Star Wars - Han Solo Trilogy - The Paradise Snare

by A. C. Crispin

  "Mrrov gone long time, years. When she not come home to be mated,Muuurgh so sad that he cannot stay on Togoria. Must discover whathappened to her."

  "So . . . did you?" Han took a sip of his Polanis ale. "Muuurghtraced her, from world to world to world." "And?" Han prompted whenthe Togorian paused.

  "And Muuurgh lost her. Someone on Ord Mantell said he saw her boardship at spaceport. Muuurgh check schedules, find out ship had manypilgrims on board. Several ports of call for ship. Muuurgh takechance, come here, because so many pilgrims come here." The bigfelinoid sighed heavily and nibbled on a meat-dripping bone. "Gambleno good. Muuurgh ask, priests say no Togorians here. Muuurgh not knowwhere else to go. Muuurgh need credits to continue search . . ." Thealien swallowed a last bite, and his whiskers actually drooped.

  "So you decided to take a job as a guard here, while you got enoughmoney to go on searching," Han said, guessing at the logical end of thestory.

  "Yessss . . ."

  Han shook his head. "That's sad, pal. I hope you find her, I reallydo.

  It's tough to lose people that you love."

  The bodyguard nodded.

  After lunch, they headed down to the factories and walked around thehuge buildings. Han sniffed the air, smelling the odor of thedifferent spices mingling. His nose tingled slightly, and he wonderedif just smelling the spice could be intoxicating. He waved at theglitterstim building. "Let's go inside. I've heard about how theyprocess this spice, and I'd like to see it for myself."

  When they walked into the cavernous building, a guard stopped them andconferred with Muuurgh, who explained who Han was. The Rodian guard onduty gave them badges and infrared goggles, then waved them on in.

  "Goggles?" Han said in Rodian. He understood the language perfectly,but his pronunciation was a bit laborious. "We have to wear them?"

  The guard's purple eyes sparkled at hearing a human speak hislanguage.

  "Yes, Pilot Draygo," he said. "Below the ground floor, there are novisible lights permitted. You take the turbolift down. Each leveldown represents a one-grade increase in the quality of the spice. Thelongest and best fibers are processed far below ground, to eliminateany possibility of their being ruined by light."

  "Okay," Han said, beckoning to Muuurgh. The two walked between aislesof supplies, to reach the platform turbolift in the center of thefacility.

  "Let's go all the way down and see the really good stuff," he said tothe Togorian. Privately, Han was wondering whether he might be able tolight-finger some of those tiny black vials. Selling a littleglitterstim on the side in a port city would increase his creditaccount by leaps and bounds . . .

  Han pushed the button for the bottom floor, and the platform, swayingslightly, started down.

  Cool air wafted up from the depths as the turbolift went down inpitch-darkness. The draft felt wonderful after the humid heat of theYlesian jungle.

  Within one floor, all light was gone. Han fumbled for his goggles,pulled them up over his eyes. Immediately he could see, thougheverything was in shades of black and white. The illumination camefrom small light inserts in the walls. The turbolift plunged downward,and Han could see the workers as they crouched over theirworkstations.

  Piles of raw, fibrous threads studded with minuscule crystals lay piledbefore them.

  Finally, six floors down, the turbolift ground to a halt. Han andMuuurgh got off. "Have you ever been here before?" he asked thebodyguard softly.

  Muuurgh's neck fur was standing on end, and his white whiskers bristledbeneath his goggled eyes.

  "No . . ." the Togorian whispered back. "My people areplainsdwellers. Not like caves. Not like dark. Muuurgh will be happywhen Pilot wishes to leave this place. Only Muuurgh's word of honorkeeps him here in wretched darkness."

  "Steady," Han said. "We won't be here that long. I just want to get alook around."

  He led the way into the factory. The cavernous area was filled withsoft swishings, but was otherwise silent. Long tables lined the wallsand were ranged in the isleways. Each table was a workstation, and aworker sat or crouched, according to his, her, or its individualanatomy, before the table. There were many humans, Han realized,sitting on tall stools, hunched over their work.

  Few looked up as Han and Muuurgh went up to the level supervisor, afurred Devaronian female, and identified themselves. The supervisorwaved a reddish, sharp-nailed hand at the floor. "My workers are themost skilled," she said proudly. "It takes skill to measure and trimthe number of fibrous strands so each dose will contain the correctamount of spice.

  It is essential--but very difficult--to line up the fibers so preciselythat they will all activate at the same moment when exposed to visiblelight."

  "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'sfound deep in the tunnels on Kessel, and it must be mined in totaldarkness, 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 fractureagainst each other. If that happens, they grind each other into a farless potent--and valuable--powder. It can take a skilled worker anhour to properly align just one or two cylinders of glitterstim."

  "I see," Han said, fascinated. "Do you mind if we just wanderaround?

  I promise we won't touch anything."

  "You may. However, please avoid distracting any of the workers whilethey are aligning the spice. One inadvertent twist, as I said, couldruin an entire thread."

  "I understand," Han said.

  The raw glitterstim threads were all black, but Han knew from hearingabout it that they would shine blue when they ignited in visiblelight.

  Han stopped behind one of the human workers and watched in fascinationas the worker separated out threads of ebony-colored spice, aligningthem with the utmost care. The threads curled around the worker'sfingers, some of them as fine-spun as silk, but the tiny crystals madethem incredibly sharp.

  The worker positioned one group of incredibly tangled threads in thejaws of a tiny vise, then proceeded to painstakingly separate out thethreads, until the crystalline structures were aligned. The worker'sfingers moved almost too fast to watch, and Han realized that he waswatching a highly skilled craftsman--no, woman. He was amazed thatthese pilgrims could actually accomplish something requiring this muchdexterity. After seeing them last night following the "Exultation,"he'd more or less assumed that they were dull-witted cretins. They'dcertainly looked like it...

  The glitterstim worker took out a minuscule set of pliers to untangle aparticularly bad snarl. She wormed the narrow-nosed pliers into thetangle, peering intently to find the place where the sharp littlecrystals were caught together. The fibrous glitterstim curled aroundher hands like tiny, living tentacles, the sharp little crystalglimmering. The worker abruptly brought her hand back, tugging, andsuddenly the snarl straightened out until all the fibers alignedperfectly.

  Except one.

  Han watched in distress as one sharp-studded strand cut between thewoman's forefinger and thumb. A thin line of blood welled from thedeep gash. Han sucked in a breath. A few centimeters deeper, and thetendon in her thumb would have been severed. She hissed with pain,then muttered something in Basic and, freeing her hand, held it to stopthe 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 shapelesstan robe, her cap pulled down tightly over her goggled head. But nowhe realized she was young, not old. She grimaced slightly as sheexamined the cut. Turning her hand over, she twisted in her seat andheld her hand over the floor, so the blood wouldn't drip onto herworkstation.

  Han knew he wasn't supposed to speak to the worker, but she wasn'tworking at the moment, and he was concerned. She was bleedingprofusely. "You're hurt," he said. "Let me call the supervisor so shecan fix you up."<
br />
  The girl--she was his age, possibly younger--started slightly, thenlooked up at him. Her face was a whitish-green blur beneath hergoggles

  and cap, and seemed deathly pale in the infrared light. No wonder,Han thought, cooped up down here all day long, no exposure tosunlight.

  "No, please don't," she said, speaking Basic with that soft accent thatplaced her as being from Corellia's southern continent. "If she sendsme to the infirmary, I'll miss the Exultation." She shivered at thethought--though it might also have been from the cold. Han himself wasbeginning to feel chilly, and he hadn't been down here for hours. Howdid these pilgrims stand it, working down here in the cold darkness allday? "But that cut looks nasty," Han protested. She shrugged. "Thebleeding 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'snothing. Happens all the time." With a wry smile, she held out herhands. Han sucked in a breath. Her fingers, wrists, and forearms werecrisscrossed 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 realizedthey must be the fungus he'd discovered on himself that morning. As hewatched, a phosphorescent tendril of the stuff suddenly spread, growingtoward the cut between her finger and thumb. She uttered a softexclamation and pulled it free.

  "The fungus loves fresh blood," she said, evidently noticing hisdistaste.

  "It can infect a cut and make you sick very easily."

  "Disgusting stuff," Han said. "Are you sure you don't need to get thattreated?"

  She shook her head. "As you can see, it happens all the time. Excuseme, but . . . you're Corellian, aren't you?"

  "So are you," Han said. "I'm Vykk Draygo, the new pilot. And youare?"

  Her mouth tightened slightly. "I'm . . . not really supposed to betalking. I'd better get back to work."

  Muuurgh, who had been watching in silence, suddenly spoke up. "Workeris correct. Pilot must let worker return to work now."

  "Okay, pal. I understand," Han said to the Togorian, but then he addedto the Corellian woman, "But maybe we could talk some other time. Oversupper, maybe."

  She shook her head silently and turned back to her work. Muuurghmotioned 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'tall that big. So . . . what's your name?"

  She shook her head again, not speaking. Muuurgh growled, Low in histhroat, but Han just stood there, stubbornly.

  The woman seemed disturbed by Muuurgh's implied threat. As shefastened a bandage over her cut, she said, "We give up our names whenwe leave all worldly things for the spiritual sanctuary of Ylesia."

  Han was feeling increasingly frustrated. Here was someone who knewthis place intimately, and she was the first person from his homeworldhe'd discovered here. "Please," he said as Muuurgh pushed himslightly. "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 Pilgrim921," she said hastily. Han got the impression that she had spoken upto save him from Muuurgh's are.

  Muuurgh grabbed Han's arm and began walking away, effortlessly draggingthe Corellian. "Thank you, Pilgrim 921," Han called back to her,waving jauntily, as though being half carried away by the Togorian wasa normal occurrence. "Good luck with those fibers. I'll be seeingyou."

  She didn't respond. When Muuurgh finally let him go, at the end of theaisle, Han followed the Togorian obediently, half expecting a lecturefrom the giant being. But Muuurgh seemed satisfied that Han would nowobey him, and had relapsed into his former wary silence.

  Han glanced back once and saw that the Corellian woman was again intenton 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 realidea of what she looked like, except for the fact that she was young.

  Han walked all the way around the facility, watching several otherworkers as they aligned threads and crystals so they were entirelysymmetrical. He didn't attempt to speak to any of them. Finally hecame back to the Devaronian supervisor. "So, when they've finishedtheir work, who encases the threads and crystals in the vials?" heasked.

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

  "Maybe I'll just head up there," Han said. "This is fascinating, youknow."

  "Certainly," she said.

  Okay, so they finish up the processing of the really high-grade stuffup here, Han thought as he and Muuurgh ascended into the darkness. TheTogorian let out a low yowl of protest when Han only took them up onefloor.

  "Take it easy, Muuurgh," Han said. "I just want to take a quick lookaround here."

  He wandered the aisles, trying unobtrusively to spot the place wherethe high-grade glitterstim was enclosed in the tiny black vials thatall 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 basketsover and dumped them. Han felt an air current waft past him, realizingthat 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 asecond. He saw a blur of movement, but couldn't discern anything for along second.

  Then, as he focused his eyes, he slowly made out oily, pebbledblackness barely visible against the black stone wall. But there wereeyes in the midst of that blackness--beady reddish-orange eyes. Fourof them. Han squinted, holding still, straining his vision. Then hesaw two blasters, each strapped to a warty black thigh.

  Aar'aa! he realized. Skinchangers!

  The Aar'aa were an alien species from a planet on the other side of thegalaxy. Denizens of Aar could gradually change color to match thecolor of the background behind them. This ability made them verydifficult 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 thebelowground factory was heated. Many reptiles became sluggish anddull-witted when it was cold.

  Han peered into the dimness, and slowly, gradually, made out theoutlines of the two Aar'aa guards. They had pebbly-textured skin,clawed hands and feet, and a small frill of skin running down theirbacks. Their heads were large, with overhanging brow ridges, beneathwhich 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 skinran from between their eyes, back over the tops of their heads, toconnect with the frill running down their backs.

  Despite their clumsy appearance, they seemed fast on their feet. Handecided that he didn't want to tangle with them. Although shorter thanhe was, they were broad in the shoulders, and certainly outweighed himby 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. Theyweren't Gamorreans, so there wasn't much chance of being able tobewilder, confuse, distract, or otherwise fast-talk any of them intohanding over a fortune in spice. Han grimaced and started back forMuuurgh and the turbolift. And there is no Plan B, he thoughtglumly.

  Guess I'll just have to earn all my credits the honest way.

  It never even occurred to him that ferrying spice around the galaxywas, in itself, highly illegal . . .

  Pilgrim 921 nibbled on a stale grain-cake and tried to forget the youngCorellian she had seen earlier. She was a pilgrim after all, part ofthe All, one with the
One, and worldly concerns such as goodlookingyoung men were behind her forever. She was here to work, so that shemight be Exulted and offer her prayers for the blessing of the One aspart of the All--and conversations with young men named Vykk had nopart in that.

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

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

  Still those sacrilegious thoughts kept intruding. Thoughts . . .