Lockdown: Maul

by Star Wars

“Not at all.” The admin droid had been working with her for three years, and its sheer obliviousness to her sarcasm was one of its most endearing traits. It chirped and swiveled, and its dedicated holoprojector fluttered to life, already making subtle adjustments to amplitude and phase modulations to enhance the image. Behind her desk, Sadiki sat back, put her feet up, and took a sip of coffee as the entire wall of her office filled with the footage of last night’s fight.

  This would be the third time she’d watched it.

  She made it a habit to view every match at least twice—once live, as it was happening, and then later, with a more analytical eye for the strengths and weaknesses of the individual fighters. What she’d discovered over hundreds of fights was that sometimes, upon repeated viewings, the fight itself would emerge like some third organism, something bigger than either of the combatants, a kind of composite presence knitted together of sweat, desperation, and perhaps unexpected elegance, with a personality all its own.

  Last night’s former champion had been a particularly monstrous species that the prison’s most sophisticated recognition algorithm hadn’t been able to identify. Two meters tall and crosshatched with ritualistic scars, brandishing some kind of living staff and little else, the inmate had arrived here on Cog Hive Seven six standard months earlier with a shipment of other convicts, two of whom it had already dispatched in transit. Since that time the thing had defied all attempts at classification. It had screeched and chattered a language none of them recognized, and systematically slaughtered everything pitted against it. Some of the guards thought it was female.

  On the other side was the newly arrived inmate—a bald and muscular Zabrak, red-skinned, covered with black tattoos and a crown of ten vestigial horns. Even now, after repeated viewings, Sadiki couldn’t take her eyes off him. In the final moments, when the challenger destroyed the serpent-staff, literally ripping off its head and feeding it to his opponent, she’d felt a dark tremor of excitement that she hadn’t experienced in ages. It was, she supposed, the same primal fascination that kept the gamblers across the galaxy betting millions of credits as they gathered to watch live holofeeds of the contests.

  When the fight was over, she froze the holo on the face of the new champion, his red skin and yellow eyes glaring back at her. Gazing at it, she took a thoughtful sip of her coffee.

  “He took back his tooth,” she said finally.

  ThreeDee’s head swiveled back toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Our new champion. Before he killed his opponent, he took back his tooth.”

  “Perhaps it is customary for his species to—”

  “What’s his name?” she asked. “The new inmate?”

  “Prisoner 11240?” ThreeDee answered back. “I’ve already taken the liberty of uploading all relevant data onto your tablet.”

  Sadiki punched the numbers into the console in front of her, watching her new champion’s file scroll across the screen. It read:

  Inmate 11240

  Date of Entry: 01102211224

  Name: Jagannath

  Species: Zabrak

  Gender: Male

  Height: 1.75 meters

  Mass: 80 kg

  Eyes: Yellow

  Skin: Red

  Prior Occupation: Mercenary

  Charged With: Murder

  “That’s it?” Sadiki stabbed the cursor down, but the screen was blank. “Where’s the rest of it?”

  “There is no more.”

  “Where did he come from? Can somebody at least tell me that?”

  “He was apprehended on a routine sweep of the mining colonies on Subterrel, where local authorities identified him from an outstanding murder charge. Initial lab cultures and blood work are still pending.” The droid clicked and whirred toward her, photoreceptors brightening. “So far he has eluded any more detailed classification. Would you like me to order a full psychiatric workup?”

  Sadiki considered before shaking her head. “No. Not yet. For now let’s see how long he lasts. He wouldn’t be the first big noise to come through here and pull a quick fade.”

  “Of course,” ThreeDee said. “If there’s nothing else, I have Gaming Commissioner Chlorus for you. And Eamon Huang of the casino on Ando Prime. Whom would you like to speak to first?”

  “Chlorus?” Sadiki found herself reaching up instinctively to check her reflection in the nearest screen, sweeping her fingers through her bangs. “Put him through.”

  “Very good.”

  The holovid switched over to a life-sized image of a silver-haired, distinguished-looking human in a double-faced worsted greatcoat that tapered smoothly down to his ankles. Dragomir Chlorus was at least sixty, but his olive-eyed, almost tropically tanned face appeared twenty years younger, even furrowed with the lines of impatience that he wore now.

  “Commissioner,” Sadiki said, raising her cup in mock salute. “You’re looking dashing as always. One day you’ll have to tell me your secret for never aging a day. Is it dietary?”

  “Yes,” Chlorus said dryly. “I’ve eliminated all gratuitous flattery from my diet.” That famous scowl deepened, drawing deep brackets along either side of his mouth. “Now, I trust that takes care of the pleasantries between us?”

  “Mm.” Sadiki sipped coffee and nodded. “Apparently so.”

  “Good. You’ve kept me waiting quite long enough, Warden, and regardless of what you might have heard, the galaxy does not revolve around you.”

  “Sadly, no.” Sadiki smiled, eyebrows raised. “But there was a time, wasn’t there?”

  Chlorus blinked. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not,” she said, still smiling. “Well, give me a moment to put on my penitent cap, and then you can tell me what I’ve done today to offend the delicate sensibilities of the Galactic Gaming Commission.”

  “This isn’t an occasion for levity, Warden. Exactly what sort of operation are you running out there?”

  Sadiki’s eyebrows spiked. “My goodness, we are formal this morning.” And then, folding her hands on her desk, “All right. Well, as you know, Commissioner, Cog Hive Seven embodies a profitable gaming industry while providing a valuable service to millions of—”

  “I think we can bypass the investment propaganda. I want to know about that new inmate from last night’s bout. And I want to know exactly how many credits you won when he tore his opponent apart.”

  “Me personally?”

  “Don’t play coy with me,” Chlorus snapped. “You’ll discover that I have neither the time nor the temperament for it.”

  “Oh dear. And I liked to think that I’d already discovered everything there was to know about you.” Lowering her head, Sadiki flashed him her best innocent look. “I take it that your constituents weren’t satisfied with the outcome of the match?”

  “To say the least,” Chlorus said. “And this morning you’ve got odds-makers and casinos from every Core planet yanking their hair out over this business. Frankly, I don’t blame them. Your reigning champion, whatever that thing was, was favored by an outlandishly large advantage. He’d won six straight fights in a row. But that Zabrak beat him handily.”

  “He beat the odds,” Sadiki said, and shrugged. “That’s why they call it an upset.”

  “May I remind you,” Chlorus said, “of how often that has happened recently in your facility?”

  “Now hold on just a moment.” Sadiki sat forward. “You’re not implying that we enjoy an unfair advantage?”

  “I never—”

  “As you know, my brother and I determine the odds of every fight by a unique algorithm based on the fighting history, weight, criminal record, and all sorts of mitigating factors, the specifics of which are available to our millions of subscribers. Whether or not those individual elements add up a win, of course, is never a sure thing.” She shrugged again. “Which is why it’s considered gambling.”

  “Yet the house always wins.”

  “As do millions of
others.” She looked at him carefully. “It’s a business, Commissioner.”

  “An insanely profitable one.”

  “Is that a question?”

  Chlorus cleared his throat. “Since its inception,” he said, “there’s no question that Cog Hive Seven has enjoyed an unprecedented popularity among the gambling community—”

  “Good of you to say so.”

  “But at this point I’d remind you to be aware of the fact that there are an increasing number of casino owners, galactic bankers, and …”

  Chlorus hesitated. “Particularly the small-time crime syndicates that control the gambling activity in the Outer Rim, all of whom have taken notice of how regularly you set the odds and then proceed to beat them.”

  “Which syndicates are we talking about, exactly?” Sadiki asked. “And isn’t that sort of thing really outside your scope of influence?”

  “You’re not hearing me.”

  “Oh,” Sadiki said, “I think I am. You’re worried about the Commission saving face among its IBC cronies and upholding your personal reputation for being tough on corruption and organized crime. All of which I respect. But I hardly think you need to threaten me with fines—”

  “Fines?” Chlorus leaned slightly forward, and his voice softened, becoming almost gentle. “Sadiki, I’m going to stop you right there. I know your proclivity for unorthodox behavior, but out of respect for our shared history, I want you to consider this a friendly warning.” He paused, sighed like a man about to lift a particularly unwieldy weight, then gathered himself and continued. “If Cog Hive Seven is using insider information to place its own bets, then you of all people should know that the Gaming Commission is the last thing you need to worry about.”

  “Meaning what, exactly? I’ll have a mob of Black Sun vigos showing up and throwing their weight around my prison?” She gave a throaty chuckle. “Respectfully, I’d like to see them try.”

  “Not necessarily Black Sun.”

  “Who, then?”

  Chlorus cast an uneasy glance to the right, at something offscreen that she couldn’t see. “I’ve said enough. Good-bye, Sadiki.”

  “Wait a second—”

  But his face was gone. Chlorus had already cut off the transmission. Leaning back into her seat with a sigh, Sadiki reached for her coffee, only to find that it had gone cold.

  “Lovely.” She glanced around the office for her droid. “ThreeDee, can you please heat this up for me, and find out whom I’m supposed to placate next?”

  “I think,” a voice said from the doorway, “that should probably be me.”

  Sadiki glanced up at the tall, slender Muun who seemed to have materialized without warning in the office’s open hatchway. She saw with a certain resigned dismay that he was dressed in signatory Palo fiduciary garb, a round-collared green tunic, formfitting trousers, and boots. The uniform told her all that she needed to know about who he was and, in all likelihood, why he’d come.

  With a cool smile, she rose from behind her desk.

  “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

  “Vesto Slipher,” the Muun said. “InterGalactic Banking Clan. We’ve spoken before by holofeed, but I’ve never had the pleasure of a face-to-face encounter.”

  “Well.” She allowed the smile to retract just slightly into the corners of her mouth. “Always a pleasure to host an unexpected visit from the IBC.”

  “Really?” Slipher’s smile matched her own. “Your expression tells me otherwise.”

  “Oh, don’t take it personally. It’s been that kind of morning.” Sadiki glanced at ThreeDee, then back at Slipher. “Are you on my schedule?”

  “I tried to tell you—” the droid began to protest, but Slipher just smiled.

  “My dear,” the Muun said, with infinite civility, “I am your schedule.”

  3

  HOT MESS

  Maul moved across the prison mess hall like a predator recently released from its cage, passing sleekly through the mob, parting it with scarcely a glance. Some of the inmates took an uneasy step back to allow him to pass, while others simply froze in place. Heads swiveled to watch him as he went. The continuous ambient drone of voices dropped to whispers and the whispers lapsed into watchful, estimating silence as he made his way among them.

  He walked to the last table and sat down.

  On the other side of the table, two inmates who had been in the middle of an argument—one a pallid, frightened-looking human with a four-day stubble, the other a Gotal that appeared to be missing an eye—stopped talking, picked up their trays, and made a hasty departure.

  Maul sat motionless, observing everything around him without giving any indication that he was doing so. Although his peripheral vision still hadn’t fully recovered from last night’s attack, he saw enough to realize that he had become the current object of everyone’s attention. Even the guards up in the catwalks overhead seemed to have gone on high alert, each with one hand on their blasters, the other resting on the small flat consoles that they wore on their belts. From both inmates and guards, Maul could smell a certain unmistakable commingling of fear, desperation, and the grinding monotony of paranoia that emerged when living things were penned up together in close quarters for indefinite spans of time.

  It disgusted him.

  Yet, for the time being at least, it was home.

  He had stepped aboard this floating sewer less than twenty-four standard hours earlier, and in that time he’d come to understand all that he needed to know about the place. The rest of his time inside, he knew, would simply be a question of patience, of accomplishing his mission here without being discovered for what he truly was.

  Neither of these things would be difficult for him.

  They were simply the mandates of his assignment, and as such, beyond all question.

  His arrival on Cog Hive Seven had come courtesy of the only transport of the day, a nameless prison barge with a stripped-down interior that reeked of high-carbon anthracite and unwashed flesh. The cargo hold was stocked with thirty-seven other inmates whose presence Maul barely registered after gauging none of them worth a moment of his time. They were a foul-smelling, nit-infested lot comprising a dozen different species, some clearly deranged and muttering to themselves, others staring blankly through the vessel’s only viewport as if something in the depthless black void might give perspective to their pointless and insubstantial lives.

  Throughout it all, Maul had sat apart from his fellow inmates in absolute stillness. Some of them, apparently, couldn’t wait to start fighting. As the trip wore on, boredom became restlessness, and scuffles had broken out as sidelong glances and petty grievances erupted into acts of seemingly unprovoked violence. Several hours into the journey, an over-muscled ectomorph with bulging crab-stalk eyes had leapt up and lunged at a Rodian who’d somehow managed to smuggle aboard a whip-band that he’d sharpened and apparently planned to use as a makeshift vibroblade. The fight hadn’t lasted long, and only when the blade-bearer had accidentally bumped into him had Maul glanced up long enough to drive an elbow upward and shatter the Rodian’s lower spine. The guards onboard hadn’t even blinked as the Rodian pitched over sideways, wailing and paralyzed, to the deck, where he lay whimpering for the duration of the trip, gazing up through moist and pleading eyes.

  It was the only time during the entire trip that Maul had moved.

  When they’d finally docked, a retinue of fatigued-looking corrections officers had met them in the hangar, herding them down the berthing port with static pikes and go-sticks, running the biometric scans as the new inmates shambled forward, blinking, into the unfamiliar surroundings. Maul had seen more guards at this point in processing than anywhere else aboard the space station. At the end of the line, he stood motionless as a jumpy young CO whose ID badge read Smight swept a wand over him, scanning for infection and hidden weapons. There was no mistaking the tremor in the man’s hand as he passed the wand in front of Maul’s face.

  “You know why you’re
here, maggot?” Smight had asked, struggling to hide the quaver in his voice behind a pitiful note of bravado.

  Maul had said nothing.

  “Twenty-two standard hours a day,” Smight told him, “you’re free to roam the gallery and mess hall. Twice a day, when you hear the clarion call go off, you return to your cell for matching.” The guard swallowed, the bump in his throat bulging up and down. “Any attempt to escape results in immediate termination. Failure to report back to your cell for matching will be treated as an escape attempt and will result in immediate termination. You got that?”

  Maul had just stared back at him, waiting for the guard to finish his business and back away. As he’d walked away, he heard the young CO find enough courage to snarl out one final declaration.

  “You’ll die in here, maggot. They all do.”

  Medbay had come next, an hour’s worth of decontamination and tox screens, neuro readouts and electroencephalograms administered by uninterested droids. After a long round of ultrasonic full-body scans, a refurbished GH-7 surgical unit had inserted a long syringe into Maul’s chest and then withdrawn it, only to plunge it back in again at a slightly different angle. A final scan had confirmed whatever the droid had done to him, and the CO at the far end of the concourse had waved him forward.

  Afterward, two more officers armed with E-11 assault blasters had appeared and led him through a circuitous network of increasingly narrow concourses. The final walkway had led unceremoniously to his cell, a featureless, alloy-plated dome perhaps three meters in diameter. The carbon composite floor was the color of dirty slate. A single air vent whirred overhead. Stepping inside, Maul had sat hunched on the single, narrow bench, gazing at the only light source, an unremarkable panel of blinking yellow lights on the opposite wall.

  “This is where you’ll come for lockdown and matching,” one of the guards had told him. He was a grizzled older man, a veteran whose ID badge identified him as Voystock. “You hear the clarion, wherever you are, you have five standard minutes to get back here before lockdown before you’re terminated.”