Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters Read online

  Within a day IG-88 was hired, escorted off by two thugs working for a petty dictator named Grlubb, who was embroiled in a feud with another weapons runner.

  The thugs were brawny Abyssin cyclops creatures with green-tan skin and arms that hung down to their knees. IG-88 wasn’t sure if Grlubb was attempting to intimidate or impress him, though the assassin droid could have slaughtered both of the one-eyed monsters in less than a second. He decided that the brutes were merely bodyguard escorts. The Abyssin no doubt intimidated everyone else in the cantina, and now all the gunrunners on Peridon’s Folly knew that IG-88 had been hired by Grlubb.

  The petty dictator was a small, rodent-faced creature with a scarred nose and stubby feline whiskers that had been burned off in a recent duel. Grlubb surrounded himself with dozens of monstrous guards armed to the teeth, sometimes including teeth.

  “One of my rivals,” the rodent-faced dictator said, “has begun to develop unethical weapons. I simply cannot tolerate such behavior, especially from an inferior.”

  “What weapon can be unethical?” IG-88 asked, curious as to what this weasely creature considered beyond the pale of possibilities.

  “Biological weapons, insidious nerve gases—you know, things that don’t make a bang. That takes most of the fun out of it.”

  Grlubb slid a datadisk across his desktop, and IG-88 reached forward to pick it up in one powerful metal hand. As he moved, a dozen weapons suddenly cocked and trained themselves on the assassin droid, as if daring IG-88 to make a move against Grlubb. Because IG-88’s metal framework body could show no expressions, the other bodyguards had no idea how amused he was that they believed they could protect this dictator should IG-88 actually want to kill him.

  For his own amusement IG-88 ran a target map and calculated that he could probably kill every one of the guards in less than five seconds while sustaining minimal damage to himself. It might be enjoyable, he thought, but not true to his programming—certainly not if he hoped to sell his services as a bounty hunter to other clients. This first mission must go off perfectly.

  IG-88 fed the datadisk into his input reader, summarized the information. “It shall be done,” he said. “Give me until this afternoon.”

  Grlubb cackled and rubbed his clawed hands together. “Thank you! Thank you very much.”

  • • •

  IG-88 chose to use brute force rather than finesse. Blatant destruction would leave a much clearer calling card.

  He marched across a blasted wasteland that had been used for testing projectile weapons and detonating explosives that spread clouds of caustic gases. IG-88’s bulk left cratered footprints on the lifeless hardpan as he headed directly toward the target stronghold dug deep into a rust-red rockface. Lookout turrets and weapons emplacements guarded the corroded metal access door, but IG-88 walked straight up to the fortress. Not until the last moment did he see anyone stir in the guard turrets, and by that time he easily ducked under the range of the defensive laser cannons, standing too close in to be a decent target.

  He halted three meters from the scabbed surface of the armor-plated doorway and launched his first concussion grenade. He calculated that even from here the shockwave wouldn’t damage him.

  The detonation struck the center of the door and reverberated like an immense gong up and down the canyon. Rocks fell in a small avalanche from the cliff walls. The sentries in the turrets ineffectively blasted down with their laser cannons, leaving only scorched trails, but missing the droid.

  Using various spectral filters, IG-88 scanned the damaged door. The center blazed in infrared as the heat dissipated. He analyzed the vibrational signature and noted where the structure of the metal now showed fine crystalline cracks.

  Satisfied, he prepared a second concussion grenade.

  IG-88 had twelve in his store, and he expected this door would require only three.

  Actually, it took four grenades to completely destroy the door. As the smoldering molten wreckage of the doorway crashed to either side, IG-88 clomped into the fortress, determined to recalibrate his sensors and his predictive models when he had the time.

  He strode down the dark corridor, knowing that even now the target would be rallying his defenses, setting up ambushes along the way. But IG-88 knew the path he must take. Blueprints of the stronghold as well as locations of weapons emplacements and complements of mercenary guards had been on Grlubb’s datadisk.

  From a fortified cul-de-sac, five guards began firing at him with blaster rifles. Their bolts spanged off IG-88’s duraplated armor. No simple energy weapon could damage him unless the beam struck exactly the right spot—only a few of IG-88’s original designers knew such vulnerabilities, and most of those designers had been slaughtered at the Holowan Laboratories’ massacre.

  IG-88 used laser cannons in each arm as he methodically struck down one target after another, blasting through armor shielding when necessary. Finally unhindered, he powered down his laser cannons and continued his relentless march to the inner levels of the stronghold.

  Another group of guards attacked him by spraying instant-hardening epoxy in a novel defense that clogged his gears and servomotors. IG-88 pondered for a moment then raised his body temperature until the epoxy bubbled and smoldered, finally snapping when he bent his powerful limbs. When the guards continued to fire on him, he launched one of his concussion grenades into their midst.

  He shifted through various optical filters for a better view through the growing smoke in the corridors. Up ahead he saw sealed doorways marked with danger symbols indicating biological contamination. Behind thick transparisteel windows, people in bulky environment suits and heavy masks ran about, trying to shut down experiments in progress while others attempted to escape the lab.

  IG-88 went to the contamination-sealed door, decided it would be too difficult to rip free, so he targeted the observation window instead. Both durasteel hands struck five times with planet-cracking force until the thick transparisteel shattered, collapsing inward with a popping sound as the lower air pressure equalized. The masked lab workers ran about frantically.

  IG-88 crashed through the rest of the wall, then scanned for three seconds, analyzing the containment systems and cataloging the inventory of deadly toxins. Finished, he calculated the best way to release them all.

  IG-88 walked about in a carefully chosen path that must have appeared a bestial frenzy to the fleeing observers. He ripped out power packs from containment fields so that puffs of deadly gas sprayed out; he smashed canisters, and clouds of lethal microorganisms wafted into the air. An emergency field came on to seal the entire laboratory, but IG-88 found the controls and shut that down as well.

  When all of the horrible substances had been unleashed into the fortress ventilation systems, IG-88 went about catching the fleeing technicians in their masks and sealed outfits. Delicately and precisely, he tore their faceplates free, exposing them to the noxious chemicals and diseases they had themselves created.

  The laboratory burned around him. Blinded mercenaries staggered about, gasping and retching in air clogged with purplish smoke. This had been a satisfying experience, but he wished to waste no more time. He shot those who delayed his exit and left the rest to rot in the poisonous carnage.

  Mission accomplished. First objective achieved.

  Before departing from Peridon’s Folly, IG-88 sought out his second objective, the more personal goal.

  He moved quietly in the darkness, using stealth routines and camouflaging algorithms to insinuate himself into the fortified household of Bolton Kek, one of the original neural network designers of the IG series.

  Kek had laid the groundwork for the Holowan Laboratories’ project, but then he had taken another consulting job, retiring from Imperial service on “moral grounds.” Bolton Kek had retired to the world of Peridon’s Folly, where he sold his services to the various weapon runners.

  The target lay asleep in his dim bedroom, and IG-88 moved forward in utmost silence. Talking directly
to them in binary, he had bypassed the myriad alarm systems and security fields on Kek’s home. Inside, IG-88 enhanced his optical sensors to pick up the dim light in the room.

  Bolton Kek was sound asleep, no doubt considering himself safe. He snored softly and snuggled up against another biological figure, a female. IG-88 ran a quick analysis and identified her as a green-skinned Twi’lek dancing girl with wormlike tails trailing from the back of her skull. How these biologicals consort with each other, IG-88 thought.

  The dancing girl would have been an easy victim, but she was not on his target list, and IG-88 did not waste energy. It was likely that Bolton Kek didn’t even know about the escaped assassin droids—but IG-88 could not risk leaving a single person alive with such knowledge.

  As the engineer snoozed, IG-88 powered up one laser cannon, aimed the bright red targeting cross, and squeezed off a precise burst directly through the unwrinkled forehead of Bolton Kek.

  IG-88 swiveled around and began to march out the door without stealth. The Twi’lek dancing girl awoke and shrieked obscenities at him in a language whose translation he did not hold in his databanks. IG-88 ignored her as he plodded without pause toward his ship.

  Both objectives had been secured.

  From Mechis III, IG-88 had downloaded a list of surviving scientists who knew dangerous details about the assassin droids, those engineers who had not remained at the Holowan Laboratories. With the file in his fore-brain, he knew exactly where to look for other bounty hunter assignments.

  The list would steadily grow shorter and shorter.

  He shouted. His face turned livid. The cavernous nostrils on his huge nose flared. When Imperial Supervisor Gurdun bellowed, spittle flew into the face of Minor Relsted.

  “Doesn’t anybody realize there’s still a ‘dismantle on sight’ order for IG-88? That law is backed up by the full weight of the Empire!”

  Gurdun sniffed and raged as he looked down at the reports of the bounty assignments IG-88 had been successfully completing. He seemed to be leading a crusade against humanity from planet to planet. Gurdun sat down heavily in his chair, which creaked uncomfortably. He sighed and shook his head. “Why do people keep hiring him? They’re risking the wrath of the Empire.”

  Minor Relsted blinked his eyes and stammered. “Sir, I believe it’s because IG-88 always gets the job done.”

  Gurdun roared at him. “Oh, get out of here!”

  Startled, Minor Relsted plopped an armful of files down on Gurdun’s desk. “Excuse me, sir, but before you go home tonight, you must read and sign these.” Then he scuttled in terror out of the dungeon-like office.

  VI

  At first it awed Imperial Supervisor Gurdun to ride in the shuttle next to Darth Vader, the Emperor’s brutal right-hand man. But as their craft descended through the gray cloudbanks shrouding the industrial centers of Mechis III, Gurdun found himself flinching at every hissing breath, nervously flicking sidelong glances toward the fearsome black helmet and the monstrous dark form. Gurdun had tried to make small talk several times, but Vader was not a very good conversationalist.

  The pilot of Vader’s private shuttle expertly guided them over the warehouses and manufacturing centers, homing in on the tall administrative tower. Gurdun leaned over to peer through the window at the industrial landscape below and bumped his large nose against the window. He rubbed the nose painfully and scowled, then tried one more time with Darth Vader.

  “This is a very large and very unusual order, Lord Vader. I appreciate your coming along to insure it receives the proper attention. I’m convinced these individuals on Mechis III are more concerned with corporate profits than the glory of the Empire. I had a terrible time getting Administrator Hekis to speak directly with me on the comlink.”

  Vader’s breathing sounded like a hollow wind through a cave that trapped lost souls. “Don’t disappoint me, Supervisor Gurdun,” he said, each word like a stabbing vibroblade. “I hold you personally responsible for seeing that these new probot spy droids are completed on schedule and deployed. The Rebels have escaped from Yavin, and we must find them again. One Rebel in particular …”

  “And who is that?” Gurdun asked brightly, pleased to have engaged Vader in what seemed to be a nice chat.

  “That is none of your concern, Supervisor Gurdun.”

  “Uh, no,” he said, “of course not. Just curious, that’s all.”

  After the assassin droid debacle at the Holowan Laboratories, Gurdun had been placed in charge of overseeing the development of the Arakyd Viper Probot Series, a new line of black spy droids to be sent out by the thousands to search for hidden Rebel installations in all corners of the galaxy. The Imperials were keen to exact retribution for the destruction of their expensive Death Star.

  Gurdun hoped that these probots might also give a clue to the location of his missing assassin droids. The IG assassin droids still roamed the galaxy, blatantly taking on bounty hunter assignments as if to slap him in the face.

  Mechis III had received and acknowledged the large order for probe droids, but when Gurdun asked to inspect the assembly line personally, Administrator Hekis’s video image had been most disconcerting, strongly discouraging the visit. When Darth Vader asked for a progress report and Gurdun reported this reluctance, the Dark Lord decided to take matters into his own black-gloved hands.

  Vader did not ask permission to visit Mechis III. He simply arrived.

  The Imperial shuttle settled onto the red-lit rectangle atop the tall tower. He fumbled with his seat restraints as the shuttle doors hissed open.

  Seeing his chance escaping, Gurdun took a deep breath to gather courage, finally broaching the subject he had been wanting to mention since takeoff.

  “Uh, Lord Vader, if I might be so bold as to request …” He rubbed his nose unconsciously. “With the completion of this order, I was wondering if you might reconsider interceding on my behalf on my request for … ah, I mean … the surgical procedure that I’ve been needing for some time now—”

  Vader swiveled his hideous helmet toward Gurdun, and the Imperial Supervisor shrank back, not wanting to confront the black plasteel face. “Your physical appearance does not concern me,” Vader said. “I have no interest or desire in providing you with useless cosmetic surgery. If your large nose continues to trouble you when you look in the mirror, perhaps I should remove my helmet and let you have a look? Then you wouldn’t be so concerned.”

  Gurdun held up his hands. “No, no, that’s not necessary, Lord Vader. I see your point. I won’t ask again.” He rubbed his nose as if he could reduce its size simply by friction.

  A silvery administrative droid rushed toward them as Darth Vader stood outside his private shuttle. The droid waved its metallic hands. “Greetings, greetings, sirs! I am Threedee-Fourex, in charge of activities while Master Hekis is tending to an emergency. How may I serve you? We were not informed of your impending arrival.”

  Gurdun puffed out his chest. “That’s because we did not choose to inform you of our arrival. Lord Vader must speak with Administrator Hekis regarding our extensive order of new probe droids. We must be assured they will be delivered on schedule.”

  Fourex ushered them into the tower, down a turbolift, and into the austere offices of the human administrator. Gurdun glanced around, surprised that a man with so little to do with his time would choose to have an office utterly devoid of interesting artwork. Hekis must be a dry sort of fellow indeed—a perfect choice for the job here.

  “Where is the administrator?” Vader said.

  Fourex froze for a moment, as if uploading information. Gurdun wondered how old a model the droid was; he hadn’t seen such a delay in a long time. “There has been a breakdown on the far side of the planet, sirs. One of our agricultural harvester droid production facilities. Administrator Hekis must remain there until the situation is resolved.”

  Vader said, “I am not interested in your emergencies. I wish to speak to Hekis. Establish a vidlink now—or shall we go visit hi
m personally?”

  Fourex paused again, hesitating, then finally he said, “I will establish a vidlink. I’m certain I can connect you. Have no fear.”

  Vader answered as if it were a question, “I have none.”

  Threedee-Fourex slipped through the door and returned in a moment, wheeling a tall, silvery vidplate, a square frame that the administrative droid connected with a series of cables to a wall computer. The screen fizzed with multicolored static, focusing and shifting as an image took shape out of assembled pixels.

  A pale-faced man with a long chin and sunken eyes smiled insipidly through the vidplate. Behind him smoke poured from broken-down machines in an assembly plant. The black hemispherical bodies of low-to-the-ground machines splashed reflected light from red alarm beacons. Diagnostic droids and repair droids busied themselves, digging through the smoking machinery.

  The alarms dampened in the background as the voice pickup emphasized Hekis’s words. “Lord Vader, this is an unexpected surprise!”

  “We have come to make certain that our probe droid order is fulfilled properly,” Gurdun said. “We are anxious to see these machines delivered and put into the service of the Empire.”

  Hekis seemed flustered but trying to hide it. He gestured toward the disaster behind him. “Don’t be concerned with this minor flaw,” he said. Harvester droids scuttled away from the site of the wreckage, their crablike multipurpose arms thrust up out of the way so they could travel smoothly.

  “We’ve had no problems with the probot order. In fact, the design has been completed, the assembly lines retooled. We’ll begin mass-producing them within the next two days. You should have your entire order within a week. I believe that is several days ahead of schedule.”

  “Excellent!” Gurdun said, rubbing his hands together. “You see, Lord Vader? I told you we could trust our man Hekis.”