Han had a few questions to ask the Sullustan …
7
Bria
Muuurgh 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?”