Chalker, Jack L. - Well of Souls 02 (32 page)

"Me," the guard replied. "If I like what you say, I'll pass it on."

Like fun you would, Trelig thought. Only if there was something in it for you. "All right then," he said flatly, resigned. "If you're not interested then . . ." He turned to leave.

"Hold it!" called a different voice, perhaps the other guard. The tone was commanding, and Trelig froze, smiling inwardly.

"If somebody else gets it, and it is an Entry, it'll be our skins," the new voice pointed out. "Better we should take him to the old man."

"Oh, all right," grumbled the first. "I'll do it. But what's in it for us?"

"I know what we're in for if he's okay and we blow it," the other responded. "Go on."

Trelig turned back around. "Come on, you. Follow me," the first guard mumbled resignedly, and came to life, turning and slow-hopping with short motions up the brick-paved walkway. Trelig followed, feeling better. If, as Ortega had said, all the races of this universe— and this world— including humanity had sprung from a single source, all the races so created would have certain things in common reflecting their creators. Human nature was Antor Trelig's life and profession, and it didn't matter to him what form that human took.

They entered a side door of the palace, and went into a gas-lit room that was peculiar indeed. A guard was on duty, and nodded slightly to his leader as they entered.

Two walls of the room held a great many strange-looking similar devices. There was a top part that resembled giant padded headphones, and a rubbery suction-cup device with a hole in the center underneath. They were on spring-loaded coils of tubing of the same material. Above each of the dozens of such devices was a plaque with something in that crazy writing.

Trelig watched curiously as the guard took the headphones and placed them over his head, just behind the jaw joints where the tiny ear openings were. Then the suction cup was attached almost to the center of the tattooed insignia on its chest. The guard expanded his chest, letting go an extremely loud and annoying rumble.

Trelig understood the thing now. It transmitted direct sound to various points in the palace, the hollow tube itself moving the air. He suspected the voices sounded hollow, tinny, and terribly far away, but it worked. A primitive, nontechnological telephone.

Nontechnological, hell! he corrected himself. These people were tremendously advanced technologically. Everything that could work they had created, ingeniously.

"Yes, sir," the guard literally shouted, so loud that Trelig wished he had ear flaps to match the nose ones. "Says he knows of an Entry, yes, sir." Pause. "No, nothing odd." Pause. "Personally, sir? But— " Pause. "All right, sir. Right away," the guard completed the call, detached the suction cup, which coiled back into its built-in holder, and replaced the headphones on their rack. He turned to Trelig.

"Come on, you," he grumbled. He followed the guard out.

There were no stairs or ramps, and Trelig had a bad time when they reached a high opening, four walls of bare, smooth stone, obviously a junction for the hallways on the multistoried castle, and the guard simply started walking up the wall.

Trelig hesitated, then decided, hell, why not? If it doesn't work I think I can survive the fall. What he had to do, he saw from the guard, was press his finger-cups solidly on the stone, pull himself up, then use leg-cups on the webbed hind feet to support him while he reached farther up. If he managed it in a smooth series of motions, like climbing a ladder, it would be effortless, but doing so proved awkward and slow for Antor Trelig. He was conscious of the guards' stares and chuckles in the corridor below, and heard the guard above growl, "Come on, you! Can't keep the old man waiting!"

He made it, with difficulty, to the third story, thankful that they didn't have to go any farther. That took some getting used to. Getting down, looking down the whole way, would be worse. He put the thought out of his mind.

They passed by great rooms, some sumptuously furnished with silks and fancy rugs and woven tapestries. A few doors were closed, but, no matter what, the place reeked of opulence. There was a lot of fancy metal art, too, and most of it wasn't brass or iron, either— it was solid gold, often encrusted with jewels of amazing proportions.

Finally they entered what had to be some sort of reception hall. It was rectangular, but too small to be the king's regular place. The ceiling was still a good ten meters high, and the walls were draped with maroon and gold velvet curtains. There was a thick rug of some soft fur from the door sill to every corner of the room, and a slightly raised dais near the far wall with the most comfortable-looking of those strange cushion-chairs he'd ever seen. He looked around, mentally betting himself that there was another entrance somewhere, probably just behind that dais.

He was right. The curtains behind the chair moved, and an elderly Makiem walked in on all fours, got up on the dais, and turned, settling back onto the broad cushion-chair. The effect was remarkably human, as if a man, leaning about forty-five degrees forward in a chair were sitting there. The old man even crossed his huge legs a little, and rested his arms on two small wooden adjustable rails.

The old one looked at the newcomer critically, then looked over at the guard. "That will be all, Zubir. I'll call you if I need you." The guard bent its head slightly and withdrew, closing the big wooden door behind him.

The old man turned back to Trelig. "You know the whereabouts of an Entry?" he asked, his voice crackling with energy. His skin was blotched and old and bloated, but this was a very lively individual, Trelig decided.

"I do, sir," Trelig responded carefully. "He has sent me here to find out what is in store for him before he turns himself in."

The old man chuckled. "Insolent, too. I like that." He suddenly leaned farther forward and pointed. "You're the Entry and you know it!" he snapped, then his tone softened again, became friendlier. "You are a terrible wall-climber, although a smooth liar. I'll give you that. Now, come! Who are you really?"

Trelig considered his answer. He could be any one of several people, and perhaps be the better for it. Either Zinder was out— he was too mature to be the daughter and not versed well enough in technology to be the father. The same for Ben Yulin, and that wouldn't be much of an improvement, anyway. Renard or Mavra Chang? The former wouldn't hold up— too slick at the start to pretend to be a guard now; this old guy was no fool— and Mavra Chang would be conspicuous if alive. So the best he could do was try and get into their good graces by the truth.

He imitated the guard by flexing his elbows so that his body lowered to the floor, then came back up again. "Antor Trelig, at your service, sir," he said. "And who might I have the honor of talking to?"

The old man smiled slightly. A Makiem smile was far different from a human one, but Trelig recognized it. "Consider all the angles before you act, don't you, Trelig?" he said offhandedly. "I could see all the possible lies going through your head before the truth came out. As to who I am, I am Soncoro, Minister of Agriculture."

Trelig barely suppressed a chuckle. "And the man who really makes all the decisions around here," he stated flatly.

Soncoro liked that. "And what brings you to that conclusion?"

"Because the guard sent me to the minister of agriculture, not the prime minister, king, or even state security. You were his first and only choice. Those types know who's who."

Soncoro nodded. "I think I'm going to like you, Trelig. We're two of a kind. I like you— and I'll never trust you. You understand that. Just as you wouldn't trust me, in reversed circumstances."

Trelig did understand. "I'm much too new to be a threat, Soncoro. Let's say a partnership until then."

The old man considered that. "Quite so. You understand what you have that we want, don't you? And why we are delighted and relieved that you are who you are?"

"Because I can pilot a spaceship," the former syndicate boss replied easily. "And because I'm able to open up everything on New Pompeii." Trelig felt vastly relieved. He had been afraid that he would wind up in a water hex, or, if not that, in a hex whose government had neither designs on New Pompeii nor people like Soncoro. But then, he reflected, if we have a common beginning, the odds were always in my favor.

Trelig looked at the old man. "You're going after the one in the North?"

Soncoro shook his head. "No, that would involve almost insuperable obstacles. We looked at it, of course. You went down a good ways in, in a nontech hex, so we would not only have to get to it, and no Southerner has ever been into the North, we would somehow have to move it close to two hundred kilometers to make it flyable, then set it straight up so it would be well away before the Well could snare it. And— this is equally important— to do it one would have to pass through a number of hexes with life so alien one couldn't understand it, control it, or trust it; and in some atmospheres that are lethal. No, I'm afraid we leave your ship to the Uchjin."

"But the other ship isn't in one piece!" Trelig objected. "It was my own ship. It would break up on the way in. The nine modules would be spread over half the Well World!"

"They are," Soncoro admitted. "But, tell me, would you need all the modules to make it fly again? Suppose you had a fabricating plant capable of building an airtight central body? And a couple of good electrical engineers to help do it right? What would you need then?"

Trelig was genuinely amazed. "With all that— probably the power plant and one or two modules to make certain you fabricated the new parts correctly. And the bridge, of course."

"Suppose you had the power plant and modules, but not the bridge?" Soncoro prompted. "Could it be done?"

Trelig thought about it. "Not impossible, but a hell of a lot more difficult. The computer guidance is there."

The old man nodded again. "But we have access to pretty good computers here. If I understand it, it's not the machine itself, it's just its abilities, programs, memory, and action time."

"And interface with the power plant," Trelig added.

"Not insolvable," Soncoro pronounced. He smiled wickedly. "Welcome to the family."

"But where are you going to get all this?" Trelig protested. "I would guess that if you could have a machine shop and computers here, you'd have them."

"Good point," Soncoro agreed. "But we won't be alone. What would you say if I told you that four the modules were within six hexes of this one, and the power plant was seven hexes away? And that we had allies— a semitech hex and a high-tech hex, with complementing abilities?"

Trelig was intrigued. "But you're talking about a war!" he objected. "I thought war was impossible here!"

"For conquest, yes," the old man admitted. "But not for limited objectives. Dhala proved that you couldn't hold ground for any length of time here. But we need only take it, take it long enough to get what we want, and move on. Some of the hexes are simple anyway. They will yield to us or just ignore us. Only a couple of them will be problems."

Trelig considered this, getting excited now. This development was beyond his wildest dreams! "But the ship should have come in at a definite angle. If five are attainable, then all of them should be. Why limit it?"

"We're not the only ones in the game," the old Makiem told him. "Others are moving now. Perhaps we can deal later, but the power plant is the one thing completely beyond our ability to construct. We have lots of spacefarers, but they are technicians. You know how to pilot— but do you know how to build a ship?"

"No," he admitted.

"We haven't had a Type 41 pilot, though, in a very long time. None we can get our hands on. I assume that progress has made much of their skill obsolete anyway. Correct?"

"Probably," Trelig told him. "The power plants and therefore the knowledge of what to tell the computers to do, have changed radically just in my time.

"Then it's safe to say that only you, this associate, Yulin, and the woman, Mavra Chang, could possibly pilot the ship properly?"

Trelig nodded honestly, although he was aware of how much that increased his value. "If there are no human pilots here from as recent as a century, I'd say, almost definitely."

Soncoro seemed tremendously pleased. He leaned forward again. "This fellow Yulin. Is he trustworthy?"

Trelig grinned. "As trustworthy as I am."

Soncoro hissed. "As bad as that. That means there's little chance of a deal there, then, unless we get the power plant."

"You know where he is?" Trelig asked, amazed.

"He is a Dasheen, and a male, damn it all! That will give him power there. The Yaxa are already well along with their own plans, perhaps a bit ahead of us, and he will naturally ally with them if he can. So, we go and as quickly as possible. Whoever owns the power plant owns it all."

"Tell me two things," Trelig said persistently.

"Go ahead," the old man agreed.

"First, what would have happened if I hadn't materialized here as a Makiem? You're talking as if you were going to war anyway, it was all set up. Did you know?"

"Of course not!" responded the secret ruler of Makiem. "The way things worked out only simplifies matters. We would have seized the modules anyway and waited for one of you to come to us. You would have had to." His logic was unassailable. "Now, what's the other thing?"