Star Wars_ The Han Solo Adventures - Brian Daley [221]
Near the cage was a circle of gleaming metal, broader than Han was tall, suspended from a framework, suggesting an enormous gong. It was inscribed with lettering of an unfamiliar type, consisting of whorls and squares alternating with dots and ideographs.
Closer in, toward the center of the light, was a wide metal table, a medi-lab appurtenance of some kind. Near it were piled the prisoners’ weapons and other equipment. The implication of the table hit them at once: a sacrificial altar.
Han was ready to make a break then and there; the pyramidal cage seemed firmly anchored to the rock, so sturdy that even Chewbacca’s thews wouldn’t prevail against it. But the Survivors had been through this procedure before. They were alert and careful, with weapons trained in clear lines of fire. Han noticed that the muzzles and harpoons were pointed toward the captives’ legs. If the scheduled sacrificees made any wrong moves, the Survivors could shoot and still not be deprived of their ritual.
This decided the pilot against any immediate action. There was still a chance his plan would work, provided Bollux and Blue Max were flexible enough to adapt to circumstances as they arose. The ’droid was separated from the rest of them, complying with their captors as Han had instructed him.
The other captives were chivvied to the cage, ushered to the circular door plate that swung open on oiled hinges. It took every scrap of Han’s resolve to enter the pyramid; once inside he stood there closely watching the Survivors’ preparations.
The strange people were decked out in their finest garb. Now that he understood a little more about them, Han could interpret the Survivors’ costume. A ground-crewman’s blast-suit had become, over generations, an insect-eyed getup. Spacesuit speaker grilles had evolved into pointy-fanged mouths painted on imitation helmets; communication antennae and broadcast directors were represented by elaborate spikes and antlers of metal. Back tanks and suit packs were adorned with symbolic designs and mosaics, while tool belts were hung with fetishes, amulets, and charms of all kinds.
The Survivors whirled, leaped, and tootled their instruments, striking finger chimes and drums. Two of them beat the great wheel of metal with padded mallets, the gongings resounding back and forth across the valley.
With the prisoners’ arrival, things began to build toward a climax. A man mounted a rostrum that had been set near the altar. A silence fell.
The man wore a uniform festooned with decorations and braid; his trousers were seamed with golden cloth. He wore a hat that was slightly small for him, its military brim glittering with giltwork, a broad, flashing medallion riding its high crown. Two aides set a small stand on the rostrum beside him. It held a thick circle of transparent material about the size of a mealplate.
“A log-recorder disk!” exclaimed Skynx. The others competed to ask him if he was sure. “Yes, yes; I’ve seen one or two, you know. But the Queen of Ranroon’s is back in the treasure vaults, is it not? What one is that, then?”
No one could answer. The man on the rostrum regaled the crowd, delivering loud phrases that they echoed back to him, applauding, whistling, and stomping their feet. Flickering torchlight made the scene seem even more primeval.
“He’s saying they’ve been a good and faithful people, that the proof is there with him on the rostrum, and that the High Command won’t forget them,” Skynx translated.
Han was amazed. “You understand that garble?”
“I learned it as Bollux did, from the data tapes, a pre-Republic dialect. Can they have been here that long, Captain?”
“Ask the Chamber of Commerce. What’s he saying now?”
“He said he’s their Mission Commander. And something about mighty forces afoot; the rescue they’ve been promised