Exiles at the Well of Souls wos-2

by Jack L. Chalker

  “Anyway, they reached the highest point of physical evolution it is believed possible to attain, and, as importantly, they reached the highest level of material technology possible as well. Their worlds were spread over many galaxies—not solar systems, galaxies. They’d build a local computer on one, program it with everything they could imagine, then put a rock crust on top of it. They built their cities there, and each Markovian was mentally coupled to the local brain. The architecture was only a common frame of reference, for, linked to their computers, they could simply wish for anything they wanted and the computer did an energy-to-matter conversion and there it was.”

  “Sounds like a godlike existence,” Trelig commented. “What happened to them? I know a little about the Markovians. They’re all dead.”

  “All but one,” agreed Ortega. “Basically, what killed them was sheer boredom. Immortal, every wish fulfilled, and they felt as if they were rotting—or missing something. The height of material attainment was theirs, and it wasn’t enough. Their best brains—and what brains they must have been!—got together and finally decided that, somewhere, the Markovian development had taken a wrong turn. They decided that the race was going to rot and die from paradise, or they could do the other thing.”

  “Other thing?” Ben prompted.

  Ortega nodded. “First they built the Well World, the ultimate Markovian computer. Instead of a thin layer of computer in a real planet, the whole planet was one massive computer. If a thin strip could create anything locally, then imagine a solid planet, about forty thousand kilometers around, of Markovian computer! That’s what we’re sitting on top of. Then they added the standard crust, so we’re a little over forty-thousand kilometers in diameter.”

  “But why all the hexes, the different races on top?” Trelig asked the snake-man.

  “That was the next step in the great plan,” Ortega replied. “The greatest artisans of the Markovian race were then called in, all the material and philosophical artists they had. Each one was given a hex to play with. Each hex is a miniature world. Near the equator, a side runs about three hundred fifty-five kilometers, six hundred fifteen kilometers between opposite sides. They were carefully arranged. And in each one, the artisans were allowed to create a complete, self-contained biosphere, with a single dominant form of life and all supporting life for a closed ecosystem. The dominant life, at the start, were Markovian volunteers themselves.”

  “You mean,” Trelig put in, aghast, “they gave up paradise to become someone else’s playthings?”

  The Ulik shrugged, which was something with six arms. “From sheer boredom there was no lack of volunteers. They became mortal, had to accept the rules of the game as set up by the artisans, and prove it out. If the system did prove out, the master computer established a world-set for the particular biosphere somewhere in the universe, and then the natives were transferred to it. They could speed up time, slow it down, anything. The world they entered was consistent with the laws of physics, even if it was created speeded up. At the right evolutionary moment, zap! The race was inserted. Then a new race was created to replace the one that left, and the experiments started all over again.”

  “What you’re saying,” Yulin commented, “is that we are all Markovians. That is, their descendants.”

  Ortega nodded. “Yes, exactly. And the races here now are the last batch—that is, the descendants of the last batch. Some didn’t go or want to go, some hadn’t proved out, when there became too few Markovians to supervise the project. We’re the byproducts here of the shutdown.”

  “And these races have lived here since?” Trelig asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Ortega replied. “And time exists here. You get old, you die. Some die young, some live longer than you’d think possible, but there’s a generational turnover anyway. The population’s maintained by the computer—if a hex gets too heavily populated, the birth rate goes to a minus for a while. Too low a population from disasters, fights, whatever, and suddenly a sexy race gets back up there. The population varies with each hex, of course. Some races are big enough that there are only a quarter-million or so people, others can handle up to three million.”

  “I don’t understand why pests and plagues aren’t spread over the place,” Yulin told him. “And how come there aren’t a lot of wars? It would seem alien races on the whole wouldn’t like the others.”

  “That’s true,” Ortega admitted. “But you might call it good systems engineering. Pests there are, but there are subtle changes in soil or atmospheric content that tend to inhibit or stop them, also geographical barriers—mountains, oceans, deserts, and the like. As for bacteria and viruses, we have them aplenty, but the various racial systems are just different enough that microbes that work against one race won’t have any effect on another.”

  He paused for a minute, then remembered the other part of the question.

  “As for wars,” he continued, “they’re not practical. Oh, there are local fights, but nothing catastrophic. Hexes are so arranged that the ground rules differ. We believe that that was done to simulate the problems from lack of resources or somesuch on the various real worlds the people would be going to. As I said, the natural laws had to be maintained. So in some hexes, everything works. In some, there is limited technology—say, steam engines work, but electrical generators won’t hold a charge. In some only muscle power will do. That’s what happened to your ship—it flew into a limited nontech zone, it wouldn’t work, and down you came.”

  Trelig brightened. “So that’s what happened! And that’s why the power did come on for the time I needed to get the wings down and window cover up! We had drifted over a high-tech hex!”

  Ortega nodded. “Exactly.”

  “But,” Yulin objected, “wouldn’t a high-tech hex conquer a low-tech one?”

  Serge Ortega chuckled. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But, no, it doesn’t work that way. A high-tech hex becomes dependent on its machines, as you were in the North. It learns how to maybe make flying machines and fantastic guns and such—and then it has to invade a hex where none of that works. And where two hexes of the same type border, well, one is land and the other water, or one has an atmosphere extremely uncomfortable to the other, or something like that. One general, long ago, did try conquest by allying various kinds of hexes in order to have the proper one for each hex fight in the appropriate manner; but his plan worked only to a point. Some hexes he had to skip for atmospheric conditions or tough terrain or the like, and eventually his supply lines for all these races grew too long to sustain. The unconquered ones chopped him to pieces in the end. There have been no wars since—and that was over eleven hundred years ago.”

  They were silent for a minute, then Trelig asked, “I know how we got here, but—you said you were once one of us. How did you get here?”

  Ortega grinned. “We get occasional new arrivals all the time—about a hundred a year. When the Markovians left their last planets, they didn’t turn off their computers—couldn’t. There is a kind of matter transmission—we don’t understand it—connecting all the worlds with this one. The last Markovian simply couldn’t close the door behind him. It opened whenever someone wanted it to open, and those old brains can’t tell a Markovian remote and altered descendant from the real thing. So if you really want the door to open, it will and you wind up here. In ninety-nine percent of the cases, the people involved didn’t even know about the doors. They just wished they were somewhere else, or somebody else, or that everything was different when they happened to be in the neighborhood of a door. I literally flew through one—the planet was mostly gone, but just enough remained.”

  “You knew about them?” Yulin prodded.

  “No, of course not. I was getting old and I was bored and I could see nothing but a dreary sameness in the future until death claimed me. You get introspective when you’re a pilot. Pop! Wound up here.”

  “But how did you get turned into a giant snake?” Trelig asked him, without the slightest tra
ce of embarrassment.

  Ortega chuckled. “Well, when you first arrive somebody greets you. You’re what they call an Entry. They brief you, if they can, then shoot you through the Well Gate. It basically processes you into the computer. By a system of classification we don’t know or understand, the computer then remakes you into one of the seven hundred eighty races here and drops you into the hex native to that form. You get acclimation thrown in, so you get used to being what you are pretty quickly. Then you’re on your own.”

  “But the matter-transmission system is still on,” Trelig noted.

  “Yes and no,” the Ulik responded. “There is usually a Zone Gate and sometimes two in each hex. You can use that to go from your hex to here, South Polar Zone, and from here back to your own hex. But should you be ten hexes away and go through the Gate, you’ll still wind up here—and then back home. The big Well input, however, is that alone—you can come here from a Markovian world, but not go back. That was done, I suspect, to commit the original volunteers who had second thoughts. The only other gates are the ones between North and South zones, the one you came through. The Uchjin—those creatures you first saw—didn’t know who you were, but they knew you didn’t belong there or in the Northern Hemisphere. They passed the buck to North Zone, and they sent you down here. Now it’s your turn to go through the Well.”

  Trelig looked uneasy. “We become something else? Some other creature?” he said, uneasily.

  Ortega nodded. “That’s right. Oh, there’s a one in seven hundred eighty shot of staying what you call human, but it’s unlikely. You have to do it. You have no choice. There’s no other way out.”

  They considered that. “Those others—the Entries. Are there… nonhuman entries?”

  “Sure!” the Ulik answered. “Lots. Most, in fact. Even some real surprises—creatures that are nontech here, proving that it’s easier where they are than the problem set for them here. And some high-tech ones we’ve never seen. Even the North has a bunch, almost as many as we have. We have here a collection of stored spacesuits in forms and sizes you wouldn’t believe. We use them occasionally when somebody has to go north. There’s some trade, you know. We have tiny translator devices, for example, that are grown in a crystal world up there that needs iron for some reason only they know. The things work. Anybody wearing one will understand and be understood by any other race, no matter how alien.”

  “You mean there isn’t a common language here?” Yulin almost exclaimed.

  Ortega gave that low, throaty chuckle again. “Oh, no! Fifteen hundred sixty races, fifteen hundred sixty languages. When life and surroundings are different, you need to think differently. When you go through the Well you’ll emerge thinking in the language of your new race. Even now I have to translate, though, by practicing with other Entries. I’ve become quite proficient at it.”

  “Then we’ll still remember Confederation.” Trelig’s words were more a statement than a question.

  “Remember it, yes,” the snake-man replied. “And use it, if your physical anatomy permits. A translator causes problems, though. You automatically get translated, so managing a third tongue is nearly impossible. But with a translator you hardly need it. If your new race uses them, try to get one. They’re handy things.” He paused, looked at the plant-thing and the Ambreza, seeming to note some worsening in Yulin’s paralysis. “I think it’s time,” he concluded softly.

  They nodded, and a second Ambreza came in and two giant beavers moved Yulin carefully onto a stretcher.

  “But I don’t—” Trelig started to protest, but Ortega cut him short.

  “Now, you can ask questions forever, but you have the sponge and she has even more immediate problems. If you can ever get to a Zone Gate, come back and visit. But now, you go.” The tone was very insistent. There would be no more argument. The fact that Trelig and Zinder didn’t actually have a sponge problem was beside the point; their own cover story had rushed things.

  They came finally to a room similar to the Zone Gate they’d used in getting from North to South.

  Yulin went in first; he had no choice. He thanked them all, and hoped he would see them again. Then the two stretcher-bearers upended the body of Mavra Chang so it fell forward into the black wall. Zinder looked hesitant and had to be coaxed, but then he went. Finally, Trelig was left alone with the curious assembly of aliens. He was resigned. There was much to be learned, but his hand was forced. There would be other times, he told himself.

  He stepped into the blackness.

  Ortega sighed, turned to Vardia. “Any news of the other ship?” he asked.

  “None,” replied the Czillian, the mobile plant-creature who had met them. “Are they as important now as they were?”

  Ortega nodded. “You bet. If what those people told me was true, we have some first-class villains up there, probably on the loose. And two of them know a hell of a lot about Markovian mathematics. Dangerous people. If they should fall into the wrong hands, and that ship were rebuilt so they got back to this New Pompeii and its computer—maybe they could lick the problems. They would control the Well.”

  “That’s pretty far-fetched,” the Czillian objected.

  Ortega sighed. “Yeah, but so was a funny little Jew named Nathan Brazil, and you remember what he turned out to be.” The plant-thing bowed, the equivalent of a nod. “The last, living Markovian,” it breathed.

  “I wonder why this crisis hasn’t attracted him?” Ortega mused.

  “Because it’s our crisis,” Vardia replied. “Remember, to the Well this isn’t a problem at all.”

  Near the Teliagin-Kromm Border, Dusk

  A tiny figure moved silently down on the side of the mountain and was soon joined by a second, then a third. A few others hovered nearby on silent wings.

  “There they are!” one whispered, pointing down below to the shepherd’s lean-to and cart where Mavra Chang, Renard, and Nikki Zinder were trapped.

  “Amazing they made it this far,” another whispered.

  The first one, the leader, nodded in agreement. Unlike the cyclopses, their night vision was extremely good. Although they could see in daylight, albeit poorly, they were basically nocturnal. The scene was bright and sharp and clear to them.

  One looked over to where the two cyclopses were sleeping, snoring loudly.

  “Big mothers, aren’t they?” it said softly.

  The leader nodded. “We’ll have to sting them, and quickly. At least two of us for each one, more if possible. I don’t think we can juice them too much for safety’s sake.”

  “Will the venom work?” one asked.

  “It’ll work,” the leader responded confidently. “I looked it up before we left.”

  “I wish guns worked here,” the doubter persisted. “It’s still risky.”

  The leader sighed. “You know this is a nontech hex. Percussion type might work, but we didn’t have time to ransack museums and collectors.” There was a pause, as if the leader sensed it was now or never. Troops are always better in action than waiting for it.

  “Jebbi, Tasala, and Miry, you take the bigger one. Sadi, Nanigu, and I will take the other one. Vistaru, you take Bahage and Asmaro with you and see what you can do for the captives. The others stay loose and available. Come in anyplace you’re needed if you have to.”

  They nodded to one another. The ones on the mountainside launched themselves gracefully into the air, and the teams split off to their respective missions.

  * * *

  Mavra Chang was asleep. She’d crawled up to that grate a hundred times and each time had almost fallen, her traction breaking before she budged the damned thing one centimeter. She had put the other two to sleep to stop their whining and then fallen asleep herself.

  Suddenly she heard a noise, as if something fairly heavy had landed on top of the grate. The noise woke her, and, for a brief moment, she was confused. Then, suddenly, she remembered where she was and looked up. There was definitely something large standing on the cart, but th
e grating made it impossible to see just what.

  “Hu-man? You hear me, hu-man?” a strange, soft voice whispered. It was heavily accented in a most exotic way, high and light, a sexy small woman’s voice.

  “I hear you!” Mavra Chang responded, hope rising within her, in a loud whisper—as loud as she dared.

  “We are pooting the beeg theengs to sleep, hu-man,” the creature told her. “Be readee to be took out.”

  Mavra strained her eyes, trying to see what her rescuer looked like, but it was impossible to see anything—just a blob of light against the greater dark.

  There was a sudden roar. The big male cyclops had awakened, and he was agitated and mad. He swore a thousand growling oaths, then gave something that could only be a cry of pain. She could hear the sound of a great falling body even as his mate roared, yelled, and was, after a time, also felled.

  Mavra Chang wondered what sort of monsters could fell such huge and powerful creatures so easily.

  There followed the sound of more of them landing on the grate. That, in itself, was strange—the grate was big, but not that big.

  She heard them talk—a strange language that sounded like a procession of sweet bells and tiny chimes. It bore less relationship to a language than the grunts and snorts of the sort the cyclopses had—a very beautiful but most inhuman sound.

  There was the sound of activity, and Mavra could hear the sounds of many hands doing things around the grate, and the tinkling of those strange voices giving orders in wonderful music.

  The one that knew Confederation, at least basically, returned.

  “Hu-man? How manee is down t’ere of you?”

  “Three!” she called back, certain that the old threat, at least, was no longer a factor. If it were, these creatures wouldn’t be here. “But two are drugged into sleep,” she warned them.