Exiles at the Well of Souls wos-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  She was surprised. “You know me? Well, I’m pleased to meet you, too. I’m sorry I can’t give you my hand.”

  He shrugged. “We were aware of your problem. As to knowing you, no. We were aware of you. That is different.”

  She accepted that. There were lots of ways of getting information on the Well World.

  Tael could not be restrained now. “Why haven’t you ever talked to us?” she asked. “I mean, we had the idea that you were some kind of animals or something.”

  Her lack of subtly did not perturb the Gedemondan. “It’s not hard to explain. We work hard at our image. It is—necessary.” He sat down on the floor, facing them.

  “The best way to explain it is to tell you a little of our own history. You know, all of you, of the Markovians?” That was not the word he used, but he was using a translator and that’s the way it came out.

  They nodded. Renard was the most ignorant of them; even Tael had had some schooling. But Renard, at least, knew from his own area of space of the dead ruins of that mysterious civilization.

  “The Markovians evolved as all plants and animals evolve, from the primitive to the complex. Most races reach a dead end somewhere along the line, but not them. They reached the heights of material attainment. Anything they wished for was theirs. Like the fabled gods, nothing was beyond them,” the Gedemondan told them. “But it wasn’t enough. When they had it all, they realized that the end of it was stagnancy, which common sense will tell you is the ultimate result of any material utopia.”

  They nodded, following him. Renard thought there was some argument against that, and that he’d like to try Utopia first, but he let it pass.

  “So they created the Well World, and they transformed themselves into new races, and they placed their children on new worlds of their design. The Well is more than the maintenance computer for this world; it is the single stabilizing force for the finite universe,” the snow-creature continued. “And why did they commit racial suicide to descend back to the primitive once more? Because they felt cheated, somehow. They felt they had missed something, somewhere. And, the tragedy was, they didn’t know what it was. They hoped one of our races could find out. That was the ultimate goal of the project, which still goes on.”

  “It seems to me they made a sucker play,” Mavra responded. “Suppose they weren’t missing anything? Suppose that was it?”

  The Gedemondan shrugged. “In that case, those warring powers below represent the height of attainment, and when the strongest owns the universe—I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, for they are mere reflections of the races of the universe—we’ll have the Markovians all over.”

  “But not Gedemondans?” Vistaru prompted.

  He shook his head. “We took a different path. While the rest ran toward materialistic attainment, we decided to accept the challenge of a nontechnological hex for what it was—and not try by ingenuity to make it as technological as we could. What nature provided, we accepted. Hot springs allowed some cultivation in these uniquely lighted caverns, which run through the entire hex. We had food, warmth, shelter and privacy. We turned ourselves not outward, but inward, to the very core of our being, our souls, if you will, and explored what we found there. There were things there no one had ever taken time to dream of. A few Northern hexes are proceeding similarly, but most are not. We feel that this is what the Markovians created us to do, and what so few are doing. We’re looking for what they missed.”

  “And have you found it?” Mavra asked, somewhat cynically. Mystics weren’t her style, either.

  “After a million years, we are at the point where we perceive that something was indeed missing,” the Gedemondan replied. “What it is will take further study and refinement. Unlike those of your worlds, we are in no hurry.”

  “You’ve found power,” Renard pointed out. “That dish of food was just plain disintegrated.”

  He chuckled, but there was a certain sadness in it. “Power. Yes, I suppose so. But the true test of awesome power is the ability not to use it,” he said cryptically. He looked over at Mavra Chang and pointed a clawed, furry finger at her.

  “No matter what, Mavra Chang, you remember that!”

  She looked puzzled. “You think I’m to have great power?” she responded, skeptical and a little derisively.

  “First you must descend into Hell,” he warned. “Then, only when hope is gone, will you be lifted up and placed at the pinnacle of attainable power, but whether or not you will be wise enough to know what to do with it or what not to do with it is closed to us.”

  “How do you know all this?” Vistaru challenged. “Is this just some mystical mumbling or do you really know the future?”

  The Gedemondan chuckled again. “No, we read probabilities. You see, we see —perceive is a better word—the math of the Well of Souls. We feel the energy flow, the ties and bands, in each and every particle of matter and energy. All reality is mathematics; all existence, past, present, and future, is equations.”

  “Then you can foretell what’s to happen,” Renard put in. “If you see the math, you can solve the equations.”

  The Gedemondan sighed. “What is the square root of minus two?” he asked. “That’s something you can see. Solve it.”

  The point was made in the simplest terms.

  “But this doesn’t explain why you pretend to be primitive snow apes,” Tael persisted.

  The Gedemondan looked at her. “To entwine ourselves in the material equations is to lose that which we believe is of greater value. It is really too late for any of your cultures to comprehend this; you are too far along the Markovian path.”

  “But you broke your act for us,” Hosuru pointed out. “Why?”

  “The war and the engine mod, of course,” Vistaru said flatly, in a tone that indicated she thought her friend a total idiot.

  But the Gedemondan shook his head from side to side. “No. It was to meet and speak with one of you, to try and understand the complexity of her equation and perceive its meaning and possible solution.”

  Renard looked puzzled. “Mavra?” he asked quizzically.

  The Gedemondan nodded. “And now that is done, although what can be added is beyond me right now. As to your silly, stupid, petty war and your spaceship, well, if you’re up to a short journey I think we will settle that now.” He got up, and they did the same, following him out. Another Gedemondan followed with their clothing; they wouldn’t need it in the warm caves, but it was obvious that they would not return to that room.

  They were left in a junction area for a while, and their talkative guide left them. Soon they were joined by another Gedemondan—or was it the same one?—and they continued off. It was silent-treatment time again, regardless.

  Later, after what seemed like several hours’ walk, they stood again before a stone wall and were helped getting their cold-weather gear on. Some kind Gedemondan had created a form-fitting fur coat with leggings for Mavra. She was amazed, and wondered how they could have done it in a night.

  But it helped. The great door opened with a rumble and revealed a strange scene.

  It was a great bowl; a U-shaped valley hung over it, and snow filled it deeply.

  And, askew on a ledge, unmistakable even at that distance, was the engine module.

  And now the guide spoke. It was a different voice, they thought, but with the same kindness and warmth.

  “You spoke of power. Over there, just next to that little promontory there, your Ben Yulin and his associates now stand. We marked the trail as subtly as possible, and they almost lost it several times, but they managed to blunder through.”

  They strained their eyes, but it was too far away.

  Now the Gedemondan pointed to the opposite rim. “Up there,” he said, “stand Antor Trelig and his compatriots. Again, their journey was stage-managed so they arrived at their point within minutes of the other. Of course, neither party knows the other is there.”

  The snow-creature turned back and stared at
the engine module, marvelously intact and preserved, the remains of the great braking chutes still entwined in it.

  “Thisis power,” said the Gedemondan, and pointed at the module.

  There was a rumbling sound that shook the entire valley. Snow started to fall all around, and the engine module trembled, then started to move, slowly at first, then more rapidly, off the edge of the hanging valley.

  It poised for an instant at the edge, then plunged over the side with a roar. But it didn’t just fall—it seemed to break apart, and there was a tremendous rumble and roar. Smoke and flames and white-hot billowing clouds erupted. The thing blew itself up on the way down, and, when it hit the snow below, the explosions continued, making the valley look like a minor volcano for several minutes. When the smoke and roar died away, the last of the echoes gone, there was only a melted, smouldering ruin in the snow, bubbling and hissing.

  The Gedemondan nodded in satisfaction. “And so ends the war,” he said with a finality that was hard to deny.

  “But if you could do this—why did you wait?” Vistaru asked, awed and a little frightened.

  “It was necessary that all sides witness it,” the creature explained. “Otherwise they would never have accepted the truth.”

  “All those dead people…” Renard murmured, thinking of his own experiences.

  The Gedemondan nodded. “And thousands more now littering the plains. Perhaps this experience will save thousand more in times to come. War is the greatest of teachers, and not all of its lessons are bad. Their cost is just so terribly high.”

  Mavra had a different thought. “Suppose the engine module hadn’t landed here,” she asked him. “What then?”

  “You misunderstand,” replied the Gedemondan. “It landed here because it had to land here. It could land nowhere else.” He nodded, almost to himself. “A very simple equation,” he muttered.

  * * *

  They stood there a while in silence, stunned. Finally, Mavra asked, “What happens now? To us? To the warring powers?”

  “The warring powers will pack up and go home,” the Gedemondan replied matter-of-factly.

  “Trelig? Yulin?” Renard pressed.

  “Are too devious to have been caught here,” the creature replied. “They will do as they always have done and act as they always have acted, until the time comes for their equations to solve. They are much entwined, those two, and with you, Renard, and you, Vistaru, and, most of all, with you, Mavra Chang.”

  She let it pass. All this talk of her importance seemed ridiculous.

  “And us?” she prodded. “What happens to us now? I mean, you’ve pretty well blown your cover, haven’t you?”

  “Power is best used judiciously,” the Gedemondan replied. “A simple adjustment, really. You never were picked up by us. You followed an old trail that seemed recently used, and discovered this valley. Then you watched as the engine module destroyed itself, jarred perhaps by too many sounds echoing across the valley and hitting just the wrong points as it fell. Then you made your way east, into Dillia, to report. You never ever saw the mysterious Gedemondans.”

  “That’s going to be a hard story to keep to,” she pointed out.

  “But it is true,” the snow-creature told her. “Or, as far as your companions are concerned, it will be, the moment you cross into Dillia. We have picked up your pack and supplies and will provide them before you cross the border.”

  “You mean,” Vistaru said, a little upset, “you’re going to make us forget all this?”

  “All but her,” he replied, gesturing toward Mavra. “But she will get sick and tired of trying to convince you of all this fairly quickly.”

  “Why me?” Mavra responded, still puzzled.

  “We want you to remember,” the Gedemondan said seriously. “You see, while we developed here along these lines, our children out there in the stars did not. They are all dead now. All gone. The Gedemondans here may yet solve the Markovian problem, but they will never be in a position to implement that solution.”

  “And I will?” she asked.

  “The square root of minus two,” replied the Gedemondan.

  South Zone

  “But it just isn’t right,” Vardia, the Czillian, objected: “I mean, after all she did and tried to do.” It pointed a tendril at a photograph. “Look at her. A freak. A pretty human girl’s body, always facing head downward, supported by four mule’s legs. Not even able to look straight ahead. No protective hair or body fat. She’s so vulnerable! Eating like an animal, face pushed into a dish; eating food she can’t even prepare herself. She must have normal sexual urges, yet what will have her, from the ass-end at that? She almost has to wallow in her own excrement just to relieve herself. It’s awful! And so easy to cure. Just bring her here and send her through the Well Gate.”

  Serge Ortega nodded, agreeing with all the other ambassador said. “It is sad,” he admitted. “There is nothing I have done in my whole foul life that pains me like this. And yet, you know why. The Crisis Center of your own hex came out with the cold facts. Antor Trelig will never forget that there’s another ship down on the Well World; neither will Ben Yulin. Both can see New Pompeii on clear nights. And if Yulin settles down, the Yaxa will push him into it. We can’t control them or the Makiem—and they can pass through Zone as safely as we. We haven’t the right to stop them. Nations that would not lift a finger in the war would act against us if we militarized Zone. I still hold to the idea that the Northern ship is beyond anybody’s reach, and, Lord knows, both the Czillian computers and I have tried every angle! Some of the Northern races are interested, but the Uchjin are completely opposed, and there’s no way to get a pilot there physically, anyway.”

  He paused, then looked at the plant-creature, eyes sad. “But can we take the chance that it is impossible? Your computers say no, and so do my instincts. A Northerner once got South, remember. If we can find how… Trelig won’t stop. Yulin won’t stop. The Yaxa won’t stop. If a solution is possible, no matter how complex and off the wall it may be, even shooting a pilot over the Equatorial Barrier with giant sling shots, somebody will come up with the solution. My channels are pretty good, but so are theirs. If anybody comes up with the answer, we’ll all have it, and it’s a miniwar all over again. And if we aren’t to leave it to Yulin or Trelig, then we’ll need somebody who knows how to tell that computer to take off and land and such—and who can reprogram it for the almost impossible launch situation and acceleration that would be required. The Zinders can’t—even if we knew where and what they were, and we most definitely do not. Nor can a classical librarian like Renard. None of them ever flew a ship. I can’t, either. I’m too out of date. And that ship is still there, still intact, and it’ll stay that way because the Uchjin don’t even understand what it is but think it’s pretty, and because that atmosphere they have is almost a perfect preservative.”

  “If only we could get somebody in the North to blow it up,” Vardia said wistfully.

  “I’ve already tried that,” Ortega replied swiftly. “Things are different up there, that’s all. So we’ve got a ship that’s a ticking bomb, and maybe, hopefully, it’ll never go off—but it just might. And if we run her through the Well of Souls, we might lose track or control of the only pilot we have!”

  He shuffled through some papers, coming up with a photograph of New Pompeii.

  “Look at that,” he told her. “There’s a computer there that knows the Well codes and math. It’s capacity-limited, but it’s self-aware, and so it’s another player in the game. Against uncounted billions or trillions of lives in the universe, can the fate of one individual be considered? You know the answer.” He slapped the computer printouts angrily, upset himself. “There it is, damn it! Tell me some way around it!”

  “Maybe she’ll solve her own problem,” Vardia mused. “Get to a Zone Gate and get here. Then the Well’s the only way out.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t work, and I made sure she knows it. Whatever she i
s, Zone gates will be guarded day and night. If she makes it here, she’ll be locked up in a nice, comfortable one-room office in this complex. No windows, no way out. She’ll be an animal in a zoo, unable to smell the flowers or see the stars. That is more horrible to her than death, and she’s just not the suicidal type.”

  “How can you be so damned sure of everything?” the Czillian asked him. “If I were her, facing her kind of future, I’m sure I would kill myself.”

  Ortega reached into his massive, U-shaped desk and pulled out a thick file. “The life history and profile of Mavra Chang,” he told the other. “Partly from Renard, partly from some hypno interviews we did in Lata that she’s not aware of, and partly from, ah, other sources I’m not ready to reveal now. Her whole life has been a succession of tragedies, but it’s also the story of a dramatic, continuing fight against hopeless odds. She is psychologically incapable of giving up! Look at that Teliagin business. Even not knowing where she was or what was what, she refused to abandon those people. Even as a freak she still insisted on going to Gedemondas, and she did. No, somehow she’ll cope. We’ll make it as easy as we can for her.” That last was said softly, with a gentleness Vardia would never have suspected of the Machiavellian snake-man and former human pirate.

  “Look,” he said, trying to soften it, “maybe another Type 41 Entry will come in. Then we’ll be able to do something. There’s hope.”

  The Czillian kept staring at the photograph. “You know the figures. One time there were lots of human Entries; what have we had in the last century? Two? And we lost track of both of those.”

  “One’s dead, the other’s in a salt-water hex and is the wrong kind of pilot,” Ortega mumbled. The plant-creature hardly heard. Once it, too, had been a human female. That was why it was picked as the liaison with Ortega.

  “I’d still kill myself,” Vardia said softly.

  Aboard a Ship Just off Glathriel