The Han Solo Adventures (53 page)

Max, who had taken in the situation via direct linkage with Bollux, answered simply. “I know how to stop them. The war-robots, I mean; but we’d have to destroy them all to do it. We needed time to talk it over, Bollux.”

And Blue Max related the plan he had conceived. The labor ’droid responded even more slowly than usual. “Why didn’t you mention this before, when Captain Solo was here?”

“Because I didn’t want him to decide! Those robots are doing what they were built to do, just like we are. Is that any reason to obliterate them? I wasn’t even sure I should tell you; I didn’t want you to blow your primary stacks in a decisional malfunction. Wait; what’re you doing?”

The labor ’droid’s chest plastron was swinging shut as he toed the edge of the ridge. “Seeking alternatives,” he explained, stepping off.

Bollux slid and stumbled and plowed his way down the slope to the valley floor, working with heavy-duty suspension of arms and legs to keep from being damaged. At last he came to an awkward stop at the bottom amid a minor avalanche. Standing erect, he approached the war-robots, who waited in their gleaming, exact formation.

The Corps Commander’s cranial turret rotated at Bollux’s advance. A great arm swung up, weapons-apertures opening. “Halt. Identify or be destroyed.”

Bollux replied with the recognition codes and authentication signals he had learned from Skynx’s ancient tapes and technical records. The Corps Commander studied him for a moment, debating whether this strange machine ought to be obliterated, recognition codes or no. But the war-robots’ deliberative circuitry was limited. The weapon-arm lowered again. “Accepted. State your purpose.”

Bollux, with no formal diplomatic programming to draw upon and only his experience to guide him, began hesitantly. “You mustn’t attack. You must disregard your orders; they were improperly given.”

“They were issued through command signalry of the podium.

We must accept. We are programmed; we respond.” The cranial turret rotated to face front again, indicating that the subject bore no further discussion.

Bollux went on doggedly. “Xim is dead! These orders of yours are wrong; they do not come from him; you cannot obey them!”

The turret swung to him again, the optical pickups betraying no emotion. “Steel-brother, we are the war-robots of Xim. No alternative is thinkable.”

“Humans are not infallible. If you follow these orders, they’ll lead to your destruction. Save yourselves!” He could not admit that it would be by his own hand.

The vocoder boomed. “Whether this is true or not, we carry out our orders. We are the war-robots of Xim.”

The Corps Commander faced front again. “The waiting time has elapsed. Stand aside; no further delay will be tolerated.” He emitted a squeal of signalry. The ranks of war-robots stepped off as one, arms swinging.

Bollux had to spring aside to keep from being trampled beneath them. His chest plastron swung open as he watched them go. “What do we do now?” Blue Max wanted to know. “Captain Solo and the others will be down there, too.”

There was a quiver of sorrow in Bollux’s voice modulation. “The war-robots have their built-in programming. And we, my friend, have ours.”

They had worked their way to a ridge overlooking the outer perimeter of the mining camp before Han discovered Bollux wasn’t with them. Han, incensed, slipped around a spire of rock for a look at the camp. “I
told
that low-gear factory reject we needed him to monitor for sensors. Well, we’re just going to have to be extra—”

Sirens began ululating through the camp. The travelers all hit the ground at once, but Han risked a peek around the spire. Now that they had been detected, information was more important than concealment.

The mining camp was swarming like an insect nest. Humans and other beings were running every which way to take up emergency stations. Those employees trusted by J’uoch were being issued arms and taking up defensive positions. Contact laborers were ordered by their overseers to retire across the bridge to the isolation and effective confinement of the plateau barracks area.

Han couldn’t spot the sensor net he had tripped, but it was apparent that it had him pinpointed. Several reinforced fire teams were dashing to bunkers fronting Han’s hiding place. Han saw that grounded near the
Millennium Falcon
and the gigantic mining lighter was another vessel, a small starship with the sleek lines of a scout.

Suddenly a response squad started up the hill to engage them, two human males with disruptor rifles, a horn-plated
W’iiri
scuttling on its six legs and bearing a grenade thrower, and an oily-skinned
Drall
, its red hide gleaming, lugging a gas projector.

Half-kneeling, half-crouching by the spire, Han dragged the old Kell Mark II around by its balance-point carrying handle. Knowing of the outdated weapon’s powerful recoil, he braced himself before thumbing the firing stud. Blue energy sprang from the Kell’s muzzle, tracing a broad line across the rock wall below. He was nearly knocked over backward by the Mark II’s kick, but Chewbacca braced him. The rock sizzled, smoked, and shot sparks, then cracked, fragments and shards falling downslope. The response squad sought cover with gratifying freneticism.

“That should keep them off our necks until we can talk,” Han judged. Cupping hand to mouth, he called out, “J’uoch! It’s Solo! We have to talk, right away!”

The woman’s voice, amplified by a loudhailer, rose from one of the bunkers. “Give me that log-recorder disk and throw down your guns, Solo; those are the only terms you’ll get from me!”

“But she saw that we didn’t have the disk,” Badure muttered. “Didn’t she guess that we couldn’t get it from the lockbox?”

Han shouted down, “We’ve got no time to debate this, J’uoch; you and your whole camp are about to come under attack!” He pulled back suddenly as a barrage of small-arms fire opened up. Huddling back from it, the travelers clutched their heads in protection while energy- and projectile-searching fire probed the hillside. Rocks bubbled and exploded; shrapnel and splinters flew while explosive concussion battered their ears.

“I don’t think she’s going to be reasonable about this,” predicted Badure.

“She’s got to be,” Han snapped, thinking of what would happen to his starship if the robots overran the camp.

The firing slowed for a moment, then, at some command they didn’t hear, resumed even more heavily. “Face it, Solo,” Hasti called to him over the din, “they want our hides and nothing less. The only way we’ll get to the
Falcon
is if we can get to her while the robots are hitting the camp.”

“When they’re mixing it up with J’uoch’s people? We wouldn’t get two meters.” At that moment the firing stopped again and a voice called his name from below.

Hasti was gazing at him alarmed. “Solo, what’s wrong? You just went pale as perma-frost.”

He paid her no attention but saw by Chewbacca’s expression that the Wookiee, too, recognized the voice of Gallandro the gunman.

“Solo! Come down and negotiate like a reasonable fellow. We have a great deal to discuss, you and I.” The voice was calm, amused.

Han realized that sweat was beginning to bead his brow despite the cold. A sudden suspicion hit him, and he threw himself up into the clear for an instant, just enough to ease the Mark II’s barrel over the crest. The response squad was on the move and another was rushing to link up with it.

Han thumbed the trigger and hosed the barrel back and forth randomly. The heavy-assault rifle was a product of Dra III, made for the heavier, stronger inhabitants of that world, with its Standard-plus gravity. The Mark II’s recoil forced him back a second time, but not before the play of its extremely powerful beam drove the advancing squads to cover once more.

“Spread out along the ridge or they’ll outflank us!” Han ordered. His companions hurried to comply as Gallandro’s voice came again.

“I knew you wouldn’t have died in something as foolish as that uneven ship-to-ship action back at the city, Solo. And I knew the
Millennium Falcon
would draw you here in time, no matter what.”

“You know just about everything, don’t you?” Han riposted.

“Except where that log-recorder is. Come, Solo; I’ve struck a bargain with the delightful J’uoch here. Do the same, don’t make things difficult. And don’t make me come up there after you.”

“C’mon, what’s stopping you, Gallandro? There’ll be nothing left of you but those little mustache beads!” Chewbacca and the others had taken up sniping at the response squads, pinning them down for now, but Han was worried about the armed aircraft in the mining camp.

The thought had no sooner formed than, scanning the sky, he saw a quick, dangerous shape swooping down at them. “Everybody down!”

The spaceboat, twin to the one that had been destroyed in the city by the lighter, made a quick preliminary pass at the ridge, its chin pods spitting. Anti-personnel rounds threw out clouds of flechettes; Han could feel the craft’s afterblast as it darted by. He raised his head to see what damage it had done.

By some fortune the first pass, being hasty, had resulted in no one’s being hit. But they were badly exposed there on the ridge; the next pass might well finish them all. Han pulled the heavy-assault rifle to him with a grunt of effort, pushed himself upright, and rushed out into the open on the back side of the ridge.

At the camp below, Gallandro conferred with J’uoch. “Madame, recall your boat; I’ll trouble you to remember our deal.” He spoke with a hint of impatience, as close to emotion as he ever let himself come. “Solo is mine, not to be killed by air attack.”

Peering out of the bunker, she dismissed the objection with a wave of her hand. “What does it matter, as long as he’s eliminated? My brother’s using anti-personnel rounds; the log-recorder won’t be damaged.”

The gunman smiled, reserving his retaliation for a more convenient moment. He touched up his mustachios with a knuckle. “Solo is well armed, my dear J’uoch. You may be surprised at his resourcefulness, as may your brother.”

Han raced over the open ground, keeping one eye out for available cover. Though hindered by the weight of the Mark II, he adjusted it for maximum range and power level as he ran. He had thought about handing the weapon over to the Wookiee to let him shoot at the boat, but the
Falcon
’s first mate had little liking or affinity for energy weapons, preferring his bowcaster.

Han heard the boat begin its second pass. J’uoch’s brother, R’all, dove at the exposed, fleeing man. Han threw himself into a troughlike depression in the rock, the Mark II clattering down next to him. The boat flashed past, so close that Han was in the dead area between the guns’ fields of fire. Flechettes burst in long lines to either side of him. R’all flashed off, adjusting his weapons for a final pass.

Han got up, braced the Mark II’s buttplate against the rock, and fired. Still the heavy-assault rifle’s recoil made it jump and turn; the boat was out of range before he had come anywhere near it, and now was banking for a pass that was sure to find its target.

Han hitched himself around the stone trough and pulled the Mark II’s bipod legs down. He had only one more trick left, and if that didn’t work, he’d have no more worries about treasure, Gallandro, or the
Falcon
. Resettling so that his knees and the small of his back were higher than his shoulders, he wrestled the Mark II around and rested it on the incline of his legs. He set his feet against the bipod legs, holding the weapon tightly to steady it.

He squinted upward through the heavy-assault rifle’s open sights. The boat came at him again. He bracketed it in the sights and waited until he heard the first concussion of R’all’s fire.

Then he opened up, bracing the bucking Mark II with hands and feet, holding it fairly steady for the first time. The boat’s pilot recognized his danger too late; an evasive maneuver failed and the heavy-assault rifle’s full force caught the light boat, tearing a long gash in the fuselage. Control circuitry and power panels erupted and a gaping hole appeared in the cockpit canopy. The boat wallowed and shook, out of control, and disappeared in a steep dive, trailing smoke and flame. A moment later the ground shook with impact.

“R’all!” J’uoch screamed to her dead brother as she clawed her way out of the bunker. The boat had exploded on impact, scattering burning debris over a long, wide swath of ground.

Gallandro caught her arm. “R’all is gone,” said the gunman with no particular sympathy. “Now, we will do this thing as we originally agreed. Your ground forces will encompass Solo’s position, and we’ll force him out into the open and capture him alive.”

She wrenched her arm away, seething with rage. “He killed my brother! I’ll get Solo if I have to blow these mountains apart!” She turned and called out to her enforcer, the hulking Egome Fass, who stolidly awaited orders. “Get the crew to the loadlifter and warm up main batteries.” She was about to turn from him when an unfamiliar sound, rising over the fury of the boat’s destruction, made her pause. “What’s that?”

Gallandro heard it, too, as did Egome Fass and all the others in the camp. It was a steady beat, shaking the ground, the pounding of metal feet. The column of Xim’s war-robots appeared at a spot farther along the mining camp’s perimeter, having finished their roundabout march from their mustering place.

They came in glittering ranks, arms swinging, unstoppable. When their Corps Commander gave the signal that freed them from lockstep, they spread out across the site to begin their devastation. J’uoch stared in astonishment, not quite believing what she saw. Gallandro, fingering one of the gold beads that held his mustache, tried to remain calm. “So, Solo was telling the truth after all.”

Up on the ridge, Chewbacca hooted to the exhausted Han, indicating the camp. Han wearily moved to the ridge and joined his companions in looking down on a scene of utter chaos. Their own presence had been forgotten by the response squads, fire teams, and other camp defenders.

The war-robots, faithful to their instructions, moved to obliterate everything in their path. First to feel the battle machines’ power was a domed building that housed repair shops. Han saw a robot smash through the dome’s personnel door while a half-dozen of his comrades set to work wrenching off the rolling doors. Pieces of lockslab gave way like soggy pulp, and a group of Xim’s perfect guardians moved into the dome, demolishing work areas and heavy equipment, ripping down hoisting gear, and firing with the weapons built into their metal hands. Heatbeams and particle discharges flashed, throwing weird shadows within the dome. The building flared, pitted in a score of places. The robots’ fire lanced the dome, probing the sky. More of them pressed in to tear apart everything they encountered.

It was the same elsewhere in the vast mining site. The war-robots, with their limited reasoning capacity, were taking their orders literally, devoting as much attention to devastating buildings and machinery as to attacking camp personnel. Whole companies of the war machines were moving among the abandoned mining autohoppers and land-gougers, tow-motors and excavators.

The robots blasted and sprayed fire everywhere, making full use of their tremendous strength. One of them was sufficient to reduce a small vehicle to rubble in moments; for larger equipment, groups cooperated. Tracks were wrenched from crawlers, whole vehicles lifted off the ground, their axles snapped, wheels ripped off, cabs torn loose, and engines yanked out of their compartments like toys. A battalion moved toward a barge shell that contained the latest shipment of refined ore. The robots tore into it, swinging and firing, wrecking everything they encountered and hurling the pieces aside.

Meanwhile, others engaged the camp personnel in determined combat, turning the camp into a scene of unbelievable chaos. War-robots flooded through the operations site. “They’re headed for the
Falcon
!” Han bellowed, then charged down the ridge. Badure’s shouted warnings went unheeded. Chewbacca went racing after his partner; Badure took off, too, followed by Hasti.

Skynx was left alone, staring after them. Although going after his companions seemed a good way to ensure that he would never see the chrysalis stage, he realized that he had become a part of the oddly met group and felt acutely incomplete without them. Abandoning good Ruurian prudence, he flowed off after the others.

At the bottom of the slope, Han found his way blocked by one of the robots. It was just finishing demolishing one of the bunkers, kicking the fusion-formed walls to bits and hurling the larger chunks easily. The robot turned on him, its optical lenses extending a bit as their focal point adjusted. It lifted and aimed its weapon-hand.

Han quickly brought up the heavy-assault rifle and fired point-blank, knocked back several steps by the sustained recoil. His fire blazed blue against the mirror-bright chest. The machine itself was driven back a step with an electronic outburst and was ripped open. Han moved his aim up to the spot where the cranial turret was joined to the armored body.

The head came off, flying apart, smoke and flame gushing from the decapitated body. Han shot it again for good luck and the Mark II’s beam came only faintly; the weapon was virtually exhausted. But it served to topple the robot, which landed with a resounding clatter.