The Cestus Deception Read Free Page A

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