Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters Page 6

  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.”

  X

  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.

  XI

  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.

  In a rapid burst of file transmission, IG-88 described why he had come to Cloud City, who he was looking for. The protocol droid stopped and pondered, then uploaded a computer blueprint showing the full display of all levels of the floating metropolis. “Boba Fett has gone to the garbage recycling level. Han Solo has not yet arrived, although moments ago our perimeter scanners reported a ship matching the description of the Millennium Falcon entering the system. It appears to have some hyperdrive damage.”

  “Good,” IG-88 said. “If Boba Fett has gone to the lower levels, he must be establishing some sort of ambush for Solo.” He looked at the Threepio droid, flashing his red optical sensors. “Continue your work here,” he said. “Watch for Solo and his party. They are mine.”

  The protocol droid gruffly acknowledged, then strutted off.

  Inside his mind, IG-88 studied the computer map and plotted a path to where Boba Fett was secretly preparing an ambush. IG-88 would kill the bounty hunter and then wait for Han Solo. The mission would be straightforward—and then he could get back to his real calling on Mechis III.

  Cloud City’s dim, industrial levels were cluttered with discarded equipment and locked-down supply cases. From the temperature and the low illumination, IG-88 knew that humans would find this environment uncomfortable. Ahead, in a chamber lit by orange glows and fiery flickers, he heard the clank of a conveyor belt, chittering creatures—biologicals known as Ugnaughts, according to his species files.

  IG-88 powered up his weapons, prepared for anything. His heavy metal feet sounded like struck gongs on the deck plates as he strode toward the doorway of the garbage-processing chamber.

  The instant he passed through the metal hatch, four ion cannons on either side of the entryway fired at him, triggered by motion sensors as he crossed the threshold.

  The high-power weapons slammed a cloud of crackling blue electricity into him, enveloping him with a flood of short circuits, a mass of contradictory impulses that shut down his systems one after another despite his shielding. Ion cannons produced no physical damage, no thermal emissions—they simply shut down electronic systems.

  And IG-88 was one enormous set of electronics. Boba Fett had been waiting for him, not Han Solo.

  His body disconnected, his mind scrambled. Thoughts flickered like ricocheting projectiles inside a sealed metal room, and IG-88 lost all control. He jittered, stuttered, his arms flailed. His weapons refused to fire. His optical sensors filled with static, frying, recovering, then frying again.

  The ion cannon bombardment stopped, and his self-repairing systems gave him one instant of vision, a video frame: Boba Fett emerging from the shadows, holding a portable ion cannon like a bazooka. Boba Fett fired again, personally this time. A blast of electrical fire like a comet struck IG-88’s chest and bowled him over so that his multi-metric-ton body smashed into the metal walls, denting them as he tumbled to the ground.

  Boba Fett strode forward, looking through the bla
ck slit in his Mandalorian helmet. “No microtracker is too small to evade my inspection. I found your device on my ship.”

  Fett stood over the crumbled form of the assassin droid, who lay unable to move or defend himself, all of his weapons systems off line.

  “I knew you were coming.”

  With emergency backup systems, IG-88B continued to transmit his subspace signal, uploading his files to Mechis III in a last desperate attempt to preserve his memories. Even if this metal form were destroyed—and it looked as if that was about to happen—his entity could continue.

  The simian Ugnaughts tittered by the groaning conveyor belt where they had been sorting garbage and scrap metal. They blinked their tiny eyes and watched the confrontation between Boba Fett and IG-88 with awe.

  Fett stooped to withdraw two of IG-88’s own concussion grenades. Without a word, Fett set the timers for one standard minute, then carefully, moving like a surgeon, implanted each detonator inside IG-88’s body core. The assassin droid had thick, impenetrable armor—but that was designed to protect from an external attack, not this.

  Boba Fett calmly stepped back, though only a few seconds remained on the grenade timers. He turned to the cowering Ugnaughts. “You’re welcome to whatever scrap you can salvage from this hulk,” he said. Then without looking back, he strode into the corridors of Cloud City, preparing for his meeting with Han Solo. IG-88 tracked him for the last few seconds.

  And then the concussion grenades blew.

  XII

  The trio of remaining IG-88s received the data transmission from their fallen counterpart with the closest approximation to horror assassin droids could experience.

  IG-88C and IG-88D stood rigid in the high-security manufacturing area. “We will go to intercept Boba Fett,” they said in unison. Their harsh mechanical voices resonated as identical words rippled from their speakers. “Regardless of his skill, this biological will never survive an encounter with two assassin droids.”

  IG-88A looked at the long cylinder of the decoy Death Star computer core. They would have to deploy the mission within the next day if his ultimate takeover plan was to come to fruition. He couldn’t delay. The stormtrooper simulacra bustled aboard their mock Imperial shuttle, preparing the cargo hold for the changeling computer core.

  “Go,” IG-88A said to his two counterparts. “I will stay here to complete the Death Star mission. You eliminate Boba Fett.”

  • • •

  The pair of silver needle ships, exact copies of the original IG-2000, arrived at Cloud City. As they approached their target, the floating metropolis was a turmoil of panic and chaos. The Imperials had taken over.

  The baron-administrator, Lando Calrissian, had sounded a general alarm, requesting the evacuation of all personnel. Every functional ship was already in flight, filling the airways with a panicked, headlong rush.

  Bypassing the Cloud City computer systems, IG-88 learned that Han Solo had been captured and encased in carbonite. Boba Fett had taken him away to collect a second bounty from Jabba the Hutt.

  Fett was already gone, mere hours before.

  The twin IG-2000 ships hung next to each other, aloof from the panicked evacuation. The two assassin droids linked together and conferred.

  “Programming. We installed two sensors aboard Boba Fett’s ship.”

  “We could trigger the dormant tracer and locate where he has gone.”

  “Correct. But if Fett has Han Solo, we already know where he will go.”

  Much later, IG-88C waited in low orbit around the blistering scab of Tatooine, a worthless desert world broiled under a pair of suns. The planet offered no reason for any intelligent creature to want to live there—but biologicals were quite irrational and infested all sorts of worlds, tolerable or not.

  The atmosphere was like a thin fingernail of blue, a tiny breathable skin covering the sphere of desert. IG-88’s ship cruised low, its hull warm from friction with the scant upper atmosphere.

  Linked to his hidden counterpart IG-88D, he scanned the skies and waited. Since assassin droids could fly and react faster than any biological pilot, they knew the ship’s exact tolerances, and they could plot riskier hyperspace paths than any human would dare attempt. IG-88 was confident they had arrived before Boba Fett, if just barely.

  Boba Fett’s ship, the Slave I, appeared like a projectile from a slingshot snapping out of hyperspace. IG-88C put all his weapons on alert, all his sensors on standby, then rocketed his needle ship to confront the bounty hunter. Thinking he had destroyed IG-88 in the garbage levels of Cloud City, Boba Fett would be astonished to see the assassin droid again.

  Logically, IG-88 expected the biological to request further information, to challenge the intruder. Once Fett understood the new situation, he would be forced to bargain with the superior assassin droid, if not surrender utterly.

  But Boba Fett reacted with remarkable speed. Without a word or a second of hesitation, the bounty hunter launched every sort of weapon and peeled off in a slick corkscrew maneuver that took him out of the IG-2000’s firing path. The Slave I’s weapon bolts struck home all at once, pummeling the heavily armored IG-2000.

  With a certain measure of embarrassment and shame, IG-88C uploaded his files and sent them to his counterpart an instant before his ship exploded over Tatooine.…

  IG-88D screamed out of hyperspace, hurtling toward Fett’s ship in a brutally precise in-system hyperjump that would have been impossible for any biological pilot.

  Before Boba Fett could react, IG-88D fired upon him from behind with concentrated blows that rocked his shields. At the moment IG-88’s primary goal was not to obliterate Boba Fett—though that would be intensely satisfying. He had run simulations to determine the best possible technique to hurt Boba Fett, to humiliate him—and he had decided that the best way would be to take his precious bounty, Han Solo, away from him.

  Firing repeatedly without the slightest respite, IG-88 infiltrated Boba Fett’s comm system and demanded that he surrender Solo. Fett did not respond, again acting irrationally, which made his actions very difficult to comprehend or predict.

  As the needle ship roared after him, firing and booming, Boba Fett altered his course on a steep descent directly toward the planet. The full power of his engines drove him at the giant fist of sand below.

  IG-88 tried to determine what Fett intended to do, yet could come up with no reasonable solution. He spoke across the comm channel again. “Surrender your prisoner and you have a thirty percent probability of surviving this encounter.”

  Boba Fett continued to dive down and down and down. Slave I’s hull glowed cherry red. The atmosphere of Tatooine clawed against his shields as he streaked lower, picking up inevitable speed.

  IG-88 transmitted again. “I am far more capable of withstanding the gravometric pressures than you. This tactic has a zero probability of success.”

  When Boba Fett again refused to answer, IG-88 increased his speed to tolerance levels, narrowing the gap between his ship and the Slave I. He rode tight in the bowshock from Fett’s ship.

  But suddenly, in a remarkable move, Boba Fett activated his inertial damping system, slamming his descent to a halt in the atmosphere of Tatooine; the stress and power required for such a maneuver utterly trashed his hyperdrives.

  IG-88 zoomed past him, unable to squelch his velocity sufficiently. He brought the IG-2000 to a halt in less than two seconds—directly in the targeting cross of Boba Fett’s ship. The Slave I’s ion cannons blasted out with all the remaining power in Fett’s engine core, slagging the IG-2000’s shields and weapons systems.

  Boba Fett activated his tractor beam, grabbing the crippled IG-2000 and drawing it closer, closer to the Slave I like a combat arachnid drawing in its prey. IG-88 looked up to see the barrel of Fett’s concussion missile launcher pointed directly at him.

  Boba Fett finally responded over the comm system. “The Empire has issued a ‘dismantle on sight’ order for you, but I wish they offered a higher bounty. You�
��re persistent, but you’re not worth much.”

  IG-88, disbelieving, did not even remember to transmit a full personality backup to Mechis III before it was too late.

  Boba Fett launched a full bank of concussion missiles. The second IG-2000 erupted into an incandescent cloud that spread molten spangles across the atmosphere of the desert world.

  XIII

  Shielded and in radio silence, the decoy Imperial fleet hung in a wasteland of space, a void without stars or planets, nothing the least bit interesting—except that the real convoy carrying the Death Star’s computer core would traverse this sector within one standard hour.

  IG-88A captained the decoy fleet waiting in ambush, while his counterparts went off to strike against Boba Fett. He sat in silence aboard the main ship, unconcerned with what IG-88C and D were doing. He had full confidence in their abilities, and Fett would no longer be a problem.

  His own primary concern was to become the marvelous new Death Star battlestation. The time was now, the plan was set, and his assault team of stormtrooper droids was ready. The plan had been burned into their primary programming. They would not hesitate.

  They waited with mechanical patience in their trap—and then pounced.

  The unsuspecting original fleet—one heavy long-distance freighter and two escort fighters—sprang out of hyperspace, piloted by real Imperial stormtroopers, carrying the genuine Death Star computer core. The Imperial ships hesitated, gathering their bearings to make another jump along a different transdimensional pathway.

  The moment they saw the decoy fleet waiting for them with weapons powered up and ready to strike, the Imperial commanders must have thought they were seeing sensor reflections of themselves.

  IG-88 transmitted his order. “Fire at will.”