Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [232]
“The only possible reason’s over there,” replied Hasti, gesturing with her chin, raising up on her elbows. From their vantage point they could see J’uoch’s mining camp, which straddled two sides of a great crevasse. The barracks, shops, and storage buildings were on one side, the kilometers-wide mining-operations site on the other, the two connected by a massive trestle bridge left from old Dellaltian mining efforts. The camp seemed to be operating as usual, its heavy equipment tearing away at the ground.
And on the side of the site, Han saw something that nearly made him whoop out loud. He pounded the Wookiee’s shoulder, pointing. There, the Millennium Falcon sat on her triangle of landing gear. The starship seemed intact and operational.
But she won’t be, Han caught himself up short, if those groundpounders of Xim’s get at her.
At that moment there was a flurry of activity among the Survivors below. Their testing sequences were done. They scurried out from among the irregularly placed robots and gathered at a gleaming golden podium that had been set up on one side of the valley. A transmission horn projected from the podium, which was adorned with Xim’s death’s-head emblem. The Survivor on the podium touched a control.
Every war-robot on the valley floor straightened to alertness, squaring shoulders, coming to stiff, straddle-legged attention. Cranial turrets swung; optical pickups came to bear on the podium. The Survivor on the podium spoke.
“He’s calling the Corps Commander forward,” Skynx explained in a muted voice.
“I know that man on the podium,” Hasti whispered slowly. Then more quickly, “I recognize the white blaze in his hair. He’s the assistant to the steward of the treasure vaults!”
From the massed robots stepped their leader, identical to the others in his corps but for a golden insignia glittering on his breastplate. His rigid, weighty tread shook the ground, the epitome of military precision, his movements revealing immense power. He halted before the podium. From his aged vocoder came a deep, resonant question. Skynx translated in whispers.
“What do you require of the Guardian Corps?” the machine intoned.
“That with which you were entrusted is now in jeopardy,” answered the Survivor on the podium, the steward’s assistant.
“What do you require of the Guardian Corps?” repeated the robot, uninterested in details.
The Survivor pointed. “Follow the gully trail as we’ve marked it for you. It will bring you to your enemies. Destroy all that you find there. Kill everyone you encounter.”
The armored head regarded him for a moment, as if in doubt, then replied: “You occupy the control platform; the Guardian Corps will obey. We will pass in review, as programmed, then go forth.” The Corps Commander’s cranial turrets rotated as he issued the squeals of his signalry.
The war-robots began moving, forming an irregular line, moving just as their commander had. Without cadence or formation, they grouped to one side of the podium. But as they passed it, the transmission horn’s command circuitry automatically directed them to assume their review mode. From a massed group, they separated into ranks and files as they passed the podium, ten abreast, heavy feet rising and falling in step. With their Corps Commander at their head, the thousand war-robots marched, completing a circuit of the little valley.
Even the Survivors were hypnotized by it; the sight of their ancient charges walking again was nothing less than magical to them. Metal feet beat the canyon floor; arms as thick as a man’s waist swung in unison. Han wondered if J’uoch’s people wouldn’t be able to hear their approach even over the sound of mining operations.
At some unseen signal from their Corps Commander, the robots stopped. The commander came around to face the podium with a rocking motion. From his vocoder boomed the words: “We are ready.”
The Survivor on