Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare

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Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare Page 7

by A. C. Crispin


  But they were almost slow enough now to land. He braked again, lightly, and the ship bucked suddenly. I’ve lost my forward stabilizer!

  Han fought to compensate. Still too fast, but there was nothing more he could do about that. He flicked on the repulsorlifts and began to set her down, feeling the ship’s vibration through his knees and legs as he knelt on the deck.

  Hold together, baby! he thought at the Dream. Hold together—

  With a huge whooooommpppp! the forward portside repulsor shorted out. The Dream yawed wildly to port, hit the ground, then bounced upward. The starboard repulsor blew, and then its entire starboard side impacted with the ground, nearly flipping the vessel over.

  Wham! With a hideous crunch that Han could feel through his entire body, the Ylesian Dream crashed into the surface of the planet, shuddered once, and was still.

  Han was thrown violently across the cabin. His helmet impacted with the bulkhead, and he lay there, arms and legs flung wide, dazed. He fought to stay conscious. If he passed out, he’d never wake up again. Trying to pull himself up into a sitting position, Han grunted with effort. Waves of blackness threatened. He triggered his suit communications channel. “R2 … R2 … come in!”

  “Yes, sir, I am here, sir.” The droid’s mechanical tones sounded a bit shaken. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that appears to have been a most unconventional landing. I am concerned that—”

  “Shut UP and OPEN THE CARGO AIRLOCK!” Han wheezed. He managed to push himself up into a sitting position, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay up. He was swaying like a drunk in a high wind.

  “But, sir, I warned you that in the interests of security, all entrances would be sealed pending—”

  Han found the blaster he’d stuck into the outside pocket on his suit and, drawing it, leveled the weapon at R2. “R2, YOU OPEN THAT AIRLOCK NOW, OR I’LL BLAST YOUR METAL HIDE INTO ATOMS!”

  The droid’s lights flashed frantically. Han’s finger tightened on the trigger as he wondered whether he’d have the strength to crawl to the airlock. Blackness hovered at the edges of his vision.

  “Yes, sir,” the R2 said. “I am doing as you request.”

  Moments later Han felt the concussion as air whoomped into the Dream with near-explosive force. Gasping, he counted to twenty, then, with the last of his remaining strength, wrenched off his helmet. He let himself sink back down onto the deck.

  He gasped, found he could breathe, and gulped huge lungfuls of fresh air. Warm air, humid air, air laden with smells he couldn’t identify. But it was rich with oxygen, eminently breathable, and that was all he cared about at the moment.

  Closing his eyes, Han concentrated on simply breathing, and felt exhaustion overwhelm him. His head throbbed, and he needed just a moment to rest. Just a moment …

  When Han swam back up to full consciousness and opened his eyes, he found he was staring into a face out of a nightmare. That is the ugliest critter I’ve ever seen! was his first thought. Only years of experience in dealing with nonhumans of all varieties made him able to control his initial reaction.

  The face was broad, with two bulbous, protruding eyes, and covered with leathery grayish-tan skin. No visible ears, and only slits for nostrils. Above the nostril slits was a large, blunt horn that was nearly as long as Han’s forearm. The mouth was a wide, lipless split in the huge head.

  Han shook his own pounding head and managed to sit up, noting from his surroundings that he appeared to be in some type of infirmary. A medical droid hovered across the room, lights flashing.

  His host (if that was who the creature was) was big, Han realized. Much bigger even than a Wookiee. It somewhat resembled a Berrite, in that it walked on four tree-trunklike legs, but it was far larger. This creature’s head was appended to a short, humped neck that was attached to a massive body. Han figured its back would reach his shoulders when he was standing up. The leathery skin covering its body hung in creases, wrinkles, and loose folds, especially on its short, almost nonexistent neck. The skin shone with an oily gleam.

  The four short legs ended in huge, padded feet. A long, whippy tail was carried curled over its back. For a moment Han wondered if the creature had any manipulatory limbs, but then he noticed two undersized arms that were folded against its chest, half-hidden by the loose folds of neck skin. The being’s hands were delicate, almost feminine, with four long, supple fingers on each hand.

  The being opened its mouth and spoke in accented, but understandable Basic. “Greetings, Mr. Draygo. Allow me to welcome you to Ylesia. Are you a pilgrim?”

  “But I’m not …” Han muttered, his head spinning. For a moment the name didn’t connect, then things snapped into place. Of course. He clamped his mouth shut, thinking that maybe he’d gotten a worse knock on the head than he’d realized. Vykk Draygo was the alias whose ID he’d currently been carrying.

  Han had several alter egos, with proper documentation to back them up. Ironically, he had nothing by way of ID under his true name.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, holding his hand to his head, hoping his slip would be excused as a result of his head injury “I’m still kind of shaken up, I guess. No, I’m not a pilgrim I came here to answer a job advertisement for someone—preferably a Corellian—to do the piloting here.”

  “I see. But how did you happen to be aboard our ship when it crashed?” the creature inquired.

  “I wanted to reach Ylesia as quickly as possible, so I tool the opportunity to stow away on the Ylesian Dream,” Han said. “I’d have had to wait a week for a commercial flight and the ad said a pilot was urgently needed. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, we did,” the being said. Han watched it intently wishing he could read its expression. “We were expecting you—but not in the Ylesian Dream.”

  “See, I brought the ad with me.” Han reached for his jumpsuit that was hanging over a chair beside the bed and extracted the holo-cube that featured the Ylesian advertisement he’d replied to. “It says you need someone to star right away.”

  He handed the cube over. “So … Vykk Draygo here and I’m applying for this job. I’m Corellian, and I fit al your qualifications. I just … well, I wanted to say that I’m sorry about crashing the Dream. Your ship’s a different model than any I ever piloted, but a couple of hours on a simulator will fix that. And I’m afraid that your atmospheric currents came as a surprise.”

  The being scanned the cube, then placed it on the table The corners of the massive, lipless mouth turned upward slightly. “I see. Mr. Draygo, I am the Most Exalted High Priest of Ylesia, Teroenza. Welcome to our colony. I am impressed at your initiative, young human. Traveling aboard a robot ship in order to answer our ad so quickly speaks well for you.”

  Han frowned, wishing his head didn’t hurt quite so much. “Well … thanks.”

  “I am impressed that you managed to control and land a robot craft. Few human pilots have been able to react quickly enough to deal with this world’s challenging weather patterns. The damage to our ship is not serious, and repairs are already under way. You landed on soft ground, which was fortunate.”

  “Does that mean I get the job?” Han asked eagerly. Great! They’re not mad!

  “Would you be willing to sign a year’s contract?” Teroenza asked.

  “Maybe,” Han said, leaning back and relaxing, hands behind his head. “How much?”

  The High Priest named a sum that made Han smile inwardly. Even though it was more money than he’d hoped for, he was too much of a trader not to automatically bargain.

  “Well, I dunno …” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I made more than that in my previous position …”

  A lie, but not one they’d be able to disprove. Vykk Draygo had indeed made more than that—Han had paid well to make sure his alter ego’s job record showed that he could command the highest wages. It had taken all of Han’s savings, plus the proceeds from two dangerous heists that Garris Shrike hadn’t known anything about, to finance those
alterations in his alter ego’s job record—but Han had wanted Vykk Draygo to be able to command a high salary.

  Teroenza pondered that information, then said, “Very well, I can offer you thirty thousand for the year, with a bonus of ten at the end of the first six months, providing you make every assigned flight on schedule.”

  “Bonus of fifteen,” Han said automatically. “And you provide the training sims.”

  “Twelve,” countered Teroenza. “And you pay for the sims.”

  “Thirteen,” Han said. “You supply the sims.”

  “Twelve and a half, and we provide the sims,” the High Priest said. “Final offer.”

  “Okay,” Han said, “you got yourself a pilot.”

  “Excellent!” Teroenza actually chuckled, a deep, booming, oddly melodious sound.

  Quickly the contracts were produced, and Han signed them, then allowed a retinal scan as proof of his identity. Hope they’re like everyone else, he thought, and just do a general, system-wide check of my retinal patterns. If the priests ordered a comprehensive—and very expensive—all-systems search to determine whether “Vykk Draygo’s” retinal scan was unique, they’d eventually discover that it wasn’t. Vykk Draygo, Jenos Idanian, Tallus Bryne, Janil Andrus, and Keil d’Tana all shared the exact same retinal patterns—which wasn’t surprising, as all of those individuals were, in fact, Han Solo.

  Before Han left Trader’s Luck, he’d taken the precaution of stashing a small hoard of credits and complete ID sets in two lockboxes on Corellia, in case he ever needed a quick change of identity. Garris Shrike had provided the boy with different sets of ID for each scam Han participated in, and Han had kept each set and updated them as necessary.

  The Corellian knew, however, that none of his forged IDs would stand up to Imperial scanners. Before he’d be able to take the Academy entrance exams, Han was well aware that he’d have to pay out a small fortune in bribes on Coruscant to gain ID documentation so genuine that it would pass an Imperial security clearance check.

  With all of the business details taken care of, Teroenza then summoned an Under-Priest, or Sacredot, as they were called, and instructed him to take Han on a tour of the complex. Han was left in private to resume his jumpsuit, after being assured that clothing bearing the Ylesian symbol—a huge, wide-open eye and mouth—would be furnished to him.

  As he donned the clothes and his boots, he realized that he was sweating heavily. Hot and humid, he thought. Wonderful climate. But for the money the priests were paying, he was willing to put up with a year’s discomfort. By taking this job, he’d get lots of practice flying big ships and access to training sims. That ought to ensure that he could pass the entrance exams to enter the Academy.

  The money would mean that he had the proper amount for bribes to make sure his application was processed quickly and actually reached the admissions officers. He knew from his research that without bribes it frequently took a month or more for a cadet candidate to apply, pass all relevant exams, be interviewed, and finally accepted for entrance into the Imperial Academy.

  The Sacredot arrived and introduced himself as “Veratil.” Han followed him down a corridor, past a large amphitheater, and what appeared to be a registration area. “Our Welcome Center,” the priest explained. Veratil led him outside. Han stepped through the door, and even before he could draw a deep breath, he was immediately bathed in sweat. Steaming heat and humidity smote him in the face, almost like a physical blow. The air was rich with smells—heavy perfume from flowers, rotting vegetation—and another odor, one he’d smelled before but couldn’t quite identify.

  Han stood at the top of the short ramp that led down from the building and looked up at the sky, seeing that it was a translucent blue-gray. The sun overhead was an orangey-red, and looked larger than he was used to. This star must be closer to its planet than Corel was to Corellia. Han glanced at the shadows, seeing it was far past noon, and then glanced at his wrist-chrono. “How long is the day here?” he asked Veratil.

  “Ten Standard hours, sir,” the Sacredot replied.

  No wonder the weather is so stormy, Han thought. We’ve got a hot, wet world with a really rapid rotation.

  Han looked out across the cleared area. The permacrete ended abruptly, giving way to the natural ground and vegetation. Pools of water attested to recent torrential rain. Reddish mud made an arresting contrast to lush, blue-green vegetation. The flowers hanging from the vines and trees in the encroaching jungle were huge and multicolored—scarlet, deep purple, and vivid yellow.

  “This is Colony One,” Veratil explained. “We have also established two new colonies for our pilgrims. Two years ago we founded Colony Two, and last winter we built Colony Three, which is still very small. Colony Two lies about one hundred fifty kilometers north, and Colony Three about seventy kilometers south of here.”

  “How long has Colony One been here?” Han asked.

  “Nearly five Standard years.”

  Han looked out across Colony One. Directly across from the Welcome Center lay the landing pad. A little freighter lay there, listing on her repulsors. That must be the Dream, Han thought, realizing he’d never seen the ship from the outside.

  The Ylesian Dream was a small vessel, shaped like a fat, somewhat irregular teardrop. On her underside was a bulge where there was a gun well, proving that the ship hadn’t always been a robot freighter. Another, larger bulge denoted the location of the primary cargo hold. She was a graceful ship, small enough to be agile. Corellian-built, almost certainly.

  Han could see massive shipdock droids working on the Dream, beginning to repair her repulsors. The ship, droids, and everything nearby was splashed with reddish mud from the crash landing.

  Off to the northeast, high above even the jungle giant trees, Han could make out a glimpse of snowcapped heights. He pointed. “What mountains are those?”

  “The Mountains of the Exalted,” Veratil told him. “The Altar of Promises where the faithful gather each night to be Exulted lies before them. You shall see it tonight, when you attend devotions.”

  Oh, great, Han thought. Do I have to attend services, too? Then he remembered how much the Ylesians were paying him. Han nodded. “I’ll bet it’s something to see.”

  To the pilot’s left, he could make out a large expanse of the reddish mud. Several beings of Teroenza’s and Veratil’s race lolled in mudholes, tended by droids and servants of assorted species. Han recognized a couple of Rodians, several Gamorreans, and at least one human. “Those are the mudflats,” Veratil said, waving a dainty hand at the mudbathers and their attendants. “My people relish our mudbaths.”

  “What are your people?” Han asked. “Are you native to Ylesia?”

  “No, we are native—or as native as our distant cousins, the Hutts—to Nal Hutta,” Veratil replied. “We are the t’landa Til.”

  Han resolved to learn the t’landa Til’s language as soon as he could. Knowing a language that people didn’t know you knew could often prove an asset …

  The Sacredot led Han around to the rear of the Welcome Center. Han’s eyes widened as he took in the huge cleared area before him. Clearing that much jungle must have been quite a chore. The cleared area was roughly rectangular, and at least a kilometer on each side. The mountains were now behind and to his left, and he could see, on his extreme right, the blue-gray glitter of water. “Lake?” he asked, indicating it.

  “No, that is Zoma Gawanga, the Western Ocean,” Veratil informed him.

  Han counted the huge buildings that lay before the mudflats. There were nine of them. Five were three stories high, the other four were only one story. Each was easily the size of a Corellian city block. “Homes for the pilgrims?” he asked, waving at the buildings.

  “No, the dormitory for our pilgrims is over there,” Veratil said. The priest waved at a massive two-story building on the far left. “The multistory buildings are where we process ryll, andris, and carsunum. The single-story buildings you see extend far underground, a neces
sity for processing glitterstim, which must be handled in complete darkness.”

  Andris, ryll, carsunum, and glitterstim … Han’s nostrils flared. Of course, that explains the odor! These are factories for processing spice! He remembered that the Ylesian Dream had originally carried a cargo of high-grade glitterstim, the most expensive and exotic variety of spice. The other types were usually cheaper—though they were still one of the most profitable cargoes a smuggler could take on.

  “We receive shipments of raw materials from worlds such as Kessel, Ryloth, and Nal Hutta several times a month,” Veratil went on. “In the beginning, the robot freighters which supplied us landed here at Colony One, but that practice soon had to be discontinued.”

  “Why?” Han asked, wondering if he really wanted to know.

  “Two ships—most unfortunately—could not negotiate our tricky atmosphere, and crashed. So we built a space station and decided to use living pilots to ferry the raw spice material down to the factories. We used to have three pilots, but now we are down to one, and the unfortunate Sullustan who is currently serving as our pilot has been … ill. That is why we need you, Pilot Draygo.”

  It’s so nice to be needed, Han thought sarcastically. “Uh … Veratil … what happened to those other guys?”

  “One crashed, the other simply … disappeared. We have also lost a number of robot vessels, which has cut down on our profit margin most grievously,” Veratil said sadly. “Spice is a high-credit export, but spaceships are very expensive.”

  “Yeah,” Han agreed sourly. “All those crashes would tend to put a crimp in your business.” No wonder they didn’t have pilots beating down their doors, he thought. Most of the experienced pilots have probably spread the word about how dangerous this planet is for pilots …

  Han knew a little bit about the various kinds of spice, mostly from hearing Shrike and the other smugglers discuss their properties.

  Glitterstim, mined on Kessel, was by far the most valuable. When exposed to light, then quickly ingested, it gave the user a temporary telepathic ability to sense surface thoughts and emotions. Spies used it, lovers used it, and the Empire used it when interrogating prisoners. Matter of fact, the Empire claimed all the glitterstim mined on Kessel as its rightful property, which was why it was so rare and so lucrative to smuggle.

 

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