Star Wars_ Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor - Matthew Woodring Stover [40]
“Boakie!” a different human male, though with a similar accent, shouted. “That little grubber killed Boakie! Give me that ion blaster—”
“Cancel that!” This voice, by contrast, was clearly the product of a human female, who, based on the harmonic overtones of authority, was equally clearly accustomed to instant obedience. “Stow the blaster, Tripp.”
“But—but it killed Boakie—”
“He’s not dead. He’s just learning about keeping his hands to himself. Now stow that blaster before I take it away and feed it to you.”
“But I was only—”
“Tripp.”
“All right, Aeona. I mean, jeesh, you can’t fault a guy for getting—”
“Sure I can. Now back off. I want to talk to this thing.”
There was motion among the rocks. To R2’s optical array, it looked like the lava itself had come to life and was closing in. This being new to R2’s long, long data chain of filed experience, the little droid dutifully recorded the lava’s approach.
R2 also subjected this recording to real-time multi-spectrum analysis and discovered, through a combination of thermal and bioelectric field output, that what appeared to be living rock was instead nineteen human beings who were wearing rocks—the humans appeared to have constructed a rough analogue of Imperial stormtrooper armor out of chunks of lava attached somehow to the ragged remnants of survival suits. Which was a particularly compelling example, R2 observed in a note appended to the file, of the endless human inventiveness with camouflage.
“Hey, little guy,” the authoritative woman said, approaching R2 with open, empty hands, crouching a little, as though the droid might be a nervous Shistavanen cub. “What are you doing all alone, way out here? Waiting for somebody?”
“Waiting for a junk dealer, I bet,” the one called Tripp said. “Can you believe how old that thing is? If it ain’t defective, who’d leave it out here? I say we blast it and break it up for parts.”
“What counts around here is what I say,” the woman growled, then put on that same gentle, friendly tone as she turned back to R2. “Don’t mind him.”
“But—but listen, Aeona, seriously. Our last three astromechs are barely functional—and they’re all newer than this one. We really need those parts!”
The woman’s face shifted into an expression that R2’s optical-analysis algorithm couldn’t parse, which triggered his threat-assessment system to initiate a measured response: R2 decided that a prudent course would be to warn these humans of the possible consequences of aggressive action.
A quick scan of his data archives brought up a recording of the rescue of Han Solo on Tatooine: the chaotic battle above the Pit of Carkoon aboard the sail barge of Jabba the Hutt. A bit of judicious editing—to intersplice a more recent recording—replaced Gamorrean guards and other servitors of the Hutt crime lord with human beings in armor improvised of broken lava, and replaced the deck of the Hutt’s caravel with the devastated landscape of Mindor. This process took only .78 second, and when it was complete, R2 initiated its holoprojector array to display its handiwork: a miniature Luke Skywalker wielding a lightsaber of shining green, who leapt and spun and somersaulted among images of R2’s captors, cutting them down on every side.
“What is that supposed to be?” Tripp said. “Is that little grubber threatening us?”
“Shut up.” The woman—Aeona—dropped to one knee and leaned in to get a better look at R2’s holodisplay, and for a moment her face softened, her eyes went wide, and her voice went hushed with awe. “That’s a Jedi …”
“You don’t really believe that thing, do you?” Tripp shook