Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters

by Kevin J. Anderson

  At his supervisory station Kalebb Orn sat up, surprised and confused. He was ostensibly here to take action in case anything unusual happened—but nothing unusual had ever occurred before, and he wasn’t sure what to do.

  The renegade droids plodded across the floor, their heavy footpads thundering with their enormous weight. Their squarish heads and torsos pivoted from side to side, searching for something.

  Searching for him.

  “Uh … stop where you are,” Kalebb Orn said when the worker droids stomped toward him, extending their bulky metal arms and clamping pincer claws. He dug through his workstation, looking for a manual that might tell him what to do next. When he couldn’t find the manual, he decided to run.

  But over seventeen years Kalebb Orn had done so little exercise that his flabby legs did not carry him far before he was out of breath.

  Other worker droids came alive of their own accord from different parts of the assembly line, and soon twelve of them had surrounded Kalebb Orn, deadly arms extended. They closed on him, their pincer claws clacking with a shower of blue sparks, their tiny optical sensors glowing red.

  The pincers grabbed his arms and legs and even the top of his head with a prickly electric grip. As the massive worker droids began to pull him in all different directions, disassembling the biological components, Kalebb Orn’s last thought was that the assembly line work had, in the end, not been so boring after all.…

  The administration office on Mechis III was at the top rotunda of a gleaming crystal and durasteel tower, providing a view across the industrial wasteland. The corporation thought that managerial offices were supposed to tower high above other buildings, but otherwise its height served no purpose.

  Inside an office filled with plush furniture, entertainment devices, and scenic images of tourist spots that no Mechis III administrator had ever seen, Hekis Durumm Perdo Kolokk Baldikarr Thun—the current administrator—twiddled his fingers and waited for his beloved afternoon summary report.

  Though operations on Mechis III virtually never changed, and every day the afternoon report listed the same production numbers, the same lists of quotas fulfilled, the same quantities of droids shipped, Administrator Hekis looked at each report with a studied interest. He took his job very seriously. It weighed heavy on a man to know that he lorded over one of the most important commercial centers in the industrialized galaxy—even if he was only one of seventy-three humans on the entire planet.

  During each work shift he attended to his job diligently hunched over his desk; in the evenings, back in his private quarters, he spent most of his relaxation hours waiting for the next shift to begin and to relieve the onerous burden of free time. At every opportunity Hekis sent reports back to company superiors, to Imperial inspectors, and to commercial scouts, anyone he could think of. Every time he felt underappreciated or insignificant in the grand scheme of things, Hekis Durumm Perdo Kolokk Baldikarr Thun indulged himself by adding another mythical title to his name so that when he signed documents with a flourish, the signature looked more and more impressive.

  He studied his chronometer—manufactured on Mechis III, of course—and knew that the high point of the afternoon had arrived. Exactly on time, his silver-plated administrative droid Threedee-Fourex bustled in, carrying a tray in one hand and a datapad in the other. “Your afternoon tea, sir,” Threedee-Fourex said.

  “Ah, thank you,” Hekis answered, rubbing his spidery hands together and taking the delicate shell-resin cup filled with the steaming liquid. He sipped it, closing his muddy brown eyes in delight.

  “Your afternoon reports, sir,” Fourex said, extending the flat datapad that listed the familiar charts of figures and production numbers.

  “Ah, thank you,” he said again and took the pad.

  Then Threedee-Fourex reached into a small containment chamber in the back of his silvery torso and removed a blaster pistol. “Your death, sir,” the droid said.

  “Excuse me?” Startled, Hekis looked up at this deviation from routine. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I believe that’s quite plain, sir,” Threedee-Fourex said and fired two shots rapidly. The pinpoint beams struck home precisely. Hekis slumped to his desk, spilling his tea all over the gathered records.

  Threedee-Fourex spun about and marched smartly out the door, transmitting his report to the IG-88s who had digitally reprogrammed him from orbit. Then he summoned custodial droids to clean up the mess.

  The insurrection on Mechis III was quick and bloody and very efficient. Within the space of a few minutes the newly coordinated planetary computer mind supervised a simultaneous uprising of droids, killing all seventy-three human inhabitants before any of them could sound an alarm—not that the unified communication network would have allowed transmission of such messages anyway.

  With slowed time, IG-88 watched from the hidden courier ship in orbit, observing the full details through sensor eyes and piped-in dataflow. Mere moments later, when everything had been finished he brought the ship down gently through the atmosphere.

  There was no need to hurry now. Everything was in place.

  At the central manufacturing complex, the sleek ship landed and the four identical IG-88s stepped out onto the platform. They looked across the smoky skies to the hastily gathered, newly liberated droids milling around.

  IG-88 set foot on Mechis III as a messiah.

  From that point on, it was important for the assassin droids to keep up the charade. To all outward appearances, nothing had changed on Mechis III—and IG-88 made sure everyone in the galaxy continued to think so. Threedee-Fourex took care of external details, answering messages beamed in over the galactic HoloNet, signing release orders and other documents with the full flourish of Hekis’s digitized signature.

  Two days later, the four assassin droids met for an interlinked strategy session in the plush offices of the former administrator. To conform more to their conception of sterile efficiency, IG-88 had ordered custodial droids to strip down all of the artwork and scenic images from the walls, and to remove all of the furniture. Droids never needed to sit down, after all.

  In the administrative offices the four IG-88s stood silently communing, exchanging and updating each other’s datafiles.

  “If we are to use Mechis III as our base of operations for galactic dominance, we must maintain all outward appearance that nothing has changed.”

  “Droid orders must continue to be fulfilled without delay, exactly as ordered. None of the humans must suspect.”

  “We will alter existing video records, forge transmissions, keep the routine chains of communications so that all appearances remain normal.”

  “According to records and the personal journals of the humans stationed here, few visitors came to Mechis III. In all likelihood, we will remain undisturbed.”

  With his rear optical sensors, IG-88 scanned through the transparisteel observation windows high in the administrative tower. He saw plumes of released manufacturing smoke and the blurry fingers of thermal exhaust sketching bright spots in the infrared. The facilities were working at double speed to produce extra soldiers for IG-88’s new army, as well as continued production to fulfill the galaxy’s routine needs.

  IG-88 admired the precision of the facilities. The initial buildings had been designed with human clumsiness and wasted lines, unnecessary space and amenities, but the subsequent assembly lines were computer designed, modifications of the original concepts so that Mechis III ran smoother and smoother.

  “All of our new droids have enhanced programming,” IG-88 continued, “special sentience routines that allow them to follow our plans and to keep up the subterfuge. From this point on, every new droid we ship will have embedded sentience programming and the will to achieve our ultimate goal.”

  IG-88 mapped out the dispersal of the new droids, projected shipping routes and end destinations. Mechis III had such a widespread distribution that the infiltrators would spread from star system to star system in no
time, replacing obsolete models, filling new niches in society, setting themselves up for the eventual takeover.

  The biologicals would suspect nothing. To them, droids were merely innocuous machines. But IG-88 deemed that it was time for “life” in the galaxy to take another evolutionary step. The old cumbersome organics must be replaced with efficient and reliable machines like himself.

  “While the droids are maneuvering themselves into position for our grand overthrow, they are given strict instructions to behave as humans expect droids to react. They will hide their superiority. No one can guess what we are up to. They must wait.”

  “Once they are in position and we are prepared, we will transmit the arming code. Only we know the specific phrase that will activate their mission. When we send out this epochal transmission, our droid revolution will take the galaxy like a storm.”

  Droids could be swifter than anything, a sudden devastating death to those who stood in their way. But unlike biologicals, machines could also be incredibly patient. They would wait—and the time would come.

  IV

  After two standard months, the vigorous Imperial search had turned up no sign whatsoever of the missing assassin droids, and Supervisor Gurdun was not the least bit pleased.

  When his assistant Minor Relsted came into his gloomy, dungeon-like office deep within an ancient government building in Imperial City, Gurdun demanded a progress report. “Tell me how the manhunt is going—er, droid hunt, or whatever it is,” he said. “I want my assassin droids.”

  Young Minor Relsted twiddled his fingers and refused to meet the wide-set gaze over Gurdun’s monumental nose. “Would you like me to prepare a detailed report for you, Imperial Supervisor?” Relsted said. “Shall I submit it in triplicate?”

  “No,” Gurdun said. “Just tell me. I want to know.”

  “Oh,” Minor Relsted said. “Umm, let me think a moment.”

  “You’re not on top of this?” the supervisor asked.

  “Yes, yes of course. Just putting my thoughts into words,” Relsted said.

  Gurdun gazed up at the flickering glowpanel in the ceiling that provided more headaches than illumination. The thick office walls were a dull battleship gray; large bolts held them in place with round heads the size of his fist. By now he had hoped to be recovering from the surgery he wanted so badly, but time after time the Imperial authorities had denied it to him.

  “Well?” Gurdun said into the prolonged silence, rubbing his huge nose.

  “I’m afraid to say this, sir,” Relsted stammered, “but all four droids seem to have vanished. A fifth one, IG-72, has made an appearance here and there, eliminating targets for unfathomable reasons—but the other four have given no hint of their presence. It would be simplest if we assumed they were destroyed … say, caught in a stray supernova or something. I wouldn’t expect assassin droids to lay low and slink around unseen.”

  Imperial Supervisor Gurdun looked at the clutter on his desk, cleared a spot for his elbows and rested his chin in his hands. “Ah, but these machines are devilishly smart, Relsted. They were designed to my specifications—and you know how relentless I can be at times. I would not underestimate them.”

  “Certainly not, sir,” Relsted said. “We have spies deployed in every nook and cranny—uh, to the best of our abilities. Our resources are limited, you know. There’s a rebellion going on.”

  “Oh, I forgot about the war,” Gurdun said. “What a bother.” He fingered his enormous nose that blocked his view of the files on his desk. Gurdun knocked aside the stacked message cubes, the electronic forms waiting to be filled out, the requisition orders, transfer requests, and letters of condolence to be written to the families of those lost in unfortunate accidents during training with old, malfunctioning equipment.

  Minor Relsted shuffled his feet as he hovered by the door.

  “Is there anything else?” Gurdun snapped.

  “A question, sir. Might I ask why it is so incredibly important to find these four droids? They’re just machines, after all, and the amount of resources we are putting behind this ‘dismantle on sight’ order seems out of all proportion to their intrinsic value. Why are these droids so desirable?”

  Gurdun snorted and looked at the flickering glowpanel again. “Because, Minor Relsted, I know what they can do.”

  On Mechis III the administrative droid Threedee-Fourex scuttled about, searching for the first IG-88 counterpart he could find. He needed to report his distressing news. He came upon IG-88C in one of the shipping areas, supervising the loading of a thousand program-modified transport droids to be shipped off to Coruscant.

  “IG-88,” Fourex reported, gaining the assassin droid’s attention. In a rapid burst of binary, he sent a summary file to the IG’s computer core.

  Through their own intelligence channels the IG-88s were aware of the bumbling Imperial spies searching for them in all corners of the galaxy. So far, the spies had been without a clue, but earlier this morning a surreptitious inquiry had been directed toward Mechis III.

  The probe scow was a barely functional conglomeration of obsolete parts and scavenged engines. Due to budget limitations, the Imperials’ spies were often the cheapest, such as this Ranat—not the most intelligent of creatures. As she approached Mechis III in her sputtering ship, the Ranat beamed a recorded set of questions down to the last known supervisor on the planet, Hekis Durumm Perdo Kolokk Baldikarr Thun.

  Threedee-Fourex, with the superior foresight allotted him by his new sentience programming, had played appropriate snatches of doctored video images showing Administrator Hekis brusquely answering all questions. No, they had not seen any assassin droids. No, they had no knowledge of any IG-88 series machines. No, they had heard nothing of rampaging renegades in this portion of the system—and, by the way, they were too busy on Mechis III to continue answering stupid questions. Unsuspecting, the Ranat had continued on her way to the next system, where she would no doubt play the same set of prerecorded questions.

  IG-88C assimilated this report and commended Threedee-Fourex’s ingenuity in the unexpected situation, but the encounter raised serious questions. The trail had accidentally led an Imperial investigator here. What if the next one were a more suspicious or more tenacious intelligence operative?

  IG-88C initiated a spontaneous uplink with his three counterparts, and they engaged in a lightspeed interlinked conference. “We cannot allow ourselves to be detected. Our plans are at too crucial a stage right now.”

  “Perhaps this was only a fluke. Perhaps we need not worry. The Imperials will listen to the report from the spy and not investigate further.”

  “On the contrary, once they’ve started nosing around in this sector, they may tighten their scrutiny.”

  “How can we deal with this situation?”

  “Perhaps a diversionary tactic is called for.”

  “How can we apply this diversionary tactic?”

  “We will make ourselves visible. One of us will go out and leave a plain trail, far from Mechis III. We will give them a different scent to follow. They will never come here again.”

  “And the nature of this diversionary tactic?” one asked, but all the IG-88s began to have the same idea at once.

  “We shall follow our true programming.”

  “We are assassin droids.”

  “We shall seek out work as a bounty hunter. This is what we were made for—and it can also further our grander purposes.”

  “We will find this most enjoyable, and no doubt our employers will be immensely pleased with our service and will recommend us highly, should we choose to continue this line of occupation.”

  All four IG-88s mulled over this change in plans and agreed.

  “Bounty hunters it is.”

  V

  IG-88B was chosen for the first mission. He was pleased and elated, and his duplicates would share his experience files when he came back. It would be as if all four of them had gone out on the hunt themselves.

  The in
dustrial facilities of Mechis III took two days to design and produce a sleek bounty hunter’s craft for IG-88B. Seeing through various portions of the spectrum, he admired the IG-2000’s perfect lines: powerful engines, thick armor, and every appropriate weapons system. IG-88B cruised away through the atmosphere, leaving the other three assassin droids to continue their plans for overthrowing the galaxy.

  Though IG-88 carried the ominous-sounding “dismantle on sight” Imperial order next to his name, he doubted anyone would attempt to follow it. He focused on places unlikely to be overly respectful to Imperial laws—or any other kind of laws, for that matter. He knew his capabilities were obvious, and he clomped his several-metric-ton body frame into cantinas and announced, “I am a bounty hunter. I wish to find work for a reasonable fee. I am incapable of failing in my mission.”

  Most people were afraid to talk to him—but IG-88 chose his planetary systems well. He wanted to work where he could advance his secondary agenda, and he needed only to wait. By announcing his identity, he served the primary purpose of leaving a false trail for Imperial spies.

  His skill and strength were obvious, his morals nonexistent. IG-88 was an assassin for hire, plain and simple, and he knew he would find an assignment.

  His first choice was the backwater planet Peridon’s Folly, a little-known world that received few visitors from out of the sector. The Empire would wonder why IG-88 had chosen such a minor, irrelevant place, but he had another target to meet there if he found no legitimate work.

  Peridon’s Folly was an obsolete weapons depot run by black marketeers who sold antique arms to smugglers and crime lords. Though the weapons were far too outmoded and inefficient for regular Imperial use, the black marketeers dealt in a brisk trade.

  The planet had been carved into territories by various weapons runners, its surface a patchwork pattern of embattled commercial sectors laced with high-tech docking gear, communications systems, and defense outposts. On the fringes lay desolate “testing” zones where rediscovered weapons or uncertain designs from the stockpile were detonated to impress customers or warn rival weapons runners.