Quest for the Well of Souls

South Zone

Although this was in fact the Yaxa embassy, only two of the technicians clustered around the tables were Yaxa. A Wuckl was present, and with it were several other creatures who were at least neutral—in some cases friendly—to the Yaxa.

A tall minotaur paused before the door, looking curiously for a moment at the symbol embossed on everything. Unlike his native Dasheen, which used a standard hexagonal symbol, Yaxa used an ideogram which he mistook at first for a pair of stylized wings. After a moment he realized that it was not so. Yaxa was a state along the Equatorial Barrier. It was composed of one half of a hex split horizontally joined to one half of a hex split vertically. Only twenty-four such hexes were so split on either side of the Barrier. The “wings” were, in fact, two half-hexes joined.

A Yaxa approached him from outside as he peered quizzically into the room. “Mr. Yulin?” she asked.

The minotaur turned and nodded his massive head. “Yes. I got your message and got down as quickly as I could settle my own affairs on the farm. What’s going on in there?”

“I am Ambassador Windsweep,” the Yaxa replied, introducing herself, with her official nickname. “Those two creatures are Mavra Chang and her male consort. We are performing minor surgery to make things easier for all.”

Yulin was puzzled. “Chang? Why bother? If you’ve got her, just get rid of her and we have the field all to ourselves.”

The Yaxa gave what might have been taken for a sigh or impatience or both. “Mr. Yulin, I wish to remind you that we have a number of problems. First, we must reach the ship in the North. Second, we must depend on the Bozog to secure the ship in some way from the Uchjin and establish a proper launch platform. Third, once away, we must approach your planetoid of New Pompeii through Antor Trelig’s robot sentinels. Mr. Yulin, what is today’s codeword for the sentinels?”

He looked startled. “I—I’m not sure,” he admitted. “We’d just planned to run through all of them on a fast tape.”

“But what if the robots are programmed only for slow speech?” the ambassador asked him. “We have by your own account just thirty seconds to give the codeword. If the tape doesn’t work, we are lost.”

He didn’t like that thought, particularly because it was true. “So?”

“Mavra Chang went to New Pompeii as a guest, is that not so? She had never been there before?”

“That’s true,” Ben Yulin admitted. “Get to the point.”

“And yet Chang stole a spaceship—within the realm of possibility—but then she flew right through the robot sentinels without a problem! Tell me, Mr. Yulin—how did she do that?”

He had thought that one over a thousand times before. “I wish I knew for sure,” he responded. “Best guess is the treacherous computer gave it to her when we ran her through it. But, hell, it probably only gave her the codeword for that particular day. They’re changed daily, you know that.”

The Yaxa bowed slightly on its four forelegs in acknowledgement. “But Trelig used the code when you took, off, and that was a day later than Mavra Chang. You didn’t hear it—you were too busy flying. Deep hypnosis proved that. So the only codewords we know for certain are for the exact day and time that Mavra Chang took off. Correct?”

“That’s true,” he acknowledged, beginning to see the point.

“So, we also know from you that there are fifty-one code phrases. But only one can be matched to a specific day. They are changed daily. Even over twenty-two years, we can start with the day of Mavra Chang’s escape and project which day it will come up again this time. We know the standard Com calendar. Hence, by picking the time of entry we can be certain of getting through. Do you see?”

Yulin was uncomfortable with this line of thought. As long as he was the only pilot, it gave him absolute command. Mavra Chang was a threat to his power, an unknown quantity in that he did not know what else the computer had programmed in her brain. He didn’t want her on New Pompeii again, that was for sure.

“But you can just deep-hypno the words out of her and leave it at that!” he protested.

“We’ve tried,” the Yaxa told him. “So did Ortega long ago. It won’t work. Whatever is within her brain by Obie’s doing is accessible only in the applicable situations. She does not remember it until she needs it, and it’s blocked to us as well as to her.”

That was only partially true. Actually, the Yaxa had no love, let alone trust, for Ben Yulin, and they liked having a lever. They did, in fact, know the codewords, because she’d said them and used them consciously in the escape. It was the remainder of the programmed information that was blocked.

In addition to Yulin’s basic amorality, his new culture was totally male-dominated; the women did the work, the men reaped the rewards. Yaxa society was more than the reverse: basically, male Yaxa were sex machines, killed and eaten by their mates after their performance. To an all-female society, Mavra Chang’s additional knowledge was more trusted.

Yulin accepted the situation grudgingly. “All right, then, she’s going with us. So what’s all that?” He gestured toward the makeshift surgery.

“Chang and her companion were surgically altered by the Wuckl to look like pigs,” the Yaxa explained. “Never mind why. But we have a lot of problems to solve: protective suits can’t easily be altered; the reinstatement of vocal cords. Working on them are the Wuckl who did the original work and five surgeons from the best biologically advanced hexes we know who can be bought and trusted to stay bought. Some of their skills are incredible.”

“You mean they’re going to change them back?” Yulin gasped. “Wow! I’d think that was impossible!”

“Cosmetics,” Ambassador Windsweep told him, “are easy. Form-fitting them to the spacesuits that we have is more difficult. I think you’ll be amazed.”

Yulin shrugged resignedly. He would be happier if they died on the table.

They entered the ambassador’s office, and the minotaur took the huge fluffy chair there for his benefit. “So what’s the timetable?” he asked.

“We’ve already contacted the Torshind,” Ambassador Windsweep replied. “They’ll be ready for us in another two days, which should be enough for the recuperation of our prisoners. All the equipment from our end is already here, and all of the major paraphernalia has already been transferred by the Torshind and its associates to Yugash.” A tentacle snaked down and lifted a plastic cylinder holding a pale liquid.

“This is how you will survive. Taking four cows with us just to supply you with the needed calcium and lactose is an incredible expense. This will free you.”

Yulin looked uncertainly at the container. “How much of that do you have?” he asked nervously.

“You need only a small amount per day, really,” Windsweep noted. “We have a three-month supply. Even then, you could survive pretty well for another two months without it. If we aren’t done with our business by then, we will be dead.”

Yulin stared at the container and hoped the ambassador was right.

“You can always back out, you know,” the Yaxa prodded. “After all—we can’t force you into this, even though we need you to gain access to the computer.”

The minotaur threw up his hands. “You know better than that,” he said, defeated.

The surgeons had several problems to solve. The cosmetic changes would be easy to reverse, of course, but not the legs, which made it impossible to fit them into any available pressure suits. Though the Yaxa had manufactured suits based on their old forms, these were now deemed unusable because of the very different shape of the pigs’ limbs. To return them in any way to their original form would be to have them small, weak, slow, and facing downward—in other words, tremendous burdens on the expedition.

There, then, was the problem. Assuming that Mavra Chang could be snared and Joshi taken hostage, what to do with them to make them useful during the journey and to fit in a spacesuit that would have to be one removed from an Entry—someone who had fallen into a Well Gate out among the stars or on a deserted Markovian world and wound up in Zone.

The suit problem was acute. Though dozens of races had apparently reached space, many more had not. There were limits. The problem remained until the Yaxa themselves suggested a solution.

Over two centuries before, the near-legendary Nathan Brazil—perhaps the last living Markovian—had walked the Well World. Only a few who saw it were still alive, and a lot of propaganda had gone into convincing most that he was a legend, nothing more. Most of those witnesses were on Ortega’s side—indeed, Ortega himself had been there.

But one witness was on the side of the Yaxa, and that was all that was necessary.

In the far-off land of Murithel, inhabited by the ferocious Murnies, who ate living flesh, Brazil’s body had been battered and broken beyond repair, and the Murnies had somehow transferred his consciousness, that which was truly he, into the body of a giant stag.

Others knew of the process, although they couldn’t study it, for the Murnies tended to eat anyone first and ask polite questions afterward. Still, it had been done, and at least another two races in the North knew about it.

A Yaxa stuck her head in the surgery. “The Cuzicol are here!” she announced. From the North, the Cuzicol were a race that traded with the Yaxa.

A strange creature, like a metallic yellow flower with hundreds of sharp spikes, stood on spindly legs. In the yellow disk that was its head several ruby-red spots flashed as it spoke. “Bring in the first one,” it commanded.

The others would assist. Happily. Any of them would have sold his soul—if he believed in it—just to witness this operation, which most didn’t believe really possible, for it did, in fact, presuppose the existence of something not quantifiable, but real and transferrable, nevertheless. And they witnessed it, not once but twice, the transfer into an animal which was part surgical, part mystical. It was not the same method the Murnies had used, and it depended a great deal more on technological skills, but it worked.

And all agreed that the twin problems of spacesuit fit and usefulness to the travel party were well served, while minimum disruption of the subjects’ habits was observed. They were accustomed to being four-footed, hooved animals, and such they would remain.

The Wuckl’s skill was used in constructing rudimentary larynxes for the two and in implanting a translator in Joshi. Their voices would have low amplitude and sound somewhat artificial, but they would do. The only thing the translator required was something to modulate.

Mavra Chang awoke. The last thing she remembered was running across the barren salt flats away from her rescuers when four powerful tendrils suddenly wrapped themselves around her and another two pairs snared Joshi, jerking them into the skies. Something had stung painfully, and she had blacked out.

Now she was in a room. It was definitely made for creatures different from those she knew—there were odd cushions, strange furniture and implements all about.

She was still near-sighted, and now color-blind as well. This disturbed her; much more than the very slight fisheye effect she was getting. She had enjoyed color, and that was now taken from her.

She knew that they’d transformed her again. It was obvious from the change in perception and also from the fact that her height and viewing angle were different.

For someone who had never yet been through the Well of Souls, never been made by that great machine into a creature of this world, she had been more creatures than anyone else on the Well World, she thought.

Whatever she was, she had a fairly long snout. Her eyes were set back from it, making that obvious. She tried to move, and found that shackles held her four feet in check.

A nearby noise attracted her attention. When she turned her head, she saw a small horse, perhaps the size of a Shetland pony, gold, and with broad, thick powerful hooved legs. The animal had a thick mane, and a clump of thick wavy hair hung from between its ears, reaching almost to the eyes.

“Joshi?” she said to herself, wondering, but she said it aloud.

The other stirred. “Mavra?” came a strange, electronic-resonant voice.

“Joshi! We can talk again!” she exclaimed excitedly.

He looked at her with his horse’s head. “So we’re talking horses now, are we?” he responded morosely. “What next? Horse flies?”

“Oh, come on!” she scolded. “We’re no worse off than before. We’re alive, we’re healthy, we’re together.”

That last got to him. It was the first time she’d really said anything so endearing to him, and it seemed to energize him. “All right, all right,” he replied. “So who got us? The thing on the horse or the butterfly?”

She looked around. “The butterfly for sure. Why and for what I have no idea as yet, but I think we’ll soon find out.”

They talked on, more for the joy at being able to communicate again than for any serious purpose. Neither had really been conscious of how much their earlier isolation had affected them until they could speak once again.

After a half-hour or so, a door panel slid back with a whine. A Yaxa entered, looking no less huge and fierce and formidable in black and white and shades of gray than it had in color.

“I see you are awake,” it began in the eerie, ice-cold voice of the Yaxa. “I am Wooley. You know who you are, and so do I.”

“What’s all this about?” Mavra demanded.

Wooley’s death’s-head looked at them. “Would you like to get back to New Pompeii?” she asked.

Mavra almost gasped. New Pompeii! Space! The stars! But—“I’m a hell of a pilot as a horse,” she responded sarcastically.

Wooley showed no reaction to the comment. “We do not need you as a pilot, except, perhaps, as a backup. Do you remember Ben Yulin?”

Mavra thought a moment. The truth was, she had seen very little of Yulin—the young scientist at Trelig’s test panels. Not even a picture of him came to mind. All her experience had been with Trelig, not Yulin.

“Vaguely,” she responded. “Scientist who worked for Trelig. So? I know he’s the one you depended on to get you to New Pompeii after the wars over twenty years ago. Kind of fizzled on that one, didn’t you?”

Wooley let it pass. “We have Yulin, we can penetrate the North, we can reach New Pompeii, but it won’t be easy. You are our backup. Would you trust a former lieutenant of Antor Trelig?”

She had to admit that she wouldn’t. But, then again, she wouldn’t trust Mavra Chang, either, who owed no loyalty to the Yaxa.

“It wouldn’t have more to do with the fact that, if I’m with you, then Ortega can’t use me?” she prodded.

The Yaxa’s antennae waved a bit. “That is part of it, yes. However, we could kill you and accomplish that. No, we are interested in you as a check on Yulin. We want someone else who knows New Pompeii, and we want someone who can make certain he is not planning a double-cross. You are the best we can do.”

“But why horses?” Joshi asked, a little miffed at being left out of the conversation.

“Relatives of the horse, yes,” Wooley said, “but not horses. You are extremely strong, for one thing.”

“So we help carry the freight,” Mavra noted, understanding. “I can see that.”

“Also, your new bodies are not strictly herbivores. Your breed is from a hex to the east, Furgimos, and you can eat almost anything, in much the same way you could as pigs. Your water-storage capability is excellent. Two weeks or more. You can see how this simplifies travel problems.”

They did. “I take it that there’s a long journey after we get North, then,” Mavra guessed.

“Very long,” Wooley admitted. “For one thing, the rebreathing apparatus necessary is only usable in a semitech or high-tech hex, so the shortest route is out of the question. The shortest route avoiding nontech hexes is blocked because the Poorgl are extremely nasty high-tech creatures who would be death to us. That means a seven-hex journey.”

The horses started doing the math in their heads, but Wooley cut them off. “It’s about 2,400 kilometers, all told. A huge distance.”

Joshi was shocked. “That far in the North? Without air, without any food or water we don’t take with us? It’s impossible!”

“Not impossible,” the Yaxa responded. “Difficult You forget we have had a great deal of time to prepare for this mission, both diplomatically and logistically. A thousand or so of those kilometers will be hard traveling. In others we will obtain transport and be resupplied from established caches. Still, the going will be difficult, and dangerous.”

“What about us?” Mavra asked. “How will we breathe and be protected?”

“I told you there were several reasons for your being horses. Well, the Dillians—you might remember them, they are centaurs—in whatever part of space their colony began, also attained space flight. We have obtained two of the suits and a spare from off-planet Dillian Entries and easily modified them,” the Yaxa explained. “They are made for an equine shape, yet operate in the main as yours do—they are form-fitting when pressurized. It is all arranged.”

“And when do we start this great expedition?” Mavra prodded, excited.

“Tomorrow. Early tomorrow,” the Yaxa replied, and left. The door whined shut behind her.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, thinking. Suddenly Mavra became aware that Joshi was shaking his hindquarters, obviously agitated.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Worried?”

“It’s not that,” he replied, certainly upset about something. “Mavra, will you look down between my hind legs and tell me what you see?”

She humored him, lowered her head, and looked carefully. “Nothing,” she answered. “Why?”

“That’s what I thought,” he cried mournfully. “Damn it, Mavra! I think they made me a girl horse!”