Exiles at the Well of Souls

South Zone

“Anotherone down?” Ortega was aghast.

“We detected the energy burst in our routine monitoring of the satellite,” Gol Miter’s artificial voice told him through the interzone embassy communications system. “At first we had some trouble locating them, but we managed a plot thanks to their taking their time. Careful orbit, nice survey techniques. What I wouldn’t give to see this planet from space!”

Ortega joined in that sentiment. “But they went down anyway? I didn’t get any reports.”

“Finally clipped it a little low, got within the Well’s influence, and got nonteched, same as the first one. The reason you haven’t heard is that they had swung up North for a look. Near as we can tell, they went down in 1146 or 1318, Uchjin or Ashinshyh. Got anything on them?”

Ortega’s multiple arms whipped through maps, charts, and diagrams while he kept up a steady stream of frustration-induced curses. If things were going to get this complicated, he preferred to be the one doing the complicating.

Northern maps were only so-so. They marked oceans, for example, but the oceans could be methane or any one of a dozen other more lethal compounds. Nothing up there bore the slightest kinship to him, not even as close a kinship as he, a six-armed snake-man, bore to Gol Miter, a giant spider. Some Northern races were so alien that there was no common frame of reference possible with what he and the others of the South considered normal existence.

One thing for sure, he saw, looking at the map. Uchjin and Ashinshyh were both nontech or semitech hexes and could not support a sophisticated power system like that of a ship.

He sighed. “Gol, even if they survived the crash, which I doubt, they’re only as good as their air. I don’t know what the hell these symbols for Uchjin mean in terms of atmosphere, but there’s sure no oxygen in it. The Ashinshyh are a little better—there’s some oxygen and even water there—but there’s so much hydrogen around they may have blown half the hex to hell.”

Miter agreed. “Since we’ve had no reports of disaster, and no sign of Well activation, I’d say Uchjin, then. How about your Northern contacts? Anything we can use?”

“I doubt it,” Ortega replied sourly. “Nobody I know near there. I haven’t even the slightest idea what the Uchjin look like. They may have an ambassador on station, though, or somebody close might. Worth a try. I hate to see the Northerners brought into this, though. I don’t trust what I can’t understand, and some of those boys are nasty customers with alien motives.”

“No choice,” Miter responded pragmatically. “I’ll send somebody up to North Zone and see what can be done. That crash has already involved them—and our observatory people have first loyalty to the North, anyway. They tracked it, so everybody already knows.” He paused. “Cheer up, Serge. Even if the thing’s intact, few Northerners could fly it anyway. It’s us or nobody.”

“Not us,” Ortega corrected him. “Somebody.”

Technicians had been in and out for half the day setting up special equipment. He punched the direct line to Ambassador Vardia.

“Czill,” came a voice.

“Ortega here. We’ve got another one down in the North. Get on it. Any word on the Teliagin business yet?”

“Hmmm… the North,” mused the plant-creature. “No, nothing from the Teliagin sector yet. The Lata party went in pretty quickly, though. Be patient, Serge. It’s only been two days.”

“Patience is a virtue best left to the dead, who can afford it,” growled Ortega, and switched off.