Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters (7 page)

“Those Rebels won’t escape us.”

Bossk, a reptilian Trandoshan with claws on his scaled feet and hands, spoke down at Admiral Piett in a mixture of growl, gargle, and hiss. He too had heard the human’s snide comment. Piett flinched and turned away.

“Sir, we have a priority signal from the Star Destroyer
Avenger
,” another of the uniformed biologicals said.

“Right,” Piett said, marching away.

The other bounty hunters stood nearby, each posturing in his own way. Closest was Dengar, a slouching, surly-faced humanoid with his head wrapped in bandages, holding a heavy weapon. Side by side were Zuckuss and 4-LOM. Zuckuss was a Gand, some kind of
organic creature who did not breathe the same atmosphere these humans did, and thus wore a rebreather mask with tubes and gas jets directed into his lungs. His protective suit made him look bulky and unwieldy.

In contrast, his droid companion 4-LOM seemed sleek and insectile, independent and efficient. IG-88 studied the black droid, considering whether to recruit him for the coming revolution … but decided against it. He didn’t dare take the risk that a loose cannon like 4-LOM might give away IG-88’s carefully laid plans.

Last stood Boba Fett, wearing battered Mandalorian armor and an impenetrable helmet. He looked like a droid, but moved like a human—to his disadvantage.

Demanding IG-88’s entire attention, though, was the black-caped form of Darth Vader who strode along the upper deck, inspecting the bounty hunters.

“There will be a substantial reward for the one who finds the
Millennium Falcon
,” Vader said. “You are free to use any methods necessary—but I want them alive.” He pointed to Boba Fett as if the armored human were the biggest threat. “No disintegrations.”

“As you wish,” Boba Fett said in a grating voice.

IG-88 heard the information, but devoted his attention to analyzing the way Darth Vader moved, studying his tonal inflections in between hisses of his respirator. Vader was far more interesting than any bounty hunter—but IG-88 had to maintain the charade.

“Lord Vader!” Admiral Piett exclaimed. “My lord, we have them!”

The
Executor
lurched into pursuit, and the gathered bounty hunters exhibited a visible slump of disappointment … but the Imperials were overconfident organic fools, and they would no doubt lose their quarry again in moments.

IG-88 had other concerns. He did not care about Han Solo, or the
Millennium Falcon
, or the Rebellion, or the Empire. All would be … deleted soon. But he
did have his burgeoning reputation as a bounty hunter, and he had accepted this assignment, even if it was just a ploy. Once agreeing to take an assignment, IG-88 had no choice but to finish it, according to his core programming as an assassin droid—even if he didn’t give it his full priority.

As the other bounty hunters rushed to where they could receive supplemental information on the quarry, IG-88 dropped back into one of the corridors of the
Executor
. He stopped a small courier droid wheeling past on its urgent business. IG-88 sent a tiny binary pulse and discovered—as he had suspected—that this courier droid had been manufactured at Mechis III after the droid takeover. Its special programming allowed IG-88 to preempt its human-given commands and to follow the wishes of its master.

IG-88 withdrew a set of ultra-small microtracers, tiny smart trackers that could be placed invisibly on any ship. With a burst of override programming, IG-88 directed the unobtrusive courier droid to spin on its way to the docking bays. It would plant the microtrackers on each bounty hunter’s ship.

While IG-88B occupied himself with his more important mission of galactic conquest, the others could find Han Solo—and then IG-88 would usurp their captive. He would let Boba Fett, Dengar, Bossk, Zuckuss and 4-LOM scurry about in their frantic search, and IG-88 would reap the benefits. The plan showed the superiority of droid intelligence.

In an unoccupied corridor of the vast Super Star Destroyer, IG-88 finally got what he wanted. He found an unused terminal and jacked into the main computer core of the
Executor
. Normally the Star Destroyer’s programming defenses would have blocked any such intrusion, but IG-88 was faster and far superior to any sluggish starship computer. Besides, his infiltrated droids had already laid much of the electronic paths to provide access.

IG-88 stood like a monolith, the lasers in his fingertips powered up and ready to fire at anyone who might stumble upon his covert activity. It took IG-88B several minutes to upload and condense the entire database from the
Executor’s
computer core: a huge feast of information he would digest slowly in the privacy of the
IG-2000
.

Satisfied, his circuits crammed full of secret Imperial information, IG-88 clomped down the corridor, not seeing the bustling stormtroopers—humans attempting to look like droids—as their fleet prepared to enter hyperspace.

IG-88 heaved his bulk into the cockpit of his fast ship and left the
Executor
behind, simmering with new and unassimilated information.…

As the
IG-2000
cruised on autopilot in a random course to baffle any tracking attempts, he sat back and mentally scrolled through the millions of files he had stolen from the Empire. Most were garbage and irrelevant, and he deleted them to free up more capacity in his brain.

But it was the secret files, the private code-locked entries of Darth Vader’s personal records, that provided the biggest surprise of all. Not only was Vader concerned with his flagship and the Imperial fleet under his iron command—he also knew of the Emperor’s pet project, a second, larger Death Star under construction in orbit around the sanctuary moon of Endor.

As IG-88 digested the information, he had another flash of intuition. Some might have called it a delusion of grandeur, but IG-88—who had already been copied into three identical counterparts, his personality moved into separate droid bodies—saw no reason why he could not upload
himself
into the huge computer core of the new Death Star!

If accomplished, IG-88 could be the ruling mind of an invincible battlestation instead of encased in a bipedal form—a despised
biological
-based form! He could
become a juggernaut of unthinkable proportions. It strained the limits of his calculating power to run simulations of all he could accomplish if armed with a planet-destroying superlaser.

He could launch his droid rebellion much sooner. No one could stand against him. Entire military fleets could be wiped out with the brush of one of his weapons systems.

This was definitely worth pursuing.

IG-88B raced back to Mechis III to link brains with his counterparts and share his new plans.

Inside a supercooled computer inspection chamber on Mechis III, the four identical copies of IG-88 stared at a large flatscreen computer monitor. White wisps of cold steam curled around their metal legs, rising toward the ceiling where a roar of coolant air was sucked through ventilation grates, carrying away the excess heat generated by the churning mainframes.

IG-88B had disgorged the data uploaded from the
Executor’s
main core, and the files were even now being assimilated, copied, distributed among IG-88’s identical counterparts.

With their optical sensors tuned to peak performance, the four IG-88s studied the shimmering classified plans of the second Death Star. The perfect curves of the armillary sphere indicated where reinforcement girders were to be installed, where the central superlaser would be aligned … where the new and precise computer core would be attached.

The Death Star computer core had not yet been installed. It had not even arrived at the sanctuary moon—but now IG-88 had the schedule and the destination. According to Vader’s plans stolen from the
Executor
, IG-88 knew how the computer core would be
guarded, what path it would take as it entered and left hyperspace. It was all the information he needed.

“The solution is obvious,” IG-88A said. The others agreed.

“We must create a duplicate computer core, which we will inhabit.”

“We will secretly make the exchange. An identical core will be delivered to Endor.”

“The original core will be destroyed.”

“The identical core will contain our mind, our personality … our goals.”

At first the Death Star would be a heavy, immobile confinement—but once the weapon itself was operational, nothing could stop IG-88’s agenda.

Fully in agreement, the four assassin droids exited the computer inspection chamber through a heavy durasteel door that clanged shut behind them. When they emerged into the warmer, humid rooms, frost quickly formed around their exoskeletons.

Instantaneously transmitting the detailed specifications and plans, IG-88 instructed the administrative droid Threedee-Fourex to devote the facilities to construct a new computer core that exactly matched the Death Star design … as well as other items IG-88 would need.

The four assassin droids strode across the permacrete to the landing pad where the Imperial shuttles sat waiting in the smog-filtered sunlight: one long-distance heavy transport and two well-armed escort craft. The droids marched in lockstep, their weapons visible, their demeanor threatening.

A full complement of stormtroopers wearing polished white armor stood in perfect ranks in front of the heavy transports and the escort craft. Their blaster rifles rested in readiness on their shoulders. A hundred
soldiers waited at attention, combat ready, as the IG-88s approached.

IG-88 played his optical sensors over their ranks—the plasteel armor, the skull-like helmets, the black eye shields, the boots, the weapons, the utility belts. The stormtroopers made no move.

When he was satisfied, IG-88A spoke, “Perfect,” he said. “Exact replicas. No one will ever be able to tell you are droids.”

When Minor Relsted shuffled into Imperial Supervisor Gurdun’s dungeon-like office, the young subordinate grinned with idiotic pleasure.

“Supervisor Gurdun,” he said, holding the plaque and its coded transmission. “Important news from the Imperial Palace. You have been transferred. You have been given more direct duties in the field. Isn’t that good news?” Relsted’s eyes twinkled.

Gurdun snatched the plaque away and scanned the transmission verifying the holographic fields above and knowing this was no joke. “They’re putting me in charge of the … What is this outrage?
Another
Death Star project? I didn’t know we even had one going.”

“No, sir,” Relsted said. “You’re not in charge of the project, merely acquiring the computer cores and delivering them to the construction site.”

Gurdun reached with stubby fingers into the transparent snack bowl where shiny nut-beetles tried to climb the slippery sides. He picked up one of the bugs and popped it in his mouth, using his eyeteeth to crack through its outer shell. He split it open and used his tongue to pick out the soft juicy meat inside. He spat out the still-squirming legs into a wastebasket near his desk.

“I requested no such transfer. Is this a promotion, or
am I just supposed to think it is? Wasn’t Lord Vader satisfied with my work on the Arakyd probe droids? I finished the order exactly on time and within budget.”

“I’m sure it must be a promotion, sir,” Minor Relsted said. “My congratulations, sir.” He turned, hesitated, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, I am to take over your position in this office. If you would be so kind as to move out your effects as soon as possible?”

Imperial Supervisor Gurdun found he had lost his appetite for snacks.

As preparations for the assault on the Death Star computer core proceeded with all the speed the droid manufacturing world could muster, an imperative transmission from one of IG-88B’s smart microtracers shot toward Mechis III.

Boba Fett had found Han Solo.

Fett’s ship, the
Slave I
, was currently en route to Bespin, where Solo was heading toward a gas-mining metropolis known as Cloud City.

“We must intercept him,” IG-88 said. “We are bound by our programming.”

IG-88B departed from Mechis III, soaring into space in the sleek
IG-2000
.

Despite its aerodynamic shape, the
IG-2000
created a ripple of sonic booms as it screamed through Bespin’s atmosphere, distorting the cloud tops. As he arrowed toward his destination, the automated defenses of Cloud City sent out a query, taking care of the initial inspection before alerting any human guards to the assassin droid’s approach.

IG-88 transmitted command codes and a breakdown in programming, squelching the normal routines of
Cloud City’s defense network. As a result, the alarm sensors left him alone, and the human observers in Kerros Tower did not see even a blip on their traffic grid.

Piloting precisely, IG-88 cruised to the outer landing platforms, using his scanners to detect and analyze the various parked ships. He finally spotted Boba Fett’s
Slave I
in the mid levels of the city rarely traveled by tourists. Fett’s ship lay like a discarded household appliance on the docking plates as the clouds of Bespin swirled in the background, tinted orange with airborne algae in the coming sunset.

IG-88 landed his own ship on a nearby empty platform, sending a brief covert signal for one of his infiltrated droids to meet him and disseminate information. IG-88 extricated his metal bulk from the cabin of the
IG-2000
and plodded toward the dark inner corridors of Cloud City. The breezes on the landing pad whistled through gaps in his body core.

Inside, a silvery 3P0 protocol droid met him—one of the new and insidious reprogrammed droids from Mechis III. This droid, though, seemed to have an attitude problem—acting surly and discourteous, particularly rude to other droids they passed. IG-88 knew this was a result of the new sentience programming, but the droid’s governing routines must be malfunctioning. Although modified droids from Mechis III were indeed far superior to biologicals or even other droids, IG-88’s secret must be kept quiet. No one should suspect that anything untoward had been done to the droid minds.