Марта Уэллс - From a Certain Point of View

“Absolutely not.”

A laugh from the Corellian. He must have confused IG-88’s swift rebuttal for comedic cadence. Which again, IG-88 thought to himself, Absolutely not.

“Now, Iggy, back to work, yeah? Get us that thermal scan so we can find our mark.”

“That would be a waste of time, Dengar. This area is contaminated with interference. Such a scan will be useless.” The coordinates Fett had provided Dengar with had led the duo to a debris field in the Outer Rim, one of the few reminders of the Clone Wars’ massive starship battles. The Empire had been extremely thorough with its salvage operations in the years after the war, but this wreckage had been left behind for some reason. And though it had been years since these ships had seen combat, the entire area was radiated with their heat.

“Ah, the present is always haunted by the past, isn’t it, droid?”

“I do not have time for trite poetry, bounty hunter.”

“You also apparently don’t have time to offer up an alternative. ” Dengar leaned across the starship’s console and flicked a few switches. “But no worries there. I don’t need one anyway. Activating thermal scan.”

Don’t have time? IG-88 could have killed Dengar a dozen different ways in the time it took the Corellian to speak those words. In fact, the droid’s mastery over time was so complete that he ran internal simulations of doing exactly that and luxuriated in the internally visualized display of his power and mastery.

“See, piston-head, I’m not looking for Solo’s thermal signature.” He flicked a few more switches as IG-88 came out of his reverie. “I’m looking for the absence of Solo’s thermal signature.”

“Impossible. Even if you know the make of Solo’s ship—”

“And I do. We’re chasing a modified YT-1300 Corellian light freighter. Not as hot as its reputation might lead you to believe, I may add.” He hit another switch and then a toggle.

“Do not interrupt me, organic.” IG-88 again rotated his cylindrical head to add punctuation. Deep inside his advanced computer core, he considered that adopting such an affect might be akin to gaining his own sort of accent, and began to calculate exactly how troubling such an inefficiency was.

“Sorry, partner. You were saying?”

“I was explaining that even with the Millennium Falcon ’s information, this debris field’s level of thermal pollution is so high—”

Before the droid could finish his sentence, Punishing One ’s auxiliary computers lit up like pyrotechnics. A YT-1300 light freighter had been hiding in the desolate shell of a Trade Federation Lucrehulk -class battleship. Solo.

Dengar couldn’t hold back the smirk forming on his lips. In fact, he didn’t even try. “That doesn’t count as interrupting you, I hope?”

“How did you achieve such signal resolution?”

“Ah, well, you need to understand exactly how a smuggler like Solo thinks. It’s an old trick, before your time I’d guess. And the sort of thing that wouldn’t make its way into even the most rigorous of Imperial memory cores.” Dengar’s voice took on the posh tone of an Imperial admiral as he delivered the line, which only worked to make IG-88 wonder why the bounty hunter had not chosen to adopt the more socially prestigious accent. Simultaneously and elsewhere in the droid’s constantly whirring verbobrain, IG-88 took permanent note of the technique. He understood it now, and that was all that mattered.

“Give him a second.” Dengar spoke with the voice of a seasoned hunter. “He’ll see that we scanned him and—”

Just in time, the Corellian freighter burst from the wreckage and set a course for the debris field’s edge, where a hyperspace jump could safely get it away from its pursuers.

“Settle in, partner.” Dengar slid the throttle up, and the Punishing One began to charge forward through the debris. It was, of course, another joke from the Corellian. The JumpMaster 5000 was more spacious than the droid’s own ship, but it was still a machine built for one. The patrol boat was fine for an independent cargo hauler or even a bounty hunter like Dengar, but the cockpit had nowhere to “settle in” besides the cockpit chair.

Fortunately, it turned out that Dengar’s skill as a pilot was more than good enough to keep IG-88 on his feet. The bounty hunter piloted Punishing One like a Carnelion kite, dancing through the debris field and taking minimal (if any) damage as he pressed toward the Falcon ’s position. Confident in his temporary ally’s skill behind the controls, IG-88 focused on preparing the ship’s shielding, combat, and auxiliary systems.

“We are now within communications range.”

With another flick of his fingers, Dengar opened a broadcast channel. “It’s over, Han! Stop where you are and maybe we’ll let a couple of your friends live, yeah?”

Dengar’s body temperature rose a third of a degree. His voice fluctuated, just so, before saying “over” and “Han.” It was a vocal structure similar to that of a liar. This meant that Dengar was not confident that it was over for Han Solo. Worse, IG-88 realized, the entire array of physiological responses had revealed that Dengar was illogically invested in the capture of Solo.

When the Corellian freighter finally responded, it wasn’t with words. A flurry of laser blasts passed just above the Punishing One. For Dengar, it was just another opportunity to taunt his prey. “You used to be a better shot than that, Solo! You’re losing your edge!”

A voice finally broke over the comm. It was feminine, maybe one of Solo’s companions, IG-88 thought. “I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got the wrong ship. Disengage now!”

“Nice try, friend. What, is Han too scared to talk for himself now? Needs his rebel friends to speak for him?”

Though the bulk of his attention was locked on their target, IG-88 dedicated a few subroutines to concern about his partner’s ability to keep a cool head. “Calm yourself, Corellian. Your irrationality is becoming dangerous.” Whatever their history, it was clear that Solo had gotten under Dengar’s skin, wedged inside the organic deeper than any cybernetic implant.

“Shut up, flutebucket. ” Even his pathetic insults were getting worse, IG-88 thought.

His aim, on the other hand, seemed as steady as ever. Dengar fired a burst from his quad laser cannons as a feint, driving his target off course and into the free-floating bridge of some long-dead assault cruiser.

The Corellian freighter spun out of control and directly into the sights of Dengar’s ion cannon. A single blast was all it took. The YT-1300 floated against the starfield, lit clearly by a distant sun. Now that it was freed from the sea of ruined ships, IG-88 made a terrible discovery.

“Do you recall when you said that the ship we were following was unremarkable, Dengar?”

“And haven’t we proved it?”

“Well. You are correct. The ship we are following is unremarkable. In fact, its only external modifications seem to be the addition of a dorsal laser turret and an upgraded sublight drive.”

“Droid…”

“This is not the Millennium Falcon, Corellian.” If IG-88 had not understood that he was superior to every organic being in existence, his failure to notice the difference between this ship and the Falcon would be embarrassing. Solo’s craft was a heavily modified YT-1300f, a cargo hauler transformed into a well-armed smuggling starship. But this was a much more slightly modified YT-1300p, designed for passenger transit. “Not only are its modifications inadequate, it is also missing several key features that would identify it as Solo’s vessel.”