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
right motivations, they might fight like demons to protect their land
and families. "Citizens of the Republic!" He spoke as clearly as he
could, projecting his voice as if trying to be heard above the din of
battle. He looked to his left. Sheeka stood there, watching him. Reporting
back to General Fisto? Or . . . ?
"I come to you today not with empty words or promises. I have no
soft phrases to place you at ease." They stirred restlessly. Good, it was
important that he catch their attention.
"It's time to choose sides," he said. "Your leaders' ambitions will
drag you into ruin, but courageous action now will save you. There
will be rewards for those who side with the Republic, and possible
military careers for those with ability." That last comment was true
enough, but lacked shading or depth. The Grand Army of the Republic
was 100 percent clone, but local militias were often recruited
to supplement it.
His comments created a stir in the audience. Nate hoped to build
upon it, continuing after a brief pause for effect.
"People of Cestus! There is honor in honest labor, but there is also
glory to be gained through risking life and limb to preserve those
principles you hold dear. Let your actions now speak to what you
dream of being, and not just what you have been."
He noted that the young men looked at each other, and knew that
Cestus's vast desolate spaces did not breed cowards. A hard life bred
hard men. And women, too, he noted. More than a few of the young
females had squared their shoulders. Clearly, they did not relish a life
in obscurity, here in the Republic's hinterlands. He had to walk carefully,
though, not to offend the elders, and shaped his next words to
that effect.
"I do not come to take your children, who should remain with you
to learn the ways of their ancestors. But those who are of the age of
consent, those who seek a different life and may have been trapped
by a greedy corporation that would drain your life and youth and give
nothing but empty promises in return—for those I offer another
way."
One strapping farm lad glanced to either side, shoulder-length yellow
hair riffling with each motion. The man beside him had the same
flat, broad face and yellow hair, but was at least twenty years older.
Care and toil had rounded his shoulders, caused him to cast his eyes
downward. Father. He may have been beaten, but his son was neither
broken nor bowed. "Sounds awfully good to me," the boy said, and
spat into the dust. "Name's OnSon. Skot OnSon. Lost our farm
when those Five Family executives cut our water supply out by Kibo
Sands."
That last comment generated grumbles, but most were sympathetic.
Clearly, OnSon's was no isolated case. "I don't need even that
much motivation," another said. "Parents died last year of the shadow
fever. I'v
e been working the farm by myself—I'd kiss a cave spider to
get off this rock."
Nate held up his hand as the agreement swelled. "Citizens!" he
called. "You will be given a rendezvous. There, we will determine
which of you have the strength to assist your Republic in its hour of
need."
He stepped back from the podium and listened to them as they argued.
Passionate and opinionated, the discussion might rage for
hours. There: he'd lit a torch. It would be up to others to fan the
flames.
19
F.rom rug to translucent ceiling, every centimeter of Obi-Wans
suite was designed for optimal luxury. Considering the weeks in the
jungles of Forscan VI, Obi-Wan had initially found it charming. As
the hours passed and Snoil hooked into Cestus's core computers,
spending hour after hour absorbing mountains of legal data, Obi-
Wan began to feel positively stifled. Snoil was researching when
Obi-Wan finally surrendered to sleep, and was still at it when the
Jedi awakened in the morning.
Obi-Wan was aware that their every move was being watched—by
forces loyal to the government, and perhaps spies for the Five Families,
that ruling group he was certain lay behind what he now considered
a puppet Regency. Governments came and went, but old money
kept its influence through one administration after another, weathering
them as mountains weather the changing seasons.
Other eyes were probably on him as well, some of them unfriendly
and unofficial. Cestus had a highly developed criminal class, many of
its leaders descended from the hive that had once controlled the entire
planet. They would have tendrils everywhere.
Snoil's eye stalks wavered. He seemed to be fighting panic. "Never
have I seen such a tangled web," he said. "Master Obi-Wan, it might
take months just to dig out the actual power structure. Everything is
owned by legal fictions, every treaty not with individuals but councils
or corporations with no corporeal identity. My head hurts!"
"How about this Regent? Would you say she has real power?"
"Yes, and no," Snoil said. "G'Mai Duris represents a sop thrown to
the remnants of the hive. After all, the original contracts were all
with the X'Ting, so any survivors have to be honored. My guess is
that she has public power, but takes orders in private."
"From who?"
The Vippit's head bobbed side to side. "Probably these Five Families."
Then the air blossomed before them. A blue Zeetsa with elongated
lashes bobbled politely. "The Regent has requested the honor of your
company," she said. "Will you be able to attend?"
"With pleasure," Obi-Wan replied, and stopped pacing.
"An air taxi will arrive for you shortly," the Zeetsa said, and disappeared.
"Good!" Obi-Wan brightened. "Time for the real work."
Obi-Wan helped Snoil polish his shell—a communal activity
among Vippits—and soon the barrister was ready to leave. They descended
to the lobby as their air taxi arrived, and were soon zipping
along the city's periphery, arriving at the throne room within minutes.
Set in a cave large enough to comfortably hold the interstellar
cruiser that had brought them to Cestus, the throne room was rather
modestly furnished, less ostentatious than the Supreme Chancellor's
own quarters. After all, Cestus was honeycombed with caverns both
natural and hive-rendered. And if these had been formed by natural
processes rather than hive activity or mining, then in a way this was
merely an expression of Cestus's natural beauty.
Here in this marble-tiled chamber the hive council met, and group
meetings with the representatives of the guilds and various clans took
place. Because of the small size of the day's audience, the room
looked even more immense than it actually was.
A tall, broad X'Ting female with a pale gold shell sat on the dais,
and Obi-Wan recognized her immediately as Regent Duris. She was
said to have worked her way up through years of service and talented
politicking. Her reputation was strong and honest, and her face,
though unwrinkled, was grooved with the kind of deep, mild smile
lines that suggested a serious and steady disposition.
Even seated on her throne, she radiated power, her expression polite
but stern. So: this was to be a formal encounter.
G'Mai Duris traced her ancestry back to the original hive queen,
but only tangentially: the direct lineage had died out during the
plagues. Still, considering Cestus's current situation, that qualified
her.
She rose, primary and secondary hands pulling her voluminous
robes across her broad hips and thorax like shadows across a sheltering
valley. This being carried herself with the regal pride and confidence
that came only from generations of scrupulous breeding.
"Greetings, Master Kenobi. Pardon the delay. Allow me to welcome
you to our world. I am G'Mai Duris, Regent of Cestus."
Obi-Wan bowed. "Supreme Chancellor Palpatine sends his greetings,"
he said.
"This is gratifying to hear," she replied. She was watching him very
carefully, her faceted green eyes intense. "I was not certain there
would be sympathetic ears in the Senate. We have gone so long with
no sign that our problems or people were understood."
Was there some hidden meaning behind her words? Obi-Wan
sensed that the stresses upon Duris ranged beyond the normal.
"When you meet him," he said carefully, "and I am certain that one
day you will, you will find the Chancellor to be a man of supreme understanding.
He empathizes with your plight, and hopes as much as
you to find some kind of peaceful solution." There. He, too, could
speak on multiple levels. The question was whether he had read
Duris properly, and whether she could respond.
"That would be my fondest wish," she said. "But make no mistake,
Master Jedi: my people's welfare is my highest priority. More than
my office. More than peace. More than my own life."
Obi-Wan nodded, pleased with her. Although this meeting had
been days in preparation, he was satisfied with the connection. This
being was astute. "I can understand how you came to power. Your
clarity on the responsibilities of office is admirable."
G'Mai Duris nodded in turn. "Let this be the beginning of a
deeper and more satisfying relationship between Ord Cestus and the
rulers of the Republic."
Obi-Wan held up a gently chiding finger. "The Republic has no
rulers. Only custodians."
"Of course," Duris said, bowing her head.
Snoil spoke for the first time. "I am Barrister Doolb Snoil, representing
the Coruscant College of Law. I make my case as clearly as
possible," he said in his soft, high voice. "By both treaty and tradition,
Cestus is a signatory to the Coruscant Accords. Although technically
Cestus Cybernetics sells nothing illegal, we believe that the
JK droids will be modified and used to kill Republic troops."
"So you say," Duris replied.
Snoil continued on unfazed. "Therefore, it is with greatest respect
that I request you to cease production and/or import of any such
droids as mentioned in part two paragraph six of the primary docufile."
A knee-high blue sphere rolled forward. The Zeetsa who had sent
the holo? Duris bent so that the creature could whisper in her ear.
She listened intently, then studied several readouts of various documents
floating in the air before them.
Snoil continued to speak for almost another hour, citing Republic
treaties and what he had come to understand of the current legal
status of Cestus Cybernetics, the Five Families, the production of security
droids, and possible repercussions. Duris responded with admirable
clarity: she was an encyclopedia of legalities, always firm,
never impolite, intelligent and strong.
But, Obi-Wan knew, much of this was artifice. She had to be utterly
terrified. An X'Ting of her station, more than anyone, understood
the concept of extermination. History told her more than she
wanted to know about what might happen should politics end and
devastation begin.
He hoped that it would not come to that, that this time that rarest
of miracles would happen: people of goodwill would resolve conflict
without violence.
20
In any recruitment operation, the ultimate question was: how many
would respond? It was one thing for youthful would-be warriors to
cheer in the fading warmth of a fine speech; quite another to rise the
next day, after a night of dreams or nightmares, dress, and travel a
distance to the place where they would be trained to lay down their
lives for the Republic.
The first prospects arrived before daylight the next day, when Nate
and the commandos were getting the morning brew going over an
open fire and finishing their breakfasts. The first to arrive was the
tall, broad-faced young man with yellow hair named OnSon. Only a
few steps behind him walked another boy, shorter but even thicker
across the shoulders. They had been told to bring food to eat and
share, and their backpacks were packed with dried meats and preserved
vegetables. Nate immediately thought of a dozen field recipes
that would transform the new supplies into mouthwatering collations.
The newcomers were invited to rest at the fireside and share the
brew. They had barely begun to speak when they heard a rolling roar,
and a speeder bike whizzed by. A rough-looking X'Ting female