Ryll came from the Twi’lek world, Ryloth, where it was perfectly legal to mine, and was used for analgesic purposes. There were illegal applications, however, and it could be used to produce several intoxicants and hallucinogens.
Carsunum was a black spice that came from Sevarcos, and it was quite rare and very valuable. Users experienced euphoria, and an increase in their abilities—while under the influence they became stronger, faster, and more intelligent. There was a downside, of course. After the effects wore off, users frequently became listless, depressed, and some even died when the substance had a toxic effect on their metabolisms.
Sevarcos also supplied the galaxy with andris, a white powder that was added to foods to enhance flavor and preserve them. Some users claimed that the drug caused a mild euphoria and increase in sensation.
They’re not mining it here, Han thought. These factories process the raw material to turn it into the finished product.
“Factories?” Han echoed. “They’re huge …”
“Yes, and Ylesia has admirable production rates, enabling us to favorably compete with the cost of the spice shipped directly from Kessel, Ryloth, or Sevarcos,” Veratil explained. “And we are the only facility that offers such variety of spice. Buyers frequently wish to purchase several different kinds of spice for their customers, and we provide that.”
Han saw figures entering and leaving the factory buildings. Many humans, some nonhumans. He recognized Twi’leks, Rodians, Gamorreans, Devaronians, Sullustans … and there were others that were unknown to him. All the humans and bipedal aliens wore tan-colored robes that came down below their knees and tan-colored caps that covered their hair.
He gestured at the people. “Factory workers?”
The Sacredot hesitated, then said, “They are the pilgrims that have chosen to serve the Oneness, the All, in our factories.”
“Oh,” Han murmured. “I see.”
He saw a lot of things, now, more and more clearly each instant. And he had a bad feeling about what he was seeing, These pilgrims come here to attain religious sanctuary, and wind up working in spice factories. I smell a vrelt—a dead one.
The Ylesian sun was far down in the sky by now, almost to the horizon. Han noticed that throngs of tan-clad workers were streaming northeast, toward the mountains. Veratil beckoned Han with one undersized hand. “It is time for the blessed pilgrims to attend devotions and to be Exulted in the One, render their prayers to the All. Let us take the Path of Oneness to reach the Altar of Promises. Come, Pilot Draygo.”
Han obediently followed the priest up a well-worn paved path. Even though they were surrounded by pilgrims, Han noticed that no one ventured very close to them. All of the pilgrims gave Veratil deep bows, hands folded over their hearts. “They offer thanks for the Exultation they are about to receive,” Veratil explained to Han as they walked along.
As they moved away from the buildings, the jungle around them closed in, until the path they were walking on was shadowed and overhung with giant branches. Han almost felt as though he were walking in a tunnel.
They passed a huge open area that was evidently some kind of swamp, because it was completely covered in huge blooms that were so beautiful and exotic that Han had never seen anything like them. “The Flowered Plains,” Veratil, still playing tour guide, pointed out. “And this is the Forest of Faithfulness.”
Han nodded. I wonder how much more of this I can take, he thought. I hope they don’t expect me to become a convert, because they’ve got the wrong guy.
After a twenty-minute walk, the group reached a large, paved area that was fronted with a partially roofed area supported by three monstrous pillars. Veratil indicated that Han should stay with the crowd of pilgrims, then the Sacredot moved on, heading for the pillars. Han saw several of the t’landa Til assembled beneath the pillars, including one that he tentatively identified as Teroenza. They were ranged around a low altar carved from some translucent white stone that seemed to glow with an inner light.
The high, snowcapped mountains made an impressive backdrop to the scene, as they towered high above the jungle. Han craned his neck, looking up … up … the tops of the highest peaks were hidden by drifting clouds, stained red from the sunset. The snows on the western sides of the peaks glowed crimson and rose.
Impressive, Han was forced to admit. The simplicity of the natural amphitheater, with its paved floor and pillared altar, made it seem like some vast natural cathedral.
The faithful filed into ranks and stood waiting.
Han stood at the back, shifting impatiently, hoping whatever religious service was about to take place wouldn’t last long. He was hungry, his head was throbbing, and the heat was making him sleepy.
The High Priest raised his tiny arms and intoned a phrase in his native language. The Sacredots, including Veratil, echoed him. Then the assembled throng (Han estimated four or five hundred in the crowd) echoed the High Priest’s phrase. Han leaned closer to the nearest pilgrim, a Twi’lek. “What are they saying?”
“They said, ‘The One is All,’ ” the Twi’lek, who spoke excellent Basic, translated. “Would you like me to interpret the service for you?”
Since Han was determined to begin learning the t’landa Til’s language, he nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
The High Priest intoned again. Han listened to the ritual phrases repeated by the Sacredots, then droned forth by the faithful pilgrims:
“The All is One.”
“We are One. We belong to the All.”
“In service to the All, every One is Exulted.”
“We sacrifice to achieve the All. We serve the One.”
“In work and sacrifice we are All fulfilled. If every One has worked hard, we are All Exulted.”
Han stifled a yawn. This was awfully repetitious.
Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of chanting, Teroenza and all the priests stepped forward. “You have worked well,” the High Priest pronounced. “Prepare for the blessing of Exultation!”
The crowd gave forth a sound of such greedy anticipation that Han was taken aback. Moving in a great wave, as though they were truly One, they dropped to the pavement and lay there, arms and legs huddled beneath their bodies, in an attitude of breathless hope and yearning.
All of the priests raised their arms. Han watched as the loose, wrinkled skin that hung below their throats inflated with air and began to pulse. A low, throbbing hum—or was it a vibration?—gradually filled the air.
Han’s eyes widened as he felt something invade his mind and body. Part vibration, part sound? He wasn’t sure. Was it empathy, or telepathy, or did that vibration trigger something in his brain? He couldn’t tell. He only knew that it was strong …
It rolled across him in a great wave. Emotional warmth, physical pleasure, it was all of that and more. Han staggered back, off the permacrete, until he was brought up short by the trunk of one of the forest giants. He braced himself against the tree, his head swimming. He dug his fingernails into the bark, hanging on to the tree. His hands against the bark seemed to be the only thing keeping him from being swept away by that wave of warm feeling and ecstatic pleasure …
Han hung on to the tree physically, and himself mentally, refusing to let himself be sucked under with that wave. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he fought as hard as he ever had. All his life, he’d been his own person, master of his own mind and body, and nothing was going to change that. He was Han Solo, and he didn’t need aliens invading his mind or his body to make him feel good.
No! he thought. I’m a free man, not some pilgrim, not your puppet! Free, do you hear?
Gritting his teeth, Han fought that invasion as he would have fought a physical opponent, and then, as quickly as it had started, the sensation was gone—he was free.
But it was obvious the pilgrims weren’t. Their bodies writhed on the stone, and muffled moans of happiness and pleasure made a soft swell of sound.
Sickened, Han looked over
at the priests. They obviously weren’t affected as the pilgrims were. So this is why these poor dupes stay, once they find out they’re expected to work in the spice factories, Han thought, feeling a surge of bitter resentment on behalf of the pilgrims. They slave all day, then they hike up here and get a jolt of feel-good vibrations that makes even the best spice pale by comparison.
Han wondered whether he’d be expected to attend these “evening devotionals” every night, and hoped that he wouldn’t. It had been hard enough to push away that rush of warmth and pleasure tonight. He was afraid that if he had to be exposed to it every night, he wouldn’t have the strength, the resolution, to reject the Ylesian priests’ “happy pill.”
By this time, the pilgrims were beginning to get up, some of them weaving unsteadily. All of their eyes were glazed, and many looked like addicts Han had seen in spice and oobalah dens on Corellia and other worlds.
“Do they do this every night?” he muttered to the Twi’lek.
The alien’s reddish eyes were shining with joy. “Oh, yes. Wasn’t it wonderful?”
“Great,” Han said, but the Twi’lek was so enraptured he missed the sarcasm.
“Do they ever not hold these ‘devotions’?” Han asked, curious.
“They are only canceled if there has been trouble in the factories. One time a worker went mad and took a foreman hostage, then he demanded passage off-planet. Evening devotions and the Exultation were canceled—it was horrible.”
“So what happened to the mad worker?” Han asked, reflecting that the “madman” sounded completely sane to him.
“Before morning, we managed to overpower him and turn him over to the guards, thank the One,” the Twi’lek said.
Yeah, I’ll bet, Han thought. They couldn’t stand being without their little nightly charge.
The service was evidently over.
Veratil joined Han for the walk back to the central compound. Han was disinclined to talk, and truthfully pleaded fatigue. The Sacredot, saying that he understood perfectly, showed the Corellian pilot back to the infirmary.
“You may eat and sleep here tonight,” he said, “and tomorrow we will take you to your permanent quarters in our Administration Building.”
“Where’s that?” Han asked, pausing halfway through a bite of indifferent—but filling—reedox-stew.
The Sacredot waved his arm roughly northeast. “Not visible from here, but there is a path through the trees. I will meet you back here in, say, six Standard hours? Will that provide you with sufficient sleep?”
Han nodded. He could always try to snatch a nap later. “Fine.”
When the priest was gone, Han dragged off his clothes and boots, realizing that he had to get something clean to wear by tomorrow, or he wouldn’t be fit for polite society. He considered taking a shower before bed, but he was just too tired.
Han had always been able to set himself to wake up whenever he wished to, so he mentally programmed himself to wake up in five and a half hours. Then, his mind whirling with images and impressions, he lay down on the narrow infirmary bunk and was instantly asleep.
It took him a few minutes the next morning to remember just who he was (Vykk Draygo, and don’t forget it!) and what he was doing in this sticky-hot place. Han ventured into the shower and was pleased to find the refresher unit contained everything necessary for a human being.
He hummed tunelessly as he soaped himself, but when he lifted a foot to wash it, Han froze in surprise and dismay. Fuzzy, blue-green, mossy stuff was growing between his toes!
Alarmed, Han checked further and was disgusted to find patches starting in his armpits, at the back of his neck, and other, even more personal areas.
Cursing, he scrubbed the disgusting fungus away, leaving raw skin behind, and then, realizing he was running late, he bolted out of the shower. What kind of place is this, anyway?
When he walked back into the sleeping area, he found the medical droid waiting for him, with a new pilot’s uniform draped over one arm. The droid held a jar of slimy gray stuff in its other hand. “Pardon me, sir,” the droid said. “But may I ask whether you are experiencing any … outbreaks of fungus growing on your skin?”
“Yeah,” Han snarled. “The climate in this place is miserable. Nobody deserves to live in this dump.”
“I quite understand, sir,” the droid said, actually managing to sound sympathetic. “May I offer the contents of this jar? It should prevent fungal growths with regular application.”
“Thanks,” Han said shortly, and retired to treat the affected areas. The stuff smelled horrible, but it soothed the irritation. Then he got dressed, admiring himself in his first real pilot’s uniform. The colorful patches looked quite spiffy.
Han refused to let himself worry about the pilgrims he’d seen last night. Nobody had forced the weak-minded fools to come here, so he wasn’t going to waste any time imagining their fate. He was going to take care of Han Solo—or, more accurately, he was going to take care of Vykk Draygo.
Besides, Han told himself, I’m going to be piloting for these Ylesians. I’ll have access to a ship. If I decide I don’t like it, I’ll just take my money and … vanish. What can they do to stop me, after all?
Feeling cocky, Han smiled at his reflection in the mirror and gave himself a snappy salute. “Cadet Han Solo reporting for duty, sir!” he whispered, trying it on for size. His dream of the Academy had never seemed so close, so attainable.
When Han stepped out of the infirmary, the first person he saw was Teroenza. Han nodded pleasantly to his employer. “Good morning, sir!”
The High Priest inclined his massive head. “And to you, Pilot Draygo. Allow me to present someone you are going to be spending a lot of time with, during your employment with us.” The High Priest beckoned, and Han heard someone behind him. He whirled around, and couldn’t stop himself from taking a quick step back.
His first impression was of height, and the second was of sharp teeth and knifelike claws. This being stood nearly three meters tall, taller even than a Wookiee. The creature had a mouthful of needlelike fangs, and claws that looked like they could rip through durasteel. It was furred, but it wore a pair of breeches. A curved knife hung on its belt, and a holstered blaster was strapped to its thigh. Sleek muscles rippled everywhere.
The newcomer grinned, baring even more of those teeth. “Greetings …” it said, speaking Basic with a pronounced lisp.
“This is Muuurgh,” Teroenza introduced the being. “He’s a Togorian, one of the most honorable sentients in this galaxy. The Togorian reputation for honesty and loyalty is unparalleled, did you know that?”
Han looked up at the huge being and swallowed. “Uh, no …” he managed.
“We’ve assigned Muuurgh to be your … bodyguard, Pilot Draygo. On planet or off, Muuurgh will accompany you everywhere … isn’t that correct, Muuurgh?”
“Muuurgh has given word of honor,” the Togorian affirmed.
The High Priest folded his undersized arms across his massive body, and his mouth curved up in what almost appeared to be a mocking smile. “Muuurgh is going to make very sure, Pilot Draygo, that no matter where you go, or what you do … you will be … safe.”
Han stared at the huge, black-furred creature, realizing that the jig was definitely up. Teroenza’s meaning was unmistakable—step out of line, and Muuurgh will rip you in two. Han eyed the Togorian, realizing that the alien could easily do just that.
He managed to pull himself together and smiled up at the Togorian. “Pleased to meet you, Muuurgh,” he said. “It’ll be nice to have real company on those long flights.”
“Yess …” the bodyguard said, stepping closer. Han realized with dismay that the top of his head barely reached the Togorian’s breastbone. The alien appeared so feline that Han was surprised to realize he didn’t have a tail. “Muuurgh enjoys space travel …” the bodyguard said in his strongly accented, lisping Basic. His facial fur was black, but his whiskers and chest fur were white. His eyes were a sta
rtling light blue, with brilliant green slitted pupils. “Muuurgh goesss many spaceports, the more the better.”
Han had a little trouble understanding the Togorian’s Basic, but he could make it out. The young Corellian wondered just how smart this being was. Have to get to know him, Han decided. Just because he can’t speak good Basic doesn’t mean he’s dumb. But if he is …
Han smiled.
“We’d thought we’d give you a day to settle in, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza said. “Move into the quarters we’ve assigned you, in the Administration Building. Muuurgh will show you where it is. Then, tomorrow, we’d like you to begin ferrying goods and personnel back and forth between the colonies. By the time our next shipment of spice is delivered to our space station, you will be ready to ferry that down for us. After today, I am going to order Jalus Nebl, our other pilot, to take a rest. He has been working too hard.”
Han nodded. I’ve got to meet up with this Sullustan and compare notes. “That will be fine. Can I … look around a bit? I’d like to check out the lay of the land.”
Teroenza inclined his massive head. “Certainly, as long as Muuurgh accompanies you, and you follow all safety regulations while touring the factories.”
“Of course,” Han agreed.
Teroenza bowed slightly. “If you will excuse me, we are expecting a shipment of pilgrims to come down from our orbiting space station this morning. I have much to do as I prepare to welcome them.”
Han nodded, thinking about what lay ahead for those pilgrims. He knew that mining spice was considered dangerous, an extremely unpleasant duty—matter of fact, being sent to the spice mines of Kessel was a common punishment for felons—but he knew very little about what happened to the spice once it was mined.
Well, he intended to find out. Maybe there was some way he could turn this situation even more to his advantage. You never knew … and it never paid to leave stones unturned. In Han Solo’s book, knowledge frequently led to power—or at least to a faster escape …
Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare Page 8