Star Wars: The Han Solo Trilogy I: The Paradise Snare (19 page)

The minute the High Priest saw Han, his expression (which Han was beginning to be able to read) turned positively benevolent. “Pilot Draygo!” he boomed. “I understand you are a hero! Your bravery and courage are beyond price, but I have ordered a bonus to be placed in your account.”

Han blinked, then smiled. “Thanks, sir.”

“We have lost two ships that failed to return from their rendezvous points over the past year and a half,” Teroenza
continued. “You are the first pilot to get a look at your attackers and return to tell us who they were. What did you see?”

Han shrugged. “Well, it all happened real fast, and I was kinda busy, sir. But I’m pretty sure that the ship I destroyed was a Drell-built ship. Looked like it. That chisel-shaped prow and stubby stern are pretty distinctive.”

“Did they communicate with you? Give you a chance to surrender before attacking?”

“No, they shot first, and just kept on shooting. They weren’t trying to destroy the
Dream
, because if they had been, they’d have done it. But they had no interest in the ship, which was strange—most pirates would try to disable the ship enough to take it, while leaving it easy to repair so they could use it or sell it. These guys were out to cripple the
Dream
, and kill me and Muuurgh.”

“How did they attack?”

“From behind. They could’ve nailed us before we even knew they were there. They had at least two clear shots, and the shielding on the
Dream
isn’t that good.” As he remembered the battle, Han took a deep breath. “I think we need to strengthen the shielding, sir.”

“I will order that to be done, Pilot,” Teroenza agreed. The huge t’landa Til folded his tiny arms, and his massive forehead wrinkled as he considered what Han had told him. “Interesting that they attacked first, without engaging a tractor beam and attempting to gain your surrender.”

“Yeah … that’s what I thought.”

Han had known several traders aboard the
Luck
that had spent time on pirate crews, and had listened to them bragging about their adventures. A straight-out attack wasn’t the usual pirate style; it would have been more typical for a deep-space pirate to fire a warning shot, then, after the pilot had surrendered, board the ship. “It’s funny, it’s like they planned to disable the
Dream
, probably killing me and Muuurgh in the process, and
then
board her when she was dead in space.”

“No communication or demand for surrender at all.”

“None,” Han affirmed.

Teroenza smoothed the loose folds of flesh beneath his chin thoughtfully. “Almost as though they were willing to risk destroying the
Dream
and her cargo rather than communicate with you …”

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

“How close were you to the rendezvous point when you were attacked?”

“We’d come out of hyperspace less than five minutes before. No doubt, sir, they were waiting for us. They knew we were coming.”

“Had you made any transmissions referring to your course or coordinates, Pilot Draygo?”

“No, sir. As instructed, I maintained strict silence on all frequencies.”

Teroenza rumbled thoughtfully, deep in his chest, then nodded his massive horned head. “Again, I commend your bravery. How is Muuurgh?”

“He’ll be okay. Took a hard blow to the head, though.”

“I will want to speak to him when he is well enough. Very well, Pilot, you are dismissed.”

Han stood his ground. “Sir … I’d like to ask a favor.”

“Yes?”

“My blaster was taken from me when I arrived on Ylesia. I’d like it returned. If there’s any chance I might be boarded by pirates sometime in the future, I want to be able to shoot back.”

Teroenza considered for a moment, then nodded agreement. “I will order your weapon returned to you, Pilot. You have certainly demonstrated your loyalty and earned our trust by your actions these last few days.” The huge being waved a small hand. “Tell me, Pilot Draygo, did it never occur to you to attempt to sell your cargo and tell us it had been stolen by the pirates?”

Han shook his head. “Nossir, it didn’t,” he said earnestly.

“Very good. I am … impressed.” Teroenza’s wide, lipless mouth curved up in what was evidently meant as a smile of approval. “Most impressed …”

Han walked out of the Administration Building, thankful that he’d been able to lie convincingly since he was seven.
He was especially proud of his ability to fabricate on a moment’s notice.

His footsteps took him down the path toward the infirmary. Time to check up on Muuurgh, see how the Togorian was doing. Also … it was time to meet Jalus Nebl, the Sullustan pilot who’d been placed on sick leave.

Han had a few questions to ask the Sullustan …

M
uuurgh was lying curled up on one of the large pallets his species used as beds. Han walked over to the Togorian and sat down beside him. “How’s the head?”

“My head still hurts,” Muuurgh said. “The medical droid says I must stay here tonight. But I told him no, I could not do that, because Vykk might need me.”

“No, I’m fine,” Han assured the big felinoid. “I’m going to visit the Sullustan, eat dinner, do a few sims, and engage in a little target practice. Then I’m gonna turn in early. It’s been a long day.”

“Did Vykk tell Teroenza about the pirates?”

“Yeah, I did. He’s gonna want to talk to you when you’re up to it. And … good news. Teroenza’s giving me my blaster back.”

“Good,” Muuurgh said. “Vykk needs to protect himself from pirates.”

“That’s what I pointed out, pal.” Han stood up. “Listen, I’m going next door, talk to the other pilot. I’ll check back on you tomorrow morning, okay?”

Muuurgh stretched luxuriously, then curled up on his pallet, looking almost like a huge black, furry circle. “Okay, Vykk.”

Han walked down the corridor until he found the medical droid, then he asked to be guided to the Sullustan pilot’s room.

Once he reached it, Han signaled the door chime and, a moment later, heard a voice say in Sullustan, “Enter.”

Han opened the door, only to be met by a wall of forced air that covered the doorway like a curtain. Han had to step through the doorway, into cool, refreshing air. The door sealed shut behind him with a hiss.
Canned air
, Han realized.
They’ve got the Sullustan on a recirculating air system, so he’s not breathing Ylesian air. Wonder why?

Jalus Nebl was sitting before an entertainment vid-unit, where a galactic news documentary was in progress. Han walked over and offered his hand to the big-eyed, droopy-jowled being. “Hi, I’m Vykk Draygo, the new pilot. Pleased to meet you.”

He spoke in Basic, hoping the alien understood it. The jowly alien nodded at Han and said, in his own rapid-fire shrill language, “Do you understand the tongue of my people, or shall we require a translator to converse?”

“I understand it,” Han said in extremely halting Sullustan, “but speak it only bad. Understand Basic you okay?”

“Yes,” the Sullustan said. “I understand Basic quite well.”

“Good,” Han said, reverting back to his own tongue. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Please, do so,” the pilot answered. “I have been wishing to speak with you for some time, but I have been quite ill and, as you can see, confined to these few rooms where the air is specially filtered for me.”

Han sat down on a low bench and looked closely at the alien. He couldn’t see any outward damage. “That’s too bad, pal. What happened? Overwork?”

The Sullustan’s small, wet mouth pursed unhappily. “Too many missions, yes. Too many storms, I flew through. Too many almost crashes, my friend. One day I awoke, and my hands”—the Sullustan held out his small, delicate hands with their narrow oval claw-nails—“my hands would not stop trembling. I could no longer handle the controls of my ship.” The alien’s already mournful expression grew even sadder. Han almost expected to see tears well up in those big, already wet eyes.

Han looked at the alien’s hands and saw that they were, indeed, shaking uncontrollably. He felt a mixture of dismay and pity.
Poor guy! That’d be awful!
“That’s a bum deal, pal,” he said. “Was it just, y’know, your nerve being shot, or what?”

“Pressure, yes,” the Sullustan agreed. “Too many missions, little rest, over and over. Too many storms. But also … too much hauling of glitterstim. Medical droid says I have bad reaction to it. Makes Jalus Nebl very sick indeed.”

Han shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “You mean you’re allergic to glitterstim?”

“Yes. Discovered this as soon as I began hauling it, and tried to stay away from it, but it is in the very air of this world. Even locked in those vials, tiny traces escape to the air. When Jalus Nebl breathes it in, over days, weeks, more than a planet year … causes bad effects. Muscle tremors. Slowed reflexes. Stomach is upset, breathing grows hard …”

“So
that
’s why they’ve got you confined to the infirmary, with these filters running,” Han said. “Trying to get it out of your system.”

“Correct. I
want
to fly again, friend and fellow pilot Draygo. You are one of few who can understand this, correct?”

Han thought of how he’d feel if he couldn’t fly anymore—if he’d been so overworked and poisoned by spice exposure that his hands shook all the time—and he nodded. “Hey, pal,” he said sincerely, “I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll
be better soon.” He lowered his voice, and switched to trader’s argot. “Understand you trader-talk, friend?”

The Sullustan nodded. “Not speak,” he replied, equally softly, “but understand fine.”

Han glanced up at the ceiling. Were the Ylesians or their security monitoring this room? No way to be sure. But he hadn’t met too many droids who could translate trader’s argot, because it was a bastardized mix of a dozen or more tongues and several dialects, with no fixed syntax. He waved up the volume on the newscast higher … higher, then mouthed, barely making any sound, “Friend-pilot, when hands grow steady, then if me you, not say farewell, just fly off bad spice world, quick quick. Understand?”

The Sullustan nodded.

Han lowered the volume slightly, then went on, as if nothing had happened, “I got attacked by pirates the other day.”

The Sullustan leaned forward. “What happened?”

“They shot up my ship, damaged the hyperdrive engines, but I managed to get one of them with a missile,” Han said, gesturing “boom” with his hands. “Had to put into Alderaan for repairs. Ever been there?”

“Nice world,” the Sullustan commented dryly. “Too nice, for some things.”

“Tell me about it,” Han said with feeling. “Anyway, when I came back here, Teroenza had a hundred questions about what kinds of ships the pirates were in, why they didn’t fire warning shots or try to commandeer the
Dream
, stuff like that. I got the distinct impression that there was more to this attack than just a random pirate raid. For one thing, they were waiting for me at the rendezvous point. How’d they find out those coordinates?”

“Ah,” said Jalus Nebl. “There may indeed be much behind this attack, Pilot.”

“Please … call me Vykk. Us pilots gotta stick together.”

“You call me Nebl, then. My nest-name.”

“Thanks. So what do you think is going on?”

“I believe that the t’landa Til are worried that these ‘pirate’
vessels may instead be from Nal Hutta. Hutt-dispatched ships, masquerading as pirates.”

Han whistled softly. “By all the Minions of Xendor … that takes the cake. The Hutts are fighting against each other?”

“Is not hard to believe if you have ever spent time among Hutts,” Nebl said dryly. “Hutt alliances are made and broken on the spin of a credit-coin. Hutt loyalty melts away in the face of loss of profit or power, you know?”

“I’m beginning to see a pattern, here,” Han said, shifting uneasily on the hard bench, thinking of how close he’d come to being cosmic dust. “There are factions of Hutts on Nal Hutta?”

“Oh, yes. One family or clan will gain power and wealth, only to fall when another family plots their demise. It is no wonder that Hutts are the most distrustful of sentients—being a food-taster for a Hutt is most likely a job of short duration, Vykk. It is very difficult to poison a Hutt, but that does not stop assassins from trying it—and, occasionally, succeeding. And the clans are not above using missiles, assassins, or ground troops to accomplish their goals.”

“But the Hutts are the ones who are really running this place,” Han pointed out.

“Ah! You saw Zavval, then?”

“If that’s the bloated sonofagun who rides around on that repulsor sled, I sure did. Haven’t had the honor yet of meeting him face-to-face.”

“Pray you never do, Vykk. Zavval, like most Hutts, is not easy to please. The priests can be hard masters to satisfy, but compared to the Hutts,
their
masters, they are nothing.”

“So, what’s going on with this world? You’ve got Hutts running this world, who’re clashing with other clans of Hutts on Nal Hutta—why?” Han thought for a moment, then answered his own question. “Oh. Of course. For the spice.”

“Naturally. The Hutts and the t’landa Til, their caretakers, profit in two ways from Ylesia. First, there is the processed spice. But the Ylesian Hutts must
buy
their spice
from other Hutt families who provide the raw materials. Have you ever heard of Jiliac or of Jabba?”