THE PARADISE SNARE(35)

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 are.

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.