Izhsmash removed the little panel from the back of the force-feedback climate control valve using a slender metal shim and a pair of tweezers.
“Lovely,” he muttered. “The wiring’s on a trip switch stepped down all the way back to the primary alarms.” Leaning in, he separated the wires. “Hand me the keypad.”
Strabo thrust it over in disgruntled silence. Ever since the regrettable incident in the prison laundry, his status within the Gravity Massive had plummeted from leader to toady. Meanwhile, within that same stretch of time, without a word being spoken, Izhsmash had somehow risen to the level of de facto captain of the Massives. The reversal was humiliating. Yet there was little to be done—the rest of the crew somehow seemed to sense that Jagannath had appointed Izhsmash as their new captain, and that was the end of it.
Now he and the Nelvaanian were standing on a two-meter-wide expanse of latticework in one of the countless sublevels of the prison. Steam pipes and four-hundred-degree thermal vents bracketed the concourse on either side like heavy cylindrical pillars. From the other side of the wall that formed a seemingly abandoned stretch of holding cells, something screamed and thumped, emitting a short, loud hooting call. Whatever was in there, it sounded huge. And angry.
He shot a glance at Izhsmash. “You’re sure this is the spot?”
“This is where Jagannath told me to hack in.” The Nelvaanian picked at the wiring, threading the keypad into place. “No idea how he’s going to keep from tripping the alarms, though. Personally, I think we’re all dead.” He glared at Strabo. “Hold that light steady, will you?”
Strabo almost shot back a retort but held his tongue. He was only here because he too had received a message from Jagannath telling him that his presence was necessary for this operation. Apparently his sole reason for existence now was taking orders from others.
“What if—” he began. But that was as far as he got before the hatchway to his immediate right exploded off its hinges.
Strabo leapt back with a cry of surprise. What he saw defied all expectation—an orange-skinned Deathspine varactyl, four meters high, came bursting forth into the concourse, its tail thrashing and whipping the air. The bird-lizard was shrieking and hooting wildly, slamming its body against the far wall, and immediately Strabo understood why. The Zabrak, Jagannath himself, was sitting astride its back, clutching its beaked face with both hands, jerking it right and left.
Jagannath? Strabo’s mind whirred. How did he get in there in the first place? Then he saw it, just a glimpse through the open hatchway—the ceiling of the varactyl’s cell, with the open panel that had been dislodged from above.
Directly in front of him, the bird-lizard bucked and swung itself 180 degrees around, braying all the louder as it tried to throw Jagannath from his perch. Its hind leg came forward, hooking one clawlike foot into the Zabrak’s torso and slashing his skin. But the red-skinned inmate hung on with a kind of brute-force determination that Strabo had never seen before in any species. He was suddenly grateful that he’d decided not to defy Jagannath’s orders to come here—and glad that he’d never had to face the Zabrak in a bout.
By now the entire prison was responding to the disruption. Guards’ boots were pounding way up the hall. From the walls, alarms wailed and keened. Looking off to the right, in the midst of everything, Strabo saw Izhsmash working furiously over the keypad that he’d patched into the prison’s surveillance system, swiftly tapping in digits with a focused intensity that was completely at odds with the mayhem around him.
What’s he doing? Why is he—
A blur of activity snapped Strabo’s attention forward again. Jagannath had managed to grip the varactyl by its crest and wrenched its armor-plated skull hard to the right, slamming it directly into one of the steam pipes along the far wall.
The creature shrieked again—a wailing mournful cry that turned out to be its swan song. The steam pipe burst apart, shooting a thick, scalding blast of focused heat directly into the thing’s face, boiling its flesh and scalding its eyeballs in their sockets. The effect was immediate. Strabo’s nostrils stung with the stench of burned feathers and flash-fried skin as the varactyl’s flesh peeled back to expose the thickly plated vault of its cranium. Its body collapsed with the Zabrak still astride it.
Voices murmured behind him, and he glanced back over his shoulder. Curious inmates had joined the guards who were crowding up the hall now, drawn by the noise and activity.
“What happened?” somebody asked.
“Lizard broke loose,” Izhsmash muttered. He’d already finished whatever he’d set out to do with the wiring, yanking the keypad loose and shoving through the open panel, then closing it up just in time. “Jagannath stopped it.”
“Yeah, I guess he did.”
In front of him, Jagannath had taken hold of the varactyl’s boiled skull. With a final jerk, he snapped it completely free from its neck and yanked it upward. The scorched gray rag of the thing’s tongue tumbled free and dangled from its mandible like a limp rag of surrender.
Silence fell through the hallway. Dismounting, the Zabrak hoisted its massive skull up over his head, the inmates and even some of the guards taking a step back as he carried the grisly trophy forward down the length of the concourse. At the end, he turned and kept walking.
“Where’s he going with that thing?” one of the guards asked aloud.
Strabo heard another guard answer, under his breath, “You want to ask him?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Coyle peered admiringly at the skull in front of him. “Didn’t take you long to procure, did it?”
Maul said nothing. He’d carried the bird-lizard’s skull down the factory floor and dropped it unceremoniously at the Chadra-Fan’s feet, and what he felt now, more than anything, was exhausted. Staying on top of the thing long enough to kill it had required more strength than he’d expected, and at some point during the fray its powerful claws had dug a deep gash into his right flank. Blood was oozing slowly but steadily from the wound.
Yet it would all be worth it if things went as planned.
“Are you all right, Jagannath?”
“I’m fine,” Maul said shortly. “Just make sure you’re ready with your end of the deal.”
“I’ve already spoken to Zero about the necessary supplies.”
Maul nodded. “I’ll be back soon.”
“You should rest, my friend. You think they’ll be matching you again soon?”
“Very soon,” Maul said. “If all goes as planned.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
Maul didn’t respond, just turned to walk away.
“Jagannath, wait.”
Maul looked back. Reaching out, Coyle slipped something into his palm, a small, sealed packet. Maul glanced down and saw that it was full of finely crushed powder.
“What’s this?”
“White metaxas root,” the Chadra-Fan said. “It’s flavorless and odorless, but a few granules will kill almost anything that ingests it.”
Maul tossed it aside. “I don’t need this.”
“Suit yourself, but it might come in handy.”
Maul left the packet where it fell. All he needed right now was rest. If he could spend even a few moments recuperating in his cell and fashion some kind of makeshift dressing for the wound, he knew he’d be all right. And if Izhsmash had been able to take advantage of the distraction he’d created to hack back into the prison’s algorithm again—
And that was when the second set of alarms—the clarion call that meant the beginning of the next bout—began to shatter the world with sound.