Changewinds 03 - War of the Maelstrom

by Jack L. Chalker

  But that did bring up the question of just how he had come to be here.

  When Lompong had vanished along with all his project and a lot of technicians and army people and the like, there had been consternation. The only man who might decipher Lompong's work and figure it out was Lang.

  Lang himself was fascinated with the result when he was told of it by high security people and couldn't resist. However, while there were gigabytes of material in Lompong's computer areas, how it all tied together was a mystery. Worse, thanks to his experience with Lang, some key material, perhaps the key material, was'encoded in a way even Lompong's bosses didn't know about. Not until they tried to break it and wound up activating an insidious set of computer "viruses" that began to systematically destroy not only all the data but the entire data base series of the Livennore computer system, right down to the payroll information and budget trackers. There were backups, of course, but they had now destroyed two and had only one left. Lang looked but could not touch, even though he pointed out that data that was so highly protected was useless anyway unless the scheme was cracked. No deal. One had to remain and that was the way it was.

  Still, while nobody really knew how Lompong's mind worked, Lang had the closest idea, and he was able to do a lot of work, laboriously, interpolating from papers, conversations from associates not swallowed up in the "incident," and the disparate data bases you could use without the data being eaten. It was fascinating; so much so that he was on long leave from MIT and working full time on it. After three years, he thought he'd gotten at least the general idea behind what his old pupil was trying to do, and he was taking a break, driving to Las Vegas for a conference there—Boolean, it appeared, had no trouble with flying saddles but never liked airplanes—and it happened.

  "It was late but I was feeling good, and driving always cleared my mind and got out my frustrations,"he reminisced. "It happened very suddenly and at about seventy-five miles an hour. One moment I was on the Interstate, the next thing I knew I was surrounded by pitch dark and I had the damndest feeling I was falling, only slowly. I slowed to a stop, which did nothing, opened the window, and got the dry air of the maelstrom, although I didn't know it then. I opened the door, looked down. and closed it again and just stayed there, scared to death. I don't know what I thought that maybe I'd crashed and was going to hell in an automobile or something. It went on and on and on, and then I landed, not hard but with a bump that bounced the shocks all to creation and me with it, and suddenly I'm sitting on solid ground surrounded by the damndest fog you ever saw right up to the door handles. Fog in Nevada! Well, I knew I wasn't in Nevada and the only way to find out where was to drive there."

  "You came down in a null? But I thought Changewinds didn't cross nulls."

  "They don't, but the weak spots gravitate there before they dissipate, sometimes hours, or even days, later, so you always land down in a null, just as you did. it has a lot to do with magnetic fields but I think you'd need a lot more classroom before I could explain it to you. At any rate, I drove a while, and finally I saw the lights of a border crossing and drove right to it, and became the first, and to my knowledge, only individual ever to drive up to the Masalurian or any other entry station. I think the two guys on duty there were more terrified than I was. Naturally, I didn't know Akhbreed and they didn't know English, but they decided that the car had to be the product of a powerful sorcerer, so they treated me nice, gave me some wine and chocolates out of their own lunches, and sent word to the Chief Sorcerer in a hurry. The adepts at least knew there'd been a Changewind in the colonies the night before and figured some out-planer had been caught and they were right. Karl was an old Prussian from some world that I was never quite sure about, and my German wasn't great but it was passable, and that's how I started on the road to becoming the great and powerful Wizard of Oz."

  "Hold it," Dorion put in. "Even I know enough to know that the odds of you just happening on a Changewind that far up the out-plane is about like the odds of all of us being carried off by giant moths."

  "Slimmer. I didn't just 'happen' into it, though. Apparently Roy had an even easier time of it here than I did at the start and be figured out the system in record time. Most important, he knew more about the Changewinds than they did here—here they were scared silly of them, since it was the one random event over which the spells had no control or effect. I know that some of his party and most of his equipment was smashed when he got here—and the rest was useless because of a lack of power—but he'd saved his portable computer, and he knew the mathematics of magic better than anybody, having independently reinvented it in what seemed to have been a streamlined and vastly improved version. He went after me, Dorion. Who knows how many nets he cast before he got me? How many disasters and disappearances and freak weather he caused before he finally figured out how to nail me exactly? He wanted me here, with him the master now, and me the cowering subject. It didn't turn out that way, though, first because it's tough to guide the maelstrom in the out-plane and have any control over where the weak point drifts, shifts, and gyrates here. You can even shift weak points and come out in the wrong spot. I did that deliberately with Sam and you, Charley; Klittichom did it by accident with me. And Karl was much too strong for him to take on right men, particularly since Roy hadn't made any friends here, either. Again, too strong too fast."

  "He learned, though," Dorion noted.

  "Oh, yes. He plays the social and political game better than I ever could now. In fact, he has a much higher tolerance for what passes for intellect here than I do, and no real aversion to the system he sees. He doesn't care, so long as he's on top. Twice he'd been thwarted by mastering the technical and ignoring me social and cultural requirements; he's not about to get stung a third time. Underneath, though, be hates them- he hates all of them who don't acclaim him as a virtual god, as two-bit hacks like Rutanibir do. The Akhbreed system must revolt him; every time he saw it in action he must have flashed back to his own childhood under the terror regime. It finally occurred to him that he survived then by playing the tyrant's games until opportunity presented itself. Now he's played the Akhbreed and sorcerer's Guild like a well-tuned orchestra. There's only one person he really fears in all creation, and that's the man who cheated him twice. To him, I'm the only man who could possibly cheat him a third time, and he's right. But the deck's so stacked I'm not certain, even if everything now goes right, that I can do it. 1 only know I've got to try."

  "Not much chance of an all-out attack on everybody now, is there?" Dorion asked hopefully. "I mean, consider the losses here. A lot of the colonials aren't going to be too thrilled about signing up with him after word of this gets around."

  "You mistake him, then," Boolean responded. "He doesn't care about this rebellion, and he's no liberator. He's had to play that game as well to keep them loyal, and get the men and material he needed, and to keep the loyalty of the Storm Princess. But that child, when born, will screw him up royally. If he doesn't get Sam, he won't wait, army or no army, position or no position. He'll simply convince his people that all is ready whether it is or not, and if he wants something passionately he can do it. Take out the hubs and the majority of Second Rank sorcerers and let the rebellion come later, that's all. The Akhbreed can never hold the colonies if they don't hold the hubs anyway. He really doesn't care."

  "Then, what is his real motive?" Charley wanted to know. "I've caught up with him. I think, and collected most or all of my wrong assumptions about his work. I got into his maelstrom and got you out and I managed to trigger the burst early on your world so you'd be sucked down in the center instead of destroyed. I think I know more about how this whole thing works than anybody alive except Roy himself, and that's the trouble. Klittichom is an ancient Khmer deity from the pre-Buddhist days. one of many but a powerful one. He took the name, I'm convinced, not as a mark of humor. since he has none himself, nor out of nostalgia, either. Countless sorcerers have died or been horribly mutilated and destroyed going
for the First Rank. The best have been sucked down through the nether-hells to the Seat of Probability itself, where they have been crushed in a universe that could possibly fit in a sand bucket. I think Roy has cracked it. I think he may be the only mind capable of cracking it. I think the destruction of the hubs and the release of massive Changewind power, enough power, possibly, to destroy or transform beyond any recognition not only Akahlar but possibly the out-planes as well, as part of a plan. A careful, premeditated plan. There was always a touch of the Oriental mystic in him. He seemed upset that his own theories seemed to preclude any need for any gods at all.

  "I think he wants to rewrite the bottom line. I think he wants to fill in the gap and redo me cosmos to his own designs. I think he's convinced he's found me way to the First Rank and the replacement of pure chaos with a true regulating governor. Having been convinced that there are no gods, he now intends to supply at least one. And if you want to know what kind that would be, well, all I know about Klittichom the god is what he told us in conversations long ago about his ancient culture, and, as I remember it, Klittichorn was a god of absolutes not easily appeased, and human sacrifice was clearly part of his requirements."

  "Jesus!" Charley swore.

  "Uh-huh, but if you need more motivation, consider this. It appears that the detachment of Khmer Rouge soldiers, who tortured and murdered his parents in front of him and kept him for over a year in a slave labor battalion, were composed mostly, or entirely, of young women, many if not most mere teenagers. He always exhibited a great deal of hostility towards women, and we weren't sure what was going on inside him. Unless he's mellowed, which I doubt, it must eat his guts out to have to play up to the Storm Princess. The conventional explanation around Princeton was that his experiences had made him a confirmed homosexual, but there were those who saw such hostility in him that they, mused that he had the potential to explode in a different direction. Possibly as a rapist or serial killer of young women or something even more creative. It's a curious pathology, a mixture of hatred and fear. You can understand, I think, what it must mean to him that a young woman is his greatest threat, and yet that fear level is such that it might well explain why you two kept slipping from his grasp- I don't think he's exploded yet. I think he's tried to make himself an automaton, to even believe he's above sex and emotions of any sort. But imagine if he attains First Rank, Charley. Not a god, but Roy Lompong with the powers of a god. What will keep him from exploding then?"

  10

  Reunions

  IT WAS RAINING out. It was usually raining out, at least half the tune, between the jungle and the sea, and it didn't really bother her that much. She really didn't feel much like doing anything these days except lying around; keeping house for the boys was more than enough work for her, and if she really needed help she could shoot a simple Hare and have one of the other wives run to her.

  The place was as clean and straight as she could make it. She prided herself on doing it all each day, if only to prove to herself and to others that she was still capable of things. You had to keep at it; with the mud and constant dampness, any missed spots would be seized as high ground by mold and fungi and general jungle rot. At least now she understood why the people who were native to jungle areas hadn't ever bothered with much in the way of clothes or the like and had lived in simple huts of grass and bamboo. The forces of the living jungle, fed by the constant beat and humidity, attacked almost anything vulnerable.

  And things were pretty loose here. The boys had one set of stock clothes apiece which they kept in a sealed trunk and put on just for important visitors, and they'd worn them that first day, but now things had gotten loose again and, frankly, the village was basically a nudist colony, which suited her just fine.

  Bugs weren't a real problem so long as you kept the netting on the doors and windows and remembered to rub a potion on the stilts once a month so nothing wanted to crawl up it. The floors were of a rock-hard native wood that insects didn't bother, although it warned a bit and wasn't ideal in its primary use. The walls were of a bamboo-like plant, the roof was some kind of woven grasses over a rust-proof metallic webbing, and it was waterproof. Inside ventilation was by a clever series of permanently netted openings that let some light and all the air through but caught most of the rain and all of anything else. It was enough that only a central oil lamp was needed to pretty well illuminate the place.

  It had only a single interior, but it was fairly spacious, the only thing blocking free access was a thick pole rising from the ground below, though the floor, and up to the roof center. There were two sets of bunk beds over to one side, handmade affairs of the same wood as the floor, with criss-crossed and tightly bound vines providing the support for thin and well-worn mattresses. She didn't know what the mattresses were made of, but they looked like some kind of soft vinyl, the only plastic stuff she'd seen here and so it probably wasn't, and she had no idea what they were filled with but they held the human body, even her, fairly comfortably. They had ordered her a bed weeks ago, but she didn't care when it arrived. All four were seldom home at the same time and she had whichever lower she wanted.

  Other than that, there was a large round table, also of the same irregular wood and looking hand-carved, with four matching chairs and one obviously cobbled from another set somewhere; a large chest with all sorts of clay pots, gourds, and the like, and another with a set of well-worn and dented pots, pans, plates, and utensils. A makeshift cupboard and shelves held some fruit, containers of dried meat, and some Jar-sealed delicacies. Without a refrigerator or freezer there wasn't much else you could keep around. Food was caught or picked from die Company common stores which were constantly restocked, the men of the camp taking turns doing the required hunting, fishing, and the like. The women were supposed to plant and tend and pick the gardens and citrus grove, and tend to the miriks, a chicken-like bird that thrived here and gave regular fine-tasting eggs. Then they would pick up and deliver what they needed at the end of the day for the next day's food.

  Cooking was done on a wood stove on the porch, where the smoke could easily disperse. It was of stone and reminded her of nothing as much as the most elaborate permanent backyard barbecue she'd ever seen. Still, with a little instruction from the other women, she'd had no trouble in mastering it pretty well, and getting to know the seasonings and oils and herbs and spices by eye, as well as bow to cook without getting spattered or asphyxiated. She'd gotten real good real fast because she'd been a cook for Boday all that time, and because she was very eager to learn and please.

  Over to one side was a partially finished project with the basic tools for the carpenter's job set in a case next to it. She'd always been a fair carpenter and the crib was taking real shape, but she was finding herself too easily frustrated and upset by little things, and she just hadn't been able to keep at it. She knew she'd let the boys finish it, although it bothered her. She was proud that she still did all the same work as the others, that she could be "normal." Of course, she had thought that she would handle the later stages of pregnancy better than she had; what was a little more weight and tummy when she already carried so much? It wasn't like that, though. After a while you hardly thought about the fat, but this was like a bowling ball that didn't move exactly the same as you did. Dead weight that shifted suddenly and wrongly and threw you off balance and made you permanently a little uncomfortable, and you didn't get used to it.

  She heaved herself out of the chair, got her cup, and lumbered over to the door where there were two amphoras, each containing a supply of pretty good wine—one white, one red. Covantians seemed to live on wine, and to be able to produce a drinkable product somehow in the damndest places. They mostly looked kind of American Indian, but she was certain that they must somewhere have had common ancestors with the French or Italians. She didn't like drinking so much alcohol, for the sake of the kid, but these were deliberately fairly weak, and they were here and running water was not.

  Central wells provided t
he water, which was taken in large gourds on the head back to each hut. She'd gotten quite good at carrying fairly heavy burdens on her head, and so each day as needed she'd climb down the ladder after lowering the vine-rope-supported platform that served as a kind of dumb-waiter, get her own food from the stores, and get what water she needed as well. The fact that she managed this while being now so hugely pregnant was a matter of pride to her, and she wanted to do it as long as she was the least able. It was one of her jobs, her duties. At least now, with the boys out on the boat for up to four days at a stretch, it was mostly just getting stuff for her, although she missed them.

  It was a very primitive life, with no amenities, full of constant work just to keep in the same place, and yet she was happy and content with it. She did not want to do anything else or be anyone else. She understood her place, what was expected of her and what was not, all her duties and responsibilities, and it was all she wanted, all she could be. She, like the others, was the perfect Covantian wife, and the spell allowed for nothing less than true belief. She wanted nothing else because she could not; she acted and thought as she did because she could think no other way.

  That went as well for her sexual nature. Women no longer attracted her; she could not really remember how they once did, although she remembered it. Men, who had never really attracted her before, now seemed attractive, alluring, sexy; their moves, even their mannerisms, fascinated her, and she felt real lust at times with all those naked guys around.

  Of course, her now being hugely pregnant had only allowed for so much, and they were more concerned than she was about hurting the kid. but they'd had some fun anyway and she'd managed some oral tricks. Still, she dreamed and fantasized about after the child was born, when they could truly unite with her.

  Oddly, those fantasies particularly pleased her, as did the unusual, for her, eroticism brought on by things even vaguely phallic. For the first time, she had feelings like the other girls had; for the first time, she was over on Charley's side with the "normal" folks. For the first time, she felt like she fit in, and it gave her an enormous sense of inner peace and a feeling of belonging. She had approached it at Pasedo's with her memory gone, but her sexual nature had still stood in the way.