Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (21 page)

Teroenza listened intently, then the High Priest sat back on his haunches, mud squishing up around him. “I had no idea any of our pilgrims had such training. Perhaps I will interview this one. What is her designation?”

“She’s Pilgrim 921, sir.”

“And where does she work?”

“In the glitterstim factory, sir.”

“How long has she been here on Ylesia?”

“Almost a year, sir.”

Teroenza turned to Veratil, and the two priests began talking in their own language.

I gotta learn their lingo for myself
, Han thought. He’d found a language program to teach elementary Huttese, and been studying that for the past month. But he’d been unable to locate any translation guides or programs for learning the t’landa Til language. He strained his ears, hoping to be able to decipher what the priests were saying, but t’landa Til was apparently sufficiently different from Huttese to make it impossible for him to understand anything.

Turning back to Han, Veratil said, “This Pilgrim 921 … would you say she’s attractive, as your species measures attractiveness? For example, do you find her appealing as a potential sexual partner?”

Deep in the mud, Han crossed his fingers. “921? Oh, nossir, she’s … well, to be frank, sir, she’s so ugly that if I had a pet with a face that homely, I’d make it walk backward.”

When they heard Han’s words, both priests guffawed and slapped their arms across their chests, which was apparently their species’ way of paying tribute to a witty turn of phrase.

“Very good, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza boomed. “You are indeed a sharp fellow, and I shall investigate this young woman.” He sloshed around a bit, letting the mud slop up around his huge flanks. “Ahhhhhhh …” he sighed with pleasure.

“So, Veratil.” Han squirmed around in the mud until he was facing the Sacredot. “I’ve got something I’m curious about. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Not at all,” the younger priest said.

“How do you guys do that thing you do with the pilgrims each night at the devotion? What they call the Exultation? It sure packs a wallop, whatever it is.”

“The Exultation?” Veratil chuckled, a low, booming sound. “That moment of rapture the pilgrims regard as a Divine Gift?”

“Right,” Han said. “I’ve never been able to experience it,” he admitted.
Because I’ve fought it as hard as I can
, he added silently.
Because the last thing I want is some critter as ugly as you giving me jolts in my pleasure neurons …

“That is because you are a strong-minded individual, Pilot Draygo,” Veratil said. “Our pilgrims come to us because they are
not
strong-minded, they are weak, and looking for guidance. And their diets are designed to make them even more … malleable.”

Teroenza spoke up, “The Exultation is a refinement of a ability we males of the t’landa Til use to attract the females of our species during mating season. We create a frequency resonance within the recipient’s brain that stimulates the pleasure centers. The humming vibration is produced by air flowing over the cilia in our neck pouches when we inflate them. Our females find it irresistible.”

“We males also have a low-grade empathic projection ability,” Veratil said. “By concentrating on feeling good, we can project those feelings at the crowd of pilgrims. Both effects, taken together, produce the Exultation.”

“Neat trick!” Han said admiringly. “Is it difficult?”

“Not at all,” Teroenza said. “What we find difficult is having to lead the pilgrims in those endless services and prayers. At times, I’ve been so bored that I nearly fell asleep, waiting for my turn to lead the devotions.”

“Last year, one of the Sacredots
did
fall asleep,” Veratil said, booming with his species’s version of laughter. “Palazidar fell right over. The pilgrims were
most
upset.”

Both priests enjoyed the memory. Han laughed, too, but inside he was simmering with anger, thinking of the pilgrims staggering down the path, religious faith and devotion shining in their eyes.
This place makes any of Garris Shrike’s scams look like nothing
, he thought disgustedly.
Someone should shut these greedy vermin down …

For a moment he wished he could be the one to do it. Then Han reminded himself that sticking one’s neck out for others was a good way to get one’s head and shoulders permanently separated.
So why are you doing all this for Bria?
his treacherous mind asked sarcastically.

Because
, his heart answered,
Bria’s safety has become as important to me as my own. I can’t help it, it’s just the way things are …

Now that he’d accomplished what he’d come here to do, Han began to think about how to gracefully (metaphorically speaking) extract himself from the mud and the company of the priests.

He was rescued by the arrival of a Hutt, who came gliding over the mudflat on his repulsorlift sled. A small squad of guards trotted vigorously alongside, panting in the humid heat as they struggled to keep up.

“Zavval!” Teroenza hailed his Hutt overlord, standing respectfully. Feeling like a fool, Han did likewise.

This was the Corellian’s first close-up encounter with a Hutt, and he tried not to stare at the creature’s huge, recumbent form, the enormous, pouchy eyes amid the leathery tan skin, and the green slime that oozed from the corners of the being’s mouth.
Ugh … they’re even uglier than Teroenza and his crew
, Han thought. He reminded himself that Hutts had been civilized for probably longer
than his own species—but he still couldn’t quite eliminate the revulsion their appearance caused.

Or maybe it was just the knowledge that it was the Hutts who’d dreamed up the idea of running a religion on Ylesia as a cheap way to enslave innocent sapients that repulsed him.

The Hutt leaned toward Teroenza and said in Huttese, “I’ve received a message from home. Jabba and Jiliac deny everything, and we have no proof. The clan council has refused to …” Han couldn’t catch the word, “so we have no other way to …” and he finished with a phrase that Han couldn’t translate.

“Regrettable,” replied Teroenza in Huttese. “What about my requisition for more troops, armament, and shielding for our ships, Your Excellency?”

“Approved,” Zavval said. “Should be arriving any day.”

“Good.”

Teroenza continued, in Basic, “Zavval, I would like you to meet our brave pilot, Vykk Draygo, who saved our shipment of glitterstim.”

The huge Hutt chuckled, a “heh, heh, heh” sound that was so deep and resonant that Han could feel it as well as hear it. “Greetings, Pilot Draygo. You have our lasting gratitude.”

“Thank you, sir …”

Teroenza waved an undersized arm. “The correct form of address is ‘Your Excellency,’ Pilot Draygo.”

“Okay, then. Thank you, Your Excellency. I’m honored to be able to serve you.”

The Hutt chuckled again, and said to Teroenza in Huttese, “A most polite and perceptive young man—for a human. Have you arranged for a bonus? We want to keep him happy.”

“Yes, I have, Your Excellency,” Teroenza replied.

Han, of course, did not let on that he’d understood any of the exchanges in Huttese.

“Good, good,” Zavval said.

Han stood watching as the alien turned his repulsorlift sled and glided away. Teroenza and Veratil began slogging
their way out of the mud with grunts of effort. The High Priest addressed Han in Basic. “His Excellency is pleased with your performance, Pilot. Has the factory foreman informed you as to when the next shipment will be ready for transport?”

Han, too, was squishing his way toward the bank. “He said at the end of the week, sir. In the meantime, there are two shipments of pilgrims due in at the space station, one tomorrow, one the day after.”

“Good. We don’t want to be shorthanded in the factories.”

Once back on the bank, Han scooped up his clothes, then turned east and gestured in the direction of the ocean, a kilometer away. “I think I’ll walk over and rinse off,” he said, “before I get dressed.”

“Ah, yes,” said Veratil, “we use the mud as a cleansing agent, but it does not cling to our skins the way it appears to cling to yours. Once dry, all we need to do is shake”—he gave a pronounced shudder, and dust rose in clouds—“and it all flakes away, as you can see.”

“Yes, I see that,” Han said. “But I’ll have to use water to rinse.”

“Be careful not to go too far into the ocean, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza cautioned. “Some of the denizens of the Ylesian oceans are quite large, and very hungry.”

“Yessir,” Han said.

Holding his clothes and boots away from his red, mud-covered body, Han began picking his way barefoot toward the ocean. He couldn’t see it yet, because of a ridge of sand dunes, but he could smell the warm, brackish water.

When he reached it a short time later, he cautiously ventured out, knee-deep, and then squatted down to let the pounding surf sluice over him. Again and again the waves washed over the Corellian, rinsing away all trace of the red muck.

Then Han went over to the sandy shore, found a smooth patch, and stretched out to dry. He felt the dim Ylesian sun beating down on him, drying him, leaving his hair salt-stiffened
and tousled.
But anything’s better than that mud
, he thought drowsily.

He was almost asleep when Han jerked awake, remembering something he’d forgotten. He got to his feet, walked over to his clothes, then fumbled with his belt pouch. Looking carefully around before he did so, he withdrew the tiny audio-log recording device he’d “borrowed” from the
Ylesian Dream
and, seeing that it was still running, turned it off with a decisive
snap
.

Satisfied that he’d successfully recorded the entire exchange between himself and the Ylesian priests, Han walked back to his spot, lay down on the warm sand, and took a well-deserved nap.

H
an flew many missions for the Ylesians during the next three months. Several times he was able, with Muuurgh’s complicity, to make small “side runs” to hone his piloting skills and to allow Muuurgh to practice with the weaponry. Han successfully landed vessels on airless moons, on ice moons, even on a small asteroid, barely bigger than his ship. He learned to dock with a space station, matching airlocks perfectly on the first try.

As a result of Han’s run-in with the “pirates,” the Ylesian Hutts increased the weaponry and equipped their ships with better shielding. They also tightened the security surrounding the dates and locations of their shipments, and refused to agree to any more off-planet rendezvous points. Instead, Han was ordered to fly his cargo to a planet and exchange the processed spice for the raw materials planet-side.
In a populated area, there was less chance of a double cross that might lead to an ambush.

Teroenza made it clear to Muuurgh that Vykk Draygo had passed muster as a trustworthy employee, so Muuurgh no longer felt compelled to spend every waking moment with the Corellian. The big Togorian was still bound by his promise to guard the pilot, however, and Muuurgh never forgot that.

True to his promise, Teroenza interviewed Bria and gave the Corellian woman the job of maintaining and cataloging his collection. Han was able to see her every day he was on Ylesia. Once she began getting better food in the mess hall, and healthy exposure to fresh air and sunlight, that pale, wan, too-thin look vanished, and her eyes grew bright, her step lighter, and her smile came more readily.

She liked her new job, both because she enjoyed caring for the antiquities and because she felt that serving the High Priest was a sacred honor. Bria continued to attend prayer times every morning and devotions every evening. When Han was on Ylesia, he usually walked her to and from the service.

Bria was offered a room in the Administration Center, but told Teroenza that she preferred to stay in the pilgrims’ dormitory. Not only did she enjoy the company of her fellow pilgrims at prayer time, but she found she was uneasy at the thought of occupying an apartment in the same building as Vykk Draygo. Bria Tharen was still wary of the Corellian, still unwilling to respond to the feelings he awakened in her. She was a pilgrim, she reminded herself constantly. Her loyalty, her duty, her spiritual self, was reserved for the One and the All.

Still, there was no doubt that she enjoyed Vykk’s company. He was so alive, so full of energy, so charming and attractive … Bria had never met anyone like him.

During the hour before evening devotions, when her daily work with the High Priest’s collection was done, Bria developed the habit of searching out Vykk and Muuurgh (they were almost always together) and then the three of
them would go to the mess hall for a cup of stim-tea together …

   Bria walked through the jungle, enjoying the small respite from the heat that the lowering sun brought. A breeze was blowing in off the ocean, which was where she was headed. She walked quickly, feeling the skirts of her tan pilgrim’s robe brushing the plants that grew along the edges of the path. Brilliant flowers hung from drooping vines … scarlet, purple, and green-yellow. Their sharp, slightly astringent scent made her nostrils flare as she passed them.