Twilight at the Well of Souls

Embassy of Ulik, South Zone

“The Grand Council, South, is convened,” Ortega declared solemnly from his office, but it was ritual only. It meant that all the embassies at Zone were now connected together in an elaborate communications net. The creatures who breathed water, the ones that breathed one or another mixture of air, and some who didn’t really breathe at all could now converse. Not all the hexes of the Southern hemisphere of the Well World were represented; and some, like Gedemondas, never sent anyone and their offices were empty. A fairly large number of councillors, like Ortega, were Entries—people who were originally from other places and races in the vast universe and had blundered into Markovian gates. They made good council members; such people were usually more adept at handling new Entries, having gone through the experience personally.

“This meeting was called at my request because I believe it is imperative we all understand what is going on and decide on a common policy of dealing with it,” Ortega went on. Briefly he explained the situation as he understood it, holding nothing back.

Finally, he got down to the real business. “We have several options here,” he told them. “The first is to do nothing. This will result in a temporary doubling of the Well World’s population, a severe strain on resources—but only for a short time. Unimpeded, Brazil would go to the Well, do what he has to do, then reduce the population by the same factor as he increased it in his overall restocking process. This would result in inconvenience, yes, but not anything we couldn’t handle.”

“If he used the newcomers only to do that restocking,” someone noted. “If he uses all of us, it’s the end. Or if he isn’t choosy whether there are newcomers or natives, for that matter.”

Ortega nodded in reflex toward the speaker, although there were no television circuits. “That, of course, is precisely it. I know Brazil. I know he’s a man of his word. But, in all fairness, he’s going to be doing something all by himself that the Markovians did as a race—and that’s not the way the system was designed. We don’t know if he has that kind of control or confidence. He will be doing it for the first time and can’t really know, either. He’s a Markovian for sure—I’ve seen him in his natural form. But if we trust his own story—and though I’ll take his word of honor on things, I would never believe any of his stories without proof—he himself says he was a technician on Hex 41. A technician but not the creator. Now, the fact that he also claims to be God, the Prime Mover, the supreme creator of the universe, should give you some idea as to just what to believe.”

“I’d tend to believe it,” said another alien voice. The circuits were such that the first to punch the talk bar blocked the others so only one could speak at a time. Otherwise there would be another Babel.

“That he’s God?” Ortega was shocked.

“No, of course not,” the ambassador responded. “That’s just the point, you see. His self-claims are of the most grandiose sort. He claims to be God, or thinks he is. Someone who claims that would claim almost reflexively that he was the creator of a hex and not a mere technician if he felt compelled to make something up. He didn’t, therefore I’ll go along with the idea that he was lower down. That bothers me even more, of course. We have computers here in Ramagin that are quite sophisticated. If one needed minor repair, then I’d trust a technician. But if one needed programming from the word go and there wasn’t any copy of the original program to feed in, I’d want an expert. Brazil didn’t program anything, not even Hex 41—so how can we trust him to know what he’s doing on something like the Well, something so complex that no mind I know can conceive of it?”

Ortega cut off further comment. “Good point. I see a number of you wish to speak, but if you’ll permit me, I’ll go on so that we won’t be in this meeting for the next three weeks. Time presses.”

He paused, allowing the little lights to wink out as they accepted his ruling, at least temporarily. Satisfied, he continued. “Now, our second option is to contact Brazil and try to make a deal with him. If he manages to get to the Well and he’s mad at us, we may have precipitated a self-fulfilling prophecy. If he has to fight to get there, he’s going to be damned mad at all of us and in a position to get even. We have to consider this. If he can do the job, he might use only the newcomers if he gets there easily, or he might just use us if we fight him all the way, harm his people, that sort of thing.”

“Could we make a deal with him?” someone else asked.

“Probably,” Ortega responded. “We could get his word—which has been good in the past. But we couldn’t enforce the bargain. The last time he was here a bunch of us tried to do that, you know. We got into the Well, but it was as incomprehensible to us then as it is now. Worse, he was in Markovian form and fully capable of doing damned near anything just by some sort of mental contact with the great computer.”

“Would you trust him?” somebody put in. Ortega considered the question. “I would. But I wouldn’t necessarily trust him to be able to keep his promise, for reasons we just went into. Working the Well on a few individuals is one thing; fixing and then working the entire computer on the whole damned universe is something else. He’s a cocky little bastard—-I’m sure he thinks he could do it. But I’m not sure I do.”

For a moment no lights showed as the others thought about what Ortega said. Then everyone tried to speak at once and again he had to cut them off. “The third alternative, the one Brazil anticipates, is that we will oppose him—keep him from reaching the Well at all costs. His agents are already here, organizing the newcomers and playing on the national self-interests of a number of vulnerable hexes that might on their own support him. His army is coming through now, ready to rally to those organizers. If we try and stop him, we have to face several ugly facts. First, we can capture him, imprison him, do all sorts of nasty things to him, but we cannot kill him. The Well won’t permit it, no matter how hard we try. Something always happens to give him an out. Therefore, we are talking about virtually perpetual imprisonment. Second, we’re talking about a hell of a fight. We’re not sure just where he is, and he hasn’t surfaced as yet. That last is probably all to the good, since we know he’s a Type 41, we know his general physical description, and we’d know sooner or later. He’d be spotted, and if he were in a vulnerable spot, say on the ocean, he’d be open to immediate capture. We have to assume he’s somewhere in and around Glathriel or Ambreza, even though we’ve searched in vain for him there. He’s not dumb enough not to have prepared an almost foolproof hiding place. So, we have to wait for him to move. He’ll wait for his army or armies to spring him, give him the muscle to move northward. That means a multinational, multiracial set of armies must be established and set in strategic places, ready to oppose them at every turn. Since he picks the route, we’ll be at even more of a logistical disadvantage than they, but we’ll have sheer numbers and the lay of the land.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And, third, of course, by so doing we’ll be condemning ourselves to being, eventually, the only life forms in all of creation.”

Again the board was blank, the speaker was silent for a very long time, followed by everyone trying to speak at once. They talked for hours; they argued, they wrangled, they tried to find other ways out of it. Ortega let them go on, taping the whole thing and also making notes on a map of the Well World when the speakers could be identified as to their own leanings. It was an interesting score. Of the seven hundred or so hexes represented, about a third were either potentially ineffective—the ones whose natives couldn’t leave their home hexes such as the plant creatures who had little or no mobility, that kind of thing— or indecisive. A few times he caught hints that some of the hexes might align themselves with Brazil’s forces if chance came their way, and it was obvious in which hexes Brazil agents had been at work. Marquoz clearly had the Hakazit sewn up, for example. The Dillians, on the whole not very combative people, were taking no governmental position—they had very little government anyway—and letting their people decide for themselves.

But a solid majority, it appeared, did not give a damn about the rest of the universe, didn’t care about anything but their own necks, and were all for a fight. That was to be expected, he knew. When a nation was faced with a choice between abstract principle or complete self-interest, it took self-interest every time.

They would fight—or enough of them would, anyway. He couldn’t stop it, and only when talk turned to pogroms against the newcomers did he step in once more. “I wouldn’t recommend any mass wiping-out of these Entries!” he cautioned fiercely. “Consider: you must allow for the very real possibility that, in spite of all our best efforts, Brazil will get to the Well. Any race that has wiped out its surplus at that point will be, of necessity, faced with total annihilation. You can’t afford to kill them! Consider your people’s lives, your own lives! After Brazil is in our hands, then you can do as you wish. But only then.”

“But all the Entries are on his side!” somebody wailed, echoing a lot of the sentiment. “You’re saying we have to take a treasonous army into our midst, one that would kill us!”

“That’s where he’s got us,” Ortega admitted. “But, remember, you don’t have to give them much, if any, freedom. Control them as best you can. My guess is most will bolt for prearranged rendezvous as soon as they can—if you let them. Don’t let them. Reduce his army and control it inside your own borders. It’s up to you to play it smart—and subtle.”

He knew that they would not all take his advice, but most would. Self-interest again. They had to hedge their bets. Many innocents would be slaughtered, of that he had no doubt, but most would hesitate, most would pause. He hoped so.

Finally it came down to a vote. Of the 713 hexes represented, 431 voted to stop Brazil, 184 to try some kind of deal, and 98 abstained or, in essence, voted to do nothing. The tally was remarkably close to the guesstimate Ortega had made on his map during the debates.

“So the motion is carried. It’s war,” he told them at last. “All right. As we have no power to compel the dissenters to support the majority position, 1 must make several moves at this time. First, I must ask any who wish to change their votes to so signify to me, reminding those in the minority that there will be some bad feeling toward those hexes not joining in this effort, bad feeling that could translate into a lot of forms from trade sanctions and boycotts to a rather callous disregard for a neutral or opposing hex that happens to get in the way of a fight.” It wasn’t an idle threat or an attempt at coercion; he felt it had to be said because he knew it to be true. Win or lose, nations that committed heavily to a fight and lost their own lives and resources in the process would not be kindly disposed toward those who sat it out.

Interestingly, three of the abstainers and two of the make-a-deal faction moved to the war column, and two voting originally for war dropped off the voting board. The outcome was a net gain, but surprising.

He nodded absently. “All right, then. The Well is to be divided into military zones, each under an overall commander. Each participating hex will mobilize and choose its own commander, but all of them will be subject to an overall sector commander, who will be from outside the sector and therefore of a race not related to any of the troops under its command. War is not something we are used to—our enemy will be more accustomed to it. Yet, it can be waged, and successfully. Logistics defeated the first Well War, but that was for conquest and involved no cooperation among hexes in the way of objectives. The second War of the Well was fought for limited objectives, to reach a certain point before opposing armies could. Again, there wasn’t the cooperation we now have among the many hexes. And we are moving in response to another army. In this case things are on our side—the enemy is moving toward an objective, and all we must do is stop them from attaining that objective. The disadvantages are theirs, although they will pick the route of march.”

There was a lot more discussion, followed by general agreement to the plan. All would make nominations for sector commanders and submit them to Ortega, who would use the most sophisticated computers in the high-tech hexes to pick the best one for each position.

“I will also notify the North and send a transcript for their council to consider,” he told them. “Brazil is tricky—and travel to the North is possible, although with great difficulty. It would be just like him to cause all hell to break loose down here while he popped up there—where, if this volume of Entries keeps up, the Well will also be putting newcomers—and make for an Avenue from that side.”

Though as yet unheard of, it was already becoming apparent that the Well of Souls, the great computer heart of the world, was actually putting some carbon-based Entries into those eerie, non-carbon-based hexes up North. Such a thing shouldn’t happen, but the Well was acting in sheer self-defense. It had to distribute the unprecedented volume of newcomers as evenly as possible over the whole world to make certain it had the resources to manage them. Brazil had counted on that—he needed double the population of all 1560 hexes, not just in the South.

And as for himself… Ortega rocked back on his giant serpent’s tail and folded all six of his arms in contemplation. Ulik, of course, would go with the majority. He had voted that way, the way he knew his own people would vote. The word would go off to them shortly by courier while he stayed here, stuck in this luxury prison.

That’s what this was, he decided. Prison. It wasn’t the first time he had thought about that concept. Brazil would be trapped in such a prison, probably one of the unused embassies. It annoyed him that they were voting to try doing to Brazil what had been done to him.

Trouble was, of course, that he had done it to himself. Committed himself to this cold, sterile prison rather than face death. Pushing toy armies around tables, putting pins in maps, that would be his battle, his campaign, his war. It might as well have been a billion light-years away, he thought. And yet, to go out there meant death, sure, certain, probably quick death.

He recalled the ancient legend of his original people, the legend of Faust. And when the demon Mephistopheles had been ordered back to Hell, he had replied, “Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.”

Ortega looked around his comfortable office.

Why, this is Hell, he echoed the ancient line in his mind for the millionth time, nor am I out of it.

No wonder Brazil was batty. Nobody, he thought, understands that man more than me. He wished he could talk to the strange little man now.

He wished he could talk to somebody.

Why, this is Hell…