memories, too. He was Corellian . . . and so was she.
Pilgrim 921 thought of her homeworld, and for just an instant allowedherself to remember it, to remember her family. Were her parents stillalive? Her brother?
How long had she been here? 921 tried to remember, but the days herewere all the same . . . work, a few morsels of unappetizing food,Exultation and prayers, then exhausted sleep. One day flowed into eachother, 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 beneathflesh, prominent bones. Much more prominent than they had ever beenbefore.
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 andsold all her
jewelry to buy passage on a pilgrim ship? Seventeen . . . she'd justfinished the last of her undergraduate schooling and had been lookingforward to going off-world to attend the university on Coruscant.
She'd been going to study . . . archaeology. With an emphasis onancient art.
Yes, that was it. She'd even spent a couple of summers working on adig, learning to preserve ancient treasures.
She'd wanted to become a museum curator.
As a child, history had always been her favorite subject. She lovedlearning about the Jedi Knights, and was fascinated by theiradventures.
She'd grown up in the aftermath of the Clone Wars, and had beeninterested in that, too. And the birth of the Republic, so very, verylong ago . . .
921 sighed as she swallowed a bite of dusty grain-cake. Sometimes itbothered her when she realized that her memories were fading, that herintelligence seemed to be fading, along with her ability to perceivethe world outside. She knew that as a pilgrim, she was supposed toeschew all worldly things, to expunge from her mind and body theappreciation of fleshly pleasures.
In the old days, pleasure and having fun had been the focus of herlife.
In those days, her life had had little purpose, compared to now. Inthe 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 Oneconferred blessing upon her, through the priests. Exultation was theway the All communicated with the pilgrims. It was a deeply spiritualexperience--and it felt so good...
921 thought that she'd successfully managed to expunge all memory ofVykk Draygo and his smile from her mind, so she went back to work onher 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 toforget Vykk Draygo and all he stood for . . .
That night, Han skipped devotionals in favor of spending time withseveral of the sims. This was his first opportunity to earn an"honest" living, and he didn't want to mess up. Han knew that citizenscomplained about how hard they had to Work, and he figured that wasessential for success. It was true that begging, pickpocketing,burglary, and scamming
citizens frequently required considerable time and effort, but Hanknew that somehow it just wasn't comparable.
Heading for the sim station in his bedroom, Han began skimming throughthe system, accessing what was available to him. Teroenza had been asgood as his promise, and the simulations were there. He scanned whatwas available, chose the sims he wanted to work on, and ordered thesystem 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'vegot to work for a while," he said. "Why don't you take some time foryourself?"
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 visi-hood, cutting himselfoff from contact with his real surroundings and plunging himself into atraining flight that felt exactly like the real thing. The Togorianwas uncomfortable with technology.
Han let himself sink into the sim, and within minutes the sim hadaccomplished one of its primary purposes--Han quite forgot that it wasa sim. He was convinced that he was really piloting--reallynegotiating asteroid fields at high speeds, really piloting through theYlesian atmosphere, really landing the craft under all sorts of adverseconditions.
The Corellian emerged from the sim two hours later, having successfullylanded, flown, taken off, and performed the full range of maneuverspossible with the shuttle he'd be flying to Colony 2 and Colony 3 onthe morrow. He'd also reviewed the controls on the transport vesselshe'd be flying--the Ylesian Dream was being converted to manualpiloting--as well as those on Teroenza's private yacht.
By this time, the short Ylesian day was far spent. Muuurgh was dozingon the chair, but awoke instantly when Han stretched. Han eyed theTogorian, regretting that the alien was so alert. It was going to bevery difficult to do the nighttime prowling that he had in mind . .
.
Muuurgh walked along behind Pilot, pleased that his charge hadsuggested heading over to the mess hall for a late supper. TheTogorian was always hungry. His people were used to hunting andkilling, then sharing their kill, so fresh meat was a constant part oftheir diets. Here, he had to make do with raw meat that had beenfrozen.
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 hisskills--sharpened.
He missed his mosgoth, missed flying through the air on her back,feeling her powerful wing muscles propelling them through the skies ofTogoria.
Muuurgh sighed. The skies on Togoria were a vivid blue-green, muchdifferent from the washed-out blue-gray color of Ylesia's skies. Hemissed them. Would he ever see them again, would he ever fly hismosgoth toward a crimson sunset in those vivid skies?
The priests had made him sign a six-month contract for his services asa guard. He'd given his word of honor to fulfill that contract. Itwould be many ten-days before he could return to his search forMrrov.
Muuurgh pictured her in his mind, her cream-colored fur, her orangestripes, her vivid yellow eyes. Lovely Mrrov. She'd been part of hislife for so long now that not knowing her whereabouts was like anaching wound inside him. Could she have gone back to Togoria? Was sheback on their world, waiting for him?
Muuurgh wished he could send a message to his homeworld, ask whetherMrrov had returned, but messages sent over interstellar distances werevery expensive, and sending one would add nearly two months to his timehere on Ylesia.
Still . . . Muuurgh considered, then thought that perhaps on one oftheir trips to fly spice to Nal Hutta, Pilot would not mind if Muuurghsent a message. The Togorian didn't really trust the Ylesian priestsenough 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 werefrequently like that. At l east Pilot had accepted Muuurgh's dominanceas 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 likedhim, and didn't want to have to hurt him.
But if Pilot tried to break the rules, Muuurgh would not hesitate tohurt---even kill--the Corellian. Teroenza had given Muuurgh specificorders, and the Togorian would carry them out to the best of hisability.
He'd given his word of honor, and that was the most important thing inthe universe to his people.
The Togorian absently groomed his whiskers and facial fur, reflectingthat as long as Pilot didn't step out of line, everything was going tobe just fine . . .
five
Spice Wars The next day Han took the Ylesian shuttle to Colony Two andColony Three.
He
discovered that he really enjoyed piloting bigger ships, and hispiloting was perfect. He managed to find a few extra minutes on hisreturn run to Colony One to practice low altitude flying, swooping theshuttle so low that the belly nearly brushed the tops of the jungletrees. Beside him in the copilot's seat, Muuurgh alternated betweenexhilaration and terror as the Togorian experienced swoops, barrelrolls, and even upside-down high-speed flying. Han was in his element,putting the shuttle through maneuvers he'd only done previously duringsims. The Corellian found himself whooping joyously at the sheerthrill of it all.
For his last, best bit of precision flying, Han sent the shuttlehurtling down a river-cut canyon, skimming between the rock walls withso little room to spare that Muuurgh yowled, shut his eyes, and refusedto open them. Once they were soaring through open skies again, Han hadto shake the Togorian's arm and repeatedly reassure the big alien thathe was finished practicing for the day.
"Muuurgh certain that Pilot is crazy," the Togorian said, cautiouslyopening his eyes and straightening up in his seat. "Muuurgh flies onhis mosgoth at home, but not like that. Mosgoths have more sense thanto fly like that. Muuurgh have more sense, too. Pilot"--the Togoriangave Han a plaintive glance--"promise Muuurgh not to fly crazyagain."
"But, Muuurgh," Han said, carefully setting them down on the landingfield at Colony One, "I've got to practice every chance I get! You
see . . ." he hesitated, then decided to trust Muuurgh with part ofthe truth, "I sort of stretched the facts a little when I told Teroenzaabout my flying experience. I really am a champion pilot, that's thetruth, but . . . I need to practice with this shuttle. And with thebigger ships. Sims are fine, but they can't beat the real thing."
Muuurgh gave Han a long level look, then nodded. "Muuurghunderstands.
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 asPilot 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 therewaiting for them in the pouring rain. By this time Han was growingused to the daily downpours, though the steamy heat still exhaustedhim. "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'spersonal quarters, which occupied a large part of the underground levelof the Administration Center. When Veratil keyed in the securitybypass codes and they walked through the huge double doors into theHigh Priest's personal sanctum, Han couldn't repress a low whistle ofamazement. "Nice place!"
"This is the High Priest's display room," Veratil said. "He is an avidcollector, 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 thefirst floor. Display tables, shelves, and racks showcased treasuresand antiquities from around the galaxy. Sculpture from a dozen worlds,paintings, and other art objects were scattered amid ornate antiqueweapons. Tapestries hung from the walls. Rugs of exquisite beautywere covered by protective force fields that felt squishy underfoot asHan walked on them.
Semiprecious gems adorned the collection of pipes and other musicalinstruments. Bottles of the rarest liquors in the entire galaxy weresuspended in a gold-embossed rack.
Han's fingers literally itched for the whole time it took him totraverse 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 ata drreelb carved from living ice. The tiny statue was covered with alayer of dust, which was disturbed by Han's breath. It wafted up intothe air, and the pilot sneezed thunderously.
Star Wars - Han Solo Trilogy - The Paradise Snare Page 11
