Jack Chalker - Twilight at the Well of Souls

“Conscience?” Asam prompted.

“A sense of honor,” Brazil finished. “Conscience is something Serge has little of, but he’s an honorable man in his own way. He does what he thinks is right for everybody according to his own lights—whether it is right or not and whether it kills or cures. From what I’ve learned of Gunit Sangh, he might possibly be, at the moment, the most dangerous man alive. I’ve run into his kind many times before, among my own kind.”

Asam looked straight at Brazil. “Are you going to take his offer?”

Brazil smiled humorlessly. “Always it’s the easy way out they offer you,” he reflected. “Just do this that I want and that’s all there is to what I want— except… There’s always an ‘except,’ you know. No, I’m not going to turn myself over to him, or Ortega, or anybody else for that matter. And, don’t worry, no matter what he says, he isn’t going to kill her. He’ll figure that it’s the only leverage he’s got on me if I get into the Well—and he’s right, of course. That may be where he’s made his mistake, though. Once I get into the Well, get to the little computer governing this little planet, there’s not a damned thing he can do to her, to me, to anybody, but a hell of a lot I can do to him. I’m starting to build up a whole backlog of folks I’d like to get even with, Asam. I think for the first time I really do want to get into the Well.”

“Do you think you can?” the centaur asked seriously. “I mean, he says it pretty flat out in the note.”

“It’s possible,” he replied. “More than possible. We’ll keep ’em guessing with Gypsy here, of course, so he won’t be able to spare his big army coming here to block me, and Gypsy today is down with Yua, not only briefing her but being seen—as me. That’ll confuse ’em just enough that Khutir will have to move on her. And I still have a trick or two up my sleeve. Yeah, I think I can get in. I’ll leave tonight, in fact, after Gypsy gets back.”

Asam said nothing for a moment, then echoed, dryly, “Tonight,” and walked back toward his tent to think for a while.

There were staff meetings, commander’s briefings, organizational information, deployment, all during much of the afternoon, and that helped Asam a little in his emotional dilemma. What you don’t have to think about can’t really get to you.

Still, it was always there in the back of his mind, always a dull ache somewhere inside him. He had thought himself in love more than once before, but now he knew that those were hollow things—physical attraction, mostly, or feelings mistaken for love because, not having experienced the real thing, he thought that was what it was. But he loved Mavra Chang. He knew it, deep down to the core of his soul; knew that she meant more to him than his own life, even his own personal honor, which he had cherished most. He hated himself for feeling this way; somehow, in his own mind, he had diminished by falling so totally a victim to such feelings, feelings he had seen in others and regarded only with contempt.

The worst part of it, the most demeaning of all, was the knowledge that Gunit Sangh had identified this vulnerability, placed his slimy foreleg directly on this weak spot in Asam’s soul, and applied pressure with such relish.

Briefly, very briefly, he had entertained the hope that Brazil would take the burden from him, call a halt to this madness and resolve the situation. But, no, that way out had been shut. Brazil would try for the Well of Souls tonight, two or three days even by air from this point, and Mavra? Brazil was too confident of Sangh; he, Asam, knew the bastard better. Mavra would be slowly, ritually eaten alive, there was no doubt of that. She herself would see to that rather than be such a hostage, he felt certain; She would convince him that, to Brazil, she was no hostage at all.

Playing on him, too, was a far different feeling, one that his conscious mind would never admit. From the start he had rebelled at Mavra entering the Well with Brazil, just the two of them. Right now, he felt, she loved him, at least in a way. Brazil said she craved love, the father she had never had, and he was at least that to her and perhaps a good deal more. Left the way she was, he knew deep down that the two of them would spend the rest of their lives together on the Well World; good, full, rich lives. But with Brazil, inside the Well, there was that awful nagging fear that she would not come out a Dillian—if, in fact, she came out at all.

He considered Brazil and the cause for which all these creatures from so many hexes were fighting. Why were they fighting? Silly, deluded Entries that even Mavra admitted were products of a cult who believed in a false ending to this; Dillians, out at first for revenge, who had by now had their emotions sated and were trapped in the march; and ones like the Hakazit, who cared nothing for causes but fought because it was fun, a drive built into their massive, hideous genes.

And Brazil himself—some god! A bored, cynical little man who didn’t really care about anyone or anything, and who said himself he neither understood the Well’s operating principles nor would do anything but leave the universe to go its current stupid way or recreate it in the same image all over again. He was just a man, like so many other men except that one bit of knowledge made him the object of so much misguided devotion. Just a silly little man whose only attribute was that he had lived too damned long…

Even further back in Asam’s subconscious, where none would ever recognize it, lurked the feeling that Brazil was somehow his rival, that he might offer Mavra what she could not refuse.

He made up his mind for what he considered reasonable, realistic reasons. He made up his mind, then checked the dispensary for what he needed, made a few surreptitious inquiries on dosages and tolerances for Glathrielites, then prepared his means and methods of escape. Like Mavra’s kidnapers, he would need aid in the air, which was easy to arrange. He had quite a reputation here; he was the commander of the forces, and they simply wouldn’t question what he was doing. The Jorgasnovarians, in particular, had been talked into this by Marquoz and the Hakazit and weren’t Entries. They were alien, those flying, ten-drilous gumdrops, so much so that they would find it impossible to pick Brazil out of a group of naked Glathrielites. One looked just like another to them, and that was good enough.

Near dusk all was in readiness, and, as luck would have it, Brazil had retired to a small tent to get some sleep in expectation of being awake all night. It was going to be so easy it was unbelievable. He only hoped Sangh understood the time problem and would do nothing rash.

He entered Brazil’s tent and closed the flap behind him. The little man lay there, face up, mouth open, snoring slightly. So easy, so vulnerable… And yet, he hesitated. Love and honor conflicted, hate and the face of Gunit Sangh seemed to mock him.

His hands trembled as he took the small bottle and filled the syringe with two cc. of the clear fluid. There was no one else about; it would be dark in another hour and his own forces could move in, helped by some convenient guard shifts, night training exercises, and meal schedules he had arranged earlier in the day. It would work. Silently he approached the sleeping man, syringe raised.

“O foolish man!” boomed a voice behind him.

He whirled, syringe still in hand, and Brazil snorted and popped awake, then froze as he saw the full tableau.

There were three of them—huge hairy white creatures so out of place in this atmosphere. Asam knew what they were in an instant; he had wanted to meet them almost all his life.

“What the hell?” Brazil wanted to know, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “What’s all this about, Asam? And who and what are you three?”