Exiles at the Well of Souls

South Zone

The Czillian, Vardia, entered Ortega’s increasingly cluttered offices, a mass of computer printouts and diagrams clutched in its two tentacles. Ortega was just switching off from an intercom communication and glanced up as the plant-creature entered.

“New data?” he asked, sounding more resigned than happy at the prospect.

Vardia nodded. “We have run the projections through the computers at the center. Things don’t look good.”

Ortega wasn’t surprised. Nothing looked good any more. “What have you got?” he asked glumly.

The Czillian spread out the charts as well as some diagrams. Ortega couldn’t read the normal Czillian originals, but the computers at the great university and research center in the plant hex had provided translations in Ulik. He studied them, expression becoming increasingly grim.

“Ship design certainly has changed in the past three hundred years,” he commented.

“What did you expect?” the Czillian asked him curtly. “After all, there were periods in the past histories of many races when they went from primitive barbarism to space in less time than that.”

Ortega nodded. “But it would help if I could understand more of the design theory,” he said wistfully. It didn’t really matter, though; the computers could follow it—and if the computers could follow it in Czill, then the computers of, say, Agitar or Lamotien or a half-dozen others could, too.

“They made the sectional cuts in just the right places,” Vardia noted. “The pieces were barely large enough for the Zone Gates, but they all fit—and we could hardly stop them by rights anyway.”

“Or force, either,” he pointed out. “No wars in Zone, eh?” He looked again at the printout collection. “So the power plant is the only thing we couldn’t manage here? They’re sure now? Wonder why?”

“You know the answer,” Vardia responded. “The plant is sealed and works off principles we don’t know. We could create a power plant, of course, but almost certainly not with sufficient thrust to clear the adjacent nontech hexes before they caused shutdown. You know what a miserable failure even our little attempts with cameras have been. Moving a mass this size is, I think, beyond us. It’s built into the Well to keep us here. But the size of those engines must indicate power. They could do it, if trajectory at launch was nearly straight up.”

Ortega admitted the possibility. He had to—it was sitting there in mathematically precise black and white in front of him. “But to make it work they’ll need the programming,” he objected. “That means the Yaxa or nothing.”

“Bullshit, and you know it!” the Czillian shot back, displaying uncharacteristic emotion. “So maybe it takes the Agitar a couple of years to jury-rig a replacement. More likely they’ll either deal or steal what’s needed. You of all people should know what politics and espionage on the Well World is like. You have Yaxa agents, Dasheen agents, Makiem agents, Agitar agents—probably agents of half the races on the planet.”

Ortega didn’t reply. Being true, it wasn’t worthy of a retort. He just smiled, but it was not a satisfied smile. All of his old friends, all of those who owed him or were in his pay, had provided a great deal of information. But no results. More, he was well aware that the Yaxa would cheerfully double-cross their own parents to get in on the deal, and the Lamotien were as trustworthy as rats in a cheese factory. Whoever got the power supply would, politically, be able to put all the pieces together, he felt sure. He wasn’t the only competent backstabbing puppet-master politician on the Well World, only the oldest and most experienced.

But the Czillian printouts indicated the worst from a technical standpoint: the sections had separated intact. They had landed, for the most part, in reasonably good shape. Disassembly where necessary had been professional, knowledgeable, and at the right points.

“What’s the war news?” Vardia asked apprehensively.

He sighed. “The Djukasis were tough, but they were whipped. Klusid doesn’t have a module, but it does have atmospheric problems for them. It’s a fight going around, but there’s a very heavy ultraviolet radiation in the Klusidian atmosphere. It’s what makes things so pretty and yet so strange there. Their atmosphere has protected them from the Zhonzorp. But, I think the Makiem have managed a deal with the Klusidians through an alliance with the Zhonzorp. The need for passive radiation shielding will slow them down, but the Klusidians aren’t able to withstand the alliance from the west and those two-legged crocodiles from the east. They’ll give in, since it’s only free passage they’re seeking. With Zhonzorp having both a module and a key position, they’ll be natural allies. The Agitar don’t like them, but the Makiem and Cebu are interested because the crocs are another high-tech hex, and can help see that the goat-folk don’t do any double-crossing themselves. I’d say the whole force of them will be at the borders of Olborn within ten days at the outside, with Zhonzorp handling most of the resupply problems.”

Vardia looked at the map. “Only two hexes from Gedemondas. What about the Yaxa?”

Ortega sniffed in such a manner that it was evident that there was more bad news.

“While the Yaxa got the Porigol module back, the Lamotien infiltrated Qasada. It only takes six Lamotien to create an exact duplicate of those little rodents. Sabotage, false information—and really effective, since the Lamotien are high-tech themselves and knew where to throw everything out of gear. The Dasheen cow army wasn’t a big help, but it caused additional confusion, and its Yaxa advisors had done their jobs well. There’s still hard fighting there, though; it may be a week or even two before they get through. The Yaxa will deal with the Palim—they’re great at that. Another five, six days to move through Palim with their stuff, maybe one more to get the Palim module out, and they’re on the Gedemondas border.”

“So the Yaxa will get there first,” the Czillian concluded, staring again at the map.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ortega said. “Depends for one thing on the strength of the Qasada resistance, and on whether the others listen to the Zhonzorp. I’d fly over Alestol ferrying everybody in a continuous airlift. The air is uncomfortable, and it stinks, but the Alestoli are barrel-shaped moving plants that emit a variety of nasty noxious gasses. You can’t talk to them—but they have no air capability whatsoever. If the Makiem-Agitar-whatever alliance can push through Olborn, I’d say that it might be a dead heat.”

Vardia looked at Olborn. “What do you know about the place?” it asked curiously.

The big snake-man shook his head. “Not much. No ambassador I ever knew about. Sealed itself off from the outside world. Anybody who tries to go in never comes out. They’re mammals there, air’s okay, and my stuff says that they’re a semitech hex with light magic capabilities, whatever that means. You gotta watch those magic types. All sons of bitches or fanatics—if there’s a difference. Even Zhonzorp goes around them, but I can’t imagine the most powerful hex on this planet standing against the kind of combination roaring in there. A magic hex tends to rely on its magic too much for its defense; a good bullet stops a good spell every time when you’re outnumbered four to one by now well-seasoned troops.”

“So either one has a crack at being first to Gedemondas,” the Czillian mused. “And what about them? Anything?”

Ortega shook his head. “Nothing. Very high mountains, cold, and snowy mostly. They live high up. They’re big—Dillians have seen them, but only briefly. Big suckers, three meters, all covered in snow-white fur, almost invisible against a snow field. Big four-toed clawed feet. They shun all contact, but if you go in too far, they’ll drop an avalanche on your head.”

The relief map showed a mild plain at the Alestol-Palim-Gedemondas border, then tremendously high, faulted mountains, four to five thousand meters many of them. Rough, cold country.

“Any idea where in Gedemondas the engine module fell?” Vardia asked the snake-man.

Serge Ortega shook his head. “No, not really, and neither do they. Not on the plains area, though.” He hesitated. “Wait a minute! Maybe I do!” He rummaged through a bunch of papers, cursing and fussing. Papers went everywhere, until he finally came across a tattered yellow sheet of lined notepad. “Here it is. The Agitar plotted the mass and shape of the mod from the pieces they already recovered, checked climatological data and such, and came up with the probable location. About sixty to a hundred kilometers inside the northeast border, give or take ten. In the mountains, but still a needle in a smaller haystack.”

“How in the world did you get hold of—” the Czillian started, then decided questioning Ortega wasn’t worth it. He’d only lie, anyway. “Then there’s not only the possibility of a search, but, if they find it, there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the Gedemondas will either let them take it out or try to destroy them. That’s not a body to be deterred that easily in the latter case.”

Ortega nodded. “They’re funny people, but we just don’t know. That’s the problem. We need to know. We need to send somebody in there to try and talk to the Gedemondas, ahead of the armies, if possible. Maybe they’ll run away, maybe they’ll try to kill them, but we have to try. Warn them ahead of time. Offer to—”

Vardia turned and faced him. “To take the engines off their hands, perhaps?”

Ortega shrugged. “Or, failing that, to try and destroy them.”

Vardia would have sighed if it could. Instead, the Czillian asked, “Who do you have in mind for this suicide mission to the frozen wastes? Count me out. I go dormant under two or three degrees centigrade.”

He chuckled. “No, you had your fun once. Or one of you did, anyway. No, I don’t like what I’m thinking, but it keeps coming up the same answer. There’s only one person qualified to inspect the engines, decide if they can be moved, or, failing that, know how to destroy them beyond repairing.”

Vardia nodded. “Mavra Chang. But you said she was too valuable to risk!”

“And so she is,” Ortega admitted. “It’s a calculated risk, I agree. But she’s the only one who can do the technical end of the job for us. We’ll try and minimize the risk, of course. Send some other people along with her for protection, not expose her to any needless risks.”

“From what you’ve said of her, I doubt that sincerely,” the Czillian replied skeptically. “But, all right. It’s come down to this. We have been passive observers, and we’ll continue to be passive observers watching the Trelig or Yulin bunch blast off for the satellite unless we do something. I agree action is called for. I only wish we’d done something sooner.”

“Sooner, none of us thought either side had a prayer of actually making it,” Ortega reminded the plant-creature. “Now we know it’s possible. It’s now or never.”

The Czillian turned. “I’ll notify my population and our friends as discreetly as possible. You will assemble the personnel, I assume?”

Ortega smiled. “Of course—subject to Czillian Crisis Center’s approval, of course.”

“Of course,” Vardia echoed, not at all certain it made any difference.

Ortega went back to his maps and was soon talking to himself. Xoda was out; the Yaxa would be there. That left Olborn. Damn!…