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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 threshold.

The high-power weapons slammed a cloud of crackling 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 electronic systems.

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 jittered, stuttered, his arms flailed. His weapons refused to fire. His optical sensors filled with static, frying, recovering, 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 electrical 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 conveyor 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 concussion grenades. Without a word, Fett set the timers for one standard minute, then carefully, moving like a surgeon, implanted each detonator inside IG-88’s body core. The assassin droid had thick, impenetrable armor—but that was designed to protect from an external 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 transmission from their fallen counterpart with the closest approximation to horror assassin droids could experience.

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 Imperial shuttle, preparing the cargo hold for the changeling computer core.

“Go,” IG-88A said to his two counterparts. “I will stay here to complete the Death Star mission. You eliminate Boba Fett.”

• • •

The pair of silver needle ships, exact copies of the original IG-2000, arrived at Cloud City. As they approached their target, the floating metropolis was a turmoil of