Star Wars: The Adventures of Lando Calrissia (41 page)

He walked over to the pilot. The sedation hadn’t rendered him unconscious. He lay, breathing deeply, his eyes swimming in and out of focus, in and out of burning lunatic hatred for the helpless droid across the room.

Lando turned him over roughly, tore the somewhat antiquated blaster from the man’s military holster, flipped him on his back again. Poking around in the small cramped chamber, he found some scraps, odds and ends from maintenance projjects, among them a two-meter length of heavy wire. Holding it against the shield-saturated upper hull, he burned it in half with the blaster on its lowest setting, and, without waiting for the fused ends to cool, returned to the recumbent pilot, twisting one piece around his suited wrists, the other around his ankles.

Then, uncaring about what physiological damage he might be doing the soldier, he twisted the knurled edge of the injector until a small arrow was opposite the engraved legend
STIM
, and clapped it firmly to the man’s face.

The device made its subtle noise. The fellow flushed, groaned, but his eyes grew clearer immediately. Lando pressed the still-warm muzzle of the blaster against the man’s left kneecap.

“All right, Ace: tell me your story and make it short. By all means
don’t
cooperate. I’d love an excuse to use you up, one joint at a time!” The knuckle of his index finger tightened on the trigger, and the pilot saw it.

“I’m Klyn Shanga,” the trussed-up figure said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, as long as you promise to use that blaster on me afterward. One clean, effective shot for an old soldier, what do you say?”

Taken aback, Lando let the muzzle drop to the floor. “I say I’ll let you know after I hear what you have to say. ‘Klyn Shanga’: what kind of name is that?” He squatted on the deck beside Shanga, one eye on Vuffi Raa. The robot didn’t stir.

Shanga shook his head and sighed again, trying to accept defeat. He’d had a good deal of practice. “It’s the name of a dead man, friend, the name of a dead man. Who in the Name are you, and what are you doing fighting
men
like yourself with that fiend over there?”

“I’m Captain Lando Calrissian of the
Millennium Falcon
,” Lando replied evenly, “and that ‘fiend’ is my pilot-droid and
friend
, friend. His name is Vuffi Raa and he never hurt the tiniest insectoid in his life. He’s programmed against it.”

The pilot blinked. “A droid? Is that what it told you? That
explains the fancy chrome—I almost didn’t recognize it. But I
did
! You don’t forget the devil that destroys your civilization!”

Lando scratched his head. “Be sensible, man. How could one little droid … and anyway, what I’ve told you is true. He
is
a droid, I’ve seen him partially diassembled. Let me tell you, if he’s been permanently harmed—do you know why he’s curled up like that and deactivated? Well, it’s because he was forced to attack and restrain a sentient being, I’d guess, to defend himself and me.”

Shanga slumped back on the deck, laid his head down, and groaned. “I don’t know what the Name is going on here! Partially disassembled? Programmed against aggression? You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”

Lando smiled grimly. “I was about to ask you the same thing, Klyn Shanga.”

“Klyn Shanga?” said a small voice from across the room. “Is that what you’re called? Master, I believe I can clear up some of this confusion, now.”

“
Vuffi Raa
!” Lando shouted joyfully. The pilot stiffened.

“You don’t know me, creature, but I know you! Remember the Renatasia System?”

The robot uncurled himself, stepped slowly and gracefully toward the two men, and lowered his torso to the floor, letting his tentacles relax. It was one of the few times Lando had ever seen the robot rest. It was one of the few times he had ever needed to.

“Yes, Klyn Shanga, I remember it very well. And with more shame and regret than I can ever express. Master, the Renatasia is a prehistoric colony. No one knows how long ago human beings settled there. Long before the Republic, certainly. Long before any historian is willing to admit there was spaceflight. But it
exists
, and was totally isolated from the rest of civilization, not aware of it, any more than we were aware of them.”

“You will recall,” the droid explained, “that my former master, the fellow you won me from in the Rafa, was an anthropologist and government spy. Well, I was with him for many years, a condition of mutual discomfort and dissatisfaction, I assure you.

“An independent trader, much like yourself, Master, had stumbled across the Renatasia, and my master was designated
to check out his findings, reported because there is a standing reward for such discoveries.

“Forgive me, Freeman Shanga—oh, it’s Colonel, is it?—well, forgive me, sir, but the Renatasia was a backward place in the technological sense. My master surmised that, sometime after the original colonization, it had been cut off from whatever system the settlers had come from, and, over the next dozen generations, had slid back into barbarism—perhaps even further. As it turned out, they had climbed back high enough to have commercial interplanetary travel within their own system, but had not discovered faster-than-light modalities.

“It was this which was their undoing. The government had classified them as socially retarded and suitable for forcible redevelopment—a variety of wholesale ‘therapy’ that is a thin euphemism for ruthless exploitation. The Renatasia System, unable to defend itself, was to be
used
. To be used
up
, if desirable.

“But first it had to be surveyed, analyzed, inspected for hidden strengths.

“My master believed that the best deception was the truth—suitably edited. He ordered me to cover my metallic surface with a latoprene coating of an organic appearance, had me make suitable clothing to fit over my admittedly rather unconventional shape, and accompanied me to the surface of Renatasia III in an open, highly conspicuous landing. We announced ourselves to the local government—the system was divided at the time into separate nation-states that often fought vicious wars with one another—as representatives, envoys, from a galaxy-wide civilization.

“Renatasia, after a suitable interval, was going to be invited to join.

“There were parades, Master, and celebrations. We traveled widely in the system, the honored guests of a people who hoped that this fresh contact with a higher civilization would put an end to war and poverty among them. We went to banquets, we made speeches. And always, always,
I
was the Chief Delegate. My master played the role of secretary and assistant.

“We were there for seven hundred standard days, during which we helped them organize a single system-wide government, organized their defense force under a unitary command, then greatly reduced its size. We gave them new technology—trivialities that would aid them not at all when our true purposes were revealed.

“The Imperial Fleet arrived on the seven hundred first day.

“In the beginning, the rejoicing was only redoubled—until the fleet began collecting slave levies, demanding taxes, closing schools and forcing the Renatasians to teach their children the major galactic tongues to the exclusion of their own. Whole cities, whole nations resisted. Whole cities, whole nations were leveled.

“Two thirds of the population were exterminated in the bungled pacification operations that followed.

“Stunned and embarrassed, the government left the Renatasia System. The entire matter was covered up and what was termed an ‘incident’ was forgotten as quickly as possible.”

“
We
didn’t forget!” Klyn Shanga cried from his supine position on the deck of the
Millennium Falcon
. “We had nothing left but our dreams of retribution! And now we have failed!”

Vuffi Raa propped himself a little higher, began untwisting the wires around Klyn Shanga’s wrists. “You gathered war-craft. I didn’t recognize you for what you were. There were fighters from at least twenty civilizations in your squadron, and that booster engine was from a scrapped dreadnaught.”

“Yes! It took us a decade to put the operation together, cost us everything we had! And in the end, it came to nothing!” He turned his face to the floor; his shoulders shook briefly.

Lando untied the soldier’s ankles, helped him to his feet. “I trust, old man, that you understand: Vuffi Raa is many things, but he is only a droid. He has no choice but to do exactly what he is ordered to do. Did you ever see him personally harm anyone?”

Shanga turned to face the gambler. “No, no I didn’t. What has that got to do with it?”

“A very great deal. You saw how he reacted, simply to passively restraining you?”

The warrior set his mouth grimly. “So what? You can kill a man by
ordering
it done. You don’t have to bloody your own hands. Yet you’ll be just as guilty!”

Lando took a firmer grip on Shanga’s blaster. “Then I suppose that means you won’t give your word not to—”

“You’re bloody well
right
it doesn’t!” roared Klyn Shanga.

“Very well.” Lando, holding the weapon on the man, reached up and reprogrammed the airlock hatch. “Come along, Vuffi Raa.”

Stepping through the bulkhead door, the gambler spoke again. “We’ll bring you a cot and some food. I intend to drop you off at the nearest system, and you won’t be harmed. I hope to convince you on the way, sometime in the next few days, that this vendetta is irrational. Vuffi Raa is a thoroughly good being, and would have died rather than destroy your culture, but he is also a robot who, even in the vilest of hands, must obey. I’m trying to do something constructive about that, too.”

“You are?” a dazed Vuffi Raa asked from the corridor outside. “What, Master?”

“Don’t call me Master!”

He shut the door, programmed it to restrain the fighter pilot, and shoved the blaster into a slash pocket on the outside of his suit. “Let’s get forward, old thing, we need to decide where next to head for.”

“That would depend, Master, on whether we are freight haulers or gamblers, wouldn’t it?”

“Indeed it would, except that, at the moment, we are gentlebeings of leisure. We have a hundred seventy-three-odd thousand credits I won on Oseon 6845, after all.”

Halfway to the cockpit, the droid turned and looked at Lando. “I hate to say this, Master, but from past experience
that
won’t last very long.”

Lando stopped in midstride, a scowl on his face. He wanted desperately to shuck out of his increasingly uncomfortable spacesuit, get a shower, and lie down for a couple of eons. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But we also have twenty
million
credits I sort of accidentally brought along with me from Bohhuah Mutdah’s place. He won’t be needing it anymore!”

They continued along to the control deck, where Vuffi Raa began the procedure necessary to setting a course. Lando was glumly rolling another cigarette with crushed cigar tobacco and highly unsuitable paper.

“Twenty million credits, and I don’t have any decent smokes!”

The robot paused. “Master, may I ask you a question?”

“As long as you don’t call me master when you do it.”

“I’ll try. Lando, Klyn Shanga’s people, the Renatasians—I feel responsible for them. Their civilization has been all but obliterated. If they recover at all, it will be centuries before they’re finished.”

Lando nodded solemnly. “That’s true. On the other hand,
everybody has to start again, fresh every day, from wherever they are.”

“Well, Mas—I mean, Lando, we have your winnings from the Oseon. Wouldn’t the Renatasians recover a good deal more quickly if they had some help? After all, we’re gamblers and adventurers. Being rich would only get in our way. I think we ought to give Klyn Shanga the twenty million.”

Lando looked at Vuffi Raa, lit his cigarette, and leaned back in his acceleration couch. It was a long time before he spoke.

“Vuffi Raa, you’re a decent, humane droid at heart. And, when you get right down to it, I’m not too bad a sort myself. Compared to the rest of the universe, we’re the good guys.

“But as far as the twenty million is concerned, my little mechanical friend, forget it.

“I’m going to
enjoy
being rich.”