Jack Chalker - Twilight at the Well of Souls

“We must act quickly,” whispered the Gedemondan. “We have very little time and much to do.”

“How… how long have you been here?” she asked it quietly.

“We have been with you since Gedemondas,” the creature told her. “We have kept out of sight and out of mind, as is our wont and our ability. We thought they would try for Brazil, not for you, which is why we couldn’t prevent this. The damage to the Well is clouding our perceptions.”

“They couldn’t be sure it was him,” she explained. “So they figure to blackmail him through me. Fat chance on that.”

“Nevertheless, you are essential to him,” the Gedemondan assured her. “He will not make the repairs without you. And he may not get the opportunity. My brothers and sisters with your force yet tell me that it is not Brazil but one who cares deeply for you who is being blackmailed.”

She was puzzled. “Who? Oh—Asam? But—what could he do?”

“Deliver Brazil in exchange for you,” she was told.

“And we believe he might do so.” Briefly the Gedemondan explained to her the sadistic plot he had overheard in the same barn only a few hours earlier.

“But what can we do about it?” she wanted to know. “If what you say is true I… I’m paralyzed.

Completely.” It shook her to say it, as if voicing it would make it an actuality.

“There are two alternatives,” the Gedemondan told her. “The first is to kill you. That would deprive them of a hostage and would, at least, give Brazil a chance to do the right thing.”

She considered it. “I think I would rather be dead than… like this… for so long.” She meant it, but it seemed somehow abstract, as if discussing a theoretical problem or someone else, not her. She needed more time to get used to the idea she was a statue, a living lump of immobile flesh.

“There is only one other alternative, and it is a risk and an experiment,” the Gedemondan told her.

“Please accept my assurance that they have done an expert job on you. There is no way that your body will move again except under the magic of the Dahir.”

She had an uneasy feeling, and seemed to recall little donkeylike creatures in the back of her mind. “What’s the alternative?”

“There is a procedure, an odd one, used by a few Well World races, mostly in the North,” the white creature explained. “Only in one spot here in the South is it done—and it is as hazardous to the doer as to the subject. It involves the transference of the soul.”

She stared at him. “You mean changing bodies?”

The Gedemondan nodded. “Exactly so. The intellect is a thing which may, under certain conditions, be wrenched from the body. We, ourselves, have done this, but always returning to our own physical selves. In your case, of course, that is not possible, nor could we teach it to you in the hours, perhaps minutes, we have left.”

“You mean I’d swap bodies? With one of you—or the Dahir, or something like that?” She was fascinated.

“Not exactly,” the Gedemondan replied cautiously. “Two souls may occupy the same body only at the price of total madness. An exchange is theoretically possible, but no one has ever done it. Something is lost. The body rejects the newcomer as it rejects the implant of a heart or other organ.”

Hope fell. “Then what are you talking about?”

“While an exchange is not possible, nor double occupancy, the complex soul of a complex being might be placed inside that of an animal whose own self is so slight as to offer little or no resistance.”

“The Wuckl once surgically changed me into a pig,” she recalled glumly. “What could be worse than that?”

The Gedemondan nodded. “Very well, then. Understand, of course, several things. First, what soul the animal has remains. It will fight you, but you should win easily, forcing something of a merger. Second, you’ll not be able to talk, since you will no longer have a translator—and, if you did, you probably still couldn’t use it properly. But, remember this, too: once inside the Well, Brazil can restore you as he pleases, which, we’re certain, will be as you please.”

“Let’s do it, then,” she told him firmly.

The Gedemondan nodded, turned, then suddenly said, “Someone’s coming!” and vanished. She stared at where the creature had been; it was amazing, in its own way—more so than Gypsy. Now that she knew the creature was there, she could almost see it, almost hear its breathing and see a little discontinuity. Almost. Gedemondans didn’t make themselves invisible; they just made it so that, somehow, one didn’t notice they were there.

The door opened and two Dahir came in, looking strange by the light of small kerosene lanterns. They didn’t come too far, just looked around.

“I’m sure I heard somebody talking,” one told the other. They walked on, looking in each stall, occasionally getting a noise from one disturbed animal or another, then reaching her. She played as if still out, eyes closed.

They kept the light on her for some time, then turned. “Well,” the other Dahir noted, “there’s nothing here now. Probably just the captive mumbling as the drug wears off. You’re too nervous, Yoghasta.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be with those spooks around?” the guard grumbled, and they walked back to the door and went out, closing it behind them.

The Gedemondan was there again, suddenly, and a shaggy padlike hand went up in a little gesture. Two other Gedemondans moved out of the shadows and stood there, staring at her.

“It will be easier if you are unconscious and if your mind is made receptive to us,” the talker said. The padlike palms went to either side of her head. She knew or felt nothing more.

“A neutral courier under a diplomatic flag brought this message for you a few minutes ago,” Asam said, handing him a small note.

Nathan Brazil stirred from a makeshift folding chair, reached up, took the paper and unfolded it. “They didn’t waste much time, did they?” he noted sourly, then read the letter.

Captain Brazil,

As you have no doubt deduced by now, we have captured the Dillian Mavra Chang and transferred her to a place of safety. She is whole and well; the drug used is a simple animal tranquilizer with no lasting effects. She is, understandably, quite upset and her descriptions of us occasionally strain the ability of a translator, but, otherwise, she is in excellent health. We have no quarrel with her and no wish to do her harm. Our armies are moving on you at this moment; friendly eyes are watching you at all times, ready to alert us should you attempt escape, and all nearby Avenues are effectively blocked. You can not hope to win. If you surrender now by simply stepping through the nearest Zone Gate, all this will be ended without further loss of life on anyone’s part, including your own. If you choose to ignore this, my only message to you, the woman will die in a most unpleasant and slow manner, and then the battle will be joined. And, please, no crude tricks about sending another double. I assure you that we will put anyone sent to the most severe tests and that a bad result to all concerned would come about if another of your look-alikes turned into someone else and vanished. I have heard so much about you I am looking forward very much to seeing you soon. We have much to talk about.

I remain, sincerely yours,

Brazil balled it up and tossed it into the fire. “Civil chap, isn’t he?” he remarked with a snide smile.

“Like a poisonous spider or hungry snake,” Asam snorted.

“I think we’ve underestimated him, though, so far,” Brazil noted, watching the note burn. “Somehow I thought Serge Ortega would be the big problem, but this fellow is Ortega without… without…”