Jack Chalker - Exiles at the Well of Souls

He frowned, embarrassed by the question even as he saw the logic of it. Only Mavra, he himself, and the person involved would know the answer, and she would have no reason for deception. “Nikki Zinder,” he replied.

She nodded. “It’s Renard. Not only the answer but the way he made it sound so terrible convinces me. Let him come to me or me to him.”

The guards still weren’t all that certain. “But he’s an Agitar!” one growled. “One of them.”

“He’s Renard, no matter what,” she responded, and walked briskly out to him. The guards kept at the ready, but appeared resigned.

She was taller than he, now—maybe ten centimeters with her boots on, three or four without. He was ugly as sin and smelled like a goat, but she hugged him and kissed him lightly on the forehead, laughing.

“Renard! Let me look at you! They told me this would happen, but somehow I couldn’t really believe it!”

He was slightly embarrassed again, from his strange new form and, oddly, because the Agitar part of his brain didn’t really react to her as a woman, but as another, alien creature. He began to realize just how much he’d changed.

Mavra turned to Doma, who looked up as she cautiously approached. “He’s beautiful!” she breathed. “Can I—touch him? Will he mind?”

“She,” Renard corrected. “Her name is Doma. Let her look you over for a moment and then rub the spot between her ears when her head droops. She likes that.”

Mavra did as instructed, and found the great pegasus friendly, curious, and responsive.

She walked around, looking at the saddle between the great, now-folded wings and the neck. It was a sophisticated device—altimeter, air-speed and ground-speed indicator, everything.

She turned to him. “You’ll have to take me up on her sometime,” she said longingly. “I’d love to see her fly. “But tell me everything that’s happened, first.”

“If you’ll get me some food—any fruits or meats will do that you can eat,” he replied lightly. “I’m starving to death!!”

They sat there in the glen until the sun was down and the pixie people were out in force. He told her of waking up in Agitar, of Trelig, of being drafted, and of the war and his experiences. She sympathized, while secretly wishing to be in the thick of what he had escaped from, and told him a simplified version of how they’d been hypnotized to minimize the sponge effects, of their capture by the Teliagin, their Latan rescue, and how they’d gotten to Zone.

“What about Nikki?” he asked. “Do you know where she got to? I haven’t really stopped thinking about her. She’s so young and so naive—tough to be out cold on this world. I know.

Mavra looked at her shadow, Vistaru, who’d joined them. Vistaru shook her head. “Nothing on either Zinder. That’s curious. It’s not impossible to remain undetected here, of course, but doing so is rare. The old politicians have somebody in their pocket in half the South.” She spoke in Lata, and Mavra translated. “So we might lose track of one—but both? It’s very strange. We would like to know where they are.

“It’s as if the Well opened and swallowed them up.”

Several days passed, happy ones for Renard, diverting ones for Mavra, whose boredom was at least slightly relieved by the man. He taught her to fly Doma; it was easy for her, she found, although some of the maneuvers required more muscle power than she could easily manage. She decided that she would never be mistress of that great horse, but it was still a great feeling to fly.

And then the Southern alliance reached Olborn. It was ahead of schedule by several days; Zhonzorp, whose people the books said looked like crocodiles standing erect and who wore turbans, cloaks, and all sorts of strangely exotic stuff, had been invaluable. A high-tech hex, it gained them both time and a rest by moving them across the terrain by rail.

That’s when Vistaru came to them, with a visitor, an older male-mode Lata.

“This is Ambassador Siduthur,” she introduced the newcomer. At Mavra’s insistence they had fitted Renard with a translator, which helped immensely, made him feel more in command of himself again.

Mavra and Renard nodded courteously.

“As you know, both wars are going well,” Siduthur began, “which means that they are going badly for us. Our friends in other hexes tell me that one or the other of the alliances will surely win, that it is in fact possible to reassemble the ship, and that, if nothing is done, we will face a space-capable Well alliance that could gain control of the satellite and its computer. We can no longer sit idly by and let this happen.”

At last! Mavra thought, but she kept silent as the Latan ambassador continued.

“The only possibility we have is the hope that Gedemondas can be talked into either turning the engines over to us or destroying them.” He told them about the silence and reticence of the Gedemondas. “So, you see, we need to get someone in there. Explain things to the Gedemondas if such is possible. Get their cooperation if that first is achieved, and—whether we get cooperation or not—if we can not get those engines, make certain that they are destroyed beyond any means of reconstruction!”

Mavra leaped on it. “I’m the only one who can make sure of that,” she pointed out. “None of the rest of you know the power plant from the cargo hold, and none of you would be able to tell if the thing were damaged or destroyed.”

“We’re aware of that,” the ambassador replied. “We should have liked to have a few more days to gather together some better people to go with you. The trouble is, the best-qualified help is too distant, and the more local help is either conquered, under siege, or unwilling to get involved, the fools. The best we can do is have an expert Dillian get around and meet you near the Gedemondas border. They are neighbors, good in cold weather, and know about as much of the Gedemondans as anybody. At least, you’re not as likely to be ambushed by the Gedemondans with a nonthreatening life form they at least know accompanying you.”

“I’ll go, too,” Renard volunteered. “Doma can carry Mavra as well as me, and that should speed things up.”

The ambassador nodded. “We had planned on it. We’re not a hundred percent trusting of you, Agitar, but we believe sincerely in your attachment for Mavra Chang. That is enough. Vistaru and Hosuru, another Entry and former pilot, will also go with you.”

“Another Entry?” Mavra asked. “I thought they were scarce and that Vistaru, here, was the only one of my kind—”

“That is true,” the ambassador cut in. “Hosuru was not one of your kind before.”

It may have been racial pride, or ego, or just chauvinism, but it was the first time either Renard or Mavra Chang had even considered a spacefaring race other than their own.

“What was this Hosuru?” Mavra asked. “And how many other spacefaring races are there that wound up here?”

“Sixty-one at last count, in the South. Nobody knows about the North,” the ambassador replied. “Certainly as many. She was once one of what we call the Ghlmones, which one of your people long ago described as little green fire-breathing dinosaurs, whatever that means.”

Hosuru wasn’t a fire-breathing dinosaur anymore. Still in the female mode, she looked absolutely identical to Vistaru except for being a deep brown in contrast to the other Lata’s passionate pink.

The ambassador opened a map. “We are here,” he told them, pointing to a hex. “To our east is the Sea of Storms. As you can see, the best route would be over Tuliga and Galidon to Palim, which has to be crossed sooner or later anyway. However, the Galidon are fierce carnivores and the atmosphere above the waters is not conducive to flying, so that’s out. That means crossing Tuliga to this point here, landing in Olborn. The Tuliga are rather nasty giant sea slugs, but they shouldn’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”