald. "I will need my wits about me this evening."

As he said this, he glanced at Ventress, who remained motionless,

squatting on the balls of her feet, back perfectly straight, immobile as

a stone. Again, Fizzik had never heard his brother discussing his private

practices or habits with an outsider. Or at all, when it came right

down to it. An almost perverse fascination bubbled within him.

"Fine," Janu said. "Then I will use . . . banthaweed."

"That should suffice." He waved at the tray, and the enormous

Janu lifted it and carried it away.

"I thank you for your gifts," Trillot said. "I assure you that I will

enjoy them to the full."

Ventress inclined her head with palpably false modesty. "A small

gift from Count Dooku," she said. "A delicacy. Take heart: the Yanthans

who remove the venom sacs rarely make a mistake." She

smiled. "And even if they do—it is said to be a good death."

Fizzik wasn't sure he wanted to know how a creature like Ventress

might define good. It was difficult to tell whether she was serious, or

merely enjoyed tormenting her host.

In either case, the results were fascinating.

"I trust that your journey was pleasant?" Trillot asked.

Her expression did not change. "Irrelevant. I wish to know why I

was not met by the Families. At the least, why I was not brought immediately

to their presence."

"We have a new guest in the capital," Trillot said, attempting to

placate. "Until we know his precise business, a measure of additional

discretion was thought wise."

She gazed at him, and although Ventress did not speak, Fizzik felt

he could hear her thoughts. Miserable cowards.

Fizzik had observed Trillot's immense bodyguards as they watched

their boss defer to this woman. There were also a dozen lean young

male X'Ting around Trillot's nest: thugs trying to get rich easy, looking

for someone strong to follow. Not necessarily bad, but lost, and

lost in dreams of glory past. There was no way of telling how they

might react. They might exhibit typical hive behavior and simply follow.

The more disloyal might sense an opportunity to jump track, to

find a way to ingratiate themselves to a superior power. But there was

another reaction as well, and Fizzik could see it brewing in the filmed

eyes of one of the smaller bodyguards, a member of the X'Ting assassin

clan. His name was Remlout.

"Excuse me," Remlout said in the high, reedy voice he assumed

when speaking Basic. "I've heard a story about you."

She rose and turned to him. Again the corners of her mouth raised,

as if she already knew what he was going to say, and welcomed it.

"In all politeness," Remlout sneered, "I've heard that you never,

ever turn down a challenge. Is that true?"

She glanced at his shoulders, his hands, his eyes. "You've been to

Xagobah," she said. "To learn Tal-Gun?"

"Yes," Remlout said, confused. Not many X'Ting ventured offplanet.

Asajj Ventress smiled. "Your neck is pale: their blue sun's burning

has faded. You've been away from your teachers a long time."

He nodded, mouth slightly open in surprise.

"Count Dooku told me that if I wished to progress in the arts, it

was vital to take every challenge." She cocked her head lazily at Trillot.

Her smile widened. She turned to Trillot. "Would this displease

your

Trillot looked back and forth between Ventress and Remlout.

Fizzik knew what his brother was thinking. Trillot did not like this

woman, but for a variety of reasons was bound to honor her wishes.

Fizzik had witnessed Remlout's skills, but was uncertain they would

be enough to defeat Ventress, and didn't want to lose a bodyguard.

On the other hand . . .

Challenge simmered in the air.

Trillot leaned back, grimacing as he strove to make his swelling

egg sac less uncomfortable. The gang lord—not quite lady, not yet—

templed his fingers together. "If both participants are willing, then it

is not my place to say no."

Ventress nodded and turned to face Remlout, pivoting as if on ball

bearings. Her fingers crooked like claws.

Now Trillot added, "But please, Commander Ventress. It is hard to

find good bodyguards."

"I won't kill him," she promised. "At your pleasure," she said to her

opponent.

Remlout bowed. His vestigial wings fluttered with warning, and he

spread his primary and secondary arms. The creatures who served at

Trillot's pleasure backed against the walls.

Now the two of them were in a cleared space. Remlout stepped in

an arc, circling Ventress.

Remlout cartwheeled, and then balanced on his primary hands, his

feet tracking Ventress as if they were scan detectors. Those primary

hands were as broad and strong as most feet, and Fizzik knew that

Remlout could stand like this for hours.

Fizzik had seen this once before: Remlout making his formal challenge

of any visitor who had a similar code of warrior ethics—or

seemed to offend his master Trillot. The fact that he had made the

challenge so soon was not remarkable in itself, but Fizzik suspected

that there was something more going on here. He had seen foes attempt

to penetrate Remlout's defense only to be struck with such

nimble violence that Remlout's punishing feet might have been

arms.

Most cowered at the sight.

Ventress was another matter altogether, however. She swayed back

and forth, ripples surging through her body as if she were some kind

of sea frond. Strange: she was clearly female, but she moved more

like an X'Ting male.

Remlout made his attack: left-right-left, feet jabbing out in a

breathtaking three-strike combination. Ventress never shifted her

legs, but somehow avoided the triple threat. Fizzik ran the sequence

back through his mind: Ventress had moved bonelessly, with a spinal

relaxation so extreme that she could have shifted only a centimeter or

less, angling sideways, sliding from the path of each kick as if she had

had all the time in the world.

Something else had happened, something obscured by the flash

and flex of limbs. Fizzik couldn't see it, but Remlout was on the

ground, writhing, face purpling, twisting on his side, hands reaching

around for his shell.

The assassin spasmed, the muscles in his back tightening again.

Remlout's face grew tauter and tauter, more deformed with strain,

and he howled as if in the midst of the most monstrous and debilitating

muscle spasm in history. His entire body arched, and with a series

of rending pops Remlout's supercontracted muscles splintered his

own shell. He collapsed, drooling and almost motionless, his head

wobbling in aimless circles.

A medical droid rolled forward, performed a swift analysis, and

then reported back to Trillot.

Trillot looked at Ventress, eyes gone dark. Fizzik knew that his

employer wanted to censure her, to remind her of her promise, but

dared not.

Ventress might have read Trillot's mind. "He is not dead," she said

matter-of-factly.

"Indeed not," Trillot replied. "And for that I am grateful."

She bowed graciously as several of Trillot's employees picked up

the hapless Remlout and carried him away. With every jostle, he

screamed. They were not as gentle as they might have been, and Fizzik

supposed that Remlout's history as a bully now worked against

him.

He noted that, without another word being said, the body language

of every creature in that room was suddenly more respectful

and alert. It couldn't have worked better for Ventress had she scripted

it. She brushed imaginary dust from her spotless cloak and stood before

Trillot once again. Fizzik counted the pulses at her jawline,

clearly visible but unhurried. A knot of muscle at the base of one tattoo

quivered in unhurried rhythm.

Trillot seemed to have moved on, apparently wishing to change

the subject as quickly as possible. "And there is one more development,"

he said.

"Yes?" Ventress stood immobile. The previous moment's violent

action might have meant nothing at all. But in the name of the

galaxy, what had she done to poor Remlout? And would he, Fizzik,

ever have the temerity to ask?

"Yes," Trillot said. "Now. As to the Jedi negotiating with our good

lady Regent—"

That, finally, caught the offworlder s attention. "His name?"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Now, for the first time, Ventress's attention was riveted. "Obi-

Wan. " Her blue eyes flamed. Again, Fizzik sensed that it might be

worth his life to inquire. "I know this one. He needs to die."

"Please," Trillot implored. "There is business to be conducted.

There may not be time . . ."

Ventress cast a scathingly cold glare upon her host. "Did someone

request your advice? I think not." She closed her eyes, and in stillness

she seemed like the center of a storm. She opened her eyes again. "I

don't believe in coincidence. Obi-Wan and I are here on the same

business." The tip of her pink tongue wet her lips. "I think I will kill

him."

Trillot s faceted gaze met hers, and Trillot lost, looking away. "I

brought you here, thinking that with the Jedi in the capital, we need

special arrangements before the meeting—"

Ventress's head tilted slightly sideways, and her voice was snakequiet.

"No. Obi-Wan will attempt to subvert the Families. He may

already have a spy among them. No. Who knows I am here?"

"The families know Count Dooku is sending a representative,"

Trillot said. "But not who or when."

"Splendid. Leave it thus. First I will destroy Kenobi. Then I speak

business with your precious Five Families."

From her initial flare Ventress had grown abnormally quiet, almost

like a negative space, drawing light and heat from the room around

her. This woman was as dangerous as a sand viper. Never had he seen

her like.

"Yes, of course." What else could Trillot say?

Fizzik mused that he would certainly serve out the rest of his contract,

but when it was complete . . . he wondered if the woman Ventress

might conceivably need an assistant.

t roti rotocol, Chancellor Palpatine had often said, is the oil greasing the

wheels of diplomacy. After an exchange of pleasantries, they retired to

Duris's office for a more private conversation. Three of her advisers

accompanied her, and although they refrained from most interjections,

he knew they were fully engaged with the negotiation process.

Barrister Snoil was debating a minor point as Shar Shar, the little

Zeetsa, rolled forward. Duris bent so that the aide could whisper in

her ear. She listened intently, then studied several holo documents

projected on a screen before them.

She looked up and smiled. "Barrister Snoil," she said. "You are

aware of the case of Gadon Three?"

Snoil's eyestalks retreated into themselves, and then extended

again. "Yes," he squeaked. "But there are at least four cases that might

have some application here. Please be more specific."

Duris seemed pleased with Snoil's erudition, and held up a finger

at what, from their angle, seemed a shadowy silhouette. "A matter of

breakaway Kif miners."

"Ah, yes." He composed himself. "Approximately fifty standard

years ago, the miners began selling high-energy ores on the open

market. Some of these ores found their way to a colony allied with

enemies of the Gadon regime. The Gadons came to the Republic for

a ruling, and it was adjudged that the intent of the original sale had

been above reproach. Therefore the final disposition of the ores was

not the responsibility of the miners."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly. That had been a poor decision.

The Republic hadn't penalized the miners, because a similar situation

was brewing in a nonallied cluster of planets the Chancellor hoped

would provide the Republic vital raw material. A lenient ruling here

could well make for good friendships elsewhere.

Brilliant politics, but it had now backfired! Obi-Wan felt that

long-vanished headache beginning to return.

While he retreated into his mind, Duris and Snoil continued to

banter back and forth. He knew this was just the opening salvo, but

he was already out of his depth. They spoke of obscure treaties, taxes,

rules and regulations.

Legalities be spaced. This had to end!

Obi-Wan waited for a lull in the conversation, and then raised his

hand. "Pardon me, Regent Duris." He calmed himself. Could she be

so obtuse? "Do you imagine that the Republic will stand by and allow

Cestus to manufacture these killing machines?" Obi-Wan was a bit

surprised at the strident tone in his own voice. "There is only one way

this can end."

For the moment, formality and mannered, measured approach had

broken down. Blast! He was no politician. He saw only the death and

destruction that would be visited on this planet if he was unable to

help them see past their contracts.

"And what is that?" Duris said frostily. She arched her segmented

shell and squared her shoulders. Anger boiled beneath her composed

surface as well. And something more. Fear?

He steadied his voice. "With no JK droids reaching planets outside

the Republic. Perhaps none of any kind leaving your workshops at

all."

"Do you threaten us? The Republic had its chance to purchase our

products, and chose to neglect payment. Then, they restricted

Gabonna crystals. Tens of thousands lost employment, Master Jedi.

Our economy was almost crippled. There were food and water riots

across the planet." She leaned forward. "Thousands died. Now you

tell us not to conduct business with planets offering solid credits.

Would the Supreme Chancellor authorize equal payments? In advance?"

No. Palpatine would never do that—it would be perceived, rightly,

as submitting to blackmail. "I am not here to threaten," he said.

"Merely to act as a conduit of communication between the Republic

and the good people of Cestus. We know that you are fighting for the

welfare of your people—"

"All the people of Cestus," she said. "Not just the X'Ting. Not just

the hive council. My responsibilities are to every soul on this planet."

If true, a fine sentiment, Obi-Wan thought. "We, on the other

hand, fight for the fate of an entire galaxy. You may rely upon one

truth: we will not allow your machines to slaughter our troopers.

Whether or not this entails the destruction of your civilization depends

upon you."

For a moment there was silence in the room. Duris and Obi-Wan

regarded each other intensely, a test of wills.

Then she nodded her head slowly. "Before you destroy us," she

said, "perhaps you should better know what it is you will end." Her

voice tightened, and this was where her breeding and strength rose to

the surface. She would not be rendered ineffective by her emotions,

however fearful they might be. "This evening there is a hive ball in

your honor. It would please me if you would attend. Perhaps some

communication is best facilitated in a more informal setting."

Obi-Wan took a deep breath. He had little taste for such formal

celebrations, but then again, protocol was important. "I am grateful

for the invitation. I hope that Your Grace will not interpret anything

I have said as a lack of respect for you or your people."

"We've both a job to do," she said, and once again he had the odd

sense that she was speaking on more than one level at a time. "But

that does not mean we cannot be civil."

"Indeed," he said, and bowed.

25

0 bi-Wan's formal robe was much like his everyday dress: flowing

from floor to shoulder in a cascade of burnt sienna, but woven of

demicot silk. Their astromech had buffed his boots to a high shine,

and his spare tunic was cleaned.

Snoil's flat shell gleamed, and the folds of his skin were scraped

clean of mucus and buffed as highly as Obi-Wan's boots. A pair of

flat boxes had arrived for them. When opened, each yielded a flexible

mask. The slanted eyes, peaked eye ridges, and flat, wide mouths

were clearly a caricature of X'Ting physiognomy. When Obi-Wan

pulled it on and viewed himself in a mirror, the effect was striking.

"And what is this?"

Snoil was actually blocking the doorway as Obi-Wan completed

his own preparations. A bemused smile wreathed the cephalopod's

face.

"Master Jedi," the Vippit said. "You are resplendent."

"And you sparkle," Obi-Wan said. "Now, Barrister Snoil, it is important

that we understand what is happening here."

Snoil raised one of his stubby hands. "Master Jedi, I know that I

may seem ungainly and somewhat gauche, but I have been involved

in such missions before. This ball is clearly a tactic, not a social occasion.

I will be alert."

Obi-Wan sighed with relief. His companion was acutely aware of

these games. More aware, perhaps, than he. In this, it was possible

that Snoil would take the lead, and for that he was grateful.

"This is a hive ball," Snoil said, examining his mask. "The hive

may have little real power, but apparently the offworlders enjoy pretending

that it does."

"Well," Obi-Wan said, helping Snoil on with his disguise. He extended

his arm, and Snoil slipped his own small, firm hand through

it. Snoil's arm was pleasantly smooth and cool, moist but not sticky.

"Shall we join the fun?"

The music enveloped them silkily even before Obi-Wan and Doolb

Snoil had exited their shuttle car. Several hundred guests had already

arrived. Most were human or humanoid, with a sprinkling of other

sentient species among the bejeweled attendees. Many were in pairs

or trios, although at least one clan-cluster hovered around the appetizers.

Hospitality droids served food and drink at a prodigious rate.

Only a handful were genuine X'Ting, Obi-Wan noted, although all

the others wore the X'Ting masks. Respectful custom or ugly joke?

He wasn't at all certain.

The masked and costumed attendees parted as Obi-Wan and

Snoil moved forward. With polite nods and interested expressions,

they let the two pass and suppressed their speculative whispers until

the odd pair had gone by.

The cream of Cestus's society had turned out for this gathering, a

glittering ensemble indeed. A multispecies band strummed varied

wind and string instruments and at least one synthesizing keyboard,

producing music that sounded much like the mating anthem of

Alderaan's Weaving clans, a perky melody that fairly demanded fancy

footwork.

As they entered his eyes found G'Mai Duris swiftly, performing

some X'Tingian rhythmics reminiscent of the Alderaan Reel. The

couples and trios performing the precision choreography stopped.

The music stopped. All of the masked participants applauded the

newcomers.

If he was to assume that there was more than one meaning to

everything that occurred here, then why had they chosen to welcome

him in such an elaborate fashion? One answer came to mind: they

hoped that elaborate displays would impress upon a galaxy-spanning

traveler the idea that even here, on the Outer Rim, there was a civilization

worth preserving.

These smiles, these bows—they were sincere and hopeful. These

Cestians wanted him to understand the fragile and lovely society that

they had built up over the years, and it behooved him to open his

heart to them. If he grasped their nature better, it might be easier to

make crucial decisions, or devise appropriate tactics.

He hoped.

So with that in mind, when Duris approached him with her mask

held to her face, he took her arm with genuine pleasure. "Master

Jedi," she said. "It is such a delight that you could spare the time to

join our little gathering."

"One could not travel halfway across the galaxy," he said, "and not

partake of Cestus's famed hospitality."

Duris seemed to sparkle. Her immense intelligence and energy

filled her considerable frame to bursting. She was the most vibrant

and fully alive X'Ting he had yet encountered.

A small crowd of dignitaries formed behind her, all masked, but

some wearing costumes that actually concealed their profiles. "G'Mai,"

one woman asked. "Please introduce us to our visitors."

"Of course," Duris said. "Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi and Doolb

Snoil of Coruscant, please meet the heads of the Five Families." A

short, slender man bowed. "Debbikin of research." A half-faced

X'Ting mask on the next woman's imperious face did not disguise

the elaborate makeup and tattooing of her lips. "Lady Por'Ten of energy."

The next man was tall and broad and pale, as if he had never

seen the sun. "Kefka in manufacturing," Duris said. Kefka was possibly

human, with perhaps a bit of Kiffar mixed in by genetic splice.

The next man's blue skin proclaimed him of Wroonian extraction.

"Llitishi of sales and marketing," Duris proclaimed. The next in line

was a slender X'Ting, one of perhaps five or six in the entire ballroom.

"And my cousin Caiza Quill of mining." He stood taller than

Duris, almost level with Obi-Wan. Quill extended his right primary

hand in a gesture of respect. He had a golden, stick-thin insectile

body and vast faceted red eyes.

Each bowed in turn. They made small talk. Then, expressing their

eagerness to begin negotiations on the morrow, they retreated to

allow the Jedi and Barrister Snoil to enjoy their evening.

Duris led him onto the dance floor. "Are you familiar with the

reel?" she asked.

"More in theory than practice," he said politely, momentarily

wishing that a band of assassins might attack the party at this moment,

giving him an excuse to decline.

He was on the verge of begging off completely when he felt

something. A sensation like a flux-wire brushing across his spine, and

he knew that there was danger in this room. He glanced left and

right, seeing nothing but dancers. Then—a glimpse, a silhouette on

the far side of the room. A lithe, costumed figure. Male? Female? He

wasn't certain, and wasn't even certain why his alarms had triggered.

There appeared no obvious threat, but he wanted to be certain.

Duris stood before him, waiting patiently for him to answer her implied

request. Obi-Wan forced himself to smile. "Shall we experiment?"

She laughed throatily and, he thought, with genuine mirth. He

looked back over his shoulder. Barrister Snoil was surrounded by

three masked females, one human, a Corthenian, and a Wookiee,

who were engaging him in animated conversation. Good. Snoil's torpid

locomotion was a perfect excuse for declining dance, but at least

he was pleasantly occupied.

With that in mind, Obi-Wan extended his left hand, and she

rested both primary and secondary right hands upon his forearm. He

joined the line, took his place across from G'Mai Duris, and extended

the tendrils of the Force.

The band prompted them to enjoy Cestus's own special dance

variant. Even if the original form had been one as universal as the

Alderaan Weaver's Reel, they would have their own interpretations.

And he knew that the guests were watching to see if he could adapt.

This would tell them not only if he was of their social tribe, but how

they might expect him to react in the future.

Obi-Wan had dual obligations: to learn this dance as swiftly as

possible, and to search out the elusive figure and determine why his

senses were screaming at him. Something is wrong. Danger!

There. White-smocked, deliberately genderless? Slipping between

two humans and a native Cestian servant. Human? No. Extremely

fluid in motion—

Then Duris squeezed his arm. "Master Jedi! I had no idea that you

were a courtier as well as warrior and diplomat. You dance superbly."

He chuckled to himself. For centuries, dance had been used at the

Jedi Temple to facilitate rhythm and timing. On any world of the

galaxy, when one found males or dominant females dancing, it was

often a warrior art in disguise. Obi-Wan knew the movements of a

dozen fierce and beautiful traditions.

"I merely follow your lead, madam," he said, smiling as he focused

over her shoulder, seeking the elusive figure.

Gone!

The room swirled and Obi-Wan glided along with it, his Jedi reflexes

and coordination drawing admiring glances almost at once.

He remembered his childhood in the Temple. Master Yoda had devised

so many ingenious ways to teach vital lessons. He remembered

watching the great Jedi perform complex dance steps, admonishing

his astonished young students to become "complete" movement

artists. A warrior who cannot dance? Clumsy in both war and peace he is.

At the very least, an ambassador who could not fumble his way

through the Alderaan Reel was a poor ambassador, indeed.

There was nothing suspicious to be seen, and in fact his sense of

danger had faded, almost as if it had never been justified at all.

"We're all watching you, you know," Duris whispered, coming

closer. "Most have never seen an actual Jedi before."

Obi-Wan chuckled to himself and backed away from her as the

music changed. He swirled and passed to the next lady in line, where

the dance began anew.

At the first opportunity he retired from the line, and on the pretext

of seeking refreshment again scanned the entire room, from stalactites

to stalagmites.

Nothing.

As if there had never been anything at all.

Asajj Ventress hurried down the tunnel toward her waiting hovercar,

discarding her X'Ting mask as she went. Fizzik awaited her

there, in a chauffeur's coat, and none of the guests trickling out of the

ball paid them any attention.

"Did you see him?" Fizzik asked.

She laughed mirthlessly. "Of course," she said. "He almost sensed

me." For months Count Dooku had taught her the Quy'Tek meditations.

It was good to see the result. Her grin was as feral as a kraken's

fixed and meaningless smile. "Obi-Wan Kenobi." She settled back

into her seat and closed her eyes. "The game is mine."

"Wasn't that very risky?" Fizzik said.

She opened her eyes and gazed at him, perhaps wondering whether

her pleasures would be best served by killing him here and now.

"Life is risk," she said, and then turned to watch the buildings flow

past. For a moment her face assumed an unaccustomed softness as

her thoughts deepened. "Perhaps death, as well."

At that, Fizzik fell silent.

Ventress closed her eyes, laying plans.

Jedi. She'd killed many Jedi, and yet did not hate them. Rather, she

hated the fact that they had lost their way, that they had forgotten

their true purpose in the world, becoming pawns of a corrupt and

decadent Republic.

While most Jedi were discovered in early infancy and raised in the

Jedi Temple, Asajj Ventress had been discovered by Master Ky Narec

on the desolate planet of Rattatak. An orphaned child starving in the

wreckage of a war-torn city, Ventress had clung to anyone offering

her hope, and over the next years came to worship the formidable

Narec as a father figure. He had groomed the Force-strong child, uncovered

and developed her potential. At that time she imagined that

one day she might travel to Coruscant and stand before the Council,

become part of the ancient Order.

Then her Master was murdered. The Jedi Council, who had abandoned

Ky Narec to his fate, now became the object of her blind rage.

Consumed with vengeance, she became a destructive force beyond

anything her Jedi Master could have dreamed.

It was Count Dooku who discovered her on the Outer Rim. She

had attacked him, been defeated and disarmed, but rather than slaying

her he took her as an accomplice, completed her training, and set

her feet on the proper path. It was Dooku to whom she owed total allegiance,

as she owed nothing save death to the ruthless, corrupt Jedi.

Yes. She had clashed with Jedi. Killed many. Faced Master Windu

and come within a hairbreadth of defeating him. Faced Skywalker in

battles they would both remember. Obi-Wan had escaped her hand

twice, but would not again. This she swore by her allegiance to

Dooku. This she swore by her dead Master Ky Narec.

This she promised herself, purely for her own pleasure.

Asajj Ventress's closed eyelids fluttered, and her pink mouth curved

upward in a smile.

26

T he Jedi and his Vippit companion had retired to their shared

quarters, but G'Mai Duris was still attending to her ball guests as

the music slowed and the lights came up, signaling the evening's

end.

She stood at the door, bidding farewell to her guests, when Caiza

Quill and his partner Sabit appeared. A few months before, it had

been Quill who had been the green-eyed female, Sabit the male, but

even then Quill had been intimidating. At his weakest, he was more

intimidating than Duris was at her strongest. Now, at his most aggressive,

the weight of his pheromones was almost overwhelming.

He leaned over her, exuding his scent. "Don't think that I don't

know you're trying to cultivate the Jedi as an ally," he said. "Don't

think for a moment that I will tolerate that. Remember what happened

to Filian."

She stiffened. How could she forget? Not five years before, Quill

and her mate Filian had engaged in a formal combat, what the

X'Ting called "going to the sand." And there, before the council, the

lethal Quill had slain her love. If she lived to a thousand, she would

never forget the sight.

"Do not weaken," he said. "Do not waver. Or you will suffer."

And then he was gone.

G'Mai Duris bid the rest of her guests farewell and took her shuttle

back to her apartment. She had loved Filian completely. As they

had spiraled through the eternal dance of male and female, each moment

and way of being had been, in its turn, exquisite.

But he had died before the fertilization dance could begin. So

childless, alone with her empty egg sac, she rocked in the darkness,

tears of terror and loneliness slicking her faceted emerald eyes.

A s the new recruits practiced their maneuvers, Nate watched,

noted, and made adjustments in this obstacle course or that targeting

range. Forry approached him at an easy trot, the sort of pace that a

common man would find exhausting in ten minutes, and a trooper

could continue all day long.

"Sir!" the commando said, saluting smartly. "More recruits arrive."

"How many?"

Forry smiled with satisfaction. "Two dozen, sir!"

Nate felt a warm flush. This was exactly the kind of news he had

hoped for. "We'll make a fight of this yet," he said.

Nate was well satisfied with what he saw, and was moving the intensity

up a notch when Sheeka approached behind him.

"So?" she asked. "What do you think?"

He was pleased to realize that he felt confident to intuit her meaning.

"Not too bad," he said. "Farm boys and deep miners, but they can

take orders."

"They're tough folk," Sheeka said. "A lot of them think it's time to

fight."

"And you?"

"I just fly," she said.

"You might do just fine," he said. "Strong legs and back, good reflexes.

You might think about signing up."

She laughed. "No experience. And experience counts." Then she

glanced at him. "On the other hand, you weren't always the old

battle-scarred veteran, were you?"

Nate shook his head. Then with a slight smile, he added, "True.

But our simulations are . . . quite stimulating." He moved his shoulders

a bit, rolling out the stiffness and remembering Vondar-3.

"I'm sure they are," she said.

He watched as the training droid's arms flexed in multiple directions,

giving each recruit the motivation he or she needed to excel.

"They are eager enough—but they'd have their heads handed to

them by experienced troops, or battle droids."

"I've watched you with them," she said. "I think the four of you are

just the man for the job."

For a moment he thought that she had misspoken herself, then

realized that her straight face was only being maintained with effort.

She laughed out loud.

Nate felt his own lips twitching, understanding her joke, and that

even though it was at his expense, he appreciated it.

"Yes, we are," he said.

With that, he left her and went down to take a more personal hand

in the training. It was not entirely lost on him that he squared his

shoulders just a little more rigidly, that he moved a bit faster in

demonstrating unarmed combat moves, that he was a hair more alert,

because he knew Sheeka was watching. And although he felt a bit

absurd for it, at the same time he enjoyed her attention, and hoped

that she would be there when the day was done.

I n ChikatLik, diplomatic operations proceeded at a glacial pace.

Snoil spent the mornings and much of the afternoons poring over

contracts, and finally twined his eye stalks in frustration. "Ah!

I've lost ten years' growth on my shell," he whined. "Have you seen

these?"

"What?" asked Obi-Wan, who was working to establish secure

communications with Coruscant. This necessitated linking through

Xutoo at their docked ship. So far, a solar storm seemed to have

distorted the link.

"The little cracks and fissures here where the new chitin is forming."

Snoil craned his long neck to look back at his flat shell's attractive

curls and swoops. In truth, he was accurate: there were new

cracks where the thinnest, newest shell segments should have been

forming.

"Ah, yes, I see," Obi-Wan said, distracted. "What does it mean?"

Snoil's eye stalks coiled in distress. "Stress! Stress, I tell you."

"Well, I don't want to add to your burden . . ."

"Oh, please . . . "

The hololink suddenly cleared, and Supreme Chancellor Palpatine

floated in the air before him. Snoil immediately quieted.

"Chancellor," Obi-Wan said.

"My Jedi friend. What news have you?"

"I believe that the Regent is of good heart, but fears for her life if

she acts her conscience."

"And what do you think her conscience would dictate?"

"That which is best for all Cestus: suspension of manufacture."

"Then what is the problem?"

"I believe the real power is in a group called the Five Families,

owners of Cestus Cybernetics. And they think of little save profit."

"Then you may need to take matters to the next level. I believe you

were given reliable contacts. Have you used them?"

"I believe Master Fisto has met with one. I meet with the other

tonight."

"I wish you fortune, Master Kenobi. Remember: little time remains,

if we would avert disaster."

"Yes, sir," Obi-Wan said, but before he could speak further the

Chancellor was gone.

He sighed, turning to Snoil. "Barrister," he said. "If you had a wish

list of... secure documents, what would be at the top?"

Doolb moaned. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I say?"

"The truth."

His eye stalks twined around each other. "I think I would ask for

the original papers of incorporation and land purchase. And, oh—

the purchase orders themselves between Cestus Cybernetics and

Count Dooku or his intermediaries."

"Will do." He slapped Snoil's shell with the flat of his hand. "If

anyone asks, just tell them I'm sampling the native cuisine," he said,

lake care.

And with that, Obi-Wan left their suite.

Obi-Wan was able to slip into an empty room down the hall, and

from there to exit through a window unmonitored by the security

forces which doubtless kept a long-distance view of all his activities.

He climbed up to the roof and rode a service chute down to the

street, landing in an alleyway with his knees slightly bent, cushioning

the shock. Three steps and he blended with the crowd, none of

whom took the slightest notice of him.

Obi-Wan had heard of other planets that had begun as prison

colonies, but never actually visited one. He was heartened by the

overwhelming sense of energy and aliveness. Everywhere he looked

the streets were filled with milling, thronging offworlders. Although

there were only a smattering of X'Ting citizens to be seen, the city

did remind him of a hive colony. Commerce was conducted every

minute of the day, and every being he passed was trading in one way

or another. One out of ten shops was boarded up, but the others

buzzed with a frantic sense of activity, as if dancing on the edge of a

precipice. How many Cestians understood the game her masters

were playing? Even if without conscious awareness, these people

seemed a little too bright and aware. This was nervousness, not exuberance.

He hailed one of the cheaper, older air taxis, figuring that they

were less likely to be tied into the surveillance grid. Even if they were,

technically speaking he was doing nothing illegal or that would

overtly damage his mission. The driver's taxi holocard read GRITT

CHIPPLE. Gritt was X'Ting, with the red thoracic fur indicating descent

from a lower hive clan. "Your destination?" Gritt inquired.

"The Night Shade." Gritt Chippie flinched. Clearly, he knew the

Night Shade, and was not entirely happy to travel there.

"Hard credits," Obi-Wan added, and offered the little X'Ting

some Cestian chits. The driver's red eyes lit up. The chits were onplanet

and therefore easier to change, and not tied into the galactic

credit grid like the Republic chits. Untraceable. Avarice overwhelmed

fear. "Aye," he said, and they zipped away.

"You Jedi?"

Obi-Wan nodded. He was not disguised, but had hoped that he

might avoid notice.

"Then I heard of you. You wan' ride back from Night Shade?"

"That might be good, yes."

The little one made a spitting sound that Obi-Wan interpreted as

pleasure. "Then I wait for you. You be careful. Sometimes offworlders

not safe." Another spitting sound. "Sir."

The car had been riding along the side of the vast cave, but then

leapt into the maelstrom of ChikatLik. The complex was dizzying

even to one who lived in the fabled Jedi Temple. The driver floated

through the maze as only one born to a planet could do, and Obi-

Wan thought that Anakin might well have appreciated the little

X'Ting's facility.

Five minutes' travel brought them to a darker, grimmer section,

one set off from the main business districts. This was a place where

reputable citizens strayed on only the most disreputable of business.

Where in other parts of the city he saw only a few X'Ting per hundred

citizens, here, finally, the insectile beings were plentiful.

The driver handed him a triangular holochip. "Trigger this when

you want ride," he said, and the door opened. Obi-Wan tipped Gritt

handsomely and exited. The tattered little taxi cruised off, leaving

Obi-Wan alone.

Following memorized instructions, Obi-Wan approached the

door guarded by the two massive X'Ting guards. Females, no doubt.

The males were smaller and more lethal, but the females were more

intimidating to offworlders, who often failed to realize that much of

the bulky body was mere egg sac.

"You wish—?" the larger of them asked in a surprisingly cultured

voice.

He spoke a code word, then said, "I have an appointment with

Trillot." Not exactly the truth, but he knew that their contacts had

warned the X'Ting gang lord to expect him.

"A minute," the smaller said, and slipped back through the entrance,

emerging a moment later to hold the door open. "Enter."

Eyes measured him, not all of them respectful. A few were curious,

wondering if he was typical of his kind, wondering if the Jedi were as

strong as their supporters said, or as weak as the Separatists claimed.

The den was dark, and alien eyes glimmered at him from the darkness.

No one guided him, as if they expected him to find his own

way.

He could tell by the body language of the beings he encountered,

their posture and expressions, which way through the maze Trillot

lay. If this was some kind of a test, he intended to pass it with flying

colors.

On every side of him wafted the smells and sounds and sights of

an utterly corrupt habitat. Clearly, these were social dregs, y e t . . . to

be so close to the inner circle of the powerful Trillot, they had to have

resources, if nothing other than Trillot s trust. So Obi-Wan might as

well consider this the gangster's hive, a place the X'Ting kept for his

own comfort, something that reminded him of his own grubhood,

even if it demanded the destruction of other beings.

He recoiled at the thought, but kept his thoughts and feelings to

himself.

At the end of the corridor was another door, and before this one

stood a second pair of X'Ting bodyguards braced at attention. Males

this time, and genuinely lethal. They opened the door as he approached.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the interior. Trillot sat

perched on a tall cushion, puffing contentedly on a pipe of some

kind, long thin vapor curls spiraling from slits in the side of her neck.

The swollen thorax, ready to be filled with fertilized eggs, told Obi-

Wan that Trillot had completed the swing from male to female.

"Jedi," Trillot said, her faceted eyes fixed on Obi-Wan. "Welcome

to my abode."

"Mistress Trillot," Obi-Wan said, and then bowed slightly, reciting

a complex series of sounds in X'Ting.

Trillot's eyes glittered. "You are very cultured for a human. Please.

Come sit by my side."

Obi-Wan did so as Trillot took several more puffs. "I would not insult

a Jedi," she said, "by publicly offering the fruit of fantazi."The

implication was obvious.

Kenobi smiled. "We have business," he said. "Fantazi clouds the

mind."

Trillot nodded. "But also sharpens the senses."

"We both know why I am here," Obi-Wan said. "War sweeps

across the galaxy. Cestus is not immune to its touch."

"War . . . or peace," Trillot said with a deep and evidently satisfying

puff. "Either way, I make my profit."

Bluff.

"Not if that war destroys Cestus's industrial capacity. Then there

are no workers to exploit. Then you suffer as well."

Trillot nodded slowly, as if Obi-Wan had indeed made an important

point. "I wish to avoid travail if that is at all possible."

"I believe it is."

"Then I will listen. What is it that I can do for you?"

Good. Avarice was a useful lever. "My friends on Coruscant say

you have a finger on everything that happens here," he said.

Trillot tittered. "How perceptive."

Obi-Wan lowered his voice slightly. "I wish to know the secret

codicils between the Families and the Confederacy."

At that, Trillot seemed to be taken a bit aback. "Indeed? Such information

would be hard-won."

"I have resources."

"Do you? I have resources as well. I would be loath to endanger

them on such a mission."

"I was told that if anyone could reveal the industrial system's weakness,

it would be you."

Trillot inhaled deeply. A long, thin stream of smoke escaped her

shallow throat-slits. "And if—that is to say if I was to share that

knowledge, how might it benefit me and mine?"

"In order to keep the peace and keep these devices off the market,

the Republic is prepared to offer a generous contract for droids. Your

information is valuable in . . . favorably resolving my negotiations. I

will give you advance notice of the order's size and specifications."

"And why would that interest me?"

Obi-Wan knew that they were equally aware of the stakes involved.

"Because it would give you time to buy and hoard certain

components, equipment, raw materials. I'm certain an enterprising

lady such as yourself can see the potential."

Trillot exhaled, and her face took on an arrangement that Obi-

Wan believed was a smile. "You think like a criminal," she said.

"One of my many failings."

"I like that in a man," Trillot said, leaning close enough for Obi-

Wan to catch a whiff of pheromones. Possibly a seductive move among

the X'Ting, but to Obi-Wan, Trillot smelled like a tannery.

"So?"

Trillot sighed. "So. Well, then. Yes, it is true. There is a weakness

in the system, but only because it would kill those who tried to exploit

it."

Interesting. "Explain."

"Radiation," Trillot said. "It is said that beneath the industrial city

of Clandes lies a juncture box where the landlines cross. Not all communications

are wireless—not since the uprisings a century ago.

These landlines can directly access the main terminal, with only

minor safeguards. After reconfiguration, that entire area was designated

unfit for habitation, and the workers moved out. With the

safety regulations no longer so . . . stringent, they saved money on

shielding. It would kill you in a few minutes . . . unless you had a class

six Baktoid radiation suit."

"Which I assume you have?"

"Let's just say that a lady of my peculiar resources knows how to

acquire such things."

"And what might the price of such a wonder be?"

"Such suits are rare, now that the Baktoid factories are shut down,"

Trillot said mildly. "What you wish done is singular. If and when you

commit such an act, any who know of the suit's sale would know to

come looking for Trillot."

"What price?"

"It will never happen . . . but let's say half a million credits."

Half a million. More than he planned to pay, but possible. Still, if

he gave in too quickly, this gangster would lose respect for him. Future

negotiations would be strained. "Absurd."

Trillot might have been reading his mind. "Yes. Isn't it?"

The two bantered and sparred for a few more minutes, and then

Obi-Wan softened his stance. "So . . . through this terminal, assuming

that the agent did not die of radiation poisoning, the production

line could be shut down . . . or crashed?"

"It could happen, yes." Trillot seemed delighted with herself.

"Even if I had half a million credits, I am not yet prepared to engage

in sabotage against the Clandes factory," he said. "Let us discuss

other alternatives."

"A question," Trillot asked. "If that central computer were shut

down, the entire economy goes . . . pfft. Not good for business, eh?"

"No," Obi-Wan said, certain of his ground. "The luxury droids

would stop. Low-end droids could continue manufacture under license."

"Ah. Then Cestus would fall neatly into the Republic's arms, and

business can continue as before."

"So," Obi-Wan said, extending both hands palm forward in the

manner of agreeable X'Tings. "We have a deal?"

"Details on the trade agreement?"

"That's all for now. And inquiries concerning that suit."

"It will be done."

He touched palms with Trillot, and then, bowing, he turned and

left.

Trillot waited a few moments, puffing again from the pipe. Smoke

drifted from the flaps in her neck.

As if on cue, Ventress appeared. Her tattooed scalp seemed almost

to glow in the dim light. She seemed thoughtful but not disturbed.

"So," she said. "Kenobi wants the notes of Count Dooku's negotiations

with the Five Families, as well as secret codicils between Cestus

Cybernetics and the hive."

Trillot blinked. "Does this disturb you?"

"No. It excites me." She closed her eyes and smiled, lost in her own

speculations. "Obi-Wan and I have an appointment."

Trillot ceased to take pleasure from her draws, and coughed a bit,

furious to have revealed her inner mood in such a gauche fashion.

Her broodmates would have been ashamed. "What shall I do? If it is

that important, then surely I should refuse to supply him."

Ventress's eyes rolled up and lost focus, as if seeking a distant vista.

"No."

"I can give him false information—" she tried again.

"No." Ventress had focused again, and was even more certain this

time. "He may have other sources. This may be nothing more than a

test. If you fail it, he will never trust you again." She paused a moment,

and her eyes shivered side to side in their internal search for

truth or clarity. "And," she continued, "I think that before this is

through, it will prove to be good that he trusts you." She considered,

and then the first smile creased those thin, pale lips. "Yes, I believe

that that is true."

bi-Wan Kenobi slipped out of Trillot's den. With every step it

seemed as if layers of a toxic curtain were lifting from his mind.

Gritt Chippie was waiting for him even before he triggered the little

chip he had been given. The taxi driver seemed a bit off-put.

"Sir Jedi," he said. "I got a flash. Asked me to link you to another

taxi."

Obi-Wan's eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"Don't know who. Link you?"

This was interesting. Who would attempt such an unusual contact?

"By all means."

The X'Ting driver dithered over a fingerboard, and an indistinct

face appeared. Not male or female—it was deliberately obscured for

gender and species. The voice was masked as well. "I respectfully request

the honored guest meet me at the Cleft Head for a cup of

wake-tea and a bit of discussion. I believe he will find it to his benefit."

A map appeared.

"Where would this take us?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Im'grant section. Not bad, not good. Strange." Chippie shrugged.

"I know not say, sir."

Obi-Wan checked over his recent actions. He didn't recall anything

0

unusually suspicious. So if it was a trap, why not stay their hand until

something actually occurred? "Let's go," he said. But as they rose and

flew away, Obi-Wan felt comforted by the weight and heft of the

lightsaber at his side.

Obi-Wan entered the Cleft Head through a door that resembled a

quartet of X'Ting hive cubicles. As he crossed the threshold, Obi-

Wan heard a raucous scream. The mob of X'Ting and offworlders

backed away, giving two combatants room.

Two young X'Ting males circled each other, and then one lunged.

The other danced away, and both curled their abdomens: quartermeter-

long stingers emerged. Both male and female X'Ting had

stingers, but those of the males were slightly longer, the poison more

deadly. Their increased strength-to-weight ratios as they dumped

their egg sacs made them far faster.

Their stingers stabbed at each other. Finally, one made a mistake,

and the stinger plunged deep. The stricken X'Ting seemed paralyzed

with fear even before the toxin took effect. Then he foamed, shuddered

and collapsed, shaking. And then was still...

The bar's patrons turned back to their drinks, as if this was a

nightly occurance.

The Cleft Head wake-up house served a thousand stimulants from

a hundred worlds, designed to help office workers burn the midnight

wick without collapse. It was all legal, although Obi-Wan was certain

that within its confines access to slightly less legal substances was

easily arranged.

He chose a table that allowed him to watch the door and ordered

a cup of Tatooine H'Kak bean tea. The fragrant orange-colored extract

had hardly been delivered to his table before a bulky figure in an

enveloping cloak slipped into the chair opposite him.

"G'Mai Duris," he said, sipping. H'Kak beans were positively wizard

at brushing away the heavy, noxious strands remaining from Trillot's

den. "I'd hoped it might be one of your emissaries, but dared not

hope you'd come yourself." He kept his voice low. Her face was hidden

within the folds of her cowl, but he recognized her faceted eyes

at once. If Duris wished to travel incognito among her constituents,

he had to assume that she had good reason. Besides, another question

needed answering. "How did you find me?"

"I have my own sources, my own spies," she said. "And some report

directly to me rather than to the council. Some in low places have

found me trustworthy in the past. It was sheer chance that they

picked you up entering Trillot's lair."

She cocked her head sideways, and although he could barely see

her eyes, he knew they would be hooded with challenge. "I assume

you did not go to Trillot in search of intoxication. May I ask your

business?"

"Perhaps when we know each other a bit better," he said, buying

himself time.

"Perhaps."

She laughed, and he thought its sound more genuine and unaffected

than any she had made in her public mode. "This is Chikat-

Lik's immigrant section. They came during our boom days, and now

many of them are trapped onplanet, without enough credits to get

home. They're more concerned with finding jobs or transport than

listening to conversations. They don't pay attention, Master Kenobi.

At times, the best hiding place is in plain sight."

"So, then. The Cleft Head bar, indeed."

"I was hoping that you might sneak out. And that if you did, I

might be able to meet with you."

Obi-Wan nodded. "Now that I understand your method, perhaps

you can enlighten me as to your intent."

"For the first time I can speak freely—" She paused. "Or almost

freely, at any rate."

He chuckled. "You have my attention."

"Regardless of what you may think, Cestus's Regency is a sham—

governments come and go, but the Five Families who controlled the

early droid and armor works—mining, fabrication, sales and distribution,

research, and energy—actually control everything. I believe

they favor the Confederacy."

"You believe?"

She sighed. "I have no real proof. I am related to the hive's royal

house. My cousin Quill is royalty as well, but since he killed my mate,

and stole hive council leadership"—she cast her faceted eyes downward—"

I am no longer privy to the inner workings of the Five Families

or the hive council. I no longer know if their decisions are made

by vote, or if some one or two of them have taken power. No one

knows who holds the ultimate power. No one can pierce the melded

corporate veil."

"Corporate veil?" Obi-Wan mused. "More of a family veil."

"True. No outsiders know the business of those meetings."

"What of the planet's other original inhabitants?"

"Its aboriginals?" She shrugged. "Most are dead and gone, or pushed

to the Badlands. The spider folk were once strong, but I doubt there

is a single intact clan left on the surface."

The buzz of the Cleft Head rose, and then ebbed again, a current

that washed over them in waves. "I am afraid, Master Jedi. I see no

good way out of this."

"Might they replace you as Regent?"

"No," she said flatly. "I am Regent for life." She lowered her head.

"He would take the Regency himself, if that would not so baldly proclaim

a conflict of interests. He controls the hive council, and is in

turn controlled by the Five Families."

"And what does this mean?"

"It means that the checks and balances that should protect the indigenous

peoples are nonexistent. It means that the original contracts

with the hive can be manipulated in any way profitable to the Families."

This was ghastly. "And you cannot stand against him?"

"If I go against Quill, he will just challenge me, kill me, and replace

me." She paused. "As he did my mate Filian."

"And you are afraid of him?"

"He is one of the hive's most lethal fighters." She shivered at the

very thought.

"Why are you meeting with me?"

Her eyes flashed. "When I took office, I found a datapad left by

one of my predecessors, a hundred fifty years ago. It spoke of another

Jedi, named Yoda, I believe."

Obi-Wan couldn't resist a smile. Yoda? He didn't recall hearing

about the great Jedi Master on a planet named Cestus.

" . . . he was marooned here while escorting a prisoner, and did

great service to the hive. My predecessor trusted the Jedi, so I trust

you. I believe I can speak to you honestly, and receive honesty in

return."

"I will do what I can, so long as it does not compromise my mission."

"It does not," she assured him.

"Then we are just two new friends sharing a quiet hour, and a bit

of H'Kak."

She took a deep breath. "Thank you. You and I walk through a hall

of mirrors, Obi-Wan. Count Dooku's order will force my people to

choose between economic collapse and military defeat. I believe

those who placed the orders knew i t . . . and perhaps even hoped for

such a situation."

Reasonable. "For what purpose?"

"I do not know. I fear Cestus is a pawn in a larger, more dangerous

game."

Obi-Wan hunched closer. "What manner of game?"

"I do not know. I say only that I sense the hand of a master games

player, but do not know the end."

He considered what she had said so far, and realized that there was

nothing there that he could not have learned on his own. Was she

attempting to manipulate him, or could he trust his Jedi intuition?

The Clone Wars had raged for some time now. Wouldn't G'Mai

know more than this? She would have an idea what the larger game

was.

A game that Obi-Wan, for all of his experience and power, was ill

prepared to play.

"It is almost as if a stalemate is actually desired," she said. "I cannot

make more sense of it all than that."

"Why are you telling me these things?"

Her shoulders slumped. "I don't know. Perhaps because it is a

lonely knowledge. In sharing it, I become a bit less isolated."

If she spoke the truth, then part of her reason for speaking to him

was that, being from offplanet, she knew she could trust him as she

could no one enmeshed in Cestus's power structure. If she could not

see any means out of the current dilemma, then this was a plea for

him to unravel a knot centuries in the making. He was not here for

this! He was here for one reason and one reason only, to keep Cestus

from producing and exporting more JK droids.

The Cleft Head cantina was filled wall-to-wall with stimulantseeking

customers, and it was not difficult for Ventress to blend in,

again using a portion of her Force energy to shield herself from Obi-

Wan's keen senses. He was one of the most powerful Jedi she had

ever met. She believed herself stronger, but was not so certain as she

had once been.

Nevertheless, his strength made the taste of her inevitable victory

all the sweeter.

Ventress blended seamlessly into Cleft Head's multispecies milieu,

observing without being observed. She enjoyed this risky game,

shielding herself from Obi-Wan, gliding close until she could feel his

awareness flutter, then backing away again, playing with the edge of

his perceptions.

The moment was so dangerous that it filled her senses, was more

potent than any fleshly pleasure or drug could ever be. This was danger,

in its rawest sense. To play with the senses of a master opponent

tested the limits of her emotions, emotions that she kept under tight

control. It was . . . intoxicating, yes, that was the word.

There. She came closer for a moment, allowed a bit more of her attention

to flirt with the exterior shell of his aura, which flickered in

her sight like a field of soft small lights.

In one sense, there was little risk: she could watch him, would

know if he was beginning to focus his attention on the exterior and

away from his conversation, and had every confidence in her ability

to withdraw before he became aware.

Delicious.

"Shhh," she whispered, so softly that she could not actually hear

her own words. "So close. So easy. He doesn't even know you exist."

A sharp uptake of breath. "No. No, there—he almost sensed something,

but you were gone before he noticed. He will scan. He will see

nothing. You are nothing."

She could see that there was some thread of communication growing

between Obi-Wan and Duris. Well, it didn't matter.

Whatever he tried, Ventress stood ready. Whatever his plan, she

was prepared to counter it. In fact, whatever it was the two of them

had in mind, she would use it to lure him into her trap. This time,

there would be no escape.

She had yet to meet with the Five Families, but could still use

them. Bait, that was the approach. She would have tracking and listening

devices attached to their vehicles and persons. They would be

followed, their actions and words recorded.

And somewhere in the process, she would trap Kenobi. She could

feel it. This was the planet, this was the time.

Obi-Wan Kenobi would be hers.

Delicious.

Twice since landing on this planet, Obi-Wan had felt . . . something.

Not quite enough to fully bring him to attention. Certainly

not enough to clearly identify. Comprehension eluded him, as if he

were groping for an object just out of reach. But although none of his

senses could touch such a phantom object directly, the mere withdrawal

left ripples in water . . . or in the air. And now there was a ripple

in the Force. A not-presence. Something withdrawn. Something

missing.

He did not feel it consciously. In fact, the more consciously he

searched, the more it slipped away, as if he had imagined the entire

thing. So he concentrated on the conversation with G'Mai, leaving

only the slightest sliver of attention, a merest mote, to scan the surroundings,

searching not for a presence, but another . . . lack of presence.

Yes. Another sense of withdrawal.

It was too small to integrate itself into his consciousness at the

moment. Not until later, in the depth of his Jedi meditations, might

this small trap bear fruit. But he could wait.

30

F. or a dozen generations the leaders of the Five Families had ruled

as if by divine privilege. So long as ore flowed to the foundries, and

those foundries fed the factories creating droids and armor, channeling

credits to Cestus coffers, that power might last for generations

more.

The trappings of royalty provided what the actuality did not: a lavish

wealth of art, fine subtle scents, and furnishings that might have

done credit to any office in the Republic. If Cestus could not come to

civilization, civilization had indeed come to Cestus.

At the moment, however, some of the conversation in the throne

room was far from polite. For hours now the arguments had raged,

and although on the surface the words used were polite, there was no

mistaking the fierceness beneath them.

"Every event can have multiple meanings as well as consequences,"

said Llitishi, whose family had sprung from the daughter of an ore

miner and the son of a murderer.

"I am aware of this," Duris said.

Quill, the room's only other X'Ting, stood. "The hive is upset that

the Republic Senate has declared planets have no right of secession."

The Five Family leaders were arrayed in a semicircle about Duris s

throne. In theory, the forces they represented were no more powerful

than hers. In practice, of course, Duris was almost completely

under their control.

"They are not fools," Duris said. "If Palpatine interferes with our

right to commerce, it will drive more planets away."

Quill bore in. "If the Republic offers violence as a means of persuasion,

the situation worsens."

Duris sighed, and remained silent as her esteemed guest spoke. It

had been a week now, and as Obi-Wan presented his case to yet another

group of the Five Families' representatives and barristers, she

began to despair that a true consensus would ever be reached.

"I stand before you with a fair and just offer," Obi-Wan said. "We

can stop the Gabonna crystal blockade and advance funds to purchase

two thousand units of your class JL and JK droids."

G'Mai paused. This offer was new. She knew, of course, that Obi-

Wan had been communicating with his Coruscant masters. In fact,

some of those communications had already been intercepted and decrypted.

The X'Ting was similarly taken aback. "That might...," he said,

then emphasized, "might be enough to secure our market position."

Debbikin nodded. "I am willing to believe that this Jedi speaks

honorably."

Obi-Wan inclined his head. "A fact noted and appreciated."

Lady Por'Ten's nephew raised his skeletal hand, as if warding off

expectations of easy settlement. "But even this offer is risky. The cost

of the war mounts. Taxes soar. The central government offers payment

in credit bonds, to be redeemed at a later time. Such bonds can

be traded for goods, but usually at a lower rate than face value .. ."

Obi-Wan had kept his voice and manner even, but he found the

entire discussion dreadful, dull, and exasperating. Time was short,

and there was a limit to the tricks he could pull, a limit to the negotiating

room extended him by the Supreme Chancellor.

And if he ran out of maneuvering room . . . he shuddered to think

of the cost. Perhaps sensing his mood, Snoil bent down and whispered

to him. "Time is running out. This is more and more troubling:

if the Republic wins, the rebellious planets will face a heavy punishment

for their attempt to leave. But if the Republic loses, then planets

belonging to the Republic will carry the tax burden."

Obi-Wan felt the patch of cold behind his left ear expand. The

stress level was climbing intolerably. "My cephalopodan friend, you

are giving me a headache. You, and the sense that Duris may be correct."

"In what way?" Snoil asked.

The Five Family executives were so busy arguing with each other

that for the moment, no one seemed focused on them. "This may all

be misdirection," he said. "I fear that lack of clarity will haunt me

yet."

Duris raised both primary and secondary hands, requesting quiet.

"We have an obligation to conduct these negotiations with good faith.

I believe my honored associates hold the financial welfare of Cestus

Cybernetics closely to heart, as they should. I represent the planet of

Cestus, with all its citizens, and the hive, and its interests. Cestus Cybernetics

could conceivably move to another planet, whereas this is

our only home. Save the squabbling for another time. Our survival is

at stake."

There was stunned silence for a moment, and then the discussion

began anew, this time with a less argumentative tone.

After the hours of negotiation were past, the Jedi and the barrister

returned to their lodgings. The other members of the Five Families

packed their docufiles and left, but Quill approached Duris.

"You have blocked me for the last time," he said, seething. "I have

spent a lifetime arranging a deal just such as this, and I will not tolerate

your interference. Appear before the council tonight. You may

end your own life, or you can go to the sand. Those are your only

choices."

He leaned closer. "Personally, I hope you choose to fight. It would

be good to kill you, as I did your mate. He died begging. I would like

to hear those same words from you, smell your surrender."

Quill paused. "Then, of course, I will kill you."

31

I n the dead of night, Trillot's people delivered the documents Obi-

Wan had requested. Between those and the official records, Snoil

had access to enough information to keep a research staff busy for

years.

They didn't have years.

He absorbed, scanned, noted, summoned up abstracts, and worked

well into the night. As far as Obi-Wan could determine, the Vippit

hadn't slept since they arrived. Because he was uncertain of Vippit

physiology, he wasn't sure whether this was exceptional. Still, he had

grown more and more concerned until the hour when an exhausted

Snoil informed Obi-Wan that he was ready for sleep.

Snoil crawled into his bedroom and was not seen again for ten

hours, when he appeared in the doorway with an enormous smile

splitting his face.

"Doolb?" Obi-Wan asked.

Snoil was radiant. "Obi-Wan!" he called. "Obi-Wan! While I

slept, the two halves of my brain talked to each other. I've found it!"

"Found what?" he asked.

"Look here," he said, feverish with excitement. "In this document,

executives of the Cestus Cybernetics boast about the fact that the

land was purchased with synthstones. They actually laugh at the ignorant

aboriginals."

Venality. Offensive in all its forms. "And?"

"Technically, synthstones represent counterfeit money." Snoil's

eyes gleamed. "Follow me here, Obi-Wan. Cestus Cybernetics was a

licensed subsidiary of the prison. The prison was constructed and operated

under a Republic contract."

"Yes? And?" He still couldn't see where this was leading.

"Obi-Wan," Snoil said in exasperation, "Cestus Cybernetics was at

that point a representative of the Republic, held to the same standards

as any ambassador. A purchase made with counterfeit currency

is no purchase at all. This nullifies the original sale. The land beneath

every factory on Cestus still belongs to the hive!"

Obi-Wan's head spun. If this information got out, the Five Families

were finished. Coruscant would take control of the situation, and

only the hive would profit. Great for X'Ting, but if the economy

crashed, the water and food shortages might kill millions. So it was a

dreadful, last-minute leverage, barely better than an all-out bombardment.

But it was better . . .

T here was a knock on the door. Chippie the driver stood in the entrance,

his secondary hands extending a datadisk. "Client say play

this."

Obi-Wan inserted the disk in his astromech, and waited a moment

as the image field was generated.

G'Mai Duris appeared in the air before them. "Things have come

to a head," she said, "and my leadership of the hive council is under

attack. There is no one else I can trust, and I ask that you come to my

quarters, where we can speak in greater privacy. My condition is

dire."

Duris kept an apartment in the penthouse section of ChikatLik. A

servant admitted Obi-Wan to the luxurious accommodations.

The inside of her apartment was a blend of technology and traditional

X'Ting "chewed duracrete" architecture.

Obi-Wan followed Duris into her kitchen. There, a variety of

glowing lights were illuminating a beautiful little garden of various

mushrooms and fungi. It took his breath away. This was master-level

skill, a lifetime's education in creating a miniature fungus forest.

"Beautiful," he said.

"It is our medicine and cuisine, our meditation and entertainment,"

Duris said. "Each family has its own mushroom forest, a balance

of different species that has been passed through the line for

thousands of years."

G'Mai Duris took a twist here, a pinch there, and as Obi-Wan

watched put the finishing touches on a meal that seemed created

of a hundred different dishes using fungi of varying texture in various

ways. Her private forest provided the spice and garnish. Larger

amounts of a heavier, meatier fungus were added from a special

locker. The aromas were growing almost intoxicatingly delicious

when she said, "I am being forced to fight Quill tonight. I've heard of

the Jedi—you are said to be the greatest fighters in the galaxy. Can

you teach me to fight?"

Obi-Wan bowed his head. "I am sorry. There is no time." He considered.

She kept preparing, but her primary and secondary hands were

starting to shake.

"Is it possible that you might have a second?" he asked. "A champion?"

"It is not done," she said sadly. "I had hoped this day would never

arrive. So. I knew it was a foolish hope," she added. "Still, I had to try.

Would you stay, please, and dine with me? Please?"

She was shaking so piteously that he couldn't deny her.

She served him what she called her "death meal." A last ritual act.

As she had with every official motion and word, her actions were

perfect. Her motions were precise, elegant, controlled.

He asked her questions about the hive, and the rituals.

She kept glancing at the chrono, and he knew her time was drawing

near.

"I cannot face Quill in the arena, just to be slaughtered publicly. I

am afraid of what I might do. I might beg and disgrace my lineage.

Better for me to die tonight. In my fungus forest are the plants

I need to end my life." She smiled wanly. "There is a saying among

my people: Death is darkness. The children are safe. It means to have

courage."

So things had gone that far. He was appalled that her conversation

could have taken such a lethally casual tone.

A thought occurred to him. "What happens if both you and Quill

die?" he asked.

"Then the council would be free to make its own decisions. Without

Quill, I believe they would be more reasonable."

"Then I have the answer for you," Obi-Wan said. "The answer is

in your death meal."

"What?"

"Listen to me," he said, and bent close. "I have the answer, if you

have the courage."

Together they took a turbolift down into the depths of the city,

below the sections where offworlders lived and worked and thought

themselves the owners of a captive world. Down into the oldest sections

they went. There, some thousands of X'Ting still lived in something

approximating a community.

The caves had been formed by water seepage, not volcanic activity.

The walls had been textured with the familiar creases of hive-style

chewed duracrete. Here, below, they did things in the old ways.

At the hive council table sat twelve ancient X'Ting, one for each of

the planet's hives. How powerful and regal they must have seemed

once. Now, their hives broken and scattered, they clung to mere fragments

of their former glory. Despite their daily humiliations, the

twelve faced their Regent and her offworlder companion with dignity.

Quill doffed his robe, baring his powerful thorax. "So you decided

not to take your life," he grinned. "Good. I want the entire council to

smell the stench as you die."

Duris trembled so badly she could barely remove her cloak, and almost

dropped it as she handed it to Obi-Wan. "Courage," he said

softly. "Death is darkness. The children will be safe."

"I have no children," she whispered. It was almost a whimper.

"Every soul on this planet is in your hands," he said. "They are all

your children."

G'Mai Duris nodded.

Their arena was a circle of groomed sand twenty meters in diameter.

Radiating contempt, Quill began as Duris expected, strutting

and boasting. He made short, lightning stinger thrusts, and instead

of responding with parry or flight, Duris closed her eyes, folding together

the fingers of her primary and secondary hands.

"The answer is in your death meal, " Obi-Wan had told her. The

ritual death meal, designed to drain all emotion. Only a master, prepared

to serve the death meal from birth, could have matched her actions

in the apartment. Even though facing the end of her life,

G'Mai Duris had been utterly calm.

"This is what you do," Obi-Wan had said. "Close your eyes. Think that

you are preparing your death meal, and be calm. When he stings you, the

instant you feel his stinger, sting him. Do not try to survive. Go as one already

dead."

Quill approached her, and she merely waited.

He turned this way and that, trying to frighten her. Nothing he

tried worked.

"There is a secret to the warrior arts, " Obi-Wan had said. "One that

has nothing to do with training. Nothing to do with fancy movements. It

is the willingness to trade lives with your enemy. To never fight for anything

you would not die for. Those who fight for glory, or gold, or power,

stand on shifting sand, not the bedrock of true courage. Fight for your people.

Fight for your mate. For you, dying means winning. The arena is not

a circle of sand. The arena is your heart."

Quill leapt and pranced and shook his stinger. He hissed and circled

and made fearsome faces. And through it all, G'Mai Duris

merely stood.

Waiting to share death with him.

At last Quill stopped, stupefied, for the first time his mask of confidence

cracking. Beneath, was fear.

G'Mai Duris stood, eyes closed. Waiting.

Quill's mouth quivered, and he lowered his eyes to the sand. " I . . .

I concede," he said, radiating hatred.

The eldest X'Ting on the council stood and spoke. "G'Mai Duris

is the winner. Caiza Quill must yield his seat."

G'Mai Duris drew herself up to full height, folding the fingers of

primary and secondary hands formally. "My peers and elders," she

said. "My dear friend Master Kenobi has told me an astonishing

thing. For centuries we have known that our ancestors were cheated

out of their land, land purchased with worthless baubles we believed

were legal tender.

"For years we had no means of redress, save to accept whatever

sops Cestus Cybernetics threw our way. But that has changed." Her

faceted eyes gleamed. "Master Kenobi brought a barrister with him

from Coruscant, a Vippit who knows their laws well. And according

to the central authority, if we should choose to press our suit, we can

destroy Cestus Cybernetics. If we own the land beneath their factories,

we can charge them whatever we wish for land usage, possibly

even take the facilities themselves."

"What?" the council's eldest said, faceted eyes widening in shock.

"Is this truth?"

Quill sputtered. "You would do nothing except destroy the planet!

Destroy Cestus Cybernetics, and you destroy our economy!"

The elder looked at Quill with contempt. "The hive was here before

Cestus Cybernetics. It is not the hive that will suffer if this company

changes hands . . . or even if it dies. It will be those who have

sold themselves to offworlders for a promise of power."

"But my lords," Duris said. "I have obligations to the offworlders,

people who came to Cestus with skills and heart, and wanted only to

build a life here. We cannot use this opportunity to destroy. We must

use it to build, and heal."

The elders nodded, as if pleased by her empathy.

Quill quivered. "You have won nothing, Duris! I will block you, I

swear. Regardless of what you think you have, what you think you

know . . . this isn't over yet." He stormed out, humiliated and enraged.

"Can he do that?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Perhaps. Any member of the Five Families can veto any specific

business deal. If he believes it is in his best interest, or just for the

sake of hatred, he will try." An alarming thought occurred to her. "He

might try to keep you from sending Palpatine this information. Perhaps

you should send it immediately."

Reluctantly, Obi-Wan shook his head. "The Chancellor will use it

to shut Cestus Cybernetics down legally. No one wins. I think our

best bet is to use this bit of information as final, emergency leverage."

He looked at that supposition from every angle he could, and saw no

flaw in his logic.

So. Nothing about this assignment was to be easy. "But the Families

have thought of all this as finances and politics. So long as they

do, they can make decisions based upon ledger sheets. It is time we

changed that, time we made their dilemma more . . . personal."

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."

isps 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 y e t . . .

"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.

34

P lanets 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.

35

c estus'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.

36

F rom 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?" she 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?"

37

B y the time Obi-Wan arrived at the palace, the halls were in an

uproar. He was hustled into G'Mai Duris's presence to see the regal

X'Ting hunched in her seat listening to the words of a round, shortlegged

Zeetsa with a very worried expression.

"—Regent Duris," the leathery blue creature said in conclusion.

Her stubby arms pointed at a glowing map hovering in the air. Her

eyes traced the map with concern.

"Excuse me, Shar Shar," Obi-Wan said as softly as he could. "If

there are concerns with the transportation grid that necessitate the

postponement of the day's negotiations, perhaps I should return at

another—"

Duris glanced up, an expression of surprise and then tears of gratitude

overflowing her faceted eyes. "Master Jedi!" she said. "Obi-

Wan. I am afraid we have an emergency. Thank goodness you are

here!"

"Indeed?" he asked. "How can I be of assistance?"

"The Five Families should have been here an hour ago. Their private

car seems to have disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Obi-Wan managed to conceal the pleasure in his

voice. "How is that possible?"

"The entire planet is honeycombed with tunnels. Many of them

are unmapped. We can only assume that someone, for their own

purposes, shunted the car off its route into one of these secondary

pathways."

"And as yet you have received no communication?"

"None," she said.

Obi-Wan studied the entire map, his face set sternly. "May I assume

that the other cars traveling along the map have sensors to

avoid collision?"

"My engineer can answer that question," Duris said.

The engineer was a small, graying human who looked as if the current

stress might cost him his few remaining sprigs of hair. "Yes, the

sensors are excellent."

"Tell me," Obi-Wan asked Duris, "what is known of the situation

at this time?"

"A group of Five Family executives were kidnapped."

"This Desert Wind group we've heard of?"

"We do not know," she replied. "We've heard little from them in

the past year, and considered their threat broken. Frankly, it doesn't

seem like their style."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and counted to five, and then opened

them again, retaining his most serious expression. "Can you holomap

the entire system?"

The engineer nodded. "Well, of course, but why?"

"In order to do something like this, to make the car disappear, they

have to have removed it from the grid. The individual magcars

should react to the absence of a moving object, slowing and speeding

themselves in compensation. The degree of disruption will increase

the closer we get to the point of departure."

"But they have clearly affected our computers. They left no

trace—"

"They left no direct data trace. But can the phantom car influence

proximity sensors on other system vehicles?"

"Well...," the engineer's mouth suddenly widened as he grasped

Obi-Wan's implication. "No. The safety system is off the main grid,

a backup system to prevent a single mistake in central command

from causing a systemwide catastrophe."

"Good," Obi-Wan said, as the complete system sprang to life in a

floating web of glowing silver threads. "Now I want you to filter for

proximity feedback from the cars themselves, showing their actual

positions and their projected positions according to schedule."

The engineer blanched. "But . . . we are not on Coruscant, sir.

We have no computer fast enough to find the original point of

departure—"

Obi-Wan raised his hand. "I am not searching for a thing. I need

to sense something that is not there. Where computers falter, the

Force may prevail. Please. Give me the images."

The engineer gawped at Obi-Wan. Then Duris nodded her head

and waved her primary hands, and he performed as requested. Soon

every image on the grid was doubled. "Make the projected images

red, and the actual ones blue," Obi-Wan said, his voice dropping low.

Duris remembered stories of these mystic warriors, and fought to

repress a tremor of almost supernatural awe. She nodded to the engineer,

and a series of ghostly overlay images began to form. Impossibly

complex, all of it, because as each car accelerated or decelerated to

compensate for the missing car, they began to interfere with other

cars on the tracks, causing them to slow or speed in a widening ripple

effect.

Obi-Wan stood in the middle of the vast rippling maze, his eyes

half lidded, arms outstretched as if actually feeling the entire web of

motion. Then, slowly, he turned and pointed to a stretch of tunnel

between one of the outer rings of luxury apartments and the central

city. "This," he said, "is where the phantom car originated. It is therefore

here that the real car went offline."

Duris glanced at the engineer, who hunched his shoulders. Per haps.

The Jedi traced a line along a branching tunnel. "And it went

here . . . " The tunnel branched again. He traced his finger along one

of the paths, and then backtracked and took the other. "And then

here, where it slowed and changed levels . . . "

The throne room was blindingly silent. The quiet heightened the

impact of each word almost unendurably. "And then it began moving

again, until..."

He cocked his head sideways. "This is strange. There is no track

indicated here. Should there be?"

The engineer cleared his throat. In fact, he looked a little frightened,

regarding their guest with something halfway between dread

and awe. "Well..." He consulted a holo rotating above his briefcase,

and raised his head again a moment later, that tense crease of his lips

deepened. "There is a utility corridor that was taken off the map because

it was in bad repair, and not up to recent safety standards."

Obi-Wan's eyes were still closed. "But?"

"But in fact, if it is still up to the former specifications, it could take

the load safely."

Again, silence. Obi-Wan nodded. "Here you will find your missing

car.

The engineer swallowed hard. "Regent Duris," he said. "There remains

the problem of reaching it. If we assume that the kidnappers

are tied into the central network, they'll see anything we do to

reroute a car. That reduces our options to acting off the grid. It will

take hours to position a strike squad. Have we that much time?"

Obi-Wan looked at her. Duris chewed at her chitinous lower lip.

If this was Desert Wind, then there was little fear for the lives of the

Five Families. Desert Wind kidnapped, but had never killed in cold

blood. Not their style. But they had doubtlessly made arrangements

for their captives to be spirited to some more secretive place—and

from there, no one could predict what might happen.

Of course, it was always possible that it was not Desert Wind. On

Cestus, misinformation was simply a fact of life . . .

Glancing back at Obi-Wan, she realized that she had not, for even

a moment, doubted that this amazing man had done what all of Cestus's

computers could not. That by power of his mind and the mysterious

Force, Obi-Wan Kenobi had found their missing Family

members. With all that had happened in the last day she felt dazed

and confused as she had not in all her time on the throne, as if suffering

from a mild form of shock.

"You might be right," she said. "We may have no time, and the

usual means will not serve. Master Jedi—have you a plan?" Somehow,

she knew he would.

"Tell your security people not to shoot until they've made an identification,"

Obi—Wan murmured.

"What are you going to do?"

Obi-Wan paused for dramatic effect, and then replied: "Something

drastic."

0 re cars, equipment shuttles, passenger vehicles, mining machines,

and repair droids all flowed through the same labyrinth of

magrails and lev tracks, zipping past and moving around each other

as if they were living, breathing things, individual tissue structures

within a larger organism, cells in the body Cestus, drones in the technological

hive.

And atop one of those cars, clinging to the surface with nerves and

muscles honed by decades of training, crouched Jedi Knight Obi-

Wan Kenobi. He compensated for impossibly swift and sharp turns,

accelerations, and decelerations with a profound understanding of

the rhythms of the universe and its invisible currents.

Sequestered in his rooms, Obi-Wan had privately absorbed the

shuttle system patterns over the course of a long, sleepless night. In

G'Mai's presence he'd spent no more than a few minutes updating

that research. Even if they had watched him spend hours immersed

in study, what he was about to attempt would still have been impressive

to them. With the secret practice and knowledge, his next

actions would appear miraculous, putting his hosts—especially the

volatile Quill—off-balance emotionally.

But first he had to actually do it, knowing as he did that sensors on

the various vehicles observed his every move.

The vehicle began to slow and veer to the left. Following instincts

far beyond the level of conscious thought, he jumped even before he

saw the next car.

For a moment Obi-Wan clung to the tunnel's wall, then felt a blast

of air as the next magcar barreled toward him. For a moment its

transparisteel walls resembled the great glowing eyes of some subterranean

creature. He glimpsed commuters who had been absorbed in

their datapads or conversations suddenly stare at the man hanging

upside down from the top of the tunnel, and they gasped as he

dropped toward them. A yellow-skinned Xexto flailed her four arms

in shock, screaming that the poor human was attempting some kind

of bizarre suicide.

Sorry, Obi-Wan mouthed, then clutched the front of the car,

catching it as it slowed to round the curve, but still, it rammed the

breath out of him.

He clung with desperate strength. Eighteen seconds until they

reached the next point, and he counted them off to himself, smiling

inwardly at the civilians gawping up at this strange apparition.

Before any of them could react with anything but distress, he was

gone again.

Obi-Wan wedged himself between the ceiling and the wall, bracing

with hands and feet. A cargo tunnel intersected here, and it was

only ten seconds before he could hear it howling on its way to him,

and he saw the single eye glaring only moments before it was beneath

him. He dropped down onto an ore car. The jagged heap of rock was

so steep that he almost slid off onto the tracks below. He scrabbled

for purchase, found it, lost it, then found it again. The artificial hurricane

ripped Obi-Wans legs out sideways, and he pulled them back

in an instant too late. His right heel slammed into a wall, whipping

him around and back, ripping at his grip, forcing him to release his

hold and then to regain it a few chunks back.

The wind lashed him mercilessly, and there was nothing to be

done about that, not now. He knew that Cestian computers had

modeled his Force-based analysis of the system kinetics, and would

have found it accurate. By now they might even have adapted their

own programs to enable them to track his whereabouts by reckoning

the presence of an undeclared body hopping from car to car throughout

the system.

That, and the overhead monitors, made it clear that he was performing

for an audience both critical and suspicious.

From car to car he migrated, until he reached a junction where he

could finally hop free, landing on the metal track beneath. He

breathed in short, sharp bursts, refusing to give in to the fear lurking

just below the surface of his concentration.

Timing. Tinting.

Obi-Wan bent down and felt the metal path that the magcar levitated

along at cruising speed. The car was coming. Not long now, and

it was also too late to make other plans. Nothing now but to carry

through. A sudden flood of air pressure hit him like a tide, overriding

his carefully constructed mental blocks.

Now. Obi-Wan turned and sprinted down the tunnel as fast as he

could, fleeing the car barreling down on him; he could hear its warning

siren. At the last instant he leapt forward, using the last strength

in his body to accelerate himself, and spun in midair.

For an instant, his body propelled by superbly conditioned muscles

and a nervous system in tune with the deepest currents of the Force,

Obi-Wan's velocity came within five meters per second of the magcar's.

He braced himself, exhaling perfectly in time with the impact,

arms bent as shock absorbers. Breath smashed out of his body with a

gigantic huff, but that very exhalation provided him with the cushioning

that allowed him to survive the impact. If he hadn't almost

matched the magcar s speed . . .

If he hadn't spun to grasp . . .

If the exhalation hadn't been perfectly timed . . .

He would have been smashed down, dragged under, ground into

splinters. As it was, Obi-Wan struggled to pull himself up higher and

higher on the car, until, scraped and panting, he lay above it and settled

in for the rest of the ride.

In the council rooms, members of the Five Families fortunate

enough not to be kidnapped were watching the entire display with

shock. "What kind of creatures are these Jedi?" Llitishi whispered,

mopping perspiration from his crinkled blue brow.

"I don't know... but I am profoundly grateful to have them on our

side," said the elder Debbikin, hoping for his son's safety. "I think

that we must seriously reconsider our stance." There was much murmured

agreement, followed by eager attempts to tap into the sensors

for further data.

39

F. or more than an hour after the magcar's power had been cut and

it had settled to the shaft floor, the mood in the diverted car continued

to deteriorate. The captured leaders of the Five Families had

watched with alarm as their solitary kidnapper was joined by three

ruffians dressed in Desert Wind khakis. The intruders had exchanged

a few quiet words, then gone about their plans. Clearly, they

wished to separate their captives from the city grid as swiftly as possible.

"What do you intend to do with us?" Lady Por'Ten whispered.

"Wait," a masked Desert Wind soldier replied. "You'll see." The

dark-eyed Nautolan said nothing.

At first they had hoped for rescue, but as they watched their kidnappers

set up electronic scramblers to confuse the tunnel sensors

and monitors, they realized their chances of being found were slight.

One man patrolled outside the car, leaving two within it with the

Nautolan. Young Debbikin watched the one outside. He walked

back and forth around the car . . . and then he was gone. For a moment

there was confusion, and then the figure reappeared. Only . . .

was it the same person? Had he been mistaken, or had the car's tinted

windows revealed some kind of brief and violent struggle?

Hope was a luxury they dared not indulge in. And y e t . . .

"And now—" the taller of the Desert Wind ruffians began. He

never had a chance to finish the words. A black noose dropped down

under his chin. The cord tightened, and the man was hauled up

through an emergency door in the car's roof, kicking and screaming,

scrabbling at his neck with hooked fingers. Instantly their Nautolan

kidnapper wheeled, snarling.

Cloak fluttering around him like the plumage of some bird of prey,

Obi-Wan Kenobi dropped down into the car. The tan-clad Desert

Wind soldier was the first to reach him, and therefore the first to go

down in a brief flicker of a lightsaber. He stumbled back, the shoulder

of his jacket smoking and spitting sparks.

The Nautolan glared at his adversary, and for a moment the

hostages were all but forgotten.

"Jedi!" the Nautolan snarled.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed to slits, his courtly manner a distant

memory. In an instant he had transformed from ambassador into the

deadliest of warriors. "Nemonus," he hissed, then added, "Not the

first time you've tried blood diplomacy."

"Nor the last," the Nautolan growled. "But it is the last time I'll tolerate

your meddling."

Without another word the two leapt toward each other and the

fight was on.

As long as they lived, the men and women in that car would remember

the next few moments. The Nautolan wielded his glowing

whip in a sinuous blur, with demonic accuracy. It arced up and

around, flexing and coiling like a living thing. Wherever it went and

whatever he did, the Jedi was there first.

There had been much speculation as to why a Jedi would prefer a

lightsaber to a blaster. All of the disadvantages of such a short-range

weapon were obvious. But now, watching the drama unfold before

them, another fact became obvious as well: Obi-Wan's lightsaber

moved as if it were an extension of his body, a glowing arm or leg imbued

with the mysterious power of the Force.

The two adversaries were almost perfectly matched. One might

have expected the lightwhip s greater length to give advantage, but in

the confined space that simply wasn't true. Strangely, while the Nautolan's

lash splashed sparks here and there, gouged hot metal from

panels, and sent flecks of fire floating down to where they huddled

on the ground, none of them was touched. The Nautolan was pure

aggression. His face narrowed to a fighting grimace, spitting curses

in strange languages, moving his torso with a boneless agility that

seemed impossible for any vertebrate.

Certainly the Jedi would cower. Would flee and save himself. Nothing

could stand before such a bafflingly lethal onslaught—

But Master Kenobi stood firm. He wove through that narrow

space, his lightsaber flashing like desert lightning, deflecting every

flicker of the whip. The Nautolan's speed and ferocity were matched

by the Jedi's own cold and implacable determination. They leapt and

tumbled, wheeling through the confined space, somersaulting so that

they were virtually walking on the ceiling as they evaded and attacked,

achieving a level of hyperkinesis simultaneously balletic and primal.

Master Kenobi was the first to penetrate the other's guard, such

that the lightwhip was barely able to enmesh the glowing energy

blade in time to deflect. The cloth along the Nautolan's arm flared

with brief, intense heat. They saw the abrupt change in the kidnapper's

demeanor. The Nautolan snarled, and fear shone in his face.

The Jedi was winning! In another engagement, two at the most,

Master Kenobi would have solved the lightwhip's riddle, and go for

the kill.

The Nautolan lashed this way and that as if gathering his energies

for renewed aggression. Then with a single smooth, eye-baffling

motion he scooped up the wounded Desert Wind soldier as if he

were a mere child. The Nautolan bounded up through the roof, and

was gone. They heard his footsteps pattering down the tunnel. And

then . . . nothing.

Master Kenobi turned to them, his face beginning to relax back

from its battle mask. If he had not chosen to speak, there might have

been no words voiced in that car for an hour. "Are you hurt?" he

asked.

Quill was reduced to mere babbling. "No! I—that was amazing! I'd

always heard stories of the Jedi, but never . . . I just want to say thank

you! Thank you so much."

Master Kenobi ignored him and went from one of them to the

other, checking to see that all were well. Then he examined, analyzed,

and disconnected the override device. Within moments light

returned to the car. The droid began to wheel and pivot as if awakening

from drugged slumber. He looked at Kenobi. "Ah! Master Jedi!

I assume it is you who has returned my function."

"That's true."

"And your orders?"

"Get these people back to the capital."

"At once, sir."

The droid fit his action to his words. The rescued hostages gave a

ragged cheer—even Quill, whose faceted eyes shone with awe. Young

Debbikin tugged at their savior's robes again. "Master Jedi," he asked.

"How can I repay you?

The Jedi smiled grimly. "Tell your father to remember his duty," he

said.

40

D eep in the mountains a hundred klicks southeast of the capital

raged a mighty celebration. There was much dancing and laughter,

and more than a bit of drunken boasting.

Nate leaned back against a rock, deeply satisfied. The operation

had indeed gone smoothly, without a single life lost. His throat was a

bit sore from General Kenobi's lariat, but the support brace concealed

in the neck of his cowl had worked perfectly. The extra

padding in the shoulder of OnSon's "Desert Wind" uniform had

protected him from the carefully judged swipe of General Kenobi's

lightsaber. In every way, from obtaining the crucial intelligence from

the criminal Trillot to transferring it, from evaluation to creation of

a plan, from penetrating the transport security network to diverting

the car, from impersonating the exhausted forces of Desert

Wind to subduing resistance among the Five Families, from simulating

combat with General Kenobi to effecting their eventual escape

. . .

Every step had gone off without a hitch.

There was another, additional bonus: from his perch atop the

roof of the car he had been able to witness the "duel" between the

two Jedi. Nate had thought that he had seen and learned everything

about unarmed combats. Now he knew that, in comparison,

Kamino's most advanced martial sciences were mere back-alley thuggery.

Nate knew that the Jedi had something that would keep troopers

alive, if he could only learn more about it.

But how? That thought burning in his mind, he sat back and

looked up at the stars, deliriously content to replay each motion of

lightsaber and whip.

Sheeka Tull had landed Spindragon a safe distance away, and

walked into camp under a burgeoning double moon. She had just

completed a tiring run connecting three of Cestus's six major city

nodes, delivering volatile cargo illegal to ship through the subterranean

tunnels.

A familiar unhelmeted form in dark green fatigues approached

her, waving his hand. "Ah, Sheeka. Good to see you."

From brown skin to tightly muscled body, everything was familiar,

but still she looked at him askance. "You're not Nate," she said, although

the trooper's casual dress lacked military insignia or other

identifying marks.

Forry blinked then transformed into wide-eyed innocence. "Who

else would I be?"

She grinned and pointed. "Nice try. He has a little scar right here

on his jawline. You don't."

Sirty came up behind Forry, laughing at their brother's efforts to

fool her.

Forry grinned ruefully. "All right. You're right. Just a little game we

like to play." He jerked his thumb. "Nate's on the other side of camp."

"Nice try." She slapped him on the back and went to see her

new .. . friend? Were they friends? She supposed that she could use

that word for their relationship. Friends with her dead sweetheart's

clone. It was a bit morbid, but also strangely exciting.

She found him leaning back against a rock, lost in his own thoughts.

He smiled and raised a cup of Cestian spore-mead as he saw her.

"What do we celebrate?" she asked, suspecting that she already

knew the answer.

"A little operation that went even better than expected. And no, no

one is dead."

She searched his face. "Disappointed?"

He glared at her. "Absolutely. I was hoping for human barbecue

tonight."

She leaned back against the rock with him. "Touche. I shouldn't

blame you simply for enjoying your work. It's what you were trained

to do."

"Superbly," he agreed. She was relieved that these lethal, bottlebred

warriors had a sense of humor.

"And you've been fully trained in all matters of soldierly behavior?"

she asked.

"Fully."

She paused, and looked at him more carefully. "And do soldiers

dance?"

Now he seemed to lose that smile and become genuinely thoughtful.

"Of course. The Jakelian knife-dance is a primary tool for teaching

distance, timing, and rhythm in engagement."

She groaned. Practicality again. "No. Dancing. You know: man,

woman. Dancing?"

He shrugged. "The cohorts compete with each other in dance.

Team and individual events."

Sheeka found herself fighting a growing sense of exasperation.

"Haven't you ever done it for fun?"

He squinted. "That is fun."

"You exhaust me," she said, and then held her arms out. "Come

on."

He hesitated, and then came to her.

The musicians were playing some fast-paced number with flute

and drum. Their jig steps were bouncy and light. The other recruits

grinned, laughed, chattered, and swung their partners around with

the kind of enthusiasm that suggested a serious need to blow off

steam. The troopers watched, tapping their feet to the rhythm. From

time to time one of them would perform a series of precise, martial

movements to the music, spiced with tumbling floor gymnastics. The

recruits approved, clapping along and cheering.

Just what happened today? She hesitated to ask. He had great coordination,

but not much sense of moving in unity with a partner. Still,

she liked it. She liked it a lot.

"I heard things on the scanner," she said, innocently enough.

"Really?" he asked. "What did they say?" He held her firmly and

caught a half beat cleverly enough to spin her. Several of the other

couples had as well, and the air filled with whoops of joy.

"Oh, something about a group of Five Family types being kidnapped

and then rescued."

"Kidnapped? Rescued?" he said, wide-eyed. "Goodness. Sounds

exciting."

So. He wasn't going to say anything. Need-to-know, she supposed.

Still, from the number of people celebrating, she knew that the operation

had been substantial, and she guessed that she might be able

to pry the details out of a farmer or miner.

He must have noticed the thoughtful frown on her face, and misinterpreted

its meaning a bit. "So," he said. "I get the sense that you

don't approve of our mission."

"That wasn't what I was thinking."

"But you don't. Why do you help us?"

"Not voluntarily."

"Then why? What leverage does someone have?"

Her answering laugh was a bit tighter than she had intended.

"Somewhere on Coruscant is a computer file listing every indiscretion

ever committed in the galaxy. There was a need, my name came

up, and doing a favor is better than spending a decade on a work

planet."

"And your name is on this list?"

She nodded. "You're a quick study."

"I believe that's called sarcasm."

"Ooh," she squealed. "More human by the minute. Next we try

irony."

He scowled ferociously, and she laughed. "So . . . what did you

do?"

"My younger sister joined a religious sect on Devon Four. When

they refused to pay taxes Coruscant slapped an embargo on them.

When a plague struck the colony, they were going to die, every

woman, man, and child. No one would do a thing. So . . . "

He nodded understanding. "So you got them their medicine. And

your sister?"

She brightened. "Raising a squalling brood of brats somewhere in

the Outer Rim. I'd do it all over again."

"Even though it brought you here."

Strangely enough, she was feeling more than just comfortable, and

a thought drifted through her mind that here meant both the planet

and his arms. Hmmm. "Even though."

"I notice you spend more time talking to me than my brothers," he

said, his lips close to her ear. "Why is that?"

"You hold my interest."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "Perhaps because you are the only

one trained for command. That makes you more like Jango."

His attention sharpened. "They say he was a loner."

"Yes," she said. "But a natural leader, too. At other times he could

be invisible, as I understand quite a few people learned to their brief

and painful regret."

Nate gave a hard, flat chuckle. Yes, indeed.

"But if he wanted, when he entered a room every head would

turn." She paused a beat. "Especially mine." Her voice grew softer.

"But that was all so long ago. I was eighteen years old, and Jango was

twenty-five."

"Was he a bounty hunter then?"

She closed her eyes, dredging up old memories. "I think he was in

transition. He'd only been free maybe two years, since the Mandalorians

were wiped out. I met him in the Meridian sector. He'd lost his

armor somehow, and was searching for it." A ruminative smile. "We

had just about a year together. Then things got dangerous. We were

raided by space pirates. Our ship got blown from the sky, and in the

middle of a really nasty space battle we were forced to take separate

evacuation pods. I never saw him again." She paused. "I heard he survived,

and got his armor back. I don't know if he looked for me."

Sheeka shrugged. "Life is like that, sometimes." Her voice had grown

wistful.

Then she chuckled, and he drew back slightly and looked at her in

puzzlement. "Why do you laugh?"

"You do remind me of Jango. He always locked his emotions away.

But I can remember times when he let them out of their cage."

"Such as?"

Her sweeter, saucier side was bubbling to the fore, and she was

happy to feel it. She'd feared she'd never feel that evanescence again.

"If you're lucky, I might tell you sometime."

She knew he was curious now, and pardoned herself for the slight

exaggeration. In truth, Jango was a man of few words who kept his

feelings in check. In his life, and his chosen lifestyle, that reserve had

been vital for survival.

Just from their few conversations, she knew that for all his practical

and lethal knowledge, Nate hadn't the foggiest notion about

ordinary human lives. Until this, until the moment that he had

taken her in his arms, she could feel that he had treated her with a

certain respect and distance, more like a sister than anything else.

He probably knew only two types of women: civilians to be protected

or perhaps obeyed, treated with courtesy at the least. On the other

hand were the sorts of women who offered themselves to soldiers

in exchange for credits or protection, to be used and discarded. It

could be emotionally risky to break down such a simplistic worldview.

But she had to admit that she was interested in breaking through

his reserve, wondering what she might find beneath it.

What would happen, how might he respond if she allowed the

bond between them to deepen? And if she took it in a new direction?

She drew him away from the dancing and laughter into the shadows.

"What now?" she asked.

"We're off-duty until dawn, why?"

She took his hand. "Come," she said. "I'd like to show you something."

Confusion darkened his face.

"I have to be available—"

"You said you were off-duty. Are you confined to base?"

"No—" He stopped. "If I'm called, I would need to be back within

twenty minutes. Can you guarantee that?"

She calculated distances and velocities in her head. "Yes."

Five minutes of scrambling over broken rock took them to Spindragon.

As he strapped in, Sheeka swiftly completed her predeparture

checklist and lifted off. With a practiced touch she rocketed

almost a hundred kilometers to the southeast in about twelve minutes.

At first she skirted the ground to elude scanning. Then, when

they were a sufficient distance away, she rose up into a standard

transport lane, filled with commuter pods and double-length cargo

ships transporting goods among clients reluctant to pay the orbital

tax.

Nate watched the ground whirl beneath them, enjoying the ease

and command with which Sheeka piloted the craft. Competence

was something he could always appreciate. This woman was different

from others he had known, and that difference disoriented

him slightly. Curiously enough, he enjoyed the sensation. So Nate

relaxed as she took him into a saw-toothed stretch of hills, and then

set them down again gently, not eighteen minutes after they left the

camp.

The camp was built into the hillsides, several different mine openings

suggesting both natural and artificial breaches in the surface. As

she landed, a dozen offworlders and two X'Ting emerged to meet

them. All grinned, nodded, or waved at them in greeting.

"What is this place?"

"They are my extended family," she said. "Not by birth. By

choice."

"Is this where you live?"

She smiled. "No. We don't know each other that well yet. But. ..

my home is a lot like this."

Now he was able to make out more dwellings. They appeared to be

camouflaged, the coloration perhaps designed to make them more

difficult to see from the air. From the ground, though, they still

tended to melt into the shadows and rock formations.

"Why do they hide?"

She laughed. "They don't. We just love the mountains, and enjoy

blending with them as much as possible."

Again, the danger of seeing everything through a soldier's eyes.

High, sweet voices rang down from the slope. Nate turned to see

several young human boys and girls up there playing some game of

laughter and discovery. They dashed about calling names, squealing,

enjoying the long shadows.

Down around the rock-colored dwellings swarmed older children.

Some of them were graceful X'Ting, slender and huge-eyed, reminding

him a bit of Kaminoans. Adolescents, he supposed, working

with adults. Building, repairing tools perhaps.

He watched them, thinking, feeling. He found the environment a

bit confusing. Or could it be Sheeka herself who troubled him?

Whichever, he found himself remembering his own accelerated

childhood, the learning games he had played .. .

Once again, Sheeka Tull seemed to have read his mind. "What

were you like as a child?" Clever. Had she brought him here to see

children, hoping that it would spark his own memories?

He shrugged. "Learning, growing, striving. Like all the others."

"I've visited a lot of planets. Most children's games help kids discover

their individual strengths. How can you do this? Aren't you all

supposed to be the same?"

Teasing him again? He realized, to his pleasure, that he hoped so.

"Not really. There was a core curriculum that we all mastered, but

after that we specialized, learned different things, prepared for different

functions, went on different training exercises, fought in different

wars. No two of us have ever had the same environment, and

because of that we are stronger. In the aggregate, we have lived a million

lives. All of that experience grows within us. We are the GAR,

and it is alive."

"Loosen up, will you?" she clucked, and stretched out her hand to

him. He hesitated, and then after checking his comlink to make

certain that he could be reached in case of any emergency, he followed

her.

41

A southern wind nipping at their backs, Sheeka led Nate up a

worn, dusty hillside trail into the mouth of one of the tunnels. The

mouth was about four by six meters, and once inside, the trooper saw

that the shielded buildings outside were not the living spaces he had

supposed them to be. Toolsheds, perhaps. Within was a large communal

area lit by glowing fungi arrayed along the walls, nurtured

with liquid nutrients trickling from a pipe rigging. The fungi rippled

in a luminescent rainbow. When he brought his hand close to a bank

of it, his skin tingled.

"Most places on Cestus, the offworlders pretty much dominate the

X'Ting. Consider them primitive even though they give lip service

to respect. But there are a few little enclaves like this one, where we

actually try to learn from them. They have a lot to offer, really, if we'd

just give them a chance."

A variety of human and other offworlder children ran hither and

thither with their little X'Ting friends, burning energy like exploding

stars, flooding the entire cave with their exuberance. The day's

major work had ended, but some of the adults were still fixing tools,

laughing and joking in easy camaraderie.

They greeted Sheeka warmly as she approached, glancing at Nate

with tentative acceptance. After all, their attitude seemed to say, he's

with Sheeka. The air churned with luscious smells. In several nooks

meals were being concocted from a variety of tangy and exotic ingredients.

He found the jovial messiness oddly appealing.

But as soon as that thought sank in, conditioning rushed forward

to yank it back out.

"What do you think?" Sheeka asked.

He strove to compose a answer both accurate and in alignment

with his values and feelings. "This seems . . . a good life. An easy life.

Not a soldier's life. It is not for me."

Nate had assumed that she would accept such an answer at face

value, but instead Sheeka bristled. "You think this is easier? Raising

children, loving, hoping. You?" A sharp, hard bark of laughter. "You're

surrounded by the replaceable. Ships, equipment, people. A modular

world. A piece breaks? Replace it." Her small strong hands had

folded into fists. "You never leave home without expecting to die.

What do you think it's like to actually care if your children survive?

To care} What do you think the universe looks like to someone who

cares? How strong would someone have to be just to preserve hope?"

Her outburst knocked him back on his emotional heels. "Perhaps

. . . I see what you are saying."

She continued on as if she had prepared this speech for days. "And

how much strength do you think it requires to keep your spirits high

when everything you've spent a lifetime building . . . that your parents

and grandparents spent a lifetime building . .. can be destroyed

by the decision of someone too far away to touch?" She paused a moment.

"And men like you."

It was his turn to bristle. "Men like me protect you."

"From other men like you."

He might have taken offense at that, but instead he felt a bit sad,

realizing that Sheeka was not as different as he had thought. She was

just another outsider after all. "No. Men like me don't start the wars.

We just die in them. We've always died in them, and we always will.

We don't expect any praise for it, no parades. No one knows our

names. In fact, by your standards we have no names at all."

Something in his face, his voice, or his carriage reached through

her anger, because suddenly she softened. "Nate . . . "

Sheeka reached out as if to take his hand, but he drew it away. "No.

Is that what you wanted to hear? Well it's true. We don't have names.

And no one will ever know who we are. But we do. We always do."

He felt his shoulders square as he said that simple truth. The troopers

knew who they were, always. And always would. "We're the

Grand Army of the Republic."

Sheeka shook her head. "Nate, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to judge

you."

His stance did not soften. She had dropped her guard. It was unfair

to attack now, but he could not stop the training that was, in the

final analysis, all he knew. "I haven't had your choices. Every step of

my life I've been told what to do."

"Yes," she said, her voice small now.

He took a step closer, looking down on her dark, lovely face. "And

what do you know? We both ended up in the same place."

He paused. She had nothing to say.

"So what difference did all those decisions make?"

Sheeka looked up at him, their eyes meeting for a moment that

was too intense. Then a child running between them broke the moment.

She managed a rueful smile, said, "Come on," and led him

back out of the cave.

The two of them sat on a hillside, watching the moons and listening

to the happy sounds. Sheeka had spoken a bit of her life here on

Cestus, of small pleasures and trials.

"So," she concluded, "sometimes all we could do was wait, and

hope. Don't you think that requires endurance?"

"Is that what it was like?"

She gave no answer, just twisted a stalk of grass up and knotted it

into a ball, throwing it downslope.

"I am sorry," Nate said. "I live only to defend the Republic. I regret

if that defense brings misery to some, but I won't apologize for who

and what I am."

Without saying a word, Sheeka slid closer to him. When she

started speaking again, his own thoughts ended, and he found himself

losing interest in anything save the sound and cadence of her voice.

"All you have to lose is your life, and you hold that cheaply enough.

Are you so strong, Nate? Are you really as strong as the least fungus

farmer?"

Their eyes locked again, and he felt the beginnings of an emotion

he had never before experienced: despair. She would never understand

him.

Then Sheeka, swollen with anger, seemed to deflate a bit. "No,"

she said. "That's wrong of me. I know one of the problems—it's the

whole name thing. I'm sorry. I'm used to calling droids by numbers

and letters. People have names. You guys just have shorthand for your

numbers."

"I'm sorry—" he began, but she held up her hand.

"Do troopers ever have real names?" she asked.

"Rarely."

"Would you mind if I gave you one?"

She was staring at him with such sincere intensity that he almost

laughed. But couldn't. The whole thing was amusing, really.

"What name did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking Jangotat," she said quietly. "Mandalorian for 'Jango's

brother.'"

He laughed, but found his voice catching a bit in midchuckle. Jangotat.

"Sure," he said. "If that makes it easier. Fine."

Her answering smile burst with relief. "Thanks. Thanks, Jangotat.

That's a good name, you know," she said, thumping him with her

elbow. They both chuckled about that, until the mirth died away to a

companionable silence.

Jangotat, he thought.

Jango's brother.

A smile.

That I am.

42

I . he armored cargo transport lay broken, flames gushing from its

shattered innards, its treads curled back from their axles like shreds of

skin from peeled fruit. The cargo itself was scavenged or burned, its

load of credit chits looted: the cash would be useful for purchasing

goods, buying silence, and providing for the widows and orphans of

any Desert Wind fatalities.

Black oily smoke curled from the transport's ruptured belly and

boiled to the clouds. Hands bound behind their backs, its crew had

begun their twenty-kilometer trek back to ChikatLik. The message

they carried would be heard loud and clear: Chaos is coming.

And as lovers of comfort and order, the Five Families would seek

out a source of security. The Separatists had been shown to be too

risky and dangerous, and possibly in collaboration with the forces of

Desert Wind. The only option? A closer bond to the Republic.

"It goes well?" asked the newly christened "Jangotat."

"Well enough," Kit Fisto said, gazing through his electrobinoculars.

"We strike, they grab at shadows, and we sever their limbs. Soon

the Five Families will pray for order and safety." The words were

confident, but something more unsure lurked behind them.

"You don't sound totally pleased, sir."

"I am not comfortable with such deception, even though I admit

its value."

Jangotat concealed his pleasure. His perceptions were sharpening,

something that kept soldiers alive. Maybe the whole "Jangotat" thing

wasn't so bad. Don't be afraid to take chances. Think odd thoughts. All

right, then. Here's one this Jedi would never expect. "May I say, sir, that

such nonconventional warfare saves lives."

To his surprise, General Fisto's mouth twisted in a rare display of

mirth. "Does it indeed?"

"Yes, sir."

The general put the electrobinoculars away. "Well. If a soldier of

the Republic can find such a goal admirable, can a Jedi do less?"

He realized that this was, for the Nautolan, a joke, and smiled in

return. The moment of shared levity gave Jangotat the courage to ask

something that had been on his mind for two days now. "Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What you did with Master Kenobi . . . could an ordinary man

learn that?"

General Fisto stared at him with those vast, unblinking eyes. "No."

"Some? Even a little?"

There was a long pause, and then the general nodded. "Well, perhaps.

Yes. Some."

"Would you teach me?"

"Nate . . . "

"Sir .. ." Jangotat looked to either side swiftly, saw that they were

alone and lowered his voice. "Please don't laugh at me . . . "

The Nautolan shook his head gravely. "Never."

"I'm thinking of taking a name."

General Fisto's teeth gleamed. "I've heard that some do. What name

are you thinking? Be careful," he warned. "Names can be powerful."

The trooper nodded. "So . . . a friend suggested: Jangotat. Brother

of Jango." He narrowed his eyes as if expecting rebuke. "Would that

be . . . a good thing?"

Kit Fisto did him the respect of genuinely pondering the question.

Then, after almost a minute, he answered, "Jango was a man of great

strengths. A worthy foe. I would be proud to have his namesake at

my side." He slapped the trooper's shoulder. "Jangotat."

"Would you inform General Kenobi? I've already told my broth n

ers.

The Nautolan's eyebrow arched. "And what did they say?"

Jangotat laughed. "They wished they'd thought of it first."

Kit Fisto seemed to look at him a bit differently. "Among my people,

the taking of a name is a serious thing," he said. "An occasion for

gift giving."

"That isn't why I—"

The general held his hand up. "You asked what it might be possible

for you to learn. I have a small thing you may... enjoy. I can teach

you and your brothers some of the most basic exercises taught Forcesensitive

children in the Jedi Temple."

"But I will never be as good as a Jedi, will I?" This was said without

despair or resentment. Merely a question.

"No," the Jedi said. "You will not. But you will know yourself, and

the universe, better than you ever have."

The two of them shared a smile. It was a moment of genuine

openness between these two unlikely comrades, a precious thing between

them.

"Then let's get started," Jangotat said.

The four troopers squatted in a circle outside their cave, crouching

around Kit as he began his lesson. "There is a thing I can teach you,"

the Nautolan said, "a game taught to the very youngest Padawan

learners. It is a thing called Jedi Flow." He paused. "Do all of you

wish this?"

They were so attentive and open that Kit couldn't resist a smile.

"All right," he said, then paused, considering. "Jedi feel the Force as

an ocean of energy in which they immerse themselves, floating with

its currents, or directing its waves. For the average person, the subtle

sensations of life are no ocean—but can still be a stream or river. Can

you understand this?"

They nodded slowly.

"Your body holds memories of pain, anger, fear. It holds them in

your tissues, conditioned responses that attempt to protect you from

future injury."

"Like scar tissue?" Forry asked.

"Exactly like it," he said, approving. "Tight like a fist. It warps and

twists you. When you collect enough of them, they are like armor.

But Jedi wear no armor. Armor both protects and numbs. Jedi must

expose themselves fully to the currents of the universe. I can teach

you how to remove some of these wounds. Think of them as boulders,

obstacles on the river of energy. Learn to flow around your fears

and angers instead of crashing against them. Learn to do this well

enough, and you can even direct the river to move the boulders for

you, widening the riverbed, increasing the flow of energy."

"But howl"

He searched for some simple way to express his thoughts. "Physical

action is the unity of breathing, motion, and alignment. In other

words, breath is created by the motion of your diaphragm, and the

movement of your spine. Motion is created by breathing and proper

posture. And alignment is created by a unity of breath and motion.

To keep this triplet in mind as you practice your combat arts is

to take a martial technique or physical challenge and transform it

into something more." Kit grinned his predatory, Nautolan smile.

"Enough theory," he said. "It is time for practice."

For the next two hours Kit taught them exercises to refine their

breathing, concentrating on exhalations only, allowing air pressure to

fill their lungs passively as the rib cage expanded. He was gratified to

see how rapidly they absorbed the lessons, and gave them more.

The Nautolan showed them how to turn two-dimensional calisthenics

into three-dimensional gymnastics, moving static exercise

positions through additional ranges of motion, turning poses into

dynamic waveforms, and melding all with the triumverate of breathing,

motion, and alignment. He also demonstrated how to take those

exercises and combine them, flow in and out of them, creating their

own combinations to address any specific fitness needs.

But always, always, preserving and attending to breathing, motion,

and alignment.

When he was done they were sweaty but exhilarated, and begged

for more.

"No," he said. "That is enough for one day. Just remember: the

point, the value is not in the exercises, or not exclusively there. The

greatest value is in transitioning between one exercise and the next.

All life is movement between states, between moments. Work to

make every moment a symphony of these three aspects. Evolve into

your excellence. Use external tasks merely to test your integration and

clarity. That is the road to becoming an exceptional warrior."

43

I n the innermost chambers of ChikatLik city, negotiations had

moved into new and higher gear. Few in the capital knew anything

but rumors: Five Family executives had been kidnapped, payrolls hijacked,

transports destroyed, power stations sabotaged. The general

mood suggested change, and major change at that. Things had been

quieter than usual in the public section of Trillot's lair, and back in

her private chambers a pall had descended over the usual revelry.

It was late now, and barely a sound could be heard in the entire

twisting, turning nest of catacombs.

Trillot rested on her couch, puffing from one of her pipes, attempting

to self-medicate. Accelerating the shift from male to female

was a touchy process: this fungus to relieve stress, and that leaf

to eliminate fatigue. Another to stabilize her mood. However unpleasant,

Trillot found this preferable to the monthlong fertility

period as the cycle went from male to female. A time of almost overwhelmingly

volatile emotions, X'Ting traditionally sealed themselves

in their quarters for this period, preferably with a mate.

No such isolation for Trillot! She had been awake for four days

now, and although her system would eventually crash, necessitating

thirty hours of coma-like slumber, for now she managed to keep the

worst of it at bay. Meanwhile, spies brought her information from all

over the city. She filtered it, deciding what was actionable and what

she should pass on to Ventress, who had her own mysterious sources.

The holovid she had asked Trillot to pass to Quill, for instance . . .

Still, Snoil's discovery of the entire synthstone business was disturbing.

Even with their new information, this century-old folly was

the ultimate wild card. Who knew what the Jedi might do with such

leverage? The sooner Kenobi was dead, the better.

These musings might have been enough to disrupt her sleep cycle,

but there was more: her growing need to lurk outside Ventress's bed

chamber. Invariably, the experience left her trembling.

Trillot was grateful for the narcotic currents coursing through her

blood. What might have been profoundly disturbing in a more sober

mood seemed merely a matter of curiosity. Strange. When she chose,

Ventress appeared able to shield herself from the most powerful Jedi.

But she had such contempt for Trillot that she allowed her ugliest

dreams to seep from her sleeping mind.

Trillot took another puff and closed her emerald eyes. Instead of

darkness, a fantasy of fire and blood repeated itself again and again.

Warships rose.

Towers fell.

The Republic might dissolve, the Separatists trigger a wave of secession

that washed through the entire galaxy. Consideration of profits,

however enormous, might soon be moot. As might survival itself.

"Fire and blood," she whispered.

The council chambers had been locked in verbal turmoil for long

hours when Obi-Wan entered. He very nearly smiled. Since the subterranean

kidnapping and "battle," the major subject of conversation

was not whether they should acquiesce to the Republic's request, but

rather how they could most swiftly comply.

This he knew even though he had not been present. A Jedi had

means. Especially a Jedi with solid Republic credits to spread around.

"Yes, I was called?"

Snoil sat at the circular conference table across from the executives,

half a dozen holodocs floating around his head. He gestured to Obi-

Wan. "We've had a breakthrough. They've decided to meet the Chancellor's

terms."

A vast relief. The sooner he put this distasteful situation behind

him, the better. "Excellent."

The immense room was filled wall to circular wall with representatives

of the Five Families. And not just the executives who claimed

the top slots—there were three dozen or more lower-tier Cestus Cybernetics

executives thronging the room, poring over their holodocs,

arguing and proposing. They added signatures and thumbprints on

the touch-screens for instant upload to legal computers all over Cestus,

and from there broadcast to Coruscant for instant verification.

The air before Obi-Wan flickered, and a holodoc appeared. He

turned to Snoil. "This meets your approval?"

He noticed the crinkles of exhaustion on the Vippit's stubby arms,

and realized that Snoil must have found the past days of negotiation

grueling. "Absolutely."

Obi-Wan signed as the Republic's representative, and felt vastly

satisfied. He and Duris shared a smile. "I assume that when the

Supreme Chancellor reads the contract, he will approve. But barring

some problem on that end, I believe that we have come to an agreement."

"And not a moment too soon, Master Jedi," she said.

One of Duris's lawyers put a datapad in front of him. "And now,

Master Kenobi, we need your signature on the following documents—"

Suddenly and without formal announcement Quill entered the

chamber, waving a rectangular holocard above his head as if it contained

the secrets of the universe. His faceted eyes gleamed.

"Wait! Hold the proceedings! Do not thumb that holodoc."

Duris stared at Quill with suspicion. "What is the meaning of

this?"

"Better we ask the Jedi the meaning of this." He placed the card in

a datapad, smirking with triumph. An instantly recognizable image

sprang into the air. It was not taken from a standard security cam—

those had all been disabled down in the tunnels. It was, rather, an

image taken by some unseen person who had reached the site even

before Kenobi had arrived.

Obi-Wan's gut churned sourly. How had this happened? And how

had the unknown observer concealed his or her presence?

To these questions, he had no answers at all. He did, however,

know what was about to appear, and realized that total disaster was

at hand.

Floating on the player's projection field was the image of a Desert

Wind fighter. A battle ensued between Jedi and rebel, revealed very

clearly from this angle to be a mockery, a fraud, with a lightsaber

passing a quarter meter broad of the target. The kidnapper fell down

and flapped his arms theatrically. Obi-Wan "attacked" another, this

battle even more obviously staged. The mood in the room had grown

frigid. No one made a sound.

This was disaster beyond belief. The mission was utterly compromised,

had perhaps been from the beginning. His unknown adversary

had waited until the worst possible moment to sabotage him.

Obi-Wan could think of nothing to say.

"I understand now," Lady Por'Ten said, "how the Jedi have attained

their impressive reputations."

G'Mai Duris stood, her secondary arms fidgeting nervously, her

golden flesh gone pale with rage. Her immense form trembled as if

in the throes of an avalanche. "You will leave. Immediately," she said.

His mind had stuttered, searching for a way out of the trap, for

some explanation, however ineffectual. "G'Mai—" he began.

She had drawn herself fully to her most impressive height, her

bulk radiating power. "That is Regent Duris." Her voice cut like an

arctic wind. "You Jedi. What you cannot win by diplomacy you seek

to gain by fear. And if not that, fraud." She colored a bit at that last

word.

He shucked all pretense and tried to speak as directly as he could,

knowing that all was lost. "If negotiations will not come to a positive

conclusion, war will touch your shores."

"It already has," said Duris, wings fluttering with distress. She was

in an impossible position, whatever personal gratitude she might feel

for him neutralized by his perfidy. "There has already been destruction,

and betrayal, and the death of hope. If that is not war, I do not

understand the concept." She was trembling with rage and something

more . . . fear.

Her next words emerged low and hoarse. "I trusted you.

Trusted . . . " Then Duris collected herself. "Go. While you can."

Obi-Wan bowed low, his eyes sweeping the room. His eyes met

Quill's, who didn't bother to conceal his venomous sense of triumph.

From what unseen corner had the blow been struck? He left, and

after a moment Snoil followed him out. His last image was of G'Mai

Duris on her throne. One of the most terrible things in this was not

the war that threatened, not even the humiliation. It was the personal

damage he had done to a good person, someone who had believed in

him. She, more than anyone, understood what was at stake, and that

she sat in the midst of a web of deceit. And now he had left her with

no one to trust. No one at all.

44

I nitially Trillot was nervous as Ventress swept into her chambers,

but as soon as she saw her visitor's mood, the X'Ting relaxed. "So. It

is ended? The Jedi leaves?"

Despite her scathingly cold smile, Ventress shook her head. "He'll

try to return. I know him."

"I tell you that my spies—"

"See with their eyes," she said with contempt. "The Families will

make their move now. Quill has informed them that if Kenobi

broadcasts his information to Palpatine, Cestus Cybernetics is done.

I think we can trust them to be suitably... definitive in response."

Murdering a Jedi? What in the brood's name had Trillot gotten

herself into? Too late to complain now . . . nothing to do but ride it

out. Trillot cursed the day she had agreed to help the Confederacy,

the day she had betrayed the Jedi. Bantha muck. While she was at it,

why not simply curse the day she was hatched? That was, in the final

analysis, more to the point.

45

N o honor guard appeared at the spaceport to see Obi-Wan and

Doolb Snoil away. Considering the hash he had made of his attempts

at diplomacy, the Jedi was glad to be allowed to leave at all.

The guards who escorted him to the spaceport said not a word

until they actually reached the site. One of them turned as if to speak,

then paused, looking down at the ground. He walked away, shaking

his head.

Obi-Wan walked up the landing ramp into the Republic transport

ship. Behind him, Snoil shuffled along with only the slightest of slime

trails on the track. "Obi-Wan," he said plaintively. "What happened?"

"I am not certain, my friend," he said, and as the door closed behind

him, he strapped himself in. His mind was still far away. Something

was wrong, had been wrong since his arrival. No. Not then. But

things had disintegrated soon after. What had been the trigger? He

did not know. Blast! If only he knew the source of the incriminating

holo! He turned to the lawyer. "On Coruscant," he said, "tell all that

you know. You performed well. Whatever fault exists is mine—" He

paused, the vaguest of suspicions forming in the back of his mind.

"Or perhaps—"

"What?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "I don't know, but I felt something. From the beginning,

there have been factors beyond my understanding. I have

missed something, and that blunder made all the difference."

"Oh dear," Snoil said. "All of that planning and work. I never

dreamed things could go so wrong."

Obi-Wan shook his head, but said nothing. He had no words to

comfort his distraught friend. This was, in every possible way, a complete

disaster.

As soon as Xutoo made the basic preparations, the ship lifted off.

As it rose, Obi-Wan turned to Snoil. "I've made my decision," he

said. "It is no longer safe for you on Cestus. You will go, but I must

stay. My job here isn't finished. I'm going to join Master Fisto."

Snoil's eyestalks trembled with amazement as the Jedi began a

checklist of preparations for jettisoning an escape pod. "But you were

told to leave! It was a direct request, and any deviation would be a

violation of Code Four-Nine-Seven Point Eight—"

"I've gone a little too far to be worried about such niceties," he said.

"We have other mynocks to slice." He managed a smile. "Good-bye,

Doolb. You're a good friend. Go home now. There's no more work for

a barrister here."

"But.. . sir!"

Obi-Wan turned to Xutoo and gripped his shoulder. "Get him

home safely."

"Yes, sir."

And so saying, Obi-Wan pressed a series of switches, and the capsule

sealed. It seemed to sink into the wall behind it. A moment later

there was a light shoosh sound, and the Jedi was gone.

The ship had just crested the upper atmosphere, making the transition

to vacuum. Ground-based and orbiting scanners tracked every

ship exiting or leaving, but at this point, where the two sets of data

overlapped, it was easiest to cloak activity.

A red warning light blinked in front of him, indicating that the

emergency system was about to begin its instructional sequence.

Obi-Wan disabled it: the computer voice would merely be a distraction.

He intended to pilot the craft by skill and instinct. The escape

capsule had both manual and automatic settings, and could maneuver

its way to a ground beacon, but Obi-Wan dared not allow its

repulsors to fire too quickly: their radiation would be too easily detected.

So he plummeted, counting on the capsule's heat shielding and

primitive aerodynamics, tweaking the glide angle slightly as he

headed down toward the Dashta Mountains.

He had to time this very, very carefully, waiting until he was low

enough that his appearance on the scanner wouldn't be connected

with a disgraced diplomat's transport. Let them think his capsule was

merely an unlicensed pleasure craft.

As Obi-Wan counted off the seconds, the heat became more and

more oppressive. Crash foam, doubling as insulation, billowed up

shoulder-high in protection. As the temperature of the outermost

layer of shielding climbed to thousands of degrees, he was sobered to

realize that he was dropping blind, his fate entrusted to the unknown

pod technicians. He hated that dependence even more than he disliked

flying, far preferring to trust his own profound connection to

the Force. But there was no avoiding it. This time, he had to trust.

It was time. His fingers found the repulsor button and . . .

Nothing happened.

As the ground raced toward him he watched the altimeter, fighting

a surge of panic. Something was wrong. His metal tomb hurtled

toward the ground at such speed that, if it struck, they wouldn't retrieve

enough midi-chlorians to enlighten a Jedi amoeba.

Obi-Wan struggled to reach his lightsaber, the mushy thick foam

filling the capsule making every effort a struggle. When he finally

wrapped his hands around the silver handle, he angled it away from

his body and triggered the blade. Foam smoldered. Sparks and smoke

erupted in the narrow, cramped confines. The capsule juddered, wind

beginning to peel away the external shielding beginning at the point

where the lightsaber beam had damaged its aerodynamics. Critical

seconds dragged past as the external layers sloughed away. But he'd

achieved the desired effect: the repulsors' trigger circuits ran through

the capsule's skin, very near his shoulder. If he couldn't send a signal

by pushing a button, the lightsaber's energy field might power that

circuit more directly.

Nothing happened. All right, then . . . a few centimeters to the left.

He tried again, burning a second hole in the capsule. More of the

outer shielding peeled away, but luckily, this time the circuit fired.

One huge jolt, and then another. Blessedly, the damaged external

shielding shucked away clean. The capsule parted like two halves

of a nut shell, and Obi-Wan was in a thin, transparent, winged

capsule. Wind whistled through the lightsaber holes, but the inner

life-support capsule, constructed of a nearly indestructible cocooned

monofilament, held together better than the external shell.

After the first few moments, air flowed freely. Watching pieces of

metal flipping away around him, Obi-Wan held his breath as the automatic

repulsor circuits took the capsule into a smooth glide path. A

few rough moments, and then he was sailing in a long, shallow unpowered

arc. His descent began to slow. The wind howled against the

outside skin. Below him, the desert floor was an endless stretch of

brown and dull green spots. Far ahead, visible only as darker wrinkles

beneath the cloud cover, lay the Dashta Mountains. In minutes

he'd be close enough to see ground detail. Minutes to think, and

plan, and allow his disappointment to simmer into pure energy. Obi-

Wan watched a chunk of pod skin flipping away around him. Other

chunks turned end-over-end, tumbling away from him. It wouldn't

be the end of the world if a blip showed up on a scanner. Not neces sarily

a bad thing, he thought. If there is someone behind this, and if they

damaged my escape pod, then they might be scanning the sky. If they see the

metal debris, they might just conclude that their plot worked...

Whoever they are. And whatever they want.

Doolb Snoil watched the display as their ship rose, freeing itself of

Cestus's gravitational pull. Once free, it paused as the nav computers

plotted their jump to hyperspace. He already missed his friend

Obi-Wan, and was formulating an explanation to the Chancellor.

What would he say? Was there any way to cast this disaster in a favorable

light? He doubted it, b u t . . .

Xutoo's voice disturbed his reverie. "Ah, sir, we may have a problem."

There was an edge of something Snoil understood all too well

in that voice: controlled panic.

"Problem? Problem? Master Kenobi promised there would be no

problem!"

"I don't think he took that into consideration, sir."

"What?"

From a point between Cestus's two moons, a small ship approached

them, bearing in like a bird of prey. It was small and black,

with an ominously spare design that said it was built for pure practicality.

A war drone. A hunter-killer.

Mind working at fevered overdrive, Snoil managed to rationalize

the ship's presence. Perhaps it's just visiting Cestus, and has mistakenly

aligned its flight path with our departure point —

Then all such optimistic speculations were revealed as foolish. The

new ship fired a probe droid at them. The intelligent weapon spiraled

in, locked on target, and began to home in, a spinning ball of death.

A salute from the Five Families?

The consummate professional, Xutoo managed to keep his voice

calm at a moment when Snoil wanted to scream at the top of his

lungs. "I've commenced evasive maneuvers, but I don't know. Sir, I

would suggest that you follow General Kenobi's example and evacuate."

All Snoil could say was: "Aiyee!"

The ship began to make looping evasive maneuvers. More probe

droids must have joined the first, because they rocked and juddered

with blasts as Xutoo did his best.

"Sir," Xutoo repeated. "I suggest you go."

"No. I will stay here with you. Master Kenobi promised I would be

safe."

"I can't make you go, sir, but in a moment I'll jettison the remaining

escape pods in an attempt to distract the missile." Listening

to Xutoo's machinelike calm somehow penetrated S noil's defensive

mechanisms as even the explosions had not. No escape pods! He

broke. "No! No! Wait for me!"

Pushing himself to emergency speed, Snoil moved as rapidly as a

human being might stroll, wedging himself into the escape capsule.

He pushed the automatic sequence button, and his eyestalks twined

in anguish. Crash foam billowed up around him, and sight was lost.

For a moment he could barely breathe. Then his lips found the emergency

nozzle and air flowed into his lungs.

Then things went black as his pod sank back into and through the

ship's walls. He felt a rush, and then a jolt . . . followed by sudden,

deep quiet. Then a sensation of floating.

Snoil had no control at all—everything was managed by the automatic

emergency program. A screen opened up before his eyes, some

kind of computerized display showing the exterior of the ship as six

other escape pods burst free.

Two of them attracted probe droids away from Snoil as he plummeted

toward the atmosphere, but the screen showed the ship evading

one . . . two . . . three of the droids, and he began to feel more

optimistic.

Then the screen went very, very bright. When the light dimmed,

only smoke and debris remained. Xutoo and the ship were gone, destroyed.

He stared, horrified but almost incapable of speech, watching as

missiles streaked after the remaining pods.

Snoil was frozen with fear as the pod descended. The pods spun

crazily as evasion programs began to kick in. One of the droids

rushed past a spinning pod—and headed directly for him.

He watched as one pod after another was blown completely out of

the sky, now beginning to turn blue as they skimmed deeper into the

atmosphere. He heard something babbling in the background and

became horribly aware that that sound was his own voice, raving out

against the moment of expected pain and finality. "I'll sue! Or my, my

heirs will sue! For damages and emotional distress . . . " A probe

passed immediately close to him on the left, in pursuit of one of his

capsule's programmed distractions. The resultant explosion painted

the sky yellow and sent his pod juddering to the right, coincidentally

forcing another droid to miss its target. "Oh my, that was

close, and—" another horrendous explosion, and he made a bubbling,

shrieking sound. "And oh my!"

He turned to look back up—once he managed to determine which

direction "up" was—and saw another missile heading directly for

him. "No, no, I was joking! I'll retract that complaint! I'll file a full

admission of guilt or wrongdoing, or . . . Aiyee!"

And in the instant before discourse would have become terminally

irrelevant, one of the other escape pods swooped back in, intercepting

the offending missile.

As Snoil closed his eyes and offered his soul to the Broodmaster, a

new explosion dwarfed all the others in both scope and effect on

Snoil, who realized that his shell would certainly need washing after

all this.

Then suddenly, there was nothing but silence from outside. To his

wonder, he realized that he had survived the storm. Now there was

just the little matter of the landing.

A red warning light flashed on the control panel, and the capsule

requested a series of manual operations, warning him in a calm fe male

voice that certain "explosive impacts have damaged the capsule's

automatic systems. Please do not worry, as the manual backup systems can

perform perfectly well. Please perform the following functions in the sequence

requested. "

And one after another he did perform the tasks as requested, while

simultaneously watching the ground explode toward him. The altimeter

shifted toward zero with nauseating rapidity. "—Now disen gage

the external shields —" A switch. "—and now please, within five

seconds, disengage each of the primary source nodes, routing all of their

power to the secondary chamber —" Which switch? The altimeter

dizzied him, but he dared not look at it, nor glimpse the ground spinning

up at him like a vast hand rising to swat him from the sky.

"And now please trigger the main repulsor."

Disaster was almost upon him now. Certainly nothing he did

would make any difference. Surely this next moment would be his

last. Surely—

A violent whip sideways almost made Snoil's stomach roll. The

capsule bobbed as the repulsors fired, and the air outside flamed pink.

Snoil managed to breathe again, his eyestalks ceasing their wild and

frantic dance as he drifted toward the ground below.

Far below him and to the west, Obi-Wan Kenobi rolled his escape

pod into shadows and heaped sand and rocks atop it. Instinct made

him gaze up at the sky, where streaks of red and white blossomed

against the clouds. He frowned, trying to make out the shapes, and

then recognized them for what they were: shattered chunks of the

ship reentering the atmosphere. His heart was heavy, fearing that his

bungled mission had cost the lives of Xutoo and the harmless, brilliant

Snoil. How had this happened? What secret forces opposed

them here . . . ?

Then he saw the purple glow of repulsor fire, and relaxed just a bit.

Someone had escaped the ship. And Snoil was nothing if not lucky.

There was more than a chance that his old friend remained alive.

And that would be good. If anything on Cestus could be considered

certain, it was this: they would need every strong hand and agile

mind in the hours ahead.

46

0 bi-Wan disguised his distress signal with narrow-burst encoded

messages. Less than two hours later, Thak Val Zsing and Sirty

reached him with a dozen recruits. He sent half of them after Snoil

and followed the others back to camp, where he rejoined Kit Fisto

and the clone troopers.

There he was heartened to see all that had been accomplished.

They fed him, listened to the short version of his narrow escape, and

then settled down for serious conversation. "The least of our problems,"

he concluded, "is that negotiations with G'Mai Duris and the

leadership of Cestus have failed."

"I agree," Kit said. His black eyes gleamed. "There are other forces

at play here. From the beginning, we have been manipulated. It is

time the next phase of our operation went into effect. Nate?"

He said this raising his voice and nodding toward the clones, who

one by one rose and gave their reports.

As the food worked its way through his system, Obi-Wan was

comforted by the troopers' measured, military cadences. On occasion

he'd found that emotionless precision irritating, but now it calmed

him. The value of such competency could not be underestimated.

Here, it might save all their lives, and the plan as well.

All in all, he was pleasantly surprised by the commandos' accurate,

perceptive, and entirely admirable reports.

When they were complete, Kit Fisto leaned forward, resting his

elbows on his knees. "Your thoughts?" he asked after Obi-Wan had

remained quiet for almost a full minute.

"Impressive," he said. "It makes my own blundering seem all the

more childish in comparison."

Obi-Wan stood, slapping his palms against his legs. "The situation

has changed," he said. "Our resources have changed, and the nature

of our adversaries has changed. Gentlemen—" He scanned the assembled.

"—an unknown person or persons destroyed our transport

ship and killed one of your brothers. This was an unspeakable act,

and must be addressed as such."

The recruits, their new and improved "Desert Wind," were hard

now. Their grueling training had weeded out the weaklings and

transformed them into a band capable of following orders, of marching

courageously into danger. Still, a vital question remained: were

they really willing to kill or die? It was never possible to determine

who would cower under fire. Only combat itself could answer the

questions burning in every raw recruit's breast:

Will I? Can I?

He saw that question now. Saw also that his brush with catastrophe

had not diminished him in their eyes. In fact, it seemed the surviving

members of Desert Wind now accepted him as they had not

before, saw him as an ally, one who might now be willing to go beyond

his stated parameters into something more radically dangerous.

Someone had attempted to murder him. Someone had betrayed

and manipulated him. Duris? The Five Families? Trillot?

Someone. But who? Who stood to gain by his death?

He pulled his mind back to the task at hand. "We will continue

on," he said. "And we will finish what we started together. You do not

know me, but through the glowing reports of my associates, I know

you." He had their eyes and minds. What he needed was their hearts.

"In the coming days, the nature of our new situation will become

clear to you, and I trust that none of you will falter at the grim task

ahead. This is no longer a charade. Justified it may be, but I ask that

you control your rage. I ask you to follow the path of least violence for

the damage that we are called upon to do. To be merciful when possible,

and courageous in action when not."

He paused, and gathered himself. "We journeyed to Cestus seeking

a diplomatic solution. It would seem that that option is no longer

available to us. Ladies. Gentlemen." He locked eyes with each of

them in turn. "We must consider ourselves at hazard."

47

F. or hours G'Mai Duris had pored over her advisers' reports and

suggestions, seeking to better understand her current position. The

Republic had attempted to influence her decisions by deception. The

Jedi had won her the leadership of the hive council. Had given her a

piece of information that could destroy Cestus Cybernetics, or offer

her people a new beginning.

But by perpetrating a fraud, Obi-Wan had plunged her into a

nightmare. She could not support the Jedi, or accept his support. The

information in her hands could not be used to manipulate Cestus

Cybernetics. Without support from the Republic, the information

would do little save ensure her own assassination.

Another question remained as well, one she was having a more

difficult time answering. How exactly had the Jedi been foiled? She

didn't believe for an instant that the scheming Quill had trapped

Obi-Wan in such a fashion. No. She had seen too much of her

cousin's past power-grubbing to think her rival capable of such a

coup. Quill had received serious assistance. But from whom?

There was another force at work here, and one that might prove far

more dangerous.

Her assistant Shar Shar rolled into the room, blue skin gleaming

splotchily in alarm. "Regent Duris!" she cried. "We have terrible

news!" Shar Shar extruded an arm and punched a code into the machine,

waving her stubby hands through the reading stream until the

images changed. "This just came through a minute ago."

The view was from orbit, one of the drone satellites used to monitor

and protect the entire planetary system, everything from the moons

to the mines. They watched Obi-Wan's ship rising up through the

atmosphere. "We lost the image for a moment as the shift between

the ground monitors and the orbiters was disrupted. Perhaps by this

drone ship—"

Something appeared from the direction of a moon. It was black

and configured strangely, and Duris thought her eyes deceived her.

For a moment she imagined it to be some great bird of prey, but then

she saw it to be no manner of living thing, but a ship of an unfamiliar

design.

But was it really unfamiliar? Hadn't she seen such a ship design

among a series of craft purchased by Cestus Cybernetics security just

last year? It appeared from nowhere, swooped out of frame until another

satellite caught it, and then it and the Jedi's ship were both in

the viewing field at the same time. The black ship spat something out

toward the Jedi ship, which promptly commenced corkscrewing maneuvers.

"Who is in the escape pod?" G'Mai asked.

"Let me see." Her assistant manipulated the field. "Not much

shielding on a pod. We might be able to—ah! Not human . . . it was

the Vippit barrister."

"Then the Jedi is still piloting the ship?"

"Perhaps, and—" Suddenly the entire visual field flooded with

light, enough to wash the shadows from the room and temporarily

render them all dazed and nearly blind.

"What was that?" Duris asked, instantly comprehending the horrid

absurdity of the question. She knew precisely what it was. Even

more important, she understood what it meant.

Some unknown force or person had destroyed the Republican ship

and, with it, the Jedi personally appointed by Supreme Chancellor

Palpatine to negotiate with Cestus. She groaned. Things had been

horrendous enough. The discovery of Obi-Wan's perfidy, and its

public disclosure, had tied her hands. But this went so far beyond bad

that she would have to find new descriptions, and those new words

would have to wait until she ceased feeling too nauseated to think.

For all her current anger, she suspected Obi-Wan had acted from

a desire to bring Cestus back into the Republic's sheltering fold.

With respect and deep relief she noted that no one had actually been

harmed during the fraudulent kidnapping. In her heart she believed

that this suggested genuine concern for the lives and welfare of even

the lowliest security people, let alone the Families themselves. But

who or whatever had acted against the Jedi had displayed no such

scruples. Beyond doubt Cestus would be blamed, and she would have

no option but to throw her support to the Confederacy.

And although she could not fully grasp the intents of all sides in

this matter, she knew that for all of his deception she preferred Obi-

Wan to these shadowy assassins.

"What do we do?" asked Shar Shar, bouncing in agitation.

"There is only one thing we can do," she replied. "And that is to

safely retrieve any survivors. Snoil, at least, may be alive. Search for a

rescue beacon!"

48

J angotat and the rest of the rescue party had traveled most of the

way to the location indicated by Barrister Snoil's homing beacon,

zipping along close to the ground on speeder bikes. They were less

than three klicks away when they picked up the first signals from

ChikatLik's approaching rescue craft.

"We have a problem, Captain," Sirty said.

"Agreed, Sergeant." Obi-Wan's escape from the ship had been anticipated,

and had gone off without a hitch. His capsule had been all

but invisible to the scanners. Snoil's unanticipated exit was another

matter altogether. The Vippit's rescue beacon would be seen by anyone

with a scanner tuned to the emergency frequencies. The troopers

had their orders: to retrieve Snoil. There was no telling the nature

or inclination of those who now rushed to find them. Was it still

important not to expose the presence of trained Republic forces on

Cestus? What to do?

He made his decision from among a handful of equally bad options.

"Forry and Desert Wind travel north to intercept. Dig in and

do what you can to make yourselves look like a larger force. They

won't be anticipating hostile fire, and should retreat."

"Yes, sir."

"On it!"

Two of the speeder bikes peeled off to head north. He sent a coded

message to those remaining with him. "Follow me. Increase to maximum

velocity."

The Republic transport drama had attracted attention from members

of the Five Families. A seething Quill had already returned to

Duris's throne room, and Llitishi was said to be on his way. Quill radiated

both hatred and triumph. How long would it be before he

found a way to kill her? A month? A week? A few days?

"Regent Duris," said Shar Shar, rolling side-to-side with dismay.

"Our security force approaches the beacon location for the escape

capsule, but there is a problem."

"And what is that?"

The little blue ball frowned. "Look." On the projection field, a few

small dots zipped from the direction of the Dashta Mountains, heading

for the capsule.

"What is that?"

"Ordinarily I'd guess aboriginal nomads, ma'am. But they're moving

kind of fast."

Quill sneered, his wings fluttering with repressed rage. "We know

that Desert Wind was cooperating with the Jedi. We are simply seeing

the weapons that bought such cooperation, Regent."

"And now they intend to rescue the Vippit?" Her head spun.

"They may even be responsible for the attack."

"They have no such weaponry." Duris bit her tongue. These waters

were deepening. Could Desert Wind have been involved? But if they

had other allies, allies who might have supplied the technology for

such an assassination, then were the anarchists playing both sides

against the middle, supporting anyone who would provide them with

weaponry? Then what of her intuition that Quill had obtained the

holovid from complicit sources? And if he had—Whose trap is this,

really? And who has been caught in it?

Duris was beginning to think that Obi-Wan might have been

more truthful than she thought. Why, then, had he not proclaimed

innocence in some way? If security considerations were involved,

why had he not asked for a private audience? No, she had seen his

face: surprise, shock, consternation . . . and shame.

"Ma'am!" Shar Shar called out. "The rescue force is under fire!"

Duris manipulated her chair-arm sensor, momentarily unable to

find the feed. "Any visual contact?"

Shar Shar tried to manipulate the drone satellite but couldn't get

magnification powerful enough to show anything but a few specks

and flashes in the desert. "No," the Zeetsa said. "But they are using

weapons similar to those known to be possessed by Desert Wind."

Of course. That meant nothing. And everything. Her head hurt.

"Tell them to pull back. Put a smaller security team into the area."

The other dots were moving. Had they reached the capsule and extracted

the survivor?

"They're leaving!" Shar Shar bubbled. The dots on the map bleeped

out. "And they must have reached the mountains. Our drone satellite

can't see anything at all now."

Had Snoil been rescued? Kidnapped? Murdered? Tortured for information?

Welcomed as a friend? It was impossible to say from this

vantage point. But the differences among those possibilities might

cost G'Mai Duris her cloak of office.

More important, they might cost the life of every being on Cestus.

49

w ith anarchists attacking on multiple fronts, there was little time

for rest in ChikatLik. The attacks were always carried out with laser

precision, and inevitably involved minimal structural damage and no

loss of life. Still, with every strike an industrial complex was damaged,

production slowed or stopped. Mines were rendered too dangerous

for workers to enter, vehicles were sabotaged, and security

forces were humiliated and enraged. And behind it all, behind every

mark on the map that meant another blown bridge, another crippled

skyport, another central processing by-station rendered useless,

Duris thought she sensed the mind of Obi-Wan Kenobi: brilliant,

ferocious, tactically diverse, and respectful of life in all its forms.

Could the Jedi still be alive?

If the majority of production loci were jammed, if those critical

production lines were slowed to a crawl, her hands would be tied. She

would have to either sue for peace or call in Confederacy forces to

protect their interests, throwing Cestus onto the path of destruction.

Because if Cestus declared for the Confederacy, then the Republic

would consider her an enemy planet producing lethal arms. Cestus

had no fleet capable of resisting either juggernaut. Politically, economically,

and personally she would be torn to pieces, and Cestus

would end as a minor footnote in dull academic histories detailing

failed attempts at secession.

During those days the Regent slept little. It seemed that every five

hours or so there was another report, bearing new embedded images

of flaming refineries, fleeing security forces, stories of commando

teams—perhaps Desert Wind, perhaps something else—striking from

silence and shadows, destroying only equipment, and then fading away

again. Just dissolving into thin air.

Then in the middle of a night, Shar Shar's cries roused her from

uneasy dreams. "We've trapped Desert Wind!" she called. "Please,

come now."

G'Mai Duris wrapped a robe around her ample body and hurried

to follow her assistant's spherical blue form as it richocheted down

the hall toward the observation room.

She recognized the location in the holos: the Kibo geothermal station

west of the Zantay Hills. Kibo had appeared on a high-priority

list of possible targets and thus been allotted additional security

teams. Apparently those precautions had borne fruit.

"What do we have?"

"A Desert Wind unit. No more than ten. They were sabotaging

one of the towers, and a secondary sweep picked them up. We

swooped in before they could escape. Seemed to have cut off their retreat."

"Good, good," Duris said. "Then there is a chance for capture, and

then interrogation." Perhaps now they would finally learn a bit of the

truth. Perhaps.

50

bi-Wan Kenobi was pinned down in a bunker at the rocktumbled

edge of Kibo Lake, just outside the power station's white

duracrete dome. For the last hour a slow wind had been building.

The air was clouded with sand and dust, reducing the accuracy of defensive

fire. Their enemies seemed less encumbered: one of his recruits

was already wounded by sniper blasts. The surprise and the

accurate return fire had dispirited the others.

The clone troopers were still disguised as Desert Wind fighters.

Even though Obi-Wan knew that the incriminating holovid existed,

if there were no additional witnesses, and no obvious clone trooper

involvement, it would be easier for Coruscant to deny allegations.

Kibo Lake's fifty-kilometer-wide volcanic crater was the fourth

largest on the planet. Active vents at the bottom transformed this,

one of Cestus's largest bodies of groundwater, into a hypermineralized

geothermal soup pot, home to a collection of odd primitive

aquatic forms, and a power source for many of the outlying mines.

The geothermal stations tapped those volcanic vents, concentrating

the heat and ultimately powering a series of steam turbines. The

power was sold in a dozen forms planetwide.

Both stealth and courage had been required to move into position

0

for the assault: they'd skimmed silently across Kibo Lake's simmering

alkaline soup and simultaneously crawled over the crater wall from

the desert, in a precision pincer operation.

Explosive charges had been carefully placed, guards neutralized

without fatality. If all had gone well they would have faded back into

the desert an hour before the first explosion's false dawn illuminated

the night sky.

It was not to be. The problem had been an accident, really. Thirty

hours before their attack, Kibo's security system had malfunctioned.

The entire security network had been quietly taken offline for repair,

and it was impossible for Obi-Wan to test their attempts at a bypass.

Worse still, there was no way to know when the system might

come back online.

Perfect opportunity? Or perfect trap?

For half an hour Desert Wind had watched and waited and

sweated before deciding to go on with the plan. So half of them entered

the refinery while the others remained behind, hoping that

when the alarm system switched itself back on it would not reveal

their intrusion. Failing that, they hoped to disarm it completely.

Their plan might have worked, except that the plant security

wasn't testing the old alarm system at all. The power station staff

were installing a completely new system, one that did not show up on

any of the plans provided by the ever-bribable Trillot.

Obi-Wan had walked directly into an unintentional trap.

"We're surrounded!" Thak Val Zsing hissed.

"No," Obi-Wan said calmly. Val Zsing stuck his head up and was

immediately driven back by accurate blasterfire.

"We're pinned," Obi-Wan corrected, "but not surrounded. Right

over there—" He pointed at a series of ceramic spirals near the main

dome."—heat extraction coils run boiling water to the turbines." He

spoke as calmly as he could, but knew that his companions' patience

would not last indefinitely. "Jangotat?"

Jangotat had been patiently watching his quadrant since the ambush

was discovered, and now responded evenly. "Yes, sir?"

"I want you to draw them for me. I'll provide covering fire—"Jangotat

knelt down as Obi-Wan traced in the dust with his fingertip.

The trooper grasped the implications instantly, but Thak Val

Zsing was still uncertain. "I don't understand," the old man said.

"Watch, and learn," Obi-Wan said. "But now we need covering

fire."

"A lot of covering fire," Jangotat added. "Are you Jedi as good with

blasters as you are with lightsabers?"

"Better," Obi-Wan joked. "We only use lightsabers to make fights

more .. . equitable."

The ARC grinned. "Let's do it, then."

Obi-Wan chuckled to himself. Gaining a new name seemed to

have given Jangotat more personality as well.

Obi-Wan and his forces began a flurry of counterblasting that

temporarily tied down the guards crouching just beyond the dome.

Taking that opportunity, Jangotat dashed out from the hiding place

and, firing by instinct, managed to hit one of the security guards on

the fly. A fatality. No way around it, now. Obi-Wan had known that

this action might cost lives, but he'd allowed himself to hope—

His thoughts were interrupted as Jangotat dashed from the side

and zigzagged across the wharf, drawing a blistering stream of fire.

Blaster bolts ripped around his feet as Jangotat made a high, clean

dive into the volcanic pit. Obi-Wan flinched. That water had to be

hot!

As he had suspected, the forces pinning them down changed locations

slightly to get a better view of the steaming surface. In that

moment, Obi-Wan aimed carefully and blew a hole in the heat condenser

coil.

Live steam billowed from the burst coil and the security men

screamed, for a moment forgetting all plans and intentions. A good

scalding could do that.

He glanced behind himself long enough to be certain that a speeder

bike swooped in to fish Jangotat out to safety. Then Obi-Wan led the

charge toward the disorganized security forces.

Forty meters separated them. If Obi-Wan could just steal a few

seconds, aggression could compensate for superior numbers. One of

the blind, scalded men turned his weapon on the charging intruders,

too late to keep them from closing the gap.

One of the Desert Wind recruits went down hard, his chest transformed

into a smoking husk. The clash was joined.

Obi-Wan's lightsaber flashed, and guards fell. Steam gushed from

the damaged coil. While it stung his eyes, he was not nearly so close

to it as those first men had been. That must have been brutal.

The air around Obi-Wan blurred with lightsaber slashes. Speeder

bikes screamed in from above now, and Obi-Wan glimpsed Kit

Fisto's speeder streak past as the Nautolan plunged into the fray,

lightsaber flashing left and right, deflecting laser blasts and severing

blasters at the barrel. Fortunate guards scrambled back to safety. Unfortunate

ones fell clutching wounds, and a few would never move

again.

They had been trapped, and tricked; disaster had been averted only

because Jangotat had been willing to do exactly as ordered, even

though those orders seemed insane. Disaster had been reversed, become

a rout that might devolve into a slaughter if he didn't stop this.

He waved the withdrawal signal to the Nautolan, and their troops

went into retreat. They had done more damage than their original

plan had called for. When the explosives detonated, this entire facility

would be a splintered mass of rubble.

And yet, try as he might, he felt no pride at all.

Lives had been lost. The door to chaos had just been opened, and

it stretched wider by the moment.

51

I n the days since the Jedi had been expelled from ChikatLik,

Desert Wind had destroyed three refineries, an energy facility, and a

manufacturing plant.

And this, Duris knew, was only the beginning.

She didn't know where to turn. All she could do was issue security

orders. Although they would be carried out without fail, she was no

longer certain how much difference it would make.

Duris no longer knew who to trust. The Five Families constantly

lied. It was their nature, fed to them along with their first food. Every

few hours the Cestus map sprouted another red blotch. And that

meant that time was running out. Already, she knew, the Five Families

were making their own plans. Either to find a way to remove her

from office, or worse.

And the devil of it was that what she wanted most of all was to

speak with Obi-Wan one more time. To ask him to explain. Perhaps

if it had been just the two of them, that might have been possible.

But now . . .

"Your orders, ma'am?" Shar Shar burbled.

"Keep gathering information, Shar Shar," she said. "And hope for

a miracle."

On the most secretive of occasions, those executives known as the

Five Families met in their most private facility, a bunker complex

seventy kilometers south of ChikatLik. The bunker was officially

called an "entertainment complex," and was complete with sufficient

communications gear to monitor the entire planet, as well as enough

food and water to supply ten people for six months. The outer facility

was complete with a holoatrium, exercise and dining rooms, luxurious

suites, and lounging areas. An inner room was even more secure,

with walls thick enough to resist even glazion energy torches for a

standard day.

Despite her relation to the X'Ting clan, Trillot had never before entered

the bunker, and doubted she ever would again. At the moment

she was hosted by her distant cousin Quill, who owed her favors. Still,

nervousness hung in the air like a pall of smoke. The ambience did not

improve when, from a darkened corridor, a tall shaven-headed woman

entered the room, the pale skin at her temples scribed with tattoos.

Ventress wore a skintight suit of black Sullust leather that emphasized

the disturbingly boneless quality of her movement.

Trillot stood to make the introductions. "I present to you Asajj

Ventress."

Those present stood politely. Then they sat again and awaited her

comments.

"I am Commander Asajj Ventress." Her tattooed scalp held their

eyes as if the static inkings were animated. "I represent Count

Dooku. Our new venture, the JK droids, will give you wealth and

power beyond limit. But make no mistake: my master has greater

concern than profit. If you conduct fair trade, you will be rewarded."

The representatives whispered to each other, nodding enthusiastically,

and Ventress had to raise her voice slightly to get their attention

again. "Attempt to deal with this as mere commerce," she warned,

"and you will die to regret it."

Dame Por'Ten raised a thin, blue-veined hand. "No need for such

talk, Commander. There may have been some confusion recently, but

with the . . . departure of Obi-Wan Kenobi, I can assure you we are

back on track."

Ventress inclined her head. "Well then," she said, her lips curled in

a cold smile. "Let's discuss particulars."

There was a bit of polite agreement before someone had the honesty

to actually speak her mind. "What is it you request?"

Ventress focused her gaze upon the speaker, then dropped her eyes

politely. "That you continue to serve your best interests."

The answer seemed to please them. "And what might those be?"

Ventress raised her eyes. They burned like coals. "Survival. And

you would not be alive, any of you, if you had yielded to the Jedi. Now

then, I know at least one escape capsule survived. I believe both

Kenobi and his allies are still alive. I feel it. They will attempt to disrupt

our commerce."

Lady Por'Ten recoiled before Ventress's ferocity. "Wha-what

should we do?"

The slightest of smiles curled those thin lips. "Obey me," Ventress

said. "And provide me with your data, data you can project on

a map."

"Why?"

Her eyes hardened. "Do not ask for answers that you cannot

understand," she said. "Let us merely say I intend to prove Kenobi

my inferior. His lies are my reality."

All the data had been gathered and then input to the computers. It

included every sighting, every act of sabotage, everything that was

known, including the escape pod s disappearance.

Everything.

Asajj Ventress walked through the midst of the projection field,

eyes closed and fingers outstretched, resembling a blind girl mapping

an unfamiliar room.

Or so it might have seemed to one of mundane mind. To others,

she seemed a strange and terrible siren wandering through a sea of

living energy, gliding along lines of intention.

Trillot thought Ventress the most beautiful, frightening sight she

had ever beheld.

Finally, Ventress turned and faced them. Her hand stretched out,

one quavering finger touching a point in the midst of all the glowing

lines. "Here," she said. "They are in this place."

"Are you certain?" Lady Por'Ten asked. "You can be so sure of their

location?"

The others held their breath, not wishing to contemplate the potential

danger of questioning this woman in any way, shape, or form.

Her chest heaved slowly as she replied. "You of the Family are dead

to the Force. But Obi-Wan. Yes . . . he is alive with it. He and . . .

yes . . . " She closed her eyes. "One other." She inhaled, as if scenting

something in the air. "The Nautolan. Yes. He is Jedi, too. I feel it. I

can feel their ripples in the Force."

She smiled at them. "If you see ripples in water, do you not know

where the stone was dropped? If these maps and this information are

good, my analysis will be true."

As Ventress spoke with the others, Trillot felt the pressure mount.

If this operation failed, the gang lady might bear the brunt of anger

from both sides. But if she succeeded . . .

Quill leaned close to her. "You have done well. Continue your support,

cousin. If the Five Families profit, you will be rewarded beyond

your dreams."

"My dreams are quite expansive," Trillot said, turning to look at

them. "What is it you offer?"

"For three hundred years," Quill said, circling Trillot seductively,

"there have been Five Families. Mining, fabrication, sales and distribution,

research, and energy. But mining has always understood that

labor was an integral part of our process."

"So?"

"So . . . after Duris is dead, there will be room in the hive council

for Trillot."

Trillot's eyes glowed.

"Think of it. Your grubs would no longer crawl in the shadows."

"Invited to the balls?"

Quill smiled. "Dining at the head table. Trillot, my friend. My

sister. It is high time for you and your family to emerge from the

darkness and take your rightful place."

Quill had found Trillot's weakness. "What must I do?" she said.

Ventress watched it all without speaking. Her hands were still outstretched,

as if she could feed through her fingertips. Trillot had

heard that Obi-Wan Kenobi had faked a fantastic demonstration

only days before. Could Ventress actually do such an incredible

thing? And if she could, did that not imply that she was superior to

the J e d i . . . ?

"Remember who is your friend and ally in these matters. Not

Duris, certainly."

"No."

"Nor Kenobi," he said quietly, glancing to be certain their deadly

ally was out of hearing, "who uses our planet as a pawn on the galactic

game board."

"Yes." Trillot was shaking.

"Do you fear Kenobi?"

Trillot nodded.

"Do not. Our ally, the great Asajj Ventress, will destroy him. You

must supply her with whatever she asks, whenever she asks, without

question. Kenobi may still trust you, and come to you for help. If he

does, you must act without hesitation. The moment will come, and

when it does, you may emerge into the sun."

"We must act," Ventress said, turning to them.

"What have you in mind?" Lady Por'Ten asked.

Ventress stalked the chamber almost as if she were oblivious to the

others. "I have in mind a test for your JK droids."

The members of the Five Families glanced at each other nervously.

"They are not lethal until their Gabonna crystals are replaced,

ma'am."

"No matter. Captives can be profitably questioned. But one other

thing is necessary: months ago Count Dooku designed and ordered

special infiltration droids. According to your reports these droids are

complete, and ready for testing."

"Yes, that is correct," one of the technicians agreed.

"Then they, and the JKs together, will follow my commands," Ventress

said, and she smiled. And that smile was so unfeeling that it

made a snarl look warm and welcoming in comparison.

I hey were not alive, but they crawled through the darkness. They

had no minds, but dreamed of death. They had no bodily needs, yet

were ravenously hungry.

At the moment the four droids in the lead were little more than

clear sacs of jelly. Dull lights embedded in their semisolid bodies revealed

clumps of metallic shapes suspended within.

Those in the rear were more solid, golden, hourglass-shaped droids.

Their small, pointed legs crawled easily along the path blazed by

their larger brothers. JKs.

The four infiltration droids used their indeterminate shape to

squeeze through the smallest passageways, finding purchase wherever

they could, then taking whatever shape best served their needs.

Laser nodes along their surfaces scalded the rock, melting it and

grinding it to widen the passageway.

For kilometers they traveled like this, becoming more solid when

they needed to push an obstruction aside, more fluid when they

needed to explore, making the way for the JKs.

The lethal procession whispered beneath the ground, below every

sensor, beneath any potential observer. And they traveled in near

silence. When they met an obstacle they burrowed or burned

through it.

One meter at a time, they simply approached their prey. Without

fatigue or trepidation, without mercy or living intent they moved forward,

motivated by nothing save a programmed appetite.

One that would shortly be satisfied.

F or hundreds of years the Dashta Mountains' deep shadows had

provided protection for smugglers, runaways, thieves, political malcontents,

and young sweethearts. No one knew all the paths that led

into the chambers, and likely enough no one ever would. Therefore it

was the depths of the caves themselves that were selected as the best

place for a celebration.

After all, the initial strategy may have gone awry, but their secondary

plans had gone swimmingly. If the Jedi regretted the loss of

life, the rejuvenated forces of Desert Wind felt that they had finally

struck a telling blow against the Five Families.

After six of those raids, Sirty's communications skills combined

with Doolb Snoil's phenomenal mind for research, tapping into

ChikatLik's holovid network to extract a vital and telling piece of

data: droid production had dropped by more than 30 percent. If they

could but maintain the current pace of action, the Five Families and

the government would be forced to the bargaining table, where all

desires could be met.

And while Obi-Wan wasn't nearly so certain that their current

course would indeed take them to the desired land of plenty, there

had been much violent action, many hairbreadth escapes, and three

lost comrades to honor. Tensions were building to a killing point, and

a bit of celebration would do them good.

So the revel had been building for hours, guards posted at the cave

mouth. While alert status remained high, Desert Wind's heightened

appetites were simultaneously slaked with food, drink, games, bragging

and boasting, and dancing.

Resta Shug Hai spent most of her time by herself, sipping mead, a

drink that had similar effects on human and Cestian. Since the very

first days of training she had been an outsider, the lone X'Ting

among human recruits. The barrier had gone both ways: after a lifetime

of fighting for her land and identity, there was little love lost for

the offworlders. Even as the troops began to enjoy victories, and the

normal camaraderie bound them all together more tightly, she had

remained somewhat apart. But she finally stepped forward, swaying

slightly as if her tongue had been loosened by the mead. "I sing

song," she said.

Doolb Snoil happily clapped his chubby hands together, cheering

her on.

"X'Ting songs like Thak Val Zsing's history lessons," she explained.

"Every clan have own song. Tell people's story. When song

die, people die. Resta last to know her clan song."

And she sang it. Obi-Wan didn't speak the language, but he didn't

need to. He understood the emotions behind the alien words. And if

emotion held true, the song spoke of courage, and toil, of love and

hope and dreams.

What struck Obi-Wan most was her evident pride and courage. If

Resta and G'Mai Duris were typical of their people, the X'Ting were

incredibly strong folk. Despite the plagues, despite their lands being

stolen from under them, despite no external evidence at all, they

dreamed on.

When she finished, the rock walls rang with applause.

Jangotat made his rounds of the outer caves, taking a few moments

to speak to each of his brothers, all of whom declined intoxicants.

Then he checked in with the recruits who were taking guard positions

among the rocks or monitoring the scanners. No matter how

well hidden they believed themselves to be, it was inevitable that

eventually their lair would be discovered. Still, considering that the

mountains themselves could shield them from enemy bombardment,

it would take hours for enemy troops to ascend the slopes under fire,

and all rear exits were either well guarded or sealed off.

In the world of field operations, this was about as secure as life

could get.

Making his third rounds, a sense of ease descended over Jangotat.

General Kenobi's initial plot had failed, but this new operation

seemed to be working fine: breaking energy lines, crippling water

plants, and looting payrolls for their growing war chest. The local

troops had performed well under pressure.

Unknown enemies had doomed their initial ruse. Jangotat now

considered the entire world of diplomatic subterfuge unfit for a soldier,

or, he now believed, those strange and fascinating creatures

called Jedi. Odd. He thought of the Jedi not merely with respect, but

with the sort of fraternalism ordinarily reserved for members of the

GAR. In the unchanging order of things they were high above him,

but were fighters, leaders extraordinaire. The most recent adventure

proved that perfection eluded them, as it did all beings. Even diving

into the scalding water had been only a temporary, if intense, pain. A

liberal application of synthflesh from their first-aid kits had covered

wounds and reduced redness and swelling in a few hours.

Most important, they had won.

Jangotat found himself entering a state of contentment rarely experienced

by one of his station. He was fulfilling his primary function,

enjoying an opportunity to learn from two superlative teachers.

There were other .. . interesting factors as well.

He cast about, hoping to find Sheeka Tull, but did not. Doubtless

she was ferrying in another load of supplies. The thought gave him a

warm feeling.

In the last moments before he lost his honor, old Thak Val Zsing

was thankful and content. For years he had struggled to bring advantage

to his people, and those hard times had taken their toll even before

the last few disastrous years, when betrayals and murderously

ruthless security reprisals had reduced Desert Wind to a shadow of

its former strength.

But despite his early reservations, it looked as if the Jedi were actually

the answer to his prayers; perhaps his grandchildren would not

have to eat the dust for as many long, painful years as had Val Zsing

before them.

He had watched the revelry, noted with sober approval that the

two Jedi maintained a slight and leaderly aloofness from the proceedings,

polite but not intrusive.

These Jedi were responsible and respectful. Strange, all of 'em.

The human, the clones, the Nautolan . . . and that Vippit was the

strangest. All fluttery fear when the retrieval team found his capsule,

but as soon as they'd brought the mollusk into camp, he'd instantly

found work coordinating intelligence. Sharp as a laser scalpel, that

one.

In the final analysis, Thak Val Zsing had lost leadership of Desert

Wind, but was winning the war. Not a bad trade. Not a bad final

chapter in the long, strange life of a murderer's great-grandson, a history

teacher turned miner and anarchist leader.

So Thak Val Zsing found himself a fine bottle of Chandrilan

brandy and wandered back to one of the rear caves to enjoy it—

a taste of a homeworld he might never see again. There were only

two things that Thak Val Zsing enjoyed: fighting and drinking.

The bottle was three-quarters empty when he momentarily blacked

out, leaning back against the cave wall to watch the stalactites spin.

And spin they did, in a happy blur that made him cry out in pleasure

as finished the bottle. He was down to the dregs, sliding down a

warm dark tunnel toward blissful slumber, when he heard a cracking

sound. Another. Then the ground beneath him began to heave.

He looked at it curiously, finding it amusing. Distantly, the tinkle

and burr of dance music echoed through the caves. Although he

could not hear the happy voices, Val Zsing knew that they were

there. He could feel it: after an uncertain start, with the Jedi attempting

to pull off some kind of elaborate con operation, the plan

was back on track, with the program of harassment and sabotage that

Desert Wind had begun so long ago. And now it would succeed.

He was basking in that thought when the cracking sound came

again. Thak Val Zsing rolled over onto his hard round belly so that

the cave was right-side up again, and blinked his bleary eyes.

A rock rolled to the side, revealing a fissure in the ground. Perhaps

it was one of the myriad micro-tunnels running through every bit of

these mountains. Most were too small for a human, so there was no

need to be concerned about the safety. What was this, then, some

kind of volcanic activity? Perhaps a burrowing male chitlik... ?

And then the first shadowed, amorphous shape emerged.

The four plastidroids and their JK companions had traveled a hundred

kilometers at an average rate of just under ten kilometers per

hour. It had taken them half a day to reach their target. Tirelessly

they crawled through the dusty tunnels, edging toward their prey.

The droids did not always travel in a straight line: when tunnels

branched, some of them took alternate paths, either burrowing or

climbing back to maintain a rough sense of direction. When they

reached an obstacle that they could not easily push or burrow through,

they backed up and went around. When the sensors at their surface

detected the sounds of music, they began to converge, all of the fractally

mapped alternative pathways canceled. Machines could not sigh

with relief, but one prone to fancy might have attributed a certain eagerness

to the manner in which they seemed to accelerate as they

emerged from the cave floor.

The plastoid infiltration droid pushed its way through, melting

and crushing rock as it went. Then a second, third, and fourth followed

it.

After them appeared the JKs, until all hunched quivering in that

empty cave—empty save for a single intoxicated human who watched

dazedly, assuming that the drink that dulled his pain had also clouded

his sight with hallucinations.

The four plastidroids looked like a gigantic protozoans, studded

with shadowy mechanical puzzle pieces in place of nuclei or organelles.

Once reaching the desired destination, magnetically encoded

pieces suspended within each bag wormed their way toward each

other and began snapping together. Slowly, as the lengths of metal

and plastine found each other, the newly formed limbs created nightmarish

silhouettes beneath the transluscent skins, stretching them.

The JKs seemed to watch as the four bags of plastine and metal

heaved and quivered. In turn, each was distorted by the assembling

metallic pieces within it, until there stood not four amorphous shapes

but four fully formed infiltrator droids, treaded monstrosities as tall

as three humans with heavy armored bodies and long, flexible necks.

Thak Val Zsing watched, not understanding what he was seeing,

laughing at the hallucination's oddness. Intoxication had caused

stranger visions in the past, but not many. It was all terribly amusing.

He continued to chuckle until the first infiltrator machine was almost

completely formed. Its outline, suddenly and horribly familiar,

began to resemble that of a killer droid that had shattered a mining

union strike five years earlier.

That outline burned its way through the chemical fog, the realization

that death had just, impossibly, oozed up from the very ground

below him. He stood and staggered back against the wall. Then a

moment came when he realized that he was wrong, that what he saw

was no hallucination at all, but something real and appalling.

There are defining moments in a being's life, moments when actions

are taken—or not taken. Once done, certain things cannot be

undone. Thak Val Zsing was drunk, so perhaps he could be excused.

He was also old, and the veteran of more Desert Wind raids than he

could count. Perhaps life gave every person a specific allotment of

nerve, and when that allotment was expended, there was simply no

more.

Until the end of his days, Thak Val Zsing struggled to explain, to

himself if not others, why he did nothing except crawl back beneath

a shelf of rock. And there he trembled, sobbing his fear and misery.

And did not raise the alarm that would have turned the murder

machines' attention to him.

It is a choice no one should have to make: to save life, at the cost of

the soul.

As the JKs waited patiently, lubricant drained from the plastine

skins still tightly stretched over the now fully assembled bodies of the

infiltrators. One at a time, the skins stretched around the metal

frames, then ruptured, like birth membranes rupturing around metal

infants.

The JKs sniffed the air like living things, as if hungry to fulfill their

function.

And in their mechanical way, perhaps they were.

54

K it Fisto leaned back against the uneven rock wall, his tentacles

twitching in sympathetic rhythm with the music. Although his face

did not change, he was amused to find himself responding to these

primitive melodies. Like most Jedi, Kit had been raised not on his

homeworld, but in the halls of the Temple. However, to amuse himself,

he had made a study of Glee Anselm's customs, becoming especially

fond of its music. On Glee Anselm, no one would be gauche

enough to play songs with less than three different rhythms, and far

more complex melodies than this. Still, there was something attractive

about it, and he finally raised a hand and said: "Hold! I would

join you."

The musicians paused, surprised that the normally taciturn Nautolan

had spoken, let alone that he wished to participate. Nervously,

they offered the various instruments at their disposal. Kit scanned

them, before choosing one that combined string and wind. "This will

suffice."

He noted that Obi-Wan and Doolb Snoil were watching and decided

to make a special effort. Obi-Wan had proven himself one of

the ablest warriors of Kit Fisto's experience. And while some might

have considered it an unworthy urge, he wished to impress his companion

with his native music.

So, taking the instrument in hand, he began to blow and strum simultaneously,

each action reinforcing the other. It took him a few

moments to find his way, and despite his extreme dexterity there

were notes that he could not hit, chords that he could not play. It

mattered not. As had his forebears, Kit had mastered the art of performing

music underwater, and although he was comfortable in the

air, sound took on a different character when transmitted through

the thinner medium. Adjustments had to be made, and his nimble

mind and fingers made them within moments. As his tones grew

smoother and more pleasuring, the other musicians began to accompany

him on string and wind instruments. Then voices crooned in

wordless song, in a fashion that almost made him homesick. Despite

the aridity of their world, these Cestians were a good lot.

Then came the ultimate compliment: some of the more daring attendees

rose and actually began to dance. At first they had difficulty

finding the beat and rhythm. With Nautolan music it was more important

to listen to the pauses between notes than to the notes themselves,

which were sustained in irregular bits. They seemed to find

their groove, and were beginning to really enjoy themselves. Snoil's

long, fleshy neck traced the beat in the air, his eyestalks keeping

counterpoint.

Then Kit stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing before his conscious

mind comprehended the threat.

The rough cavern floor trembled, as if sections of the mountain

had wrenched their way free and now crawled toward them in the

darkness.

A bearded miner from the Clandes region sprinted out of the back

caves. "We're invaded!" came a scream. Then a light flashed, and the

miner hit the ground like a bag of smoking rags, no longer screaming

at all.

"What in space is that?" Skot OnSon yelled, shoulder-length

blond hair flagging.

"This shouldn't be possible," Fisto said, surprise momentarily fixing

him in his tracks.

Something appeared in the passageway leading to the back caves.

Its neck was serpentine but mechanical, supporting a head that was

both weapon and sensory probe. The body it was attached to was as

tall as two humans at the shoulder, but composed of more individual

pieces than he would have thought possible for something of its size,

almost as if it were constructed from baubles found in a child's toy

chest. It rolled on treads. A thin sheaf of plastine was stretched about

the frame, and his mind searched frantically, some part of him sure

he already knew what this thing was.

Whirring around its feet were one . . . two . . . three . . . four of the

golden JK droids.

"Run!" Skot cried. That single word accomplished what the appearance

of horror had not: spurred them into action.

Revelers fled toward the exit. The general chaos spoiled the sight

lines for targeting, made the soldiers of Desert Wind fear to fire for

risk of hitting their own people. The infiltration droid's blaster fired

again, catching two more Desert Wind fighters.

When the soldiers tried to help their friends, the smaller JKs

swooped in. They could not be stopped, reasoned with, blasted, or

evaded. Shock tentacles, electrified netting, stun darts, and blaster

bolts erupted with dizzying variety.

It was impossible to predict their moves, or escape them. The JKs

restrained and cocooned one miner after another, moving on to their

next victim with mechanical dispassion.

"What are they?" Skot screamed, fleeing toward the entrance. "It's

not possible!"

Kit raised his lightsaber, triggering its emerald blade. His every

nerve tingled. Obi-Wan had been right. From the very beginning

this entire operation had been a disaster.

"Not possible? No one told them!" Sirty yelled tightly. The battlefield

sarcasm disappeared almost as swiftly as it had blossomed.

"What do we do, sir?"

Kit looked around quickly, trying to spy Obi-Wan. If the other

Jedi was in a good position, it was possible—

No more time for thought. One of the droids had trapped a family

of four at the edge of the pit. Its blaster tendril pivoted to face them.

"Cover me!" Kit called, and dashed out. He felt the tingle before

the beam struck, and skittered aside. He weaved wildly, fiercely,

Form I—style improvisation applied to pure evasion. He dodged and

dashed, covering ground toward the crouching family with blistering

speed.

Sizzling bolts missed him by bare centimeters. Where they struck,

rock shattered and smoked. He felt a brief, intense electric jolt as a

bolt grazed his hip, splashing against the ground. The Nautolan had

begun to dodge even before the beam arced in his direction. Kit

thanked his Jedi skills, and knew that his only hope was to stay out of

range. These were personal security droids: apparently the tactical

chips hadn't been swapped. That would limit their effectiveness as

instruments of aggresssion, but still...

Now he was close to the infiltration droid, and his lightsaber

seared the air, slicing through the treads with a flash. The intruder

droid staggered and toppled toward the others. Another droid was

nicked but managed to stay erect as it pivoted to target Kit.

Finally, he located Obi-Wan. The Jedi had clung to the shadows,

and approached the droids from the rear, grim and determined, two

clones at his back. Their sidearms were inadequate to stop the invading

machines, but proved excellent distraction. Obi-Wan was

able to approach from another angle. His lightsaber flashed, slicing

treads. As one of the droids fell to the ground, Obi-Wan closed the

gap and slit its mechanical underbelly. Gears and plastine coils

bulged out.

Oily smoke flooded the cave. Miners, troopers, and Jedi were engulfed

in vile thin vapor. While not actually poisonous, the caves

soon echoed with hacking and retching sounds. Through it all, the

JKs captured one miner after another. Nothing stopped them. Nothing

slowed them. They seemed to aim where a person would be in

a moment, rather than where he or she was now. The infiltration

droids had weaknesses, but the JKs seemed to have none at all.

Obi-Wan's senses tingled and he whirled barely in time to see one

of the infiltration droids fixing him in its sights. There was no place,

no time to move, only time to raise his lightsaber, awaiting the deadly

flash.

With an eye-numbing blast, the droid was struck from the other

side. It staggered, long enough for Obi-Wan to close the gap and

sever its treads. The mechanical monster reared back and then fell

sideways, crushing segments of stalactite as it did.

He looked over at the spot where the saving blasts had been

launched—and saw Doolb Snoil waving back, stubby arms bracing

one of the portable cannons against his shell.

Despite their desperate straits Obi-Wan could not repress a smile.

After all this time, Snoil had repaid his debt to the Jedi several times

over, even if it meant disobeying orders—

Then a cracking sound drew his attention to the ceiling. One of the

stalactites had been weakened when the droid reared up. It separated

from the ceiling and began to fall. "Snoil!" Obi-Wan cried out, but it

was already too late. The barrister looked up just as the rock spear hit

his shell, lancing through the outer toughness into the vulnerable

flesh beneath.

Within seconds Obi-Wan was at his side. As he cradled Snoil's

heavy, fleshy head in his arms, the Vippit's rapidly declining body

temperature confirmed Obi-Wan's worst fears. His friend was dying.

Snoil's eyestalks weaved up toward him. "I did it, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did." Obi-Wan had never noticed the little flecks of color

along Snoil's neck. They were bright green and blue against the

browning flesh, and they were growing dull even as he watched.

"If there is any combat bonus, make certain that my broodmates

receive full measure . . . and . . ." His stalk-tip eyes grew dim and

glazed. "And see that it isn't taxed. The agreement we signed with the

Republic, which my grandfather negotiated . . . ," he said proudly. He

coughed a green bubble, and even before it burst he went still.

Obi-Wan laid Snoil's head gently on the ground. "A great barrister,

from a great line," he said.

Then he returned to the fight.

Jangotat found himself trapped between a press of miners and an

onrushing JK. Escape through the front cave seemed to be unimpeded,

although instinct told him that enemy troops would be stationed

in line of sight of the cave mouth, ready to pick off fleeing

anarchists.

How had this disaster happened? General Kenobi had been correct:

there was more here than met the eye.

Still, it was his duty to follow orders, and his inclination to protect

unarmed and innocent civilians.

From a hiding point behind a massive stalagmite he fired at the

droids again and again with his blaster rifle. The blue laser bolts sang

off the outer casing, doing no damage. Resta and another Desert

Wind fighter fired at it. The JK went at them, ensnaring the man in

stun-cable as Resta sprang to the side with surprising agility.

Was that the only way to escape one of these demonic things? Sacrifice

a friend?

A terrible crash shook the cave as another of the infiltration droids

fell, and he took heart. The cave entrance rocked with another flash,

followed by more screams. Bodies and wreckage flew back into the

cavern, and smoke rolled. Screams and moans filtered out from beneath

the rubble.

There. The trap had closed, and the pressure was crushing.

"Side caves!" someone yelled. The miners, farmers, and soldiers of

Desert Wind scrambled back and away from the main action. Jangotat

stood with his back against the wall as the miners fled into the

side cavern. This entire mountain was honeycombed with such tunnels.

There was no way an enemy could cover all of them. Many of

his compatriots could escape to fight again another day... he hoped.

Another droid toppled and fell. Was that the third infiltration

droid down? How many remained? If the blasts from outside stopped,

they might have a chance. But they didn't, and that meant they were

dead in the water.

The sight of green fluid bubbling from Doolb Snoil's crushed shell

triggered a deep, hot wave of regret. The barrister had been a true

asset. In his own way, the Vippit had even displayed courage.

He glimpsed the Jedi, magnificent and fearless in battle, leading

others by word and example. Glimpses were all he could catch: they

moved so swiftly from one hiding place or ambush spot to another,

darting out to slash at a leg or protect an innocent farmer. His spirits

soared. Perhaps—

Then to his dismay Jangotat spotted Sheeka Tull. When had she

entered the cave? Why hadn't he seen her? He knew that he should

leave the main cave with the others, but Sheeka was cut off. She cowered

behind a boulder, perhaps uncertain where to go.

"Sheeka!" he called to her. In the tumult his voice could not be

heard. Only one thing to do—he dashed out and grabbed her, pulling

them both behind a boulder as the last infiltration droid blasted in

his direction. He heard himself scream, watched the world turn

white, and then all sight and sound and sensation died away to darkness.

55

s heeka Tull had argued with herself about coming to the celebration,

not entirely comfortable with the deepening of her relationship

with the clone trooper she now called Jangotat. It was all too possible

that if she went to the camp, their relationship would grow more

entangling still. But despite her misgivings she had gone, and now

she was both horrified and glad of her decision.

The unexpected droid intrusion had overwhelmed her. She still

shook almost uncontrollably. The droids were creatures of nightmare,

and she felt her mind trying to shut down on her, attempting

to surrender consciousness to save her the horror of painful death.

Her feet froze to the ground as the giant droid locked its sights upon

her. Her wind whuffed out of her as something collided with her

from the right side, and she was pulled down behind a boulder by

none other than Jangotat himself. There was no doubt but that he

had risked his life to save hers, shielding her body with his own.

When a blaster chipped rock behind her it grazed Jangotat: his face

contorted in agony and he bit through his own lip. His clothes peeled

away in smoking scraps, exposing a badly scalded back. He rolled off

her, unconscious, shirt and pants smoking. Dead?

No. She checked. Merely stunned. Even half conscious, Jangotat s

hands cast about, as if searching for his rifle. She found it and placed

it in his palms. His fingers curled around it, and he trembled, as if

trying to awaken himself.

As if war was all he knew, or ever could know.

The yelling and screaming intensified to a ghastly peak, then died

away. Another wall-shaking explosion followed, but she risked a

peek.

Several of the recruits were engaged in heroic combat against a

killer droid tall enough to graze the ceiling. Their combined blasts

actually drove it back a step. To her left, a golden hourglass-shaped

droid absorbed a similar volley with little apparent effect, tentacles

casting about and bringing down one miner after another.

The side caves still looked clear. She dragged Jangotat over in their

direction and was met halfway by a tall, thin, blond miner, Skot

OnSon. She barely knew him. Yesterday he was a boy. Now his eyes

were an old man's.

"Can I help you get him out of here?" OnSon asked her, keeping

one eye on the battle. The air was rent with eye-searing energy bolts.

"Okay."

OnSon's calm facade seemed to crack a bit. Was it the sight of Jangotat's

seared face? Was that what had unnerved the boy, even as he

struggled to find courage? Or was he using this excuse to get out of

the charnel house?

Together they pulled Jangotat toward safety and darkness. The

tunnels behind them flashed with light. Screams echoed in the caves,

even as they lost themselves in the labyrinthine twists and turns of

the side tunnels, winding their way toward a dubious safety.

56

bi-Wan led a group of six refugees into a side cave, shepherding

them across the uneven floor through the darkness. Behind them, he

heard the clank of a pursuing droid. His group had only three blasters.

Two of its members were children. If they were lucky, the cave

would narrow, such that the larger droids couldn't pursue. Would one

of the JKs spot them? If it did, they were most likely dead.

He brushed past webbing as he ran. Old? New? A few hand-size

winged reptiles were suspended in one of them, and he remembered

something that Kit had told him about the ARC's first day in the

caves. What was that?

"Gen' Kenobi!" Resta called, jerking him out of his desperate

memory scan. It took only a moment to see the threat: the cave had

indeed narrowed, and blocking the exit were four gigantic cave spiders,

staring at them with glowing red eyes.

How could he have forgotten! Kit may have driven the spiders out

of the main caves, kept them away with sensors and proximity mines,

but in fleeing, these unlucky humans had jumped from the griddle to

the grave.

The spiders hissed, and Obi-Wan triggered his lightsaber. Spiders

ahead. Droids behind. They were trapped, and perhaps all he could

do now was sell his life dearly...

0

Then he realized that the spiders weren't hissing at them. No. They

were hissing at the approaching JK droid, and he understood why. It

was behaving as it had in the arena, half a lifetime ago: dividing into

segments that then gripped the ground like the limbs of a thicklegged,

small-bodied spider. Perhaps they'd watched a JK cast a web

at a fleeing human, and must have thought the droids to be some

strange kind of arachnid, more natural competition than the offworlders.

The arachnid defense of their territory was automatic and devastating.

And the JKs seemed to accept the challenge. They cast tentacles,

stunning several spiders, but others shot silk in cascades as the offworlders

retreated to the shadows.

It was one of the most bizarre spectacles Obi-Wan had ever seen.

The spiders could not stop the JK, but they could slow it with their

silk, and by swarming it with smaller spiders. The air clouded with

silk and stunned, smoking spiders but they came on and on. Obi-

Wan managed to get his people out, but turned to watch the spiders

as they made their stand.

The JK fired, pumping juice into the spiders until...

It's running out of power! Obi-Wan realized. It had probably defeated

the equivilent of a hundred warriors, but was running out of

power! Now the spiders rained more silk on it, and Obi-Wan

screamed to his people to fire at the stalactites above the JK, burying

it in rock and sticky strands. Even then, the JK trembled against the

rock. Exhausted but refusing to give up, still trying to reach its enemies.

Unbelievable.

Obi-Wan faced the cave spider clan. An immense red female

stepped slowly forward, sheltering her young. Obi-Wan and the female

stared at each other, and in her eyes he saw awareness. They

were not friends, not allies, but had faced a common enemy.

The matron bent her forward legs, bowing. Obi-Wan raised his

lightsaber in salute. The matron backed away into the shadows with

her brood.

"You're letting them go?" one of the farmers breathed.

"We're letting each other go," he corrected. "No favors. Just respect."

The shadows had claimed the spider clan. One day soon the

offworlders would be gone, and the caves would belong to the spiders.

What then? Was there any way for the eight-legged folk to ever

walk in the sun again?

Perhaps. There might be a way to finesse such an outcome. First,

of course, he had to survive.

"Come on," he said. "We've got to find a way out."

57

N avigating twisting side tunnels, it took another exhausting hour

for Sheeka to make her way back to the surface. For the first ten minutes,

they heard distant explosions and screams. Then . . . nothing.

The golden-haired young miner stayed with her the entire time, but

as soon as he saw that she was in the clear, OnSon said, "I've got to

go back."

"No." She clutched at his arm. "You'll be killed."

"Maybe. Maybe." OnSon examined the wounded clone. "Take

care of him. He fought well." And he disappeared back down the

tunnel.

Sheeka wiped her face, gritty with the rock dust that seemed to

have ground its way into her body's every crevice. It took her a few

moments to orient herself. She was on the far side of the ridge.

Good. This was where she had hidden Spindragon. An arc of light

split the southern sky—the cave battle was continuing. The distant

thunder of security assault ships filled her ears.

In the depths of those caves, sheer chaos had clawed its way into

the living world. For a moment she was torn. Was there anything she

could do? Were her friends being maimed and slaughtered, friends

who might survive if she went to their aid? Then Jangotat groaned,

and all options were reduced to one: find the trooper medical assistance

immediately. Get help for the man who had protected her at

the cost of his own flesh. She dragged him down over the rocks. Jangotat

was semiconscious now. He shuddered with pain for a few

minutes, and then fumbled with something at his belt. Almost immediately,

his body relaxed. She panicked as he became a deadweight,

but when he began to struggle to his feet she figured he had

self-administered some kind of painkiller that left him dreamy but

still able to walk.

She supported his shoulder, trying not to touch any of the spots

seared by the droid's blast. He stumbled along beside her, knees

buckling and ankles turning. Then he began to carry some of his own

weight, and for that she was grateful.

They stumbled down the side of the defile. There, hidden in a

maze of shadows, was Spindragon. Although by now the muscles in

her legs and back screamed for release, Sheeka ignored them and

hauled Jangotat toward the ship, and safety.

"Leave . . . me . . . , " she heard him whisper, and it alarmed her that

some part of her silently agreed, wanted to give up. But Sheevis Tull,

the same man who had taught her to fly, had taught her to ignore the

weak and traitorous voices in her head. She disregarded them and

bent to the task at hand. Breathe, pull, rest. Breathe, pull, rest...

She lost count of the cycles of pulling and breathing, but a moment

came when Spindragon's autopilot sensed her proximity and automatically

extended the ramp, a sensible, albeit costly modification.

She climbed up the incline, Jangotat gripping at her with a weakening

hand. With every minor jolt, he grunted as if the pain stripped

his nerves raw.

A few more staggering steps brought them into the ship's interior.

Sheeka loaded Jangotat into a crash seat, and initiated the ship's

warm-up sequence.

"Don't worry," she called back to him. "We're getting out of here."

He seemed to smile at her weakly, and made a closed-fist gesture

she had seen him make to other clones. She thought that it meant

"good to go." Gritting her teeth, Sheeka turned back to her controls.

She would have to deal with him, of course, but the first task was to

get out of the mountains in one piece.

Her scanners indicated that a quartet of enemy ships was sweeping

toward her from the north. Time to move.

All systems flushed and ready, Sheeka started her engines and

lifted Spindragon from the ground, whirling her in place as the first of

the pursuit ships appeared over the broken stone horizon.

Their intentions were announced with the first bolt that sizzled in

her direction, striking sparks and splashing slag from the rocks.

Her face tightened in a fighting snarl: the daughter of Sheevis Tull

was not so easily killed. She had made low-altitude runs through the

mountain passes more times than she wanted to remember, every one

of them wickedly dangerous. Always in the past she had risked arrest,

imprisonment, revocation of her flying privileges. This was different.

This time, it was life and death.

Without further delay, Sheeka accelerated her ship toward the

south, scrambling her transponder beacon so that it would broadcast

no identifying signals. Now the only thing she had to worry about

was being shot down in a blazing fireball.

Of course, that was a pretty big only.

If only she had armament! But Spindragon went in and out of cities

too frequently, was scanned on a weekly basis. The Five Families

were terrified of another uprising, and forbade suborbital craft from

carrying mounted weapons.

The pursuit craft were two-person security units, built for longrange

recon and pursuit of... well, of suborbital ships like hers. All

muscle and brain. But it just might be possible to meet their challenge

. . .

Unlike her pursuers, Sheeka Tull knew the mines.

She rose up, flipped, and dived into an opening that was little more

than an angry gash in the desert floor. With stomach-wrenching

speed she dropped straight down. At the last moment she straightened

out, making a sharp right turn.

The security ships were only seconds behind her. Her task was to

get far enough ahead of them to break visual contact. The heavy mineral

deposits would reduce scanner efficiency. Given that, there was

an excellent chance they'd be confused by the tunnels, and confusion

shifted the odds in her favor.

But first—

A flash bright enough to stun the eye washed the tunnel from wall

to wall. Sheeka screamed and threw a hand in front of her face in a

reflexive motion that almost cost her her pitch and yawl control. She

spun Spindragon sideways to slip between two enormous underground

pillars, then zipped around a corner and sank to the cave floor

swiftly, killing all lights.

She could hear them, but they could not hear her. Distant searchlights

splashed around the broken rock walls as they slowed to a

crawl.

"Where . . . are we?" Jangotat gasped.

Sheeka slipped out of her captain's chair and walked quietly to

him. "Shhh," she said. "They can find us with sound."

"That may be a problem," he gasped.

"Why?"

"Because I think I'm going to scream." Despite the pain his lips

curled in a bitter, self-mocking smile. "I'm out of pain meds."

She wanted to hug him. Instead she said: "I think we'll make it.

Hold on."

Sheeka had a few tricks up her sleeve, and one of them was specifically

designed to misdirect scanners: a trick that would blind her

and the pursuing security ships as well.

The difference was that she had been down here before, and they

had not.

She hoped.

"I'm going to try something," she said. "If it doesn't work, then—"

"Try it," he said, and closed his eyes against another fit of shakes.

"For luck," she said. She bent and, wiping the blood from his chin,

kissed him firmly on the lips. His eyes widened in pleased surprise,

then she gave a crooked grin and went back to her captain's chair.

No way to prevent this next part from being dangerous. She could

see a searchlight off in the distance, reflected between a pair of

stalactites, and figured that this would be her best chance. Sheeka enriched

the fuel mixture absurdly, until the unburned hydrocarbons

gushed from Spindragon's rear as dense, black smoke.

Within seconds the lights had turned in her direction, and she

struggled against a surge of panic. Then she calmed her breathing

and lifted off from the ground a meter or two—much more was impossible

because of the low ceiling. But she moved. Yes . . . even without

her running lights, the reflected illumination revealed a turn up

ahead. It was just as she remembered. If only the rest of it conformed

to memory as well...

She turned the corner just in time: a sizzling energy bolt slagged

the wall just behind her. The passageway churned with dense, oily

smoke. The pursuing ship slid past them, right through the murk,

and collided with the wall in a flame-blossom that temporarily

turned a smoky night into day.

Just as she thought: the ships were maneuverable and fast, but not

well armored, and with no crash shields. The entire cavern glowed

fiercely as the ship exploded.

Her chance. Spewing more smoke, Sheeka took the opportunity to

cruise low, knowing that the other ships would home in on the destruction.

And there came one now, prowling like some kind of predator.

Smoke belched from Spindragon's rear as the engine labored on its

absurdly rich mix, but she knew that the cloud was large enough to

conceal her.

The approaching ship had twin beacons in the fore, so that it

looked like some kind of lurking predator. An energy bolt ripped

through the smoke and slammed against the wall, causing a rock

slide she could hear and feel but not see. She tensed as another bolt

sizzled by, but didn't move. The search ship was just questing about.

It didn't know where she was.

But Sheeka did. Just barely, but she did. She lifted up and pivoted

her ship about. She knew where another exit lay, and if she was careful,

she just might make it.

Both front and rear viewscreens showed nothing as she crept away.

Occasionally she caught the barest glimmer of a headlight, but then

as she turned the corner once and then twice she left that behind and

moved as quickly as she could toward the exit, trying not to think of

the deadly search behind her, or wonder what had become of the Jedi

and their proud plans.

58

0 bi-Wan surveyed the small group of stragglers who had survived

the cave slaughter. They huddled in a rocky defile, invisible to any

ship overhead, but of course also invisible to other survivors or potential

allies. If there were any who had not fled into the desert.

All in all, he estimated that half their force had been killed or captured,

and most of the rest scattered. He did not look forward to

making his next report to the Supreme Chancellor.

That, of course, assumed there would be another report.

He climbed back up to the top of the ridge without exposing himself

to enemy fire, looking down to where they had left their new

transport, a cargo craft purchased from a small farming community

southwest of the capital.

The ship was now a smoking crater. Much of the communications

gear, and their astromech unit. . . gone. Doolb Snoil. . . slain while

heroically saving Obi-Wan's life. At least two clones had made it

out—he did not know if there was a third. He had seen one ARC go

down protecting the woman Tull, but no more than that.

Unless something changed drastically, this mission was shaping

into the greatest disaster of his career.

Kit Fisto came up behind him. Although it was not in Kit's way to

offer a comforting gesture, Obi-Wan knew his companions hearts.

Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong, but none of it had

been the Nautolan's fault. Perhaps, just perhaps, it was not his fault,

either. G'Mai Duris had warned him that sinister forces were at

work. That they were never meant to succeed . . . could that be true?

And if so, what did it mean?

"I do not understand." Kit said. "Each individual move we have

made has been without stain."

Obi-Wan rotated those words in his mind, seeking to put the lie to

them. To his sad relief, he could not. They had done everything right.

"And yet we've been outmaneuvered at every turn," he said, finishing

his thought aloud. "Almost as if we've been playing the wrong game

all along."

All along. Obi-Wan remembered the moment in the throne room

when he had pretended to locate the car by sensing its influence on

the rest of the system. Well, he had only thought of that because of

similar, less complex exercises taught long ago by Qui-Gon Jinn.

He'd felt that same part of himself triggering, rising as from slumber.

He needed to see something. To notice something. Look at all the

pieces. Which ones have been disturbed'? What do you not see, as well as

see? Not sense, as well as sense? Where should there have been a ripple

where there was not? If something has caused each of your plans to disrupt

... if someone attempted to kill you... was that Duris's way? And do

any of the Five Families have the power to cause such catastrophe? And if

they do not, then what possibility does that leave?

"Obi-Wan?" Kit asked, and suddenly Obi-Wan realized that he

had been staring trancelike into the distance. Kit was studying him,

and worry creased the Nautolan's normally impassive face.

He whispered his reply. "There is another player. Another major

participant in this tragedy, and has been from the beginning. Somewhere

in all of this."

"But where?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I don't know. But I fear that before this

is complete, we will know the answer to that question. And will wish

we didn't."

One of the clones approached from behind him. He cursed his

self-pity. If he was confused, how much more so were these poor

creatures, raised since before birth to operate within an immutable

chain of command? He had to shake off this malaise, be worthy of

their trust.

"Your orders, sir?" Sirty asked.

"Collect the equipment," he said. "Round up the survivors. We're

moving to the secondary location. I don't know who betrayed us. But

this time, we keep the loop closed."

Sirty nodded tightly. "Very good, sir."

"Casualties?"

"Sixteen dead or captured that we know of, sir."

Obi-Wan noticed that a few more stragglers had joined them

without attracting the hunters. Good. Where there was discipline,

courage, and creativity, hope still remained. "Casualties?"

"Captain A-Nine-Eight, Nate, is missing and presumed dead."

That hit Obi-Wan hard. Strange. Hundreds of thousands of clones,

all cut from the same cloth. And yet hearing about that particular

trooper caused him a special pain, and he wasn't entirely certain why.

59

s heeka Tull made very, very certain her pursuers were thrown off

the track before continuing. She traveled south to the commercial air

corridors, and then slipped along those, changing directions several

times to be absolutely sure that Spindragon was not followed.

Once certain, she zigzagged 200 kilometers into a stretch of rolling

brown mounds 180 klicks east of the Dashta Mountains. A river

channeled snowmelt from the Yal-Noy's whitecapped peak to their

north, so the hills were greener than much of Cestus's surface, pleasing

to the eye even from a distance. Still, the water supply was adequate

rather than generous, so the population remained relatively

low.

Most called them the Zantay Hills. Sheeka Tull called them home.

Sheeka went into a landing pattern, and breathed a sigh of relief as

the engines slowed and stopped.

At first there was no sign of habitation. Then an X'Ting cloaked

in a brown robe emerged from one of the metal buildings. As Sheeka

Tull walked Jangotat down the ramp, he hailed her, the customary

smile of greeting gone thin and tight.

"Brother Fate," she said.

"Sheeka," he said. His faceted eyes peered more carefully at the

burned uniform, and the unhappy expression deepened. "Bringing

this soldier here is dangerous."

Sheeka tightened her grip around Jangotat's waist. "He was injured

in our cause. Help him, Brother Fate. Please."

The old gray-tufted X'Ting examined the wound, rubbing the

singed cloth between his fingers. "Blaster?"

"What difference does that make?" she said urgently. "Help him!"

Brother Fate let out a long, slow sigh. His faceted emerald eyes

were filled with pity. "For you, my child," he said, and then raised his

voice to the others. Slowly, a few other people, and then a stream,

emerged from their shelters and, smiling, approached.

Three children emerged, came running toward her crying, "Nana!"

and hugging her leather skirts.

"Tarl!" she cried, hugging the boy child. "Tonote," the girl. "Where

is Mithail?" One youngster hung back a bit, but then she gathered

him into her arms and kissed his mop of unruly red hair. "How have

you all been?" she asked. As she distributed hugs and kisses to them

she watched from the corner of her eye while Jangotat was carted

away by several X'Tings in dark cloaks.

"Who is the man?" Mithail, the youngest, asked.

"A friend," she replied, and then ruffled their hair. "A friend. Now.

Tell me everything that's happened in the last week."

60

G roaning with pain, Jangotat pulled himself into wakefulness.

Everything inside him hurt, which he found alarming. Was this how

it felt to die?

He tried to open his eyes. He felt his lids slide up, but was still unable

to see. Global pain combined with blindness triggered an unexpected

and quite unwelcome panic response. He sat up, as he did so

experiencing a tearing sensation in the skin along his waist. Agony

forced an oath from his lips, and he thrashed his arms about, trying

to discover the extent of his . . .

Prison?

"Now, now, calm down." A pleasant male X'Ting voice. "Everything

is all right. It is imperative that you rest."

Absolutely nothing in that voice triggered any sense of threat, but

Jangotat couldn't dampen his reaction. Danger flared over his entire

nervous system, as if his every sense had triggered simultaneously.

And y e t . . .

And y e t . . .

His conscious mind knew that he was not in danger. In the oddest

paradox, the flood of pain and the sense of danger existed simultaneously

with a sense of peace, and this he found confusing.

"What . . . what are you doing?" he gasped, alarmed at his own

weakness as they took his arms gently. Tenderly, perhaps. He wanted

to sink back into those sheltering, supporting arms and find peace

and release. Wanted it so abruptly that the very depth of his desire

frightened him. "Stop. I have to report—"

"You must heal," a familiar voice said.

It was the robed X'Ting who had met Sheeka outside her ship.

Yes. The ship. He knew this creature. Where had Jangotat seen him

before . . . ? "Who are you?"

"Call me Brother Fate," he said.

"Where is Sheeka?" Jangotat gasped.

"With her children," the robed X'Ting replied. A burr of other

voices filled the room around him.

"Her . . . children?"

"Yes. She makes her home here, among us."

"Is this where her husband lived?"

"Yes." Brother Fate paused. "Before she left this last time, she

asked us to take special care of her children. I believe she suspected

herself to be in danger." The voice paused again. "It seems she was

correct."

"Yes. But it was . . . in a good cause."

"Yes," the voice said. "So were they all."

"I have to go," Jangotat gasped. "Or at least report."

"Not yet. You will interrupt the healing process. You could die."

"The first duty of a trooper is to protect the safety of the whole. We live

but a few days, the GAR lives on forever ..." His mouth seemed to be

moving without his mind being engaged, and in that automatic state

he momentarily seemed his old, fierce self. Then his strength ebbed,

and he sank back down again.

"Forever?" Brother Fate clucked. "You won't last an hour if you

don't stay quiet and let me treat this wound."

Jangotat groaned. Then something minty and cool was pressed

against his nose, and sleep claimed him.

Under ordinary circumstances, the only time Jangotat remembered

his dreams was when sleep-learning vast quantities of tactical data.

Then events in the external world might trigger the memory of an

odd dream or two. Aside from that, nothing.

But then he'd spent his entire life surrounded by troopers and the

tools of war. This place was different. This was all new and unknown.

Here in this alien place the darkness swarmed with odd images: places

he'd never been, people he'd never seen. It was all so strange, and even

while sleeping he seemed to grasp its oddness.

Twice . . . perhaps three times he rose toward the surface of his

mind like a cork bobbing up in an inky sea. Neither time could he see

anything, but once he felt something, as if something heavy and oblong

lay on his chest. When he began to move beneath it, it slithered

away, and once again he slipped from consciousness.

Jangotat awakened from a dream of a rising sun, and once again

felt a squishy, flat weight upon his chest, a resistence against inhalation.

This time, his skin no longer felt tender. It was a rather gauzy

feeling, if that made sense, as if he were filtering all sensation through

some kind of thin filter.

But the weight was there. He moved his hand much more slowly

this time, just a bare centimeter at a time.

Whatever lay on his chest pulsed more rapidly, but didn't move.

His fingertips probed at a solid, but gelatinous mass. Cool, but not

cold. It felt rather like a piece of rubbery fruit. He moved his hands

in both directions. It was about half a meter long, and . . .

But that was all the strength he had. His hands dropped away, arm

gone numb. He tried to call out, to ask someone to remove the thing

from his chest, but some instinct told him that it was this thing that

kept the pain from searing his mind. So he said nothing and settled

back again. Beneath the sheltering bandages his eyes closed, and

then relaxed. There was nothing he could do right now. That much

was true. So he could heal. Would heal, if such capacity remained.

Jangotat remembered the cave debacle. He remembered watching

their recruits scattering, mowed down by the killer droids, captured

by the JKs, or fleeing from the cave to be slain by enemy blasters.

Xutoo had perished in orbit. All right. And men and women who

had trusted him died in the caves. And that meant there was a debt

to repay. And troopers knew how to repay debts. Yes, that was one

thing they understood quite well.

In the darkness, Jangotat s burned mouth twisted into a cold and

lethal smile.

61

J angotat flowed through endless cycles of sleep and wakefulness.

Sometimes the cool, moist animal was on his chest, and sometimes

not. Sometimes he heard voices and sometimes he didn't.

When he awakened hungry, Jangotat was fed some kind of fruity

mushroom mash. The texture was vile and slippery but the taste was

incredible, fresh, as if made by hand.

From time to time he was massaged, and afterward felt someone

peeling dead flesh away from his back. The hands managing him

were the softest and most caring he had ever known. He was alarmed

to realize that there was a part of him that craved that, loved that, and

wanted more if he could have it.

No. This is not my life. Not a trooper's life ...

He could not be certain but it seemed days later when the last twist

of gauze was finally unwrapped from his eyes. He reached up and

gripped his nurse's wrist. A thin wrist, like a stick, really. He could

have snapped the bone with a single wrench. By touch, he knew his

caregiver to be a male X'Ting. Brother Fate. He heard breathing, but

no words. "Where is Sheeka Tull?" he asked.

"Right here," she answered from nearby. He swore that he could

hear the smile in her voice.

Layer upon layer of gauze was unwound, and as it was, light began

to stream into his famished optic nerves. "We've turned the lights

down. Your eyes may still be sensitive."

And so they were. When he opened them slowly, blinking hard,

the light in the room struck like a physical blow.

He held up one hand in front of his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

He blinked and lowered his hand again.

As images began to resolve, he saw he was recuperating in another

of Cestus s endless cave formations. Sheets and blankets covered the

walls, and simple furnishings divided the floor space into living quarters.

There was a fair amount of equipment that he didn't recognize but

guessed to be medical materials of some kind. A makeshift hospital?

"Why did you bring me down here?" Jangotat asked.

The brown-robed ones glanced at each other in amusement.

"Who are you? Are you medics or mentops or something?"

"No, not exactly," Fate said. "It's a little hard to explain." Although

he declined further explanation, Jangotat felt no harm from the

X'Ting, and managed to relax.

"It's time for us to look at those wounds," he said. They helped

Jangotat to a sitting position and peeled away the leaves that had

been placed—

Leaves?

He hadn't looked more closely, merely felt them on his body. What

he had assumed to be cloth was actually some kind of broad, pale,

fleshy thin fungus.

They peeled the fungus away one sheaf at a time. They were dead,

that much was certain. In peeling them away, a thin film of mushroom

remained behind, clinging to his skin.

His skin . . .

The light in the room was dim, but there was enough to look down

at his body. He remembered when the killer droid's blast struck him,

searing away skin. He feared muscle and bone might be damaged

as well. Looking at his body now, he saw a pale shininess between

knee and hip, but nothing else to indicate that a burn had ever existed

at all.

This... this is better than synthflesh, he thought, comparing the fungus

to the healing compound included in ARC first-aid kits. This

discovery would have to go in his report. To see such results from

a healing chamber was one thing entirely. To see its equivalent

achieved with a few leaves was simply astounding. This was X'Ting

biotechnology? Certainly, on the galactic market these plants would

be precious.

Nicos Fate was joined by a human male and an elderly X'Ting

woman, and the three checked him from foot to follicle. Sheeka

stood watching, and averted her eyes as they peeled the sheet back.

At least, he thought she turned her head.

Finally they seemed satisfied with the general trend of his healing,

replaced the bed covers, and turned to Sheeka. "We've done what we

can. Now it's up to you."

And the three physicians filed out of the room, leaving Sheeka and

Jangotat behind.

For a long time Sheeka just looked at him, and then finally she

sighed. "I've endangered these people by bringing you here."

With a groan, he pushed himself up to a seated position. "Then I

should leave."

"It's not as simple as that," she said. "What you've brought to this

planet can't be unbrought."

Jangotat frowned. "I'm sorry things seem to have turned out so

badly."

"I thought," she said, "I really thought I might be able to avoid all

this. That never again would I have to watch people I love die." Her

face twisted with sudden sharp anger.

"You must hate me," he said. "I'm sorry."

Sheeka raised a reasoning hand. "I hate what you represent. I hate

the purpose for which you were made. But you?" She paused before

speaking again, and he filled that pause with a thousand hurtful com ments.

I hate you most of all...

But what she said was the one thing he would never have expected.

"I pity you, Jangotat," she said. There was genuine compassion in her

voice. He looked up at her wonderingly, barely comprehending her

words at all.

A day later Sheeka and the insectile Brother Fate took him out of

the cave. This was a simple community, although what exactly they

traded in, he was not certain. Medicines, perhaps? They seemed to

have a fungus for all occasions: some were tough enough for shoe

leather; others said to be edible in a variety of tastes and textures.

Brother Fate pointed out a dozen medicinal varieties. The cave fungi

seemed the center of this village s activity. But was that all there was

to this place? He sensed something more.

"Why are you here?" he asked Brother Fate.

"Everyone needs a hive," the X'Ting said.

"But... I'd heard X'Ting didn't mix much with offworlders."

"No," Brother Fate said. "Strange, is it not? G'Mai Duris is Regent,

but the X'Ting are the lowest of the low."

"The offworlders did that to you, and you help them?"

He shrugged. "My ancestors were healers in the hive. Bring any injury

to us, and we want to heal. It is our instinct, and there are no

limits. Five hundred years of history doesn't change a million years of

evolution."

Jangotat bore in, disbelieving. "You help your oppressors?"

Brother Fate smiled. "No one here ever oppressed me. Many here

ran from Cestus Cybernetics, from the cities, looking for a better

way. How are they different from X'Ting?"

If that was really Brother Fate's attitude, then there was hope for

this planet after all. The X'Ting medications alone were a potential

spice mine.

There was so much to see here, so much that didn't perfectly reflect

his own worldview. There were many children in the community,

so whatever this village was, it was no mere sterile medical

enclave. No.

"I need to communicate to my men," he said to Sheeka on the first

day he was able to walk outside. Well, more accurately, she and

Brother Fate walked while he hobbled along between them. Children

wound their way around them, laughing up at him, aware that

he was an offworlder, certainly, but perhaps not completely understanding

exactly what the term offworlder meant.

"I can't take the risk of a message being intercepted," she said. "But

I'll figure something out."

Although his wounds were healing with abnormal speed, Jangotat's

impatience burgeoned. This was not where he belonged. Not

here in the mountains, where the air was clear and clean, the scenery

lushly beautiful.

This was not where he belonged, although Sheeka's stepchildren

Tonote, Tarl, and Mithail asked him a thousand questions about the

world outside Cestus: "What other planets have you been to?"

"What's the Chancellor like?" "Have you ever seen a Podrace?" He

found to his pleasure that he enjoyed answering them.

This was not his world, although two days after he arrived he was

well enough to be taken to Sheeka's round, neat, thatch-roofed

home.

And there in the house that her dead love Yander had built for her,

he saw another side of the formidable pilot who had saved his life in

the caves. Here he saw an aproned woman managing a houseful of

happy children. She merrily produced great heaps of bread and vegetables

and strange, fishy-tasting fungi. Jangotat liked his fresh steaks

and chops—but had to admit that his belly groaned with satisfaction

from the thick, chewy mushrooms alone.

He inquired about that, and little Mithail said: "The Guides tell us

that—"

Sheeka's soft, warning smile was enough to get the child to be quiet,

and Jangotat noticed that the conversation swiftly and sneakily was

turned to other things, and he was coaxed into discussing battles and

campaigns on far-off worlds. He was amused when childhood imagination

transformed grinding fatigue and constant terror into something

romantic and exciting.

He chuckled, and then let the amusement die, asking himself if he

wouldn't have responded the same way, given the same life and the

same stimuli.

And there at the table, his mouth filled with hot bread, he watched

the siblings' easy camaraderie. Not so different from his own brethren.

Not every clone trooper joke, jest, trick, or game was somehow related

to the arts of death.

Just 95 percent of them.

Here, there was also farming, and gathering, the setting of traps

and the repulsion of predators. The entire community seemed to be

enthralled with the very process of living. The intensity of the work

seemed joyous, and he could appreciate that as well.

And he wondered . . . what would he have been here?

And the thought was so sudden, and so achingly strong that for a

few moments he stopped chewing, eyes unfocused on the wall,

thoughts previously unknown to him unreeling in his mind.

He turned and looked down at Sheeka's end of the table, and realized

that he was sitting where her former husband might have sat, and

that these might have been his children. Something very like a tide of

sorrow washed over him, one swiftly stemmed, but real nonetheless . . .

This is not my world...

Jangotat was sleeping when Sheeka Tull entered the cave infirmary,

and for this she was glad. Even with the healing fungus, his

body had suffered terrible insult, needing constant monitoring and

care to ensure that no infections set in.

She conferred quietly with Brother Fate, who reassured her that all

would be well.

She left Brother Fate's little cubicle and went back to the sleeping

area, looking down on Jangotat. He slept flat on his back, as Jango

had. His brawny chest rose and fell slowly, and he made the same little

sleep sounds that Jango had once made. That she had grown accustomed

to. That, once upon a time, she had foolishly allowed

herself to hope might be sounds that accompanied her own sleep, all

the days of her life.

She closed her eyes, trying not to think the thoughts tumbling into

her mind. Another chance, she thought. You know what Jango was. You

know how it felt to be with him. You never thought you'd feel love like that

again.

The most devastating male animal she had ever known. Was that

an insult to the memory of her dead husband? Yander had been good,

and kind, and . . .

And not Jango Fett. And now, here was Jangotat...

Another chance.

"No," she whispered. It would be wrong. It would be selfish.

It would be human.

The next day he felt well enough for walking in the hills, and accompanied

burly little stepson Tarl and red-haired stepdaughter

Tonote as they went to check chitlik traps up in the tree-line caves

above their fungus farm. The orange-striped, cave-dwelling marsupials'

mammary glands exuded a cheesy substance called kista that

helped offworlders cope with the toxins and microorganisms in Cestus's

soil.

They sang to him a tune he had heard before:

One, one, chitliks basking in the sun.

Two, two, chitlik kista in the stew.

Three, three, leave a little bit for me.

Four, four, can I have a little more?

Five, five, set the traps to catch alive.

Six, six...

So the children could augment the community by capturing and

"milking" the creatures of kista, then releasing them again—usually

without damage.

Set the traps to catch alive ...

He'd seen few dead animals since arriving. No furs, no curing meat.

All he had eaten was the satisfying, hearty fungus. These folk "hunted"

without harm.

Who were they, and what had made them that way?

Jangotat watched the children as they checked the slat-walled

deadfalls. The chitliks hissed from behind the barriers, but struggled

less than he would have expected as they were milked, almost as

if playing a game of some kind with their captors. The creatures

seemed aware that the humans meant them no harm. Later, he found

himself helping the kids design traps and snares based on his own

survival training—although of course they needed to be modified to

ensure that chitliks were caught alive.

He rolled over on his back on the grass, looking up at the sun and

relishing the simplicity of his present life. Soon enough he would be

back in combat, but for right now, the most important thing was the

capture of a few small, furry creatures that would provide vital antitoxins

for the village meals, with enough surplus to supplement trade

in fungi.

The children were fascinated by his nimble fingers, and he amused

them with simple skills he had been taught in his own "childhood":

knife juggling, rope escapes, silent stalking, sign reading, a dozen

other tricks that he had learned as normal children learned counting

games or skipping rope.

And although there was laughter in his eyes as they came down together

from the mountains into the hills, Jangotat's heart was heavy.

And that night at the collective meals . . . so similar, yet so different

from the communal meals he had enjoyed with his brethren on

Kamino, he thought...

This is not my world.

And then: But it could have been.

T. . o Obi-Wan Kenobi s way of thinking, what could be done had

been done. Every mistake that could possibly have been anticipated

had been corrected. This time, only a fraction of the surviving recruits

knew exactly where the central headquarters lay. The fortyeight

survivors were organized into cells of five or six, with only the

other members of the cells knowing their names. The outlying farms

and mines had suffered a wave of arrests. Many who had been unwise

enough to indulge in a bit of tavern-boasting about their recent exploits

were now languishing in prisons—or had been slain trying to

escape.

Who knew where the captives had been taken? There was little

those captured by the JKs in the mines could tell, but together with

the holovid they could make a convincing case for Jedi perfidy, perhaps

sufficient to induce more planets to leave the Republic.

In the last days Obi-Wan and Kit had set up camp in an abandoned

tricopper mine, one with an entrance through a sheltered

overhang that could not be seen by flybys or drone satellites. One

known to none of the captured recruits. One free of cave spider nests,

with multiple exits that could be taken at a moment's notice. Obi-

Wan was determined that the previous slaughter would not happen

again. They could not afford another such catastophe.

Forry approached. "Jangotat is still unaccounted for," he said.

Skot OnSon, their youngest recruit, had been brought blindfolded

to the new cave, and now stood at what he considered attention.

"Some of our guys tried to get him out," he said. "We found their

bodies, but—"

"So you don't really know what happened to him," Obi-Wan said.

"No, General Kenobi."

Obi-Wan hunched over his hands, trying to make sense of the

data. "We may have been betrayed," he said quietly.

There was utter silence in the cave. Then Sirty spoke up. "You suggest

that Jangotat has broken Code?" He said that with the air of a

man informed that gravity has abruptly ceased to work.

Seefor looked at Obi-Wan with something close to anger. "It has

never happened."

Obi-Wan was angry with himself that he had allowed such a

speculation to creep into his mind. The troopers were as loyal as mortal

flesh could be. Seefor had rightfully found his implication offensive.

"I do not mean to insult you. I merely state a fact: Jangotat was

behaving oddly before the attack."

Kit Fisto chose this moment to speak. "I believe that he was killed.

An energy blast could have fried his comlink. Tons of rock were dislodged.

He may be buried."

Another pause. The clone troopers did not like this idea, but

greatly preferred it to the alternative. "There's another possibility. We

haven't been able to raise Sheeka Tull by comlink. It's possible that

he's with her . . . they were seen together."

Kit clapped his hands. "From now on, security is watertight," he

said. "No messages out of our camp. This cannot happen again."

"Agreed, sir."

"Then we have to move to step three," Obi-Wan said harshly. "Intensified

sabotage. Kit?"

Kit examined the floating hologram, and then spoke. "It might be

possible to determine the most critical parts of the fabrication and

distribution system, and halt or slow production without damage to

the physical plant itself."

"And this selectiveness is important because . . . ?"

"Cestus cannot survive without a cash stream. To disrupt it other

than temporarily would kill thousands."

"So?"

"So I have a plan . . . "

s trictly speaking, the thousand-square-kilometer sprawl of Clandes

Industrial's complex was not a city at all. It would most accurately

be considered a starburst-shaped collection of manufacturing facilities

located three hundred kilometers south of ChikatLik, seventy-five

kilometers southeast of the Dashta Mountains. Clandes's twentyfour

underground levels bristled with employee barracks and support

structures for the merchants, cantinas, personal service corps, and the

transportation agents who enabled them. Much of the complex was

based on the hive cluster that had once occupied the location. Once,

before the plagues.

As the surviving X'Ting moved out, offworlders of a dozen species

moved in. In time barracks had sprung up, and then support systems

for those dormitories, transport pads, and the other jobs that accompanied

them. Eventually what had grown here would dwarf all of the

outlying farming and mining settlements, and become its own entity.

But the heart of it was the manufacturing complex that still accounted

for 60 percent of Cestus's economy. And in this very special

case, was responsible for something else as well:

TheJKdroids. j

Obi-Wan and his anarchists had spent all of a long and stressful

night analyzing the various routes into and out of Clandes, all the

trade that went in, and all the resources that it controlled... and controlled

it. It took hours to find a single line that seemed to be the

most critical.

Every day millions of liters of water were used for agriculture and

machining, for drinking and recreation. Cestus's water was perfect

for its native life-forms, but the microorganisms were lethal for offworlders,

and demanded thorough processing before even ordinary

industrial uses, let alone consumption. Whereas most of the water for

ChikatLik was piped in from northern glaciers, water for Clandes

flowed from two sources: snowmelt from the Dashta Mountains and

the Clandes aquifer, a geological formation holding water deep in

layers of underground rock and sand, under sufficient pressure to discharge

to the surface with minimal effort.

The nerve center was the main plant processing the aquifer water

for consumption in the city. If it could be destroyed, the plant would

have to be repaired, or within days Clandes's residents would be

drinking their own sweat. That shutdown would cause a serious

reshifting of priorities as the plant was repaired, and once again the

Five Families might be coerced to the bargaining table.

Obi-Wan thought about it from every angle. Out of the dozen or

so possibilities, it was probably the best. There was an additional advantage:

whoever planned the counterassault against Desert Wind

had clearly authorized the use of deadly force. Was it Regent Duris?

He had to assume so, and to assume that she would expect a similar

level of lethal escalation. Attacking the aquifer station, on the other

hand, was more roundabout, and respectful of life—the kind of attack

unlikely to be made by a desperate enemy with limited resources.

And therefore less easy to anticipate.

Obi-Wan had other concerns as well: it had been four days since

his ship had been blown from the sky, and with it their only longrange

communications gear. Four days since any sort of message had

been sent back to the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi Council.

Soon Coruscant would assume that the mission had failed. That

meant naval bombardment. And bombardment meant disaster.

Clandes attracted merchants of all kinds, from interstellar cargo

barges to aboriginal caravans crossing the deserts at night seeking

Clandes's gates and landing pads.

And that day the guards at the gates studied the flow more carefully

than usual. Although the guards had to expect additional assaults,

there was little they could do to prepare for one.

The attack had to operate in two different sites and with two different

intents. The locations: the pumping station at the foot of the

Dashta Mountains, and the purification plant in the town itself. Disabling

both simultaneously might confuse the security force, giving

their people time to slip away. If the attempt to sabotage the stations

failed, Desert Wind forces would plant targeting beacons to guide

the inevitable bombardment. With such pinpoint targeting, even if

disaster struck, the bombing fatalities might be limited to dozens

rather than thousands.

So while Obi-Wan Kenobi and half the forces entered the city in

a variety of guises, Kit and his followers approached the aquifer station

from the mountains, landing five kilometers away and then

moving over and through rough broken terrain to approach the station

from shadow.

"Alarms?" Seefor asked soberly.

Kit examined the flat hand-size viewscreen. It displayed the outline

of the physical plant, plus shadowy, floating images representing

the security fields around the plant. "They're there, as of a week ago."

"I'll be surprised if they haven't been enhanced," Seefor said.

"So we have to wait." But not for long. He felt exposed here. Since

things had started souring, he had the uneasy sense that every move

he made was anticipated. Kit hated to admit it, but he and Obi-Wan

were running out of moves. The first time they repeated themselves,

they were all as dead as the hopes for a diplomatic solution.

Timing was everything. Obi-Wan Kenobi shuffled along with the

caravan Thak Val Zsing had arranged for them, bringing a variety of

luxury items to the tent-city open market on the surface above Clandes.

They carried a dozen types of dried and shredded mushrooms,

perfumes and toys, rare spices from the desert caves, scented oils for

bath or bedchamber, carvings made from the petrified bones of longdead

creatures that had walked Cestus's deserts when the soil had

been fertile and moist.

The bearded, pale-skinned human guard examined the offerings

and laughed. "Not much market for this nonsense today. Everyone's

on alert right now. Maybe you'd better turn around, come back later."

A ridiculous notion. The guards knew quite well that the caravan

would have traversed a hundred kilometers to reach the tent city's

gated entrance. They would lack water, and food, and would long for

rest beneath a sheltering roof. He wondered if the guard was weakminded

as well as venal? It might be worth a try to—

But before he could implement his planned bit of mind control,

Resta stepped forward." 'Cuse me," she said." 'Fore we go, sell goods

otherwhere, we want give you first look. You, me, done business

afore." And here Resta's red-ringed secondary hands raised her robes

to show a series of copper bands on her belt, each one representing

another journey into Clandes. The belt dangled with them. "We

make credit, you make credit. Business better wit' friends. What

say?"

The guard watched them both. One of his pale shaggy eyebrows

raised as he extended his hand. Resta placed a small jangling bag into

it, and the guard peered within. A smile split the fleshy expanse beneath

his unkempt yellow beard, and he stepped aside.

The caravan entered, and Obi-Wan was immediately glad that his

face and form were mostly concealed: a probe droid floated by them,

imaging the group, no doubt relaying it to live or computerized security

databases. This was the ground-level open market entrance, and

the entire area was filled with booths, selling thousands of different

wares to Clandes residents who ventured to the storm-swept surface

in search of bargains and exotica.

After half an hour helping his companions erect their own booth,

Obi-Wan pretended to sort carvings before he caught a nod from

Resta, and was forced to pay a bit more attention to the next customer,

a yellowish Glymphid whose long, slender head matched his

skinny body.

"Have you a carved bantha?" the Glymphid asked. "I long for

home,"

Those were the appointed code words, and after a brisk bit of bargaining,

Obi-Wan sold him a carved walking stick. "This is just

fine," the creature from Ploo II said. "I might be willing to have some

more of this work. Custom work. Would you be interested?" Obi-

Wan nodded.

The Glymphid turned and led Obi-Wan and Resta toward the

duracrete dome marking a city entrance. The guard paid minimal

attention, and they descended a turbolift tube into the heart of

Clandes.

Obi-Wan had expected Clandes to resemble the capital. He was

both right and wrong. At ChikatLik the hive had made a home in a

cavern created by natural water erosion. Here the walls glistened,

fused to glass, and he realized that the entire cavern had been formed

by some kind of underground volcanic activity: they'd probably

moved in a million years after the molten bubble had cooled. Its new

offworlder masters had built on top of the X'Ting architecture.

Resta had not spoken since they entered, but now she whispered

under her breath, "See low rocky building behind spire?"

Obi-Wan nodded.

"That power station. Cut my farm off, so sell power to some Five

Fam' place. See building next to it?" A three-story brownish rectangle.

The purification plant.

"That where you go. Resta no take you farther. Unnerstan'?"

Obi-Wan nodded again. "I thank you for everything."

Resta snorted, anger reddening her face and bristling the slits

at the sides of her neck. She gestured at the bustling pedestrians.

"Think Resta risk life for you?" She spit on the ground. "Resta no

care 'bout her life. Her people almost gone. Just want to take as many

wit' Resta as can." And without shaking hands or giving any other

sign, the golden-carapaced woman turned and left.

The city bustled like a nest of sea-prigs. About a third of the citizens

wore uniforms in orange-and-gold cloth. Obi-Wan knew these

to be the factory's corporate colors, and was sobered to realize the extent

of the damage he was about to create.

The streets had been laid out along the original hive structure, with

the mathematical precision of a computer-generated maze. Therefore

it was easy for Obi-Wan to find his way through the color-coded

labyrinth until he found himself three stories deeper down at the

outskirts of the three-story brown building.

He slipped into an alley, examining the building from the side. He

had seen the schematic, but given any opportunity preferred to trust

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

N othing 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.

Oh, yes, Quill had smirked, claiming that the person about

to enter the throne room represented an answer to their problems,

but Duris had been a political animal long enough to know that most

solutions were just future problems in a pretty cocoon.

Nonetheless she straightened her back, expanding to her full height

and breadth in her throne chair, and nodded to her assistant to allow

the guest entrance.

Her heart beat faster, although there was nothing on her painted

face to betray it. And she knew that the newcomer would feel her

heartbeat, even from a distance.

She was afraid.

The woman who entered the room walked like a military officer,

but with that same unnatural lightness Duris had noted in Kenobi. It

bespoke severe physical and mental training, a sinuous quality simultaneously

enviable and somehow terrifying. The Jedi had displayed

the same refined motion, the same absolute and intimidating focus,

but through it had also projected decency and wisdom, a profound

respect for life and spirit.

Those qualities were missing from this creature. Her dark eyes

peered out of her pale, shaven, tattooed skull and saw... what? What

deep, cold spaces between the stars did this one call home?

The woman made the deepest, most arrogant bow Duris had ever

seen in her life. "Commander Asajj Ventress, at your service," she

said. "I crave but a single minute of your valuable time."

"No more?"

"No more. I am no politician. My business is with your manufacturing

concerns."

"The business of Cestus is business," Duris replied.

Ventress might not have heard her at all. "I am trade ambassador

from Count Dooku and your allies in the Confederacy of Independent

Systems."

"Allies?" Duris asked with mock surprise. "We have no political aspirations.

We do have customers, of course, whom we cherish highly."

She tried to filter the stress from her voice, and was not completely

successful.

Ventress cocked her head slightly sideways, her pale lips curling into

a contemptuous smile. "You do not entirely welcome my presence."

Duris forced her own lips into her most formal, neutral expression,

and her voice to do the same. "Of late, I have had reason to be cautious

whom I trust. But I wouldn't want you to think I number you

among the untrustworthy."

Ventress's mouth twisted. Duris sensed that the offworlder had not

merely detected the evasion, but actually enjoyed it.

"I see. Yes." Ventress lowered her head, and remained silent. At

first Duris assumed that Ventress would speak. After a full minute

passed the Regent realized that the woman was waiting for her.

Whoever spoke next would be in the weaker position, but Duris

could see no polite way to avoid it.

"Tell me, Commander Ventress," she said carefully. "I understand

that you have been here on Cestus for a number of days."

"Do you?" she said without raising her eyes.

"Perhaps you were enjoying our fabled hospitality."

Stepping softly, Ventress circled the throne, until she stood behind

Duris. "Was I?" The other eyes in the chamber were glued to this

woman who walked among them with such authority, such apparent

disregard for their protocol. Yet none dared show offense.

The tattooed woman leaned forward from behind Duris. Her face

was just at the Regent's velvet-padded shoulder. Duris could smell

the woman's breath. It was cloyingly sweet, like cake batter.

"I fear I have little time for entertainments. There are mighty

deeds to be done. The galaxy is in foment."

"What brings you here?" Duris asked.

"I wish merely to ensure that our orders progress smoothly. I

understand that the Clandes factory will be shut down for some

days."

"I assure you we can accelerate the repair process. Perhaps seventytwo

hours . . ."

"Yes, yes," Ventress whispered, and then continued to circle. "My

Master and I would appreciate that greatly. But there is another matter.

You may think that you have information that would cripple

Cestus Cybernetics. Some small matter of a two-hundred-year-old

contract, obtained under false pretenses. Might this be true?"

Duris dared not lie. "Perhaps."

"Yes. A two-edged sword, that. If you bring this before the Senate,

I promise the Supreme Chancellor would use it to shut down the factories

as fully as any bombardment. Your hive would suffer, I promise

you. And more than that—you, personally, would bear the brunt

of Count Dooku's wrath."

Duris nodded silently.

"I'm certain threats are superfluous," Ventress continued. "But Lady

Duris . . . if there is anything that I can do to help, please do not hesitate.

Count Dooku and General Grievous have powerful resources,

and empathize with your struggle against a corrupt, repressive Republic.

Together, we can do great things." She paused. "Great . . .

things." She smiled. "That is, for now, my only message. With your

permission, I leave."

Commander Asajj Ventress backed out of the chamber, bowing,

her eyes half lidded, almost reptilian.

When the doors closed behind her, Duris exhaled a long, sour, infinitely

relieved breath. Her entire body felt like a coiled spring. The

woman made her flesh crawl. Clearly, Asajj Ventress was more lethal

than Master Kenobi. Duris was certain deceit had not come naturally

to the Jedi. This creature had no such compunctions. No shame, no

fear. No mercy, either.

In fact, as little mercy as the ship that had blown Obi-Wan from

the sky.

With painful clarity Duris could visualize, actually see, five generations

of Cestian social progress sliding into oblivion, and there

seemed nothing she could do about it.

Her assistant Shar Shar rolled closer. "The rest of the council is

ready to meet, ma'am. Are you . . ."

Duris was still lost in her speculations. The timing of this woman's

arrival was no accident. Had Ventress landed before or after Obi-

Wan? And were their efforts coordinated or mutually antagonistic?

Surely she was aware of Kenobi's presence, but had he been aware of

her...}

"Ma'am?" asked Shar Shar, her skin purpling in anxiety.

"Yes?"

"Are you ready?"

Duris nodded. In the air around her, a dozen holoscreens blossomed.

Smooth-pated marketing and sales executive Llitishi spoke

first. "Regent Duris. The fraudulent kidnapping is clear evidence of

the Republic's intention to interfere in Cestus's sovereign affairs. It is

time for us to strike. We must find these rebels and their collaborators,

and show the Republic that we will never bend the knee."

Duris ached for his naivete. "And who then will our friends be?

Can you imagine that the Confederacy sent its spies to help us only?

We stand in the shadows of two giants, each of whom uses honeyed

words to attract us. Each of whom would destroy us rather than see

us fall into the other camp."

Executive Llitishi seemed reluctant to agree. "That is not necessarily

true—"

"Ah," G'Mai Duris said. "And with which of our sons and daughters

are you willing to gamble?"

And to that question, he had no answer at all.

The rest of the meeting did not go well, although there were

stories of rebels caught, and sabotage averted. But the death toll had

now passed thirty. The fires of wrath generally proved easier to ignite

than extinguish. Cestus's security forces would hunt these saboteurs

down, but a sinking sensation deep within her bones told Duris that

this would hardly be the end of her troubles.

Too clearly, she remembered her experiences with Obi-Wan

Kenobi. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had first opined that there

might be no solution to her problems. With every passing hour, she

began to believe that she had been more prescient than she could

ever have imagined.

66

A s G'Mai Duris's court and cabinet were disturbed by the goings-

on, both hive and criminal contingent were in similar turmoil.

Gambling and drug revenues dried up as ChikatLik, fearing the

coming of war, began to hoard resources. All of Trillot's varied businesses

were at risk, and she had begun to feel the pinch.

But it was more than a pinch that she felt as Ventress returned to

her den and presented herself. As always, the offworlder carried herself

as if her humanoid form were a mask. This was pure predator in

every word and action. This one lived to kill.

"I am a simple woman," Trillot said, "who cannot claim to understand

all of the meanings and machinations. But it seems to me that

no one can truly say how this will end. Begging your pardon, of

course, Commander."

"For once, you are correct," Ventress said. "No one can know how

this ends—with one exception." When she spoke there was an odd

passion in her voice that Trillot had not heard before.

"And who, or what, is that?"

Ventress narrowed her eyes, and her pale cheeks colored. "Count

Dooku foretold it, and I have seen it. Whatever else happens, Obi-

Wan Kenobi and I will meet again. On Queyta I promised Kenobi I

would kill him. My Master wants him alive. So: he will leave Cestus

in bondage, or he will rest beneath its sands."

There was a flush in her face that Trillot recognized. It was lust.

No mere physical passion, although a nameless, fleshly hunger burned

within her. It was like lust turned inside out, and it burned inside this

strange woman like a fire she could not extinguish.

The two strange and powerful offworlders were on a collision

course, and she prayed not to be between them. When such giants

clashed, small folk such as Trillot could be utterly destroyed.

On the other hand, however, in times such as this even small people

could make large profits . . .

67

"W here are you taking me?"

"Shhh," Sheeka Tull replied.

For most of an hour they had trod uneven ground. Jangotat had

long since lost track of direction, so many twists and turns had they

taken. Two thicknesses of cloth covered his eyes, then a sack was

pulled down over his head. Triple protection. Why was a blindfold so

critically important? He had been promised a surprise, then told that

he could only enjoy it if he allowed himself to be blindfolded. A secret,

you see.

He had accepted the blindfold, then Sheeka and Brother Fate spun

him in a circle. When he stopped he felt the wind blowing against his

skin and made an educated guess as to the direction he now faced.

When they began to lead him up the side of a hill, he had to forget

such thoughts and concentrate on not taking a bone-breaking spill.

After perhaps fifteen minutes of climbing, the air chilled, the

ground leveled, and he guessed that they had entered a cave. Even

then the blindfold did not come off: they twisted and turned through

the cave, over treacherous footing and with strange watery echoes

tinkling in the distance.

For almost another hour they walked over uneven ground. Twice

he heard falling water, and cool misty sprays moistened the backs of

his hands. Then they began to climb down a series of steps chipped

into the stone.

For a long moment he merely stood there, wondering what it was

that she wanted him to do. But she didn't say anything at all. Finally,

feeling a bit frustrated in his solitary darkness, he said "What?," immediately

embarrassed by the single syllable's inadequacy.

His hands fumbled at his blindfold.

"No," Sheeka said. Her own cool fingers took his, moved them

down.

"Why not?"

"I don't want you to use your ordinary senses," she said. "Your eyes,

or your ears."

Confusion warred with a powerful and unaccustomed urge to

please her. Not so odd, perhaps. She had saved his life and proven a

stout comrade.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Use your heart," she said. "Tell me, what do you feel?"

He stopped, and thought. Despite the warnings, he concentrated

on ambient sound and sensation. He heard the faint shush of rippling

water, and the distant sound of falling droplets echoing in the

darkness. He felt the uneven ground beneath his feet, and . . .

"Air, moving against my skin," he said.

Her voice sounded a bit frustrated, but still calm. "No. Deeper. Not

your senses. Your heart"

"I hear water—"

"No! Stop using your ears. What do you fee/? In here." She placed

her hand over his heart. He sighed deeply, feeling her palm's warmth

as if it seeped into and beneath his ribs.

Suddenly he had the urge to believe that she was not merely playing

some kind of game with him. There was something there, if only

he could find it.

"I feel... warm."

"Where?"

"Inside," he answered. He tried to follow up with more words, but

they wouldn't form. Then he noticed that the blindfold-induced false

midnight was no longer totally black. Inchoate shapes formed within

it, as if faces watched him, judging him. He couldn't quite distinguish

them, but they seemed not like pictures, even dimensional pictures.

They were more like squirming shapes pushing through a flat elastic

surface. Rounded faces, with empty eyes. He had the sense that he

knew this form, knew this creature, but couldn't be certain where he

had come to know it, or under what circumstances . . .

"It feels like floating on a golden current," he heard himself say.

"I'm half asleep, but totally awake at the same time."

"Yes."

"I . . . oh!" He had started to speak again, but then his throat

seemed filled with dust. Now speckles of light twinkled in the darkness.

They were followed by shadowy forms flowing together, then

separating, then together again . . .

His legs wavered, buckled. A remnant of his injuries? He went

down to his hands and knees, then felt her hands on his shoulders. It

took a few moments to catch his breath. Then he stood again and

dropped his arms to his sides, fingers flexing and unflexing, breathing

shallow and high. Trembling, feeling as if he were about to burst,

he raised his hands to the blindfold, then hesitated. "Sheeka?" he

asked unsteadily.

"Yes," she said. Not a question. The single word was calming. He

removed the sack from his head and untied the blindfold.

The cave roof was low but glowed with warmth and dull orange

light. The radiance originated beneath the surface of a water pool

that rippled with a steady heartbeat rhythm.

The ceiling dripped with stalactites, and the walls glowed as if they

had been polished by hand. The very ground beneath them pulsed

with a soft and persistent radiance, reflected back from waterfalls of

frozen stone.

He coughed, realizing that he had momentarily forgotten to

breathe.

A dozen eels floated at the surface, vast milky eyes studying them.

That strange light seemed to come from within them, so that from

time to time their skin appeared almost translucent. Jangotat could

actually see the bones and organs suspended within.

Blind.

"What is this place?" he asked, realizing that some part of him already

knew the answer to that question.

"This is where the eels come to meet us."

"The dashta eels?" He knew little of them save the briefings of the

Jedi. He knew that they were integral to the JK machines. "The living

component of the bio-droids? We thought they came from the

Dashta Mountains."

"No," she said quietly. "Both mountains and eels are named for Kilaphor

Dashta, the first explorer to map both mountains and the

Zantay caves, four centuries ago. They were holy to the X'Ting for

thousands of years, but withdrew to the caves when the hive began its

conquest of Cestus."

"These look larger than the eels we've seen," he protested.

"Those are the young, prior to sexual differentiation."

The water rippled with their gentle wavering. One of them swam

in a lazy circle and then returned. Their blind eyes studied him.

Why?

Sheeka was still talking, although she must have realized that his

mind had been captured by the sight before him. "Cestus is honeycombed

with passages, underwater rivers, and pools. Not even the

X'Ting know the location of the dashta eels' home nest. As far as we

know this is the last remaining place where they interact with other

species. It was here that they brought us the first fungus spores."

"The medicine?"

"Yes. And the meatless meals."

"How can these be dashtas? According to my reseach, they are

much too large. They... these creatures are intelligent..." How did

he know that? So far they had done nothing but float. But something

about those blind eyes. They made gentle sounds, cooing, calling,

comforting . . .

"Yes," Sheeka agreed.

He shook his head. "I've read the reports. Dashtas are nonsentient."

"Not nonsentient. Call it a form of sleep. A gift from the Guides—

a lifetime of dreams. Even unconscious, their nervous systems supply

the Force sensitivity. I don't understand all of it. I'm just grateful it

works."

He paused for a moment, digesting information. "What are you

saying?"

"Female dashtas lay millions of eggs," Sheeka said to him. "The

males fertilize only a few thousand. Unfertilized eggs produce young

who never mature."

"The eels gave you their children?"

She nodded. "Those who would have died in competition with

their fertilized brothers and sisters. They lived on, and in living gave

life to we who befriended them."

"Why would they do such a thing?"

"Long ago," Sheeka said, "this planet was more fertile, and there

were more sentient species. They died out in competition with each

other as the sand ate the forest. The struggle for survival was distasteful

to the dashtas, who retreated deep into the planet's core.

We've been their first new friends in millennia."

"You."

"Yes. The eels offered us their unfertile eggs, knowing that the JKs

would bring Cestus more fully into the community of worlds."

"There is conflict in that world, as well."

"Yes. As long as there are eaters and eaten, there will be conflict.

But the dashtas hold the potential for sentient creatures to meet their

needs without slaughtering one another. This is our potential, not

our present."

Need rarely triggers war, Jangotat thought. Desire is far more deadly.

The X'Ting had driven the spiders into the mountains. If the

plagues had been no accident, then Cestus Cybernetics had all but

destroyed the hive. The Separatists and the Republic might well destroy

Cestus Cybernetics . . .

An endless chain of domination and destruction. And he was one

of its strongest links.

Jangotat kept his thoughts to himself. There was something more

important here than philosophical discourse. He desired understanding

more than he yearned for his next two minutes of air. "They have

no eyes. Why do they glow?"

"For us," she said, and sat on the rock to gaze more closely at the

eels. "For you, and me. I come here sometimes. Not too often, but occasionally,

when I need to renew myself."

Her words were true. He could feel it, and had for some minutes

now. It was a sensation not of warmth, nor of cold . . . but of something

else. Something that was an . . . aliveness. He felt a compressed

lifetime of murderous lessons dissolve, as if he was not any of the

things he had been trained to be. But if he was not those things, then

what was he? "I'm a soldier," he whispered.

"No," she said. "That is your programming."

His spine straightened. "I am a mighty warrior's clone brother."

"No," Sheeka said. And there was no mocking in her voice. There

was, instead, some other emotion he could not name. "That is your

body, your genetics. We're more than that. You are not your 'brothers'

and they are not you."

Jangotat's sight began to blur, and he wiped at his eyes with his

hand. Looked at the moisture collected there on his fingers, dumbfounded.

He could not remember ever shedding tears before. He

knew what they were, but had never seen them from his own eyes.

And if he could do one thing that he had never done . . . perhaps

there were others as well?

What was this place? One part of him wanted to flee as swiftly as

possible. And another wanted to lie down here and be bathed in eellight

for the rest of his days.

"What do you feel?"

He closed his eyes again. A marrow-numbing tingle flowed through

him, lifting him up, seemingly above himself. He heard himself speak

without recognizing the words, and realized it was possible he had

never really known himself at all. "What do I feel?" he asked. His

voice shook with emotion. "What have you done to me? I feel everything.

Everything I never knew I lacked." She had taken his hand.

Her fingers were small and warm and cool. " I . . . see myself, back to

infancy, out to old age." It was true.

Child.

Infant floating in a decanter, the spawn of endless night.

His body torn and war-ravaged, dying, the light of combat still glowing

in his eyes.

Then other flesh, aged Jangotats, ravaged and worn not by war but by

time, time he would never have. A wrinkled Jangotat, sight dimming, but

smiling, surrounded by...

"Yes?"

For an instant he saw children he would never sire, grandchildren

he would never hold, and the sudden, wrenching sense of the path

denied was so devastating that he felt himself implode. It was as if all

he had experienced on Cestus had awakened some deep and irresistible

genetic memory within him. The memory of what his life

should have been. Could have been, had he been a child of love and

not war. He saw those children, but then, in their eyes he gained the

strength to go backward, back to his own infancy, back to . . .

Jangotat sagged to his knees. The tears he'd spent a lifetime repressing

welled up once again. "It's wrong," he whispered. "All wrong." He

gazed up at her with haunted, hollow eyes. "I never heard my mother's

heart. Never felt her emotions while I slept, safe in her womb."

"No," Sheeka said gently. "You didn't."

Hands shaking, he sank his face against his palms. On any other

day of his life the heat and wetness would have shamed him, but Jangotat

was beyond shame now. "No one ever cradled me," he said. "No

one will miss me when I'm gone."

He paused, and into that pause he heard a voice within him whisper,

Please, Sheeka. Say that you'll miss me when I'm gone. When I've performed

that single function I have practiced to perfection.

Die.

Here on this planet. Or the next. Or the next. Tell me that some

memory of me will stay with you. That you will dream of me. Remember

my smile. Praise my courage. My honor. Please. Something. Anything.

But she said nothing, and he realized that it was best that way, that

he had come to a place in his life where lived the core conundrums

that no outside entity could resolve for him. This was his loneliness,

his grim and inexorable destiny. And in this terrible moment, all the

fine words about the immortality of the GAR rang as hollow as a

Sarlacc's belly.

"Jangotat?"

Despite his horrific realization, he couldn't stop another clumsily

disguised plea: "No one ever said they love me." He turned and

looked up at her. It was as if tearing his gaze away from the pool required

a physical effort. "Am I such an ugly thing?"

"No."

No. He was not an abomination of nature. He could feel everything

that she was not saying, knew why she had brought him to this

place: to experience the fear and loneliness he had hidden away from

himself. It was mind numbing. And necessary.

His next words were a whisper. "Why would anyone ever leave this

place, once they had found it?"

And now for the first time in minutes, she spoke in complete sentences.

"Jangotat, it's not one or the other. We don't live either a life

of action and adventure, or one of spiritual contemplation. True, the

brothers and sisters come here to meditate. But then they return to

the world."

"The world?"

"The world outside. Farms, mines, the city. The world needs us to

be active, but to also contemplate the consequences of our actions. To

obey orders is good, Jangotat. We all live within a society with reciprocal

obligations. But to obey them without question is to be a machine,

not a living being. Are you alive, Jangotat?"

His mouth worked without producing words.

"I think you are. Wake up before it's too late. You're not just a

number, you're a man, a living, breathing man. You were born dreaming

that you're some kind of machine, an expendable programmed

device. You're not."

"Then what am I?" He blinked hard, shivering. "What is this feeling?

I've never known it." He paused, mouth opening in astonishment.

"Loneliness, " he said finally, answering his own question. "I feel

so alone. I've never felt alone before. How could I? I was always surrounded

by my brothers."

"I've felt lonely in a crowd," Sheeka said. "Only one thing really

cures loneliness."

"What is that?" Another plea, but this one did not shame him.

"The sense that the universe knows that we're here."

Confusion warred with clarity. "But how can it see me among so

many brothers? We're all the same."

"No," she said, her voice carrying a new sharpness. "You're not. As

you told me, no two of you have ever had the same experiences. So

no two of you can be the same."

"I lied," he said, the words twisted with anguish. "There's no me inside.

It's all us. The GAR. My brothers. The Code. But where am I?

Who am I?"

"Listen to your heart." Her palm and fingers rested against his

chest. He felt the warmth, so deeply that for a moment he feared its

cessation, feared that if she drew her hand away he would become a

man of ice.

Again.

"Your heartbeat says it all. It says we are all completely unique."

She paused.

"And that, in that very uniqueness, we are all the same."

We are all the same... because we are all unique. The words echoed

through the chamber, but he heard them not merely with his ears. He

knew now why she had asked him to cease listening to the sounds.

Cease using his outer ears, so that the inner voices could whisper their

secrets. "Unique, as every star is unique. As every particle of the universe

is unique."

And in that uniqueness, we are all the same. Every being. Every particle.

Every planet. Every star.

He was speaking to himself. She spoke to him. The dashta eels

spoke to him. His wrinkled, bearded, and beloved future self, the

Jangotat who would never be, spoke to him. The child he had never

been, who had known a mother's love and a happy home, a mother

who would nurture him that he might one day make his own choices

in the world . . .

All of these spoke to him. Each in its own voice, but together

they blended into a single chorus, a single blended sentiment, overwhelming

in its simplicity and abiding love.

He sagged from his knees onto his side. All false strength, all

bravado drained from him like water squeezed from a sponge. In its

place remained a sense of lightness rather than power. He had always

felt himself to be of a man of iron, if not durasteel. What need had

durasteel for air or water or love?

Jangotat heard a wet slippery sound, then another and yet another.

He looked up. The legless eels wriggled cooing from the pool, surrounding

him. Very tentatively, he bent and reached out, touched the

nearest. Its blind, eyeless face observed him with a vast and aching

intelligence. Its touch was Love itself.

"What did you see?" Sheeka asked from behind him.

"Another life," he said.

"Another life?"

He nodded. "I might have been born to a mother and father. Had

brothers and sisters. Played with my pets."

That last seemed to surprise her. "Pets?"

Absurdly gentle emotions flooded him. "I saw a Corosian phoenix

once. The most beautiful thing I ever saw. I wanted one. As a pet."

He laughed at himself. "Not at that station. Not at any post I know

of. A burden to the army, you see?"

"Strange," she said, voice troubled. "Strange. Usually the Guides

are a healing influence."

"They are." His bruised lips turned up in a smile. "For given that

other option, I choose my life. However and for whatever purpose I

was given life, still I choose everything that led me to this moment."

He paused again, the world spinning around him. Within him. "I

choose everything that led me to this place, and to you."

She sank down beside him, the eels parting to make room. Although

they could not see, they saw all.

She pressed her full warm lips against his, setting her hands against

his cheeks to draw him even closer. Although he had shared kisses

with other women, this was different, an unfolding in his heart.

Sheeka Tull placed her cheek against his, and whispered something

that he could not quite hear.

"What?" he asked, afraid to know. "What did you say?"

"That thing you've never heard," she answered. Then paused again

before speaking the words he had waited a full, brief lifetime to hear.

"I love you."

Sheeka Tull's beautiful dark face rippled with reflected light. Jangotat

knew that his existence had contained no greater peace and fulfillment

than this. They kissed again, her lips warm against his.

68

1 next days seemed a sort of dream, a phantasmal passage from

which he would inevitably awaken. The village accepted the fact that

he had moved into Sheeka's house, her children that he had moved

into her guest room.

As Jangotat sat sunning himself, Sheeka's son Tarl came to sit with

him on the porch. They talked for a time, and then Jangotat began to

use his knife to carve the yellow-haired lad a toy.

He knew that they were welcoming him to become one of them.

That while such a choice was impossible, Sheeka was inviting him to

stay. These were peaceful folk who prayed Cestus would not be

pulled into a conflict beyond their understanding. He now comprehended

so much more. The eels had given their beloved friends permission

to use the sterile young, but for defensive purposes only.

Only to give the humans a means of income, to save the economy of

the planet that gave them life. Modifying security droids for the

battlefield was an abomination that might destroy them all. Just another

level of confusion.

But despite the problems, without really saying a specific word, the

Zantay Hills fungus farmers were offering Jangotat something he

had never really had: not merely a bunk, but a home. Sheeka's stepdaughter

Tonote came to sit at his other side, her red hair ruffled by

the noon breeze blowing in off the desert.

"Where will you go after?" Tonote asked in her disarmingly fragile

voice.

"After what?"

"After you stop being a soldier. Where will you go? Where is your

home?"

"The GAR is my home."

She leaned her small head against his shoulder. "But when you

stop fighting. Where will you go?" Strangely, those words seemed to

resonate in his mind. Where will you go... ?

You're not intended to "go" anywhere. You will die where you are told.

"I don't know what you mean." Why had he lied? The greatest wish

of a trooper is to die in service.

Isn't it? The possibility of another fate had never really occurred to

him. The clones hadn't existed long enough for any of them to wither

in their premature fashion, or retire . . . whatever that might mean to

a being with such a truncated life span.

There was simply no precedent.

Tarl looked up at him adoringly, and Tonote bent her long graceful

neck to lean her little head against Jangotat's shoulder. Sheeka

watched from the window, smiled secretively, then closed the shutters

again.

69

s andstorms raged the next day, followed by one of Cestus s brief,

violent rains. It tamped down the dust but also created a canopy of

dark, heavy clouds. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, and through

much of the morning Jangotat wandered the muddy streets alone,

seeking he knew not what. Something. Some understanding of these

people that continued to elude him. They watched him as they

flowed among the stone houses, and were friendly enough, but treated

him as what he was: someone who was just passing through. Just on

his way to somewhere else. The deepest smiles and sweetest laughter

were confined to those who would stay, or might return.

He was neither.

Late that evening, news reached Sheeka that contact had been

made with Desert Wind. Jangotat made his tearful good-byes with

the village, and Sheeka's children. He longed to return to the dashta

cave to make another, equally difficult farewell, but intuition told

him the request would be presumptuous. It was he who had been

presented to the dashtas, not they to him. Their lair was a secret, and

a risk had been taken even bringing him there. He could not, would

not, ask for more.

Sheeka took him to a neutral landing site, where a few minutes

later a two-person speeder bike appeared, piloted by Desert Wind's

youngest member.

"How are things going, Skot?" Sheeka asked.

OnSon's mouth managed to twist into the vestige of a smile.

"We're regrouped, and that's more than I would have expected a

week ago. It's all right, except for Thak Val Zsing."

She started. "What of him?"

OnSon sneered. "He betrayed us. I'm not sure what happened, but

the old man lost it. He knew those killer droids were coming. Instead

of warning us, he saved his own hide. Pretty messed up." He looked

at Jangotat. "Well. I didn't really expect to see you up and around so

soon."

Jangotat shrugged. "I've had a lot of help from . . . " He glanced at

Sheeka, who shook her head subtly. "Friends."

"Friends are good to have," OnSon said.

Sheeka Tull's beautiful dark face was calm and impassive. "Will I

see you again?" she asked Jangotat quietly.

"I don't know." Finally, the truth.

She rested her head against his chest and pounded it softly with

closed fists. "I don't know why I do this to myself," she said in a small

voice. "I just have this soft place in my head for you strong, quiet,

self-contained types."

His arms, arms that could not protect her, enfolded her small, wiry

frame. "Don't you mean a soft place in my heart?" he whispered into

her hair.

She glanced up at him, a hint of mischief lightening her face. "I

meant exactly what I said."

Then Jangotat surprised himself, leaning down to kiss her thoroughly,

without any concern for what OnSon or anyone else might

see or think.

And then he left. As the speeder bike raced on, he looked back at

the dwindling, dust-blown figure of Sheeka Tull, intuiting that he

would never see her again, but not knowing exactly what that might

mean for either of them.

70

B y roundabout routes young OnSon brought Jangotat back to the

new camp. It was set up in an abandoned mine in a tumbled range

of hills, completely overgrown and impossible to approach without

being seen. He immediately approved of the location, and wished

that they had found one as good before their first disaster. Such foresight

might have spared some of the spider clan.

After hiding the speeder they moved through rocky overhangs—

mindful of the possibility of spy satellites—and he was led into the

cave.

His surviving brothers welcomed him, of course. Memory of what

had happened just prior to his injury was muzzy, but according to all

accounts he had acquitted himself well.

Crouching in the rocks at the outskirts of the camp lurked old

Thak Val Zsing. Where before he seemed merely gray-bearded and a

bit tired, now he was elderly. Derelict. Broken, a shadow of the boastful

and boisterous man he had been just days before. The other

members of Desert Wind avoided him like the plague, and twice he

saw men spit into the dust at his feet. In a single unthinking instant,

Thak Val Zsing had obliterated a lifetime of courage.

Honor. Such a fragile thing.

Jangotat spent hours exploring the new environs, familiarizing

himself with the escape routes, and getting caught up on all the logistics.

He was briefed on Obi-Wans JK encounter and the Clandes

plant's temporary closing.

All those losses, and the near death of General Kenobi, and all that

had been accomplished was a temporary shutdown. This was 10 percent.

"What have you heard?" he asked Forry.

"Word is General Kenobi still hasn't got an uplink. Must be ready

to pop."

"So . . . no news on the Clone Wars?"

"None. Anything could be happening up there. Out there." Forry

shook his head. "This is about as ten percent as it gets."

Late that night a shuttle landed at the western pad, disgorging the

two Jedi without fanfare or fuss. Obi-Wan and Kit slipped through

the camouflaged cave mouth and were immediately briefed by the

clone commandos and brought up to date on all that had happened

in their absence. Then the Jedi went off to a small side cave they had

taken as their own lodging, and made preparations for sleep.

Kit noticed an odd quietude about Obi-Wan, but his companion

decided to speak before the Nautolan could inquire into his mood. "I

remember her words, Kit."

"Whose words?"

"G'Mai Duris. She warned me that this could turn into a no-win

scenario, one where I might well fail to prevent the destruction of an

entire, peaceful people."

Kit stirred the fire with his stick. Sparks circled up into the air.

"Then we mustn't fail. By the Thousand Tides, there must be a way."

"Yes," Obi-Wan said, and managed a smile. "But knowing it, and

saying it, is not the same as finding it."

71

nxious but loath to reveal the extent of his anxiety, Obi-Wan

watched as Sirty struggled to repair their damaged equipment. After

heroic exertions the trooper had managed to conceal a message on a

tight-beamed commercial fertilizer order from Resta's Kibo Lake

farm, but he doubted they would be able to use that particular trick

again. The forces arrayed against them were powerful, and clever indeed.

The only safe thing to do was assume that no more than a single

message could be sent or received in any single route.

Sirty's comlink squawked to life. "We have it, sir!"

"Luck?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Perseverance. I was able to tap into one of the backup circuits.

Military equipment has built-in redundancy."

"Splendid."

Obi-Wan took his position as the communications equipment

fired up. Within seconds he received an image of a male Falleen tech

at a distant relay station.

The high-collared, emerald-skinned hologram image raised an

eyebrow. "I do not recognize your communications protocols."

"Automatic authentication has been damaged," he said, and then

provided a coded series of words, concluding with: "—This is Obi-

A

Wan Kenobi, Jedi Knight, on Republic business. Provide a link and

you will be rewarded."

"Very well."

After six minutes of static Obi-Wan learned that his first choice,

Master Yoda, was unavailable, in the field supervising an operation.

He made a swift decision, changed his access codes, and Palpatine

himself appeared. "Chancellor?"

The politician's wise and weathered face creased with pleasure.

"Master Kenobi. The Council and I had begun to worry."

"There is cause," the Jedi admitted. "Not all has gone well."

"Explain, please."

Obi-Wan took a deep breath and then proceeded. "Cestus is not

an obscure planet producing a dangerous machine. It seems to be at

the center of an invisible game board. Count Dooku has infiltrated

deeply, focusing unforeseen resources here."

"To what end?" The Chancellor's deep, resonant voice was calming.

"To the end that my mission was compromised, and that we are

forced to hide. We strike at the infrastructure when possible."

The Chancellor brooded before answering. "Do you expect this

tactic to be successful?"

"I do not know. But I request more time to try."

The Chancellor shook his head. "We need results, General Kenobi.

I intend to assign a supercruiser to assist you."

Obi-Wan's heart sped up. "But sir, don't you think—"

"I think that a warship positioned in orbit around Cestus would

make them a bit more mindful, don't you?"

"But the Confederacy will use it as an excuse to counterattack with

their own ships, and claim that they were merely protecting an innocent

planet against Republic aggression."

"Well then, you had better resolve the situation before those ships

arrive, hadn't you?"

The Chancellor terminated the transmission.

Obi-Wan seethed. There it was. First "a ship" and then "before the

ships arrive." The Chancellor was sending a not-so-subtle message: if

Count Dooku interfered, Palpatine would be happy to humble him.

In fact, considering their problem in getting Confederacy forces to

expose themselves, Obi-Wan wondered if this entire affair might not

have been a feint, a mere drawing thrust, designed specifically to provoke

an aggressive response.

But no. If he thought that, the next thought, the very next thought

was to wonder if Palpatine was capable of sacrificing all of their lives

in exchange for victory . . .

Despite his distrust of politicians, he did not, could not believe

this.

But if he did, what then?

And if he could not resolve this, death could come in any of a

dozen ways: slain by friendly fire, by security guards, by military

bombardment...

Or even at the unseen hands of their mysterious adversary.

By sunrise the next day it was once again time to organize themselves

into a cohesive unit. With Nate's return, Obi-Wan sensed a

chance to increase their efficiency.

Plus . . . Obi-Wan sensed that something had happened to the soldier.

While he had certainly healed his flesh and bone, even more interesting

were the apparent changes in his psyche.

"Jangotat, where exactly were you?" he asked the prodigal trooper

when he first gave his abbreviated report.

"I don't know the exact location, sir, and I'd rather not convey that

data." A pause, followed by a swiftly added, "Unless the general insists,

of course. Are you insisting, sir?"

"No," Obi-Wan said, after thinking carefully. "I assume you would

relate anything of interest or concern to this operation."

"Affirmative, sir," Jangotat answered, and returned to cleaning his

weapons.

That had been almost twenty hours earlier. Now Obi-Wan watched

the troopers practicing unarmed combat among themselves, throws

and holds and short, chopping blows with the side of the fist. Nothing

fancy, but all with professional form and intensity, combined with

an adequate knowledge of the interior targets. This was not merely

demonstration, although recruits were watching. Nor was it merely

exercise, although by the time they were finished all were sopping

with sweat.

No, he intuited that this was a diagnostic activity, a way for the

troopers to assure themselves that every member of their ranks was

up to Code in every conceivable manner.

And he detected something else, as well—a sense of fluidity and

grace in motion a little surprising to see from a mass-produced warrior.

If he was not mistaken . . .

Yes. There was a hip feint flowing into a heel kick, a storing of elastic

energy in the muscles and tendons that bespoke some small

amount of more advanced training. In fact, he guessed that he knew

exactly where they had obtained such knowledge.

"Excuse me," he said when they had finished an intense engagement.

"I seem to recognize some elements of Jedi Flow drills. Has

Master Fisto been instructing you?"

They looked both pleased and embarrassed, and Obi-Wan realized

they had been showing off for him.

"Yes. A little. Just some basics, of course," Forry added hurriedly, as

if worried Obi-Wan might be offended.

He laughed. "No, please. That's fine. But... with your permission,

might I join for a few falls?"

Sputtering their delight, the troopers spread out as Obi-Wan

stepped into the ring and faced off with Jangotat.

He knew that the man would be strong, quick, and well trained.

The additional flow was a beautiful thing to feel, and Obi-Wan allowed

the engagement to continue for several minutes. It was just a

game, of course, with the intent to shift and adjust dynamic balance,

not merely overwhelm the opponent. What he hadn't anticipated

was the clone's capacity for subtlety and improvisation. And his sensitivity

to slight changes in pressure and speed was excellent.

Obi-Wan tested his theory, playing with the other commandos,

one after another. They were skilled, and fluid, b u t . . . Jangotat had

something else. Emotional empathy. Insight. More of an ability to

imagine what his opponent might have been thinking or feeling. It

was hard to believe that the man had been wounded only a few days

before. Where had he gone? What had he done?

Obi-Wan faced Jangotat. "Let's take this up a notch. First fall?"

Jangotat nodded, setting himself.

The two engaged, with Jangotat making the first aggressive move.

Obi-Wan balanced the incoming force with a finely judged sidestep

and pivot. When the dust cleared the captain was on the ground,

neatly confined in a Juzzian armlock, nerve-pincered at wrist and

elbow. Obi-Wan stood with one foot on Jangotat's shoulder, twisting

and stimulating the nerves until Jangotat slapped the ground in surrender.

He thanked them for the exercise, and had turned to walk away

when the trooper hailed him. "Master Kenobi!"

Obi-Wan stopped and waited for the soldier to catch up with him.

"Yes?"

"I—" He was about to say something, but then withheld it at the

last moment. "We are greatly inferior to you."

That wasn't what he had been about to say. Nonetheless, Obi-Wan

responded to it. The last minutes of combat had taught him valuable

things about the ARC trooper, all of them positive. "No! No! You are

courageous, coordinated, tenacious . . . qualities anyone would admire."

He smiled. "Qualities /admire." Obi-Wan sighed in exasperation.

Something had awakened within the ARC trooper. Where

ordinarily Obi-Wan would have celebrated that awakening of individual

spirit, however, if the trooper sensed that Obi-Wan might be

an ally in finding his individual truth, that revelation could hardly

have been more inopportune than it was now.

In another week they might all be dead. Still, it made no sense not

to do what he could to comfort a troubled soul. Finally, he asked the

question he had long thought, and knew the official answer to, but

had never dwelled upon. "I know that troopers are obedient to a fault.

But in your heart, do you ever question orders?"

Jangotat's shoulders squared so swiftly that the posture could only

have been a programmed response. "Soldiers do not question. Soldiers

obey." He paused, and Obi-Wan had the sense that the trooper's

mask had been dropped. This was a different man from the one who

had originally taken ship with them. "Don't they?"

There was a question behind the question. And another behind

that one as well. Obi-Wan walked for a few minutes, secure in the

knowledge that Jangotat would follow. He found a small clearing and

sat on a rock, inviting the trooper to sit beside him. "Many volunteer

for the military life. Others are conscripted for a time, then after the

alarm bells have died away return to their farms or families. But what

of a man born for war, trained for war? I can sense your ambivalence,

Jangotat. There are answers you would like to have. Considering how

carefully your mind has been shaped, I'm impressed that you can

even formulate your queries." Obi-Wan sighed and scratched at one

of the abrasions won during his recent struggle with the JK. "You

cannot be free. You were born to fight in other men's wars with no

hope of gain or glory."

He closed his mouth, certain that he had said too much. Obi-Wan

had never commented on this matter of clones and freeborn people.

It was not his affair. Perhaps even now Jangotat regretted his inquiry.

Surprisingly, Jangotat was not put off by Obi-Wan's words or

tones. "What about feelings?" he asked. "The Jedi are the best fighters

I've ever seen. But you've got feelings."

Obi-Wan chuckled. "If not, we wouldn't strive to keep them under

control." Obi-Wan feared that he, like so many others, assumed that

every trooper had his place, an infinite array of identical laser cannon

fodder regressing like a hall of mirrors until it not only filled but defined

the horizon.

But Jangotat put the lie to that assumption. "Do you have a

home?" he asked, almost shyly.

"The Jedi Temple is my home. And has been since childhood."

"And you chose to become a Jedi?"

"Yes. I was raised from infancy within the Temple's walls. There

was certainly a moment when I made a formal decision to become a

Jedi Knight, but in fact my feet were placed on that path before I

could walk."

"Weren't you too young to make a decision like that?"

Obi-Wan considered the question carefully. Was there any way

that the boy he had been could have known what his present life

would be? All of the dangers, the travails? Or the wonders? What

would that boy have thought, had he known?

He answered with deliberation. "If I had made that choice with my

head, perhaps."

"Your heart?"

"Some might say," Obi-Wan replied. "But truth is that we sense

the Force with our whole bodies. Every part of me knew that this

would be my destiny. I knew I would not have the joys and comforts

accorded normal folk. Even at that early age, I accepted that fact."

Obi-Wan reached a hand out to the clone, clasped his shoulder. "I

made that choice."

"That choice was made for me," Jangotat said.

So they were on opposite sides of a divide: one a man who had forsaken

all the normal trappings of life for an existence of service and

adventure. The other, a replaceable cog in a faceless army, chosen before

birth, poured into a mold that he was uniquely suited to fill.

Had Obi-Wan made the choice, or had his midi-chlorians? In the

final analysis had either he or Jangotat had any real choice at a l l . . . ?

Did anyone?

72

S hadows arced in silent pantomime against the cave wall, fueled

by a roaring scrap-wood fire. As Obi-Wan scanned the assembled

members of Desert Wind, he thought that all over the galaxy,

throughout all ages past, courageous beings of a thousand breeds had

held conclave in such caves, before such fires, for similar reasons.

"We face tremendous obstacles," he began.

"But we done all right," Resta said.

"It's true. And at a cost. And the cost is rising. We cannot afford

it."

"How did this happen?" OnSon brushed his long blond hair back

from his forehead, exposing a crescent moon of a scar. "We've worked

so hard . . ."

Obi-Wan was troubled to hear the pain in that young voice. "It's

true," he replied. "And the fault is not in you. You have given your

blood and sweat to us in full measure. We've failed you." Kit Fisto

stared into the embers impassively. Obi-Wan wished he could guess

what his friend was thinking.

The men and women, perhaps thinking that the Jedi was preparing

to leave them, protested vocally. "No!" OnSon said. "Without

you we would never have struck so hard and deep. This hasn't been

for nothing!"

"No," Kit Fisto said. "It has not. But we have been thwarted at

every turn, and we believe that there are additional factors of which

we are unaware."

"What factors?" Resta growled.

"Information has reached the government, gathered either through

spies or devices, or traitors, or ..." And here his voice trailed off as he

sank deeper into his thoughts.

"Or what?"

"Or someone who is both knowledgeable and ruthless. Someone

who is able to . . ." His voice trailed off again. The spark of an intuitive

flash stirred in his mind. That flash had first arisen during a deep

meditation early that morning, while the rest of the camp was asleep.

During his trance, he had sensed that there was a connection. During

his stay on Cestus he had brushed auras with someone . . . or something

. . . that had become a vital factor in this whole situation. But

he had been behind the curve continuously since he had arrived.

Everything had been perfect, and y e t . . .

He shook himself out of his self-induced trance and continued.

"Everything that has happened has thrown our plans out of sequence,

and as a result we are fairly certain that Supreme Chancellor

Palpatine will soon have a supercruiser here to threaten Duris. If the

situation has not progressed by that time, there is a very real possibility

that they will begin a bombardment that leads to total war." He

paused to give time for his words to sink in. "If that happens everyone

loses."

"What can we do?" Skot OnSon asked.

"I have an idea," the Jedi replied, "that might end this conflict

without another shot fired, and without crashing the entire economy.

It's dangerous, but it just might work."

I n the days since Fizzik had joined his sister Trillot's organization,

advancement had been rapid. It seemed that the gangster

trusted nothing so much as blood relations. Fizzik found himself

carrying out missions of greater and greater importance, but never

allowed himself to forget how quickly his shift in fortunes could

change. So when Fizzik was sent east to the Jantos trading post to

meet with the Jedi, he was understandably anxious..

"So," Fizzik said, "what do you want?" His nerves twitched in this

place. If his sister had wished him assassinated, the mission profile

might have looked very similar.

"I seek to make a purchase," Obi-Wan said.

"And what precisely is it that you desire?"

"A class six Baktoid radiation suit."

"And to what use would you put such a suit?"

"That is my affair."

Fizzik peered into the bearded Jedi's blue eyes, wishing he were

better at reading human facial expressions. This was a dangerous

piece of information to carry. He knew that the Jedi were causing

chaos in the industrial complexes, and anyone who aided or abetted

sabotage could be executed.

A radiation suit. Had he once heard rumor of a control system

protected by a reactor? Possibly, but one never knew how trustworthy

such rumors were. What was this Jedi up to?

But Fizzik kept his thoughts to himself, stood, and bowed. His

was not to reason why. His was merely to serve his sister until he

found a more desirable berth.

Which, considering the deteriorating conditions hereabout, might

not be found on Cestus at all.

"And you trust this Trillot?" Kit asked after Obi-Wan returned.

"She's given me everything I asked. Spoken truthfully in every way

I can check. Our sources on Coruscant trust her." He sighed.

"I notice you don't say that you trust her," Kit observed.

"I have a plan," Obi-Wan said. "And it needs Trillot. And I am

willing to take the risk. Trillot once spoke of a hidden control station,

protected by a radiation field. It would be very expensive to obtain

protection, but if I had it, I could enter the Cestus reactor complex

and shut down Clandes's entire production line without causing extreme

damage to the infrastructure. I think that that might do it."

"And then, sir?" Forry asked.

"We could call off the bombardment, and negotiate."

"But how much money have we raised from our raids?" OnSon

asked. "Wasn't it supposed to be a survivors' fund?"

"If this doesn't work, there won't be enough survivors left to divide

a credit," he said. "Our priorities have changed."

The worst part was the waiting. For a signal from Trillot. For a signal

from the fleet. From the outlying farms, vulnerable to reprisals

from the Cestian security forces.

Waiting was always bad, but Obi-Wan used some of that time to

spar with Jangotat. The trooper seemed to have an insatiable appetite

for Jedi combat, and as long as he remembered the ARC's limitations,

Obi-Wan was inclined to share a bit more knowledge with

him. \

With Obi-Wan's permission, Jangotat demonstrated his understanding

of the Jedi Flow drills until he was sopping with sweat.

"Well?" Jangotat said, and then added, "General?"

Obi-Wan tilted his head sideways, realizing that they had somehow

wandered into a very odd relationship. "You're doing well.

Remember when you find a knot of tension in your body—don't

power through it. Relax, let it melt. Breathe into it. Your flesh remembers

every pain, emotional or physical, you have ever suffered,"

Obi-Wan said. "It is trying to protect you. Pain and fear compete

with skill and awareness."

"General Fisto said that thoughts and fears are like boulders, and

the Force is the river rushing between them. Most people grow so

clogged with pains and regrets that the water can no longer flow

from the mountain to the sea."

Obi-Wan laughed. "Very good. Much of Jedi training is designed

to remove those obstructions."

"But General Fisto warned that I could never learn to be as good

as a Jedi," Jangotat said.

Obi-Wan's voice was gentle. "The joy in life comes not from

surpassing another's gifts, but in fully manifesting our own."

Jangotat weighed those words, then apparently decided that practice

was better than analysis and spent another grueling hour wrenching

his body into exotic shapes and surges, finding the deep wells of

fear, and resentment, and loneliness locked in his muscles, releasing

them. One meter, one moment at a time, Jangotat was finding his

way to the sea.

74

A dmiral Arikakon Baraka was in a foul mood. He had been

forced to take part in the clone training exercise, and now he followed

orders that were taking him far afield from the Separatist

hunt, bringing the Nexu to a planet called Cestus. By the time he finished

threatening this Rim world, the rest of the fleet would have already

engaged in some major battle, and the glory would belong to

others. \

This was no way to gain promotion, or the approval of his ancestors,

which he craved even more. \

Nonetheless, Baraka monitored the navigation routes, commanded

his men, ran drills on all critical systems, and prepared to do his job.

He would grind these Cestians to dust, then head back for the major

battle sure to take place somewhere in the Borleias drift.

Only one thing stood between him and glory.

And soon, there would be nothing at all.

The speeder bikes purred to Obi-Wans touch, ready for the last

leg of this adventure. Kit addressed the clone commandos as he finished

packing his bags.

"Suspend all operations," the Nautolan said. "There must be no

chance that any of you fall into enemy hands. Your bodies would be

incontrovertible evidence against the Republic, paraded to the Thousand

Worlds as evidence of Palpatine's treachery. Unless you hear directly

from us, if we do not return, try beaming another message

through Resta's farm. Signal Admiral Baraka to pick you up. Unless

you receive a direct order do not leave this camp. Is that understood?"

The troopers glanced at each other uneasily. "Isn't it possible that

we could launch a rescue if you run into trouble, General Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan managed a confident nod. "Do not leave this camp except

under direct orders, am I clear?"

The troopers nodded, and the Jedi headed out into a strong headwind.

The sandstorm continued to build as they traveled north toward

ChikatLik. At times Obi-Wan looked behind him and couldn't see

Kit's speeder; he had to trust that his companion was there.

Just as he could see no sure solution to the situation at hand, but

needed to have faith that such an answer did, indeed, exist.

"We have the credits you requested. Where is our suit?" It had

taken an entire day to make their way back into ChikatLik, and Obi-

Wan's nerves were badly frayed. This was an unforeseen additional

complication.

Trillot tittered. "There is nothing on this planet more highly protected

than those suits. My nest is raided periodically—if it was

found here, no legal defense or explanation would suffice."

Plausible enough, b u t . . .

Obi-Wan noted her discomfort, and suddenly he sensed danger

around him. "Well then, where is it?" What was wrong? All the

words were right, and y e t . . . and y e t . . .

"Follow me to my personal turbolift," Trillot said. "I will take you

to the dock myself. Where are the credits?"

"Half now," Kit said, laying a satchel on the table before him. His

dark, unblinking eyes never left their hostess. "And half after we have

our suit. Fair?"

"Of course," Trillot replied.

Obi-Wan and Kit followed Trillot to the lift platform. They entered

and the door closed behind them. As they descended, Kit

turned to Trillot, his huge dark eyes reflecting the dim light. "I have

heard of you, and am glad for this opportunity to meet. If there is difficulty,

I promise you we'll never meet again."

"I think we will have no further business" was the gangster's pious

reply.

When the lift stopped, they were in a freighter-size hive cavern

beneath the main city. As far as the eye could see, thousands upon

thousands of deserted hive cubicles stretched around the walls. Obi-

Wan smelled water: a subterranean lake, perhaps a river. The dock

was surrounded with stacks of unopened crates. A hive converted to

a smuggler's lair, Obi-Wan thought. Smuggling goods through subterranean

rivers? Ingenious. But...

"Be cautious," Obi-Wan said as they stepped out.

"An unneeded warning," Kit replied.

A third voice entered the conversation. "And a belated one." Instantly,

a shimmering circle of light sizzled the air around Obi-Wan.

He recognized it instantly: a Xythan force shield. A snare.

"A new security device created by Cestus Cybernetics. It absorbs

and returns all energy. Feel free to use your lightsaber."

Obi-Wan knew that last voice. Suddenly, and with shocking clarity,

all that had happened in the last days made terrible, and possibly terminal

sense. "Asajj Ventress," he said.

She appeared out of the shadows, but it was not shadows alone

that had protected her. In each hand she held a glowing red lightsaber

with curved handles.

A dozen young X'Ting emerged from the boxes around her. Males,

barely out of their adolescence, judging by the light rings of fur around

their necks. They swaggered and postured, but they were callow.

"You have perfected the Quy'Tek meditations, Adept," he said.

"You can shield your Force."

"From fools, yes," she said, and smiled. "Go ahead—use your lightsabers.

The field will draw power from them."

"And those?"

Trillot crept around the edge of the energy field. She seemed like a

vex caught between two reeks. "They are loyal to the hive," she said.

"She has no love for you, Trillot," Obi-Wan said.

"And even less for you, I think." The gangster tittered.

Ventress turned to the gangster. "You may leave now, Trillot. Your

protocol droid will translate my orders to the X'Ting."

Trillot went back up the turbolift as swiftly as it would move her.

Ventress smiled. "I knew, in the end, I would defeat you."

"You call this a fair fight?" The acid in Obi-Wan's voice did nothing

to mask the lethal fury building within him. Now he understood

all the death, all the critical failures since his arrival on Cestus. All

attempts to bring this matter to a peaceful conclusion had been

thwarted by this bald-pated witch, and the confusion he had felt

until this moment was wiped away completely.

"No," she said calmly. "I call it victory."

Commander Baraka's supercruiser emerged from hyperspace and

moved into position over Cestus. A swift scan revealed no defenses

capable of resisting a ship of the Nexus class, so he approached without

haste, taking this opportunity to put his crew through a series of

attack drills.

Until ten hours passed, or they received a coded message, there was

little to be done.

Cestus lay before them, a world of wealth without warriors to protect

it. They now needed only a message from the surface, or one

from the Supreme Chancellor. It was just a matter of time.

When the cruiser entered the system, alarm ripped through

ChikatLik like a whirlwind. Everyone knew someone who had heard

the rumor that the city was to be destroyed. Thousands left the city

in the first three hours, a stream of refugees that clotted the skylanes

and roadways.

G'Mai Duris went on the air, promising her citizens that the vessel

was only there to protect the Republic's interests. Since Cestus

was a friend of the Republic, how could anyone think harm would

come to them? The fact that this broadcast was also sent to every

major star system along the Rim missed no one.

Quietly, leaders of the Five Families made excuses and slipped

away to their private haven beneath Kibo Lake. To most Cestians, it

seemed their planet was trapped between the Republic and the Confederacy,

and they hoped to ride it out, survival temporarily transformed

into a more urgent motivation than profit.

To the Five Families, a game was being played out that could end

with their power broken, or raised to the highest levels. Palpatine

might win. Count Dooku might win. No matter which, they intended

to survive.

True, a storm had been unleashed upon Cestus, but as long as they

survived, Confederacy contracts might yet be honored. After all, the

entire galaxy was watching, and this would be a perfect time for

Count Dooku to provide an objective example of the advantages to

be found in trading the Separatists.

There were other factors, of course, factors discussed only among

the Families, or by those who had reviewed very private evaluations

distributed solely to the top families. But those factors, and their implications,

would be meaningless if they did not survive the next few

days . . .

"This will end in . . . perhaps twenty hours." Ventress glanced at

the two Jedi, still trapped within the energy shield. "I regret that I

will not have the opportunity to match lightsabers with you again,

Obi-Wan Kenobi. Count Dooku wants you alive," she said, prowling

at the edge of the shield. So intense was her hunger that the tips of

her twin sabers trembled. "But mightn't he forgive me if I simply slew

you in single combat?"

"Please." Obi-Wan locked eyes with her. "Try me."

"I'd rather that honor be mine," Kit said.

"Ohhh," she breathed. "Oh, yes, you and I. It will happen, Obi-

Wan Kenobi. But I must remember that the operation is more important

than my individual satisfaction or advancement. Surely you

can understand this."

She looked up at the craggy ceiling above him. "The Supreme

Chancellor will humble Cestus as an example to other breakaway

planets. The fate of this one small planet will push hundreds of star

systems into the Confederacy's arms. Mission accomplished."

"What of the biodroids? Don't you want them?"

She smiled. "It would be good, but volume production will require

cloning, and our efforts to clone the dashta tissue will require another

year, at least. For the time being, that is a dead end. A bluff."

She smiled and came closer, so close that her face almost touched

the wall of shimmering energy. "Those beacons you planted in Clandes.

Very nice. You could not enter the actual plant, so you triangulated

three external signals. A good plan. But one easily countered.

What a shame that the coordinates have been recalibrated," she said.

"What are you talking about?" Obi-Wan said, fearing that he

understood her meaning precisely.

"You planned to destroy the filtration and power plants with minimal

loss of life." She tsked. I'm afraid that that won't do. Our plans

require a more . . . dramatic event."

"What have you done?" he whispered.

"No . . . better you should ask what is it you have done," she said.

"And why would you have a cruiser deliberately strike a cave fault,

destroying the entire industrial complex and its millions? Yes, I think

that a slaughter like that will polarize the galaxy, don't you?"

His head spun. And Count Dooku had no way of cloning or massproducing

dashta tissue for at least a year? "Then your droid order

was a sham?"

"Intended to frighten Palpatine and your precious Jedi Council

into an overreaction. I would say our plan worked, wouldn't you?"

Her laughter was as warm as dry ice. "The resulting slaughter will tip

the galaxy in our favor. Then once we do clone the tissues, who needs

Cestus?"

"You're a monster," Kit said, voice calm as a dead sea.

At that moment the vast energies within Obi-Wan swirled and

stilled. As hopeless as the situation seemed, he believed to his core

that this was not over. Somewhere, Ventress had made a mistake.

And when that single mistake manifested, he would be ready to take

advantage . . .

75

s, 'till under direct order, the four surviving clone troopers remained

confined to base. They were fully aware of the forces struggling around

them, and also of the nightmare about to descend on Ord Cestus.

Jangotat's mind swam with visions and possibilities. He more than

anyone knew the ARC mission mandate. It was engraved on his

brain like his own number. Stop the production of JKs. Preserve the social

order.

Preserve the order? But the order was corrupt! The Five Families

were willing to murder countless civilians to make a profit. If that was

not the very definition of betrayal, what was? Even worse, only a fool

couldn't see that they had already allied themselves with the Separatists,

and the Jedi were no fools, that much was certain.

They, then, were caught in events, controlled by their programming.

Just like a clone, he thought.

The Nexu hovered in orbit above them. Any minute now a message

might come from General Kenobi to begin bombing. If not, within a

few hours the ship would take out the beacon-marked targets without

additional authorization.

These people were going to die. Ordinary citizens with roots

couldn't just throw their homes in a rucksack and ship off when

danger came. They railed against the darkness, they fought on for

their loved ones, they prayed in silence.

The troopers waited, but the longed-for communication with the

generals did not come. Dead? Captured? Time was running out. In a

few hours the bombardment would begin, and that was all to the

good, wasn't it?

Jangotat stalked the camp's perimeters, chewing on a nervestick

while acid boiled his gut. Something is wrong.

When he circled back around to the others, Seefor was talking.

"What do we do now?"

Forry shrugged. "If he doesn't come back, it didn't work. Then the

bombardment begins, we call in transport, and we go home. Nothing

to do but wait."

Jangotat wandered away, mind racing, hoping against hope that

their Jedi commanders would call in, that the word would come that

the line was shut down without the vast damage of an orbiting strike.

He was a bit surprised when old Thak Val Zsing and the X'Ting

woman Resta approached him. Val Zsing had seemed broken, but

now there was something alive and almost aflame about him. "I know

things," he said. "Please. Listen to me."

Jangotat, remembering what he had learned in the cave, opened

his senses. He saw the man's wounds as well as his strength. He believed

that this miserable wretch needed, deserved, one chance to redeem

himself.

We are more than our actions. More than our deeds, or programming.

"What is it?" he asked.

"No one talk to Resta. No one talk to Thak Val Zsing," she said.

"So we two talk. Talk about the old days. What Gramps say 'bout the

prisons, how Resta's hive forced to dig in them. I remember things

about them." She tapped her finger against her temple. "I see I know

things about 'Secutive 'resort.'" She snorted. "You know, the one

they rip away power away to build? The one that kill my man?"

The X'Ting leaned closer, her thick red eyebrows arched and erect.

"I look at 'puter map."

"Our computers?"

Thak Val Zsing nodded. The old man's eyes were piercingly hot.

"Same routing map you used to get through the tunnels, when the

Jedi put on their little show, remember, star-boy?"

Jangotat agreed that he did, still not seeing the point.

"That program charts energy usage, utilty bills, all kindsa real-time

routing information on the major systems." Val Zsing's voice hushed

to an excited whisper. "And we saw something. Oh, brother, did I

ever see something."

"In last five hours, since big ship pull into orbit, 'resort' light glow."

Resta leaned forward, so excited she could barely contain herself.

"That where Five Families hide!"

"I want to discuss a possibility with you," Jangotat said to his

brothers. He struggled to conceal his excitement.

"Possibility?" Seefor asked. "What kind of possibility?"

"The Families may have made a critical mistake. If this intel is

good, for the first time we know where they are. They've powered up

their resort facilty, which we believe to be a shelter. Considering the

present emergency, I'd say there's a high level of confidence that

they'll be there. If we grab them, we can force them to make a deal. If

they capitulate, we can end this and stop the bombing."

For a long moment no one spoke. Sirty was the first to break the

silence, and was shocked. "But you'd be countermanding direct orders!"

Jangotat slammed his fist on the table. "We could win the day!"

"Brother," Seefor said, "under the Kamino Accords I am compelled

to warn you that your suggestion is not to Code."

Forry glared. "You don't do this," he said. "Besides—" He gave an

ugly laugh. "—the old man's a coward. Probably a liar, too."

Against Code? Seefor's accusation struck Jangotat like a physical

blow, but he didn't allow himself to cower. Even the idea filled him

with physical nausea. No clone had ever broken Code or disobeyed

an instruction of any kind. He felt an energy wall slam down in his

mind, and his every muscle trembled as he even contemplated the

forbidden. "I believe him," he said, and had to grit his teeth for a moment

to stop them from clattering. "Ask yourselves: if you'd lost your

honor, wouldn't you do anything to regain it? Wouldn't you want

someone to give you that chance?" He knew that he had scored with

that one: a clone commando had nothing if not his reputation. Seefor

flinched in sympathetic pain at the very concept.

And yet at the same moment that he mentioned such a thing, he

realized that he had drawn a line between himself and the others.

There was something different about him, and they could feel it, but

had yet to comment. By mentioning the unmentionable, however, he

had given a focus to their instincts.

He was no longer completely one of them. He was something else,

and his brothers were on guard.

"It is not Code, Jangotat," Seefor said, and stared at him. He knew

he could take it no farther.

Jangotat returned to his bedroll. He knew what he contemplated,

and why. He knew it was forbidden but he believed, believed with

everything inside him, that if the generals knew what he knew, they

would approve of his actions.

And yet...

He would be breaking Code.

His chest muscles constricted, and he felt a cold sweat dampen his

armpits. What was right? What was truly Code? Was it the letter, or

was it doing what he believed his commanders would do if they had

his information?

Jangotat wrestled with that for hours before he made up his mind

and slipped out of his bedroll. He had almost made it back out to the

open when Forty caught up with him.

"Where are you going?"

"You know I have to do this," Jangotat said.

Forry nodded. "And you know I can't let you."

"Then stop me if you can," Jangotat replied. All things being

equal, Jangotat and Forry should have been roughly equivalent fighters.

But things were no longer equal. Jangotat was fighting for everything

Forry fought for, plus just a little bit more.

Sheeka. Tonote. Mithail. Tarl.

The Guides.

It's not what a man fights with. It's what he fights for.

The two moved toward each other, paused for an instant just as

they reached critical distance, judging. In the next instant there followed

an eye-baffling flurry of punches and kicks. Forry was stronger

and faster . . .

But it didn't make a difference. Jangotat saw more clearly now,

more than he ever had in his life, as if the entire moment were frozen

in invisible ice. He saw Forry's patterned responses, the programmed

blows and chops. Jangotat felt outside this somehow, watching the

motion without being involved in it. Forry might as well have sat

down and detailed his every intended motion in advance. Moving

slowly, with greater calm than he had ever experienced in combat,

Jangotat simply slid between Forry's movements. As he strove to

keep the balance between them he contracted his stance, and Jangotat's

natural flinch response moved his elbow into perfect position to

clip his brother's jaw.

Forry slid to the ground, and was still. Jangotat stood there for a

moment, shocked. Was that what it felt like to be a Jedi? Was that

even a fraction of how it felt?

Or was this just how it felt to be free? He didn't know what door

had been opened in his head, what training and . . . and . . .

And love had done for him.

He felt a deep excitement. He might be heading into death, but he

was more alive than he had ever been, than any of his kind had ever

been.

He could, he would, succeed. There was no other option.

He met with Thak Val Zsing and Resta by the speeder bikes. It

took them only a few minutes to sabotage the other speeders—it

would take his brothers an hour to fix them, by which time he would

be long gone.

For fifty minutes they rode to the northwest. The air riffled his

hair, and the new sun flared to his left as dawn breached the darkness.

He enjoyed the solitude, the sense of being beyond it all. Of knowing,

for the first time in his life, that he had chosen his fate.

A new, precious day. Perhaps his last.

He grinned ferociously. Best not waste a moment of it.

Fifteen kilometers north of Resta's farm a lava tube gaped in the

middle of a mud plain. That is where they entered, carrying with

them knapsacks filled with ordnance. For ninety minutes they

crawled through darkness, bruising and slicing their knees on the

glassy surface. Thak Val Zsing led the way, and from time to time he

called back to them. "The prison was to the east now, and we're in

one of the escape tunnels." He laughed with self-mockery. "Escape

tunnels. What a joke: the whole planet was a prison—there was nowhere

to escape to. But the central computers say that the Five

Family resort was built in one of the wings of the old prison after it

was abandoned."

They reached a larger section, crawling out into a cave tall enough

for them to stand. More than tall enough: this was part of an old

mine, with smaller shafts twisting off in all directions.

"This is as far as I know," the old man said. "This is where my

grandfather escaped." Cestus Penitentiary's deepest pits were now

bunkers for the Five Families. A savage irony, that.

"Let's go," Resta said, and tried to shoulder her way ahead.

Jangotat stood in her path. "You must live," he said.

"Got nothing live for. Lost mate. Lost farm."

Jangotat shook his head. "What happened here, to your people,

shouldn't have happened. What you have done here will not go unnoticed.

When this is over, file a report using the phrase A-Nine-

Eight tac code twelv." He held her eyes. "That means that you

performed extraordinary service for me during official business. You

are a friend of the Republic, and the Republic looks after its own."

She glared at him, unwilling to believe. To trust that there was any

way for her save revenge and death. "No. Go with you."

"Someone must sing your hive's song," Jangotat said. "Find a new

mate. Make strong children. Never stop fighting."

She was so astonished that she didn't react when Jangotat spun her

and placed her in a sleeper hold. Resta struggled to free herself, and

she was strong—stronger than most human males. But he had the

right angle and position. No matter how she struggled, he hung on.

She ran him back against a wall, but he hung on. A hundred different

alien physiologies flashed through his mind, then he remembered

the Geonosians. They were also insectile, and air strangles were considered

worthless. But there were nerve clusters—

There, at the base of the skull. He disengaged one of his arms and

leaned in with his elbow, pressing from both sides, gambling everything.

Impact could prove fatal, but pressure alone . . .

Resta went limp and rolled over, unconscious.

Jangotat stared down at her, panting. What a fighter! What had it

taken to sap the will of these people? "What are their men like?" he

whispered to Thak Val Zsing.

"You don't want to know," Val Zsing replied.

Jangotat took a few moments to calm himself. Then Thak Val

Zsing pointed out the last tunnel, and together they descended into

darkness.

76

A nother hour's crawling brought him to the wall of the outer

chamber. A swift scan revealed that the wall was only one-centimeter

durasteel, and Jangotat knew that he could handle it. The armorpiercing

mines were designed for use against battle droids, but they

would work here as well. Pulling out two of the round, flat disks, Jangotat

attached them to the wall with their adhesive bands and set the

timer. He and Thak Val Zsing had barely had time to retreat back

around the bend when the sharply focused blast detonated with a

clap that knocked both men onto their backs.

Dazed, Jangotat grabbed his rifle and rushed into the next room

as red and yellow lights flashed warning. Through the smoke he

glimpsed a bank of communications equipment and stacks of food

supplies. He swiveled in time to glimpse a human and a Wroonian

rushing into a dome-shaped durasteel bunker, slamming the door.

He got there too late, banging against the door with the butt of his

rifle. The door was at least five centimeters thick. Nothing in his sack

would get them through that.

The shelter hummed, vibrated, then settled down as the doors

sealed shut.

"What now, star-boy?" Thak Val Zsing asked, coming up behind

him.

"Let's check the room out," Jangotat said. "There might be something."

The room was an atrium, a hothouse designed to fit in with the

rest of the shelter. It was as dense as a rain forest, unlike any terrain

Jangotat had seen on Cestus. They moved through it slowly, watching

for any movement.

He turned to see the Jedi Killer coming for them. He did not

think, he acted.

He remembered the JKs all too well. Their speed, power, and versatility

were beyond intimidating. There was no time to think, little

even to move. He managed to step backward as its tentacles reached

for him, and barely heard Thak Val Zsing scream "Look out!" as the

floor beneath him rippled. A disguised tentacle, reaching, changing

colors for camouflage as it did!

Amazing. One of the tentacles touched him, and he felt the shock

for but an instant as he leapt back. One instant was long enough to

send the hair exploding away from his scalp, but he was able to trigger

a rifle blast at close range, severing the tentacle.

Thak Val Zsing was firing from the side, but the energy bolts

glanced harmlessly off the JK's golden casing.

Val Zsing scrambled back screaming, just in time to avoid another

tentacle. Jangotat threw himself to the rear, firing as he did, riding it

out and rolling backward, coming to his feet in a single smooth motion,

turning in the same motion, switching his rifle to maximal energy

pulses.

Too fast!

The JK was a marvel, zigging this way and that, its narrow treads

blurring far too quickly to track. Three shots, four. The rifle's barrel

pulsed white as its blasts furrowed walls and floor, always missing the

skittering machine. The rifle's power core was overheating, about to

shut down. Jangotat gave ground, leaping back the way they had

come.

Thak Val Zsing was already crouching there in the shadows, trembling

and silent. The JK moved a meter toward them, then stopped

and floated backward. Clearly, it wasn't going to be lured out of position.

"We can't stop it!" Thak Val Zsing said, shaking.

Jangotat grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him hard. "Get

yourself together, man! Thousands will die if that cruiser fires."

But whatever emotional bones Thak Val Zsing had fractured back

in the caves were still unable to carry the weight of his fear. Thak Val

Zsing retreated.

Jangotat cursed and made a decision. Perhaps he couldn't stop

the thing with gun blasts. Let's see what bringing down the ceiling on it

will do.

He jumped through the hole, rolling and blasting at the ceiling as

he did. Chunks of rock fell massively, glancing off the duracrete shelter

dome and burying the JK, almost killing Jangotat at the same

time. He lay gasping, leg shattered, as the rock began to roll away and

the JK emerged.

"Thak Val Zsing!" he screamed as the thing came toward him.

"Blast you, Val Zsing! Coward!" His frustration was complete, as was

his failure.

The JK pulled him close, until he was almost touching it. It shone

a beam of light into his eyes, perhaps attempting to match a retinal

scan to its data bank. Then, unable to identify, it sent a jolt out along

its tentacles.

Jangotat fell onto his side. Crackling blue flames danced up and

down his body. He could see them. Feel them. Hear them.

What he couldn't do was move. At all.

"Thak Val Zsing! Coward!"

The former leader of Desert Wind was beyond fear, beyond shame.

There are moments that define a human being, and once those moments

occur it is impossible to undo them.

But sometimes, one could create a new fate.

Val Zsing peeled the adhesive off the mounting strip and slapped

one of the armor-piercing mines to his chest. He had observed Jangotat,

and was familiar enough with explosives to figure out the directions.

He entered the shelter and went straight at the droid. Its arms

grabbed him so swiftly that he barely had time to trigger the timer.

The JK hesitated for a moment, as if trying to figure out why Thak

Val Zsing hadn't attempted to escape. Come on. A little closer . . . It

drew him in, to within a meter, and a tentacle rose to face level and

flashed a light in his eyes.

Now, he thought. Let it be now.

Thak Val Zsing heard a last sound. Ding. Light flared, dwindled

swiftly to black, and then there was nothing at all.

The detonation sent a wave of energy through the room, jolting

Jangotat's nervous system. The little blue crackles rippling over his

body died out, shaking him out of paralysis. Groggily, he checked his

leg: broken, punctuated with shrapnel. A few bits of cloth told him

what had happened to his companion.

So. No coward after all, Thak Val Zsing.

The JK was spattered with blood and dust, sooty, but began to

right itself, its case undented. The thing was indestructible. A mixed

curse: its case had shielded him from the blast.

Jangotat groaned. It was over. There was no hope after a l l . . .

But then the JK began to thrash about. As Jangotat watched in

stunned amazement, it pushed itself upright, then fell over, then spun

in a circle, stood, and shook, making an ear-grating keening sound.

And suddenly Jangotat guessed the truth. What a great joke! The

best ever. He could only hope that he could tell it to someone, that

his companions might one day laugh at the big freaking joke the

whole business on Cestus had become. Jangotat laughed hysterically

as he took a painful glance over at the bunker door. Nothing. The

Five Family executives were sealed safely inside.

No one is safe, he snarled. Time for a little lesson.

Would this be right? Wrong? These people had sentenced an entire

planet to death, and there was no one to stop them.

The JK ignored him, running back and forth and then banging itself

into a corner, shuddering and bumping back and forth.

Jangotat thought that that was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.

He managed to drag himself over to the shelter door, wedging it

shut with the blaster rifle. There. The weapon was good for something

after all.

Now he couldn't get in, but neither could they escape.

Pain fogged his mind. What were the coordinates? He couldn't

remember. What a joke. What an enormous joke. Then he remembered:

why, the coordinates were him. He was the coordinate.

He fished for his comlink and pulled it out. . . smashed and useless.

Then he began laughing at himself again. This was a fully stocked

shelter, from which the Five Families had evidently thought to ride

out any revolt or attack. Their own communications gear would work

just fine.

On board the Nexu, the communications tech, a veteran named

CT-9/85, detected a signal. "Sir," he said to the officer in charge. "We

have an ARC targeting code coming in over the radio, priority frequency."

Commander Baraka crossed to the comm station, face suddenly

intent. "And the message?"

"To change initial bombardment coordinates to . . . somewhere a

little east of Kibo Lake. Then to stand by for further instructions."

"Does this look legitimate?"

"One hundred percent. Trooper's calling the load in right on top of

himself. Can't get more serious than that."

Baraka snorted his discomfort. What kind of brainless machines

were these creatures? "What is that location?"

"We show it as a blip on the power grid. Might be some kind of secret

base."

"Then let's get on with it," Baraka said, and gave the order.

Jangotat lay half across one of the chairs in the atrium, his shattered

leg splaying out to the side. He busied himself with another

message for ten minutes, and hit the transmission button just seconds

before the bunker began to hum and shake.

The entire time Jangotat waited, he was surprised to find himself

humming a tune.

One, one, chitliks basking in the sun.

Two, two, chitlik kista in the stew.

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

What was the name of that tune? When had he learned it? Oh,

yes: he remembered that he had heard Tarl and Mithail and sweet little

Tonote singing it, in the Zantay Hills. He hoped they would be

safe.

The next explosion was shattering, and very close.

"From water we're born, in fire we die," he whispered. "We seed

the stars."

77

M oments after the Nexu released the full fury of her primary energy

weapons, the dome above the mysterious target had become a

flame-scarred concavity. The groundquake fault that should have destroyed

Clandes instead sent a minor tremor throughout the Kibo

Plateau. There were no fatalities and few injuries, although the shock

was measured as far south as Barrens. In Clandes a few walls cracked

and alarms sounded citywide. To the north, toward ChikatLik, there

was another, more immediate effect.

The underground lake's surface reflected flashes of red and yellow

lightning as the energy field confining Obi-Wan and Kit Fisto lessened

for an instant. He felt pain and fire as he lunged through, his

lightsaber absorbing enough of the energy to keep the shield from

frying him. It snapped back on swiftly enough to singe Kit's left heel

as the Nautolan jumped free.

The protocol droid barked an order, and all of Ventress's allies laid

their weapons down.

"Surely they're not surrendering," Kit said.

Ventress laughed. "By no means. I told them they don't stand a

chance against you with blasters."

"And . . . "

"And now," she said, "defend yourselves, Jedi."

The young X'Ting thugs moved in. Obi-Wan groaned. He couldn't

simply cut them down. Young and foolish, they believed they were

acting for the good of the hive.

"I know what you're thinking," Ventress grinned. "You wish you

could talk to them. A pity you don't speak X'Ting."

"Obi-Wan?" Kit asked.

"Well, we can't just slaughter them."

No.. ? Kit seemed to want to ask. "They're hardly innocent." The

Nautolan radiated urgency, the pull of Form I strong as he prepared

for battle. Ventress was the key. They had to stop her. And if these

idiots put themselves between them and Dooku's minion, the

woman who might be the salvation of millions, that was their misfortune.

But... it would be a massacre. Obi-Wan searched his conscience,

and made a hard decision. "We must do this without our lightsabers."

Kit seemed to struggle with the idea, and then finally sighed. "A bit

of exercise, then," he said, and reluctantly extinguished his blade.

Obi-Wan dampened his as well, and as if on cue, Ventress's foolish

young X'Ting allies attacked from every angle. Obi-Wan leaned

away from the swipe of a durasteel crowbar, the edge of his foot

cracking the X'Ting's knee as he did. A second youth jumped on him

from behind. Obi-Wan gripped a primary right hand, a secondary

left hand, and torqued: The X'Ting corkscrewed through the air and

shattered a pile of boxes.

Kit Fisto snarled, surrendering to the pull of Form I's unarmed

techniques. His attack was absolute fluidity, one motion flowing into

the next without a wasted effort. Heads cracked, limbs twisted

against their joints, and X'Ting flipped howling into the lake.

Ventress stood back, her eyes watching, and Obi-Wan knew she

was waiting, learning about her opponents.

The cavern was awash with whirling bodies. These were lackeys,

and Ventress would sacrifice every one of them to learn what she

wished to know. She knew the Jedi wouldn't just cut them down. She

was watching, and studying, and saving the moment for herself.

The Jedi's unarmed tactics would reveal their lightsaber technique:

there was nothing they could do to prevent it.

Obi-Wan's opponents had enthusiasm, but little technique. The

Force blossomed within him, and time perception distended, slowing

reality to a crawl. He had all the time he needed to slide out of the

way of the blows, retaliating with perfect economy.

From the corner of his eye he saw that Kit had made his way almost

to Ventress, and what he saw as the Nautolan increased his efforts

almost broke Obi-Wan's concentration. His companion was a

living, martial hurricane, his body moving in two and three directions

at once, joints flexing, unlimited by human vertebral restraints.

Who he touched went down. And those who went down, stayed

down. Ventress might have gathered a rabble, but the youthful X'Ting

were fearless, and fought as if for their lives.

Such an onslaught left no time for thought or planning, no room

for pretty moves. There was only attack and defense, and precious little

time for defense.

Obi-Wan himself could only attack and attack, taking the battle to

them, creating his own timing and distancing, smashing his way

toward Ventress.

Stingers bared, the young X'Ting came at them in waves. Obi-

Wan calmed himself, using them as shields against each other, moving

continuously and ferociously as he went.

Now . . . a blow from the upper left quadrant. Obi-Wan was just a

hair slow defending there, and a wicked knife slit his cloak. Again

and again, he narrowly skirted disaster. She's watching? Obi-Wan

thought. Let her.

Obi-Wan missed the moment, but Kit finally won his way through

to Ventress. She raised her hand, and the X'Ting who had harried the

Nautolan turned to attack Obi-Wan, leaving her to face Kit alone.

Now, finally, Kit drew his lightsaber. Ventress drew a pair of blazing,

red blades. She inclined her head, breathing more quickly, lips

curling into a smile.

"Finally," she said.

"Your pleasure," Kit hissed, and went at her. He was like fire, Ventress

like smoke. The dance had substance but not form, a blur of

light that seemed impossibly fast, unbelievably deadly. The two leapt

and swerved, collided and bounced away. Single against double lightblades.

Hands, knees, feet, all in a mind-numbing blur.

Obi-Wan would have given his right hand to join. Or even to

watch such a display. But he had his own worries, his own battle

to fight.

He struggled with the urge to simply draw his lightsaber and

slaughter the X'Ting. His enemies came on and on, struck quickly

but clumsily, got in each other's way. Obi-Wan was direct in attack,

and as elusive as a breeze.

He'd missed the engagement, but suddenly—Kit was down!

Wounded and groggy from a kick in the jaw, for the first time Ventress

had pierced his guard. Her left-hand saber sliced his arm but as

sparks flew he dove away from her left blade, leaning into a glancing

blow from her right.

Obi-Wan heard the scream but couldn't see the wound's severity.

Kit rolled as Ventress came at him, splashing down into the lake.

Ventress stood on the dock smiling hugely, arms and legs spread in

triumph, laughing in that arctic voice.

The Jedi tore his way through the X'Ting, breaking arms and legs

as he went, then drew his lightsaber.

"This is between me and Ventress," he screamed. Enough of this

play! "Anyone who stands between us, dies. Translate it, Ventress!"

"Why?" She snarled.

"What?" he said scornfully. "Haven't you learned what you wanted

to learn? Seen what you wanted to see? What is the point in sending

these children to their death? They only die because they trust you. Is

there nothing left inside you? If not goodness, then loyalty?"

Her eyes flickered for a moment, and he knew that something he'd

said had struck a nerve. She nodded. "Tell them to leave," she said,

and the protocol droid spat out its translation.

He covered the distance between them with a single somersaulting

leap. Asajj Ventress was extraordinarily quick, but her very ferocity

gave Obi-Wan a hairline opening, a moment when he had the better

leverage. He blocked Ventress's lightsabers, and managed to pin her

blades down.

Ventress was surprised, but in the next moment disengaged her

right hand blade and slashed at his neck, attempting to behead him.

There was no time for conscious thought, no time for anything but

response as Obi-Wan ducked and spun back. Ventress drew his attention

to the left and leapt into the air in a spinning kick that

slammed Obi-Wan down into the dock. Once down, he never had a

chance to get up again, found himself fighting from his back, wiggling

and edging backwards, movement so limited that he knew the

confrontation might be over within seconds. The first touch of desperation

wormed its way through his emotional shields.

Obi-Wan bared his teeth. As Master Yoda had often said these

days, The dark side has clouded the Galaxy. Difficult to see, the future is.

Floating below the dock, Kit Fisto could still hardly move. He had

barely evaded death from a lightsaber wound to the head, and his

senses still were far away. But some deep instinct had warned him

that his compatriot Obi-Wan was in trouble, fighting to protect both

their lives. He woke up enough to reach for his lightsaber.

He triggered it, and sliced the pilings supporting the dock. Ventress

howled in surprise as she and Obi-Wan tumbled into the water.

Kit wanted desperately to help, but had exhausted his supply of

strength. Surrendering to his wounds, he lost consciousness.

Obi-Wan had but a moment to snatch his rebreather and jam it

into his mouth, and in the next instant realized that Ventress couldn't!

She clutched a lightsaber in each of her lethal hands!

He went at her savagely, never giving her a moment to sheathe one

lightsaber, to slip in her own rebreather.

The Jedi Knight could move in three dimensions, attacking from

under the water and from all angles, and Ventress's desperate defense

forced her to gulp air when her head cleared the water.

Nearing panic, Ventress dropped one of her lightsabers, and lunged

at Obi-Wan, surprising him. She flipped back away, taking that moment

to don her own rebreather.

Then, eyes burning with hatred, she came at him.

The two circled each other like some kind of aquatic predators, but

both were out of their elements. The question was which would

adapt most swiftly.

Lure her. Leave an opening for a stroke in the upper left. I will block

more slowly, as she expects. Then I will flinch, as I did with the X'Ting,

and she will think she's aggravated an injury, and that I will back up. She

saw me do it twice.

The water was murky, and he realized that he was wrong to trust

his eyes. Stop. Defocus. Feel the water pressure as she makes her moves.

Trust the Force.

Obi-Wan felt the water surge at him, and he let that surge carry

him in its natural arc. His lightsaber flashed in, and for the first time,

he cut her.

The wound was low on the ribs on her right side, and her eyes

widened in pain and sudden fear.

Instead of moving back, Obi-Wan moved in. She butted him in

the mouth, ripping out his rebreather. But the movement stunned

her, and he tore hers out in the same instant.

So. There they were, the two of them, beneath the water. The first

to bolt for the surface would be exposed and vulnerable. The first one

to break loses.

Well, then, Ventress. Which of us can hold our breath the longer?

This would be as good a place as any to die. If this was his end,

how better than to take a creature like Ventress with him?

And she saw his face. Yes. Like Duris. I'm ready to die here and now,

and for these reasons. I'm willing to die to kill you. Can you say the same?

In the same instant, Obi-Wan threw caution to the winds, and

went at her. His blade was here, there, at all angles, and her wound

slowed her . . .

She wielded her single remaining blade, eyes wide and staring.

Then something broke inside Ventress. She shrieked a mouthful of

bubbles, and triggered something at her belt. The water around her

churned into an expanding onyx cloud, as if she had emptied an inksack

into it.

And in a flurry of bubbles and blackness, Asajj Ventress was gone. |

78

D ripping and limping, Obi-Wan and Kit helped each other from

the lake.

"Are you all right?" Obi-Wan asked.

"I will be soon enough," the Nautolan replied. "She may have underestimated

me."

Obi-Wan remembered the severing of the dock, and shook his

head in delighted disbelief. "I would say so, my friend. Come."

They followed a stairway cut into the rock, climbing up almost

twenty stories before reaching the hives' surface, some two kilometers

south of ChikatLik. Obi-Wan and Kit watched as, on the southern

horizon, lightning seemed to flash. The distant thunder of massive

bombardment wafted to them.

"The destruction has begun," Obi-Wan said. "We have failed."

"Strange."

"What?"

"I would have expected the attack more to the southwest."

"You're right," Obi-Wan murmured. "It seems to be near Kibo."

He took out a pair of range-finding macrobinoculars and focused

in.

Through the closer view a column of smoke and fire spiraled into

the air. There were dark shapes raining from the clouds, as well as energy

beams. A lethal, blazing conflagration.

"Well?" Kit asked.

Obi-Wans eyes narrowed in confusion. "Strange indeed. Come."

When they finally reached their ship, a blinking control light attracted

their attention.

"A message," Obi-Wan said.

"We should claim it."

"I should get you medical attention."

"I will survive," Kit insisted. "Take the message."

Obi-Wan manipulated the keypad, and the hologram image of an

ARC officer appeared.

"Jangotat," Kit murmured.

The strong brown face had been battered, his left eye closed, but

the trooper was smiling slightly. "Greetings to General Kenobi, General

Fisto. This is A-Nine-Eight, he whom you have been kind

enough to call Jangotat. If you receive this message, then at least one

of you is still alive. In all likelihood, I'm using a stepladder to pick

sunblossoms." Beat. "Contrary to Code, I disobeyed your direct commands,

and take full responsibility for all that may have happened as

a result. Not my brothers, who did everything they could to stop me.

I went to the Five Families' bunker at Kibo, with the intention of

capturing them. You were limited in your actions, and because of

that, thousands of innocent people were going to die. Things didn't

work out the way I'd hoped, but there was an answer, and as you

probably know by now, the Five Families are dead—"

Kit whispered, "They . .. what?"

"—I used a priority signal to reset the bombardment coordinates

to the Five Families' bomb shelter. Not long now."

So . . . the smoke . . .

"What does this mean?" the Nautolan said.

"That depends on the kind of woman G'Mai Duris is," Obi-Wan

said.

He closed his eyes. "Duris is Regent and head of the hive council.

With the Families in chaos, she is the most powerful woman on the

planet . . . and I believe we can negotiate with her. Call Admiral

Baraka."

"Thousands?" Kit asked in disbelief. "Jangotat saved millions.''

"But he didn't know. He had no idea that Ventress had changed

the targeting codes. He had no idea just how important his choice

was."

Obi-Wan and Kit shared a moment of silence. Then Obi-Wan

reached out and put in the call to the Nexu.

The following day in the Zantay Hills, as Jangotat had requested

in this, his last will and testament, the Jedi showed the message to

Sheeka Tull.

"Don't worry about the JK droids," Jangotat continued. "They'd

never have functioned on a battlefield. Anyone who has ever met a

dashta would know they are healers, not killers. When Thak Val

Zsing died violently in its arms, the dashta inside the JK went insane. I

know, I'm no tech guy. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Nonlethal

security application? That's one thing. Killing thinking people was

just beyond them. Even a sleeping Guide was driven crazy. The

Guides are simple, good creatures. They brought the X'Ting and the

offworlders together. The X'Ting brought fungi to farmers dying of

poor soil. They brought back some of the old ways.

"I believe the Five Families knew the truth, and lied to Count

Dooku. Perhaps they planned to take the first payment, then disappear

before the Confederacy mounted the JKs in combat, leaving

Cestus to pay the price if the Republic fell."

Obi-Wan and Kit stared at each other, dumbfounded. Had anyone

in this entire matter told the truth? Astounding! Nothing but lies,

top to bottom.

"I will not be returning, which grieves me, because I wished to. For

the first time in my life I actually dreamed of a future." Jangotat

paused, lost for a moment in a private thought. Then he went on.

"This is hard for me. I am not a person of words. Until I met you, I

was not certain I was a man at all. I was the vows, the uniform, the

rank. No. You showed me I was more than that, more than one of a

million soldiers stamped out of a murderer like pieces on an assembly

line. There is value in knowing your place in the universe, but

there is also something else, and you helped me discover that."

The three regarded each other uneasily.

"There is something that you need to know: if I had lived through

this, if I had returned with my duty done, I would still have returned

to the GAR. As hard as it might be for you to understand, it is still a

great and good thing to fight for what you believe is right. Sheeka, if

I were another man, I could think of no greater joy than to stay with

you. If and when my days as a trooper were done, I would have

wanted to come to you, if you would have me. I am sorry I'm not the

man you once knew—"

She had known Jango? Quite a bit made sense now.

"—I'm sorry that you and I had neither past, nor future."

Sheeka made no sound, but her lowered eyes spoke volumes.

"Know that more than anything else in the world, I was a soldier.

And that you, and no one else in all the galaxy, held this soldier's

heart in your hands."

Save for Sheeka's gentle weeping against Obi-Wan's shoulder,

there was no sound in that room for a long, long time.

79

c hikatLik swarmed beneath them. It was now easier for Obi-

Wan to detect the original architecture, and see where offworlders

had made their mark. The hive still lived. It could grow and change,

like any living thing. It had been ground almost into the dust, but the

hive lived.

He, Kit, and G'Mai Duris stood on a bridge, peering down as the

city seethed beneath them. Synthetic air currents rippled her gown.

"Strange how they go about their lives as if nothing has happened,"

she said.

"Has it?"

"Debbikin, the Por'Tens, my cousin Quill, half the Llitishi clan.

Wiped out. What remains of the Families is in chaos, fighting over

scraps. As they fight, the hive council has taken power. The surviving

officers of Cestus Cybernetics will have to deal with us fairly now.

The rule of three hundred years just ended," she said, "and no one

seems to know it. No one seems to care, to feel, to grasp that they are

free."

"Are they?" Kit asked.

"Yes, Master Fisto. As free as they have the strength to be."

"A different thing." Obi-Wan paused. "But they have a leader

worthy of admiration. In this whole sordid affair, you are the only

one who told the truth, even to your enemies. You, G'Mai Duris, are

an extraordinary woman."

She lowered her eyes shyly. "You are too kind. Well, Master

Kenobi, I suppose that you win here after all. You are generous to

allow us the Supreme Chancellor's initial terms. I am surprised you

are not harsher. We are hardly in a bargaining position."

"Nor am I a bargainer," Obi-Wan said. "This role is not comfortable

for me, and I will be glad to put it down. Regent, I regret that my

duty bound me to deceive you."

"We were not friends, Master Kenobi. Your actions bore the

weight of necessity. In the world of politics, truth is merely another

thing to be bartered."

"Then I wish to spend the rest of my life among friends."

They shared a smile. "I hope you know that I will always think of

you as our friend," she said. "My friend." A pause. "So, then," she

said, returning them to business. "The Republic guarantees us service

droid contracts for its army. This will give Cestus a chance to establish

networks of service and instruction on every world in the Republic."

She paused. "But no more JKs. If the Chancellor keeps his

word, then we will still be safe."

"I think that your current situation might reasonably be described

as a running start."

"Thank you, Master Kenobi."

He had a thought. "I need a favor from you," Obi-Wan said.

"Yes?"

"Many people sacrificed themselves in this fight," he said. "Many

of them died. I wish an amnesty for the survivors, and those you captured.

No black marks against them. Let them go back to their lives.

Let this be a new beginning. And one more thing . . ."

"Yes?"

"Let the spiders have their caves. They have little enough."

"I am sorry for the endless cycles of misery on Cestus. Our hive

made many mistakes—but I will do what I can to correct them."

80

T he time had come for the Jedi to say their good-byes. The remaining

forces of Desert Wind filled the caves a final time. Resta

sang them a song of Thak Val Zsing's courage. They shook hands,

saluted, shared hugs and strong, warm words as the surviving troopers

packed their equipment on the shuttle dropped down at the personal

request of Admiral Baraka.

"Master Kenobi?" Sheeka Tull said during a quiet moment.

"Yes?"

She couldn't meet his eyes. "Did I do a bad thing," she said, "an

evil, selfish thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"I wanted to bring back something I thought I missed from my

life. Something . . . someone I knew a long time ago."

"You tried to bring him back?"

She nodded. "For all my talk of living for today, I see now... that

I was the worst kind of hypocrite."

"How?"

"I woke him up, Master Kenobi. He could have gone his whole life

feeling complete, and finished, and at peace with his path."

Obi-Wan folded his fingers together. "He sounded complete to

me. He sounded much like a man who has traveled the galaxy's rim

only to find himself at home."

"But don't you see? He knew what to say. He knew I would see that

vid, that he wasn't coming back. And he said that to set my mind at

ease." She wagged her head side to side. "I know, I know, I sound

crazy, and maybe I am, just a little, right now."

She looked at him with desperation. "Tell me. Tell me, Jedi. Did I

wake him up, convince him he had a life that was precious, just in

time for him to lose it? And what does that make me?"

"A woman who once loved a man, and then tried to love him again."

Tears streaked her face as she gazed at him.

"None of us is completely in control of our heart," Obi-Wan said.

"We do what we can, what we will, what we must... guided by our

ethics and responsibilities. It can be lonely."

"Have you ever . . . ?" she began, unable to finish.

"Yes," he said, and offered nothing more.

For Sheeka Tull, that single word was enough.

"So," Obi-Wan said. "You must be strong. For Jangotat, who, I

think, would have thanked you for however many days of clarity you

were able to afford him. For yourself, whose only sin was love."

He came closer. He rested his hand on her flat stomach. "And for

the child you carry."

She blinked. "You know?"

Obi-Wan smiled. "A strong one, I think. And he'll have a name,

not a number."

"Not a number."

"No."

They stood in an empty cavern. The eels had gone. What had

driven them away? Groundquakes? Rumors of war? No one knew.

Perhaps they would return. Perhaps not. But humans had abused

their precious gifts, and humans and X'Ting alike could wait for the

Guides to make up their own minds. Here, for a hundred years and

more, in love they had offered the greatest gift imaginable: their own

children, that their new friends might prosper. And that gift had almost

killed them all.

Best they be gone.

Among the rocks outside their second camp, Obi-Wan and Kit

witnessed the death ceremony of an ARC for one of their own. It was

as simple as could be imagined.

The three dug a shallow trench and gently placed Jangotat's body

within. Each added a handful of sand and dirt. Then Forry said,

"From water we're born, in fire we die. We seed the stars."

When they were done the Jedi helped the commandos build a rock

cairn, taller than it was wide, like a single declamatory finger pointing

to the stars. They stood for a time, looking at the cave, the rocks,

the sky, absorbing a bit of this place that had cost them so dearly.

Then they were done, and there was nothing left to do.

And so they left.

81

T rillot tossed and turned in her bed, deep in a recurring vision of

blood and destruction. Mountains fell. Planets exploded. The space between

the stars ran black with blood.

She awakened suddenly, relieved. It was only a nightmare. Just

another of an endless stream of horrid sleep-fantasies . . .

Her vision cleared, and her sense of relief evaporated. More substantial

than any nightmare, Asajj Ventress stood over her.

"You strode my dreams," Ventress said. "And as you did, I saw you."

Her single lightsaber descended.

At a spot only thirty kilometers from ChikatLik, two guards lay

broken in the shadow of Ventress s ship. She tucked her lightsaber

back into her belt, mounted the ramp, and began to check her instruments,

preparing for takeoff.

"Obi-Wan," she said quietly. She wished to see him dead. But in

the water, when she could have followed him down into death, he

had remained firm. He was . . .

She focused on her hands. Why did they shake? This was not like

her. She knew who she was. She had made her bed long ago, and was

more than prepared to lie within it.

Asajj Ventress turned her mind to the hundred small preparations

necessary for flight. Halfway through the preparations, she realized

that her hands had stopped shaking. Action. That was what was

needed. That was what she hungered for. She would accept Count

Dooku's scathing approbation, then volunteer for the most dangerous

assignment General Grievous could devise, and on whatever

planet that was, in whatever maelstrom of wrack and ruin she could

immerse herself, she would find cleansing, and peace.

Ventress lifted off into the clouds above ChikatLik, and was gone.

82

N ight had come to the Dashta Mountains. Sheeka Tull had

waited for the Jedi and the ARCs and everyone else to leave, then

knelt at Jangotat's cairn, saying her own very personal good-bye.

She looked up, watching twin streaks of light in the sky, where two

very different ships headed in very different directions.

Sheeka touched her belly, still flat but nestling her child. Their

child. Hers and Jango s.

No, not Jango. Jango would never have died to save strangers. Jangotat

was a different man. A better man.

Her man.

A name, not a number, Jangotat. A-Nine-Eight.

I swear.