Jack Chalker - Exiles at the Well of Souls

They nodded, following him. Renard thought there was some argument against that, and that he’d like to try Utopia first, but he let it pass.

“So they created the Well World, and they transformed themselves into new races, and they placed their children on new worlds of their design. The Well is more than the maintenance computer for this world; it is the single stabilizing force for the finite universe,” the snow-creature continued. “And why did they commit racial suicide to descend back to the primitive once more? Because they felt cheated, somehow. They felt they had missed something, somewhere. And, the tragedy was, they didn’t know what it was. They hoped one of our races could find out. That was the ultimate goal of the project, which still goes on.”

“It seems to me they made a sucker play,” Mavra responded. “Suppose they weren’t missing anything? Suppose that was it?”

The Gedemondan shrugged. “In that case, those warring powers below represent the height of attainment, and when the strongest owns the universe—I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, for they are mere reflections of the races of the universe—we’ll have the Markovians all over.”

“But not Gedemondans?” Vistaru prompted.

He shook his head. “We took a different path. While the rest ran toward materialistic attainment, we decided to accept the challenge of a nontechnological hex for what it was—and not try by ingenuity to make it as technological as we could. What nature provided, we accepted. Hot springs allowed some cultivation in these uniquely lighted caverns, which run through the entire hex. We had food, warmth, shelter and privacy. We turned ourselves not outward, but inward, to the very core of our being, our souls, if you will, and explored what we found there. There were things there no one had ever taken time to dream of. A few Northern hexes are proceeding similarly, but most are not. We feel that this is what the Markovians created us to do, and what so few are doing. We’re looking for what they missed.”

“And have you found it?” Mavra asked, somewhat cynically. Mystics weren’t her style, either.

“After a million years, we are at the point where we perceive that something was indeed missing,” the Gedemondan replied. “What it is will take further study and refinement. Unlike those of your worlds, we are in no hurry.”

“You’ve found power,” Renard pointed out. “That dish of food was just plain disintegrated.”

He chuckled, but there was a certain sadness in it. “Power. Yes, I suppose so. But the true test of awesome power is the ability not to use it,” he said cryptically. He looked over at Mavra Chang and pointed a clawed, furry finger at her.

“No matter what, Mavra Chang, you remember that!”

She looked puzzled. “You think I’m to have great power?” she responded, skeptical and a little derisively.

“First you must descend into Hell,” he warned. “Then, only when hope is gone, will you be lifted up and placed at the pinnacle of attainable power, but whether or not you will be wise enough to know what to do with it or what not to do with it is closed to us.”

“How do you know all this?” Vistaru challenged. “Is this just some mystical mumbling or do you really know the future?”

The Gedemondan chuckled again. “No, we read probabilities. You see, we see —perceive is a better word—the math of the Well of Souls. We feel the energy flow, the ties and bands, in each and every particle of matter and energy. All reality is mathematics; all existence, past, present, and future, is equations.”

“Then you can foretell what’s to happen,” Renard put in. “If you see the math, you can solve the equations.”

The Gedemondan sighed. “What is the square root of minus two?” he asked. “That’s something you can see. Solve it.”

The point was made in the simplest terms.

“But this doesn’t explain why you pretend to be primitive snow apes,” Tael persisted.

The Gedemondan looked at her. “To entwine ourselves in the material equations is to lose that which we believe is of greater value. It is really too late for any of your cultures to comprehend this; you are too far along the Markovian path.”

“But you broke your act for us,” Hosuru pointed out. “Why?”

“The war and the engine mod, of course,” Vistaru said flatly, in a tone that indicated she thought her friend a total idiot.

But the Gedemondan shook his head from side to side. “No. It was to meet and speak with one of you, to try and understand the complexity of her equation and perceive its meaning and possible solution.”

Renard looked puzzled. “Mavra?” he asked quizzically.

The Gedemondan nodded. “And now that is done, although what can be added is beyond me right now. As to your silly, stupid, petty war and your spaceship, well, if you’re up to a short journey I think we will settle that now.” He got up, and they did the same, following him out. Another Gedemondan followed with their clothing; they wouldn’t need it in the warm caves, but it was obvious that they would not return to that room.

They were left in a junction area for a while, and their talkative guide left them. Soon they were joined by another Gedemondan—or was it the same one?—and they continued off. It was silent-treatment time again, regardless.

Later, after what seemed like several hours’ walk, they stood again before a stone wall and were helped getting their cold-weather gear on. Some kind Gedemondan had created a form-fitting fur coat with leggings for Mavra. She was amazed, and wondered how they could have done it in a night.

But it helped. The great door opened with a rumble and revealed a strange scene.

It was a great bowl; a U-shaped valley hung over it, and snow filled it deeply.

And, askew on a ledge, unmistakable even at that distance, was the engine module.

And now the guide spoke. It was a different voice, they thought, but with the same kindness and warmth.

“You spoke of power. Over there, just next to that little promontory there, your Ben Yulin and his associates now stand. We marked the trail as subtly as possible, and they almost lost it several times, but they managed to blunder through.”

They strained their eyes, but it was too far away.

Now the Gedemondan pointed to the opposite rim. “Up there,” he said, “stand Antor Trelig and his compatriots. Again, their journey was stage-managed so they arrived at their point within minutes of the other. Of course, neither party knows the other is there.”

The snow-creature turned back and stared at the engine module, marvelously intact and preserved, the remains of the great braking chutes still entwined in it.

“This is power,” said the Gedemondan, and pointed at the module.

There was a rumbling sound that shook the entire valley. Snow started to fall all around, and the engine module trembled, then started to move, slowly at first, then more rapidly, off the edge of the hanging valley.

It poised for an instant at the edge, then plunged over the side with a roar. But it didn’t just fall—it seemed to break apart, and there was a tremendous rumble and roar. Smoke and flames and white-hot billowing clouds erupted. The thing blew itself up on the way down, and, when it hit the snow below, the explosions continued, making the valley look like a minor volcano for several minutes. When the smoke and roar died away, the last of the echoes gone, there was only a melted, smouldering ruin in the snow, bubbling and hissing.

The Gedemondan nodded in satisfaction. “And so ends the war,” he said with a finality that was hard to deny.

“But if you could do this—why did you wait?” Vistaru asked, awed and a little frightened.