SHOVING HIS way past a startled serving and tasting BD-3000 droid, the sous chef known as Robbs Ely stomped down the hallway, away from the kitchens.

As usual, Robbs thought, no one understood what he was attempting to do. His food wasn’t the kind of slop you could find in any kitchen. It was art. The methods he had learned during his long life while traveling from Coruscant all the way to the Outer Rim and back were unrivaled. Even Strono Tuggs, a.k.a. “Cookie,” a.k.a. the head chef of Maz Kanata’s castle and Robbs Ely’s boss, couldn’t match Robbs’s skill with seasoning or sauce mixing. And as long as Robbs kept his recipe book private, it would stay that way.

Yes, Robbs had his own way of doing things. Ways that seemed odd or out of place in most kitchens, but that always yielded undeniable results. Did it matter that a dish had been ordered differently than what Ely concocted for the customer? The sous chef couldn’t see how. All that mattered was that the food was good, and as a chef he knew better than the person ordering the meal.

And that’s what the latest fight had been over. Cookie wanted the bantha meat buttered and roasted with a set of herbs that would make a Hutt gag. So Robbs had ignored the direction, followed his own muse, and created a dish fit for a prince. And what did he get for it? Kicked out of the kitchen! That’s what!

Robbs Ely grumbled to himself and keyed in the entry code for his quarters. The door slid open, and from inside the dark room, a long blade appeared.

The sous chef never knew what hit him.

ROBBS ELY was dead all right.

The Artiodac chef known as Strono Tuggs, nicknamed ‘“Cookie,” stared into the deep freezer. Hanging inside, carefully and expertly butchered, was what was left of his sous chef.

Cookie closed the freezer door with a heavy sigh. Old Robbs had always been difficult to work with, and his temper was legendary. It wasn’t uncommon for the four-armed, orange-skinned Volpai to pick fights with other members of Maz Kanata’s castle over food preparation, recipes, or plating techniques. In fact, just the night before, Robbs had unleashed that temper on Cookie himself. The pair had engaged in an epic yelling match that ended only when two of the scrubbers hauled the angry sous chef outside.

But that was just Robbs. Cookie hadn’t even been offended. The pair had worked together for years, and old Robbs Ely…he was passionate about his art—something he and Cookie had always had in common. It had bonded the two in friendship easily, but as two culinary artists, they had been bound to fight over methods now and again.

“Not gonna be fighting anymore,” murmured Cookie, an edge of sadness audible in his otherwise deep and grumbling voice.

The head chef of Maz Kanata’s kitchens was tall; even with his hunchbacked frame, Cookie towered over most other residents of the castle. His stained brown apron hung low, almost covering his heavily booted and misshapen feet. And his head…well, it was never said that Cookie would take the lead in a beauty contest. Even among his own people, his asymmetrical features and wide flat nose left him a curious sight that intimidated or nauseated all who looked upon him.

It would have been easy for Cookie to descend into a life of resentment and dull anger. But that sort of path had never appealed to the misshapen Artiodac. No, instead Tuggs had always been obsessed with the art of food preparation. When he was young, he stumbled across some ancient holovids of a four-armed culinary genius named Gormaanda.

The experience had changed the young Artiodac, and before long he had dedicated his life to his newfound passion—cooking. That path had led him across the galaxy, from one end of the Outer Rim to another, always in search of the next great recipe, seeking the next best challenge.

The only thing that had ever stood in Cookie’s way was his off-putting appearance. It overshadowed all he had labored to build, and no amount of skill or art in the kitchen could compensate—until he met Maz Kanata and was given a chance to run the kitchens of one of the most famous smugglers in the galaxy.

For over twenty years Cookie had served. For over twenty years he had practiced and honed his craft. For over twenty years he had presented and created dishes of unexpected beauty and grace—as wonderful in flavor as the Artiodac was ugly.

It had been all the chef had ever wanted. And now it was at risk.

A body in the freezer—the locked freezer that only Strono Tuggs was supposed to have access to—expertly butchered in a way that only a skilled chef might manage…the body of someone who had been quarrelling with the chef just the night before.

It was a frame job, clear as day.

COOKIE DISPOSED of the body the only way he could think of. A quick trip to the dungeon, an unlocked cell or two, and one of the resident creatures would make short work of the remains. Any sign of the trespass would be overshadowed by the jailer’s concerns over the escaped beast. The attempted frame would no longer stick. At the very least, the chef would buy himself enough time to figure out his next move.

Cookie didn’t return to the kitchen right away, instead choosing to wander some of the less traveled halls of the large castle. Good for thinking…

And the chef had a lot to think about. Why would anyone want to frame him? Just to shift suspicion? Why not hide the body somewhere no one might ever find it? Riskier if caught, without a scapegoat. But still…

Cookie shook his head. Few beings in the castle could move about the place as freely as the chef. He was trusted—as trusted as any regular denizen of the castle might ever be. So maybe that had been the plan. Use the chef and his resources…force him into aiding the murderer, into eliminating all evidence of the crime—which meant the guilty party was accepting the risk of the chef’s knowing about the crime, rather than trying to hide it completely.

Why do that? Why let anyone know? True, with the body landing right under his nose, the chef was in a bad spot. If he told anyone, Cookie knew he’d fall under suspicion. But he thought a killer who was smart enough to know that would also be smart enough to concoct a disposal method that would leave no witnesses whatsoever.

So the killer didn’t just want to pin the crime on someone else. Cookie was being targeted specifically. And whoever put down old Robbs knew the way into the locked freezer, and managed to get in and out of the kitchens with a body without Cookie noticing.

And was an expert with a cleaver. Maybe as good as Cookie himself. So the guilty party had skills. Kitchen skills…

Cookie sighed. That line of thought wasn’t getting him anywhere. Turning left down a hall, he headed toward the sous chef’s quarters.

There wasn’t much to see. The door was locked and only Robbs had known the code. Could be that Cookie could override it, but that would only alert castle security—not an ideal move at that point.

Something caught the chef’s eye—greasy brown fingerprints on the keypad. Cookie hunched down and sniffed. A hint of sikoroot…a touch of cenwick…a few other herbs Cookie had never quite identified. It was the sauce Robbs had made the night before—the one for the bantha roast that had led to the fight. But the fingerprint…the Volpai sous chef had burned his fingerprints off a long time before. So these marks? They belonged to someone else.

The pattern and order of the fingerprints were easy to follow based on how much sauce was on each key. Following the pattern of the fingerprints, Cookie entered in the code, and the door opened with a light swoosh.

The small room was a wreck. Cookie had been inside before, and Robbs had been tidy to a fault. Someone had recently ransacked the place. And the safe where the old sous chef kept all his famous and controversial recipes? Unsurprisingly, empty.

The chef poked around the rest of the room. Not much to see at first glance. He bent down and pushed away some of the debris scattered on the floor. There were some slight scrapes on the ground. Thin lines, from a knife blade maybe? But too thin…

And there was one more thing. A small drop of blood—dried, though not for long. If there had been more blood spilled—and Cookie assumed there must have been—it had been expertly cleaned up. That one drop had probably been missed due to the wreckage strewn about the small room.

There was nothing else.

Cookie resumed his walk, heading back down the labyrinth of passageways. There hadn’t been enough of the print for identification, he considered—too smudged. Other than solidifying the likely place of the murder, the scrapes on the ground didn’t seem to tell him anything he didn’t already know. And the theft of the recipe book…

It was enough to get the chef’s wheels turning. The sauce…the unidentifiable spices…

“Problem, boss?”

Cookie looked up. In his wanderings he had naturally drifted along a familiar course and landed back at the entrance to the kitchens. It was early morning, and Cookie was surprised to realize he had been walking around the castle all night. Now his small team of prep cooks and scrubbers were on hand, preparing for the day’s duties—a job that would be much more difficult with the absence of the sous chef. On top of everything, Cookie would have to find someone to replace old Robbs. Someone who could match the skills of the sous chef…

A room full of eyes stared at the head chef. He abruptly realized he hadn’t answered. “Naw…” Cookie said, looking at his underlings. “Naw…everything’s good.”

The eyes turned away, the kitchen staff resuming their various tasks.

Someone would have to be promoted. The role of sous chef came with purpose and prestige. It meant being a fixture in the castle and forever having a safe home serving food to someone Cookie considered one of the finest beings in the galaxy.

And that was it. Strono Tuggs, a.k.a. “Cookie,” knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that someone in the room, someone in his employ, had to be the killer.

A FEW HOURS and a carefully concocted scheme later…

“So…” Cookie said to his assembled workforce. “Old Robbs has left us. Don’t know where. Don’t know why. Doesn’t matter. But we need a new sous chef. So it’s a lucky day for one of ya.”

Cookie limped closer, surveying the lineup. “Here’s the deal. You want the job, step forward now.”

Four members of the kitchen staff stepped forward, leaving eight behind. The head chef smiled to himself. Two-thirds of the suspects eliminated, just like that.

“So here’s how we’re going to play this,” Cookie said. “You grubs gonna compete. Each of you in four rounds cooking the best dishes you got. Last one standing gets the job. Understand?”

All four of the prep cooks nodded, shifting their eyes up and down the line and examining the competition. Cookie felt a chill. None of the individuals he was looking at had been working late night in the kitchen when Robbs was last seen. Any one of those louts could be the killer. Cookie stared at them, considering carefully what he knew about each.

The willowy Devaronian named Sama Macoy was new to the castle; she had worked in the kitchen for only a few months. She was talented, had a good sense of seasoning, and was certainly ambitious—but ambitious enough to kill?

Next was a Corellian known as Relva Jace. Relva was a brutish sort, sullen and angry with a heavy brow and long scraggly hair. He kept to himself, usually working in a corner cutting and dicing. He had some knife skills, that much was certain. But would Relva use those blades on a living being?

Damor Gregon was another human, with a shaved head and massive beard. He had worked in the background of the kitchen longer than anyone. Never fought. Never missed a day of work. Never got promoted. Had his long history of being passed over finally gotten to the prep cook?

Last was a Quarren/Mon Calamari hybrid named Jom Jarusch. Jom was a cynical sort, liked to make jokes about the futility of existence and was rumored to share whispers for a price. No one really liked Jom. No one really trusted Jom. But no one was ever likely to think the weasely amphibious creature was a killer. And wasn’t that just what a killer would want?

Those questions would all be answered soon. One of the four had to be the killer. One of them had found a way into Robbs’s private quarters. Maybe Robbs had walked in on the killer stealing his recipe book. Maybe killing Robbs had been the plan the whole time. But one of those four…They all had the knife skills. They all had the motive. None of them was working in the kitchens at the time of the murder.

One of them wanted the job of sous chef enough to kill for it. No way the killer would let that chance slip away by not using Robbs’s recipe book.

Whoever was guilty would surely be incriminated through the cooking. The game was now afoot.

TO HELP give the ruse of a competition a ring of truth, Cookie drafted the two senior-most serving droids into the judging box. The droids, a pair of fairly archaic and heavily modified BD-3000 units, had long before been reprogrammed to analyze consumables for potential toxins through sensors built into the synthetic skin covering their right hands; their left hands were outfitted with a variety of utensils. Those upgrades, along with years of tasting experience, allowed the droids to conclude the overall quality and subtlety of a dish. More important, the serving droids were impartial in the matter and could be trusted to judge without bias.

The droids may have been upgraded internally with sophisticated analyzers, but externally they were showing their age. Their chassis were cracked and their once pleasing female-styled faceplates had decayed into grotesque parodies of humanoid features. Their legs and hip assemblies had long before been replaced with models far cruder than the carefully balanced gyroscopic swaying systems installed at inception.

The result was a pair of droids that were slightly attractive in some aspects, and yet horrifying to look at in others. They were, however, programmed to be incredibly diplomatic with sweet personalities.

Horrifying to look at was something that Cookie could relate to.

The head chef had converted his precious kitchen space into the ideal contest floor, crowded with every piece of cooking equipment he could find in the basement storage so as to accommodate the different competitors. Most of it was heavily outdated. Large double conveyor ovens and several massive mixing machines filled the room, along with some sturdy metal and wood tables. It was all bolted down—for safety. Long thick power conduits were strung up, hanging from the ceiling like ropes.

A couple of Industrial Automaton cam droids fluttered around the renovated kitchen, recording the event—and it was an event. That’s how Cookie had sold the idea to the castle majordomo, as a competition to distract the sometimes unruly residents of the castle. It had been an easy sell; a storm was blowing into the region and there would be very little else to keep people entertained.

The judge’s box was a large lifter platform designed for construction labor. It had been unused for some time but was sturdy and stable enough. It gave the three judges a clear view of the four-person kitchen below. Luckily the kitchen was currently in a space with a high ceiling—a holdover from when the room was used for storage.

The first challenge had already begun. Each contestant was tasked with the creation of a breakfast platter. The pantry had been stocked with all the supplies a talented and creative sous chef might need to make a stunning dish, and each contestant was permitted to bring a supply of complementary ingredients—to make it easier to figure out who was using Robbs’s recipe book.

The aroma of grilled dianoga wafted up. Damor had carefully extracted the small amount of meat hidden in the upper back of the aquatic creature and was attempting to cook out the less favorable aspects.

“A risky venture,” observed the BD-3000 on Cookie’s left. That one was commonly known as Carly. She was the less broken down of the pair, and her face still held something of a pleasant demeanor—well, half of it did, anyway.

“If Damor overcooks the dianoga, it will activate the blood parasites that live in the fatty tissue. That will destroy the flavor.”

“True,” added the BD-3000 on Cookie’s left. She was called J’Nell. Cookie had no idea why. Maybe it had something to do with her serial number. “But if Damor is successful, the dianoga will be a hard dish to beat.”

Cookie shifted his focus to Jom. The amphibian was playing to his strengths. “I do not understand,” said J’Nell in her pleasant mechanical raspy voice. “Jom Jarusch does not appear to be taking this competition very seriously. A dessert is not the best way to showcase one’s talents.”

The head chef grunted, narrowing his eyes as he answered the droid. “Baking is serious all right. No room for error. Jom messes it up, it’s all over in round one.” Cookie scrutinized Jom’s methods. He was sifting what looked like basa root flour—distinct in its orange coloring.

“It’ll be a spicy dessert,” Cookie said. “You wait and see. That basa is no surprise. He’ll have to work harder than that if he wants the job.”

Pots clanked. Pans sizzled. The room was hot and filled with different flavors of smoke. It didn’t bother Cookie. The air was heavy with the robust scents of his art—the art of food. And while someone in the room certainly had to be the killer, they were still all fine chefs.

A bell whistled and the cam bots drifted up around the judging box. Cookie pressed a button and the hydraulic platform slowly and loudly lowered to the floor of the competition kitchen.

Round one was over. It was time for the judging.

“TELL US about your dish,” Cookie said to the first contestant.

Damor stepped forward, a wide grin hiding beneath his long and bushy beard. “What I done prepared for ya today…you see it’s a pair of pikobi eggs, lightly basted and seasoned, with a side of flayed and grilled dianoga. It’s a high-level dish, Chef. You’ll see.”

Cookie stared at the human. They had worked together for years. But could he be the killer?

“Tell me…” Cookie said casually as he cut into the dianoga. “Why do you deserve to be my new sous chef?”

“Well, with all respect, Chef, I been here longer. I done worked harder. And I know food as good as the next. You make me the sous chef? I’ll keep this kitchen in shape, I will. You’ll see.”

Cookie nodded. The food was good. The spices were subtle. The meat was cooked perfectly—no parasites!

Carly processed a sample, slicing it open with one of the knives built into her left hand and tasting the meat with a bare fingertip. “You have used two grams of fat for every third measure of water.”

“Yeah…” Damor stammered, unsure how to answer the droid. “Yeah, I wanted to try and keep the meat from drying—”

“You could have achieved a better result with a pinch of grulluck oil. Cheaper and more flavorful.”

“Well, maybe. But I hadn’t much time and—”

“I agree with my counterpart,” buzzed J’Nell. “You missed a perfect opportunity to elevate this dish. Next?”

“Now wait a minute—”

But Damor was cut off as Relva Jace pushed past. “Shank of mousta, Chef. Sautéed and cooked rare, with a side of charred fruit.”

Cookie sliced into the meat. It was particularly pungent, which was good. But the sear was off. And…

“Your seasoning skills are clumsy, Relva Jace,” said J’Nell. “You know what is missing here, don’t you?”

“I guess…I guess I needed more salt?”

“You guess?” interjected Carly as the droid cut her own piece of meat with one of her thin built-in utensils. “You know this dish is lacking, but you present it before us now as if it should win you accolades. How do you explain this?”

“Time,” Relva said, meeker than Cookie had ever seen him. “I just needed more time. I got caught up—”

“It’s not all bad. A little bit more focus…you coulda had something grand,” Cookie said, feeling a bit sympathetic. Yes, Relva’s cooking had been subpar. Yes, he wasn’t fit for the role of sous chef. But more important, he had proven one thing with his uninspired and underseasoned dish: he was not in possession of Robbs’s recipe book. He wasn’t the killer.

Next up was a spicy fruit tart from Jom Jarusch. The basa flour base was well handled. Surprisingly flavorful. Enough to keep the prep cook in the running and under suspicion.

And finally, a double toasted seallia sandwich with a heavy and sweet blood syrup by the always grinning Sama Macoy. It was good. Probably the best dish of the day.

So round one was over. Relva Jace was finished. But the dishes of the other three…any one of them could have been a play from the recipe book of Robbs Ely.

Time for round two.

“THIS NEXT round will challenge your skill in preparing food under pressure,” said Carly.

“Agreed,” said J’Nell.

The remaining three contestants/suspects exchanged confused glances. “What they say is right,” Cookie added. “You all better keep your heads down and make the dish of a lifetime while you’re at it. You hear?”

And with that, the head chef of Maz Kanata’s castle pressed a remote button and the multiple blasters that had been rigged into the walls started firing over the contestants’ heads. The guns were old, locked into place long before the head chef had found his way to the castle. And when the large room had originally been renovated to accommodate cooking, Cookie took advantage of the opportunity and turned them into remote sentry turrets—easy enough now to take command of and use to add some energy to the proceedings. They couldn’t actually hurt anyone—not the way they had been positioned. They were firing far too high. But that sense of security was easy to overlook, given the circumstances.

“Interesting,” said Carly. “Both Jom and Damor seem to have experience working under tense conditions. See how they both know to belly crawl when they hear the high-pitched whine of the stun cascade rifle?”

“Yes,” added J’Nell. “But the time away from the table is costing them. Take note that Sama Macoy is working through the stun blast and accepting the slower reaction time in favor of the continual prep time.”

“Well…” said Cookie. “That technique won’t be helpin’ her in the long run. See what she’s makin’? That’s a Devaronian specialty—a kind of tangy soufflé. I seen it before. But you need to know your whisk times. You slow down too much…”

A loud explosion filled the room with smoke—and it wasn’t one of the prebuilt hazards of the contest. Sama’s soufflé batter was extremely volatile and had to be kept in constant motion. The stun pulse had taken its toll, and the Devaronian had let her batter blow up.

It was more smoke than anything. No one was hurt. But the added chaos would make things interesting, not to mention the fact that Sama would have to start a dish from scratch, all while suffering the sickening effects of low-level stun blast exposure.

Meanwhile, her two competitors were moving quickly. Damor was already plating, and Jom was adjusting the frequency of the oven. Looked like Jom was going extra ambitious and making a special side dish. Not necessary for the judging process, but the extra effort might pay off if it earned the amphibian the win.

Of course, Cookie reminded himself, there was a larger game at play.

The bell rang. The round was over, and the judges prepared to taste the food once more.

“SAMA?” ASKED COOKIE. “Tell me about your dish. Tell me why you should be my next sous chef.”

The Devaronian’s eyes flashed bright lavender—an indication of her aggressive mood. Her voice hissed from her grinning mouth of sharp teeth. “I make a classic dish—flash-fried zuchii with a tangy sauce. It’s good. It’s crunchy….”

Cookie cut into the zuchii. “And why,” he said, as he sampled a bite, “should you be the sous chef?”

“You got no one better,” Sama said. “I know how to tame the flavors, not cower from responsibilities like these worms.” As the Devaronian spoke, she gestured at the two competitors who stood behind her. “I can cook. I can create dishes never seen in this system before. You see what I can do—”

“I see that you failed to create your first dish, yes,” interrupted Carly.

“And you have the nerve to bluster while forcing us to sample a last-minute replacement,” J’Nell added. “So unprofessional.”

“It wasn’t my fault! The batter…it was a bad batch—”

“It is a poor chef who blames the ingredients.” Carly waved away Sama Macoy. Cookie felt bad for the Devaronian. But judging by the inferior texture and flavor of what she had made, she definitely wasn’t working from the recipe book of Robbs Ely.

So she was innocent and therefore out of the competition.

Only two remained. Damor served a fried sisofish with a citrus salad. It was excellent, far beyond common cooking. The heavily bearded human chef had really sprung back from his stumble in the first round. Jom delivered a spicy living zelrey wyrm. A very ambitious and daring dish, expertly executed.

Cookie never would have thought either prep cook could have delivered such an excellent meal. It would be all the more impressive if one of them hadn’t killed to acquire his skills.

“THIS IS THE final round,” Cookie said. “You have offered up some fine cooking. Shame there isn’t a promotion for both of you.”

Cookie stared at the two finalists. “I’m thinking, though, maybe we’ve been too easy on you? Maybe it’s time to really test your skills. To that end…”

Cookie pressed a button on a small remote control in his apron, and the gravity of the kitchen abruptly cut out—it was one of the newer upgrades the chef had petitioned the majordomo of the castle for, a variable gravity floor grid to help maneuver large equipment. No problem for Cookie or the two taster droids, who were strapped in to the judge’s box. But for the two competitors…? As Damor lost his footing and scrambled midair, Jom used his long and slick tentacle-like fingertips to seek purchase on a nearby conduit.

And more, the ingredients that had been carefully scattered around the room also began to float.

The two contestants looked distressed, but Cookie only chuckled. “Better start grabbing whatever you can and get cooking. Yeah, you’re cooking in zero g. It happens. Get on with it!”

It was definitely a sight worth seeing—and everyone in the castle who wanted to see it could. Aware of the plan, the cam bots weren’t affected by the gravity shift, and they floated and flitted around, catching every comical angle of the two prep cooks trying to swim through the air after their wayward ingredients.

“Jom does seem to have the advantage,” Carly said.

“Yes,” agreed J’Nell. “His particular biology makes mobility an easier task. But will he turn his easier access to ingredients into an advantage, or will it cause him to overcomplicate his dish?”

It was true, Cookie noted. Due to the inherent elasticity of his somewhat sticky appendages, and his experience as an aquatic being moving in three-dimensional space, Jom was able to navigate the lack of gravity much more readily than his human opponent. Meanwhile, Damor was gathering several of the brightly colored fruits that had clumped together in the warmer current of air from the ovens. More than he needed, Cookie thought. Still…the human had delivered impeccable food so far.

Jom was making fast progress. The amphibian had managed to get ahold of a floating rack of baby bantha ribs. The cook was attempting to rub them with a butter sauce but was making a mess of the process. Drops of the sauce drifted across the room, floating through the air like bubbles.

Carly reached out with her sensor finger and dipped the tip of it into a bubble, tasting the ingredients. “Intriguing flavors. Difficult to identify the spices. This being is one to watch.”

J’Nell reached out and dabbed her sensor finger into another nearby bubble. “Savory and sweet. A bold choice to pair with roasted bantha. Indeed, I believe you are correct.”

Reaching out and tasting for himself, Cookie had to agree. It was a bold choice. One that was as unusual as the various herbs that had been cooked into the butter. It was something that might win the competition—but there wasn’t really any reason for the game to continue.

Jom Jarusch hadn’t even tried to hide the recipe. It was the very same one Robbs Ely had cooked only one night before. The last thing the sous chef had ever prepared.

Jom was the killer.

COOKIE SLAMMED the button in his apron and reinitiated gravity ahead of schedule. A loud clattering rang through the room as pots and pans and utensils rained down on the floor. Unable to compensate for the gravitational shift quickly enough, the two cam bots fell abruptly, too, smashing to pieces. Cookie felt a twinge of remorse. Probably should have given some warning.

The two competing chefs also hit the ground hard, but Cookie didn’t feel particularly regretful about that.

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” asked Carly. “The competition has not yet been finished. The round will have to be started over from the beginning.”

“No need,” Cookie replied. “Know all I need to know. You!” he yelled, pointing at Damor. “You got the job! Now get out of here!”

“But…” Damor said, glancing over at Jom. “But what about…?”

Cookie had no patience for this. Damor could have been the guilty party he had been seeking, but Jom had practically signed the crime. Now the head chef had a killer to confront, and the “winner” of the contest was no longer a serious concern. “You want I should change my mind?” Cookie yelled. “Go!”

Confused, Damor scrambled to his feet and ran out of the room.

Jom was dazed, his scalp bleeding from the impact with the floor. In front of him was a large knife. Just to be on the safe side, Cookie stepped on the blade with his even larger foot, pinning it to the ground.

“What…what is this?” Jom managed.

“I think you got a pretty good idea. You think I wouldn’t know what you did?”

Jom shifted his gaze to the ground. Seeing the knife under the chef’s foot, he looked deflated. “I thought…I thought I could make a name for myself. Okay? I’m a good…I’m a good chef! I just needed some help. Some training…So I thought…I’ll just borrow the book. Get some recipe tips. I still prepared the dishes! I didn’t think—”

Cookie hauled the prep cook up by the throat. With his free hand, he reached inside Jom’s tunic pocket and pulled out Robbs’s recipe book. “You thought you could kill your way into the job! That’s what you thought?” Cookie was beyond angry. “You think stealing someone’s recipe book’s gonna make you as good as them?”

“Hk…Dead?” Jom croaked in a confused voice. “Didn’t…didn’t kill…”

Jom’s tentacle-like fingers were pulling at Cookie’s massive hands. Didn’t matter though. Those thin and flexible fingers the hybrid Quarren/Mon Calamari had would never break Cookie’s grip. They would never…

They would never leave fingerprints. They were too slick. Jom couldn’t have left those marks on the keypad to Robbs’s room. And he wasn’t in the kitchens that night. He wasn’t handling the sauce that Robbs made. In fact, none of the chefs were working that night; that was why Cookie had considered them. They were all unaccounted for when the murder occurred. But that would also mean none of them would have been in contact with the sauce that stained the keypad….And the only other beings that would have touched the sauce—literally, they would have had to put their fingers in it—beings that left the kitchen area for long stretches of time…

…were the two tasting and serving droids.

Cookie’s hand began to relax around Jom’s throat. The prep cook was still alive. But where did the—

And that’s when the heavy rolling pin smashed into the back of Strono Tuggs’s head.

COOKIE HAD a thick skull—luckily.

His vision swam. He saw double. Triple. In front of him, a rusted metallic blur moved forward and struck down with a sharp motion. Cookie heard a scream. Jom, he thought. That was Jom. And the prep cook’s attacker had to be one of the two tasting droids. But where was—

On instinct, the massive chef rolled to his left, narrowly dodging the strike of a thin blade. The razor-sharp edge cut into the stone floor, leaving a thin and deep cut in its wake. Just like in Robbs’s room, Cookie thought. How did I not notice…?

But there was no time for self-recrimination. His vision had mostly returned. Carly was towering over him. Cookie kicked with his strong foot and the droid fell. Grasping blindly, Cookie found a fallen frying pan. He turned, only just barely blocking a blade strike from J’Nell.

“Give us the book,” Carly said as she picked herself off the floor.

“Give us the book and your death will be painless,” added J’Nell.

Cookie stepped backward, almost tripping over Jom. Instinctively, the chef glanced down. Dead. Murdered by the taster droids. “You killed him,” he said, unsure why he was even surprised.

“You should have just taken the fall,” J’Nell responded. “You could have fled the castle. Left the planet. No one would have pursued you over such a small matter.”

“Just give us the book,” Carly said, her agitation growing stronger.

“Why?” asked Cookie. “Why is this recipe book so important? Why you gotta kill to get it?”

Carly slashed out with her blade. Cookie stumbled back, just barely dodging it. Instead, the razor-sharp knife cut through one of the power conduits connecting the ovens. Sparks showered the room, and a thick black smoke began drifting from the damaged ovens into the warm air.

J’Nell circled around the chef. “It is our primary function—to taste and analyze the output of the kitchens. To ensure the safety of those who consume the dishes served.”

“How could we achieve this,” Carly added, “when the sous chef insisted on using unknown foreign spices and potentially dangerous recipes?”

J’Nell moved in, stabbing. Cookie wasn’t quick enough and the blades dug between his ribs—just a shallow wound, bleeding badly but he hoped not fatal.

Calculating her next cut, J’Nell spoke. “All we wanted to do was take the recipe book. Study it and add its contents to our database. Robbs Ely would never allow that. He gave us no choice!”

Cookie saw that Carly was getting too close. He swung the frying pan, temporarily stunning the droid.

J’Nell took advantage of the distraction and stabbed again, this time digging the blades deep into Cookie’s shoulder.

“If he had just given us the book…No one ever had to die,” Carly said.

“Yeah. But he didn’t have it, did he?” Cookie replied between gasps of pain. He edged his way backward. He was in the heart of the makeshift kitchen. He pulled himself over some spilled baskets. “You killed him, but the book had already been stolen. You needed to flush out the thief as much as I did.”

“We need that book,” J’Nell said. “Without it, our database is incomplete.”

“And once you are dead, there will be no more witnesses. No more problems,” Carly added.

Cookie knew his time was running out. He grasped a heavy conduit hanging from the ceiling. It was the gas line feeding the large ovens. The chef tried to use it to haul his injured body over a heavy table, but the conduit snapped, releasing noxious gas into the already smoke-filled room.

No way out, Cookie thought. J’Nell and Carly both closed in. Cookie gripped the leg of the table with one hand. The two droids raised the thin blades that were a part of their arms.

Above their heads sparks flew and mixed with smoke. Equipment whose operation had been compromised by the broken cabling shuddered and screeched. The room was rapidly turning into a horrific landscape.

And then Cookie pressed the button on the remote hidden in his apron.

THE GRAVITY cut out instantly. Pots, pans, utensils, food, everything floated—including the two murderous droids.

Cookie looped one arm around the leg of a table that was bolted to the floor.

Carly and J’Nell were clearly outraged. “This will not save you!” shouted Carly as she floated toward the center of the room.

“We will kill you! We will have the recipe book and we will fulfill our primary programming!” screamed J’Nell, as she drifted lazily upwards.

The droids continued to yell and yell and yell. Whatever purpose they had once served had clearly been lost. Their memory circuits were corrupt beyond reason.

“Kill!” shouted J’Nell.

“Cut you! Slice you!” added Carly.

“No,” said Cookie. “The game is over.” And with that, Cookie reached into his pocket and pressed another button.

The weapons system activated at full strength.

In the air above Cookie, the weapons barrage began. Floating high, the two droids were caught in the crossfire. Cookie closed his eyes, trying to tune out the mechanical screams. The droids had served a long time. They hadn’t always been killers, he tried to remember. But in his hand, he felt the hard cover of the recipe book of his lost friend, and he couldn’t quite muster any real sympathy.

With one last shower of sparks, the power systems blew. There was a quick roar of fire as the gas that had been released ignited. And then the gravity kicked back on and the weapon fire stopped. And the two ruined husks that had been BD-3000 droids fell to the ground with a clatter.

It was over.

IT TURNED out luck was with Strono Tuggs. One of the cam bots hadn’t quite been destroyed when it collided with the ground, and had somehow managed to capture footage of the entire sordid affair. There had been a bit of an inquiry, but by and large, castle security was content to see that the entire matter had been resolved with the destruction of the two taster droids.

Cookie was back at work in the kitchens. In front of him was a line of his prep cooks, led by Damor, the new sous chef.

“Okay then, grunts. Listen up,” Cookie said, wincing only a little. He was healing, but bellowing still produced a twinge of pain. “We’re a new kitchen today. We’re gonna do some good work. And to remember those we lost, I got you all a copy of this.”

Cookie started handing out carefully copied drafts of Robbs’s cookbook. The time for secrets was over. Too much trouble had come from trying to keep things private. “You’re all gonna study this,” he said. “You’re all gonna learn from it. This book? It’s filled with art. The art of cooking. So learn it and live it.” Cookie stared at his staff of cooks. His voice was deadly serious but held a trace of sadness. “I expect you all to honor old Robbs’s memory. Understand?”

The room responded with a rousing, “Yes, Chef!” And then everyone went to work. There was a meal shift soon enough and no more time to play around. Cookie moved to his station and looked over the list of ingredients on order for the day. Some of them he was unfamiliar with. But that was to be expected. The new recipes were unique. And though the deceased sous chef had kept things secret when he was alive, Cookie knew that Robbs Ely would have wanted his innovations to live on.

Cookie had seen to that. He hadn’t just made copies for his cooks; he had uploaded the entire recipe book to the Orto Culinary Academy. Even now, hundreds of new students were studying Robbs’s work. And Cookie was certain that one day the old sous chef’s name would be up there with the likes of great galactic chefs like Jlibbous of Zenn-La and Gormaanda the great.

There were worse notes to close out on, Cookie thought.

And with that, he got to work.