The Cestus Deception (2 page)

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 cluster-wedding 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 is…?”

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. But… 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…