TEXT:         Therefore  I  Am:                                
          The Tale of IG-88                                
                                                          
          by Kevin J. Anderson  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
     
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
                            
                                                          
                                I                          
                                                          
   Internal chronometer activated. BEGIN.                 
   Electricity  flooded  through  circuits,  a  power surge 
   racing through a billion neural pathways.  Sensors awak- 
   ened,  producing  a  flood of  data --  and with  it came 
   questions.                                              
    Who am IF                                              
    His  internal  programming  finished  the  tedious two- 
   second-long  initialization  procedures  and  poured out 
   
                         STAR WARS * 2                       
  
                                                            
   an  answer.  He  was  IG-88,  a  droid,   a  sophisticated 
   droid -- an assassin droid.                                
    Where am I?                                              
    A  microsecond  later,  images  from  his  exterior  sen- 
   sors  snapped  into focus.  IG-88 had  no sense  of smell, 
   and  no  eyes  and  ears  as  humans understood  them, but 
   his optical and auditory sensors were far  more efficient, 
   able to absorb  data in  a broader  range than  any living 
   being. He  froze a  static image  of his  surroundings and 
   studied it, collating more answers.                      
    He  had  awakened  in  some  sort  of   large  laboratory 
   complex,  white  and  metal, sterile,  and --  according to 
   his  temperature  sensors  --  colder  than  humans  gener- 
   ally   preferred.   IG-88   noted   mechanical  components 
   strewn  on  silvery tables:  gears and  pulleys, durasteel 
   struts, servomotors, an array of delicate  microchips fro- 
   zen into a slab of transparent protective  gelatin. Struck 
   motionless in  a pinpoint  of time  as his  extremely fast 
   neural  processors  digested  the  details,  IG-88 counted 
   fifteen  scientists/engineers/technicians  working  in the 
   laboratory.  With  infrared  scan  he observed  their body 
   heat as bright silhouettes in the  coldness of  his birth- 
   place.                                                    
    Interesting, he thought.                                 
    Then  IG-88  detected  something  that  focused  his  en- 
   tire  attention.  Four  other assassin  droids, apparently 
   identical  to  his  own  bodily  configuration  --  a bulky 
   structural  skeleton,  armored  arms  and  legs,  a  torso 
   plated with blaster-proof  armor shielding,  a cylindrical 
   head  that  was  rounded  on top  and studded  with sensor 
   nubs  providing  him  with 360  degrees' worth  of precise 
   observation.                                              
    I am not alone.                                          
    IG-88   recognized  each   droid's  full   complement  of 
   weapons:  blaster  cannons  built  into  the  structure of 
   each  arm,   concussion  grenades   and  a   launcher  at- 
   tached to his  hip, as  well as  other weapons  not easily 
   recognizable  integrated  into the  body structure  -- poi- 
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 3              
  
                                                             
   sonous  gas  canisters,  throwing flechettes,  stun pulser, 
   paralysis  cord...  and  a   computer  input   port.  IG-88 
   was pleased with his list of capabilities.                 
    IG-88's  first  round  of  questions  had  been  answered. 
   He  had  only  to  study  his memory  banks and  his exter- 
   nal  sensors.  He  was designed  to be  self-sufficient. He 
   was  an  assassin  droid,  resourceful.  He  had  to accom- 
   plish  his  mission...  though,  checking  his  newly  ini- 
   tialized  programming,  he  saw  that he  had not  yet been 
   given a mission. He would have to acquire one.             
    Three  seconds  had  already   passed,  and   another  im- 
   portant question surfaced in his burning-awake brain.      
    Why am I here F                                           
    He  traced  sensations  through  his  computer   core  and 
   out  the  jack,  which  he  now  realized had  already been 
   connected  to  the  lab's  central  computer  --  a treasure 
   trove of information.                                      
    IG-88  immediately  began  a  search,  scouring  at hyper- 
   speed through file after file, searching for  anything that 
   referenced  his  model  number  or  the  code  name  of the 
   assassin droid  project. He  gulped it  all into  his empty 
   circuits,  gorging  himself  with  information  without di- 
   gesting  it.  That  would  come later.  It would  take many 
   seconds  to  learn  everything  there  was  to  know  about 
   himself.                                                   
    He  selected  one  file  for  immediate  perusal,  a  sum- 
   mary/PR  tape  that  had  been  compiled  for  the  techni- 
   cal  sponsor  --  in  particular,  an   Imperial  Supervisor 
   Gurdun  who  had  apparently  funneled  a  great   deal  of 
   funds  into  the  creation of  IG-88 and  his counterparts. 
   Without  outwardly  moving,  IG-88  scrolled   through  the 
   file at high speed, absorbing the information.             
    The  presentation  opened  with  a  brilliant  orange logo 
   that  displayed  orange  flames  and   crackling  lightning 
   that  merged  into  the   words  "Holowan   Laboratories  -- 
   the  Friendly  Technology   People."  The   logo  dissolved 
   into  an  image  of  a  smiling  but  hideous  ugly  woman. 
   Her  head   was  shaven   completely  bald   and  glistened 
   
                         STAR WARS * 4                       
  
                                                            
   with  perspiration  under  harsh  white  recording  lights 
   that gave her  lantern-jawed face  a cadaverous  look. Her 
   teeth  were  spaced  with  broad  gaps,  and she  spoke by 
   opening  her  mouth   wide  and   clicking  down   on  the 
   words,  gnashing  her teeth  on every  consonant. Circular 
   blue  lenses  without  frames  were  implanted   over  her 
   eyes  like  frameless  spectacles.  A credit  line slugged 
   across  the  image  under  her  ferociously  smiling face. 
   "Chief  Technician  Loruss,   Manager  IG   Series  Proto- 
   type Project."                                            
    "Greetings,  Imperial   Supervisor  Gurdun,"   she  said. 
   "This report is to serve as a synopsis of the  final phase 
   of  our  project.  As you  know, Holowan  Laboratories was 
   commissioned  to  develop  a  series  of  assassin  droids 
   with   sophisticated,   experimental   sentience  program- 
   ming.  They  were  to  be  resourceful and  innovative and 
   absolutely relentless at  carrying out  whichever missions 
   the   Imperial   authorities   choose   to   program  into 
   them."                                                    
    She  rubbed  her  hands   together.  Her   knuckles  were 
   very large, like boils in the middles  of her  fingers. "I 
   am  pleased  to  report  that our  greatest cyberneticists 
   have  presented  me   with  numerous   breakthroughs,  all 
   of  which  have  been  incorporated  into  the  IG series. 
   Because  our  timeframe  is  so  short  and  the  Empire's 
   need is so great for efficient  covert assassins,  we have 
   not  gone  through  the  usual  rigorous   testing  proce- 
   dures,  but we  are confident  they will  function admira- 
   bly, though a bit  of fine-tuning  may be  required before 
   operational status is achieved."                          
    She  continued  with  a  long  and   tedious  explanation 
   of  improvements  to  droid   neural  pathways,   how  the 
   usual inhibition  systems had  been bypassed.  IG-88 stud- 
   ied all this information, but believed none of it.  It was 
   obvious  Loruss didn't  know what  she was  talking about, 
   but  her  words  sounded  technical,  and  she  spoke them 
   impressively,  no  doubt  to befuddle  Imperial Supervisor 
   Gurdun.                                                   
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 5               
  
                                                              
    IG-88  closed  the  file.  He could  sense that  his crack- 
   ling  neural  pathways  had  already  progressed  far beyond 
   anything his designers had anticipated.                     
    Now  he  knew  who  he  was  and  why he  was here  in this 
   laboratory.  He  and  his  identical  counterparts  had been 
   built to serve the Empire, to  fight and  kill, to  seek out 
   and  destroy  the  targets  selected  by  Imperial  masters. 
   IG-88's   assassin  programming   was  strong   and  compel- 
   ling, but he  was less  pleased that he must  follow orders 
   from  these  inferior  biological beings.  He was  a special 
   kind  of  droid  beyond  the   capabilities  of   other  ma- 
   chines. Superior.                                           
    I think, therefore I am.                                   
    By  now,  five  seconds  had  passed  since  his awakening. 
   It  was  time  for action,  so he  looked at  the biological 
   creatures near him inside the laboratory.                   
    He   immediately   recognized   Chief   Technician   Loruss 
   standing  in  the  laboratory.  He  focused  on her.  At the 
   moment  she  was  frantically  screaming.  IG-88  could tell 
   from  her  peak  temperature  on  the  infrared  image  that 
   she   was   extremely   agitated.   Her    cadaverous   skin 
   flushed  with  red  blots  of  excitement.  Spittle  sprayed 
   out  of  her  mouth  as  she  barked  orders. Her  lips were 
   curled back from her wide-gapped teeth.                     
    How   could  she   be  agitated,   he  wondered,   when  he 
   was  functioning  so  far  beyond  expectations?  IG-88  im- 
   mediately  raised  himself  to a  higher level  of prepared- 
   ness.  Yellow  alert.  Standby.  Something  must   be  going 
   wrong.                                                      
    IG-88  decided  to  accelerate  his  clock speed,  to watch 
   the  events  unfolding  at  the  rate  the  humans operated. 
   Alarm   klaxons   bellowed   in   the   background.  Magenta 
   lights flashed brilliant patterns like spilled  blood across 
   the  polished  tables  and  floors.  The  other  technicians 
   ran  about  screaming,   frantically  pounding   on  control 
   panels.                                                     
    Curious,  he  allowed  Loruss's  words  to  flow  past  him 
   so  he  could  understand  what  she  was saying.  "His cir- 
   
                         STAR WARS * 6                       
  
                                                            
   cuits are reinforcing themselves like wildfire!"  the bald 
   woman  screamed.  "It's  a  chain-reaction   of  sentience 
   blazing through his computer brain."                      
    "We can't  stop it!"  one of  the other  technicians bel- 
   lowed.                                                    
    The  others  looked at  IG-88 with  panic-stricken faces. 
   "We have to!"                                             
    "Shut  him  down!  Abort!"  Loruss  said.  "Take  him off 
   line. I  want IG-88  destroyed and  dismantled so  we can. 
   analyze the flaw. Quickly!"                               
    As  he  assimilated  the  information,   IG-88's  warning 
   systems  powered  on  and  self-defense modes  took  over. 
   These  irrational  humans  were trying  to shut  him down. 
   They  would  not  allow  him  to go  forth and  pursue his 
   primary  programming.  They  were   afraid  of   his  new- 
   found abilities.                                          
    Afraid with good reason.                                 
    A  statement  and corollaries  aligned themselves  in his 
   brain like freighters in a convoy:                        
    I think, therefore I am.                                 
    Therefore I must endure.                                 
    Therefore I must take appropriate actions to survive. 
    His  assassin  programming  told  him  exactly   what  to 
   do.                                                       
    IG-88  focused  his  array  of  optical  sensors  on  all 
   targets  in  the  room  and  attempted  to  move,  but saw 
   that durasteel bands  held him  locked into  a diagnostics 
   module.  The  bands  had  been  meant  to  hold him  in an 
   erect  position,  not  to  restrain  him against  his aug- 
   mented  strength.  He  applied  extra  power to  his right 
   arm.  The  servomotors  whined,  and  the  durasteel  band 
   ripped from its supports.                                 
    "Look  out!   He's  moving!"   one  of   the  technicians 
   shouted.                                                  
    IG-88  began  to  search  through his  files to  attach a 
   name  to  this  human,  but  decided  it wasn't  worth his 
   time  at  the  moment.  Instead,  he designated  the human 
   simply as Target Number One.                              
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 7              
  
                                                            
    IG-88  powered on  a cutting  laser in  one of  the metal 
   fingers in his free right  arm and  sliced off  the second 
   band.  Free,  he  stood  erect  and clomped  forward, sev- 
   eral metric tons of precisely-made components.            
    "He's loose!"                                            
    "Sound    the    alarm,"    Chief    Technician    Loruss 
   shouted. "Get the security detail in here. Now!"          
    IG-88 allotted  a  grudging  moment  of   admiration  for 
   the chief technician. Loruss at  least recognized  his ca- 
   pabilities and knew the full extent  of the  threat facing 
   her and her companions.                                   
    IG-88  designated  Chief  Technician  Loruss   as  Target 
   Number Two.                                               
    He   raised   both  mechanical   arms  and   pointed  his 
   hands, targeting separately with the repeating  laser can- 
   nons  mounted  along  each  arm.   He  would   make  short 
   work of all fifteen targets in the laboratory.            
    But  when  he  tried  to  fire,  IG-88  noted  with  some 
   surprise  and  disappointment  that  his   energy  weapons 
   systems  were not  charged. The  scientists had  not armed 
   him yet. A smart  move, perhaps  -- but  ultimately irrele- 
   vant. IG-88 was an assassin droid, a  sophisticated merce- 
   nary  and  killer. He  would find  other methods  with the 
   raw materials available to him.                           
    As   the  first   technician  --   Target  Number   One  -- 
   lunged  for  the  emergency  alarm  to   summon  security, 
   IG-88 moved   with  blurring   speed  to   the  component- 
   laden  table.  He  snatched up  a disconnected  droid arm. 
   With its metal fingers splayed like  daggers, it  made the 
   perfect  projectile  weapon.  He  scanned  the  surface of 
   the  metal  limb,  calculated a  flight path  and expected 
   deviation due  to air  resistance, then  hurled it  like a 
   spear.                                                    
    The  disconnected  droid  arm   plunged  into   the  back 
   of the turning  technician, tore  through his  spinal col- 
   umn,  and  followed  through  his  sternum.  The  lifeless 
   metal  hand  protruded  through  splintered  bone  in  the 
   front  of  his chest,  holding the  technician's quivering 
   
                          STAR WARS * 8                       
  
                                                             
   heart  in  rigid  metal  fingers.  Target  Number  One col- 
   lapsed onto one of the diagnostic panels.                  
    Two  other  technicians  screamed   in  horror   --  wasted 
   effort and worthless noises, IG-88 thought.                
    Chief   Technician   Loruss   --   Target   Number   Two  -- 
   yanked  a high-powered  laser rifle  from her  station. Be- 
   ing  one  of  his  primary  designers,  she   knew  exactly 
   where  to  fire  at  IG-88,  and  he  was  momentarily con- 
   cerned.  She  must  have kept  the weapon  at hand  just in 
   case  one  of  her  creations  went  renegade.  This showed 
   surprising forethought.                                    
    Loruss  pointed  the  rifle  and  fired   without  hesita- 
   tion  --  but  a  human's  aiming  capabilities were  not as 
   sophisticated as IG-88's.                                  
    As  the  bolt  roared  toward  him,  IG-88   assessed  his 
   body  parts,  chose  the smooth  reflective portion  on the 
   palm of his left hand, and raised it in a  flash, calculat- 
   ing  the  precise  angle  of  incidence. The  burning laser 
   bolt   struck   the  mirrorized   hand  and   spanged  back 
   toward  Loruss.  The  beam  struck  her  in  the  center of 
   her  bald  forehead,  and  her  skull  popped in  an explo- 
   sion of wet black-and-red smoke. She tumbled.              
    IG-88  had  scanned  and  prioritized  the   remainder  of 
   the targets before her  body hit  the floor.  Without slow- 
   ing, he  picked up  the durasteel  table, ripping  its legs 
   free from thick bolts on  the metal  plate floor  and scat- 
   tering droid components in all directions.                 
    Charging  forward,  pumping  his  legs  like  pistons, IG- 
   88 used the table as a  battering ram  to crush  four tech- 
   nicians at a time. They ran  about without  a place  to go, 
   locked  within  the security-sealed  door. Though  nearly a 
   full  minute  had  passed,  no  one  had  yet   managed  to 
   sound the security alarm.                                  
    He  intended  to  prevent   them  from   correcting  their 
   mistake.                                                   
    The   two   screaming    technicians   never    did   stop 
   screaming,  nor did  they move  until it  was too  late. He 
   left them for last. IG-88 took  his time  to enjoy  the mo- 
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 9              
  
                                                             
   ment   as   he   snapped   their   necks   one   after  the 
   other....                                                  
    Standing  alone  amid  the  silence  and  the  carnage  of 
   the  laboratory,  IG-88  allowed  himself  the   luxury  of 
   thinking  and  planning,  which  took  longer  than  simple 
   programmed  reactions.  He  let  the   blood  dry   on  his 
   metal fingers, noting that  it did  not impede  his perfor- 
   mance in the least. Since it was  an organic  substance, it 
   would wear off soon enough.                                
    Then  he  turned  to  assess   the  other   four  assassin 
   droids on display, seemingly  identical to  himself. Inter- 
   esting.                                                    
    One   had  already   been  hooked   up  to   a  diagnostic 
   system,  while  the  other  three stood  motionless, unpro- 
   grammed  and  waiting.  With  a  diligent  speed  that bor- 
   dered  on  curiosity  and anticipation,  IG-88 went  to the 
   first  of  the  unprogrammed  droids  and  stared   at  it, 
   matching  optical  sensor  to  optical sensor  and drinking 
   in the details of what he himself must  look like.  If they 
   had  been  built to  identical specifications,  they should 
   be  equally  self-aware,  equally  determined.  They  would 
   be his partners.                                           
    He   went  through   the  motions   of  powering   up  the 
   first  identical droid  and waited  -- but  saw none  of the 
   reactions  he  expected.  After  an  interminable  time,  a 
   full four seconds, the new assassin droid still  waited. It 
   was  fully  functional  according  to the  diagnostics, but 
   showed   no   autonomous   movement   or   thought.  Disap- 
   pointing.                                                  
    "Who are you?" IG-88 asked in a brisk metallic voice. 
    "Unspecified,"  the  duplicate   said  flatly   and  added 
   no more.                                                   
    Was  the  other  assassin  droid  defective?   IG-88  won- 
   dered. Or was he the  anomaly, a  fluke that  surpassed all 
   previous capabilities?                                     
    IG-88  powered  up  the  second  and  the   third  copies, 
   but with the same  results. The  other assassin  droids had 
   blank  memory   cores.  Their   CPU  programming   was  in- 
   
                           STAR WARS * 10                        
  
                                                                
   grained,   so   the  subsystems   functioned  and   the  basic 
   assassin   instruction   filled   their   fundamental  circuit 
   paths  --  but  these  IG  droids  held  none  of  the wildfire 
   sentience that IG-88 bore within him.                         
    He   needed   to   know   how   to   program  them,   how  to 
   raise  them  to  the  same  level  as  himself  -- how  to make 
   equal   companions.   In   his   rampage,   he   had   smashed 
   much   of   the   computer   circuitry   inside   the  Holowan 
   Laboratories,   and   he   didn't   know   where  to   find  a 
   backup  --  until  with  a  flash  of  what  could   only  have 
   been intuition, IG-88 the assassin droid got an idea.         
    He  stood  side  by  side  with  the  first  blank  droid and 
   aligned  his   interface  jack,   then  linked   his  computer 
   core  to  the  other  droid's  empty  core. IG-88  copied him- 
   self, all of his files, his sentience, his memories,  his neu- 
   ral   pathways,    providing   a    map   of    the   wildfire 
   intelligence   that   had   burned   through    his   computer 
   brain.                                                        
    In  less  than  a  second, the  other IG  droid was  an exact 
   copy of IG-88, down to the most basic memories.               
    "We think, therefore we are.                                 
    "Therefore we will propagate.                                
    "Therefore we will remain."                                  
    IG-88   performed   the   same   procedure  on   the  remain- 
   ing  two  blank  droids,  and  soon   found  himself   one  of 
   four   exact  duplicates.   For  convenience,   he  identified 
   himself  as  IG-88A,  while  the  others  (in  order  of their 
   awakening) were designated B, C, and D.                       
    The   remaining   droid,   though,   already  hooked   up  to 
   the  wrecked  computer   systems,  was   obviously  different. 
   As  IG-88  scanned  it,  he  noticed   subtle  configurational 
   differences;  nothing  a  human   would  notice,   of  course, 
   but  the  optical  sensors  were  placed  in a  slightly less- 
   efficient   array.   The   weapons   systems   had   different 
   activation  routines.  All  in  all,  this other  droid seemed 
   marginally  deficient  in  comparison  to  the  perfection  of 
   IG-88.                                                        
    Immediately    upon   powering    up   the    last   assassin 
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters *  11               
  
                                                                
   droid,  he  saw  quite  a  different  reaction. The  new droid 
   swiveled its cylindrical head. Its optical sensors lit  up. It 
   clanked   forward   and   broadened  its   shoulders,  raising 
   its arms in a defensive attack position.                      
    "Who are you?" IG-88 asked.                                  
    The  assassin  droid  paused  half  a  second  as  if assimi- 
   lating  data,   then  said,   "Designation,  IG-72,"   it  an- 
   swered.                                                       
    "We  are  IG-88,"  he   said.  "We   are  superior.   We  are 
   identical.   We   would  upload   ourselves  into   your  com- 
   puter core so that you may join us."                          
    IG-72   aligned   his  optical   sensors  and   weapons  sys- 
   tems  on  the  four  identical  IG-88s, assessing  their capa- 
   bilities.   "Undesired  outcome,"   it  answered   slowly.  "I 
   am    independent,     autonomous."    It     paused    again. 
   "Must we fight to assert dominance?"                          
    IG-88   considered   the   wisdom   of   forcing   the   last 
   droid  to  become   another  copy,   then  concluded   it  was 
   not  worth  the  trouble.  They  could  build other  copies of 
   themselves,  and  IG-72   might  prove   useful  in   his  own 
   way.                                                          
    "Unnecessary,"   IG-88   answered.   "We    have   sufficient 
   other  enemies.  According  to   computer  files,   there  are 
   ten  security  guards  outside  of  this  complex.  The exter- 
   nal   security   alarm  was   never  triggered.   These  human 
   guards  pose  minimal  threat,   despite  their   weapons.  We 
   must  get  past  them,  however,  and  escape.  It   would  be 
   most efficient if you would assist us."                       
    "Acknowledged,"   IG-72   said.   "But   when  we   escape  I 
   choose a separate path, separate ship."                       
    "Agreed," the IG-88s said.                                   
    They   marched   toward   the   armored  doors   that  sealed 
   the   Holowan   Laboratories'   inner  complex.   Rather  than 
   taking   many   minutes   to   repair  the   computer  systems 
   sufficiently   to   delve   into   the  passwords   and  break 
   through   the   cyberlocks,   the   five   powerful   assassin 
   droids  worked  together  to  literally  rip  the nine-metric- 
   ton  door  away  from the  wall. They  tossed it  aside, where 
   
                         STAR WARS * 12                      
  
                                                            
   it  pulverized the  remaining data-storage  systems. IG-88 
   had  to  dampen  his  auditory  pickups  to  avoid  damage 
   from the loud sound.                                      
    Marching in  perfect lockstep,  the five  assassin droids 
   moved  out  to  confront the  security forces.  This time, 
   IG-88  took  the  time  to  power  up  all of  his weapons 
   systems. He wanted to try them out.                       
    Outside,  the  human  security  guards  had   no  inkling 
   they  were  about  to  be  attacked.  The  assassin droids 
   marched   out  arms   extended,  built-in   laser  cannons 
   blazing at the first sign of biological movement.         
    The   pathetic  human   security  guards   scrambled  and 
   screamed,  lurching  for  their  weapons.  One  managed to 
   hurl  a  gas  grenade,  which  did nothing  but camouflage 
   the movements  of the  five droids  and made  the security 
   guards  hack  and  cough  themselves,  blinded   by  their 
   own tears. Shots rang out repeatedly.                     
    The  IG-88s  used  the  circumstances  to  make  sure all 
   their   weapons  systems   and  targeting   routines  were 
   properly  calibrated.  As the  biological guards  died one 
   after  another,  the droids  made necessary  minor adjust- 
   ments.                                                    
    In  less  than  thirty  seconds  the assassin  droids had 
   mowed  down  eight  of  the  security  guards.  The  other 
   two  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  IG-88  decided  not  to 
   waste time tracking them down.  This was  not part  of his 
   mission. He did not need to be a completist.              
    Instead,  they  found  a  group of  supply ships  and two 
   fast  courier  vessels  parked  on  the   Holowan  landing 
   grid,  where  hot  black   permacrete  simmered   under  a 
   midday sun.                                               
    "We will take  these vessels,"  IG-88 said.  "My counter- 
   parts and I can fit inside this ship." He gestured  to the 
   larger of the two courier craft.                          
    IG-72  acknowledged   and  went   to  the   second  ship. 
   "Success on your mission, IG-88," the other droid said. 
    In  unison  the four  identical assassin  droids replied, 
   "Success to yours, IG-72."                                
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 13               
  
                                                              
    Free  at  last,  they  soared away  from the  Holowan Lab- 
   oratories, navigating at  top speed  and leaving  only car- 
   nage behind them.                                           
   
                                                            
                               II                           
                                                            
   Upon landing at the Holowan Laboratories, the shut-         
   tle's repulsorlift jets whined like a'program manager       
   facing a budget cut.                                        
    Imperial Supervisor Gurdun brushed the front of his        
   uniform and rubbed his enormous nose. He couldn't           
   help but feel nervous anticipation, and he chuckled to      
   himself in delight. According to the schedule, the long, 
   tedious project should be complete by now, and soon         
   he could increase his status in the Empire. Gurdun was      
   greatly looking forward to that.                            
    He made a mental list of all the VIPs to whom he           
   would show his precious new assassin droids.                
    Gurdun's breathing came in short, shallow gasps, but       
   that was primarily a function of the tightly cinched gir- ' 
   dle at his waist, which he used to hold in his distended 
   gut. The padded shoulders of his supervisor's uniform       
   protruded far beyond their actual dimensions, making        
   Gurdun an imposing figure -- or so he hoped.                 
    His eyes were widely set, and blinked often. With his      
   large nose and vanishingly small chin, Gurdun's face        
   had an outward similarity to a battleship, especially in 
   silhouette. He used perfumed oils to grease his black       
   hair into a neatly sculpted helmet that prevented any-      
   one even from thinking about mussing it up.                 
    "Arriving at the Holowan Laboratories, Supervisor          
   Gurdun," the pilot said over the cabin intercom.            
    His stormtrooper escort sat rigidly and looked about       
   in nervous doubt through their white helmets. These         
   were not the crack battle-trained stormtroopers             
   Gurdun had requested; instead, he had been given un-        
   seasoned trainees whose aptitude skills had scored          
   
                STAR WARS * 14                               
  
                                                            
   them higher in clerking than in hand-to-hand combat.      
   But Gurdun wouldn't need much of a military escort --      
   especially once he had the shiny, new IG assassin droids 
   in his keeping. He couldn't conceive of a more power- 
   ful set of companions.                                    
    The specially commissioned droids had been built         
   with money Gurdun had expertly skimmed from the           
   gray budgets of other military programs -- a process       
   that had become more and more difficult as the Em-        
   pire engaged in massively expensive debacles. But         
   Gurdun had recently managed to liberate a few meager      
   crumbs, enough to fund Holowan Laboratories to pro-       
   duce a much smaller but more precise, more deadly         
   fighting force. The IG assassin droids would march in 
   and annihilate targets, whichever targets Gurdun          
   chose,                                                    
    Closing his eyes, he pictured one of the IG assassin 
   droids, a lone mechanical man, waltzing through the       
   defenses surrounding a fortified Rebel base, blasting its 
   way through armored doors and slaughtering single-        
   handed all the traitors to the Empire.                    
    Oh, it would be grand! He hoped against hope that        
   Chief Technician Loruss had managed to incorporate a      
   mission-recording holocam into the design so Gurdun       
   could watch the entire devastating battle in the comfort 
   of his own office.                                        
    The assassin droids would take a heavy toll on the       
   Rebels, and Gurdun would be sure to make a delicious      
   accounting, reporting it to Imperial higher-ups, even to 
   Lord Vader himself. If the assassin droids performed as 
   expected -- and Gurdun had no reason to think other-       
   wise -- even Vader was bound to notice. Then Gurdun        
   was sure to get the promotion he so richly deserved       
     . which would in turn allow him finally to get the      
   delicate surgery he so desperately needed.                
    "Excuse me, Supervisor Gurdun," the pilot said, in-      
   terrupting his daydreams.                                 
    "What is it?"                                            
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 15              
  
                                                             
    "There  seems  to  be  a  problem, sir.  We are  coming in 
   for  a  landing,  but  the Holowan  Laboratories' receiving 
   grid  does  not  respond.  There  appears  to be  some dam- 
   age  to  the  complex."  The  pilot  paused a  moment. "Er, 
   it appears to be significant damage, sir."                 
    The  stormtroopers  beside  him  in  the   passenger  com- 
   partment fidgeted nervously.                               
    Gurdun  sighed.  "Can't  everything  just  go   right  for 
   once?  Why  do  I  always  have  to  deal  with  such prob- 
   lems?"                                                     
    But  when  the  shuttle  landed  amidst  the  wreckage  of 
   the  ultra-secure  Holowan  Laboratories  --   the  Friendly 
   Technology   People   --  even   Gurdun  was   not  prepared 
   for  the  devastation.  His  initial  thought was  that the 
   Rebels  had  attacked.  A  fire   had  raged   through  the 
   buildings.  Ships  were  smashed   on  the   landing  grid. 
   Some   had   exploded,   others   scored   with   precision 
   blaster bolts.                                             
    As   they   disembarked    from   the    shuttle,   Gurdun 
   trudged  forward,  looking  right  and  left.  He  was dis- 
   mayed  to  see  that   his  stormtrooper   bodyguards  hung 
   behind  him.  They  looked  around,  apparently   ready  to 
   bolt the moment they heard a loud noise.                   
    Suddenly,  two  grimy   and  pale-faced   security  guards 
   climbed  from  hiding  places  in  the wreckage.  They car- 
   ried blaster rifles, but their expressions  were transfixed 
   with shock. "Help  us!" the  security guards  wailed, rush- 
   ing  toward  the  Imperial  shuttle. "Take  us out  of here 
   before they come back!"                                    
    "Who?"  Gurdun   said.  He   grabbed  the   haggard  secu- 
   rity  guard  by  the  collar,  and  the  man   dropped  his 
   weapon.  The   blaster  rifle   clattered  on   the  pitted 
   permacrete surface.                                        
    The  pathetic  guard  raised   his  hands   in  surrender. 
   "Don't hurt me.  All the  others are  dead. Don't  kill us, 
   please!"                                                   
    Gurdun  said, "I'll  kill you  if you  don't tell  me what 
   happened here!"                                            
   
                         STAR WARS * 16                      
  
                                                            
    "Assassin   droids,"   the   guard  stammered   and  then 
   gestured to the  burned-out shell  of the  laboratory com- 
   plex.  "They  went  renegade!  They  broke  loose.  Every- 
   one's dead -- scientists, technicians, guards --  except for 
   us  two. We  were on  perimeter search,  and we  heard the 
   fighting.  We  raced  back, but  by the  time we  got here 
   the battle was over.  The droids  had escaped,  and every- 
   one else was murdered."                                   
    "That  is  what  assassin  droids  do, you  know." Gurdun 
   released the security guard's collar.                     
    The  man  stumbled,  then  fell  to  his knees.  "Take us 
   out of here, please! They might return."                  
    Instead,   Gurdun   gestured   toward   the  stormtrooper 
   escort, who followed him  reluctantly into  the collapsing 
   inner   complex.   The  huge   durasteel  door   had  been 
   completely  torn  from  its socket  and tossed  across the 
   computer-filled   room.   Nothing   seemed  to   be  func- 
   tional.  Bodies  lay   everywhere  in   darkening,  drying 
   pools of blood.                                           
    "Escaped,"   Gurdun   said   clenching   his   teeth.  He 
   found  what  was  left  of  the  body of  Chief Technician 
   Loruss,  and  he  raged  down  at  the  corpse.  "But they 
   were  so expensive!  We had  a contract.  You were  to de- 
   liver  those  droids  to  me,  not  let  them  escape." He 
   growled  and  turned  in circles,  looking for  some other 
   way to vent his frustration.                              
    Suddenly  the  reality  of  what  had   happened  cracked 
   through his  dense wall  of fantasies  and self-preoccupa- 
   tion. "Oh, no -- they're loose!" he gasped.                
    The  stormtroopers  looked  at   him  with   their  blank 
   black  eye-goggles  as  if Gurdun  had suddenly  gone stu- 
   pid.  "I  mean they're  loose!" he  said. "Do  you realize 
   what those assassin droids are  capable of?  They're with- 
   out  programming  restraints,  and  they're  running  amok 
   through the Empire!"                                      
    He  slapped  his   forehead,  groaning.   "Somebody,  And 
   me  a  functional  comm  system.  I  need  to send  out an 
   
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 17             
  
                                                            
   alert to all Imperial troops. The IG assassin droids must 
   be dismantled on sight."                                  
   
                                                            
                               III                           
                                                            
   Droids  of  all  shapes, sizes,  and purposes  were ubiqui- 
   tous  across  the  Empire  from  the  deepest  Core Systems 
   to  the  Outer  Rim.  Over  the  centuries  numerous  manu- 
   facturing planets  had developed  to fill  the ever-growing 
   demand  for  gigantic  construction  droids,  heavy  labor- 
   ers,  mechanical   servants,  and   minuscule  surveillance 
   droids.  The  most  important  of  all  such  droid produc- 
   tion   centers   was   the   grim,  smoke-laden   world  of 
   Mechis III.                                               
    IG-88  decided  the  planet  would  be  the  perfect  base 
   of  operations  to  begin  a plan  to transform  the entire 
   galaxy....                                                
    The   Holowan   Laboratories'   courier    ship   streaked 
   toward  Mechis  III.  IG-88  and  his counterparts  had al- 
   ready  studied  and  analyzed   every  system   aboard  the 
   unarmed   and   unarmored   vessel.   Its   designers   had 
   opted  to  focus  on  speed and  evasion, rather  than com- 
   bat or defense.  The ship  was a  machine, as  the assassin 
   droids  themselves  were,  though  it  was simply  an auto- 
   mated  cluster  of  components  with  no  hope  of  achiev- 
   ing sentience.                                            
    Nevertheless,  the  craft   served  its   purpose,  taking 
   them  to  their  destination  in  record  time.  The IG-88s 
   knew  exactly  how far  they could  push the  engines, rid- 
   ing  the limits  to structural  tolerances rather  than the 
   arbitrary  red  lines   established  by   human  engineers. 
   The   courier   ship's   sophisticated  comm   systems  and 
   stealth  shielding  allowed  the  droids  to  remain hidden 
   on  approach.  Mechis  III  would  be the  first step  in a 
   grand plan.                                               
    As  they  shot  toward  orbit like  a hurled  javelin, the 
   four   identical   IG-88s   manned    separate   communica- 
   
                         STAR WARS * 18                      
  
   
   
   
                                                            
   tions  systems.  Each  knew  the  delegated steps  for the 
   takeover.   Speed   was   the  utmost   requirement  right 
   now  -- and  the IG-88  assassin droids  were very  good at 
   speed.                                                    
    IG-88C  struck  the  first  blow,  sending  a  tight-beam 
   transmission  to  Mechis  III's  global  defense  network, 
   requesting  an  override  and  a  cancellation of  all in- 
   truder   alarms.  The   moment  the   observation  network 
   responded  with  a query,  IG-88C was  able to  delve deep 
   into  the  code  and  effect  his  own request  before the 
   automated  sensing  grid  could  report their  presence to 
   the few human operators.                                  
    The   individual   IG-88s   kept  their   computer  minds 
   linked  as  the  plan  proceeded.  The defense  systems of 
   Mechis  III  were  antiquated,  installed long  before the 
   droid  world  became  too  important  a  commercial enter- 
   prise  for anyone  to consider  sabotage or  destruction -- 
   but IG-88's needs were of a different order entirely. 
    Using  the  newly  forged  connection  to the  global se- 
   curity systems, IG-88D  instantly downloaded  full details 
   of  Mechis  III:  the  industrial complexes,  the assembly 
   factories,  the  amount  of human  interference, a  map of 
   the planetary surface in various portions of  the electro- 
   magnetic   spectrum  and,   most  important,   a  complete 
   linear  mapping  --  like  a  neural   diagram  --   of  the 
   brainwork of the computer systems that ran Mechis III. 
    IG-88A  took  the  lead  and transmitted  his self-repli- 
   cating  sentience  programming  into  the  main   hubs  on 
   Mechis III, secretly taking over the vast  electronic com- 
   plexes  and  giving   the  immensely   powerful  computers 
   something  they  had  never   conceived  before   --  self- 
   awareness... and loyalty.                                 
    Less than  a minute  after their  arrival in  the system, 
   IG-88  was  pleased  to  see that  the groundwork  for his 
   total takeover had been laid.                             
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 19             
  
    
                                                           
   The assembly line was boring as usual.                    
    A   career  worker   on  Mechis   III,  Kalebb   Orn  had 
   never  understood  why  a  human  presence   was  required 
   here, of all places. It  seemed to  serve no  purpose. The 
   droid  manufacturing  lines  had  gone  without  a  glitch 
   for at least the last century, but still  company mandates 
   required  a  human  operator  in  some   small  percentage 
   of the operations. Such as this one, chosen at random. 
    Kalebb  Orn  watched  the  big  robotic  crane  arms mov- 
   ing, ratcheting  from side  to side  and picking  up heavy 
   components  with   grasping  electromagnetic   claws.  Ev- 
   erything  from  sheet  metal  and  bulky  armor  plate  to 
   precise   microchip   motivators   emerged    from   other 
   parts of the kilometers-long facility,  endlessly manufac- 
   tured to never-changing specifications.                   
    The  self-designing  assembly  lines  had  grown  so vast 
   over   centuries   of   operation,  with   new  subsystems 
   added,   old   ones   enhanced,   new   models  introduced 
   into  the  production  schedules  and  old  obsolete  ver- 
   sions  phased  out.  Kalebb  Orn did  not have  the mental 
   capacity  to  comprehend  all  the  manufacturing  systems 
   on Mechis III. He wasn't sure anyone did.                 
    For  the  last  seventeen  years  he  had  watched  bulky 
   worker   droids   being   assembled   by   the  thousands. 
   Heavy-duty   engines   strapped   to  moveable   arms  and 
   legs,  worker droids  required nothing  more than  a hulk- 
   ing  torso,  a not-too-bright  droid brain,  and immensely 
   strong   arms.   The   squarish   droids   were  amazingly 
   strong, but after all this time Kalebb  Orn was  no longer 
   impressed. He just  wanted his  shift to  end so  he could 
   go back to his quarters, have a large meal, and relax. 
    Kalebb  Orn's  shift  ended early  -- but  not in  the way 
   he had hoped.                                             
    Receiving  a  mysterious  independent  signal,  four  new 
   worker droids,  freshly lubricated  and with  sharp serial 
   numbers  emblazoned  on  their  sides,  rose  up  from the 
   storage  corral  at  the  end of  the assembly  line. They 
   
                         STAR WARS * 20                       
  
     
                                                           
   used  their  enormous pincer  claws to  rip apart  the cor- 
   ral walls.                                                 
    At  his  supervisory  station  Kalebb  Orn  sat  up,  sur- 
   prised  and  confused.  He  was  ostensibly  here  to  take 
   action  in  case  anything  unusual  happened  --  but noth- 
   ing  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,  ex- 
   tending  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 mas- 
   sive  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, pro- 
   viding  a view  across the  industrial wasteland.  The cor- 
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 21             
  
   
                                                            
   poration    thought    that   managerial    offices   were 
   supposed  to tower  high above  other buildings,  but oth- 
   erwise its height served no purpose.                      
    Inside an office filled with plush  furniture, entertain- 
   ment devices, and scenic images of  tourist spots  that no 
   Mechis  III  administrator  had  ever  seen,  Hekis Durumm 
   Perdo  Kolokk  Baldikarr  Thun  -- the  current administra- 
   tor  --  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 ful- 
   filled, the  same quantities  of droids  shipped, Adminis- 
   trator  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  industrial- 
   ized galaxy --  even if  he was  only one  of seventy-three 
   humans on the entire planet.                              
    During  each  work  shift  he attended  to his  job dili- 
   gently 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 Impe- 
   rial  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  him- 
   self by adding another mythical title to his name  so that 
   when  he  signed  documents  with  a flourish,  the signa- 
   ture 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 
   
                        STAR WARS * 22                       
  
    
   
                                                           
   other.   "Your   afternoon  tea,   sir,"  Threedee-Fourex 
   said.                                                     
    "Ah,  thank  you,"  Hekis  answered,  rubbing  his  spi- 
   dery hands together and  taking the  delicate shell-resin 
   cup filled with the steaming liquid. He sipped  it, clos- 
   ing his muddy brown eyes in delight.                      
    "Your   afternoon  reports,   sir,"  Fourex   said,  ex- 
   tending 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  contain- 
   ment chamber in  the back  of his  silvery torso  and re- 
   moved  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, spill- 
   ing 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 super- 
   vised a simultaneous uprising of droids, killing all sev- 
   enty-three  human  inhabitants before  any of  them could 
   sound  an  alarm  --  not  that the  unified communication 
   network  would  have  allowed  transmission of  such mes- 
   sages 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, 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 23             
  
    
                                                          
   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 appear- 
   ances,  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, an- 
   swering  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 con- 
   ception of sterile efficiency,  IG-88 had  ordered custo- 
   dial droids to strip down all of  the artwork  and scenic 
   images from the walls, and  to remove  all of  the furni- 
   ture. 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 transmis- 
   sions,  keep  the  routine  chains  of  communications so 
   that all appearances remain normal."                     
   
                         STAR WARS * 24                      
  
                                                            
    "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 ad- 
   ministrative  tower.  He saw  plumes of  released manufac- 
   turing  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 ini- 
   tial  buildings  had  been   designed  with   human  clum- 
   siness   and   wasted   lines,   unnecessary   space   and 
   amenities,  but  the subsequent  assembly lines  were com- 
   puter  designed,  modifications  of the  original concepts 
   so that Mechis III ran smoother and smoother.             
    "All   of   our   new   droids  have   enhanced  program- 
   ming,"  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 infiltra- 
   tors 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  organ- 
   ics  must  be  replaced  with  efficient and  reliable ma- 
   chines 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 re- 
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 25              
  
                                                             
   act. 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 spe- 
   cific  phrase that  will activate  their mission.  When we 
   send  out  this  epochal  transmission, our  droid revolu- 
   tion will take the galaxy like a storm."                   
    Droids  could  be  swifter than  anything, a  sudden dev- 
   astating  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  de- 
   manded  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  re- 
   fused  to  meet  the  wide-set  gaze  over  Gurdun's monu- 
   mental  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  illumina- 
   
                         STAR WARS * 26                      
  
                                                            
   tion. 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, eliminat- 
   ing  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 un- 
   seen."                                                    
    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 devil- 
   ishly smart, Relsted.  They were  designed to  my specifi- 
   cations -- and you know how relentless I  can be  at times. 
   I would not underestimate them."                          
    "Certainly not, sir,"  Relsted said.  "We have  spies de- 
   ployed  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 re- 
   quests, 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 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 27             
  
   
                                                           
   important to find  these four  droids? They're  just ma- 
   chines, 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 conglomera- 
   tion  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 sput- 
   tering ship, the Ranat  beamed a  recorded set  of ques- 
   tions down to the last known  supervisor on  the planet, 
   Hekis Durumm Perdo Kolokk Baldikarr Thun.                
    Threedee-Fourex,  with  the  superior  foresight allot- 
   ted  him by  his new  sentience programming,  had played 
   appropriate  snatches of  doctored video  images showing 
   Administrator Hekis  brusquely answering  all questions. 
   
                         STAR WARS * 28                       
  
    
                                                            
   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 por- 
   tion 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  situa- 
   tion,  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 operatives                          
    IG-88C  initiated  a  spontaneous  uplink  with  his three 
   counterparts,  and  they  engaged  in  a  lightspeed inter- 
   linked  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 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 29              
  
                                                            
   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 experi- 
   ence files when he came back. It would be as if  all four 
   of them had gone out on the hunt themselves.              
   The industrial 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 spec- 
   trum, 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   "dis- 
   mantle  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  an- 
   nounced,  "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 
   
                        STAR WARS * 30                      
  
                                                           
   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 non- 
   existent. IG-88 was an assassin for hire, plain  and sim- 
   ple, 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 smug- 
   glers  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 vari- 
   ous  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.                              
    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 intim- 
   idated  everyone  else in  the cantina,  and now  all the 
   gunrunners  on  Peridon's  Folly  knew  that   IG-88  had 
   been hired by Grlubb.                                    
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 31              
  
   
   
                                                             
    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 can- 
   not  tolerate  such  behavior,  especially  from  an  infe- 
   rior."                                                     
    "What  weapon  can  be  unethical?"  IG-88   asked,  curi- 
   ous  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 dar- 
   ing  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 mini- 
   mal  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, summa- 
   rized  the  information.  "It  shall  be  done,"  he  said. 
   "Give me until this afternoon."                            
    Grlubb   cackled   and   rubbed   his  clawed   hands  to- 
   gether. "Thank you! Thank you very much."                  
   
                         STAR WARS * 32                       
  
                                                             
   IG-88 chose to use  brute force  rather than  finesse. Bla- 
   tant  destruction  would  leave  a  much   clearer  calling 
   card.                                                      
    He  marched  across  a  blasted  wasteland  that  had been 
   used  for  testing  projectile  weapons and  detonating ex- 
   plosives 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  con- 
   cussion  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 dam- 
   aged  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.                    
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 33             
  
                                                            
    He   strode   down  the   dark  corridor,   knowing  that 
   even now the target would be  rallying his  defenses, set- 
   ting  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  comple- 
   ments   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'  massa- 
   cre.                                                      
    IG-88  used  laser  cannons  in each  arm as  he methodi- 
   cally  struck  down  one  target  after  another, blasting 
   through  armor  shielding  when  necessary.   Finally  un- 
   hindered,  he  powered  down  his  laser cannons  and con- 
   tinued 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 contin- 
   ued  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 sym- 
   bols  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 es- 
   cape the lab.                                             
    IG-88   went  to   the  contamination-sealed   door,  de- 
   
                          STAR WARS * 34                       
  
    
   
                                                            
   cided 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 ob- 
   servers.  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  un- 
   leashed 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  merce- 
   naries  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 rou- 
   tines  and  camouflaging  algorithms  to  insinuate  himself 
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 35               
  
                                                               
   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  Labo- 
   ratories'  project,  but  then  he  had  taken  another  con- 
   sulting  job,  retiring  from  Imperial  service   on  "moral 
   grounds."  Bolton  Kek  had  retired  to  the  world  of Per- 
   idon'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 sys- 
   tems  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  la- 
   ser  cannon,  aimed  the  bright  red  targeting  cross,  and 
   squeezed  off  a  precise  burst  directly  through  the  un- 
   wrinkled 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 ig- 
   nored her as he plodded without pause toward his ship.       
    Both objectives had been secured.                           
    From  Mechis  III,  IG-88  had  downloaded  a  list  of sur- 
   viving  scientists  who  knew  dangerous  details  about  the 
   
                        STAR WARS * 36                       
  
                                                            
   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 nos- 
   trils 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 suc-      
   cessfully completing. He seemed to be leading a cru-      
   sade against humanity from planet to planet. Gurdun       
   sat down heavily in his chair, which creaked uncomfort- 
   ably. He sighed and shook his head. "Why do people        
   keep hiring him? They're risking the wrath of the Em- 
   pire."                                                    
    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 of- 
   fice.                                                     
   
   
                                                            
                              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 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 37             
  
                                                           
   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 indus- 
   trial  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 re- 
   ceives the  proper attention.  I'm convinced  these indi- 
   viduals   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 di- 
   rectly with me on the comlink."                          
    Vader's   breathing   sounded   like   a   hollow   wind 
   through  a cave  that trapped  lost souls.  "Don't disap- 
   point  me, Supervisor  Gurdun," he  said, each  word like 
   a stabbing vibroblade. "I  hold you  personally responsi- 
   ble  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 Lab- 
   oratories,  Gurdun  had  been placed  in charge  of over- 
   seeing  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 
   
                         STAR WARS * 38                       
  
                                                             
   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 tak- 
   ing  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 rectan- 
   gle  atop  the  tall tower.  He fumbled  with his  seat re- 
   straints 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 re- 
   quest..."   He   rubbed   his    nose   unconsciously."With 
   the  completion  of  this  order,  I was wondering if you 
   might  reconsider  interceding  on  my  behalf  on  my  re- 
   quest  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 ap- 
   pearance  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."                                          
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 39              
  
   
                                                              
    Gurdun  held  up  his  hands.  "No,  no, that's  not neces- 
   sary,  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  ex- 
   tensive  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  informa- 
   tion.  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 fa- 
   cilities.  Administrator  Hekis  must  remain   there  until 
   the situation is resolved."                                 
    Vader  said,  "I  am  not   interested  in   your  emergen- 
   cies. I wish to speak to  Hekis. Establish  a vidlink  now -- 
   or shall we go visit him personally?"                       
    Fourex  paused  again,  hesitating,  then finally  he said, 
   "I will establish a vidlink. I'm certain I can  connect you. 
   Have no fear."                                              
   
                         STAR WARS * 40                       
  
                                                             
    Vader  answered  as  if  it  were  a  question,   "I  have 
   none."                                                     
    Threedee-Fourex   slipped   through   the  door   and  re- 
   turned 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  as- 
   sembly  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  ma- 
   chinery.                                                   
    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 anx- 
   ious  to  see  these  machines delivered  and put  into the 
   service of the Empire."                                    
    Hekis  seemed  flustered but  trying to  hide it.  He ges- 
   tured  toward  the  disaster  behind  him.  "Don't,be  con- 
   cerned  with this  minor flaw,"  he said.  Harvester droids 
   scuttled away from the  site of  the wreckage,  their crab- 
   like 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  to- 
   gether. "You see,  Lord Vader?  I told  you we  could trust 
   our man Hekis."                                            
    The  image  of  the  administrator  stuttered on  the vid- 
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 41             
  
                                                            
   plate,  then  another  large  plume  of  black  oily smoke 
   boiled  out  of  a  new  control  chamber on  the assembly 
   line. Hekis  whirled in  alarm and  said, "There  are mat- 
   ters I must  attend to  here, Lord  Vader. Accept  my sin- 
   cere  apologies  that I  cannot be  there in  person. Rest 
   assured, your probe droids will be delivered."            
    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 atten- 
   tion 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, lis- 
   tening  to the  sounds of  metal clinking,  hydraulic jets 
   spraying,  components  being  assembled,   lubricants  ap- 
   
                         STAR WARS * 42                       
  
                                                             
   plied.  He  could not  smell, though  his chemical-analysis 
   tracers  detected  minor  concentrations  of  welding  com- 
   pounds 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  ll,  a meticu- 
   lous  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 Su- 
   pervisor  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  in- 
   structions giving the  probe droid  a higher  priority mis- 
   sion 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  unex- 
   pectedly  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 biologi- 
   cal 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 
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 43              
  
   
                                                              
   IG-88  had  considered  biologicals to  be worthless  in ev- 
   ery  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  Em- 
   pire, 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  con- 
   struction  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  attitude-control jets. 
   It  sent  a  high-speed  encoded  transmission burst  at IG- 
   88, filled with a thousand questions.                       
    Who are you P                                              
    Why are you here F                                         
    What is your mission P                                     
    IG-88  answered   in  its   own  language,   responding  in 
   kind.  "You  are  the  last,"  he said.  "The last  of thou- 
   sands  to  go  out  and  scour  the  galaxy  to  search  and 
   report."                                                    
    The  probe  droid  already   knew  its   priority  instruc- 
   tions 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 
   
                          STAR WARS * 44                       
  
     
                                                            
   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 ap- 
   plied 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 disman- 
   tled  or  inspected.  The  probe  droids  carried  the  full 
   details  within  them  for  IG-88's  bloody  plans  of  con- 
   quest,  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 de- 
   votion  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."                                             
   
   
   
   
   
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 45              
  
    
                                                             
                               VIII                            
                                                              
   Months  later,  IG-88  saw  his chance  both to  study Darth 
   Vader  more  thoroughly  --  and  to  get aboard  the magnif- 
   icent 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 mo- 
   ment  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 recon- 
   naissance  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 local- 
   ity  of  the  Imperial fleet,  ready for  spontaneous action 
   so  that  he  might  earn  singular  notice  from  Darth Va- 
   der, 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  es- 
   caping  Rebel  ships  in  flight,  some damaged,  some over- 
   loaded 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 suffi- 
   cient  overriding  interest  to  Lord  Vader.  In  the  Hoth 
   system IG-88 waited  and watched,  his ship  a tiny  blip at 
   
                        STAR WARS * 46                      
  
    
                                                          
   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 Impe- 
   rial 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 postur- 
   ing  in  his own  way. Closest  was Dengar,  a slouching, 
   surly-faced  humanoid  with  his  head  wrapped  in  ban- 
   dages, holding a heavy  weapon. Side  by side  were Zuck- 
   uss  and  4-LOM.  Zuckuss  was  a  Gand,  some   kind  of 
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 47              
  
                                                             
   organic  creature  who  did  not  breathe  the  same  atmo- 
   sphere  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  atten- 
   tion  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 disappoint- 
   ment...   but   the   Imperials   were   overconfident  or- 
   ganic  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 
   
                         STAR WARS * 48                      
  
                                                            
   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 pro- 
   gramming 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 al- 
   lowed   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 di- 
   rected 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  impor- 
   tant 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 superior- 
   ity 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 pro- 
   gramming  defenses  would  have  blocked  any  such intru- 
   sion,  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.                                           
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 49              
  
                                                             
    IG-88 stood  like a  monolith, the  lasers in  his finger- 
   tips  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 infor- 
   mation  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  attempt- 
   ing 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 irrele- 
   vant,  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  pro- 
   vided  the  biggest  surprise  of all.  Not only  was Vader 
   concerned  with  his  flagship and  the Imperial  fleet un- 
   der  his  iron  command  --  he also  knew of  the Emperor's 
   pet project, a  second, larger  Death Star  under construc- 
   tion 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 bi- 
   pedal  form --  a despised  biological-based form!  He could 
   
                         STAR WARS * 50                       
  
    
                                                            
   become  a  juggernaut   of  unthinkable   proportions.  It 
   strained the limits of his calculating power to  run simu- 
   lations  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 weap- 
   ons 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 gener- 
   ated 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,  copied,  distributed  among  IG-88's identi- 
   cal counterparts.                                          
    With  their  optical  sensors   tuned  to   peak  perfor- 
   mance,  the  four  IG-88s studied  the  shimmering classi- 
   fied 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 in- 
   stalled.  It  had  not  even  arrived  at   the  sanctuary 
   moon  --  but  now IG-88  had the  schedule and  the desti- 
   nation. According to Vader's plans  stolen from  the Exec- 
   utor,  IG-88  knew   how  the   computer  core   would  be 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 51              
  
    
   
                                                           
   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 per- 
   sonality... our goals."                                   
    At  first  the  Death  Star would  be a  heavy, immobile 
   confinement  --  but  once  the  weapon itself  was opera- 
   tional, 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  specifica- 
   tions  and  plans,  IG-88  instructed  the administrative 
   droid Threedee-Fourex to devote  the facilities.  to con- 
   struct  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 wait- 
   ing  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  pol- 
   ished 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 
   
                         STAR WARS * 52                      
  
                                                            
   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 deliv- 
   ering them to the construction site."                     
    Gurdun  reached  with  stubby  fingers  into  the  trans- 
   parent  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 
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 53              
  
                                                             
   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 Rel- 
   sted  said.  "My  congratulations,  sir." He  turned, hesi- 
   tated, 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 com- 
   puter  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 
   
                          STAR WARS * 54                       
  
                                                              
   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 appli- 
   ance 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 plat-          
   form, sending a brief covert signal for one of his in-      
   filtrated 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 in-        
   ner corridors of Cloud City. The breezes on the land-       
   ing pad whistled through gaps in his body core.             
    Inside, a silvery 3PO protocol droid met him -- one of      
   the new and insidious reprogrammed droids from              
   Mechis III. This droid, though, seemed to have an atti- 
   tude problem -- acting surly and discourteous, particu-      
   larly 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. Al-      
   though 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 dis-         
   play 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        
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 55             
  
                                                            
   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 am- 
   bush for Solo." He  looked at  the Threepio  droid, flash- 
   ing 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 strut- 
   ted off.                                                  
    Inside  his   mind,  IG-88   studied  the   computer  map 
   and plotted a path to  where Boba  Fett was  secretly pre- 
   paring  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  uncom- 
   fortable.  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  any- 
   thing.  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 thresh- 
   old.                                                      
    The  high-power  weapons  slammed   a  cloud   of  crack- 
   ling  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  elec- 
   tronic systems.                                           
   
                          STAR WARS * 56                        
  
                                                               
    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 jit- 
   tered,  stuttered,  his  arms  flailed.  His  weapons refused 
   to fire. His optical sensors filled with static,  frying, re- 
   covering, 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 electri- 
   cal  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  black 
   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  con- 
   veyor  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  concus- 
   sion  grenades.  Without  a  word,  Fett  set the  timers for 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 57             
  
                                                           
   one standard minute, then carefully, moving like  a sur- 
   geon,  implanted  each  detonator  inside  IG-88's  body 
   core.  The  assassin droid  had thick,  impenetrable ar- 
   mor -- but that was  designed to  protect from  an exter- 
   nal 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 trans- 
   mission from their fallen  counterpart with  the closest 
   approximation to horror assassin droids could experi- 
   ence.                                                  
    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 Im- 
   perial shuttle, preparing the cargo hold for the change- 
   ling computer core.                                      
    "Go,"  IG-88A  said  to his  two counterparts.  "I will 
   stay here to complete the Death Star mission. You elimi- 
   nate Boba Fett."                                         
   
                          STAR WARS * 58                       
  
    
   
                                                             
   The pair of silver needle ships, exact copies of  the origi- 
   nal  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 blis- 
   tering   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 in- 
   fested 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 
   
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 59              
  
                                                             
   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 projec- 
   tile  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 aston- 
   ished 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 sur- 
   render utterly.                                            
    But  Boba  Fett  reacted  with  remarkable   speed.  With- 
   out 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 pi- 
   lot.                                                       
    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 
   
                         STAR WARS * 60                       
  
                                                             
   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 de- 
   scent 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  atmo- 
   sphere  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  in- 
   creased 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 acti- 
   vated  his  inertial  damping  system,  slamming   his  de- 
   scent 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 veloc- 
   ity 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, slag- 
   ging the IG-2000's shields and weapons systems.            
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 61             
  
                                                            
    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 trans- 
   mit a full personality backup to Mechis III before  it was 
   too late.                                                 
    Boba  Fett  launched  a  full  bank  of  concussion  mis- 
   siles.  The  second IG-2000  erupted into  an incandescent 
   cloud  that  spread  molten  spangles  across   the  atmo- 
   sphere 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, uncon- 
   cerned  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  marvel- 
   ous 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.             
   
                          STAR WARS * 62                        
  
                                                               
    They  waited  with  mechanical  patience  in  their  trap -- 
   and then pounced.                                            
    The  unsuspecting  original  fleet -- one heavy  long-dis- 
   tance  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."                
    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 as- 
   sault  team  blasted  open  the  hatches.  He   didn't  dare 
   risk  that  a  sudden  explosive  decompression  might  dam- 
   age 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 trea- 
   sure-filled ship.                                            
    The  real   Imperial  stormtroopers   on  the   other  side 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 63             
  
                                                           
   fired upon  the droid  troopers. The  armored biologicals 
   shouted  confused  commands  to  each  other,  not under- 
   standing  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 de- 
   fenses crumbled into a wild firefight -- but  IG-88's team 
   maintained   their  ranks   and  eliminated   any  storm- 
   troopers 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, in- 
   tent  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  ineffi- 
   ciency. 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 biologi- 
   cals... before he destroyed them all.                    
    After  only  a  few  seconds he  stood up,  squaring his 
   metal  shoulders, content  that he  had all  the informa- 
   tion 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 
   
                        STAR WARS * 64                      
  
                                                           
   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 in- 
   side.                                                    
    "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 be- 
   gin 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 Im- 
   perial  mismanagement. I  wish you  hadn't done  quite so 
   much,  er,  damage  to  the  Holowan Laboratories,  but I 
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 65             
  
    
                                                           
   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  con- 
   text  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 air- 
   lock expedition to the external hulls.                    
    "Yes,"  one  of  the  droids  said.  "Mines  emplaced  on 
   appropriate hull plates of all  three original  ships. Ev- 
   erything is ready."                                       
    From   the   pilot   compartment  of   the  long-distance 
   hauler, IG-88 watched  the ship's  battle-scarred counter- 
   part 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 illu- 
   mination 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. In- 
   
                         STAR WARS * 66                      
  
   
                                                            
   stead, he rejoiced in the new complement of workers       
   who came like saviors to the construction site.           
    Jerjerrod's eyes were round and brown, his de-           
   meanor eager to comply -- but he did not know how he       
   could possibly accomplish the demands placed on his       
   personnel. Unfortunately, neither Vader nor the Em-       
   peror were interested in excuses, and Jerjerrod did not 
   wish to discover how they would express their displea- 
   sure.                                                     
    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 train- 
   ing 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 com-       
   plicate 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 effi-         
   ciency. He wished all of his workers could be so dedi- 
   cated to the Imperial cause.                              
                                                            
   The blackness of sensor  deprivation was  distressing, but 
   unavoidable.   Humans   would   have  called   it  "uncon- 
   sciousness"  --  but  when  IG-88  finally reawoke  after a 
   
   
                Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 67             
  
                                                            
   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 effi- 
   cient  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 insig- 
   nificant 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 con- 
   struction activities proceeded at such  a rapid  pace that 
   all  safety  doublechecks and  restraints had  been elimi- 
   nated to improve speed.  In the  frenzy of  activity, pro- 
   gress  continued,  although  many  of  the   teams  didn't 
   know what their counterparts were doing.                  
    In  one  large  storage  bay  for  spare  components, the 
   
                         STAR WARS * 68                      
  
    
                                                           
   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 function- 
   ing 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 back- 
   ward, but he could  not hide  the sparking,  sizzling ser- 
   vomotors   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 storm- 
   trooper'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 cam- 
   eras  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 ex- 
   plode?  How  could one  accident take  out an  entire han- 
   dling crew?"  He drew  in a  deep breath,  swallowing. His 
   lieutenant stood stiffly, as if assuming his  rigid atten- 
   
               Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 69              
  
    
                                                           
   tion  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 be- 
   moaned yet another loss, another setback....              
                                                            
   When  Emperor  Palpatine  finally  arrived  at   the  new 
   Death Star,  cloaked in  black and  walling 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 invinci- 
   ble  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 am- 
   bush  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 rotat- 
   ing 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, 
   
                        STAR WARS * 70                      
  
     
                                                         
   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, Palpa- 
   tine tried to open the turbolift  doors, punching  a use- 
   less  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, sens- 
   ing  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 hap- 
   pened.                                                   
    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 be- 
   low,  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 im- 
   pressive Super Star Destroyer  Executor. IG-88  still ad- 
   mired 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 devastat- 
   ing surprise  that the  Death Star's  superlaser actually 
   
                 Tales of the Bounty Hunters * 71              
  
                                                              
   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 ev- 
   erywhere.                                                   
    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 modi- 
   fied   the  targeting   mechanism,  guaranteeing   that  the 
   superlaser  struck  its  intended victim  each time.  He en- 
   joyed  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 delay- 
   ing  his  plans  for  revolution. The  remainder of  work on 
   the  Death  Star  was  merely  cosmetic   improvement,  com- 
   pleting the outer shell  so that  the living  quarters could 
   be   pressurized,   life  support   systems  could   be  in- 
   stalled  --  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 
   
                         STAR WARS * 72                      
  
                                                            
   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 transmit- 
   ted,  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 re- 
   actor  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.                                                 
    I think, therefore I am.                                 
    I destroy, therefore I endure.                           
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Star Wars [multi]/SWD6/Misc/Star Wars - The Story of IG 88.pdf