Quest for the Well of Souls wos-3

by Jack L. Chalker

The surgeons had several problems to solve. The cosmetic changes would be easy to reverse, of course, but not the legs, which made it impossible to fit them into any available pressure suits. Though the Yaxa had manufactured suits based on their old forms, these were now deemed unusable because of the very different shape of the pigs’ limbs. To return them in any way to their original form would be to have them small, weak, slow, and facing downward—in other words, tremendous burdens on the expedition.

  There, then, was the problem. Assuming that Mavra Chang could be snared and Joshi taken hostage, what to do with them to make them useful during the journey and to fit in a spacesuit that would have to be one removed from an Entry—someone who had fallen into a Well Gate out among the stars or on a deserted Markovian world and wound up in Zone.

  The suit problem was acute. Though dozens of races had apparently reached space, many more had not. There were limits. The problem remained until the Yaxa themselves suggested a solution.

  Over two centuries before, the near-legendary Nathan Brazil—perhaps the last living Markovian—had walked the Well World. Only a few who saw it were still alive, and a lot of propaganda had gone into convincing most that he was a legend, nothing more. Most of those witnesses were on Ortega’s side—indeed, Ortega himself had been there.

  But one witness was on the side of the Yaxa, and that was all that was necessary.

  In the far-off land of Murithel, inhabited by the ferocious Murnies, who ate living flesh, Brazil’s body had been battered and broken beyond repair, and the Murnies had somehow transferred his consciousness, that which was truly he, into the body of a giant stag.

  Others knew of the process, although they couldn’t study it, for the Murnies tended to eat anyone first and ask polite questions afterward. Still, it had been done, and at least another two races in the North knew about it.

  A Yaxa stuck her head in the surgery. “The Cuzicol are here!” she announced. From the North, the Cuzicol were a race that traded with the Yaxa.

  A strange creature, like a metallic yellow flower with hundreds of sharp spikes, stood on spindly legs. In the yellow disk that was its head several ruby-red spots flashed as it spoke. “Bring in the first one,” it commanded.

  The others would assist. Happily. Any of them would have sold his soul—if he believed in it—just to witness this operation, which most didn’t believe really possible, for it did, in fact, presuppose the existence of something not quantifiable, but real and transferrable, nevertheless. And they witnessed it, not once but twice, the transfer into an animal which was part surgical, part mystical. It was not the same method the Murnies had used, and it depended a great deal more on technological skills, but it worked.

  And all agreed that the twin problems of spacesuit fit and usefulness to the travel party were well served, while minimum disruption of the subjects’ habits was observed. They were accustomed to being four-footed, hooved animals, and such they would remain.

  The Wuckl’s skill was used in constructing rudimentary larynxes for the two and in implanting a translator in Joshi. Their voices would have low amplitude and sound somewhat artificial, but they would do. The only thing the translator required was something to modulate.

  Mavra Chang awoke. The last thing she remembered was running across the barren salt flats away from her rescuers when four powerful tendrils suddenly wrapped themselves around her and another two pairs snared Joshi, jerking them into the skies. Something had stung painfully, and she had blacked out.

  Now she was in a room. It was definitely made for creatures different from those she knew—there were odd cushions, strange furniture and implements all about.

  She was still near-sighted, and now color-blind as well. This disturbed her; much more than the very slight fisheye effect she was getting. She had enjoyed color, and that was now taken from her.

  She knew that they’d transformed her again. It was obvious from the change in perception and also from the fact that her height and viewing angle were different.

  For someone who had never yet been through the Well of Souls, never been made by that great machine into a creature of this world, she had been more creatures than anyone else on the Well World, she thought.

  Whatever she was, she had a fairly long snout. Her eyes were set back from it, making that obvious. She tried to move, and found that shackles held her four feet in check.

  A nearby noise attracted her attention. When she turned her head, she saw a small horse, perhaps the size of a Shetland pony, gold, and with broad, thick powerful hooved legs. The animal had a thick mane, and a clump of thick wavy hair hung from between its ears, reaching almost to the eyes.

  “Joshi?” she said to herself, wondering, but she said it aloud.

  The other stirred. “Mavra?” came a strange, electronic-resonant voice.

  “Joshi! We can talk again!” she exclaimed excitedly.

  He looked at her with his horse’s head. “So we’re talking horses now, are we?” he responded morosely. “What next? Horse flies?”

  “Oh, come on!” she scolded. “We’re no worse off than before. We’re alive, we’re healthy, we’re together.”

  That last got to him. It was the first time she’d really said anything so endearing to him, and it seemed to energize him. “All right, all right,” he replied. “So who got us? The thing on the horse or the butterfly?”

  She looked around. “The butterfly for sure. Why and for what I have no idea as yet, but I think we’ll soon find out.”

  They talked on, more for the joy at being able to communicate again than for any serious purpose. Neither had really been conscious of how much their earlier isolation had affected them until they could speak once again.

  After a half-hour or so, a door panel slid back with a whine. A Yaxa entered, looking no less huge and fierce and formidable in black and white and shades of gray than it had in color.

  “I see you are awake,” it began in the eerie, ice-cold voice of the Yaxa. “I am Wooley. You know who you are, and so do I.”

  “What’s all this about?” Mavra demanded.

  Wooley’s death’s-head looked at them. “Would you like to get back to New Pompeii?” she asked.

  Mavra almost gasped. New Pompeii! Space! The stars! But—“I’m a hell of a pilot as a horse,” she responded sarcastically.

  Wooley showed no reaction to the comment. “We do not need you as a pilot, except, perhaps, as a backup. Do you remember Ben Yulin?”

  Mavra thought a moment. The truth was, she had seen very little of Yulin—the young scientist at Trelig’s test panels. Not even a picture of him came to mind. All her experience had been with Trelig, not Yulin.

  “Vaguely,” she responded. “Scientist who worked for Trelig. So? I know he’s the one you depended on to get you to New Pompeii after the wars over twenty years ago. Kind of fizzled on that one, didn’t you?”

  Wooley let it pass. “We have Yulin, we can penetrate the North, we can reach New Pompeii, but it won’t be easy. You are our backup. Would you trust a former lieutenant of Antor Trelig?”

  She had to admit that she wouldn’t. But, then again, she wouldn’t trust Mavra Chang, either, who owed no loyalty to the Yaxa.

  “It wouldn’t have more to do with the fact that, if I’m with you, then Ortega can’t use me?” she prodded.

  The Yaxa’s antennae waved a bit. “That is part of it, yes. However, we could kill you and accomplish that. No, we are interested in you as a check on Yulin. We want someone else who knows New Pompeii, and we want someone who can make certain he is not planning a double-cross. You are the best we can do.”

  “But why horses?” Joshi asked, a little miffed at being left out of the conversation.

  “Relatives of the horse, yes,” Wooley said, “but not horses. You are extremely strong, for one thing.”

  “So we help carry the freight,” Mavra noted, understanding. “I can see that.”

  “Also, your new bodies are not strictly herbivores. Your breed is fro
m a hex to the east, Furgimos, and you can eat almost anything, in much the same way you could as pigs. Your water-storage capability is excellent. Two weeks or more. You can see how this simplifies travel problems.”

  They did. “I take it that there’s a long journey after we get North, then,” Mavra guessed.

  “Very long,” Wooley admitted. “For one thing, the rebreathing apparatus necessary is only usable in a semitech or high-tech hex, so the shortest route is out of the question. The shortest route avoiding nontech hexes is blocked because the Poorgl are extremely nasty high-tech creatures who would be death to us. That means a seven-hex journey.”

  The horses started doing the math in their heads, but Wooley cut them off. “It’s about 2,400 kilometers, all told. A huge distance.”

  Joshi was shocked. “That far in the North? Without air, without any food or water we don’t take with us? It’s impossible!”

  “Not impossible,” the Yaxa responded. “Difficult You forget we have had a great deal of time to prepare for this mission, both diplomatically and logistically. A thousand or so of those kilometers will be hard traveling. In others we will obtain transport and be resupplied from established caches. Still, the going will be difficult, and dangerous.”

  “What about us?” Mavra asked. “How will we breathe and be protected?”

  “I told you there were several reasons for your being horses. Well, the Dillians—you might remember them, they are centaurs—in whatever part of space their colony began, also attained space flight. We have obtained two of the suits and a spare from off-planet Dillian Entries and easily modified them,” the Yaxa explained. “They are made for an equine shape, yet operate in the main as yours do—they are form-fitting when pressurized. It is all arranged.”

  “And when do we start this great expedition?” Mavra prodded, excited.

  “Tomorrow. Early tomorrow,” the Yaxa replied, and left. The door whined shut behind her.

  They stood in silence for a few minutes, thinking. Suddenly Mavra became aware that Joshi was shaking his hindquarters, obviously agitated.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Worried?”

  “It’s not that,” he replied, certainly upset about something. “Mavra, will you look down between my hind legs and tell me what you see?”

  She humored him, lowered her head, and looked carefully. “Nothing,” she answered. “Why?”

  “That’s what I thought,” he cried mournfully. “Damn it, Mavra! I think they made me a girl horse!”

  Ortega’s Office, South Zone

  The intercom on Serge Ortega’s desk buzzed and he punched it. “Yes?”

  “They’re here, sir,” his secretary answered. “They?” he responded, then decided quibbling wasn’t worth the trouble. “Send them in.”

  The door slid back, and two creatures slow-hopped in. They looked very much like meter-and-a-half-long frogs, with legs in proportion, although one was slightly smaller than the other and had a lighter green complexion. On their whitish undersides elaborate symbols were tattooed.

  “Antor Trelig,” Ortega nodded. “And?”

  “My wife, Burodir,” the larger of the two frogs responded.

  “Charmed,” the snake-man replied dryly. He looked around. There were spaces for Uliks to curl and some chairs and a couch for visiting humanoids, but there seemed to be nothing appropriate for frogs. “Have a seat if anything fits.”

  The chairs did, surprisingly. As the frogs sat, they looked almost human, curved legs slightly crossed. “You know what’s up, I assume, so I won’t beat around the bush,” Ortega began. “The Yaxa have Mavra Chang, and they are ready to start any moment with Chang and Yulin into the North. We have to get there—if not ahead of them, then at roughly the same time as they do. It’ll be a rough trip out, and there may be a fight at the end. It’s very much like a miniature replay of the Wars of the Well on neutral turf.”

  Trelig nodded. “I understand. You have my complete cooperation, Ambassador Ortega.”

  “Cooperation, yes—but I think we understand each other, Trelig,” the Ulik answered pointedly. “Don’t cross me. I’m sending some people with you as my representatives. One is an Agitar, and you know what kind of power he has.”

  Trelig nodded.

  Ortega continued, “Also along will be a Lata, whose sting works on Makiem, and who will have flying speed on New Pompeii—and some male and female Dillian centaurs to help carry supplies. In addition, one of the Yaxa who’s along with the other side, goes by the name Wooley, is a former sponge-addict Entry.”

  Trelig, former head of the sponge syndicate, gasped.

  “She has sworn to kill you at any cost and has tried several times,” the snake-man continued. “She’ll try again up North. The Yaxa are among the most cunning and deadly creatures on the Well World, so you can afford no mistakes.”

  Trelig nodded soberly. “I have gotten this far and this high by not making any. I assure you that self-preservation is a primary objective with me.”

  “All right then,” Ortega said. “You brought two Makiem suits?”

  “Already being worked on by your people,” Burodir put in. “We will be set to go as soon as they are through.”

  Ortega sighed. “Okay, then. Get your supplies transferred as quickly as possible, and be back here for briefing at 0400.”

  The Makiem rose and made for the exit. Trelig turned slightly, and said, “You won’t regret this, Ortega.”

  “You bet I won’t,” the snake-man replied, and watched them go out. The door closed. “You son of a bitch,” he added.

  Two figures emerged from behind a partition.

  “So that’s Trelig,” Renard breathed. “Now he looks just like he always was—slimy. Color matches, too. He hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “I notice you didn’t tell him who that Agitar was,” Vistaru the Lata said.

  Ortega chuckled. “No, and I think you better have an alias, Renard. Something that won’t give you away—and he’d better not find out, so don’t slip.”

  Renard’s grin lent a particularly evil effect to his devil’s face. “I won’t slip. But nothing will stop me from electrocuting the son of a bitch once we don’t need him any more. You understand that.”

  Ortega did. Trelig had picked Renard from a Comworld mental institution, fed him massive doses of sponge, and enslaved him on New Pompeii. More than anyone, Renard knew Trelig’s basic evil, his degradation. The man was a monster. But Trelig did not know that Renard was Renard—and if there were no slips, he would not. While Trelig worried about a vengeful Yaxa, right next to him would be an enemy who knew him well, knew New Pompeii well, and hated him with a passion that defied description.

  “I just wish it’d been Mavra,” Vistaru said between clenched teeth. “That bitch Wooley! I’ll get her if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Ortega looked thoughtful, then sighed. “Renard, will you see to some of the final preparations?” he prodded. The Agitar turned to go, and Vistaru started to follow. “No, Vistaru, not you. Stay here a minute.”

  She looked puzzled, and Renard left. The door hissed shut again.

  “I think,” Ortega said slowly, “it’s time to tell you a few things you don’t know. Wooley knows—I had to tell her in order to save Mavra Chang’s life these many years. Now it’s time for you.”

  Vistaru experienced a creeping dread within her, as if she didn’t really want to know what Ortega was about to tell her, but dimly guessed the truth.

  Ortega sighed and pulled some papers from a desk drawer, a thick file marked chang, mavra in indecipherable Ulik, but the Lata knew what it was from the photo on the jacket.

  “I better start from the beginning, all the way,” he said carefully. “It begins fifty-four years ago, back when you found Nathan Brazil…”

  Yaxa Embassy, South Zone

  The Torshind floated a few centimeters above the floor, a pale-red cloak without a wearer, like a vision from a nightmare. Because it was essentially an ener
gy creature, a translator had nothing to modulate, so it was also silent now as it watched the preparations underway. Yaxa guards armed with nasty weapons stood all about as insurance against attempts by Ortega or Trelig to interfere with the operation.

  A drug was administered to the party; it made them sleepy, close to comatose. Because of the supply problem, the expedition was small: Wooley, of course, and Yulin and the horselike Mavra and Joshi and, of course, the Torshind. There had been some debate about it all, particularly the inclusion of Joshi and the exclusion of another Yaxa. But Joshi provided a handle on Mavra Chang and he was needed to carry supplies—and anyway, another Yaxa would consume more in food and water than he. Five were enough; none of them trusted Yulin, so that kept him in check. None trusted the Torshind either, but the Torshind could not pilot the ship. Mavra had no hands and her shape precluded her ability to activate the ship, particularly at an incline, so she would need an ally with arms—and for that Wooley was a better bet than Yulin. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best that could be done.

  Most of the supplies had been shifted earlier; the suits in which the expedition would live in the North had been fitted with small but complex rebreather apparatus. For himself, Yulin adopted a “human” suit, of old design. The Yaxa had their own suites from Entries—and Mavra and Joshi used modified Dillian equipment. The Torshind did not breathe as the South understood breathing, and so needed nothing.

  Transfer was simple. The Torshind simply glided up to the transferee, melted into the other’s body, awkwardly took control of it, then moved down the hall and into the Zone Gate.

  The drugs made the Torshind’s task easier, and each transferee had undergone at least one test earlier.

  Consciousness returned slowly.

  Mavra Chang shook herself, stretched her limbs outward, and moved her head around as if clearing cobwebs.

  They were in a strange chamber, a hall of some glassy substance. The light was poor but sufficient, and she could see the others struggling to one or another degree to regain control.