Jack Chalker: Midnight at the Well of Souls

“As long as that spark is present, I’ll let things run, Serge,” Brazil replied. “That random factor I talked about. Only when it’s gone will I go, give up, maybe try again—maybe, finally die. I’d like to die, Serge—but if I do I take everything with me. Not just you, everybody and everything, for I stabilize the universal equation. And you are all my children, and I care. I can’t do it as long as that spark remains, for as long as it remains you are not only the worst, but the best of me.”

The thump, thump, thump continued, the only sound in the room.

“I don’t think you’re God, Nate,” Ortega replied evenly. “I think you’re crazy. Anybody would be, living this long. I think you’re a Markovian throwback, crazy after a billion years of being cut off from your own kind. If you was God, why don’t you just wave your tentacles or something and get what you want? Why all this journey, and pain, and torment?”

“Varnett?” Brazil called. “You want to explain it mathematically?”

“I’m not sure I don’t agree with Ortega,” Varnett replied carefully. “Not that it makes much difference from a practical point of view. However, I see what you’re driving at. It’s the same dilemma we face at that control board, there.

“Let’s say we let Skander do what he wants, abolish the Comworlds,” the boy continued. “Let’s say Brazil, here, shows him exactly how to do it, just what to press and in what sequence and in what order. But the Com concept and the Comworlds developed according to the normal human flow of social evolution, right or wrong. They are caused by countless past historical events, conditions, ideas. You can’t just banish them; you’ve got to change the equation so that they never developed. You have to change the whole human equation, all the past events that led to their formation. The new line you created would be a completely different construct, things as they would be without any of the crucial points that created the Coms. Maybe it was an outlet. Maybe, bad as it was, it was the only outlet. Maybe man would have destroyed himself if just one of those factors wasn’t there. Maybe what we’d have is something worse.”

“Exactly,” Brazil agreed. “For anything major you have to change the past, the whole structure. Nothing just vanishes. Nothing just appears. We are the sum of our past, good as well as bad.”

“So what do we do?” wailed Skander. “What can we do?”

“A few things can be done,” Brazil replied calmly. “You—most of you—sought power. Well, this is power!” With that the Markovian moved toward the control panel.

“My God! He’s going in there!” Skander screamed. “Shoot, you fools!” The Umiau fired its pistol at the Markovian. In a second, the others followed, pouring a concentrated energy pulse into the mass sufficient to disintegrate a building.

The Markovian creature stopped, but seemed to absorb the energy. They poured it into him, all of them, even Wuju, with great accuracy.

He was still there.

The Diviner’s lights blinked rapidly, and searing bolts shot out, striking the Markovian body. There was a glow, surrounding the creature in stark outline, and then it faded.

Brazil was still there.

They stopped firing.

“I told you you couldn’t hurt me,” Brazil said. “None of you can hurt me.”

“Bullshit!” Ortega spat. “Your body was torn to ribbons in Murithel! Why wasn’t this one?”

“Of course! Of course!” Skander exclaimed excitedly. “This body is a direct construct of the Markovian brain, you fools! The brain won’t allow it to be harmed, since it’s really part of the brain itself!”

“Quite so,” Brazil responded. “Nor, in fact, do I have to go in there at all. I can instruct the brain from right here. I’ve been able to do that since we first entered the Well itself. I merely wanted to give you a demonstration.”

“It would seem that we are at your mercy, Markovian,” The Rel said. “What is your intention?”

“I can affect things for anyplace from here,” Brazil told them. “I merely feed the data into the brain through this control room, and that’s that. It’s true there’s a control room for each type, but they are all-purpose, in case of problems, overcrowding when we built the place, and so on. Any control room can be switched to any pattern.”

“But you said—” Ortega started to protest.

“In the words of Serge Ortega,” Brazil replied, a hint of amusement in his voice, “I lied.”

Wuju broke from them and ran up to him, and prostrated herself in front of him, trembling. “Please! Please don’t hurt us,” she pleaded.

There was infinite compassion in his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you, Wuju. I’m the same Nathan Brazil you knew from the start of this mess. I haven’t changed, except physically. I’ve done nothing to you, nothing to deserve this. You know I wouldn’t hurt you. I couldn’t.” The tone changed to one not of bitterness, but of deep hurt and agony, mixed with the loneliness of unimaginable lifetimes. “ I didn’t shoot at you, Wuju,” it said.

She started crying; deep, uncontrollable sobs wracked her. “Oh, my god, Nathan! I’m so sorry! I failed you! Instead of trust, I gave you fear! Oh, god! I’m so ashamed! I just want to die!” she wailed.

Vardia came over to her, tried to comfort her. She pushed the girl away.

“I hope you’re satisfied!” Vardia spat at him. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself! Do anything you want to me for saying this, but don’t torture her anymore!”

Brazil sighed. “No one can torture someone like that,” he replied gently. “Like me, you can only torture yourself. Welcome to the broader human race, Vardia. You showed compassion, disregard for yourself, concern for another. That would have been unthinkable in the old Vardia. If none of you can still understand, I intend to do something for you, not to you. For the most part, anyway.” He angled to address all of them.

“You’re not perfect, none of you. Perfection is the object of the experiment, not the component. Don’t torture yourself, run away from your fears. Face them! Stand up to them! Fight them with goodness, mercy, charity, compassion! Lick them!”

“We are the sum of our ancestral and actual past,” The Rel reminded him. “What you ask may indeed be possible, but the well of fate has accented our flaws. Is it reasonable to expect us to live by such rules, when we find it difficult even to comprehend them?”

“You can only try,” Brazil told it. “There is a greatness in that, too.”

The thump, thump, thump continued.

“What is that noise?” Ortega asked, ever the practical man.

“The Well circuits are open to the brain,” Brazil replied. “It’s awaiting instructions.”

“And what will those instructions be?” Varnett asked nervously.

“I must make some repairs and adjustments to the brain,” Brazil explained. “A few slight things, so that no one can accidentally discover the keying equation again. I’m not sure I’d like to go through this exercise again—and, if I did, there’s no guarantee that some new person might not take that chance, damage the structure, do irreparable harm to trillions who never had a chance. But, just in case, the Well Access Gate will be reset to respond only to me. Also more of an insurance factor has to be added, to summon me if things go wrong.”

Skander gave an amazed chuckle. “That’s all?” he said, relieved.

“It is most satisfactory to me,” The Rel pronounced. “We were concerned only that nothing be disturbed. For a short while there, we lost sight of that—but we are back in control of ourselves again.”