Jack Chalker - Exiles at the Well of Souls

Vardia looked at the map. “Only two hexes from Gedemondas. What about the Yaxa?”

Ortega sniffed in such a manner that it was evident that there was more bad news.

“While the Yaxa got the Porigol module back, the Lamotien infiltrated Qasada. It only takes six Lamotien to create an exact duplicate of those little rodents. Sabotage, false information—and really effective, since the Lamotien are high-tech themselves and knew where to throw everything out of gear. The Dasheen cow army wasn’t a big help, but it caused additional confusion, and its Yaxa advisors had done their jobs well. There’s still hard fighting there, though; it may be a week or even two before they get through. The Yaxa will deal with the Palim—they’re great at that. Another five, six days to move through Palim with their stuff, maybe one more to get the Palim module out, and they’re on the Gedemondas border.”

“So the Yaxa will get there first,” the Czillian concluded, staring again at the map.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ortega said. “Depends for one thing on the strength of the Qasada resistance, and on whether the others listen to the Zhonzorp. I’d fly over Alestol ferrying everybody in a continuous airlift. The air is uncomfortable, and it stinks, but the Alestoli are barrel-shaped moving plants that emit a variety of nasty noxious gasses. You can’t talk to them—but they have no air capability whatsoever. If the Makiem-Agitar-whatever alliance can push through Olborn, I’d say that it might be a dead heat.”

Vardia looked at Olborn. “What do you know about the place?” it asked curiously.

The big snake-man shook his head. “Not much. No ambassador I ever knew about. Sealed itself off from the outside world. Anybody who tries to go in never comes out. They’re mammals there, air’s okay, and my stuff says that they’re a semitech hex with light magic capabilities, whatever that means. You gotta watch those magic types. All sons of bitches or fanatics—if there’s a difference. Even Zhonzorp goes around them, but I can’t imagine the most powerful hex on this planet standing against the kind of combination roaring in there. A magic hex tends to rely on its magic too much for its defense; a good bullet stops a good spell every time when you’re outnumbered four to one by now well-seasoned troops.”

“So either one has a crack at being first to Gedemondas,” the Czillian mused. “And what about them? Anything?”

Ortega shook his head. “Nothing. Very high mountains, cold, and snowy mostly. They live high up. They’re big—Dillians have seen them, but only briefly. Big suckers, three meters, all covered in snow-white fur, almost invisible against a snow field. Big four-toed clawed feet. They shun all contact, but if you go in too far, they’ll drop an avalanche on your head.”

The relief map showed a mild plain at the Alestol-Palim-Gedemondas border, then tremendously high, faulted mountains, four to five thousand meters many of them. Rough, cold country.

“Any idea where in Gedemondas the engine module fell?” Vardia asked the snake-man.

Serge Ortega shook his head. “No, not really, and neither do they. Not on the plains area, though.” He hesitated. “Wait a minute! Maybe I do!” He rummaged through a bunch of papers, cursing and fussing. Papers went everywhere, until he finally came across a tattered yellow sheet of lined notepad. “Here it is. The Agitar plotted the mass and shape of the mod from the pieces they already recovered, checked climatological data and such, and came up with the probable location. About sixty to a hundred kilometers inside the northeast border, give or take ten. In the mountains, but still a needle in a smaller haystack.”

“How in the world did you get hold of—” the Czillian started, then decided questioning Ortega wasn’t worth it. He’d only lie, anyway. “Then there’s not only the possibility of a search, but, if they find it, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the Gedemondas will either let them take it out or try to destroy them. That’s not a body to be deterred that easily in the latter case.”

Ortega nodded. “They’re funny people, but we just don’t know. That’s the problem. We need to know. We need to send somebody in there to try and talk to the Gedemondas, ahead of the armies, if possible. Maybe they’ll run away, maybe they’ll try to kill them, but we have to try. Warn them ahead of time. Offer to—”

Vardia turned and faced him. “To take the engines off their hands, perhaps?”

Ortega shrugged. “Or, failing that, to try and destroy them.”

Vardia would have sighed if it could. Instead, the Czillian asked, “Who do you have in mind for this suicide mission to the frozen wastes? Count me out. I go dormant under two or three degrees centigrade.”

He chuckled. “No, you had your fun once. Or one of you did, anyway. No, I don’t like what I’m thinking, but it keeps coming up the same answer. There’s only one person qualified to inspect the engines, decide if they can be moved, or, failing that, know how to destroy them beyond repairing.”

Vardia nodded. “Mavra Chang. But you said she was too valuable to risk!”

“And so she is,” Ortega admitted. “It’s a calculated risk, I agree. But she’s the only one who can do the technical end of the job for us. We’ll try and minimize the risk, of course. Send some other people along with her for protection, not expose her to any needless risks.”

“From what you’ve said of her, I doubt that sincerely,” the Czillian replied skeptically. “But, all right. It’s come down to this. We have been passive observers, and we’ll continue to be passive observers watching the Trelig or Yulin bunch blast off for the satellite unless we do something. I agree action is called for. I only wish we’d done something sooner.”

“Sooner, none of us thought either side had a prayer of actually making it,” Ortega reminded the plant-creature. “Now we know it’s possible. It’s now or never.”

The Czillian turned. “I’ll notify my population and our friends as discreetly as possible. You will assemble the personnel, I assume?”

Ortega smiled. “Of course—subject to Czillian Crisis Center’s approval, of course.”

“Of course,” Vardia echoed, not at all certain it made any difference.

Ortega went back to his maps and was soon talking to himself. Xoda was out; the Yaxa would be there. That left Olborn. Damn!…

He’d taken two days to get to the Lata border, although Doma could have gotten him there in one. The great horse would never let on, but it was almost worn out, and Renard had set down as soon as they’d cleared the storm and he felt far enough away from the war to be safe.

He had no provisions, nor did this land provide any. Doma could eat the leaves of trees and the tops of tall grasses, though, and there was water, so he felt she could survive. Lata was the only idea in his mind; he would wait to eat there. Agitar were omnivores, too; if Mavra Chang could exist there, so could he.

He had a couple of close shaves before he made the border. Some of the hives had left skeleton guard forces, and he was occasionally called upon to fight, but such action was scattered and usually broke off when he turned to avoid combat. There were too few of them to get drawn far from the hives.

Still, he was feeling mentally and physically exhausted, drained. His internal charge was down to a mere pop, and he wondered if a certain amount of stored energy was necessary for his body. Probably; it filled some need in his now alien biochemistry or it wouldn’t be there. He stopped several times to run and thereby get a little back into him, and it did help, although he was otherwise so physically washed out that the running, prancing, and turning soon had him winded.