ONE

Woteba.

The last time Han Solo had been here, the planet had had no name. The air had been thick and boggy, and there had been a ribbon of muddy water purling through the marsh grass, bending lazily toward the dark wall of a nearby conifer forest. A jagged mountain had loomed in the distance, its pale summit gleaming against the wispy red veil of a nebular sky.

Now the air was filled with the aroma of sweet membrosia and slow-roasted nerf ribs, and the only water in sight was rippling down the face of an artificial waterfall. The conifer forest had been cut, stripped, and driven into the marsh to serve as log pilings beneath the iridescent tunnel-houses of the Saras nest. Even the mountain looked different, seeming to float above the city on a cushion of kiln steam, its icy peak almost scraping the pale-veined belly of the Utegetu Nebula.

"Interesting, what the bugs have done to the place," Han said. He was standing in the door of the glimmering hangar where they had berthed the Falcon, looking out on the nest along with Leia, Saba Sebatyne, the Skywalkers, and C-3PO and R2-D2. "Not so creepy after all."

"Don't call them bugs, Han," Leia reminded him. "Insulting your hosts is never a good way to start a visit."

"Right, we wouldn't want to insult 'em," Han said. "Not for a little thing like harboring pirates and running black membrosia."

He crossed a spinglass bridge and stopped at the edge of a meandering ribbon of street. The silver lane was packed with chest-high Killiks hauling rough lumber, quarried moirestone, casks of bluewater. Here and there, bleary-eyed spacers—human and otherwise—were staggering back to their ships at the sore end of a membrosia binge. On the balconies overhanging the tunnel-house entrances, glittered-up Joiners—beings who had spent too much time among Killiks and been absorbed into the nest's collective mind—were smiling and dancing to the soft trill of spinning wind horns. The only incongruous sight was in the marshy, two-meter gap that served as the gutter between the hangar and the street. A lone insect lay facedown in the muck, its orange thorax and white-striped abdomen half covered in some sort of dull gray froth.

"Raynar must know we've arrived," Luke said. He was still on the bridge behind Han. "Any sign of a guide?"

The bug in the gutter lifted itself on its arms and began to drum its thorax.

"I don't know," Han answered, eyeing the bug uncertainly. When it began to drag itself toward the bridge, he said, "Make that a maybe."

The Killik stopped and stared up at them with a pair of bulbous green eyes. "Bur r rruubb, ubur ruur."

"Sorry—don't understand a throb." Han knelt on the street's glimmering surface and extended a hand. "But come on up. Our protocol droid knows over six million—"

The insect spread its mandibles and backed away, pointing at the blaster on Han's hip.

"Hey, take it easy," Han said, still holding out his hand. "That's just for show. I'm not here to shoot anybody."

"Brubr." The Killik raised a pincer-hand, then tapped itself between the eyes. "Urrubb uu."

"Oh, dear," C-3PO said from the back of the bridge. "She seems to be asking you to blast her."

The bug nodded enthusiastically, then averted its eyes.

"Don't get crazy," Han said. "You're not that late."

"I think it's in pain, Han." Mara knelt on the street beside Han and motioned the insect to come closer. "Come here. We'll try to help."

Copyright © 2005 by Lucasfilm Ltd