Twilight at the Well of Souls

Dahbi

The Great Hall of Holy Ancestors stood empty; barren stone carved out of solid granite far beneath the surface, without ornamentation, without light, yet a perfect cubical space some two hundred meters in any direction. Silent, tomblike, it waited.

Suddenly a portion of one wall glowed eerily, and something, a presence, came through into the chamber. It glowed with its own eerie white phosphorescence, a pale, smoky thing like a piece of ghostly satin rippling in an unfelt wind, its only features two jet-black ovals at the top of its rounded “head” that must be some kind of eyes.

And yet it seemed to have mass, and some weight, for once through the seemingly solid rock wall it adhered to the side, then slowly made its way down to the floor of the place, always in contact with the wall’s edge. An observer might think it was floating, yet closer examination would show that it did need contact for movement, and was neither as ghostly nor as insubstantial as it first appeared.

Now other forms oozed in from different points in the four walls and also through the ceiling and up through the floor. All converged at the center of the Great Hall. Twelve in number, they looked identical: glowing white shapes each the same roughly two meters in height, all looking like people dressed in some kind of sheet—rounded head with two eye-holes, then the shape tapering down, seeming to bulge a little at the middle, then fanning out to a wide, flat base.

No words nor glances were exchanged. They stood there, waiting, waiting for something—or someone.

Suddenly from one of the walls came still another like themselves, yet not quite like them, either. It seemed larger, more formidable, and, in some inexplicable way, more ancient.

“Peace be unto the brotherhood!” proclaimed the newcomer, standing in front of the others and now raising what seemed to be insectlike forelegs, sucker-tipped and etched along the leg with wicked-looking spikes. The appendages were invisible when folded.

The others slowly raised their own and chanted, “And to you, most revered and holy leader.”

The one who was so obviously in charge now underwent a slight change. The ghostly head moved slowly back, the “eyes” moving with it, revealing a head and a face, a vicious, ugly face, with bright multifaceted eyes that seemed to generate their own light, flanked by a sharp proboscis under which extended menacing mandibles.

“You all have been briefed on the situation?” It wasn’t really a question. Anyone who hadn’t would have to execute the staff that should have kept the leader informed.

“As you are aware, then, I instructed us to vote with the majority,” the leader continued. “Our somewhat unique abilities should make us invaluable in a fight. And yet I am unhappy, for I do not like things left to the fates. Our ancestors would demand more of us.”

They didn’t comment, keeping their heads tucked in reverently. It was partly reverence, partly respect— and partly that even they, the twelve who ruled their land as an absolute theocracy, were terrified of Gunit Sangh.

Anyone in Dahbi could enter the priesthood; those with a lot of brains and guts could rise far inside the hierarchy, too. But to reach the top, the pinnacle, you had to have more. In a land ruled by ancestor worship, old age commanded the greatest respect. And in a land where only the smartest, the most ruthless, the most totally amoral could reach the top of the order, the oldest of that hierarchy was not only the leader, but also the nastiest bastard the race had yet produced.

“Hear my commands,” intoned Gunit Sangh. “First, we shall prepare a force under the overall Zone council command. We will contribute whatever is asked, in equal measure, from each prefecture. Choose your people well. I want the most expendable, to be sure, but also I want people who can take orders, who can fight—and kill.”

The twelve gave a silent nod in unison. “However, this is not sufficient,” Sangh continued. “Suppose the battle occurs far from Dahbi? This would leave us as helpless pawns, known to be fighting this Brazil creature yet unable to do anything to influence the outcome. That is intolerable. Zilchet, you have a report on the Entries in our land?”

One of the twelve stirred, and the vicious insectlike head rose. “I have, Your Holiness. We have received approximately three hundred so far. I say “approximately” only because one seems to pop up almost every hour.”

“And you have interrogated the newcomers?”

“I have, Your Holiness. Our psychologists find them a truly alien mentality—which is to be expected, of course, but not quite to this extent. They seem to have all been females of the Type 41 category—the same as Brazil. They are part of a religious cult of some kind that believes Brazil to be God—not a god but the God—and will do whatever he wills. In other words, fanatics on a holy mission.”

“They wish to proceed away from Dahbi?” A slight nod. “They do, Your Holiness. They are quickly learning their new bodies and adjusting with astonishing rapidity to new forms and abilities.”

“It is to be expected,” Gunit Sangh noted. “Whoever planned this operation knew the Well World before they ever got here. They have been thoroughly briefed. They knew they were going to become different forms with different abilities and were told to explore their new forms and adjust quickly. They are not here as ignorant children to live a new life; they are here as preprepared soldiers. You see what I mean, my brothers. We could lose this thing.”

They seemed to shimmer a bit at this idea. It was disturbing to them, as it was to Gunit Sangh. “You have them under restraint?”

Zilchet sounded slightly miffed at the question. “Of course, Your Holiness. Any who appear are brought as quickly as possible to a central receiving facility, where they are carefully interrogated and then restrained, awaiting Your Holiness’s decision.”

“My decision is to let them go,” the leader told them.

This astonished them, and there was much agitated rippling of their ghostly white forms.

“Tell me, are they of the same race? The same world?”

Zilchet had barely recovered from his shock. “Yes, Your Holiness. The same. Remarkable uniformity, in fact, if I do say so myself.”

“Do they appear to know each other personally— as from before?”

“No, it is not evident. At least I have seen no indication of such. Not that it might not happen, but if you are talking about a population of a billion or more, as we surmise, it would be pure chance.”

Gunit Sangh seemed pleased at this. “And is your understanding complete enough to allow, say, three hundred Entries to go where they will—and four hundred Entries to arrive there? In close company all the while?”

“Four—” Zilchet seemed confused, slightly hesitant. Then, all at once, he got the idea. “Oh, I see.” He considered it. “Superficially, at any rate. I would prefer not to have them travel as a group. A chance encounter, yes, but not moment-to-moment. No. There are too many tiny details. You could slip so very easily and never know. But we could send three hundred, then another hundred a day or so behind them, following. Conditioning so many would be out of the question, too, but we could condition a few, say six or seven real Entries. They would lead the group and would see nothing awry in our own party. That we could easily manage, and it should work.”

“Then we do it that way,” the leader ordered. “We need some of our own people on their side. We won’t be the only ones, either, of course. The biggest weakness his side has is that it can’t possibly know the true nature of everyone in its armies, nor their loyalties. They must know this. But most will be there as spies, nothing more. Ours will have a different task.”

“And what is this?” Zilchet was so involved he forgot he wasn’t supposed to prompt the leader.

Gunit Sangh gave him an icy stare as a reminder, but otherwise let it go. This was far too important to execute the wretch now. But he would remember the lapse…

“Of all the different Entries, only a few are not of this soldier type. These are his commanders, of course. A number of them. Information from the central command Ortega is establishing tells me, though, that at least one of these has more than utilitarian meaning to Brazil. This is the woman Mavra Chang, now a Dillian. He regards her as something of a sibling with that curious bond lesser races have for such. I want our people there to behave just like good soldiers, to fight in Brazil’s forces, take orders, do all that they would be expected to do. But if it looks as if Brazil will attain his goal, if it looks like his side will win, I have a special task for them.”

“Holiness?”

“No one can control Brazil directly once he is inside to the Well. But if we hold this Mavra Chang, secretly, outside the Well, while I or one of us enters with him, that is just as good.”

“But what if, once inside, he merely wills himself to find her and free her?” Zilchet asked dubiously.

“I seriously doubt whether any mind, even a Markovian, could pick out an individual on the Well World without knowing her location, captors, or status. I think Brazil could easily create a race, but not change a mind unless he knew all the particulars. At any rate, the odds favor our taking this action. We really have nothing to lose.”

Zilchet was still worried, and his rippling showed it. Gunit Sangh glared at him. “Well? What is it?”

“I was just wondering how many other races have exactly the same idea,” the other responded.

“Probably several,” the leader admitted. “She will be a major target, have no doubt—and, because of that, most assuredly well protected. We must see that we are the ones who get her—if the military action fails, of course. If not, it is an academic exercise. But we will not fail. Our ancestors have shown us the true course, and they will not let us fail.”

They bowed again in prayer, and, although they wouldn’t have realized it, they sounded more than a little like religious fanatics themselves.