Free The Cestus Deception by Steven Barnes

Fisto, for every conceivable reason, you must not fail.”
    Kit Fisto bowed, and his sensory tendrils wavered eagerly, like sea fronds in an invisible current. “I gladly accept.”
    “I also accept,” Obi Wan said, then added, “I will bring Ord Cestus back into the fold. We will end these Jedi Killers.”
    Yoda’s eyes glowed warmly. “With the Force as our guide, into peace war may yet transform.”
    Chapter Ten
    For three hours Obi-Wan lay in his cubicle’s hard bed, slowing and synchronizing his body’s rhythms to maximize the restorative benefits. Where an ordinary mind and body wavered in and out of the mental and physical zones of recuperation, every minute spent in this extreme state was worth three minutes of ordinary slumber. He emerged rested and ready, packing his gear and rendezvousing with Kit for the flight to Cestus.
    In the Temple’s communal dining hall, the two Jedi shared a meal of thrantcill pâté and hawk-bat eggs. While eating they spoke in quiet voices of trivial things, understanding that the days ahead would be intense. Memories of such quiet times were sustaining.
    They took an air taxi out to Centralia Memorial Spaceport. The port was one of Coruscant’s oldest, some of its older pads actually preserved as monuments even as the rest of the spaceport expanded out into one of the galaxy’s most modern facilities. There awaited the Jedi a refurbished Republic cruiser, its scarlet skin panels open at the aft wing as technicians made last-minute adjustments to the fuel atomizer cone and radiation dampers.
    They’d half finished supervising their ship’s loading when a military shuttle arrived, its triwing configuration folded for docking. Five troopers in gleaming white armor exited.
    If Obi-Wan was entirely honest with himself, he had to admit that large groups of clone troopers made him slightly uncomfortable. Easy to understand and explain away. One factor was the fact that they were the absolute image of the notorious bounty hunter Jango Fett, who had come within a hair of killing him on three separate occasions. More disturbing still was the fact that, although genetically human, they had not led human lives: clone troopers were born and bred purely for war, without the nurturance of a mother’s embrace, or the safety of a father’s loving discipline.
    They looked human… they laughed and ate and fought and died like men. But if not human, what exactly were they?
    “General Kenobi.” The trooper saluted. “CT-Three-Six/ Seven-Three-Two reporting. May we take your gear, sir?” His bearing and attitude were clear and crisp, his eyes guileless. A memory floated to mind. Hadn’t CT-36/732 been the trooper who’d fought the JK? The young man seemed healthy. No slightest gesture betrayed physical or emotional pain of any kind. Remarkable.
    “Yes, please stow it in our cabin.” With admirable ease the trooper slung his gear over his left shoulder, a nod his only response.
    Obi-Wan was surprised by his slight aversion. It mirrored the prejudice he knew some others to feel, people who treated the troopers as if they were little more than droids. This was unworthy of him, of any Jedi. These terribly young men, no matter what their origin, were prepared to die in service to the Republic. What more could anyone ask? If their progenitor had been evil (and Obi-Wan was not entirely certain that that word fit the complex and mysterious Jango Fett), his clones had died already in their thousands. How many deaths would it take to wash away an assassin’s stain?
    “Oh my, oh my,” a falsetto voice cried behind them. Obi-Wan turned, recognition filtering its way through his other thoughts. Approaching slowly was a creature with a great flat turquoise shell covering a wet, fleshy body. The creature crept along on a single many-toed foot. A yellowish mucus trail glistened on the ground behind him.
    Obi-Wan smiled, all discomfiture vanishing. This one, he knew. “Barrister Snoil!” he said