04. The Return of Nathan Brazil (37 page)

"For a time," Ortega acknowledged. "But the place isn't set up as a living area. We have no way to feed them or eliminate their wastes."

"You say it's an entire planetary population?" another voice chimed in. "Good heavens, man! That could mean billions! Do you realize what that will do to us? The world can't support such a population! It'll be chaos, social, political, and economic. It could destroy us! Something
must
be done!"

The massing of mutterings indicated that this ambassador had a lot of support.

"In all the history of the Well World," one said, "there has never been such an event. An entire planetary population! It's like the Markovians all over again, but the planet is already populated. Many of our ecosystems are in a very delicate balance, which this influx will tip. I say we have no choice. For our own well-being, we must kill these newcomers as they arrive."

His  conclusion  shocked   a  lot  of  them.   Silence reigned for a moment, although Ortega knew that many of the ambassadors would overcome their shock and start thinking just that way.

"This isn't a random occurrence," Ortega suddenly announced. "It is deliberate. You all know that there is a surviving Markovian technician, Nathan Brazil. He is behind this. I think for a particular reason."

There was quiet on the other end. They were listening.

"You all know the standing rule if Brazil were to appear today. His mental state wasn't all that great the last time. I know—I was there. Even then he was claiming to be God, the one creator of the Universe, Markovians, and all. We don't know what another thousand years have done to his mind. Should he get into the Well of Souls again he might take a different course. Suppose his god complex has grown? Suppose he decides to play god for real next time? You know the fear is a real one. You know that once inside he could do anything he wants. Procedures have long been established to stop him and keep him captive should he arrive.

"Well, colleagues, I believe the time has come. Brazil is going to appear again, this time deliberately, and all this confusion is but a smokescreen. He may be mad, but he's not stupid. He knows we're laying for him. What better way to mask his coining and increase his chances of success than by camouflaging his actions in this way? By finding a planet in trouble, dying, and running its population through. He knows what chaos the overcrowding will cause. And while we're coping with total disruption, he'll try to sneak past us. Kill them? No, I don't think that's the solution. What would we do with the bodies? Better we cope with the mob, for the moment putting up the newcomers in our home hexes as local conditions allow. The genocide option is open to us at any time as long as we keep track of these Entries. Right now let's just concentrate on orderly processing—but send in some really good troops to guard the Well Gate. He must go through it. Once he's through I'll wager the flood of new Entries will slack off. But he must not pass!"

All present murmured agreement to that.

"For now I'll set up what procedures I can," Ortega told them. "I hope all you air-breathers will cooperate by sending whatever personnel in whatever quantities are necessary. Troops will be posted with adequate weapons. If Brazil tries to sneak through, they will be instructed to shoot to kill."

Dillia

MAVRA CHANG AWOKE. IT WAS SLIGHTLY CHILLY but not unpleasant; a peaceful forest with the sound of a running stream nearby. She was relieved; going through the Well hadn't been any trouble at all.

She began to move forward and instantly stopped. She turned to examine her body, then she started cursing.

Damn Obie! she thought angrily. She was still a centaur! He had known it—that had been why he'd insisted she keep the Rhone form. He was getting her used to it.

She walked down to the water. There was a waterfall, small but pleasant-looking, churning the water below but it ran off into a broad pool and almost slowed to a start. Just downstream a bit it was almost a mirror-like lake and she quickly took advantage of it.

She was not the same centaur she'd been, she saw that reflected in the pool. She was larger, stronger, more powerful-looking. Her head and the equine part of her body were covered with a yellowish hair, blonde and majestic. Her body, amply-built but strong and sturdy, was light-skinned and her face retained no trace of its Oriental cast. It was a strong, attractive face with, of all things, blue eyes staring back at her from the reflection.

And yet there was something oddly familiar in the visage, as if it reminded her of someone she'd known long ago. She couldn't think of who it might be; she'd never seen anyone so fair of skin nor with blue eyes—except—who?

A memory stirred,  struggled,  then came forth,  a memory so long buried that she could never have recalled it on her own. Obie had been at work; his reach extended past his own demise.

A tall, handsome, muscular man with deep-blue eyes and a smaller, stunningly beautiful dark-haired woman with very fair skin.

Her parents.

Somehow she knew now, understood what the Well had done. Mavra Chang had been the creation of back-alley surgeons, a shape and form so different that none would ever recognize her as the refugee child from a doomed planet.

This was what she would have looked like if she'd been allowed to grow up normally, to be the true child of her parents.

Despite the centaur's form, for the first time in her life she was seeing herself as she might have existed in human form. It startled her, even scared her a little. She shivered, only partly because of the slight chill.

She looked around her. High mountains off in the distance, not very far, really. She was essentially up in them even now. She knew where she was, where she must be. She'd come out of those mountains once before, the strange, quiet peaks of the hex named Gedemondas. This was Dillia, the land of peaceful, centaurs, uplake—at the head of a massive glacial body of water. There was a village down there, she knew. Filled with friendly centaurs who drank and smoked and told great stories. And up there, in those mountains, was the strange mountain race who had powers and senses beyond understanding.

She seemed to understand Obie's intent, but she was still alone, in a chilly forest, without even a coat to keep out the chill.

All right, Mavra, she told herself. Here you are the would-be warrior queen with no followers and no army. Here you are, a long, long way from Glathriel and Ambreza, naked and alone and you're supposed to start a revolution.

All right, superwoman, she told herself, you're on your own now. No Brazil, no Obie, nobody. Just the way you wanted it to be. Now how are you going to do the job you have to do?

She sighed and turned, walking slowly from the stream toward the village she knew was there. First warm clothing, some food and drink, then conquer the world, she told herself.

Yeah. Conquer the world. You and what army? the darker part of her whispered. She had no reply.

Durbis, on the Coast of Flotish

HE   WALKED   ALONG    THE    DOCK   IN    THE    GATHERING
twilight, slowly, confidently. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, removing one and lighting it with a custom-made lighter. The sound of his boots clumped hollowly on the boardwalk as he approached a particular dock and looked at the ship anchored there.

"Hello, aboard!" he called out.

The ship, a sleek two-masted schooner, seemed deserted.

"Hello, there!" he yelled again. "Anybody aboard?"

A scaly horror of a face peered over the rail at him, fish eyes, unblinking, staring at him suspiciously. "Hello, yourself," the creature croaked. "Who the hell are you and what do you want?"

"I contacted your agency in Zone," he called back. "I understand you are for charter."

"Come aboard," the creature said sharply.

He walked confidently up the gangplank and onto the ship. The creature turned to meet him, both round eyes still fixed on the stranger.

The creature was a Flotish; humanoid in that it had head, arms, and legs in the right places, but otherwise totally alien. It was a sea creature, of that there was no doubt; its thick, scaly body looked somewhat armorplated, like scales atop an exoskeleton; its hands and feet were webbed and clawed and oversize for the body, and its face was a horror with unblinking large yellow eyes. It had fins in several places and a dorsal fin on its back. It had no business here, not in the upper air, and in fact it normally breathed through gills although it could exist in air for several hours before it would finally suffocate. It solved its breathing problem simply, with a small apparatus worn helmet-like around its gills and resting above the dorsal on its back. Not good for long periods, it nonetheless allowed the creature a measure of comfort in the atmosphere.

"Come into the main cabin," the Flotish invited. "I have a tank there that makes things easier on me."

He followed and saw that it was so; the tank allowed the creature to relax in sea water while keeping its head out in the air. There was no furniture that fit his form, which was natural, so he sat on the edge of a table and faced the strange sea creature.

"It's not often that I see water-breathers with surface ships," he remarked.

"They go down in our waters, we get them, fix them up, refloat them, and sell them for a profit," the Flotish replied. "It's a good business, salvage, particularly good when you're bordered by land on four sides."

He nodded. "I wish to buy this one," he told the creature.

"Medium?"

He smiled. "Gold, if you want, or diamonds. Even if you don't use the medium yourself they're useful in exchange."

"Either is acceptable," the Flotish replied agreeably. "We'll deal in gold. This ship has been completely refitted. It's in tip-top shape, was down because it was swamped by an incompetent captain in a storm. No structural damage; we had it refloated within two days. Good hardwood, solid."

He nodded. "I like the looks of it. There's an auxiliary engine?"

"Steam," the sea creature said. "Brand new, not salvage. You can see the small stack aft. Useful only in emergencies, though. You wouldn't make two knots with it. It's when you let out the sail in a fair breeze that this thing really moves. Eighteen, twenty knots. A fantastic ship. As is, forty-seven kilos."

The man laughed. "You've got to be kidding. Forty-seven kilos of gold? You could buy a dreadnaught for that."

"But dreadnaughts require records," the Flotish responded. "This does not. No records, no bills of sale, yet all legal and aboveboard. Not traceable, since it's a salvage refit."

"I could buy a new one for half that amount," the man retorted.

"Less," the creature agreed. "But you wouldn't be here if that were your first criterion. I don't know what you're planning—smuggling, piracy, or what. But we wouldn't be meeting in this way if it was anything honest and you know it. You get what you pay for and what you're paying for is a great ship and total anonymity."

The visitor chuckled again. "It's not as bad as that," he told the creature. "It's convenience. Flotish is near where I have to be, and timing is more important than hidden registry. Twenty kilos and I'm being robbed at that."

The creature chuckled evilly. "Twenty won't get you a lifeboat. Forty."

They went back and forth for a while, each giving a little, until finally they were haggling over grams and not kilograms.

"Thirty-one, my final offer," the man told the Flotish. "That's it. Any more and I'll gamble on a little extra time and go up to Vergutz."

The creature spit. "They'll sell you trash. But—all right! Thirty-one it is. You'll make the transfer through Zone?"

He nodded. "You'll know the name. Nobody else is likely to use anything remotely like it. Now I'll need a crew. Versatile, good sailors, experienced on this type of craft. Men who stay bought if overpaid."

The Flotish looked thoughtful. "I think something might be arranged."

"I'm sure it can," Gypsy replied.

South Zone

THEY WERE COMING IN BY THE THOUSANDS. IT WAS unbelievable, Ortega thought. He wondered how the hell Brazil had managed it. The Well was coping, sending Entries evenly to the Southern hexes, but so far the impact had been small. If this kept up, though, it would soon tax their entire resources. Already he was getting reports of killings in some of the hexes and a panic mentality setting in. People had been killed because they were
thought
to be Entries.

They trooped down the hall in a steady stream, halting only every once in a while so that an ambassador from a water hex could flood the chamber and move to a gate himself to report home.

The Entries moved under the watchful eyes of hardened troops of dozens of races, all armed with wicked crossbows and similar weapons. Although all technology worked here, sophisticated weapons would not keep the peace. It didn't matter what killed you, though; a bolt of searing fire or a spring-propelled arrow.

It was more than a week before something new happened. He heard it, heard the shouts and yells and screams and tramping of feet, and was immediately out into the corridor. Frightened Olympians pressed back against the walls to avoid being trampled by the formidable serpentine ambassador as he moved with amazing speed toward the source of the commotion.

There were a number of soldiers there, all standing around something, some great insects with nasty-looking projectile weapons, were all staring down at a body on the floor.

He pushed his way through the mob and came up to the body, still bleeding profusely. No less than sixteen arrows penetrated all parts of the body, including the skull which was crushed from the back.

The figure was a man, lying face down in a pool of blood. He leaned over and examined the body carefully. There was no question; it was dead beyond any hope of magical resurrection or reconstruction. This was no trick. Slowly, carefully, Ortega turned the body over. The look of stunned surprise was still on the dead face, eyes staring wide but no longer seeing the missiles which killed him.