Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [133]
In a universe that was all illusion, deception was a double-edged sword. As Bohhuah Mutdah, he had nearly sunk into that flaccid degenerate’s depression, so thoroughly had he absorbed the role. Only an all-consuming passion for vengeance had helped him to maintain his true identity. Similarly, when attacked by Calrissian, the disguise that he had worn for centuries had nearly been his undoing.
He endured the pain a while longer as a lesson to himself. There was no truth, no objective reality. Yet it would serve him, as a master of deception, to keep his illusions sorted out better. He would meditate upon this lesson while waiting at the Tund System for the scheduled arrival of the Wennis, due to rendezvous with him after the passing of the Flamewind. He’d left her and her crew on Oseon 6845 and flown the fighter to 5792 to assume the role of Bohhuah Mutdah.
A pulse of raw anger nearly overwhelmed him, and he concentrated on the pain again to maintain self-control. He’d lost his pet on 5792—another debt he owed the vagabond gambler, one which he would pay with interest when the opportunity presented itself again. Correction: when he made the opportunity.
Well, enough was enough. He set his tiny ship on automatic, let the gray-swathed form he usually assumed fade. At long last he occupied the pilot’s seat in his true appearance.
The tinklewood rod dropped to the floor of the small cabin, the bloodsmears along its length vanishing before it hit. Gepta’s pain, fully as illusory as his common worldly manifestation, vanished even more quickly.
Then another rearrangement, another shift of shapes and colors. Once again the charcoal-cloaked, mysteriously masked entity appeared, clean of bloodstains, free of pain.
He cut out the autopilot, took the grips of the fighter’s controls, and punched in the overdrive.
The ship became a fading streak against a starry sky and was gone.
“There it is, Master!” an excited Vuffi Raa called.
Lando peered into the transparent canopy of the Falcon’s cockpit. The radar and proximity indicators were still nonfunctional and would remain so as long as the Flamewind raked the Oseon. He longed for an old-time primitive optical telescope. The electronic magnifier aboard the Falcon was worse than useless here.
“You’ve got a sharp eye, little friend. But keep the shields up—we don’t know whether he’s really helpless or just faking.” Lando took another puff on the crudely rolled cigarette. Someday he’d get the chance to buy some more cigars.
The Falcon swayed and dipped, matching the velocity of the tumbling fighter. Not only had the droid insisted on rescuing its occupant—if said occupant had survived the beating his craft had received—but Lando had agreed in the hope that it might answer a few nagging questions.
Exactly whom had he offended sufficiently to merit the fantastic vendetta that—he hoped—was drawing to a close this very minute? He’d certainly never won enough money from any single individual to make it understandable.
The streamers of the Flamewind and the starry background began whirling crazily as Vuffi Raa rolled the ship to match the motion of the disabled fighter. Lando took a final drag, groaned, and cranked himself out of the seat, staggering a little at the disorienting sight. The Falcon’s artificial gravity and inertia compensators were functioning perfectly, but his sight was fooling his middle ear. He squinted.
“I’ll get topside. Hold her steady, will you?”
“Be assured, Master—and be careful. I’ll join you as quickly as I can.”
“Right.”
On the way to the upper hatch, Lando reclaimed his helmet. He hadn’t had time to take off his pressure suit, which was just as well. He placed the bubble on his head, gave it the slight push downward and the fractional turn that locked it into place, and checked the telltales on his arm to