Quest for the Well of Souls

by Jack L. Chalker

  But her eyes were shining. After all these years—the great game was on again, the game she was born to play.

  "Fire's already down, probably almost out," he noted, uncomfortable. "Want to see what we can salvage?"

  "We'll keep away, spend tonight here in the bushes," she responded, tone still businesslike but with that same excited undertone.

  "The natives—" he began, but she cut him short.

  "Won't come close on Ship's Day, no matter what. You know that." If they did, they would risk the wrath of the Ambreza.

  "What about the Ambreza?" he pressed, trying to find some way to return to the comfort of his old situation. It was all he'd known since the fire that scarred him.

  "No flares were fired, so they're not alerted," she pointed out. "If they don't have a random patrol in this area they might not find out about what happened until it's too late."

  He looked at her strangely. "Too late for what?"

  "I haven't tried to escape in so many years they take it for granted now," she pointed out. "No tight watches any more. But even though I long ago gave up on the idea, I always kept a trove, just in case. You know that. The dried tobacco in the back shed and the little gold bars I've collected over the years by bartering the stuff through the Trader."

  He nodded. "I always thought that was all it was for—petty bribes. I never thought—"

  "Stay alive, think of everything," she said evenly. "Now, if we're lucky, our little bank account there will buy us a smuggle on the Toorine Trader."

  * * *

  The Trader arrived in early morning. Mavra and Joshi could see its sails as it rose from the clear horizon, great masts holding weathered white clouds.

  It was hardly the only ship on the Sea of Turagin, but it was one of only six packet-boats to make a complete circuit, servicing all the hexes who cared to, or needed to, get trade and transportation. It was a grand ship, almost a hundred meters long, made of the finest copper-clad hardwood. The crew would have preferred steel, but that proved too heavy for fast movement under sail.

  It was a three-master, with odd bowsprit and gunwales through which a wicked-looking cannon could peer if needed. But its central housing also bore twin black smokestacks over an engine, which, in all but nontech hexes, could power huge twin screws in the rear. Everod, the sea hex adjoining the coast of Glathriel, was nontech; its denizens, huge clamlike beings with masses of tendrils piercing their shells, were deep-water types, and there was never any real contact between them and the land-dwellers, nor did they seem to mind the surface commerce that the Trader represented. In fact, they, too, used the Trader, placing orders with its Zone broker and having what they needed weighted and dropped to them.

  The Trader's crew of thirty-four was an amalgam of Turagin races. Batlike Drika stood the night watches and occasionally scouted ahead for storms. The scorpions of Ecundo climbed her rigging deftly and managed the sails with claws of amazing versatility. The captain resembled a great tangled ball of nylon twine, out of which spindly limbs appeared as needed.

  They took in sail, and stood to, anchoring on a reef that was marked with yellow buoys. Not good for business to anchor in deep water and maybe conk an Everod on the shell.

  The longboat was lowered off the stern, and large oars raised and lowered in cadence as it headed toward the compound.

  The first mate, a shiny triangular Wygonian, whose six tentacles looked like huge, furry pipe cleaners, scanned the shore through his small stalk-mounted eyes, occasionally muttering instructions to his muscular Twosh oarsmen. When he finally noticed the crushed wall of the compound, he shouted to the oarsmen to slow. A few wisps of smoke still rose from the interior, and he knew something was wrong.

  Mavra and Joshi trotted onto the beach just up-shore from the longboat and walked to the landing. The sight of them put the mate more at ease, and the longboat turned and docked easily.

  They were old friends by now. Many of the Trader's crew had been with the ship, off and on, for a decade, and their contract had always called for this supply stop.

  "Mavra!" Tbisi, the mate, called to her. "What in the world happened here?"

  Quickly she explained the previous night's visitation and her own fears. The crewmen nodded sympathetically; they knew why she was here and why she was the way she was.

  "So, you see, we can't stay here," she concluded, "and we can't go back to the Ambreza. You know what would happen. Ortega would just take us to Zone and lock us up in a nice little cage for the rest of our lives." Tbisi was pretty low to the ground, and Mavra could almost look into its strange face and eyes. "Imagine what that means, Tibby! Think about if somebody told you that they were going to take you off the Trader and put you in a nice dark hole for the rest of your days!"

  Not only the mate but the Twosh as well nodded sympathetically. "But what can we do to help?" the mate asked, feeling his tendrils were tied.

  She gestured to the compound with her head. "There's almost a half-ton of vintage tobacco and about thirty pounds of gold in there. It's yours if you get us out of here."

  "But where will you go?" Tbisi asked in a tone that was more an objection than a question.

  "Gedemondas," she replied. "Oh, I know it doesn't have a coast, but you serve Mucrol next door. A little detour?"

  He shook his incredibly thin head slowly. "True, we could do it, but not directly. We have our own jobs, our own livelihoods to consider. It'd be at least a month, maybe more. If Ortega or anybody else is looking for you, the Trader's going to be pretty obvious."

  She considered what he said. "How about this, then. Take us across to the island, to Ecundo. I know you stop there. We'll make it overland through Ecundo and Wuckl and meet you on the other side, say at the Wuckl port of Hygit. Then it's only a short hop across."

  The mate was still dubious. "I don't know. It's true we have some Ecundans, good people, in the crew; but that's a nasty bunch generally. The ones we have are mostly wanted men back home. Those Ecundans are a vicious bunch who don't like outsiders."

  She nodded. "I know that. But they herd bundas, and, if you think about it, bundas look something like us with hair. A lot of it's open range—we could make it across, I think."

  "But the Ecundans eat bundas," Tbisi pointed out. "They might just eat you, too. And what will you eat? You're talking about 350 kilometers across Ecundo, then all the way across Wuckl—almost a thousand kilometers in all, on foot."

  "These Wuckl," Joshi asked, "what are they like?"

  "High-tech hex. Kind of hard to describe. Nice folks, really, and vegetarians. I'm sure you'd have no trouble if you explained your problem, although they might not help much. But—wait a minute! I'm talking like this crazy thing is going to work! Hey, look! If you're right, Mavra, and somebody is trying to get rid of you as a threat to that ship, won't Ortega need you then?"

  She laughed derisively. "For all I know Ortega's gotten impatient and decided to kill off all three pilots. Besides, even if not, it might just be that one side or the other has a lead and has decided to act just to foreclose any potential threat. It doesn't matter—I have to act as though that's the case. Please! Won't you help me?"

  They would, could, and finally decided to. Any good seaman would chance the unknown rather than sit waiting for death to creep in.

  They understood her.

  South Zone

  Serge Ortega stared curiously at the crystalline crablike form that had just entered. Though there was no face, and no eyes, ears, or other orifices, it could speak, the operator modulating small crystals inside the creature, which in turn modulated a translator.

  "You are the Ghiskind?" Ortega asked, genuinely curious.

  "At your service, Ambassador."

  Ortega considered the Northerner. "I—ah—take it that this is not exactly your normal form, but is for my benefit?"

  "That is so," the Ghiskind acknowledged. "It is one of my worker modules, which I have modified with the necessary speaking devices. Our own form of communi
cation is, shall we say, nonverbal. I do wish to thank you for providing the translator; it is a fascinating device."

  "My pleasure. And now, down to work. You know about this business with the Torshind and the Yaxa and the ship, of course."

  "Of course. The authorities have tried to keep things quiet, but I had the good fortune to be near the Zone Gate when the Yaxa materialized. Its nature was immediately apparent—it radiated carbon. I guess that is the best way to put it. It is so difficult, putting these concepts into a form easily understood by you."

  The Ulik nodded. "Never mind that. The real questions are more basic. For example, why have you chosen to contact me instead of one of the others, and why are you going against your own government? And, of course, can you do the job we'll require—and why?"

  "A long series," noted the Ghiskind. "As for why you, the answer is that you are on record as opposing the Yaxa all along, which means, as well, that you are against the Torshind."

  Ortega's bushy eyebrows went up. Ah ha! he thought to himself.

  "As for going against my own government," the Ghiskind continued, "well, first it is rather much of a tradition in Yugash to go against the government. A silly game in any event—the government has no true power, only the business clans. No, the government is quite out of this, really."

  "The Torshind represents a commercial rival, then?" Ortega guessed.

  "Not at all," the Yugash replied. "The Torshind represents the—ah, let me see . . . concepts, concepts—I suppose the closest thing I can get to it, although you will probably misunderstand, is a church. At least, an organized cult that has rigid dogmatic beliefs and is rather fanatical about them."

  Ortega thought it over. "Cult is good enough for me. Doesn't matter much what it believes—or is that relevant?"

  "Relevant, yes," the Ghiskind responded. "Once they had great power. Once, when the Markovians were supervising departures, they managed to go out in the bodies of some of these people, to spread the faith and power of the cult, so to speak. They are the reason for much of our social and political isolation, for they regard all other creatures as tools, like this device, for their use and pleasures."

  "I thought you couldn't read minds, even when occupying a host body," Ortega interrupted nervously.

  The crystal creature shook. "You misunderstand. Knowledge, no. But they can disrupt the brain, of course, cause damage, cripple, induce madness. They can feel—as all Yugash can—what the host body senses—sex, masochism, sadism, whatever, at no risk to the Yugash inside. And they can trigger such sensations by stimulating the centers responsible for such feelings in the brain. It is only a matter of experimenting to find where each is and what each does."

  Serge Ortega shivered. "But you are not like this?" he prodded, somewhat discomforted.

  "Most Yugash are not," the Ghiskind assured him. "Overall, the percentage of basically good to basically bad people is probably about the same as with any other race. I can guess your thinking. Some terrors of your own people's past—particularly the institutional ones—may have been caused by Yugash, but we have never been many and we reproduce slowly or not at all in hostile environments. Possibly my most terrible suggestion is that most such activities are not Yugash-derived but native-born."

  He made a good if uncomfortable point. Ortega did not belabor it.

  "So that cult is no longer the dominant factor in Yugash, and the government's a nothing. This means that you represent—who, then?"

  The Ghiskind had no trouble with this one. "As I said, Yugash is divided into and ruled by business clans. Some, like my own, are at their saturation point in Yugash. We can not expand, we can only stagnate at present levels. My own business is enough removed from your kind of life that even explaining it is impossible. But there are a great many hexes—Northern mostly, but a few Southern as well—who can use our skills. However, with the cult still around—and the embargo has been in effect for so long it's an institution taken for granted—we cannot deal with anyone. My company, therefore, has sent me on a twofold mission. For one thing, to deny the Torshind and its kind any new outlet to other worlds and races. Second, to restore Yugash's credibility by working in joint operations with others, in the North and the South, to a positive end and in an honorable manner—and, in so doing, to reopen those long-dead channels of communication."

  What he said was plausible. "But what guarantees do I have?" Ortega asked, apologetic. "I mean, I have only your word . . ."

  The Ghiskind had a ready reply. "There are ways to prevent a Yugash from entering and controlling a body," it replied. "We will reveal these to you. Also, occupation isn't as simple a matter as you think. Were I to try and seize your body now, you would fight me—and the stronger mind would win. Even if I gained control, it would take practice to learn your nervous system properly so that I could control you and not kill you. And, remember, we do not have a spaceship pilot!"

  That, of course, was the clincher.

  "All right, then, Ghiskind, I think we have a deal. I had the pressurized hardware made up a long time ago, but it'll have to be checked out, possibly refitted." He paused for a moment, as if in thought, then added, "You realize, of course, that if we can not get into the computer I intend to destroy things so that nobody else will ever get there, either."

  The crystal shook again, apparently nodding. "Of course. Were it not for the potential threat to the Well itself I would say blow the ship now and be done with it."

  "The Yaxa group is at least two months from completing its hardware," Ortega noted. "Shall we say—thirty days on this spot?"

  "Done," replied the Ghiskind. "In the meantime, let me acquaint you with the terrain and logistical problems involved. I assume you have already talked to the Bozog?"

  Ortega smiled. "Oh, yes. Those little rolling bastards shouldn't be underestimated. If we can get them a pilot, they can get the ship."

  He sighed, suddenly deep in thought. Then he reached over with his lower right hand and pulled open a drawer, taking out a thick file. chang was written on its cover.

  Now, after all these years, I can pay my own debts, he thought. He punched an intercom button with his middle right hand.

  "Sir?" came the crisp voice of a female Ulik.

  "Zudi, tell the Ambreza to bring Mavra Chang through the Zone Gate to me. They'll know what it all means. And tell them to bring Joshi, too, if she and he want."

  "Right away, sir," the secretary replied.

  He felt better. He'd been wanting to give that order desperately for twenty-two years.

  Glathriel

  The Parmiter groaned. It wore a partial body cast. Grune, the big lizard who'd been burned, sympathized from beneath the massive bandages on its back and side.

  "Oh, shut up, both of you," snapped the other great lizard known as Doc. "Damn it, if Grune, here, hadn't rolled onto me, I'd still have had her!"

  "You didn't happen to be on fire," Grune responded angrily. "Want me to put a torch to you and see if you roll right?"

  "Take it easy, both of you!" the Parmiter responded. "This bickering gets us nowhere. We're still alive, we've still got this ship and a well-paid crew of nasties, and we've still got the problem of snatching this Chang."

  "Why don't we just drop it?" Grune snarled. "Hell, piracy and robbery might not pay as well, but I sure never got fried doin' it."

  "We can't and you know it!" the Parmiter retorted. "There's big money behind this job. You know the only ones with enough to outfit a ship like this in nothing flat and put up the kind of front money for a crew and expenses we got is a hex government. A government, dummy! One crooked enough that it knew who we were, where to find us, and that we'd take the job. If it knows that and is indeed a government, we'd have to emigrate to the Northern Hemisphere to save our necks anywhere on this world—and even that might not be enough."

  That thought quieted them, so the Parmiter was again able to concentrate. "Look," it said, "let's think this through. We've already gone back in and seen t
hat the compound's deserted. The natives were in an uproar, so they don't know what happened. No sight of any Ambreza yet, so they haven't got her. So, where is she?"

  "Hiding out in the woods, most likely," Grune suggested. "Or on the run for some hex."

  "Right!" the Parmiter responded. "Now, we must go on the idea that she and her boyfriend don't like the Ambreza. After all, they cooped 'em up there. So south's out. Ginzin's over two hundred kilometers north, and it's a holy hell of a mess anyway. They'd be picked up by the Ambreza before then for sure, or dropped into those boiling tar pits if they made the border. They got brains. That's why they're still free and we're wracked up. Now, if we suppose that maybe they didn't go any of those places, what's left?"

  Doc considered the question. "There's only water otherwise," he pointed out. "And they can't lift their noses far enough to keep from drowning."

  "We are on the water, aren't we?" the Parmiter replied patiently.

  Grune brightened. "They had a boat? Or took one?"

  The Parmiter nodded. "Now you're gettin' there. Remember that big boat we had to dodge yesterday? I bet it was their supply ship. If it was, it stopped, saw the mess we made, and maybe . . ."

  Doc nodded. "But that's a hell of a monster ship," he pointed out. "This is a nice yacht, but it's a rowboat compared to that thing."

  The Parmiter sniggered. "Yeah? Maybe so, but did you see those launchers on the front and back? They're rocket launchers. And they shoot neat fragmentation bombs. They come down, hit something—like a ship's deck—and go bam in all directions, blow a hole a kilometer wide."

  "What good's that here?" Grune asked. "This is a nontech hex. You know that."

  "Idiot!" snapped the Parmiter. "So the launchers are spring-loaded, see? With a boost from a fuse and gunpowder charge underneath. They blow up by chemical action triggered by the shock. No power supply, see? They work here, and they'll blow a hole we can sail through in that damned packet."

  "Oh," said Grune.