Mohs took a step backward, aghast - whether at the magnitude of the insult or in surprise at the general turn of events, Lando couldn't tell. Mohs turned once again to his people - and there's another problem, Lando thought idly: Mohs was from another planet. How was it that the locals seemed to know him and acknowledge his leadership? Come to think of it, how had the ambush been set up in the first place?
The savages conferred for a while in their own language. A decision appeared to have been made.
“You will come with us, imposter!” Mohs ordered. He started to walk off on a course paralleling the nearest face of the giant pyramid.
Lando stood where he was.
“I will when the Core freezes over! Owch!” This last was due more to surprise than injury. A crossbow bolt had whistled past Lando's head, skinning an ear already made painful by the cold, striking the hull of the Falcon, and catching him on the rebound in the seat of his insulated pants. A pattern seemed to be emerging: they didn't want to kill Lando; they couldn't take the Key away without his consent (although Mohs had tried that back on Four, he reminded himself), but they could threaten and coerce him in other ways.
They seemed to be pretty good at that.
He reached for his discarded blaster, intending to pull out the arrow and create a little mayhem before they shot him down. He hadn't moved a meter when another flight of arrows virtually buried the weapon, pinned it to the ground by its sling, trigger guard, and other apertures in the stock and fore end. So much for that idea.
As one, the fifty or so natives swung their weapons back on Lando.
“Okay, okay, I'm coming! Anybody think to call a cab?”
Two hours later, Lando wished it hadn't been a joke. They'd marched him for mile after endless mile, climbing over random, angular ruins, sloshing through deep-drifted sand, scrabbling through scrubby brush. His feet hurt and his legs ached and, no matter how high he turned his suit controls, he was still cold.
At last he stopped.
“All right, everybody, I've been a nice guy so far, but this is as far as I go. If you want the Key, you'll have to take it off my dead body. I'm not going another meter.”
The silent natives who surrounded him looked to Mohs. The old man nodded. They loosed a flight of arrows that plucked at his clothing, kicked sand up in his face, whistled mere angstrom units over his head. These fellows were impressive markspersons, Lando found himself thinking; I hope none of them gets the hiccups. He stood his ground again until they started shooting between his legs. It wasn't worth the risk. He waited until they paused to reload, then began marching again.
What he had thought were crossbows had turned out to be something entirely different, some kind of spring-loaded contraption with hinged arms - which he'd mistaken for the limbs of a bow - that flailed forward, hurling the stubby arrows out through the front of the weapon. They didn't seem to need reloading every time they were fired. He guessed there were perhaps half a dozen projectiles stashed in a magazine hidden within the mechanism. The weapons weren't very powerful, as projectile throwers went, but the speed and accuracy with which they could be used made him realize he could die from a thousand pinpricks as easily as from a single blaster shot.
And a great deal more painfully.
They marched.
Another couple of hours went by. Lando wasn't sure exactly - he didn't want to took at his watch, because he didn't want to remind the natives that he had several items concealed beneath his winter clothes, notably his five-shot stingbeam. It would take a lot of figuring to get any good out of it in this situation, but it was something to fall back on, and it gave him a bit of hope.
Step after endless step. The country didn't vary much: something between desert and tundra, most of the space taken up with giant Sharu buildings. Sand, sand, and more sand. Occasional weeds. The clear, yet somehow foreboding sky. He worried about Vuffi Raa, hoped that robots die a swift and merciful death.
All during the long, pauseless ordeal, the Toka around him chanted, sometimes slowly, sometimes more rapidly. And to his continuous annoyance, never in rhythm with the marching. This caused him to stumble awkwardly every now and again.
He didn't know how the Toka mind worked, but he knew he didn't like it. They sang low-pitched Songs, they sang high-pitched Songs. They sang in harmony, disharmony, and counterpoint. They would be great to record - they had an endless repertoire.
At long last, the marching ended at a grove of life-crystal trees.
Mohs approached him.
“Imposter, hear me: we are forbidden to remove the holy Key from the Key bearer, even should the Bearer be a false one. You have somehow guessed this. Nor may we kill him who bears the Key, although we have killed the false Emissary, which makes us glad.”
So that was it! Somehow Lando had gotten the idea that the Key Bearer and the Emissary were the same fellow, namely himself. Had he betrayed that belief to Mohs, setting up the debacle? He tried to recall what he'd said to Mohs on the subject, then realized it didn't make a bit of difference anyway - and besides, the old man was still talking.
“Let them do it themselves. Come with me!”
Lando followed him to a tree. Several of the other Toka handed their weapons to comrades, joined Mohs and Lando, and, between them, produced a loincloth.
By the time Lando decided to resist, it was too late. They forced him into a sitting position, bound him to the tree trunk by the waist, and used the same length of cloth to tie his hands behind him. They pushed back his hood, unfastened his jacket, and tore it rudely from him.
“Hey! Do you know what my tailor charged me for - now hold on a minute, that's going too far!”
Mohs had pulled off one of Lando's boots, bent to seize the other. When this was accomplished, the boots tossed aside near his discarded parka, they tore his tunic off, and socks beneath it.
Then Mohs produced a knife.
“Now wait a blasted minute, here! You can't do that!” He kicked at the old man until a pair of natives held his ankles. He'd never believed in strong, silent heroes, and since the only thing he had left to do was yell, he yelled.
He yelled the entire time it took Mohs to slit his trouser legs, exposing bare skin to the chilling air.
“Now,” said the ancient Singer, when he was satisfied with Lando's disheveled condition. “All will notice that the Key remains with the Bearer.”
This was true. They'd taken it from his tunic and tucked it into the dirty gray cloth about his waist. That had been a scary moment - he'd held deathly still so they wouldn't clank it against the tiny beamer hidden beneath both loincloth and cummerbund.
“Now we shall wait. In Their own time, They will take his life, either in the cold or through the tree. We shall then return and claim the Key which is our rightful heritage. We go.”
They went.
As the sun sank behind the highly unnatural skyline, shadows crept inexorably toward the helpless gambler, and as they did, his heart sank at approximately the same rate as the sun. He watched as small plants curled themselves into little protective balls for the night. He watched as frost formed on his toes. He watched as moisture in the ground forced up the top layer of the soil on frozen ice columns.
Mostly, he watched his nice warm parka, tunic, boots and socks gather frost of their own, not three meters beyond his bound and helpless reach.
He began cursing, first through genuine anger at himself and Mohs and Gepta and Met, then simply in order to keep warm. He cursed in his native tongue and in the dozen and a half others he'd learned during a long and checkered career. He cursed in three computer languages and the warbling cheep of a race of musical birds he'd once played cards with - until it reminded him of the Toka.
He cursed the Toka all over again. And again. And again.
He woke up with a start!
And began cursing for no other reason than to stay awake.
If he didn't, he would freeze to death.
XI
DEATHLY SIL
ENCE.
Beneath a looming, monstrous, crustacean form resting on stilted legs, the twin pale moons of Rafa V picked out metallic reflections in the night-blackened sand. Shadows overlaid at different angles with slightly differing shades: the enormous double shadow of the Millennium Falcon, hundreds of tiny double shadows of stubby wooden projectiles buried in a fragile metal carapace and nearby soil. Deathly silence and deadly cold.
Everywhere within sight of the Falcon, small, ground-hugging plants had rolled themselves into compact olive-colored balls in order to survive the frigid darkness. The air was dry, even cheer than the daytime atmosphere. The subtlest sparkling of frost showed here and there, on half-frozen plant-life, on the crest of miniature dunes, on the rims of a thousand footprints that surrounded the ship, even on the tortured, tangled mess of chromium cables lying in a heap just outside the Falcon's shadow.
Fluid still stained the sand for a short distance around the pitiable heap, slow and thick and gummy now, in the frozen quiet. Yet, a few inches beneath the grainy surface, there was movement.
Pseudo-organisms, shiny and metallic, mote-like, hovering at the edge of human visibility, stirred within the thickened fluid, migrated a millimeter at a time back toward the larger pseudo-organism they had tumbled from before dark. Microscopic flagella beat languidly, laboriously. Yet, centimeter by centimeter, millions of the tiny objects swam what was to them enormous distances, back to where they belonged. In their wake, the fluid became thinner, more liquid, and withdrew after them, carrying minerals and trace metals into the soil with it.
The same two moons cast double shadows several kilometers away.
Beneath a spread of glassy boughs, a figure huddled, trying to stay alive in the cold. Lando Calrissian was dying. As Vuffi Raa's life had run out into the sand, so he could feel his own life running out through his exposed skin into the frigid air, into the hungry sinister plant he was bound to.
Around him, if he'd cared to look, he might have seen the same small plants rolled up into the same small, heat-conserving spheres. He might have wished that he could do the same. But he was past all that, by now. From time to time he shivered, convulsions wracking his body, seeming to tighten the painful fibers around his waist, around his wrists, cutting off the circulation even further.
It was getting hard to think, and Lando didn't know whether the cold was causing that or the tree. It seemed important to figure it out. What had he heard about trees like this? That there was nothing free in the universe - that what the crystals gave to those who wore them, they had first taken from someone else. Were they taking from him now?
Most of all, it hurt. His naked feet felt as if they were on fire. Even in the parched air, frost was forming on their tips, on the nails. How cold does tissue have to be before frost will form on it.
Cold enough for gangrene?
Well, they weren't going to get him that easily! He nodded confirmation to himself, and only then noticed the tears that had run down his cheeks and frozen there. If he could still feel his feet - he wished he couldn't because the agony was as distracting as the cold itself - he ought to be able to feel his fingers. They were cold, too, but shielded from the air by his body, the little clothing they'd left him, and the tree.
The tree.
Its glassy trunk was like a block of ice at his back. Overhead, its strangely precise limbs showed a bit of transparency - or was it translucency? - where they crossed the moons.
He shook his head, and a pattern stopped. Dully, he tried to figure out what was missing. Had his heart stopped beating? He didn't think so. He was still breathing only now that he was conscious of it, it became an effort, an added burden to keep on doing so. He wished he could forget about it, begin breathing automatically again.
That was it! Unconsciously, he'd been doing something with his hands, his fingers. Why did the tips of his fingers hurt? Were they frozen, like his toes? They shouldn't be-but ‘shouldn't' was a funny word: he shouldn’t be there, trussed up to a tree that was eating his mind. He should be... should be... what should he be doing? Something about long corridors and beautiful women and... and... card-chips! What would he do with card-chips?
Trying to figure that one out, he didn't notice that his fingers had gone back to picking the fabric at his wrists, stripping the aged cloth one shredded fiber at a time.
Begin with a metal pentagon, approximately thirty centimeters across its longest dimension, seven or eight centimeters thick at the edges, perhaps twice that in the rounded center. In the center, a lens, deep red, the size of a man's palm. And dark. Dark where it should be glowing softly, warmly. Dark as death itself.
Back at the edges, seams. On the other side of each seam, a tubular extension, joined every centimeter or so, tapering gracefully, each joint a little closer, a little finer than the one that preceded it. Sinuous, serpentine, and very, very highly polished, reflecting a curve-distorted picture of the frozen moons and cruel stars. Tangled now, heaped up and disheveled.
And at nearly every joint, at nearly every seam, a crude stubby brown pencil, rough and splintered, hundreds of them, jutting out at every conceivable angle. Where each arrow pierced the thin, fragile metal, a tiny pool of thick, transparent fluid welled. Some of it dripped off curved shining surfaces to the sand a few centimeters below.
Travel down the graceful, violated sinuosity, tapering, tapering, slimming impossibly. Approximately a meter from the torso seam, the tentacles branch again, into five delicate tapering fingers. Usually, these are held together so the tentacle seems to have a single, well-proportioned tip, concealing a tiny red optic in each “palm,” replicas of the larger eye in the torso.
Now they are splayed, whether in haphazard array or in the agonies of death, only the mechanically sentient can tell, and they are a taciturn, unsentimental lot, for the most part, and will not say what it feels like for a machine to die. Perhaps, exactly like their creators, they don't know, will never know until they experience it themselves and can't relay the sensations to others. Perhaps it's just as large a mystery to them as it is to everybody else. Perhaps.
Each slender, dainty finger is divided into joints, precisely like the tentacles - fine, impossibly tiny joints, such as a watchmaker would create, looking through his loupe, trying to still the microscopic trembling of his hands. After a few centimeters, the fingers branch yet again - something absolutely no one ever notices. The joints continue marching, tapering, growing smaller and finer until they vanish from unaided vision - and continue.
Those sub-fingers, at their ends, are hair-fine, wire-slender...alloy strong. Their inner composition is just as sophisticated, just as complex as any other portion of the creature they belong to. Yet, unlike the pentagonal metal torso, unlike the sinuous jointed tentacles, unlike even the slender adroit fingers, they are too small to be seen, too fine to be hit with an arrow.
One of them stirs. It waves back and forth languidly a moment, living a life of its own. It coils and uncoils, testing itself. It stretches minutely, contracts minutely. It doubles back, wraps itself around the base of an intruding wooden object that had pierced the body above it. It pulls.
There is a gentle, sucking noise. Slowly the arrow surrenders, sliding out, grating through tortured metal. The hair-fine sub-finger plucks it out, casts it away. Elsewhere, other wire-like extensions perform similar tasks. And on the inside, where torn and dented metal protrudes in sharp triangular, ragged, tooth-like edges, nearly microscopic flagellated motes begin pushing, thrusting, hammering the metal skin back into place, almost a molecule at a time.
“The bantha is a shaggy beast, although it has no hair...
Its feathers are unique, at least, because they aren't there....
Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee!”
Lando began coughing uncontrollably, choking on his genius as a poet. He was disappointed. No one would ever get to hear his cleverness - although he couldn't quite remember why at the moment, whatever it was, it made him sad, and he lapsed directly fro
m laughter into sobs.
His fingers, highly trained and skillful at manipulating cardchips, coins, the entrances to other people's pockets, went right on thinking for themselves, picking at the rough-woven cloth that bound the wrists above them, threatening to cut off their circulation before they had quite finished their self-assigned task.
“Me governor of Rafa Four is fat as he can be... with fuzzy crown and stubby limbs, he looks just like a... bee? Fee? Me? Thee? ZZzee! He looks just lika thee, old man, he looks just lika thee!”
Behind Lando, between his body and the pseudoplant, a final fiber gave way. With something akin to shock, Lando jolted back to reality, momentarily, surprised that he could move his wrist, almost sorry as warmth crawled back into his right hand and the pins-and-needles began.
Vuffi Raa had problems larger than pins-and-needles. His own fingers were free, now, where the primitive arrows had pinned them to the ground and punctured them. His joints would be stiff and uncooperative for some while to come - shoot a bullet through a hinge sometime and learn why - but he was already plucking the projectiles from his tentacles.
The congealed fluid in each wound was hardened, not by cold, this time, but deliberately, by design, protecting his incredibly delicate inner mechanisms. He was through reclaiming fluid from the sand. The traces of raw materials he'd picked up that way wouldn't serve him long: he'd require refueling - something he'd only done once before in his long, long memory - perhaps even an unprecedented lubrication.
But he was alive.
Moreover, he was conscious, having the spare power, at last, to divert into consciousness. He had taken over the programmed simple-minded self-repair mechanisms, and the work was going at quadruple speed. He was beginning to feel good again, knowing that what he could do for others of his kind he could also do for himself.
The frozen desert saw the first faint glow of ruddy amber from the lens set in his pentagonal torso, a luminescence vastly dimmer and less conspicuous than the moons above - another conscious decision.
+Star Wars - [The Adventures of Lando Calrissian] - The Mindharp of Sharu Page 9