Exiles at the Well of Souls wos-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  She hadn’t been removing her makeup with the tissue; she’d been smearing it evenly all over her face and rubbing her hands with it as well. Now she took a small shrink-wrapped pack from her left boot and opened it, removing the tiny pad. Carefully, methodically, she smoothed it over all exposed areas of her skin. The mild chemical, reacting to another in the makeup, caused it to turn a deep black. Next she removed the special contact lenses, squeezed two drops in her eyes from a nearly minute dropper, then took another, different pair out of her pack and slipped them in. They were clear, but if she activated the tiny power supply in her buckle, they would turn into infrared lenses. More than one on New Pompeii had cat’s eyes.

  Switching to that mode, she picked up the mirror carefully and looked at herself. She looked exceedingly monstrous, of course, but the chemical blackener was an effective shield against the heat radiation infrared viewers saw. She touched up a few spots until she could see nothing in the mirror. Her hands she checked visually.

  Then came the nodules. They fit under her long, sharp nails, and the injector point actually merged with the points of her fingernails. She loaded each one of them, not all with the same stuff. More than once these nasty little devices had saved her neck—and cost others dearly.

  Finally she touched the second power-pack module on the buckle. This energy source fed the material in the chemicals and in her clothing. Heat-sensitive devices would ignore her.

  They were still trying to figure out that jewel robbery on Baldash.

  She wanted this job over and done quickly, if possible. The girl, anyway. If it could be done tonight, fine. If not, she’d at least know the lay of the land.

  The big door lock was no problem, but the four sensors in the door were. The door was nearly flush with the mounting; she could only slip in two matching strips. The third took some work with a blade. Though she had no knife, the specially treated organic material in her boot had served as one. The toenail of a large animal on some distant world, sharpened, treated like her own nails. A nice, thin, flat blade.

  The other strips slipped in easily, and she carefully and slowly opened the door. No alarms, so she peered cautiously outside. The hallway was dark but apparently not guarded. For all his reliance on people, Trelig used a professional supersecurity system, one he’d bought and paid for. And that was his mistake. Successful criminals—the ones they hadn’t caught—had countered them long ago. They would be on infrared, and with mikes. If she didn’t make much noise and if the protective circuits were in, she should be invisible.

  She stepped out into the hall and carefully closed the door behind her without a sound. There were no flags. She was safe.

  This would have been harder if he’d kept the hall lit, she thought.

  But nothing was impossible in this line to the Cat Goddess, as she was called on lots of wanted lists. They even suspected who she was, but they had never proved anything.

  She met no one on her way back to the banquet hall, which, she discovered, was the only obvious entrance or exit. Only one camera there; she’d checked that at dinner.

  She moved as close to the entrance as she could and peered out of the curtains. The camera, which was linked to a small paralyzer, rotated along a rail on the base of the dome. A single fixed camera in the dome itself wouldn’t have supplied adequate coverage; the moving one covered the entire area in thirty seconds. She timed the movements repeatedly to see that they hadn’t varied it. Only for twelve seconds was the entrance out of view. And the entrance was about ninety meters from her.

  Experience and training paid in the calculations—the area of view and the like going through her mind. She took two deep breaths, then watched the little camera go around, hit the precisely calculated point. At that instant she sped for the entrance, making it outside in under eleven seconds, something considered impossible, she knew, for such a tiny woman.

  But this was.7 G.

  She didn’t take the steps, but climbed, catlike, over the side and down to the bushes below. It was not dark outside, but there was no one in view, and she was quick despite the vertical drop.

  The trick was a tiny little bubble, several of which she carried in her belt. The bubble, no larger than the head of a pin, formed an incredibly thin secretion that created tremendous suction when rubbed between the palms of her hands. It had been her special secret of success in burglary; she had created the stuff herself.

  She descended thirty meters in seconds. Taking refuge behind some bushes, she rubbed her hands, causing the substance to solidify and ball up, then fall away. The stuff didn’t last long, but it was excellent for thirty or forty seconds.

  She would have preferred darkness, but there was no darkness beneath the reflective plasma dome. Daylight would have to do.

  Creeping around the side of the central building, she heard voices and froze. When they continued in a sort of rhythmic chant, she ventured out, keeping close to the walls and cover, then looked in on one of the open plazas. Four women, dressed as the servants had been, were practicing some sort of dance to the tune of a lyrelike instrument played by another of them. They all seemed to move in that dreamy state, oblivious to the world. Something was odd in their appearance.

  They were too beautiful, Mavra decided. Incredibly, almost deformed in their sexual characteristics, the type of dream girl lovesick prospectors bought pictures of. Their movements, too, seemed unusual; there was a sense of total femininity there, as if they might be some sort of mythological fertility goddesses. Such manners and moves were eerie, unnatural, even a little inhuman. They were more erotic caricatures of people than real human beings.

  She decided not to test their apparent dreaminess, though; she needed someone alone.

  The little world seemed to keep Trelig’s hours; few were about. She wished she knew exactly how many people were on the planetoid; it didn’t seem like many.

  Slipping into the next building, a lower but still grand marble structure, she practically ran into someone. The young woman was average-looking, a little unkempt, and had dirty feet. She was nude. Next to her stood a bucket on three little wheels. She was down on all fours, and, as Mavra watched, she realized the woman was scrubbing the marble floor with a stiff brush.

  Mavra looked around but saw no sign of anyone else. Quietly she stepped out and started toward the woman, whose back and rear were open to her as she made her way slowly backing down the hall.

  Mavra straightened her right little finger while clenching the others. The straightening made the little injector head reach the tip of the nail.

  The woman noticed something odd before Mavra reached her. When she turned around, she saw the small, black-covered woman.

  “Hi!” she said, a crooked smile on her face. Mavra looked down at her with pity. The expression was simple, the eyes dull and blank; A spongie, Mavra realized. She stooped to the woman’s level.

  “Hi, yourself,” she responded kindly. “What’s your name?”

  “Hiv—Hivi—” the woman struggled, then she turned sheepish. “I can’t say it good no more.”

  Mavra nodded sympathetically. “Okay, Hivi. I’m Cat. Will you tell me something?”

  The woman nodded slowly. “If I can.”

  “Do you know somebody called Nikki Zinder?”

  The woman looked blank. “I don’t ’member names so good, like I told ya.”

  “Well, is there any place they keep people here who never come out?” Mavra tried.

  The girl shook her head uncomprehendingly. Mavra sighed. Obviously Hivi or whatever her name was was too far gone on the drug to tell her what she needed. She decided on another tack.

  “Well, do you have a boss, then? Somebody who tells you where to clean?”

  The girl nodded. “Ziv do it.”

  “Where is Ziv now?” Mavra prodded.

  The woman looked blank, then brightened for a moment. “Down there,” she replied, pointing away down the hall.

  Mavra was tempted just to leave her the
re; the girl was no threat. However, Hivi retained some intelligence, and that might mean an unintentional betrayal. As she reached out to caress the woman, the nail of her right little finger touched the girl’s arm and the injector shot its fluid into her.

  The girl jumped a little, and put her hand on her shoulder, a puzzled expression on her face. Then came a general rigidity, the girl frozen, looking at her shoulder.

  Mavra leaned close to her, nervous that someone else would come by. “You did not see anyone while washing this hall,” she whispered. “You did not see me. You will not see me. You will not see anything I do. Now you will go on with your work.”

  The girl unfroze, seemed even more puzzled. She looked around, right at Mavra Chang, then past her, unseeing. Finally, she shrugged, turned, and resumed her brushing of the floor. Mavra went on.

  It would have been easier to have killed her; a few simple pressings on certain nerves in the neck would not have wasted a hypno on such a dry hole. Doing so would, perhaps, have been more merciful. But, although Mavra Chang had killed before, she killed only those who deserved it. Antor Trelig, perhaps, for what he did to these once-normal people and for what he might do to others—but not a helpless slave.

  And that’s what all those women were, she knew. The serving girls, the dancers, the scrubwoman. Slaves, created by the sponge, by the underdoses and overdoses of the mutant disease.

  She did not find Ziv; she did, however, prowl silently through many halls, often dodging occasional dull-eyed slaves and security eyes. She moved stealthily through several rooms decorated with great opulence and through other rooms of extreme decadence. Spongies so catatonic they could be placed rigidly in positions to serve as lamps and furniture—the sight made her ill even while the practical part of her wondered how they were fed.

  She did not, however, find anyone in obvious authority, and she started back to the sleeping quarters disappointed and disgusted. If this was Antor Trelig’s way of treating the humans who came within his control, what sort of a master would he make of the civilized worlds? Alaina had been right; the man was not a human but a monster.

  She was almost back at her room when she spotted someone she needed. True, the woman looked and dressed much like the others, but she had a conspicuous difference: she wore a shoulder strap and a pistol. The woman was moving slowly down the hall, checking on doors and the like, when Mavra crept in. There was no one else around.

  Like an animal stalking prey, the tiny agent seemed to move with dead silent liquidity, closer, ever closer to the tall woman with the pistol. Now, only a few meters away, she pounced. The big woman turned at the movement, her face registering extreme surprise at the black, sleek visage running toward her. Mavra was so fast that the guard’s hand had only started to move to the pistol when her attacker leaped and kicked full force into her victim’s stomach.

  The guard had the wind completely knocked out of her. Mavra, landing and somersaulting, was on her feet again as if by magic and back to the guard. Both the index- and middle-finger nail injectors of her right hand found their mark while Mavra’s left hand grabbed the woman’s gun-hand. The double dose weakened her opponent rapidly, and, although the larger woman was winning her battle, the hypnos took hold before she could draw the pistol.

  Mavra relaxed and rolled off her quarry, now frozen in a strange position.

  “Get up!” Mavra ordered, and the other complied. “Where is a room where we will not be disturbed or interrupted?”

  “In there,” came the mechanical reply. The woman pointed to a nearby door.

  “No cameras or other devices in there?” Mavra asked crisply.

  “No.”

  The small woman ordered her drugged victim into the room, and she followed. It was a small office of some sort, not currently in use. Mavra sat the woman on the floor, then kneeled down, facing her.

  “How are you called?” she asked the drugged guard.

  “I am Micce,” the other replied.

  Mavra sighed. “Okay, Micce, tell me, how many people are there on New Pompeii?”

  “Forty-one at the moment,” the other responded. “Not counting the wild folk, the living dead, and the guests.”

  “Counting everyone but the new guests, how many?” Mavra prodded.

  “One hundred thirty-seven.”

  Mavra nodded. That told what she was up against. “How many armed guards?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Why are no more precautions than this taken?” the dark agent asked. “Surely greater security is called for.”

  “They rely on automatic sensing in the important areas,” the guard explained. “As for the rest, no one could get off New Pompeii without the proper codes.”

  “Who knows the codes?” Mavra asked.

  “Only Councillor Trelig,” the guard responded. “And they are changed daily in a sequence known only to him.”

  Mavra Chang frowned. That would make things a little harder.

  “Is the girl Nikki Zinder here?” she asked.

  The guard nodded. “In the guard quarters.”

  With more questioning, Mavra established the location of the guard quarters, the general layout of the building, who was in there at any given time, Nikki’s exact room, and how to get in and out. She also established that everyone on New Pompeii was on sponge except Trelig himself, and the supplies were brought in daily by a computer-controlled ship so that no one could get a large quantity and rebel against Trelig. That piece of information was interesting. So the sponge was brought in on a little scout, made for four passengers if need be. The guard’s description suggested that it was a Model 17 Cruiser, a craft Mavra knew well. It would be perfect.

  She took the guard’s pistol and shoulder belt after determining that the guards themselves checked their equipment in and out of a small guard locker. She suggested to the guard that the pistol and belt were still in place, so the gun would not be missed. It would be checked back in and perhaps not discovered gone for days. Mavra smiled; she was armed again, and luck was breaking her way due to Trelig’s conceit about his security.

  “Where is Dr. Zinder?” she asked the guard, after giving her another jolt of the hypno.

  “He is on Underside,” the guard replied. Of the forty-one people, one was Trelig, one was Nikki, one was Zinder, twelve were guards, five were assistants to Zinder, and the other twenty-one were slaves of one kind or another. That was enough to tell Mavra Chang that she hadn’t a prayer of getting Zinder himself out, but a good chance at Nikki. Ten million wasn’t “anything,” but it sure beat nothing.

  After getting the guard routine from the hypnoed woman, Mavra told her to forget about her totally and resume her normal routine. The guard did so without further comment, and treated Mavra as if she weren’t there.

  It took another forty minutes to return to the main building, avoid the cameras, and get back to her room. The strips were still in place on the door, and, after closing and relocking it, she carefully removed them. The holographic memory projector was still in place, so the camera was still showing an empty, quiet room with a meditating figure on the bed.

  Tidying up, removing the blackface, reassembling the boot, and reloading and reforming the belt took more time. As soon as she finished, she edged over next to the projector on the bed, careful not to jiggle it too much, until she was next to it, almost touching it. Infinite patience is the best tool of a burglar.

  Assuming the correct position, she took the little device, quickly palmed it, and slipped it out of sight when the camera was directed elsewhere. When the camera swung back, only a few seconds later, it photographed the same nude woman in the same meditating position. Only a fanatical observer, which no guard was—watching sleeping people was an incredibly dull job—would have realized that the figure was seated in a slightly different position at a slightly different angle.

  Suddenly her breathing became more rapid, and then she stirred, flexed, stretched out on the bed, and turned over. Her right hand dan
gled just over the edge of the bed for a second, as she dropped an unseen object onto black cloth.

  And only then did Mavra Chang sleep.

  * * *

  If anyone knew of her roamings, they did not betray that fact the next morning. The major dispute was over Trelig’s requirement that they all take showers and then don light, filmy garments and sandals. He apologized and offered to launder their own garments during their trip, but it was clear what he was doing. He could both examine their garments and make certain that little if anything was taken to Underside.

  Mavra was confident that the shielding in her boots and in the belt would be sufficient to escape detection; however, if anyone did try to open them, there would follow a hard-to-explain and quite messy violent explosion. She doubted if Trelig’s people would go that far because of the defense mechanism risk; but her tools were to be denied her when they would do the most good. The pistol was not particularly hard to conceal; she’d hidden it against a hall cornice affixed with putty outside the room.

  She saw the surprised expressions when she entered the hall for breakfast; without the boots she was even tinier than usual. They all noticed, but no one was tactless enough to mention the subject.

  After eating, Trelig addressed them. “Citizens, distinguished guests all, may I now explain why you were all invited here, and what you will see today,” he began. “First, let me refresh your memories a bit. As you all no doubt know, we are not the first civilization to have colonized worlds far beyond the one of our civilization’s birth. The artifacts of that earlier, nonhuman civilization have been found on countless dead worlds. Dr. Jared Markov discovered them, and so we call them the Markovians.”

  “We know all that, Antor,” snapped one councillor. “Get to the point.”

  Trelig gave a killing glance, then continued. “Now, the artifacts they left us when they died out or disappeared over a million years ago consist entirely of ruined structures—buildings. No furniture, no machinery, no utensils, no objects of art, nothing. Why? Generations of scholars have mused on this, to no avail. It seemed as insolvable a mystery as why they died out. But one scientist, a Tregallian physicist, had an idea.”