Exiles at the Well of Souls

by Jack L. Chalker

  Yulin applied power, and the image swirled and whirled on the screen. "Kind of tricky," the pilot told them. "Ships like this weren't built to go this slow except in landing and docking modes."

  They crossed the equator, a true barrier they saw—strange, imposing, and opaque.

  "I wish we had some instruments," Zinder said, genuinely interested in something again. "I would love to know what makes those strange patterns. Methane, ammonia, all sorts of stuff, looks like."

  They crossed the terminator and went into darkness.

  "Somebody's living there, though," Trelig noted, pointing. Some of the areas in some of the hexes were lit, and there were a few clear major cities down there.

  "A pity we can't get a little closer," Zinder said sincerely. "The atmospheric distortion is really intense."

  "Maybe a little lower," Yulin answered. "I'll try to skim just over the top of the stratosphere. That'll keep us high enough to be effectively in a vacuum, but low enough to see some detail."

  Hearing no dissent, he cautiously took the ship down. They crossed the terminator once again and went into blinding sunlight.

  And then the engine seemed to give a start, and the lights flashed.

  "What's the matter?" Trelig snapped.

  Yulin was genuinely puzzled. "I—I don't know." It happened again, and he took over manual helm and started to fight it. "Sudden losses of power, very intermittent."

  "Take us up!" Trelig commanded, but, at that moment, the lights really went out.

  "We're dropping like a stone!" screamed Yulin. "My God!"

  Trelig reached over, threw two switches. Nothing happened. He threw a third. Still nothing. They were in almost total darkness in the cabin, and even these actions were made more by feel.

  And then everything came on again. There was a whining noise from the rear and in front.

  Ahead, a panel rolled back, revealing a nasty landscape only ten or so kilometers beneath them. Trelig reached out, grabbed a wheel-shaped device depressed into the copilot's panel.

  Lights and power went out again, but now it was a rocky trip, the ship banged and buffeted by strange forces. Trelig grabbed the wheel and started fighting for control of the ship.

  The view, Yulin realized, was a real one—they were looking out some sort of forward window.

  "This thing was designed for in-atmosphere work as well as shuttle," Trelig said between clenched teeth, fighting for control with the weakened muscles of Renard. "The wings finally deployed. Even if power cuts out again, I think I can dead-stick it in."

  Yulin watched the landscape approach with horrifying suddenness. Trelig fought to keep the nose up, yet he had to be cautious or he would miss seeing the ground at all.

  The power was out again now, and Trelig had managed to slow the craft, but not enough.

  "Find me a level spot with about twenty kilometers to roll in!" he yelled.

  "This thing's got wheels?" Yulin managed, peering out.

  "Don't be funny!" snapped the boss. "Both of you get strapped in! I don't think we'll get power again long enough to get her up, and this will be a real wallop!"

  "There! A flat area ahead! See it?" Yulin screamed.

  Trelig saw, and aimed for it, the ship rocking this way and that. They hit. What saved them, they decided later, was the much denser atmosphere, which slowed the craft enough. Just enough.

  They hit with a tremendous bang, and Yulin cried out in pain as the cracked rib and other bruises were suddenly fully activated once again.

  They skidded over barren rock, seemingly forever, and they had to ride it out. Finally, they struck an upward incline that almost turned them over, but managed to spin them around and finally halt them instead.

  Trelig groaned, undid his straps, and looked around. Yulin was out cold. For the first time he noticed the torn clothing and bruises and gashes. He wondered where Mavra Chang had come by them.

  Zinder fared little better. The bouncing and straps had caused some deep depressions and gashes and cut off the circulation in a few places, but he now seemed to be all right, just dizzy from shock.

  Trelig tried to get up and discovered that he, too, was dizzy. He fell down twice, and his head pounded. His arms ached horribly from the effort of the landing. But he'd made it. He'd brought them in.

  He looked out at the bleak landscape. A lot of barren, blackish rock against a dark and dense atmosphere of—who knew? Nothing they could breathe, anyway.

  They were alive—but for how long?

  South Zone

  "Another one down?" Ortega was aghast.

  "We detected the energy burst in our routine monitoring of the satellite," Gol Miter's artificial voice told him through the interzone embassy communications system. "At first we had some trouble locating them, but we managed a plot thanks to their taking their time. Careful orbit, nice survey techniques. What I wouldn't give to see this planet from space!"

  Ortega joined in that sentiment. "But they went down anyway? I didn't get any reports."

  "Finally clipped it a little low, got within the Well's influence, and got nonteched, same as the first one. The reason you haven't heard is that they had swung up North for a look. Near as we can tell, they went down in 1146 or 1318, Uchjin or Ashinshyh. Got anything on them?"

  Ortega's multiple arms whipped through maps, charts, and diagrams while he kept up a steady stream of frustration-induced curses. If things were going to get this complicated, he preferred to be the one doing the complicating.

  Northern maps were only so-so. They marked oceans, for example, but the oceans could be methane or any one of a dozen other more lethal compounds. Nothing up there bore the slightest kinship to him, not even as close a kinship as he, a six-armed snake-man, bore to Gol Miter, a giant spider. Some Northern races were so alien that there was no common frame of reference possible with what he and the others of the South considered normal existence.

  One thing for sure, he saw, looking at the map. Uchjin and Ashinshyh were both nontech or semitech hexes and could not support a sophisticated power system like that of a ship.

  He sighed. "Gol, even if they survived the crash, which I doubt, they're only as good as their air. I don't know what the hell these symbols for Uchjin mean in terms of atmosphere, but there's sure no oxygen in it. The Ashinshyh are a little better—there's some oxygen and even water there—but there's so much hydrogen around they may have blown half the hex to hell."

  Miter agreed. "Since we've had no reports of disaster, and no sign of Well activation, I'd say Uchjin, then. How about your Northern contacts? Anything we can use?"

  "I doubt it," Ortega replied sourly. "Nobody I know near there. I haven't even the slightest idea what the Uchjin look like. They may have an ambassador on station, though, or somebody close might. Worth a try. I hate to see the Northerners brought into this, though. I don't trust what I can't understand, and some of those boys are nasty customers with alien motives."

  "No choice," Miter responded pragmatically. "I'll send somebody up to North Zone and see what can be done. That crash has already involved them—and our observatory people have first loyalty to the North, anyway. They tracked it, so everybody already knows." He paused. "Cheer up, Serge. Even if the thing's intact, few Northerners could fly it anyway. It's us or nobody."

  "Not us," Ortega corrected him. "Somebody."

  Technicians had been in and out for half the day setting up special equipment. He punched the direct line to Ambassador Vardia.

  "Czill," came a voice.

  "Ortega here. We've got another one down in the North. Get on it. Any word on the Teliagin business yet?"

  "Hmmm . . . the North," mused the plant-creature. "No, nothing from the Teliagin sector yet. The Lata party went in pretty quickly, though. Be patient, Serge. It's only been two days."

  "Patience is a virtue best left to the dead, who can afford it," growled Ortega, and switched off.

  Teliagin

  Even walking, twenty kilometers isn't really tha
t far—if you know where you're going. But sunrise on the second day had brought heavy clouds totally obscuring the sun. All through the night there had been the far-off toll of drums, messages relayed from one point to another throughout the hex in an unknown and unguessable code.

  Mavra Chang suspected that the messages involved speculations about the strange beings, rather small, who had crashed in some sort of flying machine and were now on the loose somewhere in the land.

  At least it didn't rain; they were thankful for that. It continued dark and ominous all day, though; the cover was much too thick to see the sun and guess direction. In ordinary circumstances, Chang would have waited for clearer skies despite the dangers, but she knew that the deadly disease was eating away at her two companions, and if she didn't make those mountains and that coast quickly, there would be no hope.

  Every once in a while doubt would creep into the back of her mind, doubt born of the logical probability that the new lands would be no more friendly than this one. The denizens—for all she knew, more cyclopses—would be no friendlier, no more advanced, no more able to help.

  And, worse, although she was certain that they weren't backtracking, she really didn't know in which direction they were going. She had started off in the same direction, of course, but the woods were thick; there were some broad dirt roads and wide meadows to avoid, and who knew whether they had picked up in the same way after they had been forced to divert?

  About the only good news had been the apples. At least, they looked a lot like apples, although they grew on bushes and had a funny, purple skin. Almost in desperation, she had gambled on some food source—and the lower-level wildlife looked warm-blooded and somewhat familiar. If alien bacteria hadn't already gotten to them, then it was probably not going to—or so she prayed.

  The big rodents ate the fruit with abandon, and she decided to risk doing likewise. Nikki, despite having her appetite drug-depressed, was still the hungriest, and she probably couldn't have been restrained much longer, anyway. Mavra let the girl eat one, knowing they should wait several hours for the test to be conclusive, but when she reported the fruit to be sweet and good and easily chewed, the temptation to Mavra, whose own appetite could not be depressed, became too much to ignore.

  They satisfied, they were good, and they were plentiful, apparently an important part of the upper animal food chain of this place. And they were doubly important. They proved that, no matter what else happened, Mavra Chang could survive here.

  The second day had been a lot more satisfactory than the first. Even so, she was uncertain. The other two, now, had seen the great cyclopses, with their fierce expressions and nasty fangs, pulling wooden hand-hewn carts along the roads and tending flocks of animals that looked much like common sheep in the meadows.

  Neither of the two spongies had shown much change as yet, but that was deceptive, she knew. In normal conversation there was little difference between an IQ of 100 and an IQ of 150. There was no question that Nikki would deteriorate faster; she was a little above average, but no genius.

  As darkness fell at the end of the second day, the mountains were still nowhere in sight and the landscape didn't seem to have varied much at all. There was a chill in the air from the damp, humid skies and a light drizzle. Neither Renard nor Nikki was at all comfortable; they had no protection, in or out of those filmy things from New Pompeii, and although Mavra's clothing provided decent protection, she was by far the smallest of the three and had nothing to spare that could fit either of the others.

  The darkness of the second evening was as much in their spirits as in the night surrounding them.

  She tried bunching them all together for body warmth, but she was so small and their skin so cold and clammy that all this seemed to do was transfer their misery to her. Nikki, being heavy and unaccustomed to exercise, was, as usual, the first to fall asleep, leaving her with Renard, as before. They sat there awhile, thinking of little to say. He had his arm around her, holding her close to him, but it was not a romantic gesture, not an advance. It was a binding together in the face of adversity.

  Finally, he said, "Mavra, do you really think there's any point to all this? You and I both know we don't even know where we are or what's over the next hill or even whether the next hill isn't some previous hill."

  The question irritated her, because it vocalized her own inner doubts. "There's always a point to it until you're dead," she replied, and she believed it.

  "You really think so?" he responded. "Not just brave talk?"

  She shifted slightly, looking away from him, out into the blackness.

  "I was raised by a rough freighter captain. Not the most ideal parent, I guess, but, in her own way, she did love me, I think, and I loved her. I grew up in space, the big freighter my playground, the big ports new and dazzling amusements every few weeks."

  "Must've been lonely," he commented.

  She shook her head. "No, not at all. After all, it was all I ever knew. It was normal to me. And it taught me how to be on my own for long periods of time—conditioned me against the loneliness, made me rely on myself. That was important, because my mother was doing a lot of illegal stuff. Most freighter captains do, but this must've been really big. The Com Police busted her and the ship was seized. I was about thirteen then, and I was in the stores along the port, shopping. I found out what happened, but couldn't do anything. I knew that if I showed myself, the CPs would take me, too, maybe give me a psych wipe, and turn me over to the Com. So, I stayed on Kaliva."

  "Ever feel guilty you didn't try to spring her?" Renard asked, knowing the sensitivity of the question but realizing that Mavra Chang wanted somebody to talk to.

  "No, I don't think so," she answered truthfully. "Oh, I had all sorts of plots in my head—a thirteen-year-old girl, a little over a meter tall and weighing about twenty-five kilos—to rush them, battle them, heroically rescue my mom, and dash away in the ship to unknown space. But I never even could get the chance. They had her away and the ship impounded in a matter of an hour or two. No, I was alone."

  "You don't like the Com very much, by your tone," he noted. "Any special reason?"

  "They murdered my family," she almost spat. "I was only a little more than five years old, but I can remember them. Harvich's world went Com with sponge syndicate muscle and rigged votes, and my folks—my real folks—had been fighting them every step of the way. I got the whole story later, from Maki—my stepmother—when I got older. They refused to leave at the start, then found they couldn't leave when the Com process started. Somehow—I don't know how—they hired a spacer to get me out, one piloting a supply freighter for the Com process. Funny—after all these years I can still remember him. A strange little man in colorful clothes with a big, brassy voice that always had several tones in it. Some of those tones I later recognized as pure cynicism, but there was an underlying gentleness and kindness about him that he seemed desperate to hide but couldn't. It's funny—I'm not even sure of his name, and I was with him for only a few days when I was five, yet he's as real to me as my stepmother, who actually got me out. Looking back, I think it's incredible that a five-year-old spoiled brat like me would go with him. There was just something in him one liked, trusted. I often wonder if he was human—I've never met anybody else like that, ever."

  Renard was no psychologist, but he recognized the depth of the impression this man had made on Mavra Chang. She had been hunting for him, or someone like him, all her life.

  "Ever try and find him?" he asked her.

  She shrugged. "I was much too busy staying alive the next few years. By the time I had the means, he was probably dead or something. I have to admit that a number of people seemed to recognize him from my description, but there was nothing tangible. Some people said I was describing a fairy-tale legend, a mythical space captain who had never existed but was just part of those epic stories all professions get. Once I met a captain, a real old veteran, who said that this man really existed, somewhere, and he was old.
He was supposed to be immortal, living forever, going back to ancient times of prehistory."

  "What's the name of this legend?" Renard prompted.

  "Nathan Brazil. Isn't that a strange name? Somebody said Brazil was the name of a prehistoric place, one of the early space powers."

  "The Wandering Jew," Renard said, almost to himself.

  "Huh?"

  "An ancient legend among some of the old religions," he told her. "There's still a Christian planet or two around, I think. They are an offshoot of an even more obscure and older religion known as Judaism. They're still around, too—scattered all over the place. Probably the most traditionally co—" he stopped for a second, looked puzzled and disturbed. "Co—" he tried.

  "Cohesive?" she guessed.

  He nodded. "That's it. Why couldn't I think of that word?" He let it drop, but Mavra had an eerie sensation. A little thing, but important.

  "Well, anyway, there was supposed to be this man who was Jewish and claimed to be God's son. For this the powers-that-be killed him, because they were scared he might lead a revolution or something. Supposedly he was to come back from the dead. One Jew was supposed to have cursed him at his execution and been told that he would stay until this god-man returned. This Nathan Brazil sounds like the legend brought up to modern times."

  She nodded. "I never really believed all that stuff about immortals flying spaceships, but a lot of spacers who don't believe in anything believe in his existence."

  Renard smiled. "That may explain what happened to you. If it's a widespread legend, then somebody who knew it could imitate him, maybe convince the other spacers he was this legendary figure. They'd do favors for him they wouldn't do for an ordinary captain. Make supersi—supershi—oh, hell!" he ended in frustration, unable to get the word out.

  She got the meaning. "I don't know. You're probably right. But there was something really strange about that man, something I can't explain."