by Star Wars
Maul’s face remained cold and expressionless. Sadiki reached out and touched his face, tracing her fingernails down over the curve of his jaw. Leaning in, she dropped her voice to a whisper.
“You’ve got a secret, friend. And here’s the crux of it. I don’t think you’re in my prison by accident—and I don’t think you’re here to fight.”
“Then maybe you should let me go,” Maul said.
“Oh,” she said with a smile, “I could never do that. Not now that you’ve become such a favorite in the galactic gambling community. You’ve become quite a star, Jagannath. That is what they’re calling you, isn’t it? The Tooth?”
Maul stared at her narrowly. At length his attention was drawn to the desk that occupied the far side of the office. Underneath it, something was glowing very faintly, casting an almost imperceptible green light across the tan carpet. He looked up at Sadiki, who still held the tablet in her hand.
“Let me see that.”
“This?” She hesitated a moment, then handed it to him. “Suit yourself.”
Maul took the tablet and regarded the flat display screen for a moment, where the waveforms of his brain’s electrical activity twitched and spiked. He shook his head. “This means nothing to me,” he said, and with a flick of the wrist tossed it across the office so that it hit the floor under the desk.
Sadiki gazed at him serenely. She didn’t seem at all bothered by this small outburst; if anything, it seemed to validate her own suspicions about who he was. “You’re quite an exceptional specimen, aren’t you? Exquisitely trained, practically custom built to survive in almost any environment—fierce, quick, resourceful, and adaptable against any imaginable obstacle or opponent. A precision instrument of savagery.” She paused, her voice softening slightly. “In a way, you really are the perfect inmate for Cog Hive Seven. You are the one we’ve been waiting for.”
Maul’s eyes darted under the desk, where the warden’s tablet had landed. The display screen reflected upward to reveal what he’d thought might be there—a tiny streamlined piece of electronics emitting a faint green light from the underside of the desk. He gazed back at Sadiki. “Are we finished?”
“Not quite.” She gestured at the guards. “Leave us.”
Smight appeared uncertain. “Are you sure—”
“Now.” Sadiki gestured them out with an impatient jerk of her head, shutting the hatchway behind them and sealing it. When she turned back to face Maul, her expression had changed yet again, becoming focused and intense.
“You weren’t supposed to survive your match with the wampa,” she said. “You’ve deduced that for yourself, I suppose. In fact, I’d be willing to bet there are a great many things that you know but that you’re not sharing with me. Like why you’re searching for Iram Radique.”
Maul’s expression was unchanged. “Is that a question?”
“You may think that your true purpose here can be kept secret, but rest assured”—her face twisted, becoming angular and harsh—“there is nothing that goes on inside these walls that I won’t find out about. You will inform me what you’ve already discovered about Radique’s whereabouts here, and who sent you here to find him.” She waited. “Was it the Desilijic Clan? The Hutts?”
Maul said nothing.
“Very well.” She smiled, but there was no joy or pleasure in it. “Have it your way. And in the meantime—” Sadiki’s lips drew back slightly further, showing just the lower rim of her teeth. “Rest assured that I’m going to keep matching you. Eventually I know you’ll tell me everything.”
Maul didn’t move. “That all depends.”
“On what?”
“On who else is listening.”
She blinked at him, not comprehending. “Meaning what?”
Maul nodded back at the desk. “That device hidden under your desk is a miniature microphone. I’m guessing that you didn’t place it there yourself—which means you probably had no idea that it was there.”
“What … Sadiki turned away from him and went to the desk, bent down to look underneath it, yanked the device loose, and then stared back at Maul. The expression of shock and dismay in her eyes was profoundly gratifying.
“So,” Maul said. “I assume we’re done here?”
22
BLUE WITCH
In his errands for the IBC, handling millions of credits for clients whose financial privacy was vital, Vesto Slipher traveled with the usual arsenal of security and surveillance disruptors. Most were standard electromagnetic emitters, ion-pulse shredders, and white noise generators—gray-market gear designed to foil any unwanted wiretaps or recording devices that might compromise his clients’ confidentiality. He also traveled with surveillance gear of his own, including the bug that he’d placed under Warden Blirr’s desk.
These days he scarcely gave any of these instruments a second thought as he installed them around whatever workspace he’d been given. Their deployment was, for him, as unremarkable as unpacking his overnight bag.
But this time he’d brought along something special, a gift from the Banking Clan’s lab techs.
“We’re still beta-testing it,” the tech on Muunilinst had told Slipher before he’d departed, handing him a featureless blue tube about the size and width of his index finger. “We call it the blue witch.”
“Poetic,” the Muun said dryly.
The tech shrugged. “It creates a void on the most sophisticated security holo cams. Like a lens flare, except transparent, and it follows you around the room. Works on all electronics, audio and video. Completely undetectable. Careful, though.” He’d tapped a button on the bottom and the thing blinked instantly to life. “She runs hot.”
Slipher had inspected the device and shook his head, handing it back. “I’ve got my own equipment.”
“Uh-uh.” The tech crossed his arms. “He wants you to take it.”
“He does?”
“I spoke to him personally. He wants to be assured that you’ve taken every precaution.”
And so Slipher had brought the thing along with him. Now, sitting in his guest quarters off an unfinished upper level of Cog Hive Seven, he switched on the blue witch and waited for his holo-unit to activate. A high-frequency whine shivered through the air, and within a few seconds he found himself face-to-face with the Muun who had sent him here, arguably the most intimidating presence that he’d ever encountered.
“Magister Damask,” Slipher said, bowing slightly.
“Slipher.” Hego Damask was wearing a long-sleeved robe and a transpirator mask. In the background, the holofeed captured just the faintest hint of whatever world he was currently occupying, an elaborate fortress on a jungle moon of some sort. Slipher thought he could make out the cry of exotic birds in the distance. “You’ve taken all the necessary precautions for this transmission?”
“Yes, Magister.”
“And what have you learned?”
Slipher felt a thin blade of anxiety slide upward from his stomach to press against his chest cavity. Though he’d only spoken twice with Hego Damask before departing for Cog Hive Seven, he’d intuitively grasped that when it came to relaying bad news, it made no sense to waste time. “Distressingly little, I’m afraid.”
“Really.” Damask’s tone was impossible to read. “That is disappointing. Have you made contact with Maul?”
“Not directly, no. But the device that I planted in her office allowed me to listen in on a conversation between him and the warden. He denies knowing anything about Radique—denies, in fact, that he’s even been dispatched here to find him.”
Damask’s eyes narrowed. “So he doesn’t know that I sent you?”
“No, Magister. I was under the impression that you wanted your name kept out of it.” Slipher waited, feeling a thin film of perspiration gathering over his skin. “Was I mistaken?”
For a long time Damask said nothing. “Perhaps Maul’s true mission here is more secret than I was led to believe.”
“If we knew who his co
ntrol was—” Slipher began.
“I know who his control is,” Damask barked. “That is not the issue.”
Slipher nodded hesitantly. “Sir, if I may …”
“What is it?”
“Is it possible that Iram Radique isn’t on Cog Hive Seven? Or anywhere, for that matter?” With no way of knowing how this hypothesis might be perceived, he drew in a breath and pressed on. “Surely you’ve heard the speculation that the man himself doesn’t truly exist—that he’s, well, a sort of ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“A construct, fabricated by a cabal of arms dealers, a false front created to intimidate the competition. I mean, the fact is that no one has ever actually seen Radique and lived to speak of it. Perhaps Maul is discovering that for himself as well.” Slipher’s voice cracked, and he stopped long enough to swallow and steady himself. “Or someone has gotten to him.”
Again, Damask did not respond right away, choosing to simply gaze back at Slipher over the bridge of his breathing mask. Then he reached out of view of the holo. For a moment Slipher feared he was going to cut off the transmission, but instead a wash of data sprang up, superimposed over the visual transmission—bright columns of digits and various ports of call rising over Damask’s face.
“Eighteen standard months ago,” Damask said, “a vigo from the Black Sun Syndicate docked an unlicensed shuttle out of Gateway. The destination was Cog Hive Seven. That particular cargo was a load of stolen Tarascii explosives that had gone missing from a BlasTech heavy-ordnance satellite the previous year. Six months later the same shuttle docked again. This time it was carrying a load of baradium.”
“May I ask where you acquired this—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Damask said brusquely. “You could have easily uncovered it yourself if you had lived up to your reputation as an analyst.”
“Magister, those specific ingredients …” Slipher stared at the holo, struggling to absorb what was being said along with the columns of data. The conclusion was unavoidable. “You think someone’s actually manufacturing thermal detonators here on Cog Hive Seven?”
“Or worse.”
“I can’t imagine—”
“Our intelligence indicates the most recent shipment to arrive was less than a month ago. Orbital detection identified the payload as weapons-grade depleted uranium.”
For the first time, Vesto Slipher realized that he had nothing to say. Not that it mattered. Damask seemed to have grown tired of listening to him.
“Iram Radique is not a ghost,” Damask said. “Nor is he a construct, a false front, or a figment of communal galactic imagination. He is real. Given the facts at hand, there can be no doubt that he is alive and well and operating somewhere inside Cog Hive Seven. And depending on whatever high-grade ordnance he may be manufacturing next, I have reason to believe that Maul’s mission may represent a greater threat to galactic stability and my own personal safety than even he is aware of.”
“So you’re asking me to—”
“I’m asking you to stop hiding your inadequacy under the pretense of idiotic speculation,” Damask snapped, “and do your job. Get the information before Maul does. Deliver it to me and me alone.”
“Yes, Magister.”
“In the meantime,” Damask said, “you may find it helpful to remember that until you have satisfied your assignment, you can consider yourself a permanent resident of the prison. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, sir. And may I add, if I have disappointed you in any way—”
But it was too late. The holo was cut short, taking Damask’s face and the data-flow with it. Slipher was talking to dead air.
23
FACTORY FLOOR
Maul sat in his cell, poised on the bench. The hatch stood open in front of him. The rest of genpop was out wandering the gallery, killing time, waiting for the alarms to signal the next fight. But for the moment he preferred solitude, or what passed for it. His recovery was not complete. He needed time and silence to rebuild his strength.
Leaning forward, he placed his right hand between his knees and lifted himself up off the bench with one arm, holding there for a count of fifty before lowering himself and switching to the other arm. He repeated this exercise ten times for each arm, back and forth. Then using both arms he lifted himself straight up into the air, extending his legs, body held erect until every muscle trembled with the strain. There was nothing particularly pleasant about the deep core burn, but it was familiar and provided an outlet for the anger that had continued to grow and fester in him since he’d returned from the warden’s office.
He lowered himself back to the bench and exhaled, shaking off the sweat from his head. Even with the hatchway open, he felt a faint sense of claustrophobia. The cell felt minutely smaller. Perhaps it was. Retractable walls and ceiling panels would certainly be programmed for such subtle adjustments, and at this point, he’d almost expected Sadiki to be tampering with his sense of perception in whatever way she could. He’d frustrated her attempts to interrogate him, but that wasn’t much comfort. What he’d really longed to do was rip her head off with his bare hands, but that wouldn’t solve his problem, either.
I’m going to keep matching you.
He’d expected nothing less. She would keep fighting him until she killed him or he told her why he was seeking Radique. If the wiretap device hidden beneath her desk was any indication, she wasn’t the only one trying to gain that information.
His thoughts migrated to Artagan Truax and his son. Both would be under heavy guard because of their escape attempt, rendering them currently inaccessible. But Maul knew that if he bided his time, the opportunity would present itself. He remembered the old man’s whispered words.
Eogan knows. Everything.
Yes. And if he did—
Something moved outside the cell.
Instantly on his feet, Maul was moving to the open hatchway in less than a second. But what he found waiting for him was not an inmate at all.
The clawbird perched across the concourse gazed down at him with black and lightless eyes—the same bird he’d spotted in the tunnels.
It had something in its mouth.
A scrap of bone.
“What are you doing here?” Maul asked it.
At once, the thing let out a sharp, plaintive caw, then spread its wings and took flight.
Without making any conscious decision to do so, Maul went after it.
Running down the long corridor, bolting past the occasional inmate loitering outside the cells, he cut through great swaths of open space, never letting the bird out of his sight. The walls blurred by. Leaping a waist-level barrier, vaulting over a pile of debris at the far end of the walkway, he knocked two prisoners aside without slowing down.
The clawbird flew faster. It darted upward along the ceiling, cut left, and disappeared through a ventilation shaft.
Propelling his body upward, Maul flung himself after it, plummeting down a ten-meter drop, and hit the ground running, his eyes instantly adjusting to the darkness, chasing it through a half-visible maze of utility droids and subcorridors branching off in a half dozen directions. He couldn’t see the bird any longer, but he could still hear it clearly up ahead, its wings pounding hard through the gray spaces, betraying its position.
Sprinting, jumping across an unfinished platform, he landed on the other side and cut across the catwalk that adjoined it to a web of cables that affixed it to the far wall. Maul grabbed the cables, pulled himself hand over hand to his destination, and swung himself up and through yet another hatchway, into the wide-open space that awaited him there.
The bird had landed on an insulated electrical conduit and was staring down at him from a thick warren of debris—wires, threads, bits of circuitry, and trash—that he realized must be the thing’s nest. For a moment it just stared down at him with what might have been begrudging admiration. The small bit of bone was still clasped in its beak.
Maul glared back at it.
What are you doing here, bird?
He looked around at the space where the chase had led him, a region he’d heard described as the factory floor. According to prison lore, it was another unfinished level somewhere beneath the haunted reaches of the metal shop, and for a moment he simply peered into the arched ribs of the ceiling’s support struts, then down onto the abandoned steel prairie of the durasteel plating.
The word factory seemed to have been applied in its loosest imaginable interpretation. Whatever was supposed to have been manufactured here had gotten no further than the machinery that had been installed to build it. Conveyer belts and pallet racks stood empty around him. Up above, smoked-glass lenses gleamed down. More surveillance. Omnipresent eyes.
Maul moved past all of it with barely a glance. The cold vacuum of space felt very near, pressing against the outer shell of the space station with its own hissing intensity, and he felt artificial gravity intensifying, a by-product of poorly calibrated field generators that nobody had bothered to install properly in the first place. Like much of Cog Hive Seven, this place had a slapdash inconsistency, as if the whole thing had been put together in the dark. Of all the technology, only the cameras, silent and omnipresent, seemed to function according to spec. Guards were watching. Guards were always watching.
He took several more steps and stopped short.
The structure in front of him—he supposed you had to call it a sculpture—was built entirely out of bones. It stood as tall as he was, a gangling conflation of ribs, skulls and phalanges, human and nonhuman alike, all wired together into some utterly new composition.
It wasn’t the only one of its kind. Looking around, he saw that this part of the factory floor was a veritable forest of bone sculptures, some suspended from the ceiling, others perched on the walls. As indifferent as he was to aesthetics, Maul found the assemblages themselves strangely compelling. Whatever else was happening in the bowels of Cog Hive Seven, someone or something was down here creating a new race of horrors that the galaxy itself had never dreamed of in its blackest nightmares. It spoke to some part of him that he’d never known to exist. For an instant he thought of the clawbird with the bone in its beak, and he understood now why he’d followed it here. It had led him to the one who’d made all of these things.