Finally the Yugash reached the correct point. Only a meter or so away was a very odd-looking cube with a lot of connections. It didn’t match anything else around, and so it had to be the bomb.
With the Yugash guiding, the Bozog placed the wire on the proper module. The device was incredibly complex—millions of tiny hairs, each surrounded by countless tiny, perfectly round bubbles, protruded from the surface. At the proper spot, the Bozog emitted a sticky, glistening substance, then embedded the wire in it.
Hastily, the Bozog started to back out, following the wire. It got a fair distance when the Yugash started making anxious gestures.
For a moment the Bozog was puzzled, then it thought about it for a second and gave a slight tug forward on the wire.
It moved easily.
Retreating, the Bozog had pulled the wire from the jury-rigged connection. With a grunt that the translator would make a sigh, it followed the Yugash back toward the bomb.
“Oh, she’s so cute!” one of the girls squealed in delight as a new Mavra materialized, looked around as best she could, and, catching sight and sound of people, scampered happily over to them, bushy horse’s tail wagging.
The girls clustered around, petting and rubbing her. One of them held a piece of fruit under Mavra’s nose. She sniffed at it, purred, and ate it as a dog might.
Yulin looked at his handiwork from the balcony. “Here, Chang! Here, Chang! Come on, girl! Come here!” he called.
Mavra was puzzled but delighted. An idiot’s smile played on her face. She sought the source of the call, locating it when Yulin clapped his hands. She raced up the stairs to him. He stooped down and took her head in his hands, rubbing it. She licked his feet.
The Bozog couldn’t risk too much secretion on the module, or the current might not reach its target.
“It’s in as firm as we dare, Ghiskind,” it said to its silent companion. “You’ll have to take me out a slightly different way than we came in so I don’t disconnect the wire again.”
The specter nodded and they were off. The new route was much longer, and the Bozog had the uncomfortable feeling that the Yugash was guessing the way, but they finally found the shaft. The Bozog was nervous at that opening; neither end was visible, and the big rod at its center faded into nothingness in either direction. The bridge looked awfully far away.
The wire, however, was a few meters above and about ten meters to the side. The Bozog headed toward it. The tendril from its sac reached out, gently took in the slack from the direction of the bridge. When it was satisfied that there was no more, it pulled—once, twice, three times. Again, once, twice, three times.
And then it scurried up the wall toward the bridge.
If Renard had gotten the message, the Bozog had just a count of thirty.
Renard had sat waiting, seemingly forever, the tension so thick he almost passed out from it. When the wire had finally stopped unreeling after an eternity, he’d relaxed, calmed himself, prepared. Several jerky motions almost caused him to begin, but the thirty count was more than just a safety margin for the Bozog. When the second signal didn’t come, he cursed silently to himself and settled back again. With nothing to do but wait, he imagined the horrors and depravities being perpetrated as he sat waiting in the corridor, but there was nothing he could do. Additionally, he often thought he heard noises, and the pistol rose, but nothing ever approached him.
Suddenly he was conscious of a change, something happening. It took a moment, then he realized that the uncoiled wire was being pulled taut. He held his breath and took gentle hold of the strand at his end. There were still quite a few meters on the coil.
There it came. One… two… three… One… two… three.
He counted slowly to thirty, silently praying that he would not be the link in the chain to fail.
All my life I’ve been waiting for this moment, he thought while counting. This is what I was born to do, this one thing. In a few seconds, I will justify my existence…
Twelve… Eleven… Ten…
“You are certain no Yugash was inside her?”
“Absolutely, Ben,” the computer assured him. “Nor is there a Yugash in this room or on the bridge or platforms.”
Yulin cursed himself for his lack of foresight. He should have questioned her under the hypno before transforming her. What the hell had she been trying to do? “Analysis of Mavra Chang’s actions in coming here?”
“To place into operation a plan to stop you,” Obie responded coyly.
“What plan?” he thundered. “What are they trying to do?”
“They are trying to destroy me,” replied the computer.
Yulin was on his feet in sudden alarm. “The others! A decoy! Damn it! I should have guessed!”
“Bad mistake, Ben. You forgot to question Mavra Chang. Usually you only get one mistake in your line of work.”
“Stop being so damned cheerful!” the minotaur stormed. “How do I stop them?”
“Well, your only chance is to—Intruder! Intruder on bridge platform!” Obie suddenly warned.
“Numbers one and three, with pistols, up here on the double!” he screamed; they scrambled to comply.
“Defense mode off, Obie. Door open!” He turned to the girls. “Shoot to kill anything you seel”
They went out the door.
As they did so, Renard dashed out with all his speed to the foot of the bridge and touched the electrified railing, feeling the voltage go into him. He was already heavily charged.
Here goes! He gave the wire all he had.
Far below, a tremendous explosion blew smoke and debris in both directions along the shaft with a deafening, echoing roar. Unprepared for a reaction of such magnitude, Renard fell backward when the concussion struck him.
A tremor shook the control room hard enough to topple equipment. The lights flickered on, off, on… then off. The door popped open, as it was designed to do in any power failure, and the dim auxiliary lighting cast a feeble glow here and there throughout the Underside.
Yulin’s night vision allowed him to see the control panel, now dark. He flipped the transmitter switch so hard that it broke.
“Obie! Obie!” he screamed. “Answer me! Damn it, answer me!”
But there was no reply. From the distance he heard what seemed to be secondary explosions. Frantically, he looked around, his dreams collapsing about him in the dark.
The two girls on the bridge suddenly stopped running and looked around, puzzled, blank expressions on their faces.
The moment power was lost it was as if a veil had lifted from the women below. They’d barely had time to scream in terror when suddenly they were changed, became disoriented. But not for long.
“Vistaru!” Wooley screamed. “Get a pistol! We’ve got the bastard now!”
“Behind you!” came another woman’s voice, and two figures headed for the stairs, joined by two others.
Vistaru looked back nervously. “Who the hell are you?” she challenged.
“Nikki Zinder!” the other yelled. “Stand clear! Ben Yulin’s mine!” she snarled so viciously that the other two let her pass.
Yulin heard them coming, and instantly realized what had happened.
Physical changes were accomplished by biological redesign; they were permanent unless changed by Obie, the Well, or a similar agency. But mental—attitudinal—controls and changes were impositions by the computer, held in place by the computer’s, continued operation.
Yulin no longer had slaves, he had old enemies.
He threw his chair down the stairs with great force, and the women jumped out of the way to avoid it. Yulin took advantage of their momentary confusion to run out the door.
The two women on the bridge had not previously had strong personalities, having been but animalistic savages, yet they retained the language and skills Obie had programmed into them in the same way that Mavra had retained the plans for New Pompeii. But for a few fleeting memories, the two felt as if they had just been born. Th
ey were totally confused.
Realizing their probable state, Yulin raced in their direction. One seemed to be puzzled by her energy pistol and he lunged toward her. Almost upon them, Yulin encountered the Agitar form of Renard running toward him. The minotaur was going to be beaten to the girl and the gun.
He stopped, frantic now, and looked back. Four of his former love-slaves were heading toward him, all armed, all grimly determined. From the opposite direction, Renard rushed past the women, pistol drawn.
Yulin opted for Renard. With a snarl he turned and ran into him; both went sprawling.
Yulin rolled, jumped to his feet, and grabbed Renard’s pistol. Smiling now, he passed the two women, grabbing another pistol, and backed along the side of the bridge.
The lights in the main shaft were flickering, and there were more rumblings and bangings from below.
“Standoff!” Yulin yelled at them over the din. “Let’s everybody stay calm!”
“Give it up, Yulin!” Nikki Zinder screamed, almost drowned out by the din from the shaft. The scene was eerily unreal in the dun and flickering light.
The minotaur laughed. “Just stay away” He continued to back along the shaft, and they continued to match him, coming warily forward.
Renard ran into the control room.
“We’ve got to get him,” Wooley called from in back. “If he gets to the ship we’re trapped—and he can build another Obie.”
But they were bunched a little too close. A single shot from him could take them, but not, perhaps, before one of them also fried him.
As Yulin said, it was a draw, and he was backing along the side of the bridge.
He risked a quick glance back. Almost across now. Once in the corridor, he could outrun them to the car. Just a little farther…
Suddenly an orange tentacle lashed over the side of the bridge behind him, wrapped itself around his neck, and pulled him with a jerk up and over, then let go. Yulin felt himself lifted, turned over, then dropped down into the shaft.
He screamed in horror for some time. But thanks to Coriolis effect, he was smashed to death against the shaft long before he struck bottom.
The Bozog climbed up and over the bridge and down onto it, the pale-red cloak of the Ghiskind following.
Wooley saw what happened and applauded. There was more rumbling, booming, and flickering, and she grew suddenly businesslike.
“Vistaru, Zinder, go with the Bozog and the Ghiskind! Get both elevator cars open and ready! Com’on, Star! Let’s help Renard get the others!” They ran back to the open, dark doorway.
“Renard!” Wooley screamed.
“Here!” he yelled. “Damn it! Come and help! I can’t see a blasted thing!”
They could, and Vistaru gently herded the confused and blank other women up the stairs and out the door.
“Come on!” she yelled.
“Mavra! We’ve got to find Mavra!” Renard screamed.
Wooley looked around with her exceptional night vision. “I don’t see her! Mavra!” she screamed. “Mavra!”
Suddenly the whole control room shook with a thunderous wrenching, and part of the far balcony collapsed.
Wooley grabbed Renard. “Come on! Get out of here!” she yelled at him. “We need you to get the others out!”
He looked desperate, tragic. “But—Mavra!” he screamed back.
“She’s got to be dead, or unconscious, or something!” Wooley snapped back. Another spasm shook them and the shaft lights stayed out. “Come on! We’ve got to get out of here or we’ll all die!”
With her deceptive strength she picked him up and raced up the stairs. At the top, she looked back, and there seemed to be tears in her eyes.
“Forgive me once more, dear Mavra,” she whispered, more to herself than to Renard, although he heard.
Then she was off across the bridge.
Both cars were packed with bodies, and they stopped and started several times and moved jerkily. Despite moments when they seemed stuck, doomed to die of asphyxiation, both made it to the surface.
Renard, though still in shock, realized it was now his show. “To the ship!” he yelled. Time for mourning later.
Aboard the Shuttle
The shuttle had originally been designed for humans. The Bozog engineers had adapted it for the flight from the Well World to New Pompeii—and though there were now eleven humans and only three nonhumans aboard, they managed. The shuttle had been designed for up to thirty people, and the rear area still had its seats—with two to spare.
The Bozog and the Ghiskind remained with Renard on the bridge. The Agitar struggled to get ahold of himself. “Ghiskind, look in back and make sure everybody’s seated and strapped down,” he snapped. The red specter drifted back, looked, came back, and its hollow-hooded head nodded.
“E-release,” Renard muttered. “Now—oh, yeah. Hold tight!” He checked his own straps and reached over to a keyboard, punching the code in.
Nothing happened.
He cursed, then thought a bit, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. Suddenly, he had it.
“E-lift,” he punched.
The ship broke free and rose at near maximum power.
“Code please,” a pleasant, mechanical voice came at them over the ship’s radio, startling him. “Correct code within sixty seconds or we will destroy your ship.”
“The robot sentinels!” he cried. “We forgot about them!”
But Mavra hadn’t. She’d had him program the entire sequence.
“The Decline and Fall of Pompeii,” came her recorded voice over the radio. It was, Renard thought with some relief, a truly appropriate title.
Now the ship slowed, came almost to a standstill. Before him, the screens showed a meaningless series of figures and lots of circles, dots, and other shapes.
The shuttle began to move forward again.
He sighed and relaxed. “That’s that for now,” he told the others. “She said it would be a day or two before we’d be in range of anybody, unless we run into someone coming our way first.”
He walked back to the passenger compartment.
“Goddamned bushy horse’s tail!” one of the women swore. “Feels like you’re sitting on a rock, and it’s so long you sweep the floor with it!”
Another laughed. “I guess we got off lucky,” she said cheerfully. “He hadn’t thought of the tails until he got the people in from the forest.”
Renard was confused. Except for slight differences in coloration, and the occasional tail, they all looked alike.
“Who’s who?” he moaned.
One laughed. “I’m Wooley, Renard, so relax. This is Star—ah, Vistaru, that is. And these two over here are Nikki Zinder and her daughter, Mavra.” She choked up, but recovered quickly.
He didn’t. “Nikki Zinder…” he mumbled. “Her daughter…”
The girl stared at him unbelievingly. “Are you really my father?” she asked.
He shook his head slowly. “No, somebody else was, somebody human. I have his memories, and his personality, but I’m something else now.”
That seemed to satisfy her, and Nikki, who’d tensed at the question, visibly relaxed.
Renard looked at the others, anxious to change the subject. “What about them?” he asked, looking at the seven other girls.
Wooley undid her straps and walked to him. She was taller than he and her tail trailed like a bird’s plume.
“We’ve explained to them that they have all lost their memories for good,” she whispered to him, “because of the machine. They’ll be okay.”
That relieved him, and his body reminded him of a different need. “We’ve got at least a couple of days on this tub,” he pointed out, “and very little to eat.”
She shrugged. “We can hold out if we have to. Actually, there’s enough organic stuff in the padding and old packs. We can all have something, I think. You’re the one that will probably have the most problem.”
He chuckled and looked at his passengers.
“Live on love, huh?” he cracked.
By the time contact was made two and a half days out, they had all practiced what was to be said—and what was not to be said—and their courses of action.
“This is the Com police,” a stern male voice came over the radio. “Identify yourself by number and destination.”
Renard sighed. “This is a refugee ship from New Pompeii, a planetoid formerly owned by New Harmony,” he replied. “I am not a pilot and there is not one aboard.”
That seemed to disturb the police a bit. There was some anxious checking against police computer files.
“Stand by, we will match you and board,” the police ship stated.
“It’s in your hands,” he responded. “However, first I think I better warn you about a few things.”
He proceeded to tell them of Antor Trelig’s party, of Obie, the Well World, everything. The only details omitted concerned how to reach the Well World.
The police didn’t believe, of course, but they recorded the information anyway; then they matched the ships, locked, and two armored cops boarded.
One look at the passengers and they had less reason to doubt.
Com police were an odd group: the wild ones, the undomesticated, the lovers of freedom and the restless. They were carefully recruited in midlife, usually after having been caught red-handed at something nasty.
In exchange for voluntarily undergoing some loyalty conditioning, they were paroled—to police the rest, to protect the Com and the frontier from others just like them.
They generally knew a hot potato when they grabbed it. The taped conversations were coded, sealed, and sent directly to the eleven-member Council Presidium, which made decisions when the full Council could not be summoned—or when it shouldn’t be.
Three Council members were out to the ship in less than fourteen additional hours. They were Com, all right, yet each maintained his own strong character. One, a woman apparently approaching middle age, had an especially regal bearing.
Quest for the Well of Souls wos-3 Page 28