Exiles at the Well of Souls

Lata

He’d taken two days to get to the Lata border, although Doma could have gotten him there in one. The great horse would never let on, but it was almost worn out, and Renard had set down as soon as they’d cleared the storm and he felt far enough away from the war to be safe.

He had no provisions, nor did this land provide any. Doma could eat the leaves of trees and the tops of tall grasses, though, and there was water, so he felt she could survive. Lata was the only idea in his mind; he would wait to eat there. Agitar were omnivores, too; if Mavra Chang could exist there, so could he.

He had a couple of close shaves before he made the border. Some of the hives had left skeleton guard forces, and he was occasionally called upon to fight, but such action was scattered and usually broke off when he turned to avoid combat. There were too few of them to get drawn far from the hives.

Still, he was feeling mentally and physically exhausted, drained. His internal charge was down to a mere pop, and he wondered if a certain amount of stored energy was necessary for his body. Probably; it filled some need in his now alien biochemistry or it wouldn’t be there. He stopped several times to run and thereby get a little back into him, and it did help, although he was otherwise so physically washed out that the running, prancing, and turning soon had him winded.

But now here it was—the goal in sight from five hundred meters. He had not yet gotten over the incredible sight of a hex border. It shimmered a little from the effect of the two different atmospheric compositions—not terribly different, but enough, like some odd clear plastic curtain. At the border, the life and terrain, often weather, stopped and was replaced by a dramatically different scene. Only the landforms and water bodies were constant; rivers flowed through without notice, seas of one washed on beaches of another, and foothills like those below continued on unbroken.

Djukasis was a dry hex; the thunderstorm was a rarity this time of year, and yet such sudden and violent storms provided most of the hex’s rainfall. The grass was yellowish, the trees tough and spindly.

Now, at the Lata border, there suddenly started a deep-green carpet of rich grass, and tall, thick trees with great green leaf-covered branches reaching up for the sky, broken here and there by pools, meadows, and rolling glens. There was no sign of roads and, in the bright sunlight, no sign of people, either.

He wished he knew what kind of people lived there.

About a thousand meters into the hex, when he was still feeling the effects of a quadrupling of the humidity and a ten-degree temperature rise at least, he found out.

Multicolored energy bursts outlined Doma, who reacted nervously but had no place to go but back.

They’re shooting at me!he thought in panic, then realized that the bursts were intended to discourage, not kill. Not yet, anyway.

He took the hint and made a 180-degree turn, crossing back into Djukasis. The moisture-hungry air of the bee’s home started to dry his perspiration-soaked upper torso under his combat jacket, which he hadn’t yet shed.

He set Doma down as close to the border as possible and jumped off, looking warily just across the line, wondering who or what was looking back at him. He took off his uniform jacket and tossed it away, leaving just the standard military blue briefs. Taking Doma’s reins, he cautiously proceeded back to the border, leading the horse on the ground.

This time, only ten or fifteen paces inside the border, he was challenged. The trouble was, it sounded like a lot of angry bells; he couldn’t understand a word of it.

He stopped, looking out at the silent forest. The bells stopped, too, waiting. He pointed to himself. “Renard!” he shouted. “Entry!” That second word was different in most languages, though, he realized. It might not be understood here. “Mavra Chang!” he called out. “Mavra Chang!”

That set off more discussion. Finally, the universal rules set themselves in motion. When in doubt, pass the buck.

He put up his hands in what he hoped was a recognizable sign of surrender, hoping they, too, had hands and could understand his meaning.

They did. Suddenly a whole host of them erupted from the trees, armed with nasty-looking energy rifles. As a Djukasis veteran, he also immediately noticed the pretty but obvious stingers.

Pixies!he thought in surprise. Little flying girls. A high-tech hex, though; those rifles looked plenty effective, and whether that antiaircraft fire was automatic or them shooting, they could hit anything they wanted, of that he had no doubt.

They surrounded him, looked wonderingly at Doma, and made unmistakable gestures that he was to move ahead. He saw that they all wore goggles and seemed very uncomfortable. He suspected that they were nocturnal creatures. They led him to a clearing a few thousand meters farther on; one of them made a lot of sign-language gestures that gave no doubt as to their meaning. He was to stay there and make no move, and he would be covered, so no funny business, or else.

That suited him. He was used to waiting now. Doma grazed on the rich new grass, and he stretched out and went to sleep.

Vistaru came into Mavra Chang’s ground-level quarters in a hurry.

“Mavra?”

She had been lying there on a specially constructed bed, looking over Well World maps and geographies, mostly children’s picture books. You didn’t learn a complex language in a few weeks, particularly one established for a vocal system you couldn’t imitate.

“Yes, Vistaru?” she responded, weary and bored from doing nothing.

“Mavra, there is one of the creatures involved in the war who came in from the Djukasis border a few minutes ago. We just got a radio report.”

The news was mildly interesting, but didn’t change her situation at all. “So?”

“He came in on a huge flying horse! You won’t believe it! Gigantic, pale green. And, Mavra—he kept calling for you! Over and over! By name!”

She was on her feet in a moment. “What did this creature look like?”

The Lata shrugged. “An Agitar, they say. Bigger than Lata, smaller than you. All dark blue and fuzzy at the bottom.”

She shook her head. “That’s a new one on me. What do you think? A trick?”

“If it is, it’s misfired,” the Lata responded firmly. “Anything funny and he’ll never leave Lata alive. They asked whether you’d talk to him.”

“If I can,” she replied, and walked out.

There was no problem getting her there quickly. Although the Lata flew and hence had no need for roads or aircraft, they did have to move freight and foodstuffs all over. They just diverted a large, crate-laden truck on government authority and much to the driver’s disgust. Mavra Chang and three thousand crates of apples sped south to the border in a flatbed dual-rotor helicopter, skimming the treetops. The trip took about three hours, and the sun was into late afternoon when they arrived. With a straight axial tilt, all hexes had equal amounts of daylight, a little over fourteen standard hours each.

The pegasus was really as grand and beautiful as had been described, and its rider was as short, squat, and ugly.

“Cute little devil,” Mavra muttered mostly to herself—and that’s what the face looked like. An old Traditionist’s view of the devil in dark-blue and black hair. The creature had awakened when the helicopter approached, and stood and walked around. The thick body and the terribly thin legs looked almost impossible; he moved as if on tiptoe, and reminded Mavra of a costumed ballet dancer.

Guards armed with energy pistols motioned him to a cleared area and flanked him on all sides. He wondered idly what bigwig had come to see this new intrusion, but then he looked again and there was no mistake.

“Mavra!” he cried, and started to move toward her. The guards were quick, no doubt about it. He stopped cold. He pointed to himself. “Renard, Mavra! Renard!”

She was more than surprised. Although she knew the system of the Well—it had been explained at length to her—this was the first time it really hit her in the face. She chuckled, then turned to Vistaru. “This translator—can I talk to him?”

She nodded. “You have a translator,” the Lata reminded her.

“Renard?” she called out. “Is that really you?”

He beamed. “It’s me, all right! A little changed, but still me inside! I traded sponge for goat!” he called back.

She laughed. Communication worked fine. He understood her Confederation, the translator took care of the Agitar.

“Are you sure it’s really Renard?” one of the border guards asked her. “Somebody you know? A lot of folks have claimed to be a lot of other folks lately.”

She nodded, thinking it over. Then she yelled, “Renard! They need proof that you’re you. And, to tell the truth, so do I. And there’s only one question I can think of that only our side would know, so forgive me.” He nodded, and she went on. “Renard, who was the last old-type human being you made love to?”

He frowned, embarrassed by the question even as he saw the logic of it. Only Mavra, he himself, and the person involved would know the answer, and she would have no reason for deception. “Nikki Zinder,” he replied.

She nodded. “It’s Renard. Not only the answer but the way he made it sound so terrible convinces me. Let him come to me or me to him.”

The guards still weren’t all that certain. “But he’s an Agitar!” one growled. “One of them.”

“He’s Renard, no matter what,” she responded, and walked briskly out to him. The guards kept at the ready, but appeared resigned.

She was taller than he, now—maybe ten centimeters with her boots on, three or four without. He was ugly as sin and smelled like a goat, but she hugged him and kissed him lightly on the forehead, laughing.

“Renard! Let me look at you! They told me this would happen, but somehow I couldn’t really believe it!”

He was slightly embarrassed again, from his strange new form and, oddly, because the Agitar part of his brain didn’t really react to her as a woman, but as another, alien creature. He began to realize just how much he’d changed.

Mavra turned to Doma, who looked up as she cautiously approached. “He’s beautiful!” she breathed. “Can I—touch him? Will he mind?”

“She,” Renard corrected. “Her name is Doma. Let her look you over for a moment and then rub the spot between her ears when her head droops. She likes that.”

Mavra did as instructed, and found the great pegasus friendly, curious, and responsive.

She walked around, looking at the saddle between the great, now-folded wings and the neck. It was a sophisticated device—altimeter, air-speed and ground-speed indicator, everything.

She turned to him. “You’ll have to take me up on her sometime,” she said longingly. “I’d love to see her fly. “But tell me everything that’s happened, first.”

“If you’ll get me some food—any fruits or meats will do that you can eat,” he replied lightly. “I’m starving to death!!”

They sat there in the glen until the sun was down and the pixie people were out in force. He told her of waking up in Agitar, of Trelig, of being drafted, and of the war and his experiences. She sympathized, while secretly wishing to be in the thick of what he had escaped from, and told him a simplified version of how they’d been hypnotized to minimize the sponge effects, of their capture by the Teliagin, their Latan rescue, and how they’d gotten to Zone.

“What about Nikki?” he asked. “Do you know where she got to? I haven’t really stopped thinking about her. She’s so young and so naive—tough to be out cold on this world. I know.

Mavra looked at her shadow, Vistaru, who’d joined them. Vistaru shook her head. “Nothing on either Zinder. That’s curious. It’s not impossible to remain undetected here, of course, but doing so is rare. The old politicians have somebody in their pocket in half the South.” She spoke in Lata, and Mavra translated. “So we might lose track of one—but both? It’s very strange. We would like to know where they are.

“It’s as if the Well opened and swallowed them up.”

Several days passed, happy ones for Renard, diverting ones for Mavra, whose boredom was at least slightly relieved by the man. He taught her to fly Doma; it was easy for her, she found, although some of the maneuvers required more muscle power than she could easily manage. She decided that she would never be mistress of that great horse, but it was still a great feeling to fly.

And then the Southern alliance reached Olborn. It was ahead of schedule by several days; Zhonzorp, whose people the books said looked like crocodiles standing erect and who wore turbans, cloaks, and all sorts of strangely exotic stuff, had been invaluable. A high-tech hex, it gained them both time and a rest by moving them across the terrain by rail.

That’s when Vistaru came to them, with a visitor, an older male-mode Lata.

“This is Ambassador Siduthur,” she introduced the newcomer. At Mavra’s insistence they had fitted Renard with a translator, which helped immensely, made him feel more in command of himself again.

Mavra and Renard nodded courteously.

“As you know, both wars are going well,” Siduthur began, “which means that they are going badly for us. Our friends in other hexes tell me that one or the other of the alliances will surely win, that it is in fact possible to reassemble the ship, and that, if nothing is done, we will face a space-capable Well alliance that could gain control of the satellite and its computer. We can no longer sit idly by and let this happen.”

At last!Mavra thought, but she kept silent as the Latan ambassador continued.

“The only possibility we have is the hope that Gedemondas can be talked into either turning the engines over to us or destroying them.” He told them about the silence and reticence of the Gedemondas. “So, you see, we need to get someone in there. Explain things to the Gedemondas if such is possible. Get their cooperation if that first is achieved, and—whether we get cooperation or not—if we can not get those engines, make certain that they are destroyed beyond any means of reconstruction!”

Mavra leaped on it. “I’m the only one who can make sure of that,” she pointed out. “None of the rest of you know the power plant from the cargo hold, and none of you would be able to tell if the thing were damaged or destroyed.”

“We’re aware of that,” the ambassador replied. “We should have liked to have a few more days to gather together some better people to go with you. The trouble is, the best-qualified help is too distant, and the more local help is either conquered, under siege, or unwilling to get involved, the fools. The best we can do is have an expert Dillian get around and meet you near the Gedemondas border. They are neighbors, good in cold weather, and know about as much of the Gedemondans as anybody. At least, you’re not as likely to be ambushed by the Gedemondans with a nonthreatening life form they at least know accompanying you.”

“I’ll go, too,” Renard volunteered. “Doma can carry Mavra as well as me, and that should speed things up.”

The ambassador nodded. “We had planned on it. We’re not a hundred percent trusting of you, Agitar, but we believe sincerely in your attachment for Mavra Chang. That is enough. Vistaru and Hosuru, another Entry and former pilot, will also go with you.”

“Another Entry?” Mavra asked. “I thought they were scarce and that Vistaru, here, was the only one of my kind—”

“That is true,” the ambassador cut in. “Hosuru was not one of your kind before.”

It may have been racial pride, or ego, or just chauvinism, but it was the first time either Renard or Mavra Chang had even considered a spacefaring race other than their own.

“What was this Hosuru?” Mavra asked. “And how many other spacefaring races are there that wound up here?”

“Sixty-one at last count, in the South. Nobody knows about the North,” the ambassador replied. “Certainly as many. She was once one of what we call the Ghlmones, which one of your people long ago described as little green fire-breathing dinosaurs, whatever that means.”

Hosuru wasn’t a fire-breathing dinosaur anymore. Still in the female mode, she looked absolutely identical to Vistaru except for being a deep brown in contrast to the other Lata’s passionate pink.

The ambassador opened a map. “We are here,” he told them, pointing to a hex. “To our east is the Sea of Storms. As you can see, the best route would be over Tuliga and Galidon to Palim, which has to be crossed sooner or later anyway. However, the Galidon are fierce carnivores and the atmosphere above the waters is not conducive to flying, so that’s out. That means crossing Tuliga to this point here, landing in Olborn. The Tuliga are rather nasty giant sea slugs, but they shouldn’t bother you if you don’t bother them.”

“Doma’s good for about four hundred kilometers if pushed,” Renard said, “but that’s a good deal farther.”

“It is,” the ambassador agreed. “There are, however, a few small islands along the way, so you can set down to rest. On no account must you go into the water! It is also brackish, not good for drinking, but the islands are volcanic and should have small crater lakes. Pick your camp spot well.”

“Anything living on the islands we should know about?” Mavra asked cautiously.

The ambassador shook his head. “Nothing but birds, perhaps a few crustaceans of no importance. No, the problem will be when you reach land again—with the Porigol supporting the Yaxa, there is simply no way around Olborn.”

“But this Olborn—isn’t it the next target of the Makiem, Cebu, and Agitar?” Renard asked worriedly. “Won’t they be likely to confuse us with their enemy?”

“Truthfully, we haven’t the slightest idea,” the ambassador admitted. “They are in many ways as unknown as the Gedemondas. Catlike creatures, I understand, with semitech capabilities and, it says in the references, limited magic, although I don’t quite know what that means. Even so, you need only cross it at the top. The attack from Zhonzorp to the extreme south might actually help you by drawing off whatever fighters and major power the Olbornians have.”

“We hope,” sighed the worried Renard. “Then what?”

“By air over Palim, as close to the border as you can in order to avoid as much as possible meeting the Yaxa alliance that might well be marching through at about the same time. Don’t cut south into Alestol, though, whatever you have to do! They are fast-moving plants that can direct poisonous gases that have effects that are sometimes fatal and always bad. They are carnivores who could digest any of you. Leave them to the Makiem and their cohorts to deal with. You must get to Gedemondas ahead of the others at all costs! Our only hopes rest with you. Can you do it?”

Mavra Chang wanted action so badly she could taste it. “With a little luck, and occasional help, I’ve never failed a commission yet,” she said confidently. “This is the sort of mission I’ve been waiting for!”

The ambassador looked at her warily. “This is not the Com,” he reminded her. “The rules change quickly here.”