For a moment he wished he could be the one to do it. Then Han reminded himself that sticking one’s neck out for others was a good way to get one’s head and shoulders permanently separated. So why are you doing all this for Bria? his treacherous mind asked sarcastically.
Because, his heart answered, Bria’s safety has become as important to me as my own. I can’t help it, it’s just the way things are …
Now that he’d accomplished what he’d come here to do, Han began to think about how to gracefully (metaphorically speaking) extract himself from the mud and the company of the priests.
He was rescued by the arrival of a Hutt, who came gliding over the mudflat on his repulsorlift sled. A small squad of guards trotted vigorously alongside, panting in the humid heat as they struggled to keep up.
“Zavval!” Teroenza hailed his Hutt overlord, standing respectfully.
Feeling like a fool, Han did likewise.
This was the Corellian’s first close-up encounter with a Hutt, and he tried not to stare at the creature’s huge, recumbent form, the enormous, pouchy eyes amid the leathery tan skin, and the green slime that oozed from the corners of the being’s mouth. Ugh … they’re even uglier than Teroenza and his crew, Han thought. He reminded himself that Hutts had been civilized for probably longer than his own species—but he still couldn’t quite eliminate the revulsion their appearance caused.
Or maybe it was just the knowledge that it was the Hutts who’d dreamed up the idea of running a religion on Ylesia as a cheap way to enslave innocent sapients that repulsed him.
The Hutt leaned toward Teroenza and said in Huttese, “I’ve received a message from home. Jabba and Jiliac deny everything, and we have no proof.
The clan council has refused to …” Han couldn’t catch the word, “so we have no other way to …” and he finished with a phrase that Han couldn’t translate.
“Regrettable,” replied Teroenza in Huttese. “What about my requisition for more troops, armament, and shielding for our ships, Your Excellency?”
“Approved,” Zavval said. “Should be arriving any day.”
“Good.”
Teroenza continued, in Basic, “Zavval, I would like you to meet our brave pilot, Vykk Draygo, who saved our shipment of glitterstim.”
The huge Hutt chuckled, a “hell, hell, hell” sound that was so deep and resonant that Han could feel it as well as hear it. “Greetings, Pilot Draygo. You have our lasting gratitude.” “Thank you, sir …”
Teroenza waved an undersized arm. “The correct form of address is ‘Your Excellency,’ Pilot Draygo.”
“Okay, then. Thank you, Your Excellency. I’m honored to be able to serve you.”
The Hutt chuckled again, and said to Teroenza in Huttese, “A most polite and perceptive young man—for a human. Have you arranged for a bonus? We want to keep him happy.”
“Yes, I have, Your Excellency,” Teroenza replied.
Han, of course, did not let on that he’d understood any of the exchanges in Huttese.
“Good, good,” Zawal said.
Han stood watching as the alien turned his repulsorlift sled and glided away. Teroenza and Veratil began slogging their way out of the mud with grunts of effort. The High Priest addressed Han in Basic. “His Excellency is pleased with your performance, Pilot. Has the factory foreman informed you as to when the next shipment will be ready for transport?”
Han, too, was squishing his way toward the bank. “He said at the end of the week, sir. In the meantime, there are two shipments of pilgrims due in at the space station, one tomorrow, one the day after.”
“Good. We don’t want to be shorthanded in the factories.”
Once back on the bank, Han scooped up his clothes, then turned east and gestured in the direction of the ocean, a kilometer away. “I think I’ll walk over and rinse off,” he said, “before I get dressed.”
“Ah, yes,” said Veratil, “we use the mud as a cleansing agent, but it does not cling to our skins the way it appears to cling to yours. Once dry, all we need to do is shake”—he gave a pronounced shudder, and dust rose in clouds—”and it all flakes away, as you can see.”
“Yes, I see that,” Han said. “But I’ll have to use water to rinse.”
“Be careful not to go too far into the ocean, Pilot Draygo,” Teroenza cautioned. “Some of the denizens of the Ylesian oceans are quite large, and very hungry.”
“Yessir,” Han said.
Holding his clothes and boots away from his red, mud-covered body, Han began picking his way barefoot toward the ocean. He couldn’t see it yet, because of a ridge of sand dunes, but he could smell the warm, brackish water.