Jack Chalker - Twilight at the Well of Souls

Brazil looked up at the creature in puzzlement. “Overriding consideration?”

The Gedemondan nodded. “You see, Captain, we have devoted the entire energy of our race to exploring the ways of the universe, the ways of the Well, and, most important, exploring the innermost part of every sentient being, the soul. We have learned much, but we have also learned that there are things beyond us, bound as we are here on the Well World. An entire world of our own, a huge race that could know and understand struggle, hardships, and the reality of the rest of the universe beyond this tiny artificial bubble—that is the only way to progress, to get to the real truths about ourselves.”

“Well, you have one, somewhere,” Brazil pointed out.

“We do not,” the Gedemondan told him sadly. “There was an error, something, some factor that was overlooked in our preparation here for a real existence out there. We died out—quickly. There does not even seem to have been a second generation.”

“How do you know all that?” Brazil asked him. “I mean, even I don’t know that, and wouldn’t without getting deep into the machinery. You couldn’t possibly know.”

“We know,” the creature assured him. “Each construct in the universe has its own intricate mathematical codes. We can sense those codes, read them, so to speak. We know the codes are consistent, and we can trace individual races out there from their counterparts on the Well World, even identify a large number of races no longer on the Well World at all, at least in a mathematical sense. And when the race is no longer in existence, there is a gap, a noticeable discontinuity.”

Brazil was fascinated. “You mean you can actually read the Well’s code?”

“To an extent, yes,” the Gedemondan admitted. “It is due to that ability that we can use some of the Well’s potential ourselves, more or less in the Markovian manner. It’s how we can sometimes foretell future trends, spot key people, do such things as the transfer and blind others’ minds. You can see the frustration. To be so close to the Markovian abilities and understanding—yet, that close and no closer, for we can not expand, grow, or get into a position where we can look at the situation from the other end, from the universe itself. And that, of course, is why we must help you in any way possible.”

Nathan Brazil considered what the creature was saying, then broke into a slight smile. He shook his head slowly and pointed an accusatory finger at the communicator. “You want me to start over,” he said with a mixture of amazement and amusement. “You want to try it again.” So much for altruism, he thought sourly. The same old self-centered elitist bastards were still in charge. He wondered idly how different the society and culture of Gedemondas was from some of the old Com worlds. Still, it made things even easier.

“Look,” he explained, “we have two problems here. One is that Mavra is in no current condition to travel and is likely, if she stays this way, to wind up as somebody’s barbecue. The second is that Gunit Sangh will be looking for me to make a break now and he’ll have patrols and everything he can think of waiting for me. Had things not unraveled when they did, I probably could have done it with few problems. The original plan, as far as it goes, is still sound. The only way in is to fly.”

“So you want to get made up as an Agitar, maybe, and then make Mavra your pegasus?” Gypsy guessed. “It’s not a bad idea, if she’s agreeable.”

Mavra’s head turned and she gave out a very cow-like “Moo,” which was indecipherable.

“Well, that would have been a good idea if we were still following the original script, but I think they’re on to that kind of thing now. I don’t have the advantages of the Com here, particularly not out here in the middle of nowhere. No costume we could come up with would stand close inspection, and Sangh’s no dummy. He’ll force down any creature even remotely resembling me, just for insurance. No, let’s be a little bit trickier than that. Let’s make both Mavra and me pegasuses.”

“But you won’t be able to speak,” Marquoz noted. “To everyone else you’ll be just dumb animals.”

“Then they—we’ll—have to have riders,” Brazil replied.

“The few such creatures we have were mostly stolen,” the Hakazit pointed out. “I’m not sure how much we can trust the Agitar riders.”

“Not Agitar,” he told them. “A Gedemondan, for sure, since we have to have some method, no matter how basic, to communicate if necessary.” He looked at the communicator. “I assume something of that sort is possible?”

The communicator nodded. “By laying of hands, in a basic way,” he replied slowly, “the Gedemondan would then become the conduit for both conversations—but it would work, I think. Still, why not two of us?”

“You’re useful, but you’re not fighters,” he told the great creature realistically. “Somebody ought to be along who can shoot a variety of things.”

“We are not defenseless, but it is true that we can act only in self-defense where a sentient life is concerned,” the Gedemondan admitted.

“I think I’m a little too big and heavy for one of those,” Marquoz noted ruefully. “Although, truthfully, if there were some way to do it I would love to be there at the end.”

Brazil nodded. “All right, then, we’ll have to trust one of the Agitar. Pick the best you can and get him and two of the creatures here as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll do it,” Gypsy said, and vanished.

They all stared at the spot where he had just been, and it was Brazil who shook his head in amazement. “How does he do that?” he wondered aloud.

“He tells the Well what he wants and it does it for him,” the Gedemondan communicator replied.

They all looked at the creature. “You mean it responds to his will?” Brazil pressed.

The communicator nodded. “In effect he is a Markovian,” he said flatly.

Brazil shook his head. “No, not that. Markovians on the Well World had no access to the main computer. That would have destroyed the point of the experiment.”

“Nevertheless, that is what he does,” the creature maintained. “I could feel it, almost see it.”

Brazil stared off into the darkness. “Now who the hell could have learned that—and how?” he mused aloud.

The Agitar was an Entry named Prola, a former Olympian with a lot of self-confidence who was honored to be chosen for this mission. As an Agitar male the former Amazon was somewhat uncomfortable, but now saw this as a heaven-sent opportunity.

“I regret I am not very good at riding the beasts, though,” Prola said apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it,” Brazil told the satyrlike creature. “You just hold on and let me do the flying. I hope,” he added under his breath.

They gathered around the torchlight one last time and Brazil took out a map and spread it on the ground. “Now, Sangh’s almost certainly going to attack this morning. I don’t want you to fight. Gypsy, you tell Asam as soon as we’re off to pack up everybody and everything he can and start moving directly for the Ellerbanta-Verkm Avenue. Sangh will be snapping at your heels, but fight only rearguard actions. Marquoz, I think your people could do that effectively. The faster you can go, the less threat from the rear, since the enemy expects you to stand and fight here, not run, and won’t have prepared logistically for a chase. If you can, Gypsy, then get down to Yua and tell her the same thing.”

“But that will run her right into Khutir’s army,” the strange, dark man protested. “It’ll be a slaughter. Khutir’s got her outnumbered and out-experienced.”