Han stared at the huge, black-furred creature, realizing that the jig was definitely up. Teroenza’s meaning was unmistakable—step out of line, and Muuurgh will rip you in two. Han eyed the Togorian, realizing that the alien could easily do just that.

He managed to pull himself together and smiled up at the Togorian. “Pleased to meet you, Muuurgh,” he said. “It’ll be nice to have real company on those long flights.”

“Yess …” the bodyguard said, stepping closer. Han realized with dismay that the top of his head barely reached the Togorian’s breastbone. The alien appeared so feline that Han was surprised to realize he didn’t have a tail. “Muuurgh enjoys space travel …” the bodyguard said in his strongly accented, lisping Basic. His facial fur was black, but his whiskers and chest fur were white. His eyes were a startling light blue, with brilliant green slitted pupils. “Muuurgh goesss many spaceports, the more the better.”

Han had a little trouble understanding the Togorian’s Basic, but he could make it out. The young Corellian wondered just how smart this being was. Have to get to know him, Han decided. Just because he can’t speak good Basic doesn’t mean he’s dumb. But if he is …

Han smiled.

“We’d thought we’d give you a day to settle in, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza said. “Move into the quarters we’ve assigned you, in the Administration Building. Muuurgh will show you where it is. Then, tomorrow, we’d like you to begin ferrying goods and personnel back and forth between the colonies. By the time our next shipment of spice is delivered to our space station, you will be ready to ferry that down for us. After today, I am going to order Jalus Nebl, our other pilot, to take a rest. He has been working too hard.”

Han nodded. I’ve got to meet up with this Sullustan and compare notes. “That will be fine. Can I … look around a bit? I’d like to check out the lay of the land.”

Teroenza inclined his massive head. “Certainly, as long as Muuurgh accompanies you, and you follow all safety regulations while touring the factories.”

“Of course,” Han agreed.

Teroenza bowed slightly. “If you will excuse me, we are expecting a shipment of pilgrims to come down from our orbiting space station this morning. I have much to do as I prepare to welcome them.”

Han nodded, thinking about what lay ahead for those pilgrims. He knew that mining spice was considered dangerous, an extremely unpleasant duty—matter of fact, being sent to the spice mines of Kessel was a common punishment for felons—but he knew very little about what happened to the spice once it was mined.

Well, he intended to find out. Maybe there was some way he could turn this situation even more to his advantage. You never knew … and it never paid to leave stones unturned. In Han Solo’s book, knowledge frequently led to power—or at least to a faster escape …

Muuurgh led Han up a paved path through the jungle, until they reached a large, very modern building. “Administration Center,” the Togorian said, indicating the building.

The “bodyguard” led Han around to a side entrance, and then down a corridor until he reached a door. “You, Muuurgh, sleep here,” he said, opening the door.

Inside was a small suite consisting of a bedroom, refresher unit, and a small sitting room. Han was pleased to see that Teroenza had been mindful of the terms of the contract. In one corner of the bedroom was a fully equipped sim unit. Muuurgh walked to the door of the bedroom and waved a clawed hand at it. “Yours. Pilot sleep here.”

“But where will you sleep?” Han asked.

As expected, Muuurgh indicated the sitting room. “Muuurgh here.”

Great, Han said. These priests don’t trust me any more than I trust them. With Muuurgh sleeping between me and the door to the outside, I’d be taking a big chance trying to sneak out at night. Just great.

“That doesn’t look very comfortable to me,” Han said, doing his best imitation of wide-eyed innocence. Inwardly, he was wondering whether Muuurgh was a sound sleeper. “Maybe you should get a room of your own, so you could sleep comfortably.”

“Muuurgh most comfortable when he is keeping word of honor,” the Togorian said. Han stared at the catlike being. Had he glimpsed a flash of humor in those blue-green eyes with their slitted pupils? “Muuurgh give word of honor to watch Pilot always, so Muuurgh most comfortable here.”

Han nodded. “Right.”

He stared for a moment at the blaster in the Togorian’s holster. “I had a blaster when I came here, but I don’t know where it is, now,” he commented. “I guess I’ll need to ask about getting it back.”

“Pilot not need blaster.” Muuurgh flexed his fingers and the retractable claws popped out. “High Priest say Pilot not need blaster.”

“But what if I get attacked by some kind of … predator?” Han waved at the omnipresent jungle outside the building. There were probably dozens of predators who might enjoy hunting an off-worlder, either for food or fun.

The giant alien shook his whiskered head. “Never happen. Pilot have Muuurgh, who has blaster.”

“Uh … that’s true,” Han said. Mentally, he made a note to ask Teroenza for some kind of weapon. He felt naked without one, even after only having had one for a couple of days.

“So, Muuurgh, shall we go exploring?” Han asked. “I don’t have any baggage to unpack, as you can see.”

“Explore where?” the Togorian asked.

“I’d like to tour the factories,” Han said. “And this Administration Center.”

“Fine,” the Togorian said. “Come, Pilot.”

“Right behind you,” Han said, suiting his action to his words.

They walked the corridors of the Administration Center, glanced in at the mess hall, toured the guards’ wing, and peeked at the priests’ quarters. When Han caught a glimpse of the Armory, he realized that the Ylesian priests must be afraid of a pilgrim uprising, because the percentage of guards to workers was high. The Armory boasted a lot of heavy-duty riot control armament—force pikes and stun gas. The guards they met came from many different worlds. Besides humans, Han saw Rodians, Sullustans, Twi’leks, and porcine Gamorreans.

“So let me get this straight,” he said to Muuurgh as they skirted an area in the Administration Center that signs in many languages identified as RESTRICTED ACCESS. “The guards all sleep here most of the time? But why don’t they sleep near the pilgrims’ dormitory if the priests want to make sure the workers stay under control?”

“Sleep-time not the problem,” the Togorian said in his halting Basic. “After pilgrims are Exulted, can barely walk back, go sleep right away. Only time pilgrims get mad, angry at bosses, is before Exultation.”

Makes sense, Han thought dourly. Give the addicts their fix, and then they just sleep it off until the next day. “Then the guard patro—”

The pilot stopped in midword when he glimpsed something large and grayish gliding far down the corridor in the off-limits area. Han squinted into the dimness. “Hey … what was that?” he muttered. “That looked just like a—” Han broke off as the object turned the corner. He started after it at a good clip.

Muuurgh made a futile grab for his charge, but Han was quicker than the big alien and dodged. He jogged down the “forbidden” hallway, listening hard for the sound of footsteps, but none came.

When he reached the junction of the corridors, Han turned to stare up the one where he’d glimpsed that flicker of gliding motion. His eyes widened.

Hey, it is a Hutt! What’s a Hutt doing here? There was no mistaking the identity of that huge, sluglike form reclining on its repulsorlift sled.

As he hesitated, Muuurgh pounced on him as though he were a vrelt, and picked up the Corellian bodily. Han repressed a yelp of dismay as the Togorian tucked him under one muscled arm and ran back down the corridor, until they were back in the UNRESTRICTED ACCESS section of the Center.

Muuurgh set Han back on his feet and flexed a hand under the Corellian’s nose. “My people teach, everyone entitled to ONE mistake,” the bodyguard said. “Pilot just have his. No more mistakes, or Muuurgh have to teach Pilot like little cub. Muuurgh has given word of honor, remember. Understood?”

Han eyed the claws that gleamed under his nose, sharp and shiny as razors. “Uh … yeah,” he managed to say. “I understand, Muuurgh. Humans just get … curious, you know?”

“Curiosity fatal sometimes,” Muuurgh growled.

“I can see your point,” Han said dryly. “Or, rather, your points.”

Muuurgh stared at the sharp, shining tips of his claws, then his muzzle lifted back from his fangs, and he made a low, mewling sound. For a moment Han froze, then he looked at the Togorian and realized this was the alien’s form of laughter. Evidently Muuurgh had caught the joke.

Han managed a weak chuckle. “So, how about we get some food, then check out those factories, eh, pal?” he asked.

“Muuurgh always hungry,” the Togorian agreed, leading the way toward the mess hall. “What means this word ‘pal’?”

“Oh, a pal is a friend, a buddy, you know. Someone you spend time with that you like,” Han explained.

“Yessss …” the Togorian said, nodding. “Pilot means ‘packmate.’ ”

“Right.”

“Good,” the bodyguard said. “Muuurgh misses his packmates.”

   Han recalled Teroenza saying that his people came from Nal Hutta, the Hutt homeworld, but Han hadn’t realized that that meant there were Hutts living on Ylesia. When questioned, Muuurgh confirmed that he had seen several of the “slug masters who ride on air” as he called them.

There’s only one reason Hutts are here, Han thought. They’re the real masters of Ylesia. After all, they dominate the contraband spice trade …

Lunch was good, if unimaginative and (to Han’s taste) lacking in seasoning. Still, the cook was no slouch. His or her bread was very good, Han thought as he chewed on a bite of Alderaanian flatbread. He realized suddenly, with a pang, that it had been nearly a day since he’d thought of Dewlanna. The thought made him feel vaguely disloyal, but then he took himself in hand. Dewlanna wouldn’t want him to mope and grieve over her. She’d always enjoyed life, and she wouldn’t expect Han not to, just because she was gone …

He came back out of his reverie to find Muuurgh watching him curiously. “Pilot is thinking of someone far away,” the Togorian observed, waving the bone he had just finished gnawing. Tiny fragments of raw meat still clung to it, but Muuurgh had cleaned it impressively, Han thought. He had to get every little bit. It required a lot of raw meat to keep that massive body going.

“Yeah,” Han agreed with a sigh. “Someone about as far away as anyone can be.”

“Pilot have sweetheart?”

Han shook his head. “Well, there’ve been a few girls here and there,” he admitted, “but nobody special. No, I was thinking of the person who more or less raised me.”

Muuurgh took a huge gulp of some foamy stuff from a tankard. “Humans raise young much differently than my people do,” he said.

“Really? Tell me about your world.”

Muuurgh obediently launched into a description of Togoria, a world where males and females, though equal, did not mix their societies. Males lived a nomadic hunting existence, flying over the plains on their huge, domesticated flying reptiles, called “mosgoths.” They hunted in packs.

The females, on the other hand, had domesticated animals for meat, so they did not need to hunt. They lived in cities and villages, and it was the female Togorians who had developed all of the planet’s technology.

“Well, if your people don’t live together, how do you”—Han searched for a polite term—“uh … get together, you know, to … uh … reproduce?”

“We travel to city to stay with our mates once each year,” Muuurgh said. “Betweentimes, we think often of each other. Togorians very emotional people, capable of great love,” he added earnestly. “Especially males. Great love is why Muuurgh is here. Males of my species rarely leave our world, does Pilot know that?”

“I do now,” Han said. “So … Muuurgh … when you say great love made you come to Ylesia, what do you mean? Do you have a mate?”

The Togorian nodded. “Promised mate. Someday be mated for life, if Muuurgh can but find her.” The huge alien sighed, looking so woeful that Han felt sorry for him.

“What’s her name?”

“Mrrov. Beautiful, beautiful Mrrov. As Togorian females do, she decided to take look at big galaxy. Muuurgh begged her not to go, but females very stubborn.”

The alien looked at Han, who nodded. “Yeah, I’ve run into that myself.”

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

“So … did you?” Han took a sip of his Polanis ale.

“Muuurgh traced her, from world to world to world.”

“And?” Han prompted when the Togorian paused.

“And Muuurgh lost her. Someone on Ord Mantell said he saw her board ship at spaceport. Muuurgh check schedules, find out ship had many pilgrims on board. Several ports of call for ship. Muuurgh take chance, come here, because so many pilgrims come here.” The big felinoid sighed heavily and nibbled on a meat-dripping bone. “Gamble no good. Muuurgh ask, priests say no Togorians here. Muuurgh not know where else to go. Muuurgh need credits to continue search …” The alien swallowed a last bite, and his whiskers actually drooped.

“So you decided to take a job as a guard here, while you got enough money to go on searching,” Han said, guessing at the logical end of the story.

“Yessss …”

Han shook his head. “That’s sad, pal. I hope you find her, I really do. It’s tough to lose people that you love.”

The bodyguard nodded.

After lunch, they headed down to the factories and walked around the huge buildings. Han sniffed the air, smelling the odor of the different spices mingling. His nose tingled slightly, and he wondered if just smelling the spice could be intoxicating. He waved at the glitterstim building. “Let’s go inside. I’ve heard about how they process this spice, and I’d like to see it for myself.”

When they walked into the cavernous building, a guard stopped them and conferred with Muuurgh, who explained who Han was. The Rodian guard on duty 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 his language. “Yes, Pilot Draygo,” he said. “Below the ground floor, there are no visible lights permitted. You take the turbolift down. Each level down represents a one-grade increase in the quality of the spice. The longest and best fibers are processed far below ground, to eliminate any possibility of their being ruined by light.”

“Okay,” Han said, beckoning to Muuurgh. The two walked between aisles of supplies, to reach the platform turbolift in the center of the facility. “Let’s go all the way down and see the really good stuff,” he said to the Togorian. Privately, Han was wondering whether he might be able to light-finger some of those tiny black vials. Selling a little glitterstim on the side in a port city would increase his credit account by leaps and bounds …

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

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

Within one floor, all light was gone. Han fumbled for his goggles, pulled them up over his eyes. Immediately he could see, though everything was in shades of black and white. The illumination came from small light inserts in the walls. The turbolift plunged downward, and Han could see the workers as they crouched over their workstations. Piles of raw, fibrous threads studded with minuscule crystals lay piled before them.

Finally, six floors down, the turbolift ground to a halt. Han and Muuurgh got off. “Have you ever been here before?” he asked the bodyguard softly. Muuurgh’s neck fur was standing on end, and his white whiskers bristled beneath his goggled eyes.

“No …” the Togorian whispered back. “My people are plains-dwellers. Not like caves. Not like dark. Muuurgh will be happy when Pilot wishes to leave this place. Only Muuurgh’s word of honor keeps him here in wretched darkness.”

“Steady,” Han said. “We won’t be here that long. I just want to get a look around.”

He led the way into the factory. The cavernous area was filled with soft swishings, but was otherwise silent. Long tables lined the walls and were ranged in the aisleways. Each table was a workstation, and a worker sat or crouched, according to his, her, or its individual anatomy, 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, a furred Devaronian female, and identified themselves. The supervisor waved a reddish, sharp-nailed hand at the floor. “My workers are the most skilled,” she said proudly. “It takes skill to measure and trim the number of fibrous strands so each dose will contain the correct amount of spice. It is essential—but very difficult—to line up the fibers so precisely that they will all activate at the same moment when exposed to visible light.”

“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’s found deep in the tunnels on Kessel, and it must be mined in total darkness, 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 fracture against each other. If that happens, they grind each other into a far less potent—and valuable—powder. It can take a skilled worker an hour to properly align just one or two cylinders of glitterstim.”

“I see,” Han said, fascinated. “Do you mind if we just wander around? I promise we won’t touch anything.”

“You may. However, please avoid distracting any of the workers while they are aligning the spice. One inadvertent twist, as I said, could ruin an entire thread.”

“I understand,” Han said.

The raw glitterstim threads were all black, but Han knew from hearing about it that they would shine blue when they ignited in visible light. Han stopped behind one of the human workers and watched in fascination as the worker separated out threads of ebony-colored spice, aligning them with the utmost care. The threads curled around the worker’s fingers, some of them as fine-spun as silk, but the tiny crystals made them incredibly sharp.

The worker positioned one group of incredibly tangled threads in the jaws of a tiny vise, then proceeded to painstakingly separate out the threads, until the crystalline structures were aligned. The worker’s fingers moved almost too fast to watch, and Han realized that he was watching a highly skilled craftsman—no, woman. He was amazed that these pilgrims could actually accomplish something requiring this much dexterity. After seeing them last night following the “Exultation,” he’d more or less assumed that they were dull-witted cretins. They’d certainly looked like it …

The glitterstim worker took out a minuscule set of pliers to untangle a particularly bad snarl. She wormed the narrow-nosed pliers into the tangle, peering intently to find the place where the sharp little crystals were caught together. The fibrous glitterstim curled around her hands like tiny, living tentacles, the sharp little crystal glimmering. The worker abruptly brought her hand back, tugging, and suddenly the snarl straightened out until all the fibers aligned perfectly.

Except one.

Han watched in distress as one sharp-studded strand cut between the woman’s forefinger and thumb. A thin line of blood welled from the deep gash. Han sucked in a breath. A few centimeters deeper, and the tendon in her thumb would have been severed. She hissed with pain, then muttered something in Basic and, freeing her hand, held it to stop the 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 shapeless tan robe, her cap pulled down tightly over her goggled head. But now he realized she was young, not old. She grimaced slightly as she examined the cut. Turning her hand over, she twisted in her seat and held her hand over the floor, so the blood wouldn’t drip onto her workstation.

Han knew he wasn’t supposed to speak to the worker, but she wasn’t working at the moment, and he was concerned. She was bleeding profusely. “You’re hurt,” he said. “Let me call the supervisor so she can fix you up.”

The girl—she was his age, possibly younger—started slightly, then looked up at him. Her face was a whitish-green blur beneath her goggles and cap, and seemed deathly pale in the infrared light. No wonder, Han thought, cooped up down here all day long, no exposure to sunlight.

“No, please don’t,” she said, speaking Basic with that soft accent that placed her as being from Corellia’s southern continent. “If she sends me to the infirmary, I’ll miss the Exultation.” She shivered at the thought—though it might also have been from the cold. Han himself was beginning to feel chilly, and he hadn’t been down here for hours. How did these pilgrims stand it, working down here in the cold darkness all day?

“But that cut looks nasty,” Han protested.

She shrugged. “The bleeding 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’s nothing. Happens all the time.” With a wry smile, she held out her hands. Han sucked in a breath. Her fingers, wrists, and forearms were crisscrossed 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 realized they must be the fungus he’d discovered on himself that morning. As he watched, a phosphorescent tendril of the stuff suddenly spread, growing toward the cut between her finger and thumb. She uttered a soft exclamation and pulled it free.

“The fungus loves fresh blood,” she said, evidently noticing his distaste. “It can infect a cut and make you sick very easily.”

“Disgusting stuff,” Han said. “Are you sure you don’t need to get that treated?”

She shook her head. “As you can see, it happens all the time. Excuse me, but … you’re Corellian, aren’t you?”

“So are you,” Han said. “I’m Vykk Draygo, the new pilot. And you are?”

Her mouth tightened slightly. “I’m … not really supposed to be talking. I’d better get back to work.”

Muuurgh, who had been watching in silence, suddenly spoke up. “Worker is correct. Pilot must let worker return to work now.”

“Okay, pal. I understand,” Han said to the Togorian, but then he added to the Corellian woman, “But maybe we could talk some other time. Over supper, maybe.”

She shook her head silently and turned back to her work.

Muuurgh motioned 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’t all that big. So … what’s your name?”

She shook her head again, not speaking. Muuurgh growled, low in his throat, but Han just stood there, stubbornly.

The woman seemed disturbed by Muuurgh’s implied threat. As she fastened a bandage over her cut, she said, “We give up our names when we leave all worldly things for the spiritual sanctuary of Ylesia.”

Han was feeling increasingly frustrated. Here was someone who knew this place intimately, and she was the first person from his homeworld he’d discovered here. “Please,” he said as Muuurgh pushed him slightly. “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 Pilgrim 921,” she said hastily. Han got the impression that she had spoken up to save him from Muuurgh’s ire.

Muuurgh grabbed Han’s arm and began walking away, effortlessly dragging the Corellian. “Thank you, Pilgrim 921,” Han called back to her, waving jauntily, as though being half carried away by the Togorian was a normal occurrence. “Good luck with those fibers. I’ll be seeing you.”

She didn’t respond. When Muuurgh finally let him go, at the end of the aisle, Han followed the Togorian obediently, half expecting a lecture from the giant being. But Muuurgh seemed satisfied that Han would now obey him, and had relapsed into his former wary silence.

Han glanced back once and saw that the Corellian woman was again intent on 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 real idea of what she looked like, except for the fact that she was young.

Han walked all the way around the facility, watching several other workers as they aligned threads and crystals so they were entirely symmetrical. He didn’t attempt to speak to any of them. Finally he came back to the Devaronian supervisor. “So, when they’ve finished their work, who encases the threads and crystals in the vials?” he asked.

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

“Maybe I’ll just head up there,” Han said. “This is fascinating, you know.”

“Certainly,” she said.

Okay, so they finish up the processing of the really highgrade stuff up here, Han thought as he and Muuurgh ascended into the darkness. The Togorian let out a low yowl of protest when Han only took them up one floor.

“Take it easy, Muuurgh,” Han said. “I just want to take a quick look around here.”

He wandered the aisles, trying unobtrusively to spot the place where the high-grade glitterstim was enclosed in the tiny black vials that all 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 baskets over and dumped them. Han felt an air current waft past him, realizing that 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 a second. He saw a blur of movement, but couldn’t discern anything for a long second. Then, as he focused his eyes, he slowly made out oily, pebbled blackness barely visible against the black stone wall. But there were eyes in the midst of that blackness—beady reddish-orange eyes. Four of them. Han squinted, holding still, straining his vision. Then he saw two blasters, each strapped to a warty black thigh.

Aar’aa! he realized. Skin-changers!

The Aar’aa were an alien species from a planet on the other side of the galaxy. Denizens of Aar could gradually change color to match the color of the background behind them. This ability made them very difficult 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 the belowground factory was heated. Many reptiles became sluggish and dull-witted when it was cold.

Han peered into the dimness, and slowly, gradually, made out the outlines of the two Aar’aa guards. They had pebbly-textured skin, clawed hands and feet, and a small frill of skin running down their backs. Their heads were large, with overhanging brow ridges, beneath which 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 skin ran from between their eyes, back over the tops of their heads, to connect with the frill running down their backs.

Despite their clumsy appearance, they seemed fast on their feet. Han decided that he didn’t want to tangle with them. Although shorter than he was, they were broad in the shoulders, and certainly outweighed him by 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. They weren’t Gamorreans, so there wasn’t much chance of being able to bewilder, confuse, distract, or otherwise fast-talk any of them into handing over a fortune in spice. Han grimaced and started back for Muuurgh and the turbolift. And there is no Plan B, he thought glumly. Guess I’ll just have to earn all my credits the honest way.

It never even occurred to him that ferrying spice around the galaxy was, in itself, highly illegal …

   Pilgrim 921 nibbled on a stale grain-cake and tried to forget the young Corellian she had seen earlier. She was a pilgrim after all, part of the All, one with the One, and worldly concerns such as good-looking young men were behind her forever. She was here to work, so that she might be Exulted and offer her prayers for the blessing of the One as part of the All—and conversations with young men named Vykk had no part in that.

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

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

Still those sacrilegious thoughts kept intruding. Thoughts … memories, too. He was Corellian … and so was she.

Pilgrim 921 thought of her homeworld, and for just an instant allowed herself to remember it, to remember her family. Were her parents still alive? Her brother?

How long had she been here? 921 tried to remember, but the days here were all the same … work, a few morsels of unappetizing food, Exultation and prayers, then exhausted sleep. One day flowed into each other, 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 beneath flesh, prominent bones. Much more prominent than they had ever been before.

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 and sold all her jewelry to buy passage on a pilgrim ship? Seventeen … she’d just finished the last of her undergraduate schooling and had been looking forward to going off-world to attend the university on Coruscant. She’d been going to study … archaeology. With an emphasis on ancient art. Yes, that was it. She’d even spent a couple of summers working on a dig, learning to preserve ancient treasures.

She’d wanted to become a museum curator.

As a child, history had always been her favorite subject. She loved learning about the Jedi Knights, and was fascinated by their adventures. She’d grown up in the aftermath of the Clone Wars, and had been interested in that, too. And the birth of the Republic, so very, very long ago …

921 sighed as she swallowed a bite of dusty grain-cake. Sometimes it bothered her when she realized that her memories were fading, that her intelligence seemed to be fading, along with her ability to perceive the world outside. She knew that as a pilgrim, she was supposed to eschew all worldly things, to expunge from her mind and body the appreciation of fleshly pleasures.

In the old days, pleasure and having fun had been the focus of her life. In those days, her life had had little purpose, compared to now. In the 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 One conferred blessing upon her, through the priests. Exultation was the way the All communicated with the pilgrims. It was a deeply spiritual experience—and it felt so good …

921 thought that she’d successfully managed to expunge all memory of Vykk Draygo and his smile from her mind, so she went back to work on her 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 to forget Vykk Draygo and all he stood for …

   That night, Han skipped devotionals in favor of spending time with several of the sims. This was his first opportunity to earn an “honest” living, and he didn’t want to mess up. Han knew that citizens complained about how hard they had to work, and he figured that was essential for success. It was true that begging, pickpocketing, burglary, and scamming citizens frequently required considerable time and effort, but Han knew that somehow it just wasn’t comparable.

Heading for the sim station in his bedroom, Han began skimming through the system, accessing what was available to him. Teroenza had been as good as his promise, and the simulations were there. He scanned what was available, chose the sims he wanted to work on, and ordered the system 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’ve got to work for a while,” he said. “Why don’t you take some time for yourself?”

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 visihood, cutting himself off from contact with his real surroundings and plunging himself into a training flight that felt exactly like the real thing. The Togorian was uncomfortable with technology.

Han let himself sink into the sim, and within minutes the sim had accomplished one of its primary purposes—Han quite forgot that it was a sim. He was convinced that he was really piloting—really negotiating asteroid fields at high speeds, really piloting through the Ylesian atmosphere, really landing the craft under all sorts of adverse conditions.

The Corellian emerged from the sim two hours later, having successfully landed, flown, taken off, and performed the full range of maneuvers possible with the shuttle he’d be flying to Colony 2 and Colony 3 on the morrow. He’d also reviewed the controls on the transport vessels he’d be flying—the Ylesian Dream was being converted to manual piloting—as well as those on Teroenza’s private yacht.

By this time, the short Ylesian day was far spent. Muuurgh was dozing on the chair, but awoke instantly when Han stretched. Han eyed the Togorian, regretting that the alien was so alert. It was going to be very difficult to do the nighttime prowling that he had in mind …

   Muuurgh walked along behind Pilot, pleased that his charge had suggested heading over to the mess hall for a late supper. The Togorian was always hungry. His people were used to hunting and killing, then sharing their kill, so fresh meat was a constant part of their diets. Here, he had to make do with raw meat that had been frozen.

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 his skills—sharpened.

He missed his mosgoth, missed flying through the air on her back, feeling her powerful wing muscles propelling them through the skies of Togoria.

Muuurgh sighed. The skies on Togoria were a vivid blue-green, much different from the washed-out blue-gray color of Ylesia’s skies. He missed them. Would he ever see them again, would he ever fly his mosgoth toward a crimson sunset in those vivid skies?

The priests had made him sign a six-month contract for his services as a guard. He’d given his word of honor to fulfill that contract. It would be many ten-days before he could return to his search for Mrrov.

Muuurgh pictured her in his mind, her cream-colored fur, her orange stripes, her vivid yellow eyes. Lovely Mrrov. She’d been part of his life for so long now that not knowing her whereabouts was like an aching wound inside him. Could she have gone back to Togoria? Was she back on their world, waiting for him?

Muuurgh wished he could send a message to his homeworld, ask whether Mrrov had returned, but messages sent over interstellar distances were very expensive, and sending one would add nearly two months to his time here on Ylesia.

Still … Muuurgh considered, then thought that perhaps on one of their trips to fly spice to Nal Hutta, Pilot would not mind if Muuurgh sent a message. The Togorian didn’t really trust the Ylesian priests enough 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 were frequently like that. At least Pilot had accepted Muuurgh’s dominance as 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 liked him, and didn’t want to have to hurt him.

But if Pilot tried to break the rules, Muuurgh would not hesitate to hurt—even kill—the Corellian. Teroenza had given Muuurgh specific orders, and the Togorian would carry them out to the best of his ability. He’d given his word of honor, and that was the most important thing in the universe to his people.

The Togorian absently groomed his whiskers and facial fur, reflecting that as long as Pilot didn’t step out of line, everything was going to be just fine …