05. Twilight at the Well of Souls - The Legacy of Nathan Brazil (9 page)

"Go ahead," she invited. "You're the first smoker I've seen on this whole world."

"Just need the right contacts," he replied. "Stuff's damned expensive, and the only varieties worth a damn are grown in just a couple of far-off hexes. We Dillians are crazy about the stuff—I dunno, maybe it's the biochemistry. But only a few of us can afford it."

"Watch it," she said playfully. "Your education's showing."

He laughed. "Oh, well, we hav'ta do somethin' 'bout that, don't we? Yer can't let yer act slip, right?"

She returned the laugh. She was beginning to like the Colonel—he was her kind.

"So," he said after a few moments, "tell me about Gedemondas."

"I was there," she told him. "A long, long time ago, it's true. I may look like a youngster but I'm a spry thousand-year-old. If you know Ortega well enough to recognize my name, you know the basic story."

He nodded. "I know the basics from the history tapes. I do a lot of work for him, off and on, and we got to know each other real well."

She was suddenly suspicious. "You're not working for him now, are you?"

He laughed again. "No, I'm not. But I'll be honest with you; he
did
get in touch with me. Me and a lot of others, I suspect. Asked me to be on the lookout for you and the others and let him know."

"And have you?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Not going to, either. Let's face it, there's no profit in it. And I'm pretty well doing what I want to do these days. Besides, I didn't know until a few minutes ago you were in Dillia, let alone as a Dillian. Bet he'll know as soon as word goes Downlake, though. It was kind of a general all-points, you know. Before I decide much of anything, I want to know just what the hell's up. And, most of all, I want to know about Gedemondas."

They weren't kidding about his fixation, she realized. But that was all to the good.

"First of all," she began, "do you know who Nathan Brazil is?"

He chuckled. "That's sort of a joke on the Well World, you know. A supernatural creature, a myth, a legend, whatever."

She nodded. "It's not a myth or legend anymore," she told him. "He's coming again to the Well World. He has to get into the Well of Souls." Briefly, she outlined the basic history to date, the rip in space, the damage to the Well World and consequently to all reality, the fact that Brazil was going to the Well to, in essence, turn it off, fix it, then start it up again.

He listened intently, green eyes reflecting the flickering gaslight almost like a cat's. He didn't interrupt, although he did occasionally grunt or nod. She did not elaborate on the plan or the problems; that would come much later, after it was clear which side Asam was on.

He was ahead of her. "I can see a big battle," he said after she had finished. "If he shuts it off, it all ceases to exist and it wipes the memory or whatever it has clean. Don't look surprised; just because Dilla's a semitech hex doesn't mean we don't know or use other folks' machines. Just not here. A little cooperation. There's more of that than you realize. There was once a plague and the people couldn't stop it—no technology. But a far-off hex with labs and computers went to work on it, created a serum, and made enough for me to take over four thousand kilometers to the people who needed it but couldn't make it or even isolate it. We saved a lot of folks' lives and I got my title."

"Why that one?" she asked him. "Out of all you've gathered?"

There was a faint smile and a faraway look in his eyes. "The only one I ever got for
saving
lives," he responded softly. Then he snapped out of his reverie and returned to business.

"You and I know the rules," he pointed out. "If he's going to rebuild the universe, then he's going to need live models. Us. Don't sound like I have any percentage on your side—nor would anybody else on this world of ours."

"He won't destroy the Well World," she assured him. "In a little while our army's going to pour through the Well. Probably already is. Huge numbers. They'll be the fighting force for him, and they'll also be the prototypes for his new universe. Not you."

"And you?" he came back. "Where will you be if he does this?"

She smiled grimly. "I wish I knew. One thing at a time. I'm not certain if I'll survive to that point—and if I do, I'll face the situation when it comes. Gedemondas, for one. I have to go there. I have to talk to them, explain the situation, see which way they will go."

He nodded. "I'll accept that answer. And the percentage?"

She realized he was talking about himself. "And after? Well, it would be nice to be on Brazil's side if he reaches the Well, wouldn't it? At least, I'd rather be on his side if he gets in than one of his enemies."

He considered that. "One thing at a time. Gedemondas will do for now. You think they'll talk to you?"

"I think so," she replied. "They did before, anyway. And I'm the only one who was there who they allowed to remember exactly what happened, to remember them at all."

"Um. Wouldn't do much good if we went in there and I came out never remembering a thing, would it?"

She shrugged. "No guarantees. I'm surprised you believe me now. Nobody else did."

"Ortega did," he told her. "He couldn't afford not to check it out completely. There were just enough tiny inconsistencies in the others' stories to cast doubt, and he had no sign of that in you. He concluded you were telling the truth. Matter of fact, he once held your account out to me as bait for a job. Knew I couldn't resist."

"I need to go there," she told him flatly. "I need to go there soon. I have other things to do. But I don't know the hex, don't know the trails, don't have any guide, or credit for provisions or anything. I need your help—badly. And I'm your best shot at meeting the Gedemondans."

He nodded agreement to that last statement. "All right, I'll get whatever you need. You're welcome to come with us."

She sighed. Mission partially accomplished. "How many are you?"

"Five, counting you. All Dillians." He put on a mock leer. "All male except for you. That bother you?"

"I can take care of myself," she responded flatly.

He grinned and nodded approvingly. "I bet you can, too."

Embassy of Ulik, South Zone

"THE GRAND COUNCIL, SOUTH, ISCONVENED." ORTEGA declared solemnly from his office, but it was ritual only. It meant that all the embassies at Zone were now connected together in an elaborate communications net. The creatures who breathed water, the ones that breathed one or another mixture of air, and some who didn't really breathe at all could now converse. Not all the hexes of the Southern hemisphere of the Well World were represented; and some, like Gedemondas, never sent anyone and their offices were empty. A fairly large number of councillors, like Ortega, were Entries—people who were originally from other places and races in the vast universe and had blundered into Markovian gates. They made good council members; such people were usually more adept at handling new Entries, having gone through the experience personally.

"This meeting was called at my request because I believe it is imperative we all understand what is going on and decide on a common policy of dealing with it," Ortega went on. Briefly he explained the situation as he understood it, holding nothing back.

Finally, he got down to the real business. "We have several options here," he told them. "The first is to do nothing. This will result in a temporary doubling of the Well World's population, a severe strain on resources—but only for a short time. Unimpeded, Brazil would go to the Well, do what he has to do, then reduce the population by the same factor as he increased it in his overall restocking process. This would result in inconvenience, yes, but not anything we couldn't handle."

"If he used the newcomers only to do that restocking," someone noted. "If he uses all of us, it's the end. Or if he isn't choosy whether there are newcomers or natives, for that matter."

Ortega nodded in reflex toward the speaker, although there were no television circuits. "That, of course, is precisely it. I know Brazil. I know he's a man of his word. But, in all fairness, he's going to be doing something all by himself that the Markovians did as a race—and that's not the way the system was designed. We don't know if he has that kind of control or confidence. He will be doing it for the first time and can't really know, either. He's a Markovian for sure—I've seen him in his natural form. But if we trust his own story—and though I'll take his word of honor on things, I would never believe any of his stories without proof—he himself says he was a technician on Hex 41. A technician but not the creator. Now, the fact that he also claims to be God, the Prime Mover, the supreme creator of the universe, should give you some idea as to just what to believe."

"I'd tend to believe it," said another alien voice. The circuits were such that the first to punch the talk bar blocked the others so only one could speak at a time. Otherwise there would be another Babel.

"That he's God?" Ortega was shocked.

"No, of course not," the ambassador responded. "That's just the point, you see. His self-claims are of the most grandiose sort. He claims to be God, or thinks he is. Someone who claims that would claim almost reflexively that he was the creator of a hex and not a mere technician if he felt compelled to make something up. He didn't, therefore I'll go along with the idea that he was lower down. That bothers me even more, of course. We have computers here in Ramagin that are quite sophisticated. If one needed minor repair, then I'd trust a technician. But if one needed programming from the word go and there wasn't any copy of the original program to feed in, I'd want an expert. Brazil didn't program anything, not even Hex 41—so how can we trust him to know what he's doing on something like the Well, something so complex that no mind I know can conceive of it?"

Ortega cut off further comment. "Good point. I see a number of you wish to speak, but if you'll permit me, I'll go on so that we won't be in this meeting for the next three weeks. Time presses."

He paused, allowing the little lights to wink out as they accepted his ruling, at least temporarily. Satisfied, he continued. "Now, our second option is to contact Brazil and try to make a deal with him. If he manages to get to the Well and he's mad at us, we may have precipitated a self-fulfilling prophecy. If he has to fight to get there, he's going to be damned mad at all of us and in a position to get even. We have to consider this. If he
can
do the job, he might use only the newcomers if he gets there easily, or he might just use
us
if we fight him all the way, harm his people, that sort of thing."

"
Could
we make a deal with him?" someone else asked.

"Probably," Ortega responded. "We could get his word—which has been good in the past. But we couldn't
enforce
the bargain. The last time he was here a bunch of us tried to do that, you know. We got into the Well, but it was as incomprehensible to us then as it is now. Worse, he was in Markovian form and fully capable of doing damned near anything just by some sort of mental contact with the great computer."

"Would
you
trust him?" somebody put in. Ortega considered the question. "I would. But I wouldn't necessarily trust him to be able to keep his promise, for reasons we just went into. Working the Well on a few individuals is one thing; fixing and then working the entire computer on the whole damned universe is something else. He's a cocky little bastard—-I'm sure
he
thinks he could do it. But I'm not sure I do."

For  a  moment  no  lights  showed  as  the  others thought about what Ortega said. Then everyone tried to speak at once and again he had to cut them off. "The third alternative, the one Brazil anticipates, is that we will oppose him—keep him from reaching the Well at all costs. His agents are already here, organizing the newcomers and playing on the national self-interests of a number of vulnerable hexes that might on their own support him. His army is coming through now, ready to rally to those organizers. If we try and stop him, we have to face several ugly facts. First, we can capture him, imprison him, do all sorts of nasty things to him, but we
cannot
kill him. The Well won't permit it, no matter how hard we try. Something always happens to give him an out. Therefore, we are talking about virtually perpetual imprisonment. Second, we're talking about a hell of a fight. We're not sure just where he is, and he hasn't surfaced as yet. That last is probably all to the good, since we know he's a Type 41, we know his general physical description, and we'd know sooner or later. He'd be spotted, and if he were in a vulnerable spot, say on the ocean, he'd be open to immediate capture. We have to assume he's somewhere in and around Glathriel or Ambreza, even though we've searched in vain for him there. He's not dumb enough not to have prepared an almost foolproof hiding place. So, we have to wait for him to move. He'll wait for his army or armies to spring him, give him the muscle to move northward. That means a multinational, multiracial set of armies must be established and set in strategic places, ready to oppose them at every turn. Since he picks the route, we'll be at even more of a logistical disadvantage than they, but we'll have sheer numbers and the lay of the land." He paused for a moment, then added, "And, third, of course, by so doing we'll be condemning ourselves to being, eventually, the only life forms in all of creation."

Again the board was blank, the speaker was silent for a very long time, followed by everyone trying to speak at once. They talked for hours; they argued, they wrangled, they tried to find other ways out of it. Ortega let them go on, taping the whole thing and also making notes on a map of the Well World when the speakers could be identified as to their own leanings. It was an interesting score. Of the seven hundred or so hexes represented, about a third were either potentially ineffective—the ones whose natives couldn't leave their home hexes such as the plant creatures who had little or no mobility, that kind of thing— or indecisive. A few times he caught hints that some of the hexes might align themselves with Brazil's forces if chance came their way, and it was obvious in which hexes Brazil agents had been at
work. Marquoz clearly had the Hakazit sewn up, for example. The Dillians, on the whole not very combative people, were taking no governmental position—they had very little government anyway—and letting their people decide for themselves.