Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (13 page)

Few looked up as Han and Muuurgh went up to the level supervisor, a furred Devaronian female, and identified themselves. The supervisor waved a reddish, sharp-nailed hand at the floor. “My workers are the most skilled,” she said proudly. “It takes skill to measure and trim the number of fibrous strands so each dose will contain the correct amount of spice. It is essential—but very difficult—to line up the fibers so precisely that they will all activate at the same moment when exposed to visible light.”

“Is it a mineral?” Han asked. “I know it’s mined.”

“It is naturally occurring, but we don’t know how it’s formed, Pilot. We believe it may have a biological origin, but we’re not sure. It’s found deep in the tunnels on Kessel, and it must be mined in total darkness, just as you see here.”

“And the strands have gotta be put into these casings just right.”

“Correct. Improper alignment can cause the tiny crystals to fracture against each other. If that happens, they grind each other into a far less potent—and valuable—powder. It can take a skilled worker an hour to properly align just one or two cylinders of glitterstim.”

“I see,” Han said, fascinated. “Do you mind if we just wander around? I promise we won’t touch anything.”

“You may. However, please avoid distracting any of the workers while they are aligning the spice. One inadvertent twist, as I said, could ruin an entire thread.”

“I understand,” Han said.

The raw glitterstim threads were all black, but Han knew from hearing about it that they would shine blue when they ignited in visible light. Han stopped behind one of the human workers and watched in fascination as the worker separated out threads of ebony-colored spice, aligning them with the utmost care. The threads curled around the worker’s fingers, some of them as fine-spun as silk, but the tiny crystals made them incredibly sharp.

The worker positioned one group of incredibly tangled threads in the jaws of a tiny vise, then proceeded to painstakingly separate out the threads, until the crystalline structures were aligned. The worker’s fingers moved almost too fast to watch, and Han realized that he was watching a highly skilled craftsman—no,
woman
. He was amazed that these pilgrims could actually accomplish something requiring this much dexterity. After seeing them last night following the “Exultation,” he’d more or less assumed that they were dull-witted cretins. They’d certainly
looked
like it …

The glitterstim worker took out a minuscule set of pliers to untangle a particularly bad snarl. She wormed the narrow-nosed pliers into the tangle, peering intently to find the place where the sharp little crystals were caught together. The fibrous glitterstim curled around her hands like tiny, living tentacles, the sharp little crystal glimmering. The worker abruptly brought her hand back, tugging, and suddenly the snarl straightened out until all the fibers aligned perfectly.

Except one.

Han watched in distress as one sharp-studded strand cut between the woman’s forefinger and thumb. A thin line of blood welled from the deep gash. Han sucked in a breath. A few centimeters deeper, and the tendon in her thumb would have been severed. She hissed with pain, then muttered
something in Basic and, freeing her hand, held it to stop the bleeding. Han froze as he heard her accent. This pilgrim was Corellian!

He hadn’t even looked at her before, hidden as she was by the shapeless tan robe, her cap pulled down tightly over her goggled head. But now he realized she was young, not old. She grimaced slightly as she examined the cut. Turning her hand over, she twisted in her seat and held her hand over the floor, so the blood wouldn’t drip onto her workstation.

Han knew he wasn’t supposed to speak to the worker, but she wasn’t working at the moment, and he was concerned. She was bleeding profusely. “You’re hurt,” he said. “Let me call the supervisor so she can fix you up.”

The girl—she was his age, possibly younger—started slightly, then looked up at him. Her face was a whitish-green blur beneath her goggles and cap, and seemed deathly pale in the infrared light.
No wonder
, Han thought,
cooped up down here all day long, no exposure to sunlight
.

“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.