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.
nerves. So much at stake. Resources so limited. So few options.
And no room for failure at all.
34
Planets died, screaming their pain to the trackless void. Stars exploded
into halos of fire, nebulae imploded into black holes. Ships filled with
screaming men ruptured, admitting pitiless vacuum.
Lying flat on her back, lids closed, body motionless, Ventress
dreamed, her spirit stalking a universe of infinite rage.
She dreamed of Ohma-D'un, the moon of Naboo where she had
first encountered Obi-Wan Kenobi. The operation had devolved into
a slaughterhouse. She had sorely underestimated the Jedi's courage
and intelligence. Ventress was walking the true path that the Jedi had
abandoned. Master Dooku had told her, taught her. The galaxy
needed order, and the decadent Jedi had forgotten their primary obligation:
to the Force itself, not to a corrupt and selfish regime. She
had not made that error. Would not ever.
Without preamble, Asajj Ventress awakened and came to a sitting
position. The dreams had been the usual, nothing special about them
at all. They were, indeed, merely her mind attempting to work out
a problem of vectors and resources. She had given her fealty, and
with a woman like Ventress, once word was given, there was no other
course. She defined herself in terms of her obligations and contracts.
There was no deeper identity to cause emotional dissonance. She
simply did what had to be done.
Somehow Master Kenobi was central to the problem. But as yet
she had no idea what to do . . .
Just outside her door, Trillot glided away, head aching. She had offered
the terrifying Ventress a stateroom in her catacombs, and the
creature had accepted. She had intended to spy upon the mysterious
Count Dooku's messenger, but those efforts had taken an unpleasant
turn. Trillot felt... infected when her visitor dreamed. She closed her
eyes and saw images of death and destruction on a horrific scale.
Fear ran so deep it was like a living creature burrowing through her
stomachs. Hadn't she done everything possible to make Ventress
happy? Supplied all information? Provided accommodation? Planted
tracers on Quill and Lady Por'Ten? She had done all this and more . . .
So why was she still so terrified?
The churning black-and-red cloud behind her eyes throbbed unmercifully
as Trillot slunk away. And when she crawled into her
sleeping chamber that night and desperately sought the solace of
sleep, that headache boiled into a cavalcade of nightmares that multiplied
in intensity until dawn came, and she emerged to do battle
with another day.
35
cestus's sun had risen on the eastern horizon, lengthening the
mountain shadows until they resembled a mouth filled with broken
teeth. Where the shadows did not reach, its fierce light seared the
ground with a radiance that was bright and clear enough to curl the
plants that would not emerge again until next twilight.
As was his habit, Nate rose and dressed before dawn. He performed
a series of ARC drills, bending, stretching, and tumbling,
discovering no kink or wound sufficient to bind his motion. Energy
felt good. He felt strong, tough, mean, and altogether lethal. Ready
enough.
He found General Fisto in the main cave, sitting in front of the
shimmering map. The general sat balanced on knees and the balls of
his feet, buttocks resting on his heels. Nate had seen the Nautolan sit
in this fashion for hours, and winced a bit, knowing that his own legs
would have cramped within minutes.
"You're ready, sir?"
The general rose. In his hand he held a handle with a length of
flexible cordlike material attached. "It is time," the Jedi said.
There was nothing more to say.
36
From the very beginning the pattern had been set: representatives
of the Five Families traveled to the central palace for the day's round
of negotiations, conversations, and arguments. Some arrived by private
aircar or railcar. About a third traveled in a secure, private shuttle
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