The Cestus Deception (31 page)

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 long-dead 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 weak-minded 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. Unner-stan’?”

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-Wan’s 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.

Twenty-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.