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Han’s ears pricked up. Jiliac the Hutt was a very high-ranking Hutt Lord indeed. Maybe this Tagta would give him a recommendation to the boss …

“Hmmmmmmmm …” Han scratched his head, then named a sum. “And all in advance,” he added.

The Duros’s pale blue skin seemed to grow even paler, but then he nodded. “Very well as to the sum, but half up front. You will receive the rest from Tagta, Pilot Solo.”

Han considered, then nodded. “Okay, you’ve got yourself a deal. Chewie”—he turned to address the Wookiee, who was hovering nearby, listening intently—“go on back to that lockbox where we left our stuff and get it, will you, while I conclude my business with our friend here?”

The Wookiee rumbled a soft assent.

“Thanks. I’ll meet you on the north side of the town square in an hour, okay?”

Chewbacca nodded and moved off down the street.

Han walked closer to the Duros, and said, “Okay, you’ve got yourself a pilot. We’ll raise ship within two hours. Fill me in on the rest of it. Where do I find this Tagta the Hutt?”

Within minutes Han had all the details. The Duros handed over a sheaf of credit vouchers, gave him the ship’s security code, and the location of the vessel. Then the blue-skinned alien melted away into the dimness of the alley.

Han had a couple of minutes to kill, so he grabbed a quick bite at the cafe next door. He had to argue with the Devish female chef to get her to cook his meat. But it was worth it. The food drowned the last of the ale-induced muzziness. Clearheaded, his energy renewed, Han felt considerably cheered.

On his way to the town square, he stopped off at a secondhand shop that catered to spacers of all species. There he bought a beat-up black lizard-hide jacket to replace the one the Barabel had shredded. Respectably clothed again, he started up the street toward his rendezvous with Chewbacca.

Han knew something was up long before he reached the town square. The sound of a huge crowd was unmistakable. They seemed to be shouting in unison. The skin at the back of Han’s neck prickled suddenly as he realized that there was something familiar about those words. They weren’t in Basic, but he’d heard those simple, repetitious phrases before.

But where?

I’ve got a bad feeling about this … he thought, turning the corner and seeing the crowd. They were chanting. Chanting, swaying, rocking with religious fervor. Mostly Devaronians, of course, but there were a smattering of humans and other sentients. Han’s gaze raked the crowd, following it to the front. A hastily erected dais stood there, and atop it, leading the revival, stood a figure out of Han’s past.

Oh, no! he thought. This is a Ylesian revival, and that missionary is Veratil! I can’t let him see me!

Five years ago, Han had spent almost six months on the steaming, fungus-infested world of Ylesia. He’d been working as a pilot before taking the examinations to get into the Academy, practicing and honing his piloting skills. Ylesia was a world at the edge of Hutt space, where a race of beings called the t’landa Til—distant cousins of the Hutts—offered “pilgrims” supposed religious sanctuary.

The t’landa Til sent missionaries to many worlds to preach about the One and the All. Han had known that for years, but he’d never been unlucky enough to run into a Ylesian revival before now.

For a wild moment the Corellian wanted to draw his blaster, shoot Veratil down, and yell to the assembled crowd of potential pilgrims, “Go home! It’s all a big fake! They just want you so they can enslave you, you fools! Get out of here!”

But how could he make them believe him? To most sentients in the galaxy, Ylesia was perceived as a place of religious retreat, where the faithful gathered, and those wishing to hide from their pasts could find sanctuary.

The fact that the Ylesian “sanctuary” would turn out to be a trap was known only to the lucky few—like Han—who’d managed to escape. No doubt Veratil had a transport standing by to load the pilgrims on board. Unfortunate sentients who followed him would have no idea that their voyage to Ylesia would