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 ˇ .
. 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 high-grade 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. Skinchangers!
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 goodlooking 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.