Midnight at the Well of Souls wos-1

by Jack L. Chalker

  As the creature approached the platform, it eyed them with large, human-looking orbs punctuated with jet-black pupils. As it reached the edge of the platform, the lower left arm slapped the rail. The belt stopped just short of the platform. Then, for what seemed like forever, they just stared at each other—these four humans in ghostly white pressure suits and this creature of some incredibly alien spawning.

  The alien finally pointed to them, then with its top pair of arms made a motion to remove their helmets. When it saw they made no move, it pointed again to them, then did what appeared to be a deep breathing exercise.

  “I think it’s trying to tell us we can breathe in here,” Brazil said cautiously.

  “Sure, he thinks so, but what does he breathe?” Hain pointed out.

  “No choice,” Brazil replied. “We’re almost out of air anyway. May as well chance it.”

  “I do,” came the unexpected voice of Wu Julee, and, with that, she unfastened her helmet—not without some trouble, for her coordination was shot. Finally the helmet fell to her feet, and she breathed in.

  And continued breathing.

  “Good enough for me,” said Vardia, and she and Brazil did the same. For a short time Hain continued to resist. Then, finally assured that everyone was still breathing, he removed his as well.

  The air seemed a bit humid and perhaps a little rich in oxygen—they experienced a slight light-headedness that soon passed—but otherwise fine.

  “Now what?” Hain asked.

  “Damned if I know,” Brazil replied honestly. “How do you say hello to a giant walrus-snake?”

  “Well I’ll be goddamned!” exclaimed the walrus-snake in perfect Confederation plain talk, “if it ain’t Nathan Brazil!”

  ZONE

  (Enter Ghosts)

  None of the group could have been more stunned than Nathan Brazil.

  “Somehow I knew you’d wind up here,” the creature continued. “Sooner or later just about every old-timer does.”

  “You know me?” Brazil asked incredulously.

  The creature laughed. “Sure I do—and you know me, too, unless you’ve had one too many rejuves. I know, had the same problem myself when I dropped through the Well. Let’s just say that people really change around here, and let it go at that. If you’ll follow me, I’ll make you more comfortable and give you some orientation.” With that the creature uncoiled backward, then recoiled at a length about two meters back on the belt. “Step aboard,” it invited.

  They looked at Brazil. “I don’t think we have much choice,” he told them. Then, noticing Hain’s pistol still drawn and pointed, he said to the fat man: “Put that popgun away until we find out the lay of the land. No use in getting popped yourself.”

  They stepped onto the belt, which started not when they boarded but only after the rail was given another slap by their alien host. For the first time they could hear noise—giant blowers, it sounded like, echoing throughout the great hall. The belt itself gave off its own steady electric hum.

  “Do you—eat what we eat?” Hain called out to the creature.

  The alien chuckled. “No, not anymore, but, don’t worry, no cannibals around, either. At least, not Type Forty-ones like you. But I think we can round up some food—some real food, maybe the first in everybody’s except Nate’s whole life.”

  They rode around three belts until they came to a platform much larger than the others. Here the walls curved and twisted away from the Well. Brazil could see why the configuration hadn’t been visible from afar.

  Then they followed the snakeman—no mean trick, they found, with its enormous serpentine body—down a long corridor. They saw other corridors branching off, but they traveled over a thousand meters before they took one.

  It led into a very large room set up something like a reception area. Comfortable, human-style chairs with plush cushions abounded, and a plastic wall covering was decorated with flowers. Here, such amenities seemed as incongruous as the alien would seem to their worlds. The creature had a sort of desk, semicircular in shape and seemingly form-fitted for him to coil comfortably behind. It held only a very ordinary-looking pen, a small pad of paper, and a seal—hexagonal of course—seemingly solid gold cast in clear plastic. The seal featured a snake coiled around a great cross, and it had a superscription around the edges in a script unfamiliar to any of them.

  The snakeman lifted up a small part of his desk top to reveal an instrument panel underneath of unfamiliar design and purpose. A large red button was most prominent, and he pushed it.

  “Had to reset the Well,” he explained. “Otherwise we could get some nonoxygen breathers in and they’d be hung up in storage until somebody remembered to press the button. Let me also punch in a food order for you—you always were a steak-and-baked-potato man, Nate. So that’s what it’ll be.” He punched some buttons in sequence on the console, then closed it. “Ten or fifteen minutes and the food will be here—and it’ll be cooked right, too. Medium, wasn’t it, Nate?”

  “You seem to know me better than I do,” Brazil replied. “It’s been so long since I had a steak—maybe almost a century. I’d just about forgotten what one was. Where did you know me, anyway?”

  A broad yet wistful smile crept across the creature’s face. “Can you remember an old bum named Serge Ortega, Nate? Long ago?”

  Brazil thought, then suddenly it came to him. “Yeah, sure, I remember him—but that was maybe a hundred years ago or so. A free-lancer—polite name for a pirate,” he explained to the others. “A real rascal. Anything for a buck, was wanted almost everywhere—but a hell of a character. But you can’t be him—he was a little guy, from Hispaniola, before they went Com and changed the place to Peace and Freedom.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the creature responded sadly. “That means my people are dead. Who was the mold? Brassario?”

  “Brassario,” Brazil confirmed. “But all this explains nothing!”

  “Oh, but it does,” the snakeman replied. “Because I am Serge Ortega, Nate. This world changed me into what you see.”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong with factory worlds,” Vardia interjected. They ignored her.

  Brazil looked bard at the creature. The voice, the eyes—they were dimly familiar, somehow. It did remind him of Ortega, sort of. The same crazy glint to the eyes, the same quick, sharp way of talking, the underlying attitude of amused arrogance that had gotten Ortega into more bar fights than any other man alive.

  But it had been so long ago.

  “Look here!” Hain put in. “Enough of old home week, Ortega or not Ortega. Sir, or whatever, I should very much like to know where we are, and why we are here, and when we shall be able to return to our own ship.”

  Ortega gave that evil smile. “Well, as to where you are—you’re on the Well World. There’s no other name for it, since that’s exactly what it is. As to where it is—well, damned if I know. Nobody here has ever been able to leave it. I only know that the night sky is like nothing you ever saw before. I spaced almost two hundred years, and none of the extremely prominent features look familiar. At the very least we’re on the other side of the galaxy, or maybe even in another galaxy. As to why you’re here, well, you somehow bumbled into a Markovian Gate like me and maybe thousands of others did. And here you are, stuck just like the rest of us. You’re here for good, mister. Better get used to it.”

  “See here!” Hain huffed. “I have power, influence—”

  “Means nothing here,” Ortega responded coldly.

  “My mission!” Vardia protested. “I must perform my duties!”

  “No duties, nothin’ anymore but you and here,” the snakeman said. “Understand this: you are on a world built by the Markovians—yes, I said built. The whole thing: lock, stock, and core. As far as we know, the whole damned thing is a Markovian brain in perfect working order, and preprogrammed.”

  “I figured we were inside Dalgonia,” Brazil said. “It felt as if we fell down into something.”

&nbs
p; “No,” replied Ortega, “that was no fall. The Markovians really had godlike powers. Matter transmission was a simple thing for them. Don’t ask me how it works, but it does, because we got a local version here. I wouldn’t understand it if somebody did explain it, anyway.”

  “But such a thing is impossible!” Hain objected. “It is against the laws of physics!”

  Ortega’s six limbs shrugged. “Who knows? At one time flying was impossible. Then it was impossible to leave a planet, then impossible to leave a solar system, then impossible for anything to go faster than light. The only thing that makes something impossible is ignorance. Here on the Well World the impossible’s a fact of life.”

  At that moment the food arrived, brought in on a small cart that was obviously some sort of robot. It went up to each in turn, and offered a tray of hot food, which, when removed, revealed an identical tray beneath. Brazil removed the cover and just stared for a minute. Finally, he said, in a tone of absolute awe and reverence: “A real steak!” He hesitated a moment and looked over at Ortega. “It is real, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” the snakeman assured him. “It’s real enough. The potato and beans, too. Oh, not quite a cow, not quite a potato, and so forth, but so close you’ll never be able to tell the difference. Go ahead, try it!”

  Hain was already greedily tearing into his, while Vardia looked at the food, bewildered.

  “What’s the trouble?” Brazil managed between swallows. “Problems?”

  “It’s quite safe to eat,” Ortega assured her. “There are no microorganisms that will give you any real problems here—not until you go out, anyway. The stuff’s biologically compatible.”

  “No, no—it’s—” she stammered. “Well, I have never seen food like it before. How do you…?”

  “Just watch me and follow my example,” Brazil laughingly replied. “See? You cut it with a knife and fork like this, then—”

  They dug into the meal, Vardia getting the hang of it, although she protested several times that she thought the food tasted terrible. But they were all too hungry to protest.

  Ortega’s eyes fell on Wu Julee, who just sat there staring at the food, not eating at all. “The girl—she is ill?” he asked them.

  Brazil suddenly stopped eating and looked at Hain, who had already finished and was just letting out an extremely noisy belch. The captain’s face had a grave expression on it, and the fine food suddenly felt like lead in his stomach.

  “She’s a spongie,” Brazil said softly. Hain’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing.

  Ortega’s face, too, turned serious. “How far gone?” he asked.

  “Fairly bad, I’d say,” Brazil replied. “Deep mental maybe five years old, voluntary action basically emotive only.” Suddenly he whirled in his chair and faced Hain, cold fury in his eyes. “How about it, Hain?” he snarled. “Would you agree?”

  Hain’s piggish face remained impassive, his tone of voice seemed almost one of relief. “So you found out. I thought perhaps I was overdoing the routine at that dinner.”

  “If we hadn’t been trapped on Dalgonia, I’d have had you and her down on Arkadrian before you realized what was what,” Brazil told him.

  Hain’s face showed both shock and surprise. Brazil’s remarks had gotten to him. Then, suddenly, a thought occurred to him and the old, smug self-confidence returned.

  “It would seem, then, that I have fallen not into a terrible situation, but into a most fortunate one by this—er, circumstance,” he said calmly. “A pity for the lady, though,” he added in mock sympathy.

  “Why you son of a bitch!” Brazil snarled and leaped at the fat man’s throat, spilling food everywhere. The big man was a head taller and twice the weight of the attacker, but Brazil’s quickness and the sheer hatred in his soul flowed into his arms and hands as they tightened around the other’s neck.

  Hain thrashed and tried to push the smaller attacker away, but all he managed was to cause both of them to roll onto the floor, the small man still squeezing. Hain’s mouth was open, face red, as he gasped for breath. The expression on Brazil’s face was almost demonic; nothing would keep him from his goal.

  Vardia watched openmouthed, understanding the situation only in the vaguest way and finding Brazil’s actions, both recounted and current, incomprehensible. In her private universe, there were no people, only cells composing a whole body. A diseased cell was simply eliminated. So there was no place in her mind for one who caused such a disease.

  Wu Julee watched the two grapple impassively, her meal still on her lap.

  Suddenly Ortega bounded over his desk and grabbed Brazil with massive arms. The giant creature moved almost too fast for the eye to follow; Vardia was stunned at the speed and surety with which the creature acted.

  Brazil fought to get free of the grip, and Ortega’s middle arm suddenly came from nowhere and punched the small man hard in the jaw. He went slack, still held aloft in the creature’s strong grip.

  Freed of his attacker, Hain gasped and choked for air, finally rolling flat on his back and lying there, his huge stomach rising and falling. He felt his neck, where the imprint of Brazil’s murderous hands could still be seen.

  Ortega began examining the unconscious man. Satisfied that no bones were broken, nor permanent damage done, he grunted and put the man down on the floor. Brazil collapsed in a heap, and the snakeman turned his attention to Hain.

  “I thank you, sir,” Hain gasped, his hand going involuntarily to his throat. “You have surely saved my life.”

  “I didn’t want to do it, nor would I have done so in normal times,” Ortega snapped back acidly. “And if Nate ever catches up to you on the outside, I won’t be there to save you—and, if I am, I’ll cheerfully join him in tearing you limb from limb. But I will not allow such a thing here!” He turned his attention back to Brazil, who was just coming around.

  Hain seemed taken aback by the creature’s comments, then saw that his pulse pistol had fallen when they had tumbled and now was a foot or so from him on the floor. Slowly, his hand crept toward it.

  “No!” Wu Julee suddenly screamed, but Hain already had the weapon, and was pointing it at both the snakeman and Brazil, who was sitting up, shaking his head and rubbing his jaw. Ortega’s back was to Hain, but Brazil suddenly looked up and spotted the gun. Ortega saw him stare and turned to face the fat man.

  “Now both of you behave and I won’t do anything rash,” Hain told them in that same cool, confident tone he always used. “But I am leaving this charming place right now.”

  “How?” asked Serge Ortega.

  The question seemed to bother Hain, who was used to simple answers to simple questions. “The—the way we came in,” he said at last.

  “The doorway leads to a corridor. The corridor leads to the Well in one direction—and that is strictly one way,” Ortega told him. “In the other direction are more rooms like this—seven hundred and eighty of them, in a honeycombed labyrinth. Beyond them are housing and recreation facilities for the types of creatures that use those offices—seven hundred and eighty different types of creatures, Hain. Some of them don’t breathe what you do. Some of them won’t like you a bit and may just kill you.”

  “There is a way out,” Hain snarled, but there was desperation in his voice. “There must be. I’ll find it.”

  “And then what?” Ortega asked calmly. “You’re out in a world that is moderately large. The surface area is best expressed as five point one times ten to the eighth power kilometers squared. And you don’t even know what the planet looks like, the languages, anything. You’re a smart man, Hain. What are the odds?”

  Hain seemed confused, hesitant. Suddenly he looked at the pistol in his hand and brightened. “This gives me the odds,” he said firmly.

  “Never play the odds until you know the rules of the game,” Ortega warned softly, and advanced slowly toward him.

  “I’ll shoot!” Hain threatened, his voice an octave higher than usual.

  “Go ahead
,” Ortega invited, his great serpentine body sliding slowly toward the panicked man.

  “All right, dammit!” Hain cried, and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  Hain pulled the trigger again and again. It clicked, making contact with the solenoid firing pin, but did nothing else.

  Ortega suddenly moved with that blinding speed, and the gun seemed to vanish from the fat man’s hand.

  “No weapon works in this room,” Ortega said crisply. Hain sat, a stupefied expression on his face, mouth half open. Possibly for the first time in his life that arrogant self-confidence was gone out of him.

  “You all right, Nate?” Ortega shot to the small man, who still sat half-rising, holding his sore jaw.

  “Yeah, you son of a bitch,” Brazil replied mushily, shaking his head to clear it. “Man! You sure as hell pack a wallop!”

  Ortega chuckled. “I was the only man smaller than you once in a bar on Siprianos. I was full of booze and dope, and ready to take on the house, all of whom would have cheerfully slit my throat for the floor show. I just started to pick a fight with the bouncer when you grabbed me and knocked me cold. Took me ten weeks before I realized that you’d saved my neck.”

  Brazil’s jaw dropped in wonder, and the pain hit him as he did so and he groaned. Still, he managed: “You are Serge Ortega!” in a tone of bewildered acceptance. “I had totally forgotten that…”

  Ortega smiled. “I said I was, Nate.”

  “But, oh, man, how you’ve changed,” Brazil noted, amazed.