The prison’s kitchen was like every kitchen Maul had ever been in, frantic and noisy and breathless, clamoring with enough inmates and service droids that he could slip among them without attracting much notice. Every surface was cluttered with bulk food and utensils—massive blocks of half-thawed bantha patties dripped from the counter; enormous pots boiled on the stove. The sticky air reeked of cheap synthetic protein, gravy, and starch, all of it billowing in the steam of the massive industrial-sized dishwasher bolted to the floor in the corner, where endless rows of trays juddered through the scalding spray on an automated belt.
Maul approached the dishwasher, studied it for a moment, and then picked up a large, unused pressure cooker from the cabinet behind him. Next to it, he found a bottle of ammonia-based cleaning solution and silica bicarbonate, poured them in together, and sealed the pressure cooker, placing it onto the conveyer belt among the trays and sending the whole thing directly into the four-hundred-degree heat of the machine.
“Hey, buddy,” one of the inmates said. “What’s your business here?”
“Trouble.” Maul turned around and stared at him. “You want some?”
The inmate went pale so quickly that his face almost seemed to disappear. “Hey, you’re right,” he said, hands raised, voice shaking. “I didn’t see anything.”
Maul waited as the inmate back away, then turned and walked out. Reentering the mess hall, he leaned against the wall and waited.
Ten seconds later, a loud metallic bang erupted from inside the kitchen, followed by shouts of surprise.
The noise had an immediate effect on the mess hall. Maul watched as two gangs of inmates jumped instinctively together in response to the sound, gathering on either side. In the middle of the room, the older human fighter he’d noticed earlier swung out one hand in a protective gesture around the boy. Three inmates sprang forward, seemingly out of nowhere, placing themselves in protective stances around the Twi’lek inmate whom Maul had seen studying him earlier.
In the midst of everything, only one inmate—a diminutive Chadra-Fan, his growth so stunted that he scarcely stood three feet tall—never even looked up. Throughout it all, he continued happily eating his lunch, picking out the small bones, humming to himself as if nothing had happened.
As order returned to the mess hall, Maul walked over to him and sat down directly across from him.
“Hello, brother.” The Chadra-Fan glanced up, grinning, his large front incisors fully exposed, rodent-like ears twitching as his flat, slightly upturned nose wiggled as if trying to catch a better whiff of Maul. Or perhaps he was still sniffing his breakfast, the putty-colored block of gelatinous synthetic protein clutched in his free hand. Reaching into it, he pulled out a small, thin bone and held it up appreciatively. “The greatest treasures are found in the unlikeliest of places, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?” Maul asked.
The Chadra-Fan responded with a humble nod. “Coyle’s the name. But I’m just a microbe here, a nobody among nobodies, aren’t I? You don’t want to waste your time with me, brother.”
Maul leaned forward to speak into his ear. “You’re the only one who didn’t jump when that explosion went off,” he said. “Why?”
Coyle smiled shyly. “Noticed you slipping into the kitchen, didn’t I? Already stirring the pot a little? Did you get the information that you were looking for?”
“Who’s the Twi’lek?” Maul asked. “The one those other inmates moved in to protect?”
The Chadra-Fan ignored the question, sizing Maul up from across the table. “Big one, aren’t you? A lot bigger than you looked on that holovid.” He crammed the remains of his meal into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and then stopped, fishing out another bone and placing it on the growing collection in the corner of his tray.
“I’m looking for someone,” Maul said.
“Aren’t we all?” Coyle asked pleasantly enough, brushing the last of the crumbs from his whiskers. “Quite a brawl last night, wasn’t it? Offed that ugly tosser in less than five standard minutes, didn’t you? Brother needs some wicked fierce skills to fight like that, doesn’t he, then? And we asks ourselves, who trains the wrecker to do his wrecking?”
“I’m looking for Iram Radique.”
“Radique, then, is it?” Coyle narrowed his eyes and scratched the tuft of hair between his ears. “Nope, can’t say I know that name, do I? Never heard of him, not around here, not likely, no sir.”
Maul shifted his gaze across the mess hall to the two gangs that had come together when the explosion had gone off in the kitchen. In the ensuing moments they’d loosened up and spread out again slightly, but the social fabric was still clear enough. One crew had gathered in the far right corner, near the place where inmates had come spilling into the hall from the cafeteria line, maybe two dozen in all. This group was all human, their heads shaved, their ears and noses pierced with what looked like bits of bone. Maul could tell just from the way they were standing that they were holding something hidden in their uniforms, inside their sleeves, tucked up into their tunics. Something sharp and secret.
Across the room, a second group stood, a human and nonhuman mix with a vicious-looking Noghri positioned in front of them, clearly their leader. They’d all cut the right sleeves off their uniforms to expose a series of matching tattoos that spiraled from wrist to shoulder. At first glance they were a more random, ragtag group, and it made them look primitive and dangerous. Their gaze shifted from Maul to the other group and back to Maul again.
“What about them?” Maul asked.
“The two crews? Bone Kings and the Gravity Massive. Vas Nailhead runs the Kings”—he nodded at an enormous, thickly bearded human with sharpened incisors—“and the Gravity Massive answers to Strabo over there.” He switched his attention to a hairless, gray-skinned Noghri on the opposite side, accompanied by an attentive Nelvaanian sidekick. “Me personally, I wouldn’t go messing with none of them, brother. Don’t know much besides killing, do they? And even that’s a stretch for most of them, isn’t it?”
“And the Twi’lek,” Maul said. “What’s his name?”
“Twi’lek?” Coyle blinked. “Got no name, doesn’t he? Not one I’ve heard. We just call him Zero, doesn’t we?”
“Zero?”
“As in Inmate Zero, on account of he’s been here from the beginning.”
“Why is he protected?”
Coyle gave him a shrug. “Zero’s always been the one who can get things.”
“What things?”
“He’s the one with three I’s.”
Maul frowned. “Three eyes?”
“Items. Influence. Information.” Another shrug from the Chadra-Fan, who was back to sorting through his collection of small bones. “Always been that way, hasn’t it? Least since I’ve been here.”
Maul turned to direct his stare at the place the Twi’lek had been standing when the explosion had gone off in the kitchen. Now he was gone, as if he’d simply vanished amid the rest of genpop.
“If I wanted to find him again, where would I look?”
“Who, Zero?” The Chadra-Fan considered. “Oh, I suppose he’s been known to visit Ventilation Conduit 11-AZR, is maybe one place he’s been known to entertain visitors, from time to time. Of course that’s just hearsay, isn’t it? Nothing guaranteed, is there?”
“Conduit 11-AZR,” Maul repeated.
“That’s right, but—”
Maul had already turned to walk away.