She nodded. “It’s Renard. Not only the answer but the way he made it sound so terrible convinces me. Let him come to me or me to him.”
The guards still weren’t all that certain. “But he’s an Agitar!” one growled. “One of them.”
“He’s Renard, no matter what,” she responded, and walked briskly out to him. The guards kept at the ready, but appeared resigned.
She was taller than he, now—maybe ten centimeters with her boots on, three or four without. He was ugly as sin and smelled like a goat, but she hugged him and kissed him lightly on the forehead, laughing.
“Renard! Let me look at you! They told me this would happen, but somehow I couldn’t really believe it!”
He was slightly embarrassed again, from his strange new form and, oddly, because the Agitar part of his brain didn’t really react to her as a woman, but as another, alien creature. He began to realize just how much he’d changed.
Mavra turned to Doma, who looked up as she cautiously approached. “He’s beautiful!” she breathed. “Can I—touch him? Will he mind?”
“She,” Renard corrected. “Her name is Doma. Let her look you over for a moment and then rub the spot between her ears when her head droops. She likes that.”
Mavra did as instructed, and found the great pegasus friendly, curious, and responsive.
She walked around, looking at the saddle between the great, now-folded wings and the neck. It was a sophisticated device—altimeter, air-speed and ground-speed indicator, everything.
She turned to him. “You’ll have to take me up on her sometime,” she said longingly. “I’d love to see her fly. “But tell me everything that’s happened, first.”
“If you’ll get me some food—any fruits or meats will do that you can eat,” he replied lightly. “I’m starving to death!!”
They sat there in the glen until the sun was down and the pixie people were out in force. He told her of waking up in Agitar, of Trelig, of being drafted, and of the war and his experiences. She sympathized, while secretly wishing to be in the thick of what he had escaped from, and told him a simplified version of how they’d been hypnotized to minimize the sponge effects, of their capture by the Teliagin, their Latan rescue, and how they’d gotten to Zone.
“What about Nikki?” he asked. “Do you know where she got to? I haven’t really stopped thinking about her. She’s so young and so naive—tough to be out cold on this world. I know.
Mavra looked at her shadow, Vistaru, who’d joined them. Vistaru shook her head. “Nothing on either Zinder. That’s curious. It’s not impossible to remain undetected here, of course, but doing so is rare. The old politicians have somebody in their pocket in half the South.” She spoke in Lata, and Mavra translated. “So we might lose track of one—but both? It’s very strange. We would like to know where they are.
“It’s as if the Well opened and swallowed them up.”
* * *
Several days passed, happy ones for Renard, diverting ones for Mavra, whose boredom was at least slightly relieved by the man. He taught her to fly Doma; it was easy for her, she found, although some of the maneuvers required more muscle power than she could easily manage. She decided that she would never be mistress of that great horse, but it was still a great feeling to fly.
And then the Southern alliance reached Olborn. It was ahead of schedule by several days; Zhonzorp, whose people the books said looked like crocodiles standing erect and who wore turbans, cloaks, and all sorts of strangely exotic stuff, had been invaluable. A high-tech hex, it gained them both time and a rest by moving them across the terrain by rail.
That’s when Vistaru came to them, with a visitor, an older male-mode Lata.
“This is Ambassador Siduthur,” she introduced the newcomer. At Mavra’s insistence they had fitted Renard with a translator, which helped immensely, made him feel more in command of himself again.
Mavra and Renard nodded courteously.
“As you know, both wars are going well,” Siduthur began, “which means that they are going badly for us. Our friends in other hexes tell me that one or the other of the alliances will surely win, that it is in fact possible to reassemble the ship, and that, if nothing is done, we will face a space-capable Well alliance that could gain control of the satellite and its computer. We can no longer sit idly by and let this happen.”
At last!Mavra thought, but she kept silent as the Latan ambassador continued.
“The only possibility we have is the hope that Gedemondas can be talked into either turning the engines over to us or destroying them.” He told them about the silence and reticence of the Gedemondas. “So, you see, we need to get someone in there. Explain things to the Gedemondas if such is possible. Get their cooperation if that first is achieved, and—whether we get cooperation or not—if we can not get those engines, make certain that they are destroyed beyond any means of reconstruction!”
Mavra leaped on it. “I’m the only one who can make sure of that,” she pointed out. “None of the rest of you know the power plant from the cargo hold, and none of you would be able to tell if the thing were damaged or destroyed.”
“We’re aware of that,” the ambassador replied. “We should have liked to have a few more days to gather together some better people to go with you. The trouble is, the best-qualified help is too distant, and the more local help is either conquered, under siege, or unwilling to get involved, the fools. The best we can do is have an expert Dillian get around and meet you near the Gedemondas border. They are neighbors, good in cold weather, and know about as much of the Gedemondans as anybody. At least, you’re not as likely to be ambushed by the Gedemondans with a nonthreatening life form they at least know accompanying you.”
“I’ll go, too,” Renard volunteered. “Doma can carry Mavra as well as me, and that should speed things up.”
The ambassador nodded. “We had planned on it. We’re not a hundred percent trusting of you, Agitar, but we believe sincerely in your attachment for Mavra Chang. That is enough. Vistaru and Hosuru, another Entry and former pilot, will also go with you.”
“Another Entry?” Mavra asked. “I thought they were scarce and that Vistaru, here, was the only one of my kind—”
“That is true,” the ambassador cut in. “Hosuru was not one of your kind before.”
It may have been racial pride, or ego, or just chauvinism, but it was the first time either Renard or Mavra Chang had even considered a spacefaring race other than their own.
“What was this Hosuru?” Mavra asked. “And how many other spacefaring races are there that wound up here?”
“Sixty-one at last count, in the South. Nobody knows about the North,” the ambassador replied. “Certainly as many. She was once one of what we call the Ghlmones, which one of your people long ago described as little green fire-breathing dinosaurs, whatever that means.”
Hosuru wasn’t a fire-breathing dinosaur anymore. Still in the female mode, she looked absolutely identical to Vistaru except for being a deep brown in contrast to the other Lata’s passionate pink.
The ambassador opened a map. “We are here,” he told them, pointing to a hex. “To our east is the Sea of Storms. As you can see, the best route would be over Tuliga and Galidon to Palim, which has to be crossed sooner or later anyway. However, the Galidon are fierce carnivores and the atmosphere above the waters is not conducive to flying, so that’s out. That means crossing Tuliga to this point here, landing in Olborn. The Tuliga are rather nasty giant sea slugs, but they shouldn’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”
“Doma’s good for about four hundred kilometers if pushed,” Renard said, “but that’s a good deal farther.”
“It is,” the ambassador agreed. “There are, however, a few small islands along the way, so you can set down to rest. On no account must you go into the water! It is also brackish, not good for drinking, but the islands are volcanic and should have small crater lakes. Pick your camp spot well.”
“Anything living on t
he islands we should know about?” Mavra asked cautiously.
The ambassador shook his head. “Nothing but birds, perhaps a few crustaceans of no importance. No, the problem will be when you reach land again—with the Porigol supporting the Yaxa, there is simply no way around Olborn.”
“But this Olborn—isn’t it the next target of the Makiem, Cebu, and Agitar?” Renard asked worriedly. “Won’t they be likely to confuse us with their enemy?”
“Truthfully, we haven’t the slightest idea,” the ambassador admitted. “They are in many ways as unknown as the Gedemondas. Catlike creatures, I understand, with semitech capabilities and, it says in the references, limited magic, although I don’t quite know what that means. Even so, you need only cross it at the top. The attack from Zhonzorp to the extreme south might actually help you by drawing off whatever fighters and major power the Olbornians have.”
“We hope,” sighed the worried Renard. “Then what?”
“By air over Palim, as close to the border as you can in order to avoid as much as possible meeting the Yaxa alliance that might well be marching through at about the same time. Don’t cut south into Alestol, though, whatever you have to do! They are fast-moving plants that can direct poisonous gases that have effects that are sometimes fatal and always bad. They are carnivores who could digest any of you. Leave them to the Makiem and their cohorts to deal with. You must get to Gedemondas ahead of the others at all costs! Our only hopes rest with you. Can you do it?”
Mavra Chang wanted action so badly she could taste it. “With a little luck, and occasional help, I’ve never failed a commission yet,” she said confidently. “This is the sort of mission I’ve been waiting for!”
The ambassador looked at her warily. “This is not the Com,” he reminded her. “The rules change quickly here.”
The Tuliga-Galidon-Olborn Triangle, Dusk
Their crossing, while uneventful, took three precious days. They flew over choppy seas in Tuliga, and the wind was against them most of the way. On the few daylight hours of relative calm they were able to spot coral reefs teeming with great numbers of multicolored fish, and, here and there, shadowy black bulks of great size.
They kept at a safe altitude, not wanting to risk any chance that one of those dark shapes might somehow rise out of the water and bring them down. It was more peaceful when they reached the Galidon border, but the atmosphere looked a little strange over there, and they headed in toward the point of land that marked one of Olborn’s six points on the Tuligan side.
Olborn itself seemed a welcome relief—solid-looking, mostly coastal plain, a little chilly, but they had brought protective clothing with them. Nothing in the place looked grim, foreboding, or threatening.
They waited until darkness fell before making a landfall on the beach. They had decided to camp there, within easy reach of a quick getaway and with the great Doma as concealed as she could be.
No roads had led down to the coast, they’d been certain of that. With watery neighbors like the Galidon, they didn’t find this the least bit unusual.
It was a clear night; above, the spectacular sky of the Well World was displayed in all its glory, and, off to the north, a silvery disk covered part of the horizon.
It was the first time they had been in the right position with the right weather at the right moment to see New Pompeii. They stared at it in silence, thinking.
“So close, so damned close,” Mavra Chang whispered under her breath. It looked like you could reach out and touch it. She thought of the poor people who had almost certainly died there by now, and of the kindly, near-human computer, Obie, who had helped her escape. She wanted to get back to that place, and she swore to herself that she would, someday.
They turned in. Although the Lata were nocturnal, the trip had been a long and tiring one, the daytime travel taking more out of them, and they, too, slept. A watch was established, of course.
Mavra had second watch; the Lata would take the later ones, when they’d be at their peak. She sat there, looking out at the slightly rough sea, hearing the roar of the surf, and watching the skies.
They were glorious skies, she thought. Her element, the place to which she’d been born, the place for which she’s done everything, even sold herself, to attain. She looked at the others sleeping. The Lata were perfect here. Flying on those tiny wings would be fun, and there were no political or sexual pressures in their land to shape what happened. Even being short didn’t matter; they all looked alike. But their world was 355 kilometers on each of its six sides. Such a minute place, a stiflingly small area when you looked at those skies.
Renard, too, was better off here. The Well World was certainly bigger than New Pompeii, and more stimulating than new Muscovy. He was a walking dead man in the old life; here he had some power, a future, and, if things worked out, could possibly rise high in Agitar if they lost the war. From what he’d said of the people’s sentiments, a defeat would bring down the government, and one who helped end the war rather than press it would be more hero than, as he was now, traitor.
But not Mavra Chang. The Well World was an adventure, a challenge, but it was not her element. To go through the Well someday and come out something else—it wouldn’t matter. The Well didn’t change you inside, only physiologically. She would still want the stars.
Her reflections were broken by subtle sounds not far off. She wasn’t sure she heard anything for a short time, and she listened intently as her ears strained for them. She had just decided that she was imagining things, when she heard the noise again, off to the northwest, there, not very far—and closer.
She considered waking the others, but then thought better of it. The sounds had stopped. Still, she decided, a little investigation might be in order. A yell from her would rouse the others in a hurry anyway, and there was no use waking them for nothing.
Silently, softly, she crept toward where she’d last heard the sounds. There was a thin clump of trees near a marshland river mouth just up from the sounds; she decided that whatever made them had to be there. Slowly, carefully, she moved into the thin line of trees.
She heard a sound again to her right, and headed for it. Crouching behind a bush, she peered out.
There was a strange, large bird there. Its body was something like a peacock’s, its head a round ball, out of which came a beak that looked almost like a tiny air horn. Its eyes were round and yellow, reflecting the starlight. It was nocturnal, then. She breathed a sigh of relief, and the bird must have heard her. It turned and said, rather loudly and a little rudely, “Bwock wok!”
“Bwock wok, yourself,” Mavra whispered, and turned to go back to the nearby camp.
The trees exploded. Large bodies dropped all around her, one on top of her. “Renard!” she screamed. “Vistaru!” But that was all she had time for. Something seemed to cover her head, blotting out all consciousness.
* * *
Doma started, and all three of the others snapped awake at the two cut-short screams.
Renard saw them as the Lata took off; large shapes rushing them from the nearby trees. He almost made it to Doma, when one of them, much taller and furrier than he and with glowing yellow-black eyes, got a hand on him.
That was a mistake.
There was a crackle, the Olbornian screamed, and there was the odor of burning hair and flesh. Another one was trying for Doma’s reins, but the horse backed away as Renard leaped aboard. The Olbornian snarled and turned to reach out for Renard.
The Agitar got the vision of a great black cat’s face, with terribly luminous slit cat’s eyes, and he touched a hairy, clawed hand with three fingers and a thumb.
Which sent the Olbornian to cat heaven.
Doma didn’t need any cuing. Knowing its rider was aboard, the great winged horse thundered down the beach, knocking over black shapes not lucky enough to get out of the way, and it was airborne.
The Lata, whose stingers had helped clear the way, flew to him.
“We have to find Mavr
a!” Renard screamed. “They have her!”
“Stay in this area!” Hosuru shouted. “We don’t know what they have and we can’t afford to lose Doma! We’ll go after her, and if we can’t free her one of us will stay with her while the other comes back for you!”
It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but he had no choice. Neither Doma nor he had exceptional night vision, and if the Lata lit up they’d all make perfect targets.
* * *
The two Lata, however, saw best in the dark. Just beyond the river there was a coach of some sort; a finely wrought piece of woodwork moving on great wooden wagon wheels pulled by a team of eight tiny burrolike animals. Four Olbornians, armed with projectile pistols, stood on running boards around it; two more drove it, one controlling the little mules and the other holding a sleek, effective-looking rifle. The doors and windows to the coach were sealed with hinged wooden panels. From the way the driver cracked the whip on the poor little animals, they knew what the coach’s cargo had to be.
“We can’t do anything but follow the damned thing,” Vistaru swore. “Renard can take care of himself.”
That was more than heartfelt sentiments. In all his time in Lata, he’d not discharged. They knew he carried a lot of static electricity, but until the brief fight they’d not realized how much or how lethal.
The coach beat down the grass until it reached a smooth, tar-paved road, and sped along it to the east. It was not terribly fast, and the Lata had no trouble keeping just behind and above it, out of sight.
“We could sting them to death,” Vistaru said wistfully.
“How much you got left?” Hosuru snapped. “I used mine three times. I’m nearly dry.”
The odds weren’t that good.
They studied the Olbornians and their coach. The Creatures were about 180 centimeters high; they were all completely covered in black fur, but they also wore some sort of clothing, baggy dark trousers of some sort and sleeveless shifts with a light border and woven insignia in the center. They had long, black, apparently functionless tails, and sleek cat’s bodies, but their arms and legs were muscular, and they obviously walked upright on two legs naturally.
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