Exiles at the Well of Souls wos-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  “Wait!” Nikki called. “Tell me—do you work here, or are you a prisoner, too?”

  The woman’s face was sad. “We’re all prisoners here,” she replied in a sad, high, lyrical voice. “Even Agil—that’s the one who found you and brought you back. Agil and I—well, we know about sponge ODs and Antor Trelig’s sadism first-hand.”

  “He beats you?” Nikki gasped.

  The tall, beautiful woman shook her head sadly. “No, that’s the least of what goes on in this chamber of horrors. You see,” she concluded, turning slowly at the door, “I am a fully functioning male. And Agil is my sister.”

  Aboard the Freighter Assateague

  The small diplomatic ship inched close to the interspace freighter airlock. The freighter pilot watched the ship dock on her forward screens, then checked her computer equipment and scanners to make certain the seal was complete.

  “Make fast, allow boarding,” she said in a strong, accentless, and surprisingly deep voice.

  “Affirmative,” responded a mechanical-sounding version of the same voice, as the ship’s computer locked in.

  “Keep station until further orders,” she told the computer, then rose and started the long walk back to the central airlock.

  Why couldn’t they put the locks closer to the bridge? she wondered irritably. But, then again, she’d only been boarded in space twice before.

  She was a tiny woman for such a big, rich voice, barely 150 centimeters in her bare feet; when dressed, she wore shiny black boots almost up to her knee, which, invisibly, added an additional thirteen centimeters to her height. She was still short, but it did add something, and it added far more psychologically. She was also very thin, at her waist almost impossibly so. She certainly weighed no more than forty-one kilograms, if that. Her small breasts seemed in perfect proportion to the rest of her, and she moved like a cat. She was dressed in her best: a thick, form-fitting black body-stocking with a matching sleeveless black shirt that also seemed form-fitted and a black belt with a golden, abstract dragon design as its buckle. The belt hung on her hips, not as decoration, but as a carryall for a number of things in hidden compartments and a holster, with a sleek, jet-black pistol that wasn’t hidden.

  Her face was an oval sitting perfectly atop a long neck; it was extremely Chinese in appearance, much more so than the norm, although everyone looked vaguely Oriental in some way. Her coal-black hair was cropped short, in the spacer’s style.

  She wore no jewelry other than the buckle. Her fingernails were long and sharp and looked as if they were painted slightly silver. But this was not the case; they’d been medically toughened and surgically altered. The nails were like ten sharp, pointed steel claws.

  Although she seldom thought about her appearance, and never when in space, she stopped just before reaching the lock and studied herself in the mirrored surface of polished metal. Her skin, a dark yellowish-brown, was creamy-smooth; although she wore many scars, none were visible in that outfit.

  Satisfied, she keyed the lock. There was a hissing sound as the pressure equalized, and then the red light over the lock winked out and the green winked on. She pulled the handle, opening the lock.

  All locks could be opened only manually, and only from the inside. It was a safety precaution that had saved many a freighter captain’s life.

  Through the lock and into the ship walked an ancient, chiseled in stone. The woman had been a big one once, but age had stooped her, and flesh sagged all over. She looked as if she were about to drop dead.

  But she cursed when offers from her ship and a gesture from the freighter captain for aid were tendered. Her face showed a pride and arrogance born of experience and self-knowledge, and her dark eyes burned with an almost independent intensity.

  She stepped clear of the lock, gathered her white robe about her, and let the captain close the lock behind them.

  The young captain, much smaller than the matriarch, offered a chair to the visitor. The captain sat on the deck, Buddha-like, and stared at her visitor.

  And the stare was returned. Councillor Lee Pak Alaina’s incredibly alive eyes studied every inch of the tiny spacer.

  “So you’re Mavra Chang,” the councillor said at last, in a voice that cracked not only with age but with authority.

  The captain nodded respectfully. “I have that honor,” she responded. Her tone was respectful, but it lost none of its firmness or confidence.

  The old woman looked around the ship. “Ah, yes. To be young again! The doctors tell me one more rejuve and I’ll lose my mind.” She looked back at the captain. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven,” she replied.

  “And already a ship commander!” the old woman exclaimed. “My, my!”

  “I inherited it,” the captain responded.

  The councillor nodded. “Yes, indeed. I know quite a lot about you, Mavra Chang. I have to. Born on Harvich’s World three hundred twenty-seven months ago, oldest of eight children born to a traditionalist couple, Senator Vasura Tonge and her husband, Marchal Hisetti, a doctor. Picked up when, despite their best efforts, the world went Com twenty-two years ago. Some connected friends got you smuggled to Gnoshi spaceport when they nabbed the rest of your family, and placed you in the custody of Mak Hung Chang, a freighter captain who was bribed to get you to safety. Citizen Chang pocketed the money and raised you herself, after getting a disbarred doctor to alter your appearance more in line with the captain’s.”

  Mavra looked up, mouth open. How could anyone possibly have traced her beyond Maki?

  “Maki Chang arrested for smuggling prohibited items into Comworlds, leaving you to find your own way on the barbarian world of Kaliva at the age of thirteen. Made it by doing just about everything, legal and illegal. Met and fell in love with a handsome freighter captain named Gimball Nysongi at the age of nineteen. Nysongi killed by muggers on Basada five years ago, and since then you’ve run this ship alone.” She smiled sweetly. “Oh, yes, I know you, Mavra Chang.”

  The captain studied the old woman in increasing wonder. “You’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to find out about me. I assume that those are just the parts you want to mention?”

  That sweet smile broadened. “Of course, dear. But it’s the unmentionable parts that bring us together here today.”

  Suddenly Mavra became businesslike. “What’s it about? An assassination? Smuggling? Something illegal?”

  The old woman’s smile vanished. “Something illegal, yes, but not on my part or yours. We studied the profiles of thousands of scoundrels before contacting you.”

  “Why me?” the young woman asked, genuinely intrigued.

  “First, because you’re politically amoral—laws and regulations don’t bother you. Second, because you retain some moral principles—you hate the Com even as you supply it, and with good reason.”

  Mavra Chang nodded. “It’s more than that. Not just what they did to me—it’s what they do to people. Everybody looks alike, acts alike, thinks alike, except for the party, whatever it is. Happy little anthills.” She spat to illustrate her feelings.

  Councillor Alaina nodded. “Yes, that, too. Additionally, you’ve got guts, you’re tough inside and out, your upbringing having made you smart in ways most people never dream. And being a small, pretty woman doesn’t hurt either—people tend to underestimate you because of your size, and, for this job, a woman will be far less suspect than a man.”

  Mavra shifted, bringing both legs up in front of her, resting her arms on her knees. “So what is it you want done that a councillor can’t do herself?”

  “Do you know Antor Trelig?” Alaina asked sharply.

  “Big shot,” Mavra responded. “Heavy Council influence, also heavy in the rackets. Practically controls New Outlook as his personal kingdom.”

  The old woman nodded. “Good, good. Now I’ll tell you a few other things. You know of the sponge syndicate, of course.”

  Mavra nodded.

  “Well, dear, darling Antor is its
leader. The biggest of them all. We’ve had some success against them, but the drug is pervasive, the party structure close-knit and inbred, and through it and good political moves, Antor has managed to come within thirteen votes of a majority on the Council.”

  The young captain gasped. “But that would give him control of the terror weapons!” she exclaimed.

  “It would indeed,” Alaina agreed. “He would control all of us, every last human being in the sector. He’s been at a dead end for some time, but now he’s announced—secretly, of course, and indirectly—that he has achieved the ultimate weapon, a weapon that can turn whole worlds Com or whatever he wants overnight. He’s invited fifteen councillors to a demonstration of this new weapon next week. He thinks the effect will be so tremendous that those of us from politically divided worlds will have to vote with him.”

  Mavra was disturbed. “What will he do if he gets control?”

  “Well, Antor has always idolized the Roman Empire at its height,” the old woman responded, then noticed the blank look. “Oh, don’t worry about it. That’s a minor footnote in history, really. But it had an absolute emperor everyone was taught was a god, a huge slave class, and was known not only for its ability to conquer and hold huge territory but for its depravity as well. What they could have done with the technology we have today can only be guessed at in our wildest nightmares. That’s Antor Trelig.”

  “And does he have this weapon?” Mavra asked.

  Alaina nodded. “I believe he does. My agents became suspicious when a noted physicist named Zinder suddenly refused to continue his grant at Makeva and picked up, lock, stock, computer, and research staff, and vanished. Zinder’s ideas were unorthodox, and he was never popular with the scientific community. He believed the Markovians converted energy into matter by merely wishing it. He believed he could duplicate the process.” She paused, looking straight at the captain. “Suppose he was right? Suppose he has succeeded?” the councillor theorized.

  Mavra said more than asked, “And you think Zinder’s gone to work for Trelig?”

  “We do,” replied the old woman. “Not willingly, I don’t think. My operatives traced a suspicious flight out of Makeva about nine weeks ago, a freighter charted by Trelig, his own pilot, no cargo. Some operatives saw them carry a large bundle, shaped like a body, into Trelig’s shuttle. Moreover, we dug and found out that a Dr. Yulin, Zinder’s top assistant, had his education sponsored by a known associate of Trelig and is, in fact, a grandson of one of the sponge bosses.”

  “So he knew when Zinder got results, and he has someone else able to check the work. Who do you think was snatched?” Mavra Chang asked.

  “Zinder’s daughter. She has vanished, gone long before the project closed down. He doted on her. We think she’s a hostage, held to make Zinder build a big model of whatever he had at Makeva. Think of it! A weapon you point at a world, then tell it what you want that world to be, to look like, to think, whatever—and presto! There it is!”

  Mavra nodded. “I’m not sure I can believe in something like that, but—” she paused, remembering. “Way, way back, when I was tiny, I can remember my grandparents telling stories about something like that, about a place built by the Markovians where anything was possible.” She smiled wistfully. “Funny, I never remembered that until just now. They were fairy tales, of course.”

  “Antor Trelig isn’t,” Alaina responded flatly. “And neither, I think, is this device.”

  “And you want me to wreck it?” Mavra guessed.

  Alaina shook her head. “No, I don’t think you could. It’s too well defended. The best we can shoot for—and even this is close to impossible—is to get Dr. Zinder out. And, if our guess is correct, that means rescuing his daughter, Nikki, too.”

  “Where is this installation?” Chang asked, all business again.

  “Antor calls the place New Pompeii,” replied the old woman. “It’s a private planetoid, his own personal property and preserve. It’s also the center of the sponge syndicate and source of supply for the entire sector.”

  Mavra whistled. “I know it. It’s impregnable. You’d need the force Trelig wants to command to get there. Impossible!”

  “I didn’t say you had to get into it,” the councillor pointed out. “I said you had to get two people out. We have to know what they know, have what they have. I can get you in—I’m considered such a doddering old relic that everyone would be amazed I had even traveled this far. I have been invited to the demonstration, but they don’t expect me to come personally. Like some of the others, I’ll send a representative close to me, someone I can trust. You.”

  Mavra nodded. “How long will I have on this asteroid?”

  “Antor has asked for three days. One day he’ll use to entertain and to show off New Pompeii. The second day he’ll give his demonstration. On the third—well, the ultimatums and more sugary charm over them.”

  “Not much time,” Mavra Chang commented. “I have to find two probably widely separated individuals, get them out—all under the nose of Trelig’s watchdogs, on his schedule, and on his turf.”

  Alaina nodded. “I know it’s impossible, but we have to try. At least get the daughter away. I’m sure they’ve hooked her on sponge, but that can be worked out. Make sure nothing worse happens to you, too. Sponge is the ugliest of narcotics, and that may only be a prelude to what Antor is capable of.”

  “Suppose he just hooks us all on sponge in our after-dinner drinks,” Mavra worried.

  “He won’t,” Alaina assured her. “No, he won’t want anything to happen to the representatives that could spoil his party. He wants everyone hale, healthy, and in their right minds to be suitably terrified into telling people like me to surrender. But if he discovers your real purpose, he’ll write me off and do what he wants with you. You understand that.”

  Mavra nodded silently.

  “Will you do it?”

  “How much?” was the young captain’s response.

  Alaina brightened. “Anything at all if you succeed, and I mean that. To half succeed, bring Nikki out. With his daughter gone, I’m sure Zinder will foul up the works. For that, shall we say—ten million?”

  Mavra gasped. Ten million would buy the Assateague. With that much and the ship, she could do just about anything.

  “Failure means death,” the councillor warned, “or worse—slavery to Antor Trelig, or slow death by the sponge. Only once in every century, sometimes not for a millennium, are men like Antor Trelig born. Ruthless, amoral, sadistic, dominant monsters. In the end they’ve all been stopped, but countless millions are dead because of them. Antor is the worst. New Pompeii will convince you of that all by itself, I feel certain. See what he thinks of people and worlds, and then you’ll know.”

  “Half in advance,” responded Mavra Chang.

  Councillor Alaina shrugged. “If you fail, what good will money be anyway?”

  New Pompeii

  Antor Trelig stood over the pit into which Obie had been integrated into the larger design. Seven months and a fortune large enough to finance whole planetary budgets had gone into that hole. Now he watched as giant cranes placed the “big dish” in place. It, along with the whole complex below, would take up close to half the underside of his asteroid. From the outside the system would look much like the largest radio-telescope ever built.

  But its purpose was far more sinister.

  Antor Trelig cared little about the expense; it was a trifle to him, tribute extracted from his take of the syndicate and from the pilfered budgets of a hundred syndicate-controlled worlds. Money meant nothing to him in any case, except as a means to power.

  Huge space tugs lowered the great mirrorlike device into place, slowly, ever so slowly. That didn’t matter to him, either. That the project was so close to completion was all that mattered.

  He walked over to where Gil Zinder sat watching the procedure, like himself at the mercy of the engineers and technicians. Zinder looked around, saw who approached. There was unco
ncealed contempt on his face.

  Trelig was cheery. “Well, Doctor,” he said lightly, “almost there. It’s a momentous occasion.”

  Zinder frowned. “Momentous, yes, but not my idea of a happy time,” he replied. “Look, I’ve done it. Everything. Now let me run my daughter through the small disk and cure her of the sponge.”

  Trelig smiled. “There’s no problem, is there? Yulin has succeeded in trimming her back every few weeks so her obesity won’t kill her.”

  Gil Zinder sighed. “Look, Trelig, why not trim her back at least to her normal weight? Ninety kilos is far too large for someone of her height.”

  The master of New Pompeii chuckled. “But, here, she weighs only sixty-four kilos! Why, that’s less than she weighed on Makeva!”

  The scientist started to say something nasty, then thought better of it. Of course Nikki weighed less here, as they all did; but by now her muscles had become accustomed to the lighter gravity, and extreme obesity was more than merely a scale’s weight; it was ugly and damaging to the body, as well as awkward. On Makeva at 1 G she probably would be exhausted just walking a hundred meters; here the effect wasn’t much better.

  But Zinder realized that Nikki would have to stay on the other side until Trelig’s plans were completed, and he knew, too, why the ambitious and treacherous Ben Yulin was the only one trusted with Nikki under the little mirror.

  So all the scientist could do was wait, wait until the big device was in place, wait for his time.

  Yulin bothered him most of all. The man was brilliant, yes, but he was one of Trelig’s kind. He was secure in his own technological superiority over Trelig and any of Trelig’s experts—he was safe. Trelig could not operate Obie’s mirror without Yulin, and Yulin was a follower of Zinder’s theories without having the decades of theoretical research that went into programming the monster. He could never have built this machine.