Midnight At the Well of Souls

by Jack L. Chalker

  "Nothing but pitch darkness," Wuju said.

  "Nothing but sleeping antelope, Murnies, and grass," Bat said.

  "Exactly!" Brazil said excitedly. "But what you don't see, anywhere out there, is something we've seen in every Murnie camp we've passed up to this point."

  They still didn't see it, and he continued after a pause. "Look, why do the Murnies build campfires? Not to cook their food—they eat it raw, even live. It's because they think this is cold! And to protect themselves from the dog packs at night, of course. It must be very important to them or we wouldn't have seen the campfires so consistently. But there are no fires out there on the plains! No dots of light, no sparks of any kind! And the riverbed's wide but slow and shallow is it flowing. You see what it means?"

  "I think I do," Wuju replied hesitantly. "It's the dry season. Out there on the grasslands, the danger of a brushfire exceeds their fears of the dogs or their desire for warmth."

  "It must be like a tinderbox out there," Brazil pointed out. "If they are afraid of any fire at all, it must be so dry that anything will set it off. If the wind's right, we can make things so hot for them down there that the least thing they'll be concerned about is us."

  * * *

  "Wind's about as right as you can get," the bat said quietly.

  "Okay, then," Brazil responded. He removed all his clothes, and jumped, stark naked, up on Wuju's back, his back against hers. He pulled the shirt around his chest just under his armpits. "Take the ends on both sides, Wuju, and tie them tight around you. No! Pull it tight, damn it! As tight as you can! Yes, that's better." Next the stretchy pants were pulled around his waist and tied in front of her. It was several minutes before he was satisfied that he was solidly attached to her, riding backward. Tied just in front of him were the packs, the two pouches full of safety matches within easy reach. Then he applied the rest of the Slongornian cooking fat to as much of his exposed parts as he could. It was a sloppy job, but it would do in the dark.

  Cousin Bat nodded approvingly. The two men looked at each other wordlessly, and the bat turned and started down the rocky ledge. Wuju followed, Brazil cursing to himself at his inability to see anything ahead of them, thinking he forgot something, and feeling with every step that he was slipping off even though the knots remained secure.

  "Stop!" he yelled suddenly, and everyone froze. "Your hair, Wuju! Tie it down. Use the scabbard—you have to hold the sword anyway. I don't want to set it on fire or have it blowing in my face."

  She did what he asked silently, draping her hair forward and over her left breast so it wouldn't interfere with the sword in her right hand. Now Brazil was roped in three ways, and he felt as if he were cut in pieces. Which was just the way he wanted it.

  They had gone over the plan many times, but he was still nervous. Wuju could sprint at more than thirty-five kilometers per hour, but that was just for short distances. She would have to go all out for over five kilometers, then down into a ditch, and keep running as long as she could.

  Cousin Bat took off and circled for what was only a minute but seemed to be an hour. Finally they heard him come up behind them. "Now!" the flying creature ordered. "Go!"

  Wuju took off across the plains at full speed.

  Brazil watched the grasses disappear behind her and held onto the pack for dear life. He was sitting on a bony place and being bounced around for all he was worth. Although it was a clear night and he had excellent night vision, Brazil already could not see the rocky hills they had left.

  Come on, Wuju! he thought tensely to himself. Keep going!

  "Turn slightly right." Bat's voice came from somewhere above, and she did as instructed. "Too much!" She heard the bat's voice, probably just two or three meters above her head: "That's it! Now straight!"

  Brazil panicked as he felt the upper bindings loosen, and he grabbed all the harder on the pack sides. And still she roared ahead at top speed! He could hear her take sobbing breaths and feel her horselike half inhale and exhale mightily, but still they went on.

  We're going to make it! he thought excitedly. If I can only hold on to this goddamn pack for a few more minutes, we'll be through them before they realize what happened!

  Suddenly the knots from the top two bands broke, sending the elastic clothing into the night and propelling him forward, headfirst, into the pack.

  "Nathan!" he heard her call breathlessly at the break and jerk.

  "I'm all right!" he called back. "Keep going!"

  Suddenly there were sounds around them, grunts, groans, and yells.

  "Nathan!" she screamed. "They're ahead of us!"

  "Run right at them at top speed!" he yelled. "Slash with your sword!" He grabbed at the matches, struck several against the hard leather straps. They flared, but immediately went out because of the wind caused by her rapid movement.

  Suddenly she was heading into them, and they were roaring and clawing at her. She knocked the first several down and found, to her surprise, that the sword seemed to slice into them like butter. Once, twice more, she slashed at them, and they screamed in deep agony and clutched at wounds.

  And then she was through them!

  "Any ahead?" Brazil yelled.

  "Not yet," came Bat's voice. "Keep going!"

  "There's plenty behind us!" Nathan called. "Slow down to a gallop so I can get at least one match lit!"

  Wuju slowed and he tried again. They stayed lit in his hands, but went out before they hit the ground.

  "Brazil!" Bat's voice called urgently. "A whole bunch of them! Coming up fast to your right!"

  Suddenly a group of six or seven came at them out of the grasses. Nathan felt a searing pain in his right leg. One Murnie jumped and hit Wuju's backside, tearing a deep gash in her just in front of the pack. She screamed, stopped, and reared, slashing out at them with her sword.

  Brazil hung on somehow, and tore off one of the pouches of matches with strength that surprised him. He struck one and threw it into the pouch. The matches caught with a whoomph and he threw the pack out onto the grass.

  Nothing for a minute, and she bolted for the Murnies at an apparent opening. They had formed a hunting circle and their spears were ready.

  They expected the charge, but their traditional ways didn't allow for their quarry to have a sword, and the formation broke.

  Suddenly the whole world caught fire.

  The suddenness and volatility was what stunned them all.

  My god! Brazil thought suddenly. It's as if the stuff were made of cellulose!

  He could see Cousin Bat, saw the creature come down on a Murnie and kick with those powerful, handlike feet rolled up as fists. The giant green savage went down and didn't move.

  The whole world suddenly became bright. Ahead she saw the stream valley, like a crack in the land.

  The Murnies started running and screaming. The antelope panicked and ran in all directions, trampling many Murnies underfoot to get away.

  She jumped into the ravine, and the momentum and steep sides caused her to lose her balance. She went sprawling down the hill. Brazil felt himself suddenly free as he was flung away onto the bank. He was stunned for a minute, then he picked himself up and looked around. There was a glow still from the fire above, but down in the valley there was a still, near-absolute darkness.

  Feeling numb and dizzy, he ran down the valley in the direction Cousin Bat had said the river flowed. He looked around for Wuju but couldn't see her anywhere.

  "Wuju!" he screamed hoarsely. "Wuju!" But his voice was no match for the riot of noise above him, the cries of burning animals and panicked Murnies, many of whom were plunging over the bank into the valley.

  He ran down the muddy shore and into the river and followed it. The rocky bottom cut his feet. But he was oblivious to pain, running like a scarecrow, mindlessly, aimlessly down the river.

  Soon the glow and the sounds were far behind him, but still he pressed on. Suddenly he tripped and fell facedown in the water. He continued, crawling forward, then
somehow picked himself up and started again.

  The fetid odor of swamp mud was all around him and all over him, yet he continued. Until, quite abruptly, everything caught up to him and he collapsed, unconscious before he hit the water, stones, and mud.

  THE NATION—A FIRST-CLASS HOTEL

  They had not, as it happened, been arrested. They had been quarantined. The way the robot manager explained it, an analysis of the particles found in their waste gases had revealed two of them to have certain microscopic life forms that could cause corrosion problems in The Nation. They were, therefore, being held until their laboratories could check out the organisms, develop some sort of serum, and introduce it to them so they could safely get across the country without causing difficulties.

  For Hain this was her first real vacation since entering this crazy world, and she lazed, relaxed, and seemed in no hurry to go on.

  The Diviner and The Rel accepted the situation indignantly but with resignation; it kept pretty much to itself.

  Since their hosts had evacuated the wing in which the four were staying, they were allowed to visit one another. Vardia was the only mobile person who cared to do so; she started going to Skander's room regularly.

  The Umiau welcomed the company, but refused to talk about her theories on the Well World or to discuss the object of their journey for fear that other ears were listening.

  "Why do we have to go through with this?" Vardia asked the scholar one day.

  The Umiau raised her eyebrows in surprise. "We're still prisoners, you know," she pointed out.

  "But we could tell the management," the Czillian suggested. "After all, kidnapping is a crime."

  "It is, indeed," the mermaid agreed, "but that is also unheard of cross-hex. The fact is, these people don't care if we're prisoners, victims, or monsters. It just isn't their concern. I've tried."

  "Then we must escape once we're back on the road," she persisted. "I've already seen a map—it's in a desk in my room. The next hex borders the ocean."

  "That won't work," Skander replied firmly. "First of all, we have no idea as to the powers of this Northerner, and I don't want to test them. Secondly, Hain can fly and walk faster than you, and either one of us is just a few good mouthfuls for her. No, put that out of your mind. Besides, we'll not be ill-served in this. In the end, I have the ultimate control over us all, because they can't do a thing without the knowledge I possess. They are taking me where I want to go and could not get myself. No, I think we'll go along with them—until midnight at the Well of Souls," she added with a devious chuckle.

  "That's about how long we'll be kept here," Vardia said grumpily.

  The Umiau reclined lazily in the shallow end of the pool. "Nothing we can do about this. Meantime, why not tell me something about yourself? You know all about me, really."

  "I really don't have much of a history before coming here," she responded modestly. "I was a courier—wiped clean after every mission."

  The mermaid clucked sympathetically. "But surely," she urged, "you know about your world—the world of your birth, that is. For instance, were you born or hatched? Were you male or female? What?"

  "I was produced by cloning in Birth Factory Twelve on Nueva Albion," she said. "All reproduction is by cloning, using the cellular tissues of the top people in history of each occupational group. Thus, all Diplos on or of Nueva Albion were cloned from the Sainted Vardia, who was the go-between in the revolution several centuries ago. She kept contact between the Liberation Front on Coriolanus and the Holy Revolutionaries in reactionary Nueva Albion. Thus, I carried her genes, her resemblance, and her job. My number, Twelve Sixty-one, said I was the sixty-first Vardia clone from Birth Factory Twelve."

  Skander felt a sourness growing in her stomach. So that's what mankind has come to, she thought. Almost two-thirds of mankind reduced to clones, numbers—less human than the mechs of this absurd Nation.

  "Then you were a woman," the Umiau said conversationally, not betraying her darker inner thoughts.

  "Not really," she replied. "Cloning negates the need for sexes, and sexes represent sexism which promotes inequality. Depending on the clone model, development is chemically and surgically arrested. All glands, hormone production, and the like are removed, changed, or neutralized permanently, in my case on my eleventh birthday. We are also given hysterectomies, and males are castrated, so that it is impossible to tell male or female after the turning age. Every few years we were supposed to get a complete treatment that kept the aging processes arrested and freshened the body, so that one couldn't tell a fifty-year-old from a fifteen-year-old."

  Outwardly the Umiau remained impassive, but internally Skander was so depressed that she felt nauseated.

  Ye gods! the archaeologist swore to herself. A small, carefully bred cadre of supermen and superwomen ruling a world of eunuch children raised to unquestioning obedience! I was right to have killed them! Monsters like that—in control of the Well! Unthinkable!

  They should all be killed, she knew, hatred welling up inside of her. The masters who were the most monstrous of spawn, and the masses of poor impersonal blobs of children—billions of them, probably. Best to put them out of their misery, she thought sadly. They weren't really people anyway.

  Suddenly her thoughts turned to Varnett. Same idea, Skander thought. Although the boy hadn't come from a world as far gone as Nueva Albion, it would go that way in time. Names disappear on one world, sex on another, then all get together to form a universe of tiny, mindless, sexless, nameless organic robots, programmed and totally obedient—but so, so happy.

  Varnett—brilliant, a truly great mind, yet childish, immature, in thousands of ways as programmed as his cousins whom he despised. What sort of a world, what sort of a universe, would Varnett create?

  The Markovians had understood, she reflected. They knew.

  I won't betray them! she swore intensely. I won't let anyone wreck the great dream! I will get there first! Then they'll see! I'll destroy them all!

  MURITHEL—SOMEWHERE IN THE INTERIOR

  Cousin Bat circled around feeling helpless. Maybe I can pick him up, he thought, looking at Brazil's battered and bleeding body in the mud. He's not a very big fellow, and I've moved some pretty heavy rocks with these legs.

  He was about to give it a try when a group of Murnies came running up the valley. They got to Brazil's unconscious body before Bat could do anything at all, and the night creature thought, It's all over. They'll chomp him into pieces for a late snack now.

  But they didn't. Four of the savages stayed with the body, while two others made for the top of the valley and the plains above. Fascinated, Bat stayed with them, balancing on the air currents.

  The two returned a few minutes later with a litter made with tough branches for poles and, apparently, woven grass for the stretcher. Carefully they placed Brazil on the litter. One Murnie picked up the front, the other took the rear. They climbed the bank effortlessly, and Bat followed them, still invisible in the dark.

  Darkness had returned to the plain as well. Bat was amazed to see hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Murnies beating a large, smoldering area about a thousand meters from the valley where they had plunged. It was a well-coordinated, well-rehearsed fire brigade, with the bulk of the Murnies beating out the last sparks with skin blankets, while an apparently endless chain of the creatures ran a bucket brigade from the creek all the way to the fire scene.

  These are savages? Bat asked himself wonderingly. The teamwork and skillful handling of the fire he could not reconcile in his mind with the toothy carnivores who chased live prey with primitive spears and attacked them fiercely with spear and claw.

  Brazil's unmoving form was hauled into a small camp away from the fire scene. A particularly huge Murnie, his light green skin laced with dark brown, examined the man and started barking orders. Even though Bat's translator would—should—pick up what the big one was saying, he dared not get close enough to hear.

  The big Murnie got a bucket
of water and started to wash Brazil's wounds with a gentleness that surprised the bat. Others brought a large hide case and a number of leaves. The big one opened the laces on the case, and from its interior pulled out varicolored jars of what looked like mud and more leaves, some apparently kept soaked in some solution in jars.

  Slowly, methodically, the big one administered the muds to Brazil's open wounds, and used the leaves to form a compress for the man's head.

  He's a doctor! Cousin Bat realized suddenly. They're treating him!

  Bat felt better, almost relaxed enough to leave, but he did not.

  Those wounds are tremendous, he noted. The man's lost huge amounts of blood, and probably has multiple breaks, concussion, and shock. Even if the medicine man knew the art of transfusion, there is none to give the blood.

  Brazil will be dead within hours, no matter what magic this creature can work, Bat realized sadly. But what can I do? And, if they somehow cure him—what then? Prisoner? Pet? Plaything? Slave?

  The Murnie medicine man gestured, and a smaller tribesman came into camp leading a huge stag antelope. It was the largest such animal Bat had ever seen, light brown with a white stripe running from the back of the head to the stubby tail, a large set of eerie-looking antlers atop that head. The stag was docile, too much so to be normal, Bat knew. It was drugged or something. He saw with amazement that the deerlike animal wore a collar of carefully twisted skin, from which a small stone dangled.

  Someone owns that animal, Bat reflected. Do these savages of the plain breed their food?

  Into camp from different directions came five more Murnies, looking like the witch doctor—really large ones, with that curious brown discoloration, more pronounced on some than others.

  Six, thought the bat. Of course it would be six. Primitives went in for mystic numbers, and if any number had power here that one certainly did.

  They put the stag so that it faced Brazil, and all six moved close. Three of them placed their right hands on the unflinching stag, and took the right hands of the other three in their left. The other three all placed their left hands on Brazil's body.