Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (14 page)

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.

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 …

T
he 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.”

“But, Muuurgh,” Han said, carefully setting them down on the landing field at Colony One, “I’ve got to practice every chance I get! You see …” he hesitated, then decided to trust Muuurgh with part of the truth, “I sort of stretched the facts a little when I told Teroenza about my flying experience. I really am a champion pilot, that’s the truth, but … I
need
to practice with this shuttle. And with the bigger ships. Sims are fine, but they can’t beat the real thing.”

Muuurgh gave Han a long level look, then nodded. “Muuurgh understands. Pilot trusts Muuurgh not to say this to Teroenza?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Han said. “Can I? Trust you, I mean?”

The Togorian groomed his white whiskers thoughtfully. “As long as Pilot does not crash, Muuurgh does not talk.”

“Fair enough, pal,” Han said with a grin.

When he and Muuurgh came down the ramp from the ship, Veratil was there waiting for them in the pouring rain. By this time Han was growing used to the daily downpours, though the steamy heat still exhausted him. “The High Priest wishes to see you at once, Pilot Draygo,” Veratil said.

The Sacredot led the Corellian and his bodyguard to the High Priest’s personal quarters, which occupied a large part of the underground level of the Administration Center. When Veratil keyed in the security bypass codes and they walked through the huge double doors into the High
Priest’s personal sanctum, Han couldn’t repress a low whistle of amazement. “Nice place!”

“This is the High Priest’s display room,” Veratil said. “He is an avid collector, and very proud of his collection of rarities.”

“He deserves to be,” Han said sincerely.

The room was easily ten times the size of Han’s little apartment on the first floor. Display tables, shelves, and racks showcased treasures and antiquities from around the galaxy. Sculpture from a dozen worlds, paintings, and other art objects were scattered amid ornate antique weapons. Tapestries hung from the walls. Rugs of exquisite beauty were covered by protective force fields that felt squishy underfoot as Han walked on them.

Semiprecious gems adorned the collection of pipes and other musical instruments. Bottles of the rarest liquors in the entire galaxy were suspended in a gold-embossed rack.

Han’s fingers literally
itched
for the whole time it took him to traverse the display room.
If I could have five minutes alone in here, I’d be set for life!
he thought wistfully as he slowed down to peer at a
drreelb
carved from living ice. The tiny statue was covered with a layer of dust, which was disturbed by Han’s breath. It wafted up into the air, and the pilot sneezed thunderously.

Dust or no dust, this place is worth several fortunes. If only …

Sternly, Han reminded himself that he had turned over a new leaf, and was an honest, hardworking citizen these days.

Veratil led them through another security door into the High Priest’s personal living quarters. The visitors were ushered into the room by an ancient Zisian majordomo, whom Teroenza addressed as “Ganar Tos.” The Zisian was humanoid, but he had wrinkly green skin that hung in flaccid wattles from his receding chinline. His orange eyes were rheumy, and he snuffled constantly, as though he had a sinus infection.
Probably allergic to all that dust
, Han thought.

The High Priest waved Han and Muuurgh to seats and
addressed them. “So good of you to come, Pilot Draygo. I hear good things about your piloting from Colony Two and Three. Today our medical droid placed our other pilot, Jalus Nebl, on indefinite sick leave, so you will be taking his place on interstellar flights from now on.”

Han nodded, trying not to betray his excitement. “Fine, sir. I’ll keep on schedule. When do I go?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Teroenza said. “Muuurgh will, of course, accompany you.”

“What’s the cargo and destination, sir?” Han asked.

“You will rendezvous with a ship from Nal Hutta at coordinates we will provide you with at the last minute. Security is vital, as I’m sure you can understand. You know that we have had trouble with pirates in the past.” Teroenza accepted a small, limp creature from a tray the majordomo held out to him and paused to gulp it. “Have you trained Muuurgh as a gunner, Pilot?”

“Uh, no, not yet, sir.”

“See that you do. A good pilot is prepared for all eventualities, correct?”

“Yessir,” Han said. “I’ll see to it. Uh, sir? What’s the cargo?”

“You’ll be carrying a load of processed carsunum, and picking up a load of raw ryll transshipped from Ryloth.”

“But the ship I’m meeting is from Nal Hutta?”

“Yes.” Teroenza did not expand upon this, so Han dropped the subject, resolving to keep his ears open. He sensed that there was more that the High Priest wasn’t telling him, but he was hardly in a position to demand to know all the ins and outs.

Teroenza sat back on his massive haunches, small arms waving at the portal through which Muuurgh and Han had entered. “I gather you liked my display room?”