The automated shuttle’s canned program indicated points of interest as they passed. Han saw museums, gigantic enclosed gallerias, office and government buildings, and finally, as they approached the heart of the city, he saw the tall, sharp spires and shallow domes of the royal palace gleaming white and gold in the sun. Han smiled wryly, wondering if the child princess he’d seen was somewhere on those grounds, living her rich, perfect life. With any luck, I’ll soon be rich, too …
Han stayed aboard the transport as it glided along its route, and he continued scoping out the city. They were out of the big buildings, now, and heading through the residential suburbs.
Han had to admit that it looked like a nice place to live, as he gazed at the many fountained plazas and courtyards, the affluent homes, clean streets, and the well-dressed people they passed. But this isn’t the area I want … I’d better do some exploring on my own. They don’t want tourists to see the places I want to go …
After the shuttle let him off, Han walked around the central part of the city, checking out the lay of the land. Instinctively, he headed for an area where the houses were smaller and not as well maintained. Finally, in a neighborhood that was definitely lower-income, and boasted more than one tavern and hock shop, he realized he’d come to the right place.
Han scanned the streets as he walked, looking for a particular type of individual. Finally, he spotted what he was looking for. A boy dressed in clothes that were borderline too small, ragged, and not very clean was sauntering along the street, glancing oh-so-casually at each passerby. Han recognized the child, though he’d never seen him before.
A pickpocket. Ten years ago, he’d been that child.
Han increased the length of his strides until he caught up with the boy. As expected, the lad shifted his weight and altered stride to brush against Han as the Corellian walked past him. Also expected were the lightning-fast fingers that delved deep into the pilot’s jacket pocket. The fingers came away empty; Han’s ID and the few credits he was carrying were sealed into the inside pocket of his coverall.
Han lengthened his strides until he was ahead of the boy, then, without warning, he spun on his heel and confronted the child. “Hey, there,” he said, smiling pleasantly and holding up the boy’s identdisk and money. “Lose something?”
The boy’s mouth dropped open in amazement, then he recovered himself and glared at Han, his black eyes smoldering.
Han leaned casually against a storefront. “Careless of you to lose these things …”
The boy swelled up like a poisoned mrelfa lizard, then launched into a furious and detailed description of Han’s ancestry, personal habits, and probable destination. Han listened patiently until the urchin began to sputter and repeat himself, then he waved for silence. “I’ll give ’em back,” he said genially, “in exchange for some information.”
The boy glared sullenly, tossing his overlong hair back out of his eyes. “What kind of information, you son of a diseased pervert?”
Han tossed one of the credit coins into the air, caught it effortlessly, without looking. “Watch your mouth, junior. I just want to know where in this town people go to make deals.”
“What kind of deals?”
“You know what kind of deals. Deals they don’t want the law to know about. Deals for substances you can’t buy legally.”
“Spice?” the boy frowned. “What kind?”
“Glitterstim.”
The boy’s brow creased even farther. “What’s that?”
Just my luck, Han thought. I run into the only dumb pickpocket in Aldera. Great.
“Glitterstim,” Han said. “It’s … well, it’s really valuable. Even more so than carsunum or andris.”
The boy shook his head again. “Never heard of them, either.”
I don’t believe this! “What about andris? You got andris here? Used to flavor food, preserve it?”
The kid nodded. “Yeah. Andris. We got that. Expensive stuff.”
“Right,” Han said. “When you buy andris, who do you buy it from?”
“I don’t buy it, creep,” the boy said. “Now gimmee back my money and ID.”
“Just a second, be patient,” Han said, holding the items up, safely out of the boy’s reach. “So, okay, you don’t buy andris personally. But if you or your friends wanted some, how would they get it? Buy it in a store? Or a government agency?”
The boy’s expression was eloquent as he shook his head. “No, man. We’d buy it from Darak Lyll.”
At last! A name! “That’s what I wanted. Darak Lyll. What’s he look like?”
“Taller than you. Long hair, beard. Fat around his middle.”
“Old or young?”
“Old. Gray hair.”
“Where’s he hang out?” Han asked.
“Do I look like his keeper?” the pickpocket demanded scornfully.
Han took a deep breath. “Just tell me the names of any places where he might go on a typical day. Don’t lie, or I’ll swear out a complaint that you tried to rob me.”
The boy named six taverns, telling Han that they were all within a five-minute walk. Han straightened up and flipped the boy his ID and money. “Next time keep it inside your clothes, junior,” he said. “Next to your skin.” He patted his own money and gave the lad a smug smile.
The lad snarled at Han and walked away, cursing.
Alderaanian taverns were much too clean and well lit, Han decided, an hour later. He’d been to three of the six so far, and none of them appeared seamy enough for his purposes. No sign of Darak Lyll, either.
At one place he’d glimpsed a man in the back slide something to another under cover of his arm, and then receive a credit disk slipped to him just as clandestinely. Han had waited until the first man had gotten up to use the refresher unit, then he’d followed him. When the man came out, Han was waiting for him in the dim hallway.
“Like a word with you, pal,” he said.
The dealer, a small, sharp-faced man who reminded Han of a ranat, eyed the Corellian suspiciously, then evidently decided Han offered no threat. “Yeah? What about?”
“You deal in spice?”
The man hesitated for a long moment. “How much you want?”
“No, pal, I’m selling, not buying. You interested?”
“What you got?”
“Glitterstim. A hundred vials.”
“Glitterstim!” The man’s voice scaled up, then he hastily lowered it and stepped closer. “Where’d you get that, son?”
“I’m not your son, and it’s none of your business where I got it. You interested?”
“On any other world than this one, better believe I’d be interested, but …” The man shook his head. “No. No channels to unload it. I’d have to try and smuggle it off-world, and that’s too risky. They’d send me to the mines on Kessel to dig out the infernal stuff. Glitterstim can be dangerous, y’know. Make you blind, if you take too much. Drives Biths mad, y’know.”
“I know all that,” Han said impatiently. “Thanks for nothing, pal.”
Scowling, he stalked out of the tavern.
He finally ran down Darak Lyll in the fifth tavern he visited. Han recognized the man from the pickpocket’s description. Lyll was playing sabacc, and when he saw Han standing there, watching the game, he cordially waved the young Corellian over. “Care to sit in for a hand?”
Han had played sabacc before, but that wasn’t what he’d come here for. He stared directly at Darak Lyll and raised his eyebrows. “All depends on what you’ll accept for a stake, Lyll.”
The man’s expression didn’t change a whit as he glanced casually up. “You got something good, Pilot?”
“Might.”
“Well, the ante is twenty credits.”
Han shook his head. “Changed my mind. Going out to get some fresh air.”
He stood outside, leaning against the alley wall, for about five minutes. When he heard someone approaching, Han said, without looking, “Took you long enough. Must
’ve been winning.”
“Idiot’s array,” Lyll said, using the sabacc player’s term for a top-notch winning hand. “So, what’ve you got?”
Han turned to look at the man. “Glitterstim. One hundred vials.”
“Whooo!” Darak Lyll whistled in amazement. “Where’d you come by that?”
“None of your business,” Han said. “Want it? Give you a good price …”
“Wish I could, young fellow, wish I could,” Lyll said, sounding regretful. “But I’d be a fool to take it. Just no market here on Alderaan.”
Han cursed under his breath and turned away. What am I going to do? he wondered. His time was definitely running out. Maybe he should hop an intercontinental shuttle to some other city. Maybe it was only Aldera that was so preternaturally clean on this world …
Han sighed. I don’t have time. I either sell that stuff in an hour, or I—
A hand fell on his shoulder. It took every bit of self-control Han possessed not to yell and bolt, he was so keyed up. Instead he just turned and glared at the middle-aged, dark-skinned man who’d fallen into step with him. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said evenly.
“I don’t think so, Vykk,” the man said. “Pilot Vykk Draygo, out of Ylesia, right?”
“So what?” Han said. “I don’t know you.”
“Marsden Latham,” the man said, flashing a holo-ID badge under Han’s nose. “Alderaanian internal security force.”
Oh, no …
“We’ve been keeping an eye on you, Pilot Draygo, ever since you limped in here this morning. We’re happy we can help you out with repairs and fix up your partner. You saw that message when you first came within frequency range of Alderaan?”
“I saw it.”
“Well, it’s meant to be taken seriously. We don’t like trouble here.” The man smiled suddenly, showing very even, very white teeth. “You wouldn’t be out to cause us any trouble, would you, Pilot?”
Han strove to keep his face impassive. They know that I’ve been trying to cut a deal … must’ve been watching me all morning … Silently, he cursed the official. Aloud, he said, “Course not, sir. I’m a peace-loving kinda guy.”
“I told my chief that, and I’m glad to have my impression confirmed. Nice talking to you, Pilot Draygo. Enjoy your stay on Alderaan.”
The man’s strides came faster and longer, then, and he walked away from Han, up the street.
The Corellian forced himself to keep walking slowly, forced himself not to glance behind him. They were there, no doubt, shadowing him. The game was over, and he was busted. Scowling, Han shook his head, half in disgust, half in admiration. Those security operatives must be good. He’d had no idea they’d been tailing him.
Obviously, the man’s “talk” had been a not-so-veiled warning to stop trying to sell his cargo. He’d have to take it back to Ylesia. There weren’t any other planets close enough to reach so he could make the sale.
He checked the time, discovered he just had time to get out to check on Muuurgh before he’d have to call back to Ylesia. Han’s strides came faster as he headed for the nearest public transport station.
The University medical facility where the Togorian had been taken was attached to the University of Alderaan campus. Han swung down from the repulsorlift public transport and stood looking around for a moment. Nice … he thought, real nice … For a moment he wondered if the Academy would look anything like this. Probably not, he concluded. It’s a military establishment. It’ll look more like a base, I’ll bet … but this … this is real classy …
Green and blue lawns stretched across the central quadrangle. Flower beds made bright splashes of color and surrounded the huge central fountain. At the center of the fountain was a massive sculpture carved from living ice of a young Alderaanian man and woman standing with linked hands, reaching for the skies. Hey, that’s got to be worth a barrel of credits, Han thought, eyeing the sculpture and realizing it must be a priceless work of art.
Definitely a classy joint, Han decided as he walked past the huge fountain and continued up the impressive white-stone stairs to the medical facility.
The info-droid at the front desk gave him the number of the Togorian’s room. Han hurried down the corridors, then, outside, paused to speak to the medical droid. “Your friend sustained a severe blow to the cranium,” the droid said. “It would probably have killed a humanoid. Fortunately, Togorians have very dense bone matter, and so he is relatively uninjured. We have been quick-healing him since he came here, and he should be ready to leave by tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks,” Han said, opening the door and going in.
Muuurgh lay curled on a large, round pallet. The Togorian was covered with tiny sensor units that reported on his condition. As Han entered, the blue eyes opened. Muuurgh raised himself partly up. “Pilot!”
“Hey, how’re you doing, pal?” Han was surprised to feel a huge wash of relief when he saw the Togorian conscious and lucid again. He hadn’t realized he’d gotten so fond of the big felinoid. “They treating you all right?”
“Pilot …” Muuurgh seemed utterly amazed to find Han here.
“You look surprised to see me,” Han said. That was a huge understatement. Muuurgh didn’t look surprised—he looked flabbergasted.
“Muuurgh is …” The big alien shook his furry head a little dizzily. “I mean, I am. I never thought I would see you again.”
Han drew himself up. “Why not? Did you think I’d just dump you here and swipe the cargo?”
“Yes,” replied Muuurgh simply.
“Well, I’m here, ain’t I? If it wasn’t for me hauling us into Alderaanian space by the skin of our noses, you’d be dead meat by now. I suggest you remember that, pal. You owe me.”
Muuurgh nodded dazedly. “Yes, Pilot … I owe you.”
Han scowled at him and sat down on the edge of the pallet. “And skip that ‘pilot’ formality. I’m Vykk from now on, okay?”
Muuurgh put out a paw, laid it gently over Han’s arm, the huge clawed fingers with their now-retracted claws dwarfing the human’s limb. “Okay, Vykk …”
After Han left Muuurgh to the tender ministrations of the medical droids, he went back to the Dream and called Ylesia. Teroenza was not available, so he asked to speak to Veratil. When the Ylesian’s horned, bloated visage appeared on the screen, Han gave him an abbreviated account of their adventures, promising to start back to Ylesia the following day. Veratil, in his turn, promised to arrange payment for the ship repairs and Muuurgh’s treatment.
When he’d finished with his call, Han found that he was hungry, so after checking his small hoard of credits, he headed over to a combination tavern and eatery on the campus of the University of Alderaan. It was set into a secluded courtyard, and a rainbow-colored fountain sent showers of crystal drops into the air before the entrance.
Han pulled the door open and went in.
The tavern was filled with fashionably dressed young people … talking, laughing, drinking, and eating. Han hesitated, feeling suddenly self-conscious, but his natural bravado came to his rescue. I’m just as good as they are, he thought defiantly, following the serving droid to a small table. Despite his brave front, the young Corellian was uncomfortably conscious of the way his sweat-stained coverall and battered jacket contrasted with the elegant, trendy garb of the students who chattered and laughed at the tables.
Once seated, Han ordered an Alderaanian ale. Studying the menu, he noticed that the place featured “nerf cubes and tubers in wine sauce” for a special. It was a little pricey, but he ordered it anyway, knowing that nerf was said to be a delicacy. The stew came with a plate of flatbread, which made him think of Pilgrim 921. Wish she were here, he thought. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to … Dipping a square of flatbread into the dish, he tasted, chewed, then smiled. This is really good! It had been a long, long time since he’d had really good food … denizens of Trader’s Luck frequently existed on space rations during their voy
ages. The only times Han had really eaten well was when he’d been playing his part in one of Garris Shrike’s scams. He remembered one barbecue he’d gone to on Corellia. Traladon ribs with special sauce …
But even barbecued traladon ribs couldn’t equal nerf, he decided. Hungrily, Han dug into his meal. When he was about halfway through, a pretty girl with long, curly chestnut hair and bright blue eyes walked up onto the tiny stage, carrying a mandoviol. Seating herself on a stool, she began to strum it, then, a moment later, her voice rang out, clear and true, in what was evidently a traditional Alderaanian ballad.
It was the usual stuff, about a girl who lost her lover to the lure of the space lanes, and how she waited but he never came home—but the singer’s voice was so pure, so unaffected, that she lent the clichéd words true emotion and dignity.
When she’d finished, Han, along with the other patrons, clapped enthusiastically. The girl sang another song, then stepped down off the stage and walked straight toward Han. For a moment he thought—hoped!—that she was coming over to sit with him, but no such luck. She slid into a seat at the next table.
Since the tavern was evidently a popular hangout, the tables were crowded close together; the girl wound up sitting within arm’s length of Han. The other person at the table was a round-faced young man a year or two older than the pilot. Probably her boyfriend, Han thought, covertly eyeing the young man. He had light brown hair and pale, hazel-green eyes. Unlike the girl, who wore a simple, ankle-length blue dress and sandals, her escort was a tribute to modern fashion.
His purple tunic was belted with a wide, orange belt that clashed with his knee-high red boots. His yellow britches clung to his legs like a second skin. Han, in his worn, gray coverall, felt like a house-warbler next to a paradise bird.
As the singer shook back her hair and smiled triumphantly, Han managed to catch her eye. He mimed clapping, and she grinned and bowed. “You were great!” he told her.
“Thank you!” she said. “That was the first time I’ve gotten up my nerve to sing in front of a crowd!” The girl was flushed, breathless, and very charming. Han smiled back at her. I wouldn’t mind spending the evening—and the night—with her …
Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare Page 13