01. Midnight At the Well of Souls (42 page)

"Serge, I should have known better," Brazil said good-humoredly.

All six arms of the Ulik shrugged. "I have a pretty good racket here, Nate. I told you I was happy, and I am. I have most of the embassies at both zones bugged, and the conversations recorded. I find out what's happening, who's doing what to whom, and if there's anything of interest to me and my people I act on it."

Brazil nodded, and would have smiled if the stag body allowed it. "It was no accident that you were the one who met us, was it? You already knew I was there."

"Of course," Ortega replied. "Small cameras installed in two or three points around the Well go on whenever someone comes through. If they're old-human I get there first. Nobody cares much, since the Zone Gate randomly assigns them to other hexes."

"You didn't meet me when I came through," Skander pointed out.

Ortega shrugged again. "Can't
live
in the damned office. Bad luck, though, since I then lost sight of you for a long time. These others were already in and assigned before I managed to track Varnett down, although the Umiau are so lousy at secrecy your cover was blown about a month after you came."

"You've been following me since Czill, haven't you, Serge?" Brazil asked. "How did you manage it?"

"Child's play," the Ulik replied. "Czill has a high technological level but no resources, and some problems in handling hot metal anyway. We supply parts for their machines—we and many others—only ours have slight modifications. A resonator for the translator, for example, takes only one almost invisible extra circuit to broadcast—if yow know the right frequency. The range isn't fantastic, but I knew where you were, and in most instances mutual back-scratching, past IOU's, and the like were all that was needed. I think I know what you are, Nate, and I think you know you should play the game my way."

"Or you'll kill the others?"

The snakeman locked hurt, but it was exaggerated. "Why, Nate! Did I say any such thing? But, regardless, I have Skander, here, and, if all else fails, Varnett. I'd prefer you, Nate. I don't think you're any different from the Nathan Brazil I've known all these decades. I'm willing to bet that that personality of yours isn't a phony front or a construct, but the real you, no matter what your parents were. You know me better than anybody, so you know my actions and what I'll do in any case. Will you lead the party in?"

Brazil looked at his old acquaintance for a moment. "Why everybody, Serge? Why not just you and me?" he asked.

"Ah, come on, Nate! What do you take me for? You know how to get in; I don't. You know what's in there—I don't. With the others I get an expert check on your actions and descriptions, and a little insurance from their own self-interest. The Northerner, here—it's working for a group so different from any of us I can't figure out anything about them. Nonetheless, like Hain, here, and the plant, they're all looking out for their own interests. So are your people, really. Nobody's going to let anybody else get the upper hand. You'll all even be armed—armed with pistols that can kill any of you, but can't kill me. I've taken immunity shots from Hain's stinger, so that's no threat, and I am so much physically stronger than any of you that I'll be happy to take you on. Nate knows how quick I can move."

Brazil sighed. "Always figuring the angles, aren't you, Serge? So tell me, if this was your game all along, why did we have to fight and walk so far? Why not just get us all together and bring us to this point?"

"I hadn't the slightest idea where you were going," replied Ortega honestly. "After all, Skander was still looking, Varnett had given up, and nobody else knew. So I just let the expeditions lead me here. When it became clear where
both
expeditions were headed, I arranged to slow things down until I could get here ahead of you. Easier than you think—Zone Gate to Ulik, then over. Hell, man, I've been to that Equatorial Zone hundreds of times. There's no way in that anybody's ever found, and a lot have tried over the years."

"But we now know that the entrance is at the end of The Avenue," The Rel said suddenly. "And, from Skander, I perceive that the time of entry is midnight."

"Right on both counts," Brazil admitted. "However, that knowledge alone won't get you in. You need the desire to get to the Well center, specifically, and a basic equation to tell the Well you know what you're doing."

"The Varnett relationship," Skander said. "The open-ended equation of the Markovian brain slides. That's it, isn't it?"

"Sure," Brazil acknowledged. "After all, it wasn't supposed to keep any Markovians out. The conditions of this world are such that the relationship is simply indecipherable. It's only one in a million that the two of you discovered it, and almost one in infinity that you'd get to where you could use it. You could never have used it on Dalgonia since it requires an answer for completion, an addition. It's sort of 'What is your wish?' and you have to give that wish in mathematically correct form. In this case, though, the simple completion is done by the brain if you ask the question—the reverse."

"But if he is a Markovian, why could he not just contact the brain and save himself all the problems he's had here?" the Slelcronian asked.

Brazil turned to the plant person, a puzzled tone in his voice. "I thought you were Vardia—but that tone just doesn't sound like her."

"Vardia merged with a Slelcronian," The Rel explained, telling of the flower creatures and their strange ways. "It is possessed of a good deal of wisdom and some fairly efficient mental powers, but your friend is such a tiny part of the whole that the Czillian is essentially dead," The Rel concluded.

"I see," Brazil said slowly. "Well, there were too many Vardias here anyway. Ours is the original—back to human, again." He turned to Serge again. "So are Wuju and Varnett."

"Varnett?" Skander sat up suddenly, spilling water. "Varnett is with you?"

"Yes, and no tricks, Skander," Ortega warned. "If you try anything on Varnett I'll personally attend to you." He turned back to Brazil. "That goes for you, too, Nate."

"There will be no problems, Serge," Brazil assured him tiredly. "I'll take you all inside the Well, and I will show you what you want—what you all want. I'll even answer any questions you want, clear up any uncertainties."

"That suits us," Ortega responded, but there was a note of caution in his voice.

THE AVENUE—AT THE EQUATOR

The journey up The Avenue had been without event, and none had tested Ortega's defenses. They were all going where they wanted to go, and, as the Ulik had said, each one had his own selfish interests at heart. All during the journey Brazil had been talkative and friendly, yet there was a sadness deep within him they could all feel, although he tried to laugh it off. The four members of Brazil's party kept to themselves. Hain kept looking at Wuju strangely, but bided her time, and Skander seemed resigned to Varnett's existence in the party.

And now, in the afternoon's waning sun, they stood at the Equatorial Barrier itself, imposing and seemingly impenetrable.

It was like a wall, partially translucent, that rose up until it merged with the deep blue, cloudless sky. The barrier itself didn't look thick, and felt smooth and glassy to the touch, yet it had withstood attempts by many races on both sides to make as much as a mark on it. It went off to each side of them from horizon to horizon, like a giant, nonreflecting glass wall.

The Avenue seemed to merge into it, and there was no sign of any small crack, fissure, or even juncture of the odd paving of The Avenue with the surface of the barrier. They seemed to become one.

Brazil went up to the wall, then turned to face them. They waited expectantly.

"We can't enter until midnight, so we might as well be comfortable," he told them.

"Do you mean twenty-four hundred?" the real Vardia asked.

"No, of course not," Brazil replied. "For one thing, the Well World's days are about twenty-eight and a quarter standard hours, as you know, so the time twenty-four hundred has no meaning here. Midnight means exactly that—the middle of the night. Since a total day is exactly twenty-eight point three three four standard hours, and since the axis is exactly vertical, that means the light period is fourteen point one six seven hours, and so is the darkness. Midnight, then, comes seven point zero eight three five hours after sunset. The figures were determined by physical necessity when building the place. They just came out that way. Believe me, Markovian clocks were quite different from ours, and the time could be precisely determined."

"Yes, but how will
we
determine it?" The Rel asked. "There are a couple of timepieces here, but they are by no means that exact."

"No need," Brazil assured the Northerner. "Hain, fly up to the surface there and watch the sun. When it vanishes to the west, then tell us immediately. Be conservative—err on the side of sunlight. We'll check watches for seven hours from that point. After that, we can simply wait to open the wall. We'll have only about two minutes, so it's important that everyone goes as soon as the wall opens. The ones who don't will be left out here."

"What about the atmosphere inside?" Skander asked. "We have only a few pressure suits here."

"No problem there, either," Brazil responded. "All
of us are compatible with the oxygen-nitrogen-carbon mix that's common, in one sense or another, with the sectors on both sides of The Avenue. There will be a compromise adjustment, but while the mixture might make a few of us temporarily light-headed, it shouldn't pose any problem. This system will automatically follow us, section by section, as we go down. The only problem we might have, and it's minor, is some strongly differing gravitational pulls due to the lines of force flowing from here. None will be a
real
problem, just uncomfortable occasionally."

His explanation seemed to satisfy them, and they sat down or otherwise relaxed, waiting for the proper time.

* * *

"Are you really—really me?" Vardia hesitantly asked the Slelcronian, who was awake only because of a small, lamplike gadget fastened over the headleaf.

The Slelcronian paused and thought carefully. "We are you, and we are more than you," it replied. "All your memories and experiences are here, along with the millions of the Slelcronians. You are a part of us, and we are a part of you. Through the Recorder, you are a part of the total synthesis, not just the isolated portion in this body."

"What's it like?" she asked.

"It is the ultimate stage to which any can aspire," the creature told her. "No individuality, no personality to corrupt. No jealousy, greed, anger, envy, or those other things that cause misery. All alike, all identical, all in communion. As plants we require nothing save water and sunlight, and carbon dioxide to breathe. When another is needed, we make a seed and mate it to the Recorders; it grows, and immediately after bloom becomes as we. The Recorders do not think, and get their food from our bodies."

"But—what do you
do?"
she asked curiously. "What is the purpose to your life?"

"Universal happiness in a stable order," the Slelcronian replied unhesitatingly. "Long have we yearned to spread the synthesis. Now, through this body and your experience, we can return to Czill and multiply. We shall work with the devices of Czill to create a synthesis of animal with plant. We shall expand, eventually, to the Well World, and, with the aid of the Well, to the corners of the universe. All shall become one with the synthesis, all shall enjoy perfect equality and happiness."

She thought a minute. "And what if you can't do it with the animals?"

"We will," the Slelcronian replied confidently. "But, should it not be so, then the superior shall eliminate the inferior, as it is in the laws of nature since the beginning of time."

This isn't me, she thought. This can't be me. Or—or is it? Is this not what my society strives for? Is this not why we clone, why genetic engineering is eventually planned to make everyone identical, sexless, equally provided for in every way?

A sudden question struck her, and she asked, "And what will you do once you have accomplished this all-encompassing synthesis? What then?"

"Then there will be perfection and harmony and happiness," replied the Slelcronian as if reciting a litany. "Heaven will be ours and it will be forever. Why do you ask such a question? Are we not you? Did you not in fact accept the offered synthesis?"

The question disturbed her, for she had no answer. What had changed? How had the paths of Vardia I and II differed so radically in the last few weeks that such a question would even occur to her?

She turned away, and her eyes fell on Wu Julee and Nathan Brazil. They had some sort of symbiotic relationship, she thought. It was observable, no matter what form they had been in. When he could have clearly escaped the Ivrom spell, he had risked himself to free her.

She sat down, the chill of the night making the hardness of The Avenue feel like an ice cube on her bare behind.

What had she seen that her sister had not? Emotion? Love? Some different sort of relationship? Kindness? What?

What had her sister seen? A nation of great bugs all out to do each other in and lord it over the others. Hain. Skander. That weird Northern creature. A world of machines. They represented something far different from Nathan Brazil, Wuju—and Varnett, with guilt over seven dead people he probably couldn't have saved anyway. Guilt over doing the right and proper thing? Impossible! Yet—she remembered him coming in in the early morning, carrying Brazil's battered and broken body. Exhausted, weak, half-crazed from the burden, yet unwilling to sleep or eat until Brazil had been tended to. Standing over that body, only technically alive, and weeping.

Why?

She thought again of the Slelcronian and its dreams. The perfect society. Heaven. Forever.

The Markovians had it, had the ultimate in material existence.

And they had deliberately wrecked it for death, misery, pain, and struggle on countless worlds in countless forms.