Exiles at the Well of Souls wos-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  Trelig shrugged. “Ego, of course, is part of it. But such power is no fun unless somebody knows what’s going on. But; no, there’s more to it than that.”

  “You need the Council Fleet to move New Pompeii and protect it,” Mavra guessed.

  He smiled. “No, not really. According to the calculations, if a reverse bias is applied to the device, it would be possible to envelop New Pompeii in the field and then transport it anywhere it wanted—sort of picking itself up by its own bootstraps. No, this concerns our own limitations. You can’t remake a planet into something else without knowing exactly what you want and then feeding the information into Obie. The ears and tail wouldn’t have been possible unless Obie had first had the code for the ass. It will take much time and research to remake a world properly, and I am an impatient man. If I tried a planet now, or in the next few years, the results would probably be monstrous. No, I need access to all the information, the best brains, the best of everything to carry it out. I need the resources of hundreds of worlds. To get the resources I need, I’ll need the Council Fleet under my control.”

  Mavra and a couple of others turned a little at some movement behind them. Four guards had emerged there, all carrying nasty electron rifles.

  Rumney called up from the disk. “Hey! Trelig! Are you going to let me keep these ears and tail?”

  The master of New Pompeii looked over at Yulin and nodded. The blue light winked on again, and when it winked off Rumney was again male and had normal ears.

  And he still retained the tail.

  Trelig ordered him upstairs, and he came, grumbling. He reached the top and saw the guards. He almost started back again, but thought better of it and joined the rest.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Rumney grumbled, and the others added their complaints.

  Trelig moved away from them slightly. “I need the Fleet and the Weapons Control Locker. Please don’t move toward me or the guards. The rifles are on high spray stun. It would do you no good, even if they shot me, too. Besides, I need you all alive to go back and tell your councillors what you have witnessed, except for you councillors, whose votes I need directly. I need you to tell your story, and I need to send some proof. Tell them that when the Council meets in four days time I will require a vote to make me First Councillor with sole authority over the Fleet and Weapons Locker. If the vote fails, then we will experiment with the big dish on those worlds you represent. New Pompeii will be everywhere and anywhere. You won’t catch it. I may not have all the data to alter a world, but I can cancel its existence with Obie! I can whittle the Council down to where I will have the votes!”

  They were shocked. While he had them in that state, he pressed home, becoming friendlier, more conciliatory.

  “You see, my friends,” he concluded, “not giving me that power will cause me a great deal of pain, cost a lot of lives, and give me a lot of time and trouble. But I’ll win either way. In four days—or in four years. It won’t matter. But, I’m impatient, and I am direct. We can save a lot of pain, trouble, and lives by conceding to my demands now.”

  Rumney reached back, felt his tall unbelievingly. “And this tail—this is the proof?”

  Trelig nodded. “Now, one at a time, each of you will go down and stand on the disk. A minor thing will be done to you, nothing more serious than what we did to Citizen Rumney here, unless you cause trouble. If you resist, we will stun you and, I assure you, the results will not be minor!” He underscored that last as if he hoped someone would resist. “But, as Rumney told you, the process is painless, and I do promise you that anyone whose world’s vote is with me will be changed back. That can be done without a return to New Pompeii.”

  “What good is your promise?”

  Trelig was genuinely surprised and a little hurt at the remark. “I always keep my word, Citizen. I always make good my promises—and my threats.”

  Nobody did resist. It would have been futile. Even if they jumped Trelig, they would all get stunned, Trelig included, and then the alterations would be monstrous, as he promised. Even if they managed to rush the guards, they couldn’t operate the lift car, nor did they know how, if there was an alternate way, to get to the surface.

  Trelig didn’t bother to be creative. Each, in turn, was given the same long horselike tail Rumney got, color-matched to their own hair. Mavra’s was jet-black, thick, and extended below her knees. The new condition took a little getting used to, although the tail muscle was almost infinitely controllable and the bone seemed soft and pliant. Even so, sitting in the chairs for the ride back up felt odd and uncomfortable, like sitting on a slightly hard object. When shifting position, one had a tendency to pull on the tail inadvertently, causing some pain.

  But the addition to their anatomy was convincing proof to them, and it would serve as convincing proof of the threat that hung over everyone when they made their reports to their own leaders.

  Mavra looked around at the people seated in the car with her and saw in their eyes and whispers that Antor Trelig would have the votes he needed. That meant, tail or no tail, getting Nikki Zinder away was imperative.

  Topside again, she ventured to ask Trelig about Dr. Zinder.

  “Oh, he’s around somewhere. We couldn’t do without him, you know. Not for the big test. If you could see beyond the dome now, you’d see an asteroid about the size of this one, but barren, being towed by New Harmony tugs into position about ten thousand kilometers out. A small target, a nothing. We will see tomorrow what we can make of it.”

  “Will we be able to see the transformation?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Of course. It’s the final demonstration. I’ll have screens set up here so you can all view it. Then, of course, you will depart with your messages—and, ah, your souvenirs,” he added lightly.

  * * *

  Mavra returned to her room feeling both tired and numb. The events of the day had been exactly what she’d been told to expect. But being told something and seeing it, hearing it, and experiencing it firsthand was something else again. The sleek horse’s tail that was now a part of her was proof of that.

  She saw with satisfaction that the boots and belt were where she’d left them; at least they hadn’t touched any of the equipment. The clothing, on the other hand, had been neatly laundered, pressed, and was nicely folded on top of the writing table. She threw off the wrap she’d been wearing the whole day and went over to retrieve her clothes. There was a mirror over the writing table, and, for the first time, she actually saw her tail. She turned this way and that and had to admit that it looked extremely natural. She swished it, extended it out a bit, and marveled at it.

  Suddenly she felt terribly tired, as if a great shock had just worn off. That disturbed her. She shouldn’t feel that way, not at this stage. But, it was early yet, she thought. The corridor light was still slightly visible through the big door, and that meant it was not yet the best time to venture forth. Almost without thinking, she walked over to the bed and lay down.

  Sleeping on her back was uncomfortable, especially with a tail. She never had liked sleeping face down, so a side position proved the best. The sudden lethargy really concerned her; she was afraid that Trelig had, after all, drugged their food or, perhaps, programmed delayed responses in her brain. That last thought should have startled her awake, but it was gone, and she drifted into a strange, deep sleep.

  And she dreamed. Mavra rarely dreamed; at least, she never remembered doing so. But this dream was as clear as reality, without any quality of fogginess about it.

  She was back in the computer center, standing on the silver disk again, and yet, as she looked around, there were no faces on the balcony, no faces at the controls. The room was deserted, except for herself and the slight humming of the computer.

  “Mavra Chang,” the computer spoke to her. “Listen, Mavra Chang. This dream is being caused by me as you are processed. All that is now being witnessed has already passed, including our conversation, in the millionth of a second betw
een initial and final processing. This record is being made to bring memory when you sleep, an induced hypnotic sleep.”

  “Who are you?” she asked. “Are you Dr. Zinder?”

  “No,” responded the computer. “I am Obie. I am a machine, one endowed with self-awareness. Dr. Zinder is as much my parent as he is his own daughter’s, however, and there is the sameness of bond between us. I am his other child.”

  “But you do the work for Trelig and his man Yulin,” she pointed out. “How can you do this?”

  “Ben designed much of my storage capacity and, as a result, has the ability to coerce my actions,” Obie explained. “However, while I must do what he tells me to do, my mind, my self-awareness, is Dr. Zinder’s creation. It was deliberately designed so, so that no one could gain complete control of the device we have built.”

  “Then you have freedom of action,” she replied, amazed. “You can act unless specifically directed not to.”

  “Dr. Zinder said that making such prohibitions to me would be like making a pact with the devil; there are always mental loopholes. I have found it so.”

  “Then why haven’t you acted?” she demanded. “Why have you allowed this to go on?”

  “I am helpless,” Obie responded. “I cannot move. I am isolated where the only communications I have without severe time-lag is with Trelig’s system, which would do no good whatsoever. The alterations to reality are restricted to that little disk, and I cannot even activate that myself. It takes a series of coded commands to give me access to the arm. This, however, will change tomorrow.”

  “The big dish,” she whispered. “They will connect you to the big dish.”

  “Yes, and once connected, they will find it impossible to break that connection. I have already worked out the process.”

  She thought a moment. “Does Zinder know?”

  “Oh, yes,” Obie responded. “I am, after all, a reflection of him in this form. Ben is a bright lad, but he doesn’t really understand the complexities of what I am or of what I do. He is more in the nature of a brilliant engineer than a theoretical scientist. He can use Dr. Zinder’s principles, but he cannot totally divine them. And, in that way, he is like the person who becomes an expert cheat at cards and then tries to cheat his teacher.”

  She sighed. “Then Trelig has lost,” she said quietly.

  “In a way, yes,” Obie acknowledged. “But his loss does not mean our victory. When the power is turned on tomorrow, I will achieve power beyond your comprehension. I intend, when switched to activation, to create a negative rather than a positive bias on the dish. This will place the whole of New Pompeii under the blue.”

  “What will you make of us all, then?” she managed.

  Obie paused, then continued. “I will make nothing. If I can, I will restore the sponge addicts to normal, with the realization of that fact. That should take care of Mr. Trelig. However, I may not get the chance.”

  “There is danger, then?” she prompted uneasily.

  “Trelig has explained to you about the Markovian stability. He has told you of the possibility of a master Markovian brain somewhere, maintaining all reality. When I reverse the bias, there is a good possibility, in theory, that New Pompeii, while within the field, will have no existence in the prime equation. I have felt this slight pull on subjects under the disk. The pull on a mass of this size may be impossible to contain, because of my power limits, or, in any case, may take more time than we have to learn how to counter.”

  Mavra Chang thought hard, but she couldn’t quite follow the logic and said so.

  “Well, there is a ninety percent chance or more that one of two things will happen. Either we will all cease to exist, to have ever existed—which, at least, will solve the present problem—or we will be pulled, instantaneously, to the central Markovian brain, which is most certainly not within a dozen galaxies of us. That’s galaxies, Citizen Chang, not solar systems. There is a probability that at that juncture conditions for life on New Pompeii will cease to exist.”

  Mavra nodded grimly. “There’s also the possibility that you will collide with it. You may destroy the great brain, and all existence with it!”

  “There exists that possibility,” Obie admitted, “but I consider it slight. The Markovian brain has lasted a long time in finite space; it has tremendous knowledge, resources, and protective mechanisms, I feel certain. There is an equal possibility that I will supplant it—and this disturbs me most of all, for I do not know enough to stabilize all New Pompeii, let alone the universe. A theory of ours is that the Markovians intended just that. It would maintain reality until a newer, fresher race came along to redirect it. The prospect frightens me, but it is, of course, also only one theory with a remote probability factor. No, the odds are that at midday tomorrow I and the whole of New Pompeii will, one way or another, cease to exist.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Mavra asked, chilled both by the fate described and by the calmness with which Obie was dismissing the possibility of the end of all existence.

  “When I record, I record everything,” the computer explained. “Since memory is chemical in nature and is dependent on a mathematical relationship with self-generated energy, when I recorded you yesterday I knew what you know, have all of your knowledge and memory. Of all of them, you alone possess—so far—the only qualities for even a slight chance of escape.”

  Mavra’s heart leaped. Escape! “Go on,” she told the machine.

  “The sponge delivery ship will not fit your needs,” Obie told her. “It has no life-support system in the cockpit. However, it is possible for you to get aboard one of the two craft currently docked. I shall program you now, I shall give you all the details of New Pompeii as I have them, all the information you will need. I shall also modify you slightly, give you a visual range and acuity that will obviate the need for mechanical lenses and power packs. Small glands soon to be inside you will replace the need for nodules of chemicals; the fingers of your right hand will be able to inject the most powerful hypnotic from near-invisible natural injectors. Your left hand will produce a different venom; one touch and it will paralyze for an hour; two touches and it will kill any known organism. I shall also heighten your hearing and reshape, invisibly, your muscle tone so that you will be much faster, much stronger—that will give you unparalleled control of your body. The uses of all these modifications will come naturally to you.”

  “But why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Not for you,” the computer responded, a sad tone in its voice. “The price laid upon you is a demand, something you must do or you will find yourself unable to leave. You must fulfil the first half of your mission. You must take Nikki Zinder with you or you will stay with us. And, with the two of you goes an additional gift.”

  Mavra was stunned, and nodded dully, thinking of all this.

  “Also within your brain is a precious secret. There is an effective agent against the sponge. It will not cure an addict, but it will permanently arrest the mutant strain in the human body. It will save Nikki, and it will save countless thousands of others. You must get it to higher authority.”

  She nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Remember!” Obie cautioned. “The activation is set for thirteen hundred standard hours. When you awaken from this dream, it will be four hundred hours. I cannot delay and hope to succeed. You must be at least a light-year away from this place by then, with Nikki. Anything less, and you will still be within the field. That means you must take off not later than eleven hundred thirty hours! When you have lifted off, if Nikki is aboard, the code you require to bypass the protection circuits will be given you. If Nikki is not aboard, it will not be given. Understand?”

  “I understand,” she told the computer grimly.

  “Very well, then, Mavra Chang, I wish you good luck,” Obie told her. “You have powers and abilities undreamed of by others; do not fail me or yourself.”

  Mavra Chang awoke.

  * *
*

  She looked around in the darkness, and tried to focus. Suddenly the whole place came in, clear as a bell, although the room was plainly still dark. She turned slightly on her back, and felt that tail, still there.

  That, and her incredible night vision, told her that everything she had dreamed was true. She possessed other facts now—the complete knowledge of the construction and layout of New Pompeii, down to the smallest detail. She could rebuild it from memory, she knew.

  She relaxed and concentrated. She didn’t know how she was doing what she was doing, or on what principles the trick worked, but she knew how to do it. In exactly three minutes she came out of the trance, looking at the little camera. It was fixed squarely on her lying on the bed, naturally. It was an automatic type that should follow her movements.

  She rolled off the bed in a flash, and lay there, for a moment, on the side. Landing on the boots was uncomfortable, but it was another half-minute before she risked a look back on top of the bed.

  The camera was still focused on the center of the bed—and why not? There was the nude form of Mavra Chang, tail and all, sleeping peacefully.

  Mavra marveled even though she knew she was staring at a holographic image. It had been created by her own mind and by some powers she didn’t understand that had been added to her body, but she hadn’t the slightest idea how such a thing was possible. It didn’t matter, she thought pragmatically. The fact that the illusion was good up to six hours was the only important thing.

  The pullover was no problem, but the body stocking proved a real nuisance. It wasn’t designed for a tail. She considered a moment about what to do, then discovered that they hadn’t merely laundered the garment, they had tailored it. The alteration included a hole through which the tailbone fitted and through which the thick, wiry hair would slip easily.

  Good old Trelig, ready for everything, she thought sardonically.

  Only the boots now remained a problem. She didn’t want to leave them, yet she couldn’t use them until she was outside the main building. She decided she’d just have to carry them.