Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare

by A. C. Crispin

“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?”

  “Liked?” Han was able to speak with complete honesty. “It was great, sir! I never saw so many treasures gathered together outside of a museum!”

  “My species is long-lived, as are our cousins, the Hutts,” Teroenza said. “I have been collecting for hundreds of Standard years—longer than you, in your youth, can imagine, Pilot.”

  “I’d really like to get a grand tour sometime,” Han said.

  “I wish my collection were in condition to be viewed,” Teroenza said regretfully. “Ganar Tos, though an excellent cook and an efficient houseboy, hasn’t the training to maintain it, much less catalog and arrange everything properly. And I am too busy to indulge myself that way.” The giant being gave them a dismissive wave of a tiny hand. “That will be all for now. I shall see you upon your return, Pilot.”

  “Yessir.” Han stood and beckoned to Muuurgh. They left, escorted by Veratil.

  Once outside, the Sacredot went off on an errand, leaving them to themselves. Han glanced at his chrono and then at the westering sun. “Tonight I’m going to start training you on gunner’s duties,” he told the Togorian, “but right now, I think we’re owed a break. Matter of fact, we’re just in time to visit the refectory where the pilgrims eat. Let’s go.”

  “Why?” Muuurgh asked. “Pilot not want pilgrim food. Pilot and Muuurgh eat in mess hall … get decent food, not garbage.”

  Han shook his head and started walking down the path that led through the jungle to the pilgrims area. “I don’t wanna eat with the pilgrims, pal,” he explained. “I just want to talk to some of them. I figure at dinner, they’ll all be together, and I can find … them … easier.”

  “Them?” Muuurgh echoed. “How many is ‘them’?”

  “Uh … well, you see …” Han started, then he stopped, grimacing. “Just one,” he admitted. “Pilgrim 921, the one I saw the other day. I’d like to see what she really looks like.”

  Muuurgh nodded. “Ah, yessss … Muuurgh understand very well what Pilot wants.”

  Han felt his face grow hot, and was glad that the Togorian wouldn’t recognize that giveaway as a sign of embarrassment.

  “Y’know, Muuurgh, old pal,” he said, deliberately changing the subject, “you speak pretty good Basic for someone who’s been speaking it for less than a year. But there’s one part of speech you ain’t mastered yet, and that’s the pronoun. Never thought I’d find myself playing schoolteacher, but, here goes …”

  The two walked on down the path together, as Han laboriously covered the grammatical rules governing the use of pronouns …

  Once in the refectory, Han and Muuurgh roamed the huge dining area. Han glanced from face to face, wondering if he’d manage to recognize her without the goggles, in normal light. Her hair had been covered by the cap, so he didn’t even know if it was dark or light.

  He walked faster, realizing the meal was nearly over, and he still hadn’t found 921. Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe she ate during another shift, the way he heard some of the pilgrims did. But he’d thoug
ht most of the humanoids ate during this shift—

  There she is. That’s her! Han wasn’t even sure how he knew … but he was as positive as if she’d had a sign around her neck that read PILGRIM 921.

  Seen in normal light, he could tell that she was tall, and slender—too slender, really. Her cheekbones stood out prominently, and her eyes seemed even larger than they were in her thin, excessively pale, face.

  But too thin or not, she was, quite simply, lovely. Not classically beautiful. Her jaw was a little too wide and squarish, her nose a bit too long, for classic beauty. But lovely … oh, yes …

  921 had big blue-green eyes, long, dark lashes, and pore-less white skin. Several locks of short, curly hair had escaped from beneath her pilgrim’s cap, and Han saw that it was reddish-gold—the color of a Corellian sunset on a clear day.

  The refectory hall was usually pretty quiet. The pilgrims didn’t talk much, tired as they were from a long day’s work in the factories, and the approaching Exultation. But they usually ate in groups.

  921 was all alone.

  Han saw that she was poking at her dinner, and after one look at the unappetizing mess of gruellike porridge, limp greens, and flatbread on her plate, he didn’t blame her. The food smelled bad—almost spoiled. Han’s nose wrinkled as he pulled out the seat opposite her and sat down. He was dimly aware of Muuurgh, leaning against the wall, watching him.

  921—I’ve GOT to get her to tell me her real name!—looked up, and her turquoise eyes widened as she recognized him. Han was inordinately pleased about that and grinned at her. “Hello. Found you again, see?”

  She stared at him, eyes wide, then she looked down at her plate. Han leaned toward her. “So, what’s for dinner? Doesn’t look great, I gotta admit. But you’ve got to do more than just push it around your plate, you know.”

  She shook her head. “Please … go away.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you. You’re not of the One.”

  “Sure I am,” Han said. “I’m just a little bit more of an individual One, I guess you’d say.”

  921’s mouth quirked, very slightly. Han found himself wishing he could make her really smile. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Pilot Draygo,” she said softly. “I’m afraid that’s obvious.”

  “Well, proselytize to me, then,” Han said. “I’ve got an open mind. Maybe you can convert me.” He smiled, happy that he’d found her, and that she was, at least, talking to him.

  921 shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re much too much of an unbeliever, Pilot,” she said.

  Han reached out across the table and took her hand, the one she’d injured. “It’s ‘Vykk,’ ” he told her, having to fight a crazy impulse to tell her his real name. But he managed to resist. “So, how is your hand? Any ill effects from the other day?”

  When he’d first touched her, she’d stiffened, as though to pull away, then when he inquired about the cut, she relaxed. “It’s healing,” she told him, confirming what his eyes told him. “It will just take a little time.”

  “It’s a tough job, working down there in the dark and the cold all day long,” Han said. “Wouldn’t you rather do something a little … easier?”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “What are you good at? What have you studied?”

  “Well … at one time I wanted to be a curator in a museum,” she said, sounding faintly wistful. “I was going to study archaeology. I know quite a bit about that.”

  “But you came here instead of going on with your studies,” Han guessed.

  “Yes,” 921 answered. “This life is spiritually fulfilling. My old life was empty and meaningless.”

  Han hesitated. “How do you know that the doctrine they teach here is the right one? There are a lot of religions in the galaxy.”

  She considered his question carefully, then, finally, replied, “Because when we are Exulted, I feel very close to the One. It’s a mystical moment. I feel One with the All. I’m sure the priests must be Divinely Gifted to be able to offer the pilgrims the chance to be Exulted.”

  “Hmmmm,” Han said. “Sounds like maybe I should give it a try.” Over my dead body, he thought, but was careful to conceal his true feelings.

  “Perhaps you should,” she said. “It’s time to head for the Altar of Promises, now. Perhaps you’ll be blessed by receiving the Exultation, too.”

  “You never know,” Han said. “Can I walk you there?”

  She smiled a little, eyes downcast. “All right.”

  They walked together up the jungle path, side by side amid the pilgrims, with Muuurgh trailing behind. Han tried to make conversation, but 921 was silent and unresponsive. When they reached the Altar, Han did not withdraw to the back, but instead stood beside 921 in the midst of the group of believers.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “It’s obvious you’re not a pilgrim.”

  “If anyone complains, just tell them I’m a pilgrim candidate,” Han said, trying to gently tease her, but 921 wasn’t having it. She scowled and turned away from him, concentrating on the ceremony.

  Teroenza and the other priests treated the crowd of faithful to a devotion that was identical to the one Han had attended before. This time, Han had little trouble resisting the effects of the Exultation—he remained clearheaded throughout. Instead, he watched 921, saw her rapt face, and inwardly shook his head. How can she be taken in by this ridiculous bilge? he wondered. She’s obviously intelligent. Why can’t she see that however these priests do what they do, it’s some kind of trick, not a Divine Gift?

  Han watched in distress as 921 sank to the ground to receive the Exultation, then he crouched beside her as she writhed on the ground. It’s a miracle their hearts don’t just stop, he thought. Later, when the moment of Exultation was over, and the priests were gone, he helped her to sit up. She was smiling, though very weak.

  “You okay?” he asked, concerned. The Exultation, whatever its other physical and emotional effects, seemed to leave the pilgrims drained. “You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, still trembling, and tried to get up. Han was quick to catch her and offer a steadying hand.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her breath still ragged. “I’ll be fine, now.”

  “I’ll walk you back to the dorm,” he said. “Just in case. You look kinda shaky.”

  She didn’t argue as he took her arm, and they started back along the path. It was growing quite dark by now, and Ylesia had no moon. Han could barely make out the path ahead, but 921 produced her goggles from the pocket of her robe and put them on. She led the way, but he kept hold of her arm to steady her.

  “So, do you ever miss Corellia?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, but he could tell it was a lie. “Do you?”

  “I don’t miss the people, but I miss the planet,” Han said honestly. “Corellia’s a nice place. I always wanted to go to the ocean, but I never got the chance. Ever been to the ocean?”

  “Yes …” she said slowly, as if his question brought back memories she’d rather not think about.

  “You got a family there?”

  “Yes …” she hesitated, then added, “at least, I think so. I haven’t talked with them in almost a year.”

  “Is that how long you’ve been here?” Han asked.

  “Yes.”

  They picked their way through the hot, wet darkness in silence. Han was very conscious of holding her arm beneath the wide sleeve of her robe. Her bones were too close to the skin, but her flesh itself was warm and soft and very female.

  “So, you planning to stay here for good?” Han asked as a small clot of shambling pilgrims passed them in the darkness. “Or is this just kind of temporary?”

  “Temporary?” He could barely see the light blur of her face, with the dark line of the goggles running across it, as she turned toward him. “How could it be temporary? I want to serve the One, be part of the Al
l, forever.”

  “Oh,” Han said. “Well, uh … what about stuff like … falling in love, traveling, maybe settling down someday and having kids?”

  “We give up those kinds of attachments when we become part of the All,” she said, but there was a hint of regret in her voice.

  “Too bad,” he said.

  Without warning, it began to rain steadily. Han could feel 921 shiver slightly, despite the warmth. He pulled a rain poncho out of his pocket and spread it over both their heads. They walked along, huddled beneath it, bodies touching. Han was conscious of Muuurgh following at a discreet distance. Poor guy. He hates to get wet …

  The pilot raised his voice to be heard above the spatter of the rain. “You know, I can’t just go on calling you 921. If we’re gonna be friends, you’ve gotta tell me your name.”

  “Who says we’re going to be friends?” she asked.

  “I just know it,” Han told her. He grinned, knowing she could see him in the darkness. “I’m irresistible when I put my mind to it.”

  “You’re conceited, that’s what you are,” she said, sounding half-vexed, half-amused. “Conceited, cocky, arrogant … insufferable …” she broke off, chuckling. Han realized it was the first time he’d heard her laugh.

  “Oh, go on, please!” the pilot mock-protested, laughing himself. “I love it when women compliment me. Music to my ears.” He was delighted to hear her sounding so alive.

  “I’m tired,” she said, her momentary good humor vanishing like morning mist. “And here we are at the dorm. Thanks for walking me back … Pilot Draygo.”

  There was a faint circle of light emanating from the windows in the dormitory, and Han stopped them right on the edge of it, so he could see her, but they wouldn’t be fully illuminated to any onlooker.

  “Not ‘Pilot,’ ” he reminded her. “It’s Vykk.”

  She tried to step back, away from him, but Han tightened his grip on her arm, careful to be gentle, but not letting her pull away. “Vykk, okay?”

  “Vykk … right,” she said. “Now, please … let me go. And … don’t come back. Please.”

  “Why not?” Han was hurt.