Tales of the Bounty Hunters

by Kevin Anderson

  Without another word the image turned into static.

  “You see, we had nothing to worry about,” Gurdun said, feeling quite relieved. “Shall we go now, Lord Vader? You must have crucial duties that are far more important.”

  Vader stood like a statue, though, for a few moments, his breath hissing hollowly through his respirator. He turned from side to side, staring at the blank vidplate, then at the barren walls of Hekis’s office, then at the silvery droid Threedee-Fourex.

  Gurdun swallowed, growing impatient and uneasy. “Uh, what is it, Lord Vader? I really think we should let these droids get back to work.”

  “I’m not certain,” Vader said, his voice ominous. “I sense that something is not right here … but I can’t determine what it is.” Finally, Vader snapped his attention back. Towering over Gurdun, he strode back to the turbolift and his personal shuttle. “Make certain those probe droids are delivered,” Vader said to the silvery administrative droid.

  Threedee-Fourex stood stiffly and proudly. “We would not wish to disappoint you, Lord Vader,” he said.

  Vader stood tall, a blot of blackness against the smoky sky on the landing platform. His cape swirled around him. “No. You would not.”

  VII

  IG-88 stood at the end of the manufacturing line, listening to the sounds of metal clinking, hydraulic jets spraying, components being assembled, lubricants applied. He could not smell, though his chemical-analysis tracers detected minor concentrations of welding compounds and aerosol sealants floating in the air.

  The assembly droids slaved diligently at their tasks. They reveled in being self-aware, applying themselves to their job with enthusiasm. Freedom. It made all the difference in the world.

  At the end of the assembly line the last black Arakyd Viper probot was powered on. Inspector 11, a meticulous analysis droid, stepped back out of the way. The articulated probe droid rose up on small repulsor jets, floating, moving its six segmented, claw-tipped legs. The probot’s flattened head spun about, turning its suite of optical sensors in all directions, scanning data.

  IG-88 stood motionless, waiting to be acknowledged. IG-88 was proud to be responsible for such a creation: black and polished and beautiful, sleek curves, high reflectance.

  Built to specifications Darth Vader and Imperial Supervisor Gurdun had transmitted to Mechis III, the probot was sleek and multifunctional in a much broader range of activities than IG-88 could ever be. However, IG-88 had included a secondary set of instructions giving the probe droid a higher priority mission in parallel with its search for the Empire. He liked the probot’s black armor, its darkness. It reminded him of Vader himself.…

  When the Dark Lord of the Sith had arrived unexpectedly on Mechis III, IG-88 had been greatly shaken. As he watched Vader and analyzed him with various unobtrusive probes, IG-88 saw that Vader was not merely a trivial organic life form, not just walking meat—he was a perfect synthesis of man and machine, an integrated body with droid components and biological intelligence, imagination, and initiative.

  IG-88 had studied the tapes of Vader’s visit, analyzing every fluid motion the towering Dark Lord made, every flick of his cape, every motion of his arm. Always before IG-88 had considered biologicals to be worthless in every sense, inferior to what any good droid could do—but now he reconsidered that Vader might perhaps be the best of both forms.

  Awe was a new sensation, and IG-88 analyzed that as well.

  By tapping into his droids infiltrated into the Empire, he had learned that Vader’s flagship, the Executor, was a Super Star Destroyer eight kilometers long, laced with powerful computers and functioning with a crew far smaller than might be expected for such a scaled-up version of an Imperial-class Star Destroyer. The construction of this incredible battleship had practically bankrupted several systems.

  IG-88’s circuits warmed as he diligently tried to think of ways to use this information, or perhaps even the Executor itself, to further his own plans.

  On the assembly line, the Arakyd Viper rotated on its axis with short, hissing bursts from altitude-control jets. It sent a high-speed encoded transmission burst at IG-88, filled with a thousand questions.

  Who are you?

  Why are you here?

  What is your mission?

  IG-88 answered in its own language, responding in kind. “You are the last,” he said. “The last of thousands to go out and scour the galaxy to search and report.”

  The probe droid already knew its priority instructions from IG-88. Yes, it was to report to Darth Vader—but it was also to send another detailed message to Mechis III. Thousands of probots would be IG-88’s eyes and ears, spying on the galaxy as a whole, uncovering weaknesses for the droids to exploit in their plans for overall conquest.

  These probots also had the sentience programming, the spark of intellect that IG-88 had shared with his mechanical brothers. The probe droids would be the scouts in the great droid revolution.

  The Arakyd Viper reached out with one powerful metal claw, and IG-88 grasped it with his own hand, not quite comprehending what the probot intended. The black droid squeezed with a pincer grip that would have sliced off any trivial organic appendage. IG-88 applied equal pressure in response.

  He wasn’t certain of the probot’s intent, but these droids were notoriously unstable—made even more so by their additional programming. They were suicide scouts, and they knew it. They must never be dismantled or inspected. The probe droids carried the full details within them for IG-88’s bloody plans of conquest, waiting to be activated by his secret coded transmission—and the probots must not be analyzed too closely. Very touchy internal triggers would self-destruct at the slightest chance of capture. The probots were expendable, and they knew it in their very core.

  The Arakyd Viper strained against IG-88 in an eerie power struggle, as if attempting to determine whether the assassin droid was worthy of such devotion.

  IG-88 was.

  The last probe droid relaxed and raised up on its repulsor jets, floating, scanning, getting its bearings. It sent a short, stabbing farewell, acknowledgment of devotion to its mission. IG-88 looked up as the black probot drifted toward the cargo pod where it would be launched into orbit, eventually delivered to Vader’s starfleet.

  “Go and report,” IG-88 said. “You have much to see. Burn brightly.”

  VIII

  Months later, IG-88 saw his chance both to study Darth Vader more thoroughly—and to get aboard the magnificent Executor.

  Multiprocessing, IG-88C monitored transmissions from the thousands of scattered probe droids, receiving updates on the progress of his specially programmed droid infiltration across galactic civilizations. The moment he witnessed the self-destruct of an Arakyd Viper probot on the distant ice world of Hoth, IG-88 instantly snapped his full attention to the situation there.

  Vader’s Super Star Destroyer had been cruising the space lanes, waiting for a signal that would announce the discovery of the Rebel base. Vader was certain to react immediately. The probot had delivered its reconnaissance information—as Vader expected. And at the first threat of possible capture and discovery of its droid reprogramming, the probot had destroyed itself—as IG-88 expected.

  IG-88B, with his direct bounty hunting experience, took the sleek ship IG-2000 and remained in the locality of the Imperial fleet, ready for spontaneous action so that he might earn singular notice from Darth Vader, the black synthesis of man and machine.…

  IG-88B didn’t participate in the battle of Hoth. He did not wish to become involved with this petty political struggle among biological vermin. He watched the escaping Rebel ships in flight, some damaged, some overloaded with equipment and refugees.

  He considered tracking them, because the location of new Rebel hideouts was certain to be of value to the Empire. But he ran a probability analysis and ultimately decided that none of these targets would be of sufficient overriding interest to Lord Vader. In the Hoth system IG-88 waited and watched, his ship a tiny blip
at the fringes of sensor range, too small to be noticed in the flurry.

  He lurked behind the Imperial fleet on its pursuit of another small insignificant ship into the asteroid belt. Thus, IG-88 was waiting when Darth Vader put out his call for bounty hunters to find Han Solo.

  IG-88 stood quietly on the bridge deck of the Super Star Destroyer Executor. He observed in silence, filing details away for later consideration. The lights on his cranial pod flashed red as he drank in data from his optical sensors. The bridge deck was aswarm with Imperial officers of various ranks that did not concern him, since they were merely humans.

  “Bounty hunters,” the human known as Admiral Piett muttered in low tones, presuming he was out of earshot of the gathered bounty hunters. “We don’t need that scum!”

  “Yes, sir,” his companion said.

  IG-88 knew that the Imperials were doubly uneasy because of the well-known “dismantle on sight” order for the assassin droid. But Vader had blatantly ignored that, in hopes of securing his precious captives.

  “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.

  IX

  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, co
pied, 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.