of planetary Regent was still held by one of royal X'Ting lineage, one
G'Mai Duris. Was this office elective? Hereditary? Was Duris a figurehead,
or a genuine power?
Another reference an hour later caught Obi-Wan's eye: mention of
a group 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.
7
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 competitions with
other cohorts. Although they had initially shipped out together, over
time that original cohort had broken, as most ARC troopers worked
alone.
He found himself seeking identification on the troopers he encountered,
helmet or neck chips that told the time and place of decanting.
A cohort brother could be relied upon to remember certain
ceremonies and shared perils, always good for a bit of extra companionship.
Family within family, a touch of home on a distant, hostile
world.
He fondly remembered twenty-kilometer training runs with his
cohort, tried not to remember how many brothers he had watched
die during his two extended campaigns and dozen smaller actions. In
most instances ARC tactics were a blend of lightning attacks and applications
of overwhelming force, with punishing combinations of
aerial bombardment and devastating ground engagement.
But as satisfying as those victories had been, he longed to take
more personal and subtle action as well. He felt that there were aspects
of himself yet untapped. He did not fear death, but one thing
he did fear was the possibility of ending his life without discovering
the depths of his abilities. That, as he understood such things, would
be a waste.
Nate shrugged his rucksack over his brawny shoulder and headed
to the op center, wondering what the day's conversation would bring.
Ten minutes later he was ushered into a small office tucked away
beneath an ammo dump and a people-mover ferrying workers back
and forth to the city.
His commanding officer, a Mon Calamari major named Apted
Squelsh, sat hunched over papers when Nate entered, and for a momerit
seemed not to realize that she had company. Then she looked
up. "A-Nine-Eight?"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Take a seat, please."
Nate did so, easing into a hard-backed chair of densely veined
Corellian hardwood. He ran a thick thumbnail along the arm's
grooved channels as the major finished reading the screen, and then
folded her hands to speak to him.
"You performed admirably during yesterday's exercise," she began.
"Your unit had a fifty percent reduction in both genuine and sim casualties,
with no loss of speed or efficiency. That's what we like to
hear."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"I have a new assignment for you," Major Squelsh said, blinking
her huge dark eyes. "I assume you are prepared?" Not a real question,
but a bit of ritual byplay.
"One hundred percent, ma'am." The ritual response.
"Very good. You will accompany and assist two Jedi to a planet
called Ord Cestus. Do you know it?"
"No, ma'am, but I'll get up to speed immediately. My support?"
"Four men," she said.
&n
bsp; At last! Actions like these were the doorway to advancement,
sought after by any ARC trooper worth manka spit. "Ma'am?"
"Yes?"
"It concerns Admiral Baraka." He paused. "Is the admiral aware of
the fatality statistics?"
"Of course." Squelsh's eyes were level, her plump broad lips pressed
together tightly.
"And did he say anything you might want to share with us?"
The major paused for an intense moment, then replied, "He said,
'Well done.'"
Nate held his face steady, unwilling to display his emotions to a
commanding officer. "Thank you, ma'am."
"That is all."
Well done. They'd left flesh and blood and brothers all over that
beach and in the pitiless depths, and "well done" was the best they
could get.
Typical.
Nate left and took the beltwalk to the hololibrary to put in a few
hours researching the target planet. True, he'd get a briefing packet
before he left, but he found it valuable to do his own research as well.
Briefing packets were generally quite specific to the mission, and prepared
by researchers who had never humped heavy ordnance up a
cliff.
Nate was so immersed in his research that he barely noticed when
another trooper began reading over his shoulder.
"Hmmm," said the other trooper. "I'm Forry. I was near that sector
last month."
That perked up his interest. "Nate. Do you know a planet called
Ord Cestus?"
"Heard of it, Nate." Forry peeled a nervestick and bit off a shallow
chaw. "Makes droids? Didn't they manufacture those MTTs?"
Multitroop transports. Nearly unstoppable, their armor and twin
blaster cannons had cut quite a swath on Naboo. "Maybe so," he said.
"Anything else?"
"Only know that much because of that demo yesterday. They made
the JK model that Seven-Three-Two went against."
A trooper had gone up against a droid of some kind? Not surprising,
but the conversation suggested that it had been an exercise, not
actual combat. "I hadn't heard. What happened?"
Forry shrugged. "He was captured. JKs are some kind of special security
model. It only took about twenty seconds, and he's still in the
infirmary."
Now his whole attention was riveted. "Do we have vid footage?"
"Sure," Forry said. "I'll call it for you." He began to brush crystals
on the desk in front of them, and holoimages blossomed to misty life.
"Thanks. Planet's interesting. Generations ago Cestus was a prison
rock."
"Truth?"
"One hundred percent. The descendants of those prisoners eventually
settled there and became miners or farmers. They were exploited
by the descendants of the prison guards, who owned the
company."
Forry shrugged again. "It's the same all over. Ah! Here we go . . . "
The footage had been recorded in the T'Chuk arena, no more than
forty hours earlier. He watched as the trooper made standard evasive
moves, and even a few admirably tricky broken-rhythm maneuvers.
Ultimately, none of them worked. Their brother went down, hard, in
just a few miserable seconds.
Disturbing.
"You go up against, better zap it from a distance."
They watched a replay. "Fast," Nate said. "As a Jedi?"
"Faster," Forry said. "But speed isn't everything. Look at this . . ."
He hit other controls. The footage of a Jedi with protruding head
tentacles appeared.
"From Glee Anselm," Nate said. "Don't see many Nautolans
around. Jedi, eh?"
"Who else would use one of those archaic light sticks?"
They shared a good laugh at that. The Jedi were awesome fighters,
but their adherence to illogical quasi-spiritual beliefs was beyond
Nate's comprehension. Why would a fighting man trust anything beyond
a steady eye, a strong back, and a fully charged blaster? He examined
the Nautolan Jedi's image again. "So a Jedi actually came
down from the Temple and rolled the dice. And?"
"Watch for yourself."
Nate triggered PLAY, and together they watched as the Jedi not
only stood his ground against the JK, but actually forced it into retreat.
Nate inhaled sharply as the Jedi beat the thing at its own game.
In some ways his tactics weren't that different from those attempted
by the trooper, but the results were impressively superior.
"Beat it."
"Umm-hmmm." Forry clucked admiringly. "Did you see that
timing?"
"Uh-huh. Never seen reflexes like that, either. You're right: the machine
was faster, but it didn't make any difference."
"Jedi." Forty laughed. It was hard to say whether the laughter was
bitter or admiring. Perhaps a touch of both. "So they watched a
trooper go down, and just had to get down there and show off."
Nate caught the implication: the Jedi might have even programmed
the droid. How could the droid move faster and still lose? Unless it
was instructed to lose . . .
Nonsense. They both knew a Jedi would never do such a thing.
This was nothing but lingering unease, a defensive technique to hide
the slight feeling of inferiority troopers sometimes felt around Temple
dwellers.
"They beat Jango," both of them said simultaneously. These three
words were almost a litany. Whatever they could say about Jedi being
strange, or egotistical, or bizarrely esoteric, in an arena on Geonosis
they had slain the clone troopers' template, and that meant they were
"Good hunting," Forry said to him.
"Good hunting," Nate replied. Then he paused. "You been given
your next op yet?"
"Nope," Forry said. "Dealing me in?"
"If you want it."
"One hundred percent. Let me check in and out, get my sack and
tac."
"You'll have orders within the hour." A crushing handshake, and
Forry went his way.
Brother gone, Nate opened a window. "Request status." A moment's
pause, and then medical stats blurred past. He nodded in approval.
CT-36/732, nicknamed Sirty, had not been wounded by the
JK. His nervous system had been momentarily overloaded, and he
had consequently suffered a few hours of irregular heart rhythm.
Nothing alarming, but of course he had been taken to a med droid
for observation.
Sirty would be in fighting shape soon, and would make a perfect
team member: the only trooper who had fought the JK.
"Special request CT-36/732 be seconded to the Cestus operation."
A "Request approved" message bleeped, and then the screen closed.
For hours he studied, trying to get the kind of random background
intel never covered in standard tac briefings. One just never knew
which bit of data might save one's butt once the capacitors started
sparking. Nate himself would be dead now, blown to jelly in the battle
on Geonosis, if he hadn't studied power-cell recharge cycles and
subsequently recognized when one of the wheel droids was entering
a reflux pattern. Its capacitor's whine was barely audible, but he'd
taken a chance, leapt from cover, and blasted it, sa
ving five of his
cohort.
That little maneuver resulted in a week's free food at the base cantina
and a fast track to his captaincy.
He dictated notes into his personal file for transfer to the Cestusbound
transport ship. For hours he continued, fiercely maintaining
focus.
The lives of his brothers and, more important, the honor of the
GAR were his to protect. And even more than that—this was his
game, the game he was born and bred to play. In a way that no outsider
could ever understand, this was fun.
8
0nly two hours remained.
Nate and six of his brothers stood in a bricked, walled-off area outside
the ribbed arch of the barracks, beneath Vandor-3's densely
starred night sky, performing a cohort ship-out ceremony. Whenever
a trooper headed off on assignment, his cohort wished him not only
good luck, but good-bye. In the context of a trooper's life, this was
more practicality than pessimism.
If he did return, congratulations on a job well done.
If he did not, well... what needed to be said had been said.
"It is the proudest duty of a trooper to serve and seek a good
death," said Glorii Profus, their Kaminoan mentop.
The graceful, silver-skinned Profus was a combination psychiatric
and spiritual adviser. Although clones never yielded to their fear, it
would be wrong to think that they never experienced it. Emotion was
as valuable as blasters and bombs, death an inevitable part of war itself.
No trooper could, through any amount of skill or strength, avoid
that unpleasant reality. And always, on all planets and through all
times, soldiers had asked the same question: What if I die? And for a
trooper, the most comforting answer was: You will die. But the GAR
goes on forever.
The Kaminoan gracefully arched his long silver neck and raised his
cup, brimming with Tallian wine, the finest in the quadrant. His
voice was cultured and comforting. "From water you are born. In fire
you die. Your bodies seed the stars," he said, the ritual words that had
comforted a million clones before they marched to their deaths, and
might comfort a billion more.
They raised their cups as one. "We seed the stars!" they said, together.
And then they drank.
9
The Jedi Temple dominated Coruscant's cityscape for kilometers
around, its five towering spires piercing the clouds like a titan's outstretched