Lockdown: Maul

by Star Wars

  Darkness was closing in. Strabo fought to shake it off. Jagannath’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away, but there was a cold ferocity to it that would not be ignored.

  “You work for me now,” the Zabrak said. “You can each maintain your loyalty to your crews, but as of now, I’m putting myself in charge at the top. I will mediate between you and the guards.” He turned to Nailhead, staring straight into the flesh-eater’s eyes. “Also, from this point on there will be no more harassment of the inmate known as Zero, is that understood? That goes for both gangs.”

  Nobody said anything. Strabo stared at his feet. For the moment, at least, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the other members of the gang he used to run.

  When he looked up again, the Zabrak was gone.

  15

  LIMERGE

  “Rise up, my apprentice.”

  At the sound of that voice, Maul’s pulse quickened. He rose to his feet and stared at the holographic image of his Master.

  The one called Zero had been as good as his word. Less than two hours after Maul had dealt with the gangs, he’d received a coded message to come here to a remote corner of the prison morgue, to one of the empty chambers designed to hold inmates’ corpses for disposal.

  It had been waiting here for him.

  The transmitter, fully assembled and functional.

  And now—

  The image of Sidious stood before him, the Sith Lord’s yellow eyes blazing deep within the cowl of his cloak. His zeyd-cloth robes swept around him, the coarse fabric rustling audibly as Sidious raised his hand. In the background, small details of the top of LiMerge Tower’s interior were clearly visible, and Maul was momentarily taken aback by the vivid resolution of the image. Scavenged or not, Zero’s technology was of impressively high quality.

  “Master,” he said aloud, or tried to, but the words stuck in his throat.

  “You look well, my apprentice,” Sidious said. “I have been monitoring your progress among the inhabitants of Cog Hive Seven with great interest.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I observe that regardless of the circumstances,” Sidious continued, “throughout these bouts with other inmates, you have taken great care not to reveal your true powers as a Sith.” Was there a twinge of sarcasm in his voice? “That much is quite abundantly evident.”

  “You are referring to the most recent bout.” Maul hesitated. “The wampa—”

  “Proved to be something of a challenge, yes, so I saw.” Sidious intoned. “Perhaps you found yourself wishing that you might be permitted to draw unreservedly on the power of the Dark Side? Or to be allowed the use of your saber staff?”

  Sensing a trap, Maul demurred. “My strength comes from within.”

  “Does it indeed?” Sidious gave him a long, unreadable look. “I wonder.”

  “Master—”

  “Pride and self-regard are not accolades to be earned only once. The power of the Sith must prove itself stronger with every test. Resting on your accomplishments now will only inhibit your ability to fully exploit the resources of anger and discipline that lie within you.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Protecting your identity and the true purpose of your mission will be meaningless if you die before you achieve it.” Sidious paused, gazing at him piercingly. “Do my words sting? Perhaps you find my assessment unfair?”

  “No.”

  The Sith Lord drew back. “I expect much from you, Darth Maul, only because I alone grasp your true potential for greatness in the dark side.”

  “Thank you, Master. My only wish—”

  “Enough.” Sidious’s face went abruptly cold. “Your restraint, training, and discipline will only take you so far. What progress have you made in locating Iram Radique?”

  “I have intensified my search. I’ve brought the prison gangs to heel and have made inroads in discovering the methods of their service to Radique.” Maul met his Master’s gaze. “It will not be long now.” He paused, then pressed on. “Perhaps if you were able to confide in me the true purpose of our plans—”

  Sidious raised one hand, cutting the words off. “You have been provided with all the information you require to complete your mission. For now, all you need to know is that we are continuing with our work to destabilize the Outer Rim, fueling insurgency and separatism.”

  The Sith Lord drew in a breath and released it, holding Maul’s gaze with what might have been sympathy.

  “Your reputation of loyalty to our cause is firmly established. I am not oblivious to the fact that you have been disappointed by your role in our plans up till now—that you may have craved a more pivotal role in the Eriadu operation, for example.”

  Maul tried to suppress his sense of surprise and failed. How had Sidious known of that? After his Master had used security droids to covertly orchestrate the assassination of six Directorate members at the Eriadu Trade Summit and attempted to kill Chancellor Valorum, Maul had been unable to understand why Sidious hadn’t involved him personally in the operation. He assumed that he’d hidden his disappointment well, buried it deep inside him where even he had been able to overlook it. Yet his Master had seen through him.

  “Suffice it to say that what you are achieving now with Iram Radique will far surpass any smaller errand that I could have given you.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Good, then. Rise and go forth. Take what is rightfully ours. The dark side is with you.”

  Maul tried to respond, but the vision in front of him, of his Master and the debris-cluttered floor of the LiMerge Building, was already starting to fade.

  Stepping away from the holovid unit, Darth Sidious opened his eyes and crossed the floor of the LiMerge Tower to the turbolift, his mind already teeming with a collision of thoughts.

  As with any mission involving Maul, the situation that Sidious was creating on Cog Hive Seven was not entirely stable. The Sith Lord harbored no delusions about his apprentice’s ambition or pride, or how closely those elements were linked to the anger that was constantly sweltering inside his apprentice, fermenting as Maul’s power continued to intensify. Locked in unswerving allegiance to their cause, the Zabrak’s heart was a reactor of pure, distilled rage.

  And that rage will serve him well.

  Yes. When Sidious reflected back on the years of training that Maul had endured, proving himself repeatedly against the worst that the galaxy had to offer, he felt an unmistakable pride in his apprentice’s strength and fortitude. By definition, Cog Hive Seven was an environment that no one survived, yet Maul had already established himself as a dominant presence without relying on the Force. Despite what he’d said to Maul, Sidious felt an increasing respect for what his apprentice continued to achieve. In the fullness of time, such abilities would continue to serve him better than he could possibly imagine.

  By the time he left the building and walked out to hail a sky-cab to the Senate District, the Sith Lord’s concerns had abated. The hour was yet early, and his schedule for the day, as Palpatine, was already full.

  The air-taxi darted down toward him, whirring to a halt, and as the door opened, he realized with a start that the cab wasn’t empty. Hego Damask was waiting for him inside.

  “Darth Sidious,” Damask said, gesturing to the empty seat beside him. “Will you join me?”

  Palpatine flicked his eyes toward the air-taxi’s cockpit, but Damask gave him a reassuring nod.

  “I’ve rendered the surveillance equipment inoperative,” the Muun said, “so that we may speak freely. As equals.”

  “Of course.” Without hesitating, Darth Sidious slipped inside next to the Muun, his expression revealing just the right tincture of pleasant surprise. “It’s always good to see you under any circumstances.”

  “Yes.” Behind the transpirator mask, Darth Plagueis offered what might have been a faint smile. “I know we had plans to meet later in Monument Plaza for our usual stroll, but something’s come up and I had to alter my schedule
at the last minute. I thought it best that we meet now.” He turned to Sidious and cast a passing glance back at the LiMerge Building. “I take it that you’ve been in touch with the Zabrak?”

  “As a matter of fact, I just—”

  “I recall you mentioning that you’ve dispatched him to Cog Hive Seven to find this elusive weapons dealer?”

  “Iram Radique, yes.” Sidious was careful to sound as casual as possible, although inside he was already puzzled. Darth Plagueis knew only the broadest generalities about Darth Sidious’s ongoing work to destabilize the Outer Rim planets and orchestrate the Galactic Civil War. He rarely asked specific questions about where the weapons were coming from, or how exactly Sidious intended to use them to facilitate the Grand Plan.

  “This Radique,” Plagueis continued in the same conversational tone as he gazed out the window at the approaching Avenue of the Core Founders, “is rumored to be one of the most powerful arms dealers in the galaxy?”

  “Radique is as dangerous as he is unpredictable.” Sidious was aware of an unwelcome warmth beginning to climb upward through the back of his neck, enveloping his cheeks and forehead. “Which is why I sent Maul to assassinate him.”

  “I see.”

  Sidious leaned slightly forward in an attempt to catch Plagueis’s eye. “I’ve been meaning to inform you. My mission there—”

  “Is something I have absolute confidence in your ability to execute.” Plagueis placed a hand on Sidious’s shoulder. “I must commend you on your foresight and commitment to our ultimate purpose, Darth Sidious. As you might have guessed, with the increasing demands of my own … private pursuits on Sojourn, I find it profoundly liberating that I do not need to monitor the particular means with which you uphold our united goal.”

  “Yes, of course.” Sidious regarded him speculatively. What exactly was Plagueis telling him? Did the Muun harbor his own dark suspicions about what Sidious had hoped to achieve in sending Maul to Cog Hive Seven? Or was Plagueis simply probing him for more detail?

  “Well.” Plagueis had already settled back again with a nearly inaudible sigh. “I suppose this is good-bye for now.”

  The air-taxi docked, and Sidious realized that he’d arrived at the Senate Rotunda. The cab’s hatch released with a faint sigh, and as he began to step out, he felt Plagueis’s hand take hold of his wrist.

  “There is one other thing,” he said, with that same tone of cordial detachment. “I thought you should know that all your talk of Cog Hive Seven piqued my interest.”

  “Indeed?” Sidious felt something tighten inside his throat. “How so?”

  “I’ve spoken to a contact at the IBC and asked them to dispatch a financial consultant there under the auspices of a routine quarterly audit—a certain Vesto Slipher. He’ll be reporting directly to me.” Behind the mask, Plagueis’s smile was pure diplomatic graciousness. “Perhaps I can help you ferret out this elusive arms dealer after all.”

  Sidious felt a faint knot tightening in his throat. “That’s—extremely thoughtful of you.”

  “I know we are together on this,” Plagueis said, “as equals.”

  Plagueis withdrew his hand. He was still gazing out at Sidious when the air-taxi’s hatch closed between them and it lifted away from the Senate Plaza, leaving Sidious standing there alone.

  16

  NIGHTSIDE

  The debris pile was made up of burned-out droid parts, condenser coils, and twisted rebar, all of it forcibly compressed into a perfect cube. Artagan had scavenged together a dozen such blocks down here a year ago while wandering through an unfinished wing off Maintenance Sub-level 3, the one that the inmates called Nightside.

  Originally designated as Cog Hive Seven’s garbage dump, Nightside was now a desolate industrial cave, its shadows bulking with unused scrap balers, shearing machines, and metal shredders. The stink of carbon composite and various ferroalloys hung permanently in the air. Prisoners came down here from time to time, scrounging through leftover debris, ever since the rumor began circulating that somebody once found a Baragwin shield disruptor in a pile of heavy smelting scrap. The story was probably apocryphal, but it drew them anyway.

  None of which explained why Artagan Truax had brought his son here today.

  “Very good.” Artagan glanced at the block of debris and then turned back to Eogan. “This one now.”

  “That?” The boy gave it a sidelong glance. “It’s too much! And my arms are already burned out from those dead lifts!”

  “Excuses won’t save you.” Artagan gazed at his son sternly. “Do you wish to survive this place or not?”

  Eogan nodded and shut his eyes. He was stripped to the waist, his bare torso pale and nearly hairless. He’d spent the last few hours chasing prison rats across elevated girders, attacking them with both hands tied behind his back. They were large, disgusting things, but they moved fast, and pursuing them required absolute focus and determination.

  Afterward he’d practiced punching, kicking, swinging, ducking, lifting, pulling, Artagan coaching his son through the various holds, locks, and attacks that might one day make all the difference in a bout.

  There were no rules here in Cog Hive Seven, no such thing as mercy, no quarter asked or given. After the morning workout, sweat gleamed from Eogan’s upper lip and forehead, plastering the reddish brown hair against his brow in strands and clumps. “Now?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Reclining backward, Eogan tilted his head back and reached for the makeshift crossbar that his father had jimmied up beneath the pallet. Artagan waited while his son tested the bar to make sure the load was balanced, and he watched his son’s features tense up in anticipation of the lift.

  “Get under it,” Artagan said.

  “How many?”

  “Start with one.”

  The boy shut his eyes and pushed. Muscles leapt out across his shoulders, chest, and abdomen, biceps straining, arms extending until he held the debris pile at arm’s length off the floor. He started to lower it, but Artagan spoke.

  “Hold it on my count.”

  Eogan didn’t argue. The load trembled. The boy’s jaw clenched, fighting gravity and fatigue every passing second. Throughout it all, Artagan stood over him without expression, watching the weakness drain from his son’s body, feeling the familiar mingling of deep pride and dismay that came with the realization of how hard the boy was working, and ultimately how little it mattered.

  Eogan grunted. “Father—”

  “Five more seconds,” Artagan said. “You can do it.”

  The boy tucked his chin. By now his face had gone a dark, plummy shade of scarlet, all the way up to his hairline. Veins stood out in his temples. A slight, involuntary whimper escaped his throat, and Artagan heard the load beginning to rattle as the boy’s arms trembled harder than ever, threatening collapse.

  “I can’t—”

  “Two more seconds,” Artagan told him. “One …” He nodded. “That’s enough.”

  The load dropped with a crash, and Eogan let out a gasp of relief, sitting up slowly, rubbing his shoulders, and trembling with the lactic acid buildup in his muscles. Artagan tossed him the towel and waited while the boy mopped his face and glanced back at the cube before finally lifting his gaze to look up at Artagan. His face was pale now, drained but clearly pleased.

  “How much?” Eogan asked.

  “A hundred and twenty.”

  “I’ve never lifted that much before!”

  “You asked for a true test,” Artagan said. “I gave you one.” Reaching down to ruffle his son’s sweaty hair, he felt a tenderness that he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge, the deep love whose only counterweight was the deep knowledge that all too soon it would be taken away.

  He withdrew his hand.

  “Now,” he said, “the Fifty-Two Fists.”

  Eogan’s eyes widened. “Father …”

  “Now.”

  Reluctantly the boy assumed the position of readiness, neck straigh
t, body rigid, arms upraised, a veil of doomed hopelessness already descending over his face. Comprising a blizzard of lightning-fast attacks over a period of less than five seconds, the attack known as Fifty-Two Fists required total commitment to absolute destruction of the opponent. Done properly, it could kill a man three times Eogan’s size and weight. But the slightest tremor of intent left its unlucky practitioner wide open to all manner of retribution.

  “Now,” Artagan said.

  The boy launched himself at his father, arms scissoring in a blur of punches. At first the results appeared promising. But all too quickly, Artagan saw a hole, lunged forward, and threw his son to the floor.

  Eogan lay supine, gasping for air, eyes shining, cheeks and forehead blazing. Only now did the anger come, belated, impotent.

  “Are you going to cry, then?” Artagan didn’t bother hiding the disappointment on his face. “You know the rule.”

  “Yes, Father.” The boy jerked his head up and down fiercely, fighting back tears. From the beginning, the rule had been simple: for every tear, a drop of blood.

  “Then get up,” Artagan said, extending his hand. “And we’ll try again.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And all for what?” a new voice jeered from the far end of the shop, ringing off the flat metal surfaces that surrounded them. “One match? Two if he’s lucky?”

  Father and son turned to look at the guard stepping out from behind a massive briquette press hunkered in the far corner. Making his way toward them, CO Voystock approached the debris block and gave it an appreciative kick before turning his full attention to Artagan and Eogan.

  “You’re wasting your time, kid,” the guard said wryly. “You know that, right?”

  “I’m training.”

  “For what, a one-way trip down the cremation shaft?”

  “That’s—” Eogan’s face contorted, becoming bitter. “What would you know about strength and discipline?”