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.
Chapter Seven
Ten 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
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.
Chapter Seven
Ten 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
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