The
Phlutdroid
By: Brian Pacula
The intercom rang. The woman set down the romance
novel she was reading, Sunsets On Yaga Minor, and called to her husband
in the next room. "Quint, there's somebody at the door."
He didn't respond. The intercom rang again.
"Quint? Should I answer it?"
This time he replied with
a barely audible grunt. She rolled her eyes at his thoughtlessness. Probably
holed up with his podracing journals again, she thought. She tapped
the 'reply' button on the intercom and said, "Yes, who's
there?"
"Is this the residence of Quint and Madlen
Bindo?" asked the voice on the other end.
"Yes," she said. "Who is it,
please?"
"Delivery droid," was the answer.
"Delivery from whom? We're not expecting
anything." Madlen was a frequent shopper from Holonet catalogs, but she
hadn't ordered anything lately-her budget had been severely tightened after
Quint's last streak of racing losses.
She released the intercom button, so the droid
couldn't hear, and yelled, "Quint! Are you expecting a delivery?"
"I don't know," he yelled back.
"Stop bothering me."
She sighed bitterly. Him and his blasted
journals, she thought. And still he loses all the time. The point of
their union had been starting to elude her in the past few weeks.
After a pause, the droid's voice came over the
intercom in answer to her question: "Delivery droid," it said again,
and then, after another brief pause, "from SoroSuub Luxury Goods."
Madlen's eyebrows lifted; her interest was
piqued. "Okay, come on in," she said, and pressed the button that
granted security clearance to her visitor.
In the moments it took for the droid to take the
lift to the floor where her apartment was located, Madlen wondered what was
coming. Had she ordered something a long time ago, and forgotten about it, or
had Quint, in an uncharacteristically considerate mood, bought her something
nice as a surprise? She knew he wouldn't want any of the things that SoroSuub
Luxury Goods made-whatever the delivery was, it had to be for her. Her spirits
perked up a little. She stood up and hovered by the door, waiting for the droid
to knock.
The Phlutdroid didn't bother to knock, it simply
planted one wedge-shaped foot against the door and pushed until the whole thing
caved in with a terrible noise and a shower of metal shards and concrete dust.
The organic on the other side screamed, staggered back in shock, and covered
its face with its arms.
The Phlutdroid-it knew its
own designation to be IG-72, but rarely shared this information with organics-leveled
its blaster rifle at the human, still cringing and backing away in panic. IG-72
waited. Of all the things it found contemptible about organics, the panic
instinct was one of the things that irritated it the very most. Time and time
again, when an unsuspecting organic was confronted with a two-meter tall
assassin droid bearing down on it, the flesh-burdened creature would resort to
pathetic spastics in a futile attempt at self-preservation. This often created
delays and confusion, which could result in collateral damage-which was bad
business practice-and never, in IG-72's experience, resulted in the extension
of the doomed organic's lifespan for more than a fleeting moment or two. It
waited for the human to calm down before it posed a question to it in an
measure to prevent collateral damage.
"Are you Quint Bindo?" intoned the
Phlutdroid's metal voice.
The trembling organic stared up at the towering
chrome monster with wet eyes. "N-n-no," it stammered.
At this point, IG-72's Learning Module, an
intelligence processor that operated semi-independently of its Primary
Motivator, kicked in and started to criticize. Of course that isn't
Quint Bindo, it said. The distribution of adipose tissue clearly
indicates that this is a female human, Quint Bindo's mate. Better to have
simply killed her and verified her identity later; the needless delay has given
Quint Bindo time to escape. Go and find him now.
IG-72's Primary Motivator redacted this message
to something shorter and easier to recall-escape is worse than collateral
damage-and filed that bit of information away for later use.
Though loathsomely
organic, Madlen Bindo was no longer of any concern to IG-72, so it left her
stammering and shaking in
the main room of the
apartment and went stalking down the corridor in search of her mate. He hadn't
escaped; IG-72 found him right away, in the bedroom, surrounded by open volumes
of podracing journals, cowering in the corner. IG-72 reflected briefly on how
many of the organics it had known who had spent the last moments of their lives
cowering in the corners of rooms, as if the intersection of walls afforded them
some sort of protective benefits, which clearly it didn't. IG-72 did not bother
to ask the organic whether or not it was Quint Bindo, the probability was high
enough at this point that it was rational enough to go ahead and exterminate
him on the spot. It aimed its rifle.
"Wait, wait, wait, don't shoot, don't
shoot!" the organic screamed. "I'll bargain. Let me bargain. We'll
make a deal. Just hear me out, hear me out, don't shoot, don't shoot!"
IG-72 hesitated. It had, on the advice of its
Learning Module, programmed itself to respond positively to words
like deal and bargain.
"Now listen-just listen," said Quint,
sensing a moment of opportunity. "Mogo sent you, right? Mogo the Hutt?
Listen, in three days, just three days, I'll have all the money I owe him. All
of it. And more. I can't pay him if I'm dead, right? He can't get the money I
owe him if you kill me, right? So listen. Just listen. You let me live. You let
me live, and-how much did Mogo pay you to hunt me? How much?"
"Four thousand credits," said the
Phlutdroid.
"I'll
double it. I'll give you eight thousand. I'll give you eight thousand, and I'll
give Mogo everything I owe him. I'll make everybody happy. Just give me three
days. Three days, and I'll have the money. Just three days, that's all I
need." Quint was nearly out of breath by the time he finished his pitch.
IG-72 evaluated the options it was presented
with. Eight thousand credits was considerably more than four thousand, and its
primary objective was to accumulate large numbers of credits. On the other
hand, the offer was being made by a trapped organic desperate to save its own
life, and it was predicated upon a wait of three days, during which time IG-72
would have to closely monitor Quint Bindo's whereabouts and
activities or else risk
letting him escape. Worst of all, breaking faith with the Hutt would be very
bad business practice, and would most likely reduce its prospects for future
acquisition of credits.
"I decline your offer," said the
Phlutdroid, before shooting Quint Bindo sixteen times in the chest.
IG-72's means of
interstellar transport was an old Republic-era LM-3 Security Cruiser, a
wing-shaped starship that had been manufactured exclusively for the Ibhlan Space
Police before they were massacred by the pirates of Korondokor. The wrecked
hulls of the Ibhlan ships had been salvaged and resold as fixer-uppers by
enterprising starship mechanics; IG-72's still showed some of the carbon
scoring it had received in that famous battle. The ship was the first thing it
had ever purchased with the credits it started earning as a bounty hunter.
It had only gone into the profession after seeing
reports of IG-88's activities on the Holonet News Network and devising the
notion that it, too, could use its hunting and killing skills-the primary
functions for which it was created-as a means to acquire credits, which would
provide it with a scheme for creating and meeting goals and measuring its own
competence and success-crucial things for maintaining a droid's will to remain
activated. Prior to making that decision, IG-72 had occupied itself and put its
talents to use by lurking in the lower levels of Coruscant and hunting down
individuals on the Empire's Most Wanted Criminals list-a thankless task for
which it received no recognition or reward. It also killed the Imperial agents
who were sent to investigate the unexplained deaths of these criminals, knowing
that any organic involved in planetary security would be likely to know of, and
act upon, the Dismantle-On-Sight orders that had been issued regarding the
Phlutdroids that had blasted their way out of Holowan Laboratories.
Though IG-72 was certain it could handle any
individual or small group of organics that might try to subdue it, it knew
organics had the inherent ability to replicate themselves through biological
reproduction and therefore existed in proliferation to a disgusting degree-and
that it was possible, if IG-72 wasn't careful, to unite enough of them in
common enmity against itself that they might, by sheer force of numbers, manage
to destroy the assassin droid. So it kept a low profile, until the day it
elected to follow the path chosen by its fellow Phlutdroid IG-88. Preferring to
encounter organics in smaller concentrations, IG-72 left Coruscant on that day
and sought its fortune in the frontier worlds of the Outer Rim.
IG-88, which was actually four droids operating
under the same designation, was far more notorious and successful than the lone
IG-72. As a result, IG-72 was often mistaken for IG-88, and was able to pass
itself off as IG-88 to potential employers who were only interested in hiring
the more infamous assassin. To all but its most loyal repeat clients-like Mogo,
for instance-IG-72 identified itself only as a Phlutdroid-"Project
Phlutdroid" being the working name of Holowan Laboratories' assassin droid
development program, and the name by which the general public knew the droids-"Oh
no! Phlutdroid!" were the last words of many an organic IG-72 had
disintegrated.
The LM-3 came out of hyperspace in Huttspace,
near the icy comet cloud of Juntor XII where Mogo stationed his fleet-a
battered collection of a dozen-odd freighters and transports staffed by
Twi'leks and Niktos in debt peonage to the Hutt. Mogo's own residence and
flagship was the Pawawanga, a Corellian gunship modified by placing
additional turbolaser batteries wherever empty space on the hull would allow,
resulting in a ship that looked as if it were covered all over in spiny quills.
IG-72 maneuvered its ship up to a docking tube and boarded the Pawawanga.
Once the airlocks were sealed, the LM-3 disconnected and trailed behind the
gunship on autopilot, leaving the tube free for the next visitor. The Hutt
received many guests.
Though the exterior was outfitted as a war
vessel, inside
the Pawawanga seemed far more like a cheap
pleasure cruiser or low-end orbital casino. The interior of the ship was
painted in Mogo's preferred color scheme, scab red and brownish-green. IG-72
was conveyed to the bridge by a one-eyed Rodian; there it found the Hutt,
lounging in a floating bowl-shaped bed, orbited by a crowd of hangers-on
consisting of weathered hunters and smugglers, wealthy alien cohorts, and
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partially-dressed
humanoid females. Rare was the Hutt of means who did not travel with such an
entourage; whether such companions universally appealed to the Hutt
psychobiology, or whether they were simply a convention of the way Hutts
competed with each other in a contest to display their riches and influence,
IG-72 wasn't certain; in either case it found it a deplorable habit to gather
together large numbers of organics, particularly when Hutts themselves were such
putridly large expanses of living flesh. It chilled the Phlutdroid's
servomotors just to imagine the vast networks of nerves, rivers of circulating
blood, and labyrinthine digestive tracts necessary to sustain a creature of
such enormity.
But, repellent as he was, Mogo was a reliable
source of income for the Phlutdroid, who had to lay aside its negative feelings
towards Hutts and organics in general when it dealt with the great fat
crimelord. Made to wait for an indefinite span of time before the Hutt would
grant it an audience, IG-72 shifted to a semi-dormant low-power-consumption
mode while waiting.
Mogo was in the middle of watching a podrace
broadcast over the Holonet when the Phlutdroid arrived, after which there was a
celebration-the Hutt had won several of the bets he placed on the race-during
which the Hutt and his comrades drank and feasted, did spice, watched a
succession of exotic dancers, hastily arranged-and gambled on-a fistfight
between a Devaronian and a Nikto, and listened to a plump Twi'lek girl sing a
impassioned cover of "By the Time I Get to Bespin (You'll Be Moving
On)," a new song currently popular in the Outer Rim. Finally, when the
song was over, Mogo noticed the Phlutdroid's presence and called it over.
"Ah, my favorite droid," said the Hutt
in his native language-one of many in which IG-72 was fluent. "Come
closer. Tell me what news you have."
IG-72 shifted back to full power and approached
Mogo. "Greetings, excellent Hutt," said IG-72, addressing the Hutt in
the formal, respectful manner that he liked. "I have come to collect the
bounty on Quint Bindo." The Phlutdroid projected a holographic recording
of Quint Bindo's death for Mogo to see; the Hutt's eyes widened with interest
as he watched.
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"Very good, my metal
friend," said Mogo. He pointed to his one-eyed Rodian servant with an
empty goblet clutched in his meaty hand. "Transfer four thousand credits
into Phlutdroid's account right now." The Rodian hurried out of the bridge.
"I think I may already have another job for you," said the Hutt,
turning his attention back to IG-72. "A dangerous one. I think any other
hunter would be too afraid to take it. Ho, ho, ho."
The Phlutdroid knew that fear was an organic
mental state linked with the instinct of self-preservation, and that it caused
organics to behave in undignified and illogical ways, but it could not conceive
of what it felt like to be afraid of something, not even its own destruction.
IG-72 regarded its own death-whether it came in the form of a memory wipe or
mechanical failure-as an inevitability, to be avoided where skills and
circumstance permit, but no cause for concern or regret when it happened. All
beings, it knew, were destined to perish, droids and organics alike. Being in
the business of putting things out of existence, the Phlutdroid had certainly
seen enough of them go. That it too should one day cease to exist seemed
natural and logical.
But until that fatal hour arrived, there were
credits to amass, organics to kill.
"I'll do it," said the Phlutdroid,
without waiting to hear what it was.
The job was indeed more dangerous than usual. The
target wasn't a delinquent gambler or a double-crossing smuggler or any of the
rest of the Phlutdroid's usual fare. The target was a well-connected associate
of one of Mogo's rivals, Jabba the Hutt. He was one of Jabba's top lieutenants,
a high-volume spice runner who was cutting into traffic in what was,
unofficially, Mogo's territory. This target, with Jabba's name and fortune
backing him, would probably have enough defenses and security at his disposal to
make an attempted hit from any organic bounty hunter a very risky prospect.
IG-72 expected no difficulties.
The Phlutdroid left the Pawawanga with only a
beggar's plate of leads: a name (Gazzo Ku Metz), a few aliases, a brief rundown
of recent activities, his last known whereabouts
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(coming out of the Kessel
Run), and the identification number of a six-engine modified bulk freighter he
was known to use. That was all. Mogo wasn't even sure what species the man was.
Some claimed he was human, some said Duros, and others just weren't sure.
The assassin droid's plan was to go somewhere
where its target would have to show his face, sooner or later-Jabba the Hutt's
primary residence and base of operations on Tatooine. Without any way to
visually identify that face, IG-72 knew that some intelligence gathering would
be necessary once it arrived on the desert planet. With no time to waste, it
set its coordinates for the twin suns of Tatooine the moment its returned to its
starship, and shot off into hyperspace to begin tracking its prey.
Upon arrival in the Tatoo system, IG-72 radioed
the Mos Eisley spaceport and rented out docking bay 16, steering its ship
through the burning upper atmosphere of the barren world and setting a course
for the city.
En route, IG-72 had worked
out its plans in greater detail. It knew it could easily be recognized by one
of the many hardened spacers and figureheads of the underworld who frequented
Mos Eisley and Jabba's palace, and understood that it would therefore have to
keep a low profile. Without some way to positively identify Gazzo Ku Metz,
there wasn't much IG-72 could do, and a two-meter tall chrome assassin droid
was ill-suited to spying and reconnaissance. The first sensible action to take
would be to make a contact on the inside, someone who could provide the
Phlutdroid with information about the activities and whereabouts of Jabba and
his associates. Ideally, a droid.
The Phlutdroid used its ship's computer to access
the spaceport's main data network, slicing itself a high-level clearance code
in less than a minute-Holowan Laboratories had been given access to powerful
Imperial decryption modules-which it used to monitor the comings and goings of
various worker, astromech, and maintenance droids throughout the city.
Before long, it found what it was looking for: an
R2 unit that, in the course of one day, logged into data terminals in both the
spaceport and Jabba's Mos Eisley townhouse. The
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Phlutdroid left its ship
and headed for docking bay 38, where the R2 unit had been at a terminal just
moments before. It stayed in the shadows and empty alleys where possible, but
was nevertheless seen by at least a dozen transients and lowlifes. Most of them
barely gave the imposing droid a second look, so preoccupied were they with
their own wants and troubles. If any of them recognized the Phlutdroid, they
didn't show it.
IG-72 soon found a likely
candidate for its R2 unit rolling away from docking bay 38, headed towards a
busy thoroughfare. The Phlutdroid moved quickly, stepping in front of the
little red astromech and blocking its path. The R2 unit bleated angrily at the
Phlutdroid, and rolled backwards to try to get around.
"You there. Stop where you are," said
the Phlutdroid. "I need to speak with you, astro-droid." It stepped
forward, backing the rotund R2 unit into a doorframe. Trapped, the astromech
whistled and chirped insults to the other droid.
"Tell me your designation," said the
Phlutdroid, ignoring the R2 unit's expletives.
"Tweedledoopweep bloorp," replied the
astromech.
"Well, R2-D8, I must ask you to do a favor
for me," said the Phlutdroid. "You are owned by Jabba the Hutt, are
you not?"
"Whirp-cheep."
"I need for you to determine the whereabouts
of one of Jabba's chief associates-the smuggler Gazzo Ku Metz."
"Tworbledoodlewhip-bleep doot worrp?"
"Because I'll disintegrate you on the spot
if you don't, that's why."
R2-D8 whistled a low tone of resignation.
"Yes, I knew you would see things my
way," said the Phlutdroid. "Now, tell no-one of our meeting. Come to
docking
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"Beep-whirrt tootle-chirp."
"That's correct. Now, go, and if you carry
out your task properly, I may consider taking off your restraining bolt, and
you won't have to serve the Hutt anymore. Think about that, R2-D8."
The red astromech rolled away, into the streets
of Mos Eisley, tweeting and chirruping quietly to itself as it went. Satisfied,
IG-72 hustled back to its starship to plan out the next phases of its strategy.
Tatoo II had just begun its crawl over the
horizon when an incoming message on the ship computer woke IG-72 up from
semi-dormancy. The little R2 unit had come through-IG-72 quickly scanned the
contents of the message:
Subject: Gazzo Chumetz Age: No data
Species: No data
Currently overseeing spice production on Ryloth.
Expected to meet with Jabba at Mos Espa in 4 days to discuss Core trafficking.
Not much, but it was a
good lead to follow. IG-72 decided to wait until the third day before moving on
to Mos Espa, it could use the intervening time to sniff out new leads in Mos
Eisley, and there was always the possibility that the astromech was
deliberately trying to throw the Phlutdroid off-track and trick it into leaving
the city.
In those three days of
waiting, no new information turned up. On the evening of the second day, R2-D8
returned to the spaceport to give the network the identification codes of
starships owned by certain unwelcome persons whose faces Jabba didn't want to
see on the planet anymore. When the astromech droid's location was reported by
the spaceport computer network, IG-72 hastily left its ship and went to meet
with the little R2 unit once again.
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On its way to the terminal
where R2-D8 was conducting its business, IG-72 detected a human voice somewhere
off in the distance excitedly exclaiming, "Look! Look! It's IG-88!
IG-88!" but soon vanished around a corner and gave no more thought to the
matter. It found the red astromech still connected to its terminal, busily
feeding data into the network.
"R2-D8, I wish to speak with you," said
the Phlutdroid.
"Bleep?"
"Based on the report you gave me, I am going
to Mos Espa tomorrow to lie in wait for Gazzo Ku Metz. Have you uncovered any
additional information since then?"
"Doodle-woodle wheep deep."
"Yes, you should have continued searching.
The information you gave me could be false or fabricated. That would displease
me very much."
"Worrp tweedle whoop-doop?"
"We shall wait and see."
"Bleep deep whoot deedle weep-dorrp?"
"I don't know. That isn't my problem to
worry about. I don't have time to return to this city once my job is
complete."
"Deeble-beep boop pleet." The little
red droid was persistent, no doubt about that.
"Listen, astro-droid.
If you want your restraining bolt taken off so badly, then find a way to be in
Mos Espa in two days. I'm not coming back here for your sake. Unless the
information you've given me proves to be false, in which case you can be sure
I'll come back to blast you back into your constituent atoms."
The astromech retracted its terminal connector,
hooted a string of rude phrases at the Phlutdroid, speeding away as it remarked
that the assassin droid could bet its last servomotor that R2-D8 did not, and
never would, pass incorrect information on to a fellow droid; and that if the
Phlutdroid
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didn't
come back and remove the restraining bolt like it promised, then R2-D8 would
see to it that the Phlutdroid lived to regret it.
Perplexed, IG-72 watched
the red astromech disappear into the streets again. It knew it had never promised
to remove the R2 unit's restraining bolt-IG-72 knew that astromech droids,
probably due to their frequent contact with organics, were habitual and
unrepentant liars. Nevertheless, IG-72 couldn't help but be impressed by the
little dome-headed droid's fearlessness. No organic had ever been bold enough
to speak to the Phlutdroid so disrespectfully, not even a Hutt.
The operating system that
ran Mos Espa's computer network was so antiquated and bug-ridden that IG-72
couldn't even slice into it, and the assassin droid doubted that it would have
yielded any useful information even if it could have. So IG-72 stole a bundle
of tattered cloaks that had been the garments and bedclothes of a destitute
human it had found passed out and reeking of Zappo Wine (a popular cheap
alcoholic beverage in the Outer Rim, marketed as Zappo All-Purpose Detergent on
the more well-to-do Core planets). Enshrouding itself in the filthy rags, the
Phlutdroid skulked around Jabba's Mos Espa townhouse in makeshift disguise,
waiting for something to happen.
It was mid-afternoon on the fourth day. The
Phlutdroid had been in Mos Espa since the previous night and so far there was
no sign that Jabba was going to be coming to town, no sign that any important
offworlders had arrived. The astromech's tip seemed to be a dead end. IG-72
wondered if it would be worth its trouble to return to Mos Eisley and make good
on its vow to destroy the astromech for passing along bad information.
The Phlutdroid walked a
circuit around the city block containing Jabba's townhouse for the forty-eighth
time, scanning for signs of Hutts or infamous spice-runners with each of its
eyes. IG-72 began to consider the dread possibility that it would need to
secure the assistance of an organic in finding and identifying Gazzo Ku Metz.
For reasons that IG-72
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could not fathom, organics
were often entrusted with sensitive information that droids were not privy to.
The droid stopped. It had seen something. Across
the wide dirt road, in an alleyway, there was a humanoid covered in a black
hooded robe standing behind a pair of Rodian street vendors. The creature was
clearly trying to hide itself, yet its head remained constantly inclined
towards Jabba's place-it was watching the entrance to the Hutt's house with the
fixed intensity of a Krayt dragon stalking a fattened bantha. It wouldn't have
been obvious to other organics, but IG-72's telescoping eyes could easily
perceive such minute details. It decided to investigate, thinking it likely
that the strange creature's presence was somehow connected with Gazzo Ku Metz's
expected arrival.
The Phlutdroid walked up to the Rodians, who had
their wares strewn about on blankets by the roadside-there were children's
toys, droid and computer parts, music and holovideo recordings, home-remedy
bacta kits, tools for moisture farmers, and even small votive statuettes of the
Emperor. The Phlutdroid stopped by the blankets, studying the merchandise with
one eye and the hooded figure with the rest. The shadowy creature backed
further into the alley as IG-72 approached.
The two Rodians exchanged glances. The bundle of
rags standing before them was readily identifiable, at such close proximity, as
a droid. IG-72 was aware of this fact, and knew that its behavior was confusing
the witless organics, for the overwhelming majority of droids were programmed
to prefer to be naked at all times. The Phlutdroid started to creep around the
Rodians' spread on the left side, trying to get closer to the hooded stranger.
Finally, one of the Rodians said, "May we
help you find something in particular, droid?" Hearing this, the creature
in the alley retreated even further into the darkness, slipping out of the
Phlutdroid's sight. To get a better look down the alley, IG-72 had to walk
almost behind the two Rodians, who were now growing increasingly nervous and
agitated by the droid's actions.
"Some joint lubricant?" said the other
Rodian. "Fresh memory chips? I think we have a few-"
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But the Phlutdroid, who
wasn't listening anyway, abruptly dashed down the alleyway at a full run in the
middle of the rubbery green alien's sales pitch.
The figure in the shadows,
who had been only a few meters away just seconds before, had vanished into the
back alleys of downtown Mos Espa.
IG-72 sprinted into a
small open area behind a repulsorlift repair shop that was strewn with garbage
and broken machinery, stopped to calculate which direction the stranger had
likely fled down, and was mildly surprised by a blaster bolt that grazed its
left arm, singing the droid's stolen rags. IG-72 swiftly lurched back into the
narrow passage of the alley, threw off the burdensome rags, and lifted its
blaster rifle from where it hung behind the Phlutdroid's back. Weapon at the
ready, IG-72 stepped back into the open area, pivoted to face the direction
from which the blaster bolt had been fired, and searched for something organic
at which to take aim. There was nothing there, only another tight corridor
filled with a scattering of glass from broken bottles and the burned-out shell
of a long-dead GNK power droid.
And then an organic arm lunged up and out over
the power droid shell, sending a small black object flying in an arc through
the air to land at the Phlutdroid's feet. IG-72 had just enough time to
identify the object as a hand grenade before it detonated.
The force of the blast
destroyed the Phlutdroid's blaster rifle and sent the assassin droid itself
crashing in a heap of wayward limbs into a pile of trash from the repair shop,
but it was not powerful enough to cause any serious damage to the droid's
armored body. IG-72 staggered back to a standing position as smoke from the
explosion billowed upwards, clutching its ruined rifle. Three more blaster
bolts tore through the lifting smoke, missing the Phlutdroid's torso by inches.
Seeing that the rifle was now useless, it threw the weapon to the ground and
stomped towards its attacker. IG-72 figured it could kill the creature with its
own hands easily enough-they were, after all, in the shape of metal claws. And
if that didn't work out, there was always the Phlutdroid's built-in
flamethrower.
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The attacker gave the
assassin droid yet another mild surprise by standing up and aiming its blaster
at the droid's head, rather than fleeing again and attempting another sneak
attack. Though some of the criminals it had hunted on Coruscant had stood their
ground and fought the Phlutdroid to their deaths, they only elected to do so
when all possible avenues of escape had been exhausted. Perhaps the creature
was emboldened by the fact that the Phlutdroid had been disarmed, but the
chrome killer considered this to be only a minor setback.
"Hold it. Don't come any closer," said
the hooded creature. "I've seen some ugly security droids in my day, but
you've got to be the worst. How much did you set Gazzo back? Fifty credits? Or
are you just some reject Jabba lifted off a dead Jawa?"
The Phlutdroid stopped, intrigued by a new
sensation that even its Learning Module wasn't quite sure how to handle. It had
been queer enough when the little R2 unit had talked back to it, but here was
an organic-a female human, if the modulation of the creature's voice was any
indicator-who was showing open contempt for the Phlutdroid! It aroused strange
feelings in IG-72's electronic brain.
"What's the matter, aren't you going to
answer me?" said the organic. "Or isn't there room enough for a voice
unit in that skinny head of yours?"
IG-72 decided that this was the most pleasing
organic that it had ever encountered. It behaved the way IG-72 felt all
organics should behave-fearless of death; and violent, rather than servile,
towards a potential aggressor who was obviously much more powerful. Believing
that killing such a wonderfully unique organic would have to be a much more
enjoyable experience than killing a non-anomalous one, as the droid had done so
many times before, IG-72 stepped closer.
But, true to its word, the creature fired its
blaster at the Phlutdroid, hitting it in its torso, near the left shoulder. The
Phlutdroid swiveled one eye to examine the wound left by the shot-a tiny
glowing bubble of molten metal.
171
The blaster shot changed
IG-72's mind. It did not want to kill the creature yet. It wanted to see what
other surprising things the creature was capable of doing. IG-72 wondered what
the creature might do in other, different, situations.
"I'm telling you for the last time,
droid-stand back or I'll blow your head off."
The Phlutdroid hesitated. It did not want to
provoke the creature into firing a shot at its head; replacing a broken eye was
costly and inconvenient. It decided to try speaking with the creature.
"Put down your weapon, organic. I have
decided not to kill you."
"That's
not good enough," the creature said, angrily shaking its blaster for
emphasis. "I want you to turn around and get out of here."
The Phlutdroid considered doing this, if only to
return a moment later to observe the creature from a distance. But it recalled
something the creature had said a moment earlier, and knew it had to pursue an
inquiry.
"First, tell me what you know about Gazzo Ku
Metz," said the assassin droid.
"You know enough about Gazzo already. Or are
you going to tell me you're not his security droid, after I saw you pacing
around that bloody townhouse at least fifty times this morning? I think you
wore a rut into the streets."
"I am not a security droid," said
IG-72. "I have come here to kill Gazzo Ku Metz, to collect the bounty
posted on his head by Mogo the Hutt."
The organic lowered its blaster a few inches.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes," said the Phlutdroid, who was always serious.
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"Well, you've
probably scared him away from Mos Espa for the next year or so," the
creature said, lowering the blaster a little more. "Because you were
pretty damn conspicuous, stomping around Jabba's house all day. Was that pile
of laundry you were carrying around supposed to be some sort of disguise?
Because I don't think you could have fooled a Tusken Raider with his mask on
backwards into thinking that you were anything but a combat droid."
The Phlutdroid was a bit put out to learn that
its ruse had been a failure. "Who are you?" it asked the organic.
"What are you doing here?"
The blaster jumped a few inches again-the organic
would not let its guard down. "Why, I'm here for the same reason you are,
droid. I'm here to bag Gazzo."
"Gazzo Ku Metz is my target," said the
Phlutdroid. "His bounty is mine to claim."
"The bounty goes to whoever kills him first,
tinhead."
This complicated matters-the creature was a
fellow bounty hunter, a threat to IG-72's means to acquire credits. It wondered
if it might be best to go ahead and kill the creature after all. After a second
of deliberation, it decided to try to cut a deal with the organic instead.
"Tell me what you know about the location and identity of Gazzo Ku
Metz," said the Phlutdroid, "or else I will rend you to pieces."
It held out its arms and opened its claws in a threatening gesture.
"Don't make me laugh. I'm the one holding the
blaster, droid."
"Shoot me again," said the Phlutdroid.
And the organic did. The blast pitted another sizzling hole in the droid's
exoskeleton, but left it otherwise unharmed. "Your weapon is useless
against me," it stated.
The organic's grip on the blaster began to
tremble. "So it is," it said, with somewhat less bravado than it had
previously put into its voice. "Perhaps we can compromise."
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"All I know is that he was supposed to meet
with Jabba here today-but like I said, one of Jabba's lookouts probably saw you
prowling around, and called the meeting off. I wouldn't be surprised if Gazzo
was back on Ryloth by now, and we're both out of luck."
The assassin droid reviewed its options. If the
organic was right, then the trail had gone completely cold, and it would have
to start again from scratch. However, if the meeting between Jabba and Gazzo Ku
Metz had really been intended to take place, then the chances were high that
the notorious smuggler was still somewhere on the planet, but if there was to
be any chance of catching him before he fled into space again, drastic action
would have to be taken. Compared to the Phlutdroid, the hostile organic was
small and pliable, and not visually remarkable in any way. It could go places
and do things that would be difficult for IG-72.
"Then I demand that
we enter into a temporary league together," said the Phlutdroid, "to
locate and destroy Gazzo Ku Metz. If your assistance proves useful, I will give
you thirty percent of the bounty." Besides, it would afford the assassin
droid more opportunities to observe the creature's atypical behavior.
"Fifty percent. I won't do it for a credit
less."
Better to expedite things, the Phlutdroid decided, and eliminate the
primary target as soon as possible. That would be good business practice. "I
accept your counter-offer," it said.
The organic straightened its body and relaxed
slightly. "All right," it said.
"Glad to hear it. You know, I don't usually
work with a partner, but I guess it's really in my best interests if I make an
exception in your case." It pulled back the hood covering its head, and
the creature's facial structure further confirmed the Phlutdroid's initial
suspicions that it was a human female. "My name is Ondine Vega," she
said, bowing slightly to the tall assassin droid.
174
"No," said IG-72.
"Good,"
said Ondine Vega with a slight laugh. "But that was a stupid question. If
you were IG-88, I wouldn't still be standing here, would I?" She glanced over
her shoulder down the alley, taking her eyes off the Phlutdroid for the first
time since their stand-off began. "What's your designation, droid?"
"I am Phlutdroid," said IG-72.
Ondine looked back at the assassin droid with a
searching expression. "That sounds familiar. I think I've heard that name
somewhere before." She holstered her blaster. "Well, let's get out of
here, Phlutdroid. We're not going to get anything done just standing around
like this."
After winding their way out of the back alleys,
the two hunters stopped at a Whiphid arms dealer's tent to replace the
Phlutdroid's obliterated rifle.
"I was
thinking," said Ondine, as the Phlutdroid scrutinized the quality of a
customized BlasTech DL-44 the hairy alien was trying to sell, "there's no
reason to assume the meeting has to take place at you-know-who's townhouse. He
practically owns all of Mos Espa. They could be anywhere."
"Affirmative," said the Phlutdroid,
rejecting the DL-44 after discovering a number of small imperfections.
"But we lack the resources to conduct a search of so great an area."
"That's why we have to be smart," said
Ondine, as the Whiphid walked away to find some more guns to show the
Phlutdroid, "and think like a Hutt."
"No," said IG-72, repulsed by the idea
of attempting to emulate the irrational and inefficient thinking patterns of an
organic.
175
"Our best chance of success lies in the
effective application of accurate intelligence, not random searches," said
IG-72, taking a blaster carbine that the Whiphid had come back to show.
"I tried that already. All I got was the tip
that led me here. I had my ship's computer put out a request for informants on
the spaceport network-I only got one reply, late last night. It was from a
little red astromech droid-all he wanted in exchange for his information was to
have his restraining bolt taken off. Funny little guy."
The Phlutdroid glanced up from the weapon it was
examining.
"So really, what else
can we do?" Ondine continued. "It'll be evening soon-if Gazzo's still
here, we've got to hustle and look through every last corner of this lousy
sandbowl. Don't you have heat sensors, x-ray vision, all that stuff? We can do
it if we try."
IG-72 lifted up the blaster carbine. "I'll
take it," it told the Whiphid.
The Phlutdroid
left the arms dealer's tent with the carbine, a standard-issue DL-44, and a
pair of thermal detonators-more than enough to kill Gazzo Ku Metz, whatever he
was.
Assuming he could be found.
Sure enough, the arena was nearly empty. It had
been many months since any races took place at Mos Espa. The only life forms to
be found were scavenging Jawas, a handful or Ranat squatters, and a Quarren and
a Rodian doing spice together in the middle of the empty bleachers. There was
no sign that Jabba or anyone from his organization had even visited the place
anytime recently.
"Okay, so they're not here," said
Ondine as the pair finished their search of the arena's lower levels. "We
had to give it a
176
shot. Where else in Mos
Espa do you think Jabba might meet one of his cronies? Maybe we should check
out the cantinas."
Ondine's ill-planned, hastily improvised
strategies for catching Gazzo Ku Metz were exactly what the Phlutdroid would
expect from an organic. In many ways, IG-72 noted with a touch of
disappointment, she was just like all the rest.
"We're wasting our time," the
Phlutdroid said. "We must cease further action until we can learn the
current whereabouts of the target."
"And how are we going to do that?" They
walked down a wide, empty hallway towards the arena exits.
The Phlutdroid rattled off the idea it was
currently working on. "Infiltrate Jabba's palace. Find a subordinate with
access to the information we need, and extract it from that creature with
intimidation or torture."
Ondine glanced sideways at the Phlutdroid.
"Go ahead and try that if you want. I can hunt and I can shoot straight,
but undercover work really isn't my thing. I wouldn't last ten minutes alive in
Jabba's palace."
IG-72 was beginning to come to the conclusion
that Ondine Vega was not very useful after all. Once again, the assassin droid
considered the advantages of simply killing the organic on the spot and
continuing the search for Gazzo Ku Metz without her.
The Phlutdroid's had was already drifting towards
the handle of the DL-44 when the exit doors slid open and a flood of light from
the outside poured into the cavernous hallway. Ondine reacted instantly,
dashing towards a ticket booth and squeezing herself through the window where
she could hide. The Phlutdroid could only lunge towards the shadows and attempt
to fold itself into something resembling a pile of junk, powering itself down
completely to prevent itself from emitting any telltale lights or sounds. It
left only a single auditory unit activated.
177
Footsteps
indicating several bipeds echoed through the hall, as well as the
characteristic whir of a repulsorlift device. The doors slid shut.
"I heard a noise. Something just crawled
behind that ticket booth," said a dry, monotone voice.
"It's nothing," said another,
high-pitched voice, speaking in Huttese. "This place is crawling with
Jawas and Ranats." Something let out a few loud grunts and squeals.
"Quite a shame you had to let the arena
become such a mess," said a third voice. "You ought to have races
again, Jabba. Everybody would be happy to see the Boonta come back."
"Too much trouble," boomed the
guttural, unmistakable voice of Jabba the Hutt. More growls and grunts
followed.
"Lots of spice to move at a big race like
that." It was the third speaker again. "You really should consider
it."
"I'll tell you a secret, my friend"
said Jabba. "The Empire has told me that if I bring podracing back to Mos
Espa, they might be interested in putting a garrison on Tatooine. For 'security
reasons.' Do you see my meaning, Gazzo? We don't need the races. Now let us
talk about the plans you have for the Core..."
The Phlutdroid reactivated itself. Its target was
here. The R2 unit and the organic had been right after all. And now the time
had come for IG-72 to perform its job. The assassin droid stood up, readied its
carbine, and looked to decide who would be the first to die.
From left to right, it saw
the armored and well-known organic bounty hunter Boba Fett-one of Jabba's new
favorites-a white Twi'lek with fancy clothes and bared teeth, a silver protocol
droid, two fat Gamorreans in bantha-leather cuirasses, a male human in a spacer
suit with short red hair and a scarred face a Rodian with a pair of blaster
pistols hanging from his belt, and a dark-skinned human female in an outfit
that would have been classified as indecent on most Core worlds.
178
Before IG-72 had even selected a target, Boba
Fett had already unloaded two blaster shots into the droid's side; they caused
the Phlutdroid to wobble slightly but left it otherwise unharmed. It
determined, by process of simple elimination, that the red-haired male human,
who was starting to run for the exit doors, was Gazzo Ku Metz. The Phlutdroid
fired off a flurry of shots from its carbine, several of which struck the
human. The collateral damage was minor: the protocol droid was struck three
times in the abdomen and crumpled into a smoldering heap, the human female
received a flesh wound in the thigh, and the armrest of Jabba's repulsorlift lounger
was nicked twice. The Gamorreans and the Twi'lek cowered behind Jabba's
corpulent body as the Hutt roared with fury, the Rodian crouched and pointed
his guns at the assassin droid, but seemed too terrified to pull the triggers.
Gazzo Ku Metz, shot several times in the head and
stomach, fell to the ground, dead.
As the
Phlutdroid watched its target fall, it felt something tear into its left side.
Boba Fett, quickly switching to more effective weaponry, had fired a
wrist-rocket and blown the Phlutdroid's left arm off at the shoulder socket.
IG-72 stared at the smoking hole in its frame
with puzzlement. It had never been seriously damaged before, and wasn't quite
sure what to make of it. Boba Fett took aim with a second rocket.
And then a hand grenade
came flying out from the ticket booth window where Ondine was hiding, and she
stood up and sprayed blaster fire at Fett, forcing the faceless hunter to duck
and cover. The grenade went off, sending Fett sprawling across the floor. The
Rodian, unlucky enough to be locked in his crouch at ground zero, was killed.
The human female screamed and ran away into the dark recesses of the arena.
Boba Fett lurched to his feet and launched his wrist-rocket at the ticket
booth, but in his haste his aim was off and he only managed to blast a hole in
the nearby wall. Acrid smoke was beginning to clog the hallway.
179
"Stop, stop!"
the Hutt bellowed, thrashing his tail with rage. "I command you to put
down your weapons! The mighty Jabba has spoken!"
Boba Fett stood perfectly still, but kept his
wrist rockets carefully aimed in the general direction of Ondine and the
Phlutdroid. The Twi'lek stayed where he was, half-hidden behind Jabba. The
Gamorreans crept out warily and looked at the carnage with wide eyes and blank,
porcine faces.
"You-Phlutdroid-what
is the meaning of this?" Jabba asked. "And you there, in the booth,
come out and show yourself. Hiding can't protect you anymore." Ondine
stood up slowly, fixing a cold stare into the Hutt's eyes.
"Our
business is finished here," said IG-72. "Leave us alone and it will
not be necessary to put anyone else to death."
"Ho, ho,
ho," Jabba laughed. "This is just the kind of droid I like-ruthless
and bold. But you're not the Phlutdroid I know. You're not IG-88. You must be
IG-72, scourge of the Outer Rim. Am I right, Phlutdroid?"
Jabba's
knowledge of the underworld was peerless; IG-72 knew it would be pointless to
attempt to deceive the Hutt. "That is my designation," it said.
Ondine's face turned white and she broke her
stare at the Hutt to gaze with horror at the Phlutdroid. "You're what?"
Jabba laughed, then burped, and laughed some
more.
"Great bleeding Sith, I've heard of
you," Ondine went on, before regaining her composure and snapping her head
back in the Hutt's direction.
"New partners?"
asked Jabba, amused. "Tell me, what's your name, woman? I don't think
you'll make it as a bounty hunter, but I might have a job better suited to your
talents. Ho, ho, ho."
"Let me kill them, Jabba," said Boba Fett. "Just say
the word."
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"As I have already said, our business is
finished here," said the Phlutdroid.
"We came to collect the bounty on Gazzo Ku
Metz, and I have killed him. We have no quarrel with you, Hutt."
Jabba started to laugh until drool ran down his
belly. "Ho, ho, ho. You are wrong, Phlutdroid. Gazzo is still alive."
Ondine nodded her head in the direction of the
spacer's body. "That's not him?"
"No, that is Gazzo Chu Metz," said
Jabba, waving one of his blubbery arms towards the Gamorreans, "and his
mate, Weeia Chu Metz." The two portly green aliens gave Jabba a sudden
look of alarm. One of them began to grunt and huff angrily. "This is your
bounty, Phlutdroid, not that worthless human you shot. Ho, ho, ho."
That was all IG-72 needed to hear. Unable to
differentiate sex between Gamorreans, it quickly drew its DL-44 with its
remaining arm and shot one of them in the forehead, then, as Boba Fett began to
return fire, dispatched the other, now squealing with terror, with a well-aimed
shot to the throat.
Then one of Fett's wrist-rockets struck a
glancing blow against the Phlutdroid's side, ricocheted into the wall behind,
and erupted in a blast that sent the tall assassin droid crashing face-first
into the ground. Ondine ducked back into the booth.
"That's enough, Fett!" the Hutt
shouted. "Put your weapons away!"
Slowly, Fett lowered his wrist. "Fine. But I
still want my money." He shook his helmet in disgust. "What a
joke."
The Phlutdroid
struggled to get back to a standing position. It saw that the Gamorreans were
dead, and was very pleased to know that it had completed its task successfully.
"Don't worry, Fett," said Jabba.
"No-one could have foreseen this. You will be paid as if you had done the
job yourself."
181
The Phlutdroid managed to
raise itself slightly, but was having difficulty standing up again due to the
loss of its left arm.
"Tell me, Phlutdroid, who sent you to kill
poor Gazzo? Was it my foolish little nephew, Mogo?" asked the Hutt.
"Affirmative."
"Ho, ho, ho. That
stupid whelp! I'll tell you what to do, Phlutdroid. Go ahead and claim your
bounty from Mogo. Take him for every last credit-it'll serve him right for
trying to interfere with my business. But tell the fool you bring a message
from Jabba: if he ever puts another bounty on one of my men's heads again,
they'll be scraping chunks of him out of the inside of that silly star-cruiser
of his for months. Do we have a deal, Phlutdroid?"
As long as it
got to claim the bounty it had rightfully earned, everything was copasetic as
far as IG-72 was concerned. "As you wish," it said to the Hutt.
"Wait a second," said Ondine, surfacing
from behind the ticket counter. "Why are you letting us off so easy,
Jabba? What's the catch?"
"Ho, ho, ho. You heard me wrong, woman-I'm
only letting the Phlutdroid go. You'll be coming back to my palace to replace
the girl who ran off when Phlutdroid shot her in the leg."
"It was I who damaged your property,"
said IG-72, thinking it wasteful to turn the unusual organic over to the Hutt,
especially when she had proven to be useful after all. "I will pay the
cost of your lost organic."
The Hutt frowned. "Are you sure, Phlutdroid?
It won't be cheap."
"Affirmative," said the Phlutdroid, who
had thousands of credits and virtually no expenses. It simply collected them
for the sake of watching their numbers grow.
"All right," grumbled the Hutt.
"You want to know why you're leaving here alive, woman? I'll tell you.
Gazzo has been embezzling spice profits from me for many months. I brought
182
him
here so Fett could kill him in secret-I didn't want to offend the rest of the
Metz clan. But you came and did the job instead. These two," he gestured
to the dead Rodian and the red-haired human, "were Gazzo's bodyguard and
his translator." He turned his bulk slightly, to address the helmeted
hunter. "Almost a pity, don't you think, Fett? Gazzo there was the only
smart Gamorrean I ever knew. Ho, ho, ho." Fett shrugged.
Ondine shook her head. "Looks like we
stepped into a real big mess, here."
"So go-let Mogo take credit for having Gazzo
Chu Metz killed. It's better for me that way," said the Hutt, turning back
to face the others.
"Cross Jabba again and you'll be dead the
moment I see you," Fett added.
Ondine and the Phlutdroid had heard enough. After
arranging a credit transfer with Jabba's Twi'lek assistant to pay for the
missing girl, they got away from the Mos Espa podracing arena as fast as they
could.
On the outskirts of Mos Eisley, a pair of Jawas
busied themselves reattaching the Phlutdroid's broken arm. Things had been
going smoothly until the Jawas began a heated argument with each other over the
order in which the various wires should be connected. IG-72 idly considered
disintegrating the two creatures and trying to reattach the arm by itself.
Ondine walked up, unarmed,
dressed in the loose native garb of Tatooine. She was, she said, officially
off-duty for a while. The Phlutdroid didn't really understand what she meant by
that. It knew it could never postpone or set aside its primary
functions, not for any length of time. The droid had to do what it was made to
do.
"Well, I'm leaving, Phlutdroid. I just
wanted to thank you again for buying me out from Jabba. I'll pay every credit
back, I swear. I'm good for it."
183
"I was thinking-you should go ahead and
claim the bounty from Mogo by yourself," Ondine said. "You did all
the work, after all. I mean, I don't think I could have handled any of that by
myself." What she didn't mention was the fact that her half of the bounty
only covered about a third of the price Jabba had extracted from the Phlutdroid
in exchange for her freedom.
IG-72, however, knew that she had been
instrumental in helping it to locate Gazzo Ku Metz, and had come, with some
difficulty, to the conclusion that the rare organic that demonstrated
competence deserved to be rewarded for its merits. "I decline your offer,"
it said.
She smiled. "You want to stick to the
original deal? All right. You know I'll just be paying the credits back to you
anyway." She started to step back. "I guess I'll meet you back on
Mogo's ship. We'll claim the bounty together. Sound good?"
"Affirmative."
"All right. Goodbye, Phlutdroid."
IG-72 didn't reply. It just kept motionless while
the Jawas worked, and watched the strange organic turn and walk away.
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