Quest for the Well of Souls wos-3

by Jack L. Chalker

  The black attacker reversed. Already its infantry troops were off-loading from hatches in the rear and making for the town in the distance.

  The defenders hadn’t been idle. When the boiler room was evacuated, troops in the overturned PGU had scattered into the darkness, while others in the town fanned out. Kerosene lanterns winked out all over, leaving only a total darkness and the stars overhead.

  Fighting erupted almost immediately, the skirmishers alone harassing the enemy troops until fixed cannon within the town suddenly roared to life.

  The PGU turned and roared toward the flashes, then put its broadside to the town and fired.

  Flashes from incoming and outgoing fire fitfully illuminated the scene, silhouetting hundreds of small, dark figures as they moved about.

  Within the town the attacking PGU’s fire rained down in deadly fashion. The bombardment knocked gaping holes in the adobe pueblos, and people began running to and fro, yelling and screaming.

  Mavra and Joshi huddled in their cage, he with fear and she with frustrated rage.

  Somebody ran into the square near them. “Scatter the livestock!” he commanded. “Defile the water hole! Out! Out!” he screamed.

  Figures fanned out, determined to deny the attackers any fruits of their victory. Someone came down the line in the stockyard opening the gates, and panicked animals ran everywhere. He did not stop at their cage, though, but ran on.

  A shell crashed very close to them, and some of the metal fragments struck the cage. They huddled as close together as they could, trying to get as far away as possible from the lethal bursts.

  A second hit, then a third very close to them, struck the adobe building that loomed over their cage. A huge block of mud masonry tumbled, striking the side of the cage, ripping a great tear in it.

  They neither waited for nor needed communication; they headed for the gap. It was hard to get out, part of the cage still blocked them, and Joshi found himself jammed painfully at his stomach, half in and half out. Mavra, seeing the problem, rushed at him and butted him in the buttocks, pushing him out, but not without cutting his belly.

  He fell to the ground and she tried it. Her legs were just too short, her fat pig’s body too balanced, and she got hung up as he had. Not even thinking of his own pain and fear now, he hobbled to her, and she rocked forward desperately, trying to lower the front of her body. He finally took hold of a foreleg with his mouth and pulled. The sharp teeth tore her flesh, but it was enough, and she tumbled over on top of him.

  She picked herself up and found she couldn’t stand on her injured leg. Three-legged would have to do, she told herself in an instant, and she started off away from the action, he following quickly.

  Shells crashed and boomed all around them, and Mucrolians were running around,, yelling, screaming, firing blindly into the dark, and, once in a while, dying.

  The dark itself looked like a gathering of white-and-orange fireflies as the attacking force closed in. They made no attempt, however, to encircle the town—in fact, they actually hoped that the defenders would withdraw. The oasis was the target, not the people. Realizing this, Mavra and Joshi headed for the dark at the rear, where no flashes were evident.

  Their biggest problem was to keep from being trampled by the frightened animals and retreating defenders. Another, once they had been completely engulfed by the dark, was to avoid being shot by panicky defenders.

  Eventually the sounds of the battle faded behind them. The attack had succeeded; they were free once more—but a new problem existed: they would have to share the harsh land with a large number of refugees—for whom food would be a major priority. If the pigs were caught, there would no longer be thought of breeding.

  Dawn’s light revealed an eerie scene to the three aerial observers. From four hundred meters, the desert terrain showed in all its colorful glory, off almost to the hazy mountains in the distance. Below was carnage—bodies, the hulk of a PGU, the bombed-out buildings of the oasis, and by the water a large group of Mucrolians siphoning scum from the surface of the pool to make it serviceable again. The attackers’ PGU stood silently nearby; alongside, a ramshackle machine labored noisily to filter water, then transfer it to the flushed boilers of the imposing war machine.

  “My God!” was all Renard could manage.

  “If they were in that wreck, I don’t see how they could have survived,” Vistaru said glumly.

  “This Mavra Chang will manage,” Wooley reassured them in that cold but steady voice of the Yaxa. “I would not land or long dwell here, though. It is clear even from this height that most of the animals are dead or have escaped. The sun is now up. I would still keep to the most direct line for Gedemondas. They will be there.”

  The other two wished they could be as confident.

  To the northeast of the bombed-out oasis they could see occasional pockets of Mucrolian refugees, some obviously well armed, trying to regroup. Once or twice those on the ground noticed the strange creatures above. Some were agitated, and several shots were fired at them, but for the most part they were ignored.

  Of the three, the Yaxa had by far the best vision. Her range went far beyond the others in color perception, contrast, depth perception, and just about every other parameter, and they relied on Wooley for a careful canvass of the ground.

  Several times she spotted small animals and they descended for closer inspection but always the creatures proved to be just what they seemed. By early afternoon the false alarms had started to get on the party’s nerves.

  “Maybe we should go on further,” Vistaru suggested. “Work up a ways maybe all the way to the border and then backtrack.”

  That made sense, but Wooley was reluctant to leave. “If they are in those washes, the refugees will make short work of them,” she pointed out.

  They shifted a little to the north where one of the dry washes opened into a salt flat that would have to be covered by anyone heading for the mountains.

  “This is a good compromise,” Renard decided. “They’ll have to cross this flat sooner or later, and we can see everything for a great distance.”

  “Unless they’ve already been through here,” Vistaru responded, obviously worried.

  “Better than more blind searching,” the Yaxa noted, and they decided to act on Renard’s plan. After putting down for a half-hour or so to give themselves a break, they went aloft again.

  It was past midday when something finally happened.

  “To the right!” Wooley yelled. “Mucrolians chasing something! Two objects!”

  At first, neither of the others saw what he had spotted, for the Lata are nocturnal and Renard’s eyes were only average, but they followed the Yaxa.

  “There!” Renard finally called out; he pointed, leaning forward in his saddle.

  A half-dozen or so Mucrolians were chasing two smaller dark objects across the yellow-white flats. It was no contest; the natives were much too fast for their prey.

  “It’s Mavra!” Wooley shouted, the rising tone generating the first emotion they’d heard from the normally impassive butterfly—excitement.

  Renard reached over and pulled his long rod from its scabbard, which hung from Domaru’s great neck.

  “Make sure I don’t get shot!” he told the others. “I’m going in!”

  On the ground the six Mucrolians were tiring of their chase and were closing in for the kill when they heard the beat of mighty wings just above them. One turned and looked up, and yelled to its comrades.

  Mavra Chang also spotted them, and knew immediately who they must be, although the Yaxa was a surprise. She had no intention of being taken; she took the moment as the Mucrolians turned to face this new threat and dashed across the flats as fast as she could, Joshi following.

  One of the Mucrolians raised its rifle and was suddenly struck hard by a small object. Vistaru came in feet first, hitting the creature in the snout, then plunging in the stinger.

  This momentarily drew the attention of the pack from Renard,
and they turned.

  Domaru made a low pass and Renard struck out with his tast; the thousands of volts stored in his body flowed down his right arm and into the rod. It struck one and there was a bright flash as the warrior screamed and fell.

  These were not well-coordinated soldiers, though; they were desperate refugees and the attack confused them. When Renard acted, they turned once again to deal with him; another rifle barrel rose, and Vistaru struck again.

  Renard simultaneously leveled another of the beings with his tast. Although they had sidearms, the two remaining Mucrolians panicked completely and dashed for cover at full speed.

  Renard laughed triumphantly and descended near the bodies. Vistaru landed daintily on Domaru’s back.

  “Whew!” she breathed. “Haven’t done anything like that in years!”

  “You should talk!” Renard laughed. “Just like old times again, though! We haven’t lost it!” Suddenly his grin faded. “Where’s Wooley?”

  He turned and looked around, as did Vistaru. “There!” she almost screamed.

  The orange wings were off in the distance now, heading for the Alestolian border.

  “We’ve been double-crossed!” Renard snapped. “While we did the fighting, she got Mavra!”

  Pursuit was automatic, but fruitless. The Yaxa was every bit as fast, if not faster, than Domaru, and Vistaru was good only for short sprints at high speeds. Every minute that passed increased the distance. They crossed into Alestol, where the country was green—and deadly. Below, huge barrel-shaped plants paralleled their course and waited for them to come down.

  “It’s no use!” Vistaru told him. “I know where she’s headed, and we’re being played for suckers!”

  He didn’t want to give up. “What do you mean?”

  “She’s heading for the Zone Gate of Alestol. Taking them to the Yaxa embassy at Zone. At the same time, we’re being sucked farther and farther into Alestol, which was on their side in the war. We’ll have to land sooner or later for water or rest, and those gas-shooting plants will get us and eat us, so we have to get out—now! Besides, she’s already pulled us a tremendous distance from the nearest Zone Gate we can use!”

  Renard resisted the obvious, but she was right. Their best move, as soon as it was clear that Wooley was uncatchable, was to head for a Zone Gate, alert Ortega, and get ready at Zone. Unfortunately, they were a good six hundred kilometers from a usable Gate, and they were almost exhausted.

  Not only did the Yaxa have Mavra Chang, but they would have her for a day or more before that fact could be reported in by the only others who knew.

  Cursing themselves for fools, they headed north toward Palim.

  South Zone

  Although this was in fact the Yaxa embassy, only two of the technicians clustered around the tables were Yaxa. A Wuckl was present, and with it were several other creatures who were at least neutral—in some cases friendly—to the Yaxa.

  A tall minotaur paused before the door, looking curiously for a moment at the symbol embossed on everything. Unlike his native Dasheen, which used a standard hexagonal symbol, Yaxa used an ideogram which he mistook at first for a pair of stylized wings. After a moment he realized that it was not so. Yaxa was a state along the Equatorial Barrier. It was composed of one half of a hex split horizontally joined to one half of a hex split vertically. Only twenty-four such hexes were so split on either side of the Barrier. The “wings” were, in fact, two half-hexes joined.

  A Yaxa approached him from outside as he peered quizzically into the room. “Mr. Yulin?” she asked.

  The minotaur turned and nodded his massive head. “Yes. I got your message and got down as quickly as I could settle my own affairs on the farm. What’s going on in there?”

  “I am Ambassador Windsweep,” the Yaxa replied, introducing herself, with her official nickname. “Those two creatures are Mavra Chang and her male consort. We are performing minor surgery to make things easier for all.”

  Yulin was puzzled. “Chang? Why bother? If you’ve got her, just get rid of her and we have the field all to ourselves.”

  The Yaxa gave what might have been taken for a sigh or impatience or both. “Mr. Yulin, I wish to remind you that we have a number of problems. First, we must reach the ship in the North. Second, we must depend on the Bozog to secure the ship in some way from the Uchjin and establish a proper launch platform. Third, once away, we must approach your planetoid of New Pompeii through Antor Trelig’s robot sentinels. Mr. Yulin, what is today’s codeword for the sentinels?”

  He looked startled. “I—I’m not sure,” he admitted. “We’d just planned to run through all of them on a fast tape.”

  “But what if the robots are programmed only for slow speech?” the ambassador asked him. “We have by your own account just thirty seconds to give the codeword. If the tape doesn’t work, we are lost.”

  He didn’t like that thought, particularly because it was true. “So?”

  “Mavra Chang went to New Pompeii as a guest, is that not so? She had never been there before?”

  “That’s true,” Ben Yulin admitted. “Get to the point.”

  “And yet Chang stole a spaceship—within the realm of possibility—but then she flew right through the robot sentinels without a problem! Tell me, Mr. Yulin—how did she do that?”

  He had thought that one over a thousand times before. “I wish I knew for sure,” he responded. “Best guess is the treacherous computer gave it to her when we ran her through it. But, hell, it probably only gave her the codeword for that particular day. They’re changed daily, you know that.”

  The Yaxa bowed slightly on its four forelegs in acknowledgement. “But Trelig used the code when you took, off, and that was a day later than Mavra Chang. You didn’t hear it—you were too busy flying. Deep hypnosis proved that. So the only codewords we know for certain are for the exact day and time that Mavra Chang took off. Correct?”

  “That’s true,” he acknowledged, beginning to see the point.

  “So, we also know from you that there are fifty-one code phrases. But only one can be matched to a specific day. They are changed daily. Even over twenty-two years, we can start with the day of Mavra Chang’s escape and project which day it will come up again this time. We know the standard Com calendar. Hence, by picking the time of entry we can be certain of getting through. Do you see?”

  Yulin was uncomfortable with this line of thought. As long as he was the only pilot, it gave him absolute command. Mavra Chang was a threat to his power, an unknown quantity in that he did not know what else the computer had programmed in her brain. He didn’t want her on New Pompeii again, that was for sure.

  “But you can just deep-hypno the words out of her and leave it at that!” he protested.

  “We’ve tried,” the Yaxa told him. “So did Ortega long ago. It won’t work. Whatever is within her brain by Obie’s doing is accessible only in the applicable situations. She does not remember it until she needs it, and it’s blocked to us as well as to her.”

  That was only partially true. Actually, the Yaxa had no love, let alone trust, for Ben Yulin, and they liked having a lever. They did, in fact, know the codewords, because she’d said them and used them consciously in the escape. It was the remainder of the programmed information that was blocked.

  In addition to Yulin’s basic amorality, his new culture was totally male-dominated; the women did the work, the men reaped the rewards. Yaxa society was more than the reverse: basically, male Yaxa were sex machines, killed and eaten by their mates after their performance. To an all-female society, Mavra Chang’s additional knowledge was more trusted.

  Yulin accepted the situation grudgingly. “All right, then, she’s going with us. So what’s all that?” He gestured toward the makeshift surgery.

  “Chang and her companion were surgically altered by the Wuckl to look like pigs,” the Yaxa explained. “Never mind why. But we have a lot of problems to solve: protective suits can’t easily be altered; the reinstatemen
t of vocal cords. Working on them are the Wuckl who did the original work and five surgeons from the best biologically advanced hexes we know who can be bought and trusted to stay bought. Some of their skills are incredible.”

  “You mean they’re going to change them back?” Yulin gasped. “Wow! I’d think that was impossible!”

  “Cosmetics,” Ambassador Windsweep told him, “are easy. Form-fitting them to the spacesuits that we have is more difficult. I think you’ll be amazed.”

  Yulin shrugged resignedly. He would be happier if they died on the table.

  They entered the ambassador’s office, and the minotaur took the huge fluffy chair there for his benefit. “So what’s the timetable?” he asked.

  “We’ve already contacted the Torshind,” Ambassador Windsweep replied. “They’ll be ready for us in another two days, which should be enough for the recuperation of our prisoners. All the equipment from our end is already here, and all of the major paraphernalia has already been transferred by the Torshind and its associates to Yugash.” A tentacle snaked down and lifted a plastic cylinder holding a pale liquid.

  “This is how you will survive. Taking four cows with us just to supply you with the needed calcium and lactose is an incredible expense. This will free you.”

  Yulin looked uncertainly at the container. “How much of that do you have?” he asked nervously.

  “You need only a small amount per day, really,” Windsweep noted. “We have a three-month supply. Even then, you could survive pretty well for another two months without it. If we aren’t done with our business by then, we will be dead.”

  Yulin stared at the container and hoped the ambassador was right.

  “You can always back out, you know,” the Yaxa prodded. “After all—we can’t force you into this, even though we need you to gain access to the computer.”

  The minotaur threw up his hands. “You know better than that,” he said, defeated.