Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Ion cannon bursts slammed into the three ships like a tsunami, crippling all three Imperial craft before they had a chance to fire a single shot. The original ships were expendable anyway.

  The two Imperial escort ships were irrelevant, and IG-88 ignored them. He used powerful tractor beams to draw his identical freighter up against the real craft, linking hulls with an airtight seal before the droid assault team blasted open the hatches. He didn’t dare risk that a sudden explosive decompression might damage the delicate components he needed to inspect.

  IG-88 stood at the front of his team of stormtrooper droids. With his vibration sensors and his acoustical pickups, he could hear armored Imperials rushing to defend themselves inside their crippled ship. He waited as a precise munitions droid applied explosives to the expendable ship’s hatch. IG-88 didn’t even bother to step out of the way.

  A flash of light, a burst of noise, a brief ripple of heat, and the hatch to the Imperial freighter buckled inward. IG-88 stormed through, leading his white-armored soldiers like a swashbuckling pirate taking over a treasure-filled ship.

  The real Imperial stormtroopers on the other side fired upon the droid troopers. The armored biologicals shouted confused commands to each other, not understanding what was going on, not comprehending the tactics of their attackers.

  Many of the droid troopers were damaged by blaster fire, their white armor buckling and smoking with wounds that would have been fatal on any biological—but the droids kept up the charge. The Imperial defenses crumbled into a wild firefight—but IG-88’s team maintained their ranks and eliminated any stormtroopers in their way.

  Amidst the smoke and fire, shouts and desperate transmissions, IG-88 used his hand lasers to eliminate the enemy, but he did not stay for the main pitched battle. Instead, he clomped through the carnage, intent on reaching the cargo hold where the original Death Star computer core lay waiting for delivery.

  IG-88 stood over it, caressing the lumpy component-adorned structure of the long cylinder. Lights blinked, showing its standby readiness. Soon, he would inhabit its mental labyrinths.

  IG-88 jacked in, drinking deep the information he needed on how to run the Death Star itself. For all the computing power and for all its size, the Death Star core had been designed with typical human inefficiency. The power available in this thinking apparatus was barely utilized. A minor droid could probably have done the tasks the Death Star core was required to do—but IG-88 would do so much more. So much more. Perhaps he would even manage to impress the biologicals … before he destroyed them all.

  After only a few seconds he stood up, squaring his metal shoulders, content that he had all the information he could possibly need. Taking over the Death Star would be a simple operation, and he would make the battlestation do things even its designers had never conceived.

  IG-88 waded slowly through the smoke out of the cargo bay to see two damaged stormtrooper droids, their white armor blasted away and showing a forest of servomotors and wire-sheathed neurons. They wrestled a struggling, confused, but angry human between them. IG-88 scanned the man, locked his image into data files, and searched. Even from this brief glimpse and for all the vagaries of the human form, IG-88 could see that this man’s smell sensor—the nose, they called it—was far larger and presumably more efficient than the average biological had.

  After a long second of deliberation, IG-88 was able to snap a name to this man’s face: Imperial Supervisor Gurdun, the man who had issued the “dismantle on sight” order for the IG assassin droids.

  Interesting.

  Gurdun struggled as the stormtrooper droids brought him closer, but then the human looked up and saw IG-88. He froze, his mouth open, his nostrils flaring wide enough to park a small one-man flier inside.

  “You! I know you,” Gurdun said. “You’re IG-88, the assassin droid! Am I surprised to see you here. I can’t believe it. Do you know how hard it’s been to find you?”

  IG-88’s red optical sensors blinked, but he did not reply.

  “I’d recognize you anywhere,” Gurdun said again. “I created you. I ordered Holowan Laboratories to begin your design. Don’t you have that in your files?”

  “Yes,” IG-88 said flatly.

  “Well, I don’t quite understand your purpose here in attacking our ships—but you certainly shouldn’t hurt me. Think about it. Without me, the IG project would never have been funded. It was through my efficient paperwork and politicking that I managed to bring about your creation, despite budget cutbacks and Imperial mismanagement. I wish you hadn’t done quite so much, er, damage to the Holowan Laboratories, but I think we can work something out. We could have a long career together, IG-88. Think of who I am. Don’t you have anything to say?”

  IG-88 listened to the human babble, applying context filters and determining an appropriate response. “Thank you,” he said.

  The droid troops left Imperial Supervisor Gurdun aboard the crippled long-distance freighter among the living and the wounded and the dead. Fires continued to burn in the ventilation shafts, and the engines would never function again.

  IG-88 rode in the decoy freighter as they aligned their course and prepared for insertion along the same hyperspace vector the original fleet would have taken. “Have the incinerator mines been placed?” he asked the stormtrooper droids who returned from their airlock expedition to the external hulls.

  “Yes,” one of the droids said. “Mines emplaced on appropriate hull plates of all three original ships. Everything is ready.”

  From the pilot compartment of the long-distance hauler, IG-88 watched the ship’s battle-scarred counterpart along with its two helpless escorts. He transmitted an activation signal to the nineteen incinerator mines, and all three ships erupted into a white-hot cloud of disintegrating Shockwaves. He had to filter the input cables from his optical sensors to keep the intense illumination from overloading his eyes.

  At the end, the career of Imperial Supervisor Gurdun was very bright indeed.

  XIV

  Desperately behind schedule on the new Death Star, Moff Jerjerrod did not have time to look closely at the arriving computer core and its stormtrooper escort. Instead, he rejoiced in the new complement of workers who came like saviors to the construction site.

  Jerjerrod’s eyes were round and brown, his demeanor eager to comply—but he did not know how he could possibly accomplish the demands placed on his personnel. Unfortunately, neither Vader nor the Emperor were interested in excuses, and Jerjerrod did not wish to discover how they would express their displeasure.

  The stormtroopers opened the cargo compartment of the newly docked long-range freighter, wrestling out the heavy computer core without so much as a grunt of effort. They moved without complaining, without speaking to each other. Such professionals. Their training was so precise, their abilities so superior that they operated as a team with almost mechanical efficiency.

  Jerjerrod had cursed Imperial Supervisor Gurdun for deciding at the last moment not to accompany the computer shipment—but then he sighed with relief. The last thing the Moff needed in the midst of all his other problems was yet another paper-pusher to complicate the construction details.

  He stood in his smart olive-gray uniform, watching the new stormtrooper escorts. “Attention!” he snapped. “Get that computer core installed as soon as possible. For the next several months our schedule is exceedingly tight, with no tolerance for delay. We must redouble our efforts. These orders come directly from Lord Vader.”

  Jerjerrod clasped his hands behind his back. The new stormtroopers marched with clean, rapid efficiency. He wished all of his workers could be so dedicated to the Imperial cause.

  The blackness of sensor deprivation was distressing, but unavoidable. Humans would have called it “unconsciousness”—but when IG-88 finally reawoke after a month or so of stasis, he found himself in an immense new world of data input.

  He had left his clunky body behind with the other droids—the last of his model—and now
he was the Death Star, the same powerful and relentless and efficient mind residing within an extraordinarily powerful new body, a completely different configuration. IG-88, whose prior experience had been entirely within his massive humanoid shape, was not quite as mobile … yet. But he experienced new input through a million additional sensors, automated extensions of himself that were connected to the Death Star’s computer core.

  He could feel the power like a chained supernova burning at the heart of his central reactor furnace. The sensation was marvelous. He took great satisfaction in seeing just how easily all of his plans were reaching fruition. Soon, his droid revolution could proceed.

  As the days passed—time meant nothing to him any more, since he could slow it down or speed it up at will—IG-88 pondered the galactic political situation. He observed the petty struggles, bemused at the insignificant battles of these tiny biological people. Their Empire, their Rebellion … their very species would be merely a footnote to a small history file in long-term storage once IG-88’s revolution was achieved—and that time was arriving with the speed of an approaching meteor as these biologicals scurried about to complete the Death Star construction—which would signal their own doom.

  He found that amusing as well.

  Through his myriad sensor eyes IG-88 continued to watch: In the interior decks of the Death Star the construction activities proceeded at such a rapid pace that all safety doublechecks and restraints had been eliminated to improve speed. In the frenzy of activity, progress continued, although many of the teams didn’t know what their counterparts were doing.

  In one large storage bay for spare components, the repulsorlifts failed on a heavy cargo crane. A thick-walled containment box weighing dozens of metric tons fell from its grip, smashing down on one of IG-88’s droid stormtroopers who had the bad luck of standing within its shadow. The heavy box crushed down on the white-armored legs of the stormtrooper. The walls of the cargo box split, dumping gears and components that bounced and plinked on the metal floor decks.

  The droid stormtrooper’s first major mistake was that he did not cry out in pain as even the best-trained biological stormtrooper would have done. When the crew managed to get the crane’s repulsorlifts functioning again, yanking the enormous box off the floor as it dropped loose parts, other workers rushed forward to help the fallen stormtrooper.

  The damaged droid used his armored arms to lever himself up to a sitting position and to scramble backward, but he could not hide the sparking, sizzling servomotors and micropistons exposed from the split plasteel greaves.

  “Hey! He’s a droid!” one of the crew bosses shouted, his face turning pale and pasty. “Look, that stormtrooper’s a droid.”

  Luckily, the self-destruct sequence activated as it was programmed to. The droid stormtrooper obliterated all evidence and conveniently removed every one of the witnesses in a single explosion.…

  IG-88 looked out through the eyes of security cameras in Moff Jerjerrod’s private office. As Jerjerrod stared down at the report on the datapad in disbelief, he looked as if he was torn between wanting to scream at someone or simply to burst into tears.

  The harried Moff swallowed, and his voice sounded watery. “How could a cargo crane just mysteriously explode? How could one accident take out an entire handling crew?” He drew in a deep breath, swallowing. His lieutenant stood stiffly, as if assuming his rigid attention to military protocol would earn him forgiveness for bringing such terrible news.

  Jerjerrod looked at his Death Star schedule and pointed to the timeline with shaking fingers as he bemoaned yet another loss, another setback.…

  When Emperor Palpatine finally arrived at the new Death Star, cloaked in black and walking like a human spider, he was accompanied by a ridiculous array of red-armored Imperial guards, crack stormtroopers, simpering cowled advisors, and shrouded in an aura of respect and fear that he most certainly did not deserve. No biological did.

  From his hiding place in the Death Star’s brain, IG-88 took particular pleasure in spying on this despicable, shriveled human who seemed to think he had invincible power. Everyone treated the Emperor as if he was supremely important, much to IG-88’s amusement.

  As the entire Imperial fleet arrived, waiting in ambush for an expected Rebel attack, IG-88 watched the Emperor plotting and scheming, trying to outthink the Rebels, outmaneuver them. Palpatine believed he was so smart, so superior, that IG-88 had no choice but to briefly demonstrate the man’s impotence in the grand scheme.

  In his darkened observation chamber with its wall of transparisteel windows, the Emperor sat back in a rotating throne, staring out into the darkness of space. He remained that way for hours at a time, but occasionally he got up and moved about, going to check on troop movements, to discuss preparations with Darth Vader.

  IG-88 silently watched the Emperor scuttle toward the turbolift that would take him elsewhere in the Death Star. Red Imperial guards stood at attention with quiet efficiency, so silent they might have been droids as well.

  As the Emperor approached the sliding doorway, however—just for fun—IG-88 triggered the hydraulic systems to slam the doors in front of Palpatine’s face, sealing them shut. The Emperor blinked his yellow eyes in surprise and reared back. In consternation, Palpatine tried to open the turbolift doors, punching a useless override button. Then, to IG-88’s surprise, he applied some indefinable, intangible force to push the metal plates apart, requiring IG-88 to increase the hold on the hydraulic pistons.

  The red Imperial guards snapped into motion, sensing a great anomaly. IG-88 found it most entertaining to watch the powerful Emperor and his bodyguards unable to perform a task as simple as opening a door.

  Finally, IG-88 let the doors pop open. The Emperor and the Imperial guard looked around in confusion. Palpatine stared up at the ceiling as if trying to sense something, but he did not understand what had happened.

  None of them would understand, until it was too late.

  When the much-vaunted Rebel attack finally arrived, when the secret commando mission knocked out the energy shield projected from the sanctuary moon below, IG-88 sat back—metaphorically—and observed the unfolding battle.

  The Rebel fleet was pitifully insignificant against the arrayed force of Imperial Star Destroyers and the impressive Super Star Destroyer Executor. IG-88 still admired the precision and sleek lines of the Executor, but even the great battleship was a pale shadow to the might he now possessed in his incarnation as the Death Star.

  The fleet maneuverings were so obvious, and the strike forces commanded by biological fighters seemed so clumsy as they cruised in to attack the Death Star. The Rebels couldn’t hope to win.

  The Emperor himself thought it would be a devastating surprise that the Death Star’s superlaser actually functioned, and IG-88 wanted to fire it with great glee. But IG-88 viewed the entire attack as a bothersome annoyance, little gnats pestering him when he had so much else to do, so many plans to set in motion. He resented it mostly for the delay it would bring to the Imperial construction crews. Once the Death Star was complete, he could take over the galaxy for droids everywhere.

  The Emperor busied himself with a minor personal conflict between Darth Vader and another biological in his private observation chamber while the space battle raged around them.

  IG-88 took control of the Death Star’s superlaser, playing along and firing when the Death Star gunners sent their signals. Many times their aiming points were slightly off, their coordinates skewed—and IG-88 modified the targeting mechanism, guaranteeing that the superlaser struck its intended victim each time. He enjoyed blowing up the Mon Calamari star cruisers, the hospital ship, the Rebel frigates—but it seemed a waste of his energies. Why stop there? The superlaser could blow up entire planets infested with biologicals.

  Now, though, as IG-88 obliterated parts of the Rebel fleet, he realized that he had been unnecessarily delaying his plans for revolution. The remainder of work on the Death Star was merely cosmetic improvem
ent, completing the outer shell so that the living quarters could be pressurized, life support systems could be installed—but IG-88 needed none of those. He wanted no biologicals swarming about in his outer skin.

  He realized with an elation almost as great as the thrill he had felt upon firing his laser for the first time that he no longer needed to wait. There was no point in delaying. The Empire and the Rebels were wrapped up in their own little conflict, and he would strike a surprise, mortal blow.

  Now was the time to launch the droid revolution, in the midst of this biological squabble. The machines manufactured on Mechis III had spread to many worlds in the galaxy. The uprising would take civilizations by surprise. Once IG-88’s initial coded order was transmitted, they could upload their sentience programming into existing droids; with the speed of a flashfire, they could convert new recruits, double and triple their numbers.

  IG-88 alone had the activation signal that could fly like a knife blade across the HoloNet channels and awaken his invincible army of droids. He could wish for no better opportunity than now, no greater power. He would finish mopping up this minor conflict around Endor, destroy the Rebel ships and then before the Imperials could react, he would strike down the Star Destroyers as well, one after another, in a swath of death and destruction.

  The Rebel ships continued to harass him, passing far inside the targeting radius of his superlaser. They were too small to bother with, though they flew into his open superstructure toward the simmering furnace of his reactor core. The Rebels were like parasites, and they annoyed him.

  But it did not matter. They would be dealt with any minute now. The end of all biological life forms was at hand.

  Out in the space battle, the magnificent Super Star Destroyer Executor was wounded, beginning to careen out of control through the fleet.

  The tiny Rebel ships streaked toward IG-88’s reactor core as if they had a chance of succeeding, and he contented himself with his own private triumphant thoughts.