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

by A. C. Crispin

  “No, please don’t,” she said, speaking Basic with that soft accent that placed her as being from Corellia’s southern continent. “If she sends me to the infirmary, I’ll miss the Exultation.” She shivered at the thought—though it might also have been from the cold. Han himself was beginning to feel chilly, and he hadn’t been down here for hours. How did these pilgrims stand it, working down here in the cold darkness all day?

  “But that cut looks nasty,” Han protested.

  She shrugged. “The bleeding is stopping.”

  Han could see that was true. “But what about—”

  She shook her head, halting him in midsentence. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s nothing. Happens all the time.” With a wry smile, she held out her hands. Han sucked in a breath. Her fingers, wrists, and forearms were crisscrossed with tiny slashes. Some were old and white and healed, but many were dark weals, still fresh and painful.

  Han saw small, phosphorescent spots between her fingers and realized they must be the fungus he’d discovered on himself that morning. As he watched, a phosphorescent tendril of the stuff suddenly spread, growing toward the cut between her finger and thumb. She uttered a soft exclamation and pulled it free.

  “The fungus loves fresh blood,” she said, evidently noticing his distaste. “It can infect a cut and make you sick very easily.”

  “Disgusting stuff,” Han said. “Are you sure you don’t need to get that treated?”

  She shook her head. “As you can see, it happens all the time. Excuse me, but … you’re Corellian, aren’t you?”

  “So are you,” Han said. “I’m Vykk Draygo, the new pilot. And you are?”

  Her mouth tightened slightly. “I’m … not really supposed to be talking. I’d better get back to work.”

  Muuurgh, who had been watching in silence, suddenly spoke up. “Worker is correct. Pilot must let worker return to work now.”

  “Okay, pal. I understand,” Han said to the Togorian, but then he added to the Corellian woman, “But maybe we could talk some other time. Over supper, maybe.”

  She shook her head silently and turned back to her work.

  Muuurgh motioned for Han to move on.

  The Corellian moved one step away, but continued talking. “Okay, but … you never know. We’re bound to run into each other, this place ain’t all that big. So … what’s your name?”

  She shook her head again, not speaking. Muuurgh growled, low in his throat, but Han just stood there, stubbornly.

  The woman seemed disturbed by Muuurgh’s implied threat. As she fastened a bandage over her cut, she said, “We give up our names when we leave all worldly things for the spiritual sanctuary of Ylesia.”

  Han was feeling increasingly frustrated. Here was someone who knew this place intimately, and she was the first person from his homeworld he’d discovered here. “Please,” he said as Muuurgh pushed him slightly. “There must be some kind of way they refer to you,” he said, smiling his most reassuring, charming smile. Muuurgh growled again, more loudly. He showed his fangs.

  The woman’s eyes opened wide at the display of teeth. “I am Pilgrim 921,” she said hastily. Han got the impression that she had spoken up to save him from Muuurgh’s ire.

  Muuurgh grabbed Han’s arm and began walking away, effortlessly dragging the Corellian. “Thank you, Pilgrim 921,” Han called back to her, waving jauntily, as though being half carried away by the Togorian was a normal occurrence. “Good luck with those fibers. I’ll be seeing you.”

  She didn’t respond. When Muuurgh finally let him go, at the end of the aisle, Han followed the Togorian obediently, half expecting a lecture from the giant being. But Muuurgh seemed satisfied that Han would now obey him, and had relapsed into his former wary silence.

  Han glanced back once and saw that the Corellian woman was again intent on her work, as though she’d already forgotten him.

  Pilgrim 921, he thought. I wonder if I’d even be able to recognize her … Between the goggles, the cap, and his impaired vision, he had no real idea of what she looked like, except for the fact that she was young.

  Han walked all the way around the facility, watching several other workers as they aligned threads and crystals so they were entirely symmetrical. He didn’t attempt to speak to any of them. Finally he came back to the Devaronian supervisor. “So, when they’ve finished their work, who encases the threads and crystals in the vials?” he asked.

  “That is done on the fifth floor,” the supervisor told him.

  “Maybe I’ll just head up there,” Han said. “This is fascinating, you know.”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  Okay, so they finish up the processing of the really highgrade stuff up here, Han thought as he and Muuurgh ascended into the darkness. The Togorian let out a low yowl of protest when Han only took them up one floor.

  “Take it easy, Muuurgh,” Han said. “I just want to take a quick look around here.”

  He wandered the aisles, trying unobtrusively to spot the place where the high-grade glitterstim was enclosed in the tiny black vials that all glitterstim users would recognize. When he reached that area, however, his heart sank. Four armed guards stood by the conveyor belt, watching the little vials as the workers brought their full baskets over and dumped them. Han felt an air current waft past him, realizing that there was a small heating unit down there, warming the chill, evidently for the comfort of the guards.

  Four guards? Han peered harder into the dimness. No, hold on a second. He saw a blur of movement, but couldn’t discern anything for a long second. Then, as he focused his eyes, he slowly made out oily, pebbled blackness barely visible against the black stone wall. But there were eyes in the midst of that blackness—beady reddish-orange eyes. Four of them. Han squinted, holding still, straining his vision. Then he saw two blasters, each strapped to a warty black thigh.

  Aar’aa! he realized. Skin-changers!

  The Aar’aa were an alien species from a planet on the other side of the galaxy. Denizens of Aar could gradually change color to match the color of the background behind them. This ability made them very difficult to see, especially in darkness.

  Han had heard of the Aar’aa before, but he’d never run into any until now. They were reptilian creatures, which explained why this section of the belowground factory was heated. Many reptiles became sluggish and dull-witted when it was cold.

  Han peered into the dimness, and slowly, gradually, made out the outlines of the two Aar’aa guards. They had pebbly-textured skin, clawed hands and feet, and a small frill of skin running down their backs. Their heads were large, with overhanging brow ridges, beneath which their eyes seemed doubly small. Their faces had short muzzles, and when one of the creatures opened its mouth, Han glimpsed a narrow, sticky red tongue and sharp white teeth. An upstanding frill of skin ran from between their eyes, back over the tops of their heads, to connect with the frill running down their backs.

  Despite their clumsy appearance, they seemed fast on their feet. Han decided that he didn’t want to tangle with them. Although shorter than he was, they were broad in the shoulders, and certainly outweighed him by a considerable margin.

  Han sighed. Scratch Plan A.

  The Aar’aa aside, the other guards—two Rodians, a Devaronian male, and a Twi’lek—looked mean, and obviously meant business. They weren’t Gamorreans, so there wasn’t much chance of being able to bewilder, confuse, distract, or otherwise fast-talk any of them into handing over a fortune in spice. Han grimaced and started back for Muuurgh and the turbolift. And there is no Plan B, he thought glumly. Guess I’ll just have to earn all my credits the honest way.

  It never even occurred to him that ferrying spice around the galaxy was, in itself, highly illegal …

  Pilgrim 921 nibbled on a stale grain-cake and tried to forget the young Corellian she had seen earlier. She was a pilgrim after all, part of the All, one with the One, and worldly concerns such as good-looking young men were behind her forever. She was here to
work, so that she might be Exulted and offer her prayers for the blessing of the One as part of the All—and conversations with young men named Vykk had no part in that.

  Still, she wondered what he looked like beneath those goggles. What color was his hair? His eyes? That smile of his had made warmth blossom inside her, despite the cold …

  Shaking her head, Pilgrim 921—I miss my name!—tried to exorcise the memory of Vykk Draygo’s lopsided, heart-stopping smile. She needed to pray, to offer proper devotion. She must do penance for separating herself from the One, lest she be cast out from the All.

  Still those sacrilegious thoughts kept intruding. Thoughts … memories, too. He was Corellian … and so was she.

  Pilgrim 921 thought of her homeworld, and for just an instant allowed herself to remember it, to remember her family. Were her parents still alive? Her brother?

  How long had she been here? 921 tried to remember, but the days here were all the same … work, a few morsels of unappetizing food, Exultation and prayers, then exhausted sleep. One day flowed into each other, and Ylesia had almost no seasons …

  For a moment she wondered just how long she’d been here. Months? Years? How old was she? Did she have wrinkles? Gray hair?

  921’s scarred hands flew to her forehead, her cheeks. Bones beneath flesh, prominent bones. Much more prominent than they had ever been before.

  But no wrinkles. She was not old. She might have been here months, but not years.

  How old had she been when she’d heard of Ylesia and sold all her jewelry to buy passage on a pilgrim ship? Seventeen … she’d just finished the last of her undergraduate schooling and had been looking forward to going off-world to attend the university on Coruscant. She’d been going to study … archaeology. With an emphasis on ancient art. Yes, that was it. She’d even spent a couple of summers working on a dig, learning to preserve ancient treasures.

  She’d wanted to become a museum curator.

  As a child, history had always been her favorite subject. She loved learning about the Jedi Knights, and was fascinated by their adventures. She’d grown up in the aftermath of the Clone Wars, and had been interested in that, too. And the birth of the Republic, so very, very long ago …

  921 sighed as she swallowed a bite of dusty grain-cake. Sometimes it bothered her when she realized that her memories were fading, that her intelligence seemed to be fading, along with her ability to perceive the world outside. She knew that as a pilgrim, she was supposed to eschew all worldly things, to expunge from her mind and body the appreciation of fleshly pleasures.

  In the old days, pleasure and having fun had been the focus of her life. In those days, her life had had little purpose, compared to now. In the old days, she’d drifted from place to place, subject to subject, party to party …

  And it had all been so meaningless.

  Life now had meaning. Now she was Exulted. Every night, the One conferred blessing upon her, through the priests. Exultation was the way the All communicated with the pilgrims. It was a deeply spiritual experience—and it felt so good …

  921 thought that she’d successfully managed to expunge all memory of Vykk Draygo and his smile from her mind, so she went back to work on her glitterstim pile—only to find herself wondering, minutes later, whether he’d really look for her, try to talk to her again …

  921 shivered in the ever-present dank chill and tried very hard to forget Vykk Draygo and all he stood for …

  That night, Han skipped devotionals in favor of spending time with several of the sims. This was his first opportunity to earn an “honest” living, and he didn’t want to mess up. Han knew that citizens complained about how hard they had to work, and he figured that was essential for success. It was true that begging, pickpocketing, burglary, and scamming citizens frequently required considerable time and effort, but Han knew that somehow it just wasn’t comparable.

  Heading for the sim station in his bedroom, Han began skimming through the system, accessing what was available to him. Teroenza had been as good as his promise, and the simulations were there. He scanned what was available, chose the sims he wanted to work on, and ordered the system to prepare several sequences. He was careful to specify “atmospheric turbulence” to be included in each training exercise.

  He looked up at Muuurgh, who was standing there, watching him. “I’ve got to work for a while,” he said. “Why don’t you take some time for yourself?”

  Muuurgh shook his head slowly. “Muuurgh not leave Pilot alone. Against orders.”

  “Okay.” Han shrugged. “Your choice.”

  Muuurgh watched nervously as Han put on the visihood, cutting himself off from contact with his real surroundings and plunging himself into a training flight that felt exactly like the real thing. The Togorian was uncomfortable with technology.

  Han let himself sink into the sim, and within minutes the sim had accomplished one of its primary purposes—Han quite forgot that it was a sim. He was convinced that he was really piloting—really negotiating asteroid fields at high speeds, really piloting through the Ylesian atmosphere, really landing the craft under all sorts of adverse conditions.

  The Corellian emerged from the sim two hours later, having successfully landed, flown, taken off, and performed the full range of maneuvers possible with the shuttle he’d be flying to Colony 2 and Colony 3 on the morrow. He’d also reviewed the controls on the transport vessels he’d be flying—the Ylesian Dream was being converted to manual piloting—as well as those on Teroenza’s private yacht.

  By this time, the short Ylesian day was far spent. Muuurgh was dozing on the chair, but awoke instantly when Han stretched. Han eyed the Togorian, regretting that the alien was so alert. It was going to be very difficult to do the nighttime prowling that he had in mind …

  Muuurgh walked along behind Pilot, pleased that his charge had suggested heading over to the mess hall for a late supper. The Togorian was always hungry. His people were used to hunting and killing, then sharing their kill, so fresh meat was a constant part of their diets. Here, he had to make do with raw meat that had been frozen.

  Before Pilot had come into his life, he’d been free at times to enter the jungle and hunt, so he could keep his claws—and his skills—sharpened.

  He missed his mosgoth, missed flying through the air on her back, feeling her powerful wing muscles propelling them through the skies of Togoria.

  Muuurgh sighed. The skies on Togoria were a vivid blue-green, much different from the washed-out blue-gray color of Ylesia’s skies. He missed them. Would he ever see them again, would he ever fly his mosgoth toward a crimson sunset in those vivid skies?

  The priests had made him sign a six-month contract for his services as a guard. He’d given his word of honor to fulfill that contract. It would be many ten-days before he could return to his search for Mrrov.

  Muuurgh pictured her in his mind, her cream-colored fur, her orange stripes, her vivid yellow eyes. Lovely Mrrov. She’d been part of his life for so long now that not knowing her whereabouts was like an aching wound inside him. Could she have gone back to Togoria? Was she back on their world, waiting for him?

  Muuurgh wished he could send a message to his homeworld, ask whether Mrrov had returned, but messages sent over interstellar distances were very expensive, and sending one would add nearly two months to his time here on Ylesia.

  Still … Muuurgh considered, then thought that perhaps on one of their trips to fly spice to Nal Hutta, Pilot would not mind if Muuurgh sent a message. The Togorian didn’t really trust the Ylesian priests enough to send a message from this world.

  Pilot seemed like a decent fellow, for a human, Muuurgh mused. Sly, quick, always looking for a way to get around things, but humans were frequently like that. At least Pilot had accepted Muuurgh’s dominance as pack leader. That was smart of him. He’d live much longer that way …

  Muuurgh really hoped that Pilot would continue to be smart. He liked him, and didn’t want to have to hurt him.

&
nbsp; But if Pilot tried to break the rules, Muuurgh would not hesitate to hurt—even kill—the Corellian. Teroenza had given Muuurgh specific orders, and the Togorian would carry them out to the best of his ability. He’d given his word of honor, and that was the most important thing in the universe to his people.

  The Togorian absently groomed his whiskers and facial fur, reflecting that as long as Pilot didn’t step out of line, everything was going to be just fine …

  The next day Han took the Ylesian shuttle to Colony Two and Colony Three. He discovered that he really enjoyed piloting bigger ships, and his piloting was perfect. He managed to find a few extra minutes on his return run to Colony One to practice low altitude flying, swooping the shuttle so low that the belly nearly brushed the tops of the jungle trees. Beside him in the copilot’s seat, Muuurgh alternated between exhilaration and terror as the Togorian experienced swoops, barrel rolls, and even upside-down high-speed flying. Han was in his element, putting the shuttle through maneuvers he’d only done previously during sims. The Corellian found himself whooping joyously at the sheer thrill of it all.

  For his last, best bit of precision flying, Han sent the shuttle hurtling down a river-cut canyon, skimming between the rock walls with so little room to spare that Muuurgh yowled, shut his eyes, and refused to open them. Once they were soaring through open skies again, Han had to shake the Togorian’s arm and repeatedly reassure the big alien that he was finished practicing for the day.

  “Muuurgh certain that Pilot is crazy,” the Togorian said, cautiously opening his eyes and straightening up in his seat. “Muuurgh flies on his mosgoth at home, but not like that. Mosgoths have more sense than to fly like that. Muuurgh have more sense, too. Pilot”—the Togorian gave Han a plaintive glance—“promise Muuurgh not to fly crazy again.”