Quest for the Well of Souls

Bozog, the Launch Site Next Day

“Hey! I think i can see it!” Ben Yulin shouted over the suit radio. He was like a little boy, wildly excited and animated.

Less than two kilometers across the plain lay the border with Uchjin, where he’d crashed so many years before. Since that time he’d wondered how, even if anyone got to the North, they could get that ship out. It was enormously heavy, off-balance, and could not be moved by mechanical power because it rested in a nontech hex. In addition, the flowing paint smears that were the Uchjin objected to its being moved.

“The biggest problem was physically moving it,” the Bozog told him. “The Uchjin are nocturnal, absolutely powerless in daylight, so that’s when we do most of the work. They don’t have the mass or means to replace it, so the only problem was protecting the moving party from night attacks. We did this by turning night into day with phosphor gel. It was simply too bright for them.”

Yulin nodded. “Like you’d build a campfire in the wilderness to keep the wild beasts away. But how are you moving it?”

“Slowly, of course,” the Bozog admitted. “It’s been several weeks of work. We actually started when we received word of the breakthrough in north-south travel. It all has to be done by manpower alone—we lifted it with chains, pulleys, and the like onto a huge platform, a feat that took nine days in itself, and since then over twelve thousand Bozog have been pulling it along in shifts. Today, the great project is nearing completion.”

Yulin thought about it. “That’s a tremendous cost in manpower and materiel,” he noted. “Why did you do it?”

“It was a challenge, a great undertaking,” the Bozog replied. “It was a feat that Bozog will sing of for generations. A tremendous technical problem that was solved, proof that any problem can be solved if enough thought and energy is expended on it. You might say it was an act of faith.”

They began to hear rumbling in the distance, like the sound of millions of horses in stampede, or a violent storm. The huge ship, resting on its left wing and secured by chain and cable, was riding on thousands of giant ball bearings connected by some sort of mounting network. It was slow, but the thing moved, pulled by huge numbers of Bozog.

“It won’t be long now until they are close enough to attach cable from the giant winches,” the Bozog pointed out. “It can then be pulled into Bozog quickly.”

“When do you think you’ll be ready to put it on the launch column?” Yulin asked, genuinely awed by the undertaking and the casual way that the creatures seemed to approach it.

“Tonight,” the Bozog responded. “Sometime late tonight.”

Mavra Chang had avoided everyone and all the excitement of the arriving ship. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, speak to anyone, could feel nothing for the expedition anymore.

The more she thought about her life, the less meaningful it became. Brazil had gotten her off Harvich’s World, to Maki. Brazil had shielded her from arrest, arranged for her “independent” career, sent Gimball, watched over her. She thought of the mistakes she had made in robberies: yet, somehow, overlooked alarms failed to go off, or pursuit was accidentally diverted elsewhere. Even on New Pompeii, she realized, Brazil had been replaced, supplanted by Obie.

Obie had given her the plans and schematics for the planetoid. Obie had given her the codewords. Obie had actually used her as his vessel for his own ends. On the Well World she’d always been somebody’s pawn. The Lata rescued her from the Teliagin cyclopes on Ortega’s orders. Here she’d become an object in Ortega’s plans, controlled, moved around, manipulated by circumstance and hypno to do exactly what the snake-man wanted. Protected, too, in the end, by Ortega and by her own grandparents. Even here in Bozog she was controlled by her captors, including her grandfather—and Joshi. During the fight, control of her had passed to the Ghiskind, yet when the mistake was made, and she should have died, Joshi had blocked the shot and died instead.

I’m Mavra Chang, I can do anything, she thought bitterly.

I can die, she reflected. That much I can do on my own.

But not quite yet. Lie or not, one small piece of unfinished business. One small attempt to salvage a tiny shred of her honor and self-respect was left to her… on New Pompeii.

“The Yugash is rising!” she heard Vistaru yell behind her. Idly she turned and saw the pale-red specter, still looking not quite right, rise and form its cloak a few centimeters above the floor.

They all watched apprehensively. Clearly their hopes for its demise had not been realized: one of the eerie creatures was still around. They all remembered Wooley’s contact with the Torshind, and the horror she found there.

The Yugash looked around at them uncertainly. In its present form it could not talk or even grasp a material object; it needed a vessel. A ghostly appendage pointed to them, then both appendages rose in a very human shrug. They got the message. It wanted to communicate, and needed a volunteer. In its weakened state, it probably couldn’t fight for control.

“Get a Bozog,” Wooley snapped, and Renard ran from the room. The Yugash seemed content to wait.

Several minutes later Renard returned with not one but two medium-size Bozog. While neither of the creatures had vision as the Southerners understood it, all sensed that the Yugash was getting a good looking over. Finally, one said, “Yugash! You have my permission to use me as a vessel temporarily, but do not try anything. We are ready to assist in your dissipation if you do.”

The hood of the ghostly creature nodded slowly, drifted to, and merged with the Bozog, which twitched slightly.

A minute passed before the Yugash traced the proper nerves and could activate the translator. It didn’t even try for any other control.

“It is good to speak with you again,” came a voice that was definitely not the Bozog’s. “It is good, in fact, to be alive.”

“Who—which one—are you?” Vistaru asked hesitantly.

“I am the Ghiskind,” responded the Yugash. Several breathed sighs of relief, but Wooley was more cautious.

“Wait a minute,” she said sharply. “How do we know that?”

The Ghiskind considered that. Like most creatures it considered itself a distinct individual. It simply hadn’t occurred to the Yugash that others might not be able to see the diSerences.

They commenced a dialogue covering conversations on the trip, conversations with Ortega at which Renard and Vistaru had been hidden but present, details of the equipment and battle in Pugeesh. Finally, the Southerners were satisfied.

“It was an incredible battle,” the Ghiskind told them. “Never before had I actually been forced to kill a Yugash. The Torshind was, like all fanatics, exceptionally strong; the final maneuver I used was sheer desperation—the Torshind was winning. I fully expected it to kill us both, and it almost did.”

“So the final party is made,” Renard said. “Wooley, Vistaru, the Ghiskind, the Bozog, Mavra, Ben Yulin, and me.”

Vistaru nodded. “Such a group as no one has ever seen together before. But it’s a highly important group symbolically.”

They turned to her. “How’s that?” Renard asked.

She glanced around at all of them. “Seven members, seven races. The Wars of the Well are over at last.”