"You'd think they'd fight like hell—or overpopulate," Marquoz commented.
"The Well controls population, maintains it at around a million or so per hex," Mavra explained. "If something comes up—war, plague, natural disaster—that decimates a batch, then they reproduce like bunnies until the loss is made up. As for wars—well, there have been minor skirmishes. The humans there developed a high technological civilization that finally ran out of resources so they attacked the nontechnological Ambreza next door. The Ambreza found a gas from a strange Northern Hemisphere race—although all the Northerners are strange, even by Well World standards—and gassed the humans back into the stone age, then swapped hexes with them. The humans are primitive and tribal—were the last time I was there, anyway—and are kept on that level by the Ambreza, who enjoy the resources of their former land and the technology of the human's past. One big export is tobacco, Gypsy. It's not common but it's known and prized there. It can be an expensive habit, though."
"But there must be bigger wars, too," Marquoz prodded. "I would think it'd be natural."
"Natural, maybe," Mavra. admitted, "but there have been only two that I know of. There was a famous conqueror who had problems because his high-tech weapons wouldn't work in a majority of hexes—a nonworking laser pistol is a poor match against a well-trained crossbowman—and some hexes were uncomfortable enough that his supply lines became too long, impossible to maintain. That was the big lesson—you can't conquer the Well World. Then, when Obie and I were there last, a war broke out to get to the shuttle spacecraft that brought some of us down. The object was to reach and control Obie. Space travel simply won't work on the Well World if developed from scratch, but here was a ready-made vessel. The war was bloody and brutal but settled nothing because the spacecraft engines were destroyed by a hermit race who didn't believe anybody should have them."
Marquoz nodded. "I've read the Com records."
"You said you crashed there," Yua noted. "That means you have never been through the Well of Souls transformation yourself."
She nodded assent. "That's right. A very nasty race called the Olborn had stones that could change any other creature—or themselves—into beasts of burden, like tiny donkeys. I got half the treatment, so I spent many long years facing down, on four hooved feet, with no hands and no way even to look up." There was an angry gleam in her eyes. "They kept me on ice in case they needed a pilot. They couldn't afford to let me go through the Well since they had no control over what or where I'd come out."
"They?" Marquoz prompted.
She sniffed. "A bastard named Serge Ortega. A giant creature with a head like a walrus, six arms, and a long snakelike body. An ex-human, it's told, and a former freighter captain. Somehow he found a way to make himself virtually immortal as long as he stays in Zone, the normal entryway to the Well World and a sort of embassy. He practically ran the Well World. Probably still does." She chuckled dryly. "You know, if there's any man I still truly hate it is probably Ortega. I swore I'd kill him someday, as I killed the men who murdered my husband. He had no right to do what he did to me!"
The sudden violence of her tone alarmed them. It was Gypsy, heretofore silent, who said, "I'd have thought you'd have gone to the Well World and done him in long ago."
"Obie wouldn't permit it," she responded. "Obie had no power over the Well World and wasn't about to put me back on it just to settle an old score. I have the funny feeling he always liked Ortega for some reason. I don't know. Ortega and I were bound up together for years yet I never once met him. Strange."
Clearly old wounds were being reopened; half-forgotten experiences were creeping out from the dimly lit back halls of her brain.
"And we'll all be going there," Yua breathed. "It sounds incredible. Exciting. I can hardly wait."
"Enjoy it while you can," Mavra said sharply. "The Well World is anything but romantic. It's dangerous and deadly. I never missed it."
"Well, even so, I—" Yua started to respond, but at that moment there was a sharp crackling noise as if a great bolt of lightning had struck near them. They all jumped, startled, and turned.
White-faced and shaking Nathan Brazil stood on the pedestal. He stared straight ahead, looking at empty space. They didn't move for a moment, just watched him apprehensively.
He tottered slightly, still looking vacantly ahead. Finally he said, "I need a drink. No, check that. I need to get very, very drunk."
And then he collapsed into an unconscious heap.
Nautilus—Topside
They waited two days for Nathan Brazil to come out of it. His pulse rate was very weak, at times dropping so low it could barely be detected; he ran serious fevers, but never lapsed into delirium. He just lay there, almost dead, making the medical people wonder if he'd ever rise again. They brought him Topside, placed him in a luxury suite under guard, and summoned the medical staff. The diagnosis was simple: He was suffering from extreme shock, and little could be done for him except to see that he was kept warm, regularly massaged, and fed intravenously.
In the meantime, to forestall half the planet coming to the Nautilus, Yua and Gypsy visited Olympus. They returned a day later to report that Obie had worked some major magic—including the removal of tails from all but Yua. Still, the change unsettled Yua a little since Olympian history now clearly showed that no one on Olympus ever had a tail; the now-tailless women were called Pallas. All sight that there had ever been two varieties, the Athene and the Aphrodite, had vanished. They never were.
There were men, too, on Olympus—out in the open. They ran nothing and were still regarded as sex objects, but they were part of the society—and always had been.
More, the Fellowship of the Well had changed course—in this case by simultaneous "divine revelation" to all High Priestesses so there would be no mistake. In order to create universal Paradise, they had been told, Nathan Brazil must first go to the Well World itself, pass into the Well, and eradicate the old Universe. The forces of evil would try to stop him. For Olympus to share in the Heaven to come, they and their followers must form an army to help Brazil attain his goal. As reward they would be a part of the new, Holy Universe, for though the powers of evil held sway in this Universe they, too, would be swept away in the re-creation, leaving a Universe without evil. Even to die in this holy crusade would guarantee a place in the next, great Universe.
And Brazil's own disciples—Yua of Olympus, Marquoz of Chugach, Gypsy of the Place Between Stars, and Mavra Chang herself, the legend brought back from the dead by the hand of Brazil—would lead and instruct and command in the final battle to come. The Fellowship had a most holy mission, it was now clear, and it was already preparing for it.
After hearing the report, Marquoz marveled at Obie's skill. "It is so much easier to lead a holy crusade backed by divine intervention," he noted.
Mavra Chang just smiled and shrugged. "It's the same old story. You don't get something for nothing, ever. They were offered a Heaven we can't deliver and life beyond the destruction of the Universe which, in exchange for their services, we can perhaps, deliver to some. They're going to fight and die for a lie."
"As usual," Marquoz added.
Their conversation was interrupted by a buzz on Mavra's communicator. She removed it from her belt clip and said, "Yes?"
"I think he's coming out of it," a medic said.
They all rushed to Brazil's suite.
Nathan Brazil had been floating in a nice, dark, quiet place of his own. Thought hadn't been required; it was warm and comfortable and it felt so very good. The quiet place was slipping away now, and memories were flooding his conscious brain. At first he could make no sense of them, and didn't try; still they came, rushing into his mind like soldiers rushing to battle, struggling to assemble themselves into some sort of order.
A small grove of palm trees around a clear blue waterhole; dry, hot country even then, but green, not as it was to become. A slight breeze blew from the southeast, a dry, dreadful, hot caress that
carried no relief. Two young women, one rather comely, two small children. The pretty one's? An older man, beard graying and face weatherbeaten and tough. Hard to tell. You didn't talk much or attempt to strike up new acquaintances in these troubled times.
Hoofbeats. Men on horses. Barely a chance to look up. Romans! Only five of them, but nasty types. Looking for trouble. He hid in the bush and lay still. Odd, though, a corner of his mind told him. Sounded like more horses than that. Different directions, perhaps? Were others cowering like him in the bushes?
The Romans have dismounted now. The two young children, both boys, wade naked at the edge of the pool, splashing and playing. The Romans look around at them, at the old man and the two women, critically with an air of complete command. One calls in Latin to the others and points critically to the two small boys. He catches a word, blown to him on the hot wind. "Circumcized." There will be trouble; Antiochus has outlawed the practice for now. One Rome, one set of beliefs, one set of customs. Cultural assimilation, they called it. The world under one and as one.
The old man is defiant. He yells at the centurion, who yells back, then laughs and grabs at the younger woman. The old man is upon him now, screaming and cursing. Two Romans run to assist the centurion, swords drawn, and hack the old man almost to pieces. The women are screaming now. The Romans are around them. The younger one is grabbed and is partially disrobed by two of the Romans. The older woman rushes them with a dagger in her hand, but a blow from the flat of a Roman sword crushes her skull; she falls and is still.
He is still in the bushes and he is angry and ashamed at himself. He has spear and sword and suddenly he finds himself leaping out at the men in a blind rage.
A Roman is slitting the throats of the two young boys; he turns, startled, then looks amazed as a spear is thrust through his armor and into his gut.
The two men now have the woman down; they turn in surprise, but their comrades have already drawn their own weapons and are moving toward him.
He was good, particularly when so angry. He just about tore off the sword arm of the nearest Roman with a strong inside blow, but the other was not to be taken so easily. A good swordsman himself, the Roman forced the man into the arms of the other two Romans who had stopped messing with the girl and come up behind him.
"I'll kill the bastard now!" the swordsman snarled, advancing on the captive.
"No! Hold!" cried one of his captors. "The bitch means something to him, otherwise why would he fight so? Tie him to the tree. Let him watch us, and die before his death!"
"Ai! Let's cut off his limbs and leave him there alive, to bleed to death or live a limbless cripple!" snarled the man whose arm he'd cut to the bone, still lying in agony on the sand. They laughed at that, and bandaged the other as best they could.
And it was done. He was tied to a tree with ropes too strong to break and forced to watch the rape, after which they killed her, not mercifully swift but slowly.
He wept, as much for the way of the world as for these people who had been tortured and slain. He'd known good, brave, fair-minded men of the Legions, men who'd have acted as he had in the face of such barbarism. Not now. Rome was expanding, extending her influence to the edges of the world, and that expansion required men in great numbers, men whose only qualification was that they would kill and delight in killing. When such vicious animals were used to spread "civilization," how long would it be before that madness sped backward to its roots and reached the throne itself?
And they were around him now, facing him as he stood bound to the tree.
"So this is the greatness of mighty Rome," he sneered at them.
They laughed, although he could see in their faces that they were taken aback by such coolness in the face of torture and death.
They drew their swords and leered at him. One gestured at the carnage. "Those were your people?"
He looked the man squarely in the eyes. "I never saw them before in my life," he told them in flawless Latin.
"Then why did you fight for them?" another asked, confused and a bit unnerved by their captive's total disregard for personal well-being.
"The children of the Lord God of Israel should not be abused by animals spawned in Hell."
"Enough of this! You are a brave man but a foolish one," the centurion told him. "We will kill you and be done with it."
"I really wish you could."
The Roman drew his sword and hesitated a second, looking into his eyes before striking the fatal blow.
Four sharp sounds echoed, followed by a whap! whap! whap! whap! The Romans stood for a moment, looking confused, then toppled over, arrows protruding from their backs.
Four men emerged from the bushes nearby. All Hebrews, he saw at once, all holding bows. One was an older man; by their looks the others were his sons. Two of the sons checked the bodies of the slain Hebrews while the third son, with a sword, made certain that the Romans would stay forever on the ground. The old man approached him, drew a small curved knife from his belt, and cut the binding straps. He almost collapsed as the flow of blood, which had been restricted by his bonds, returned fully to his limbs. The old man was strong and caught him, lowering him gently to the ground.
"You've had a terrible ordeal," the older man said kindly in Hebrew.
He nodded. "There were just too many," he responded in the same language.
The old man nodded. "We were just a bit too far off." He sighed. "We heard the screams but arrived too late and approached, perhaps, too cautiously." He looked at the dead Romans. "It is just revenge," he murmured, almost to himself, "but somehow it does not seem adequate." Then back to the freed man: "You have relatives to whom you can be taken?"
He shook his head. "All I had lies there," he muttered. "I am alone in the world once again."
"You are young, and brave, and skilled," the old man told him. "You deserve a new chance. Come! I am of substance. I am Mattathias the son of John, a priest of the sons of Joarib, now of Modin. These are my sons—Joannan Caddis, Simon Thassi, Eleazar Avaran, and Jonathan Apphus on the Roman rolls."
"My name and family are dead with them," he said sorrowfully. "I died with them."
"Then you shall be my son," Mattathias told him. "You shall become the son who was their eldest brother but died so long ago in the wilderness." He turned to his sons, now standing there. "What say you?"
"He is a brave man who has lost much," one said. "And his spirit and his faith are sorely needed in these trying times." The others nodded assent.
"Any warrior as small as you who could penetrate Roman armor has a passion inside and the Lord's annointment," another said.
"It is settled, then," Mattathias said, satisfied. "You are as another son to me and welcome to my tribe and house. And henceforth you shall be known as Judas Maccabeas, my lost son who returns to me in these days of trial."
And they knelt and prayed together that the Lord God of Israel accepted this and it was in fact His will. And when they were finished he looked up at them all and said, "Perhaps with your faith and your patriotism we may bring mighty Antiochus himself to heel!"
Nathan Brazil awoke.
His head felt as if it was bursting; he could only groan, and the medics came with painkillers to aid him. He got his eyes to focus, finally, and tried to sit up. With a low moan, he quickly collapsed back into the bed.
"Well, I see the gang's all here," he muttered.
"How do you feel?" Mavra asked. Her concern was evident.
He managed a low chuckle. "Oh, about like anybody would a day or so after being at the center of an explosion."
"What happened to you in . . . there?" Marquoz asked. "Do you remember any of it?"
Brazil winced, not from pain but from memory. "I wish to God I didn't! You know, Obie wasn't kidding—the human mind is a fantasy land operating to delude itself by assuming whatever point of view is easiest to live with. Can you imagine coming face to face with yourself—your real self—with no place to hide? Even Obie doesn't realize th
e kind of horror he perpetrated on me, the terrible torture he put me through. I don't think he could have done it if he'd known. You realize we—all us nonmachines—are crazy? Absolutely stark-raving mad? No wonder the Markovians felt they hadn't reached utopia—they hadn't. I wonder if this is the sort of thing that happened to them. I mean, linked mentally to their monster computers they must have undergone much of what I just did, been forced to face themselves with no place to run. What a terrible disillusionment it must have been! My God! No wonder! It explains everything! The Well, why they performed their great experiment, why they were so willing to commit suicide—and why they failed this time, too. We—all of us—created in their image, yes, but reflections of their darker sides as well. My god!"
"But weren't you there?" Mavra asked. She was bewildered by all Brazil's monologue. "You're a Markovian—aren't you?"
He gave a dry chuckle, then groaned a little as it hurt. "No, not a Markovian. Something . . . else. Don't worry. I can fix their pretty machine." Then, suddenly, he was off on his own again. "My god! No wonder the Well isn't self-aware. They couldn't have stood that . . ."
"Obie—is Obie dead?" Mavra pressed fearfully.
"I—I don't know. I don't think so. No, I'm sure he's not. But he's—well, he's of no help to us now, maybe not in the foreseeable future. You see, to Obie the whole Universe and everything in it is strictly logical and mathematical. That's what we are to him, strings of numbers, relationships that balance. I don't balance. I'm not a part of any math he understands and he doesn't have the key to understanding my 'formula', driven to assimilate me, and for that he needs the key. But he can't get the key unless he assimilates me. He must solve the problem, and he can't solve the problem until he solves it. He's stuck in a loop. In a way I guess you can say I drove him crazy."
The Return of Nathan Brazil Page 22