Although he’d flown hundreds of hours in swoops and speeders, Han’s experience with piloting larger vessels was confined to the times Garris Shrike had permitted him to pilot the Luck’s shuttle on easy runs. He’d taken off and landed, but he’d never before tried to land anything as large as the robot freighter. Han hoped he’d be able to handle it. He had confidence in his ability as a pilot—after all, hadn’t he been the junior speeder champion of all Corellia three years running? And, last year, hadn’t he won the swoop racing championship of the entire Corellian system?
Still, compared to the Luck’s shuttle, this freighter was huge …
Han dozed again, then when he awoke, roved restlessly around the cabin, knowing he should be conserving his energy and his air, but unable to stop himself.
“Sir?” The R2 unit that had been so quiet for so many hours suddenly came back to life. “I must advise you that we have reached the orbit of Ylesia. You must stand ready to make your descent and landing.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Han said. Going over to the control banks, he scanned the instruments, mentally calculating their descent. This wasn’t going to be easy. He had no way to interface with the navicomputer, except via the R2 unit. A pilot had to make split-second decisions, at times, and in cases like that, Han wouldn’t be able to wait for the R2 unit to reply.
The ship suddenly shivered, then rocked slightly.
They were hitting atmosphere, Han realized.
He took a deep breath and glanced at his air pak reading, realizing it was going to be close … very, very close.
Here we go, he thought, switching to manual control of the Ylesian Dream. “Hey, R2,” he said tightly, adjusting his course slightly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Wish me luck.”
“I-beg-your-pardon, sir, this unit is not—”
Han swore, and the Ylesian Dream headed down, for the surface of a planet he couldn’t even see. He could see the sensor readouts and the infrared scanners, though, and he realized that Ylesia was a world of tempestuous air currents, even in the upper layers of the atmosphere. Mapping sensors created a global portrait of the planet: shallow seas studded with islands, and three small continents. One lay nearly at the north pole, but the other two, the eastern and western continents, lay nearer the equator, in what must be temperate zones.
“Great,” he muttered to himself, locating the ship’s home-in beacon. He could use it as a guide to plan his landing. The landing field was on the eastern continent. That must be where the Ylesian colony of priests and religious pilgrims was located.
The Dream rocked wildly, swooping through the swirling air currents like a child on a rope swing. Han’s suit gloves were clumsy on the undersized diagnostic controls as he used his stabilizers to steady their descent. Trying to get the feel of the controls, Han yawed them to port, then overcompensated, sending them skittering to starboard.
On the infrared image, a huge blob of red suddenly loomed up. That’s a huge storm! Han thought, using his laterals to even out their descent. He allowed the Dream to drift a few degrees north, figuring that he’d miss the storm, then swing back south later, when he was beneath the maelstrom.
The ionized particles left in the wake of all that lightning were playing havoc with his instruments, Han realized. He gulped air, felt his chest tighten, and had to fight back panic. Good pilots couldn’t afford to let their emotions get in the way, or they’d wind up dead and that would end their trip real quick, wouldn’t it?
“R2,” Han said tightly, “see if you can chart me those storm areas so I can avoid the ion trails that lightning is leaving. Concentrate on the direct flight path between our present location and the landing field on that eastern continent.”
“Yes, sir,” the R2 unit said.
Moments later the electrical storm sites appeared before him. “Give me a scaled-down version of that chart in the corner of this screen, R2,” Han ordered. Usually it would be the navicomputer’s job to “merge” the intended flight path with the geographical features and the storm cells, and to suggest an intended course, which the pilot could then implement and modify as needed.
Han had never missed having a navicomputer at his disposal more than he did at this moment.
He slowed their headlong rush fractionally, then was forced to kick in their thrusters to get them out of the way of yet another wind shear from a storm cell.
Sweat was dripping down his face now as he fought the tiny controls, forcing Ylesian Dream into maneuvers only a swoop or a military fighter could reasonably be expected to tackle. Han realized he was still gasping, and wondered for a split second whether it was from stress and adrenaline or whether his air was running out.
He couldn’t spare the second it would take to check the air pak.
They were now only a kilometer above the surface of the planet, coming in with a rush. Too fast! Han slowed them, using the braking thrusters roughly. Gee forces seized him, and he felt as though something were squeezing his chest in a giant vise. He was gasping steadily now, and he dared to look down at his air pak.
Empty! The status indicator was solidly in the red zone.
Hold together, Han, he counseled himself. Just keep breathing. There’s got to be enough air in your suit to support you for a couple of minutes—at least.
He shook his head, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His breath began to burn in his chest.
But they were almost slow enough now to land. He braked again, lightly, and the ship bucked suddenly. I’ve lost my forward stabilizer!
Han fought to compensate. Still too fast, but there was nothing more he could do about that. He flicked on the repulsorlifts and began to set her down, feeling the ship’s vibration through his knees and legs as he knelt on the deck.
Hold together, baby! he thought at the Dream. Hold together—
With a huge whooooommpppp! the forward portside repulsor shorted out. The Dream yawed wildly to port, hit the ground, then bounced upward. The starboard repulsor blew, and then its entire starboard side impacted with the ground, nearly flipping the vessel over.
Wham! With a hideous crunch that Han could feel through his entire body, the Ylesian Dream crashed into the surface of the planet, shuddered once, and was still.
Han was thrown violently across the cabin. His helmet impacted with the bulkhead, and he lay there, arms and legs flung wide, dazed. He fought to stay conscious. If he passed out, he’d never wake up again. Trying to pull himself up into a sitting position, Han grunted with effort. Waves of blackness threatened. He triggered his suit communications channel. “R2 … R2 … come in!”
“Yes, sir, I am here, sir.” The droid’s mechanical tones sounded a bit shaken. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, that appears to have been a most unconventional landing. I am concerned that—”
“Shut UP and OPEN THE CARGO AIRLOCK!” Han wheezed. He managed to push himself up into a sitting position, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay up. He was swaying like a drunk in a high wind.
“But, sir, I warned you that in the interests of security, all entrances would be sealed pending—”
Han found the blaster he’d stuck into the outside pocket on his suit and, drawing it, leveled the weapon at R2. “R2, YOU OPEN THAT AIRLOCK NOW, OR I’LL BLAST YOUR METAL HIDE INTO ATOMS!”
The droid’s lights flashed frantically. Han’s finger tightened on the trigger as he wondered whether he’d have the strength to crawl to the airlock. Blackness hovered at the edges of his vision.
“Yes, sir,” the R2 said. “I am doing as you request.”
Moments later Han felt the concussion as air whoomped into the Dream with near-explosive force. Gasping, he counted to twenty, then, with the last of his remaining strength, wrenched off his helmet. He let himself sink back down onto the deck.
He gasped, found he could breathe, and gulped huge lungfuls of fresh air. Warm air, humid air, air laden with smells he couldn’t identify. But it was rich with oxygen, eminently breathable, and that was all he cared about at the moment.
Closing his eyes, Han concentrated on simply breathing, and felt exhaustion overwhelm him. His head throbbed, and he needed just a moment to rest. Just a moment …
When Han swam back up to full consciousness and opened his eyes, he found he was staring into a face out of a nightmare. That is the ugliest critter I’ve ever seen! was his first thought. Only years of experience in dealing with nonhumans of all varieties made him able to control his initial reaction.
The face was broad, with two bulbous, protruding eyes, and covered with leathery grayish-tan skin. No visible ears, and only slits for nostrils. Above the nostril slits was a large, blunt horn that was nearly as long as Han’s forearm. The mouth was a wide, lipless split in the huge head.
Han shook his own pounding head and managed to sit up, noting from his surroundings that he appeared to be in some type of infirmary. A medical droid hovered across the room, lights flashing.
His host (if that was who the creature was) was big, Han realized. Much bigger even than a Wookiee. It somewhat resembled a Berrite, in that it walked on four tree-trunklike legs, but it was far larger. This creature’s head was appended to a short, humped neck that was attached to a massive body. Han figured its back would reach his shoulders when he was standing up. The leathery skin covering its body hung in creases, wrinkles, and loose folds, especially on its short, almost nonexistent neck. The skin shone with an oily gleam.
The four short legs ended in huge, padded feet. A long, whippy tail was carried curled over its back. For a moment Han wondered if the creature had any manipulatory limbs, but then he noticed two undersized arms that were folded against its chest, half-hidden by the loose folds of neck skin. The being’s hands were delicate, almost feminine, with four long, supple fingers on each hand.
The being opened its mouth and spoke in accented, but understandable Basic. “Greetings, Mr. Draygo. Allow me to welcome you to Ylesia. Are you a pilgrim?”
“But I’m not …” Han muttered, his head spinning. For a moment the name didn’t connect, then things snapped into place. Of course. He clamped his mouth shut, thinking that maybe he’d gotten a worse knock on the head than he’d realized. Vykk Draygo was the alias whose ID he’d currently been carrying.
Han had several alter egos, with proper documentation to back them up. Ironically, he had nothing by way of ID under his true name.
“Sorry,” he muttered, holding his hand to his head, hoping his slip would be excused as a result of his head injury “I’m still kind of shaken up, I guess. No, I’m not a pilgrim I came here to answer a job advertisement for someone—preferably a Corellian—to do the piloting here.”
“I see. But how did you happen to be aboard our ship when it crashed?” the creature inquired.
“I wanted to reach Ylesia as quickly as possible, so I tool the opportunity to stow away on the Ylesian Dream,” Han said. “I’d have had to wait a week for a commercial flight and the ad said a pilot was urgently needed. Did you get my message?”
“Yes, we did,” the being said. Han watched it intently wishing he could read its expression. “We were expecting you—but not in the Ylesian Dream.”
“See, I brought the ad with me.” Han reached for his jumpsuit that was hanging over a chair beside the bed and extracted the holo-cube that featured the Ylesian advertisement he’d replied to. “It says you need someone to star right away.”
He handed the cube over. “So … Vykk Draygo here and I’m applying for this job. I’m Corellian, and I fit al your qualifications. I just … well, I wanted to say that I’m sorry about crashing the Dream. Your ship’s a different model than any I ever piloted, but a couple of hours on a simulator will fix that. And I’m afraid that your atmospheric currents came as a surprise.”
The being scanned the cube, then placed it on the table The corners of the massive, lipless mouth turned upward slightly. “I see. Mr. Draygo, I am the Most Exalted High Priest of Ylesia, Teroenza. Welcome to our colony. I am impressed at your initiative, young human. Traveling aboard a robot ship in order to answer our ad so quickly speaks well for you.”
Han frowned, wishing his head didn’t hurt quite so much. “Well … thanks.”
“I am impressed that you managed to control and land a robot craft. Few human pilots have been able to react quickly enough to deal with this world’s challenging weather patterns. The damage to our ship is not serious, and repairs are already under way. You landed on soft ground, which was fortunate.”
“Does that mean I get the job?” Han asked eagerly. Great! They’re not mad!
“Would you be willing to sign a year’s contract?” Teroenza asked.
“Maybe,” Han said, leaning back and relaxing, hands behind his head. “How much?”
The High Priest named a sum that made Han smile inwardly. Even though it was more money than he’d hoped for, he was too much of a trader not to automatically bargain.
“Well, I dunno …” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I made more than that in my previous position …”
A lie, but not one they’d be able to disprove. Vykk Draygo had indeed made more than that—Han had paid well to make sure his alter ego’s job record showed that he could command the highest wages. It had taken all of Han’s savings, plus the proceeds from two dangerous heists that Garris Shrike hadn’t known anything about, to finance those alterations in his alter ego’s job record—but Han had wanted Vykk Draygo to be able to command a high salary.
Teroenza pondered that information, then said, “Very well, I can offer you thirty thousand for the year, with a bonus of ten at the end of the first six months, providing you make every assigned flight on schedule.”
“Bonus of fifteen,” Han said automatically. “And you provide the training sims.”
“Twelve,” countered Teroenza. “And you pay for the sims.”
“Thirteen,” Han said. “You supply the sims.”
“Twelve and a half, and we provide the sims,” the High Priest said. “Final offer.”
“Okay,” Han said, “you got yourself a pilot.”
“Excellent!” Teroenza actually chuckled, a deep, booming, oddly melodious sound.
Quickly the contracts were produced, and Han signed them, then allowed a retinal scan as proof of his identity. Hope they’re like everyone else, he thought, and just do a general, system-wide check of my retinal patterns. If the priests ordered a comprehensive—and very expensive—all-systems search to determine whether “Vykk Draygo’s” retinal scan was unique, they’d eventually discover that it wasn’t. Vykk Draygo, Jenos Idanian, Tallus Bryne, Janil Andrus, and Keil d’Tana all shared the exact same retinal patterns—which wasn’t surprising, as all of those individuals were, in fact, Han Solo.
Before Han left Trader’s Luck, he’d taken the precaution of stashing a small hoard of credits and complete ID sets in two lockboxes on Corellia, in case he ever needed a quick change of identity. Garris Shrike had provided the boy with different sets of ID for each scam Han participated in, and Han had kept each set and updated them as necessary.
The Corellian knew, however, that none of his forged IDs would stand up to Imperial scanners. Before he’d be able to take the Academy entrance exams, Han was well aware that he’d have to pay out a small fortune in bribes on Coruscant to gain ID documentation so genuine that it would pass an Imperial security clearance check.
With all of the business details taken care of, Teroenza then summoned an Under-Priest, or Sacredot, as they were called, and instructed him to take Han on a tour of the complex. Han was left in private to resume his jumpsuit, after being assured that clothing bearing the Ylesian symbol—a huge, wide-open eye and mouth—would be furnished to him.
As he donned the clothes and his boots, he realized that he was sweating heavily. Hot and humid, he thought. Wonderful climate. But for the money the priests were paying, he was willing to put up with a year’s discomfort. By taking this job, he’d get lots of practice flying big ships and access to training sims. That ought to ensure that he could pass the entrance exams to enter the Academy.
The money would mean that he had the proper amount for bribes to make sure his application was processed quickly and actually reached the admissions officers. He knew from his research that without bribes it frequently took a month or more for a cadet candidate to apply, pass all relevant exams, be interviewed, and finally accepted for entrance into the Imperial Academy.
The Sacredot arrived and introduced himself as “Veratil.” Han followed him down a corridor, past a large amphitheater, and what appeared to be a registration area. “Our Welcome Center,” the priest explained. Veratil led him outside. Han stepped through the door, and even before he could draw a deep breath, he was immediately bathed in sweat. Steaming heat and humidity smote him in the face, almost like a physical blow. The air was rich with smells—heavy perfume from flowers, rotting vegetation—and another odor, one he’d smelled before but couldn’t quite identify.
Han stood at the top of the short ramp that led down from the building and looked up at the sky, seeing that it was a translucent blue-gray. The sun overhead was an orangey-red, and looked larger than he was used to. This star must be closer to its planet than Corel was to Corellia. Han glanced at the shadows, seeing it was far past noon, and then glanced at his wrist-chrono. “How long is the day here?” he asked Veratil.
“Ten Standard hours, sir,” the Sacredot replied.
No wonder the weather is so stormy, Han thought. We’ve got a hot, wet world with a really rapid rotation.
Han looked out across the cleared area. The permacrete ended abruptly, giving way to the natural ground and vegetation. Pools of water attested to recent torrential rain. Reddish mud made an arresting contrast to lush, blue-green vegetation. The flowers hanging from the vines and trees in the encroaching jungle were huge and multicolored—scarlet, deep purple, and vivid yellow.
“This is Colony One,” Veratil explained. “We have also established two new colonies for our pilgrims. Two years ago we founded Colony Two, and last winter we built Colony Three, which is still very small. Colony Two lies about one hundred fifty kilometers north, and Colony Three about seventy kilometers south of here.”
“How long has Colony One been here?” Han asked.
“Nearly five Standard years.”
Han looked out across Colony One. Directly across from the Welcome Center lay the landing pad. A little freighter lay there, listing on her repulsors. That must be the Dream, Han thought, realizing he’d never seen the ship from the outside.
The Ylesian Dream was a small vessel, shaped like a fat, somewhat irregular teardrop. On her underside was a bulge where there was a gun well, proving that the ship hadn’t always been a robot freighter. Another, larger bulge denoted the location of the primary cargo hold. She was a graceful ship, small enough to be agile. Corellian-built, almost certainly.
Han could see massive shipdock droids working on the Dream, beginning to repair her repulsors. The ship, droids, and everything nearby was splashed with reddish mud from the crash landing.
Off to the northeast, high above even the jungle giant trees, Han could make out a glimpse of snowcapped heights. He pointed. “What mountains are those?”
“The Mountains of the Exalted,” Veratil told him. “The Altar of Promises where the faithful gather each night to be Exulted lies before them. You shall see it tonight, when you attend devotions.”
Oh, great, Han thought. Do I have to attend services, too? Then he remembered how much the Ylesians were paying him. Han nodded. “I’ll bet it’s something to see.”
To the pilot’s left, he could make out a large expanse of the reddish mud. Several beings of Teroenza’s and Veratil’s race lolled in mudholes, tended by droids and servants of assorted species. Han recognized a couple of Rodians, several Gamorreans, and at least one human. “Those are the mudflats,” Veratil said, waving a dainty hand at the mudbathers and their attendants. “My people relish our mudbaths.”
“What are your people?” Han asked. “Are you native to Ylesia?”
“No, we are native—or as native as our distant cousins, the Hutts—to Nal Hutta,” Veratil replied. “We are the t’landa Til.”
Han resolved to learn the t’landa Til’s language as soon as he could. Knowing a language that people didn’t know you knew could often prove an asset …
The Sacredot led Han around to the rear of the Welcome Center. Han’s eyes widened as he took in the huge cleared area before him. Clearing that much jungle must have been quite a chore. The cleared area was roughly rectangular, and at least a kilometer on each side. The mountains were now behind and to his left, and he could see, on his extreme right, the blue-gray glitter of water. “Lake?” he asked, indicating it.
“No, that is Zoma Gawanga, the Western Ocean,” Veratil informed him.
Han counted the huge buildings that lay before the mudflats. There were nine of them. Five were three stories high, the other four were only one story. Each was easily the size of a Corellian city block. “Homes for the pilgrims?” he asked, waving at the buildings.
“No, the dormitory for our pilgrims is over there,” Veratil said. The priest waved at a massive two-story building on the far left. “The multistory buildings are where we process ryll, andris, and carsunum. The single-story buildings you see extend far underground, a necessity for processing glitterstim, which must be handled in complete darkness.”
Andris, ryll, carsunum, and glitterstim … Han’s nostrils flared. Of course, that explains the odor! These are factories for processing spice! He remembered that the Ylesian Dream had originally carried a cargo of high-grade glitterstim, the most expensive and exotic variety of spice. The other types were usually cheaper—though they were still one of the most profitable cargoes a smuggler could take on.
“We receive shipments of raw materials from worlds such as Kessel, Ryloth, and Nal Hutta several times a month,” Veratil went on. “In the beginning, the robot freighters which supplied us landed here at Colony One, but that practice soon had to be discontinued.”
“Why?” Han asked, wondering if he really wanted to know.
“Two ships—most unfortunately—could not negotiate our tricky atmosphere, and crashed. So we built a space station and decided to use living pilots to ferry the raw spice material down to the factories. We used to have three pilots, but now we are down to one, and the unfortunate Sullustan who is currently serving as our pilot has been … ill. That is why we need you, Pilot Draygo.”
It’s so nice to be needed, Han thought sarcastically. “Uh … Veratil … what happened to those other guys?”
“One crashed, the other simply … disappeared. We have also lost a number of robot vessels, which has cut down on our profit margin most grievously,” Veratil said sadly. “Spice is a high-credit export, but spaceships are very expensive.”
“Yeah,” Han agreed sourly. “All those crashes would tend to put a crimp in your business.” No wonder they didn’t have pilots beating down their doors, he thought. Most of the experienced pilots have probably spread the word about how dangerous this planet is for pilots …
Han knew a little bit about the various kinds of spice, mostly from hearing Shrike and the other smugglers discuss their properties.
Glitterstim, mined on Kessel, was by far the most valuable. When exposed to light, then quickly ingested, it gave the user a temporary telepathic ability to sense surface thoughts and emotions. Spies used it, lovers used it, and the Empire used it when interrogating prisoners. Matter of fact, the Empire claimed all the glitterstim mined on Kessel as its rightful property, which was why it was so rare and so lucrative to smuggle.
Ryll came from the Twi’lek world, Ryloth, where it was perfectly legal to mine, and was used for analgesic purposes. There were illegal applications, however, and it could be used to produce several intoxicants and hallucinogens.
Carsunum was a black spice that came from Sevarcos, and it was quite rare and very valuable. Users experienced euphoria, and an increase in their abilities—while under the influence they became stronger, faster, and more intelligent. There was a downside, of course. After the effects wore off, users frequently became listless, depressed, and some even died when the substance had a toxic effect on their metabolisms.
Sevarcos also supplied the galaxy with andris, a white powder that was added to foods to enhance flavor and preserve them. Some users claimed that the drug caused a mild euphoria and increase in sensation.
They’re not mining it here, Han thought. These factories process the raw material to turn it into the finished product.
“Factories?” Han echoed. “They’re huge …”
“Yes, and Ylesia has admirable production rates, enabling us to favorably compete with the cost of the spice shipped directly from Kessel, Ryloth, or Sevarcos,” Veratil explained. “And we are the only facility that offers such variety of spice. Buyers frequently wish to purchase several different kinds of spice for their customers, and we provide that.”
Han saw figures entering and leaving the factory buildings. Many humans, some nonhumans. He recognized Twi’leks, Rodians, Gamorreans, Devaronians, Sullustans … and there were others that were unknown to him. All the humans and bipedal aliens wore tan-colored robes that came down below their knees and tan-colored caps that covered their hair.
He gestured at the people. “Factory workers?”
The Sacredot hesitated, then said, “They are the pilgrims that have chosen to serve the Oneness, the All, in our factories.”
“Oh,” Han murmured. “I see.”
He saw a lot of things, now, more and more clearly each instant. And he had a bad feeling about what he was seeing, These pilgrims come here to attain religious sanctuary, and wind up working in spice factories. I smell a vrelt—a dead one.
The Ylesian sun was far down in the sky by now, almost to the horizon. Han noticed that throngs of tan-clad workers were streaming northeast, toward the mountains. Veratil beckoned Han with one undersized hand. “It is time for the blessed pilgrims to attend devotions and to be Exulted in the One, render their prayers to the All. Let us take the Path of Oneness to reach the Altar of Promises. Come, Pilot Draygo.”
Han obediently followed the priest up a well-worn paved path. Even though they were surrounded by pilgrims, Han noticed that no one ventured very close to them. All of the pilgrims gave Veratil deep bows, hands folded over their hearts. “They offer thanks for the Exultation they are about to receive,” Veratil explained to Han as they walked along.
As they moved away from the buildings, the jungle around them closed in, until the path they were walking on was shadowed and overhung with giant branches. Han almost felt as though he were walking in a tunnel.
They passed a huge open area that was evidently some kind of swamp, because it was completely covered in huge blooms that were so beautiful and exotic that Han had never seen anything like them. “The Flowered Plains,” Veratil, still playing tour guide, pointed out. “And this is the Forest of Faithfulness.”
Han nodded. I wonder how much more of this I can take, he thought. I hope they don’t expect me to become a convert, because they’ve got the wrong guy.
After a twenty-minute walk, the group reached a large, paved area that was fronted with a partially roofed area supported by three monstrous pillars. Veratil indicated that Han should stay with the crowd of pilgrims, then the Sacredot moved on, heading for the pillars. Han saw several of the t’landa Til assembled beneath the pillars, including one that he tentatively identified as Teroenza. They were ranged around a low altar carved from some translucent white stone that seemed to glow with an inner light.
The high, snowcapped mountains made an impressive backdrop to the scene, as they towered high above the jungle. Han craned his neck, looking up … up … the tops of the highest peaks were hidden by drifting clouds, stained red from the sunset. The snows on the western sides of the peaks glowed crimson and rose.
Impressive, Han was forced to admit. The simplicity of the natural amphitheater, with its paved floor and pillared altar, made it seem like some vast natural cathedral.
The faithful filed into ranks and stood waiting.
Han stood at the back, shifting impatiently, hoping whatever religious service was about to take place wouldn’t last long. He was hungry, his head was throbbing, and the heat was making him sleepy.
The High Priest raised his tiny arms and intoned a phrase in his native language. The Sacredots, including Veratil, echoed him. Then the assembled throng (Han estimated four or five hundred in the crowd) echoed the High Priest’s phrase. Han leaned closer to the nearest pilgrim, a Twi’lek. “What are they saying?”
“They said, ‘The One is All,’ ” the Twi’lek, who spoke excellent Basic, translated. “Would you like me to interpret the service for you?”
Since Han was determined to begin learning the t’landa Til’s language, he nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
The High Priest intoned again. Han listened to the ritual phrases repeated by the Sacredots, then droned forth by the faithful pilgrims:
“The All is One.”
“We are One. We belong to the All.”
“In service to the All, every One is Exulted.”
“We sacrifice to achieve the All. We serve the One.”
“In work and sacrifice we are All fulfilled. If every One has worked hard, we are All Exulted.”
Han stifled a yawn. This was awfully repetitious.
Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes of chanting, Teroenza and all the priests stepped forward. “You have worked well,” the High Priest pronounced. “Prepare for the blessing of Exultation!”
The crowd gave forth a sound of such greedy anticipation that Han was taken aback. Moving in a great wave, as though they were truly One, they dropped to the pavement and lay there, arms and legs huddled beneath their bodies, in an attitude of breathless hope and yearning.
All of the priests raised their arms. Han watched as the loose, wrinkled skin that hung below their throats inflated with air and began to pulse. A low, throbbing hum—or was it a vibration?—gradually filled the air.
Han’s eyes widened as he felt something invade his mind and body. Part vibration, part sound? He wasn’t sure. Was it empathy, or telepathy, or did that vibration trigger something in his brain? He couldn’t tell. He only knew that it was strong …
It rolled across him in a great wave. Emotional warmth, physical pleasure, it was all of that and more. Han staggered back, off the permacrete, until he was brought up short by the trunk of one of the forest giants. He braced himself against the tree, his head swimming. He dug his fingernails into the bark, hanging on to the tree. His hands against the bark seemed to be the only thing keeping him from being swept away by that wave of warm feeling and ecstatic pleasure …
Han hung on to the tree physically, and himself mentally, refusing to let himself be sucked under with that wave. He wasn’t sure where he found the strength, but he fought as hard as he ever had. All his life, he’d been his own person, master of his own mind and body, and nothing was going to change that. He was Han Solo, and he didn’t need aliens invading his mind or his body to make him feel good.
No! he thought. I’m a free man, not some pilgrim, not your puppet! Free, do you hear?
Gritting his teeth, Han fought that invasion as he would have fought a physical opponent, and then, as quickly as it had started, the sensation was gone—he was free.
But it was obvious the pilgrims weren’t. Their bodies writhed on the stone, and muffled moans of happiness and pleasure made a soft swell of sound.
Sickened, Han looked over at the priests. They obviously weren’t affected as the pilgrims were. So this is why these poor dupes stay, once they find out they’re expected to work in the spice factories, Han thought, feeling a surge of bitter resentment on behalf of the pilgrims. They slave all day, then they hike up here and get a jolt of feel-good vibrations that makes even the best spice pale by comparison.
Han wondered whether he’d be expected to attend these “evening devotionals” every night, and hoped that he wouldn’t. It had been hard enough to push away that rush of warmth and pleasure tonight. He was afraid that if he had to be exposed to it every night, he wouldn’t have the strength, the resolution, to reject the Ylesian priests’ “happy pill.”
By this time, the pilgrims were beginning to get up, some of them weaving unsteadily. All of their eyes were glazed, and many looked like addicts Han had seen in spice and oobalah dens on Corellia and other worlds.
“Do they do this every night?” he muttered to the Twi’lek.
The alien’s reddish eyes were shining with joy. “Oh, yes. Wasn’t it wonderful?”
“Great,” Han said, but the Twi’lek was so enraptured he missed the sarcasm.
“Do they ever not hold these ‘devotions’?” Han asked, curious.
“They are only canceled if there has been trouble in the factories. One time a worker went mad and took a foreman hostage, then he demanded passage off-planet. Evening devotions and the Exultation were canceled—it was horrible.”
“So what happened to the mad worker?” Han asked, reflecting that the “madman” sounded completely sane to him.
“Before morning, we managed to overpower him and turn him over to the guards, thank the One,” the Twi’lek said.
Yeah, I’ll bet, Han thought. They couldn’t stand being without their little nightly charge.
The service was evidently over.
Veratil joined Han for the walk back to the central compound. Han was disinclined to talk, and truthfully pleaded fatigue. The Sacredot, saying that he understood perfectly, showed the Corellian pilot back to the infirmary.
“You may eat and sleep here tonight,” he said, “and tomorrow we will take you to your permanent quarters in our Administration Building.”
“Where’s that?” Han asked, pausing halfway through a bite of indifferent—but filling—reedox-stew.
The Sacredot waved his arm roughly northeast. “Not visible from here, but there is a path through the trees. I will meet you back here in, say, six Standard hours? Will that provide you with sufficient sleep?”
Han nodded. He could always try to snatch a nap later. “Fine.”
When the priest was gone, Han dragged off his clothes and boots, realizing that he had to get something clean to wear by tomorrow, or he wouldn’t be fit for polite society. He considered taking a shower before bed, but he was just too tired.
Han had always been able to set himself to wake up whenever he wished to, so he mentally programmed himself to wake up in five and a half hours. Then, his mind whirling with images and impressions, he lay down on the narrow infirmary bunk and was instantly asleep.
It took him a few minutes the next morning to remember just who he was (Vykk Draygo, and don’t forget it!) and what he was doing in this sticky-hot place. Han ventured into the shower and was pleased to find the refresher unit contained everything necessary for a human being.
He hummed tunelessly as he soaped himself, but when he lifted a foot to wash it, Han froze in surprise and dismay. Fuzzy, blue-green, mossy stuff was growing between his toes!
Alarmed, Han checked further and was disgusted to find patches starting in his armpits, at the back of his neck, and other, even more personal areas.
Cursing, he scrubbed the disgusting fungus away, leaving raw skin behind, and then, realizing he was running late, he bolted out of the shower. What kind of place is this, anyway?
When he walked back into the sleeping area, he found the medical droid waiting for him, with a new pilot’s uniform draped over one arm. The droid held a jar of slimy gray stuff in its other hand. “Pardon me, sir,” the droid said. “But may I ask whether you are experiencing any … outbreaks of fungus growing on your skin?”
“Yeah,” Han snarled. “The climate in this place is miserable. Nobody deserves to live in this dump.”
“I quite understand, sir,” the droid said, actually managing to sound sympathetic. “May I offer the contents of this jar? It should prevent fungal growths with regular application.”
“Thanks,” Han said shortly, and retired to treat the affected areas. The stuff smelled horrible, but it soothed the irritation. Then he got dressed, admiring himself in his first real pilot’s uniform. The colorful patches looked quite spiffy.
Han refused to let himself worry about the pilgrims he’d seen last night. Nobody had forced the weak-minded fools to come here, so he wasn’t going to waste any time imagining their fate. He was going to take care of Han Solo—or, more accurately, he was going to take care of Vykk Draygo.
Besides, Han told himself, I’m going to be piloting for these Ylesians. I’ll have access to a ship. If I decide I don’t like it, I’ll just take my money and … vanish. What can they do to stop me, after all?
Feeling cocky, Han smiled at his reflection in the mirror and gave himself a snappy salute. “Cadet Han Solo reporting for duty, sir!” he whispered, trying it on for size. His dream of the Academy had never seemed so close, so attainable.
When Han stepped out of the infirmary, the first person he saw was Teroenza. Han nodded pleasantly to his employer. “Good morning, sir!”
The High Priest inclined his massive head. “And to you, Pilot Draygo. Allow me to present someone you are going to be spending a lot of time with, during your employment with us.” The High Priest beckoned, and Han heard someone behind him. He whirled around, and couldn’t stop himself from taking a quick step back.
His first impression was of height, and the second was of sharp teeth and knifelike claws. This being stood nearly three meters tall, taller even than a Wookiee. The creature had a mouthful of needlelike fangs, and claws that looked like they could rip through durasteel. It was furred, but it wore a pair of breeches. A curved knife hung on its belt, and a holstered blaster was strapped to its thigh. Sleek muscles rippled everywhere.
The newcomer grinned, baring even more of those teeth. “Greetings …” it said, speaking Basic with a pronounced lisp.
“This is Muuurgh,” Teroenza introduced the being. “He’s a Togorian, one of the most honorable sentients in this galaxy. The Togorian reputation for honesty and loyalty is unparalleled, did you know that?”
Han looked up at the huge being and swallowed. “Uh, no …” he managed.
“We’ve assigned Muuurgh to be your … bodyguard, Pilot Draygo. On planet or off, Muuurgh will accompany you everywhere … isn’t that correct, Muuurgh?”
“Muuurgh has given word of honor,” the Togorian affirmed.
The High Priest folded his undersized arms across his massive body, and his mouth curved up in what almost appeared to be a mocking smile. “Muuurgh is going to make very sure, Pilot Draygo, that no matter where you go, or what you do … you will be … safe.”