07. Ghost of the Well of Souls (2 page)

That was a sobering thought. "Any race ever died out here before?"

"Who knows? None on record, but some have gone in directions where they might as well have, including your own old form. It is possible that we might not be allowed to drop to zero, but what will result will not be the kind of civilization we know, and we will be more than vulnerable to being displaced. No, we solve it or it is probable extinction. Even if it isn't, we must act as if it is true. We have no choice. And we need to know if, as now seems logical, it is genocide that we are facing rather than natural forces. What Josich's scientists can do, we can undo—if we find the agent. In the meantime, we must not put so much in the hands of our enemies. No race should have that kind of control over another.

"No, we have two problems. I must aid in breaking this internal threat, and you must assess the external one."

"So just what do you want us to do?" Ari asked.

"Do a survey of the neighborhood. All six hexes surrounding us are potential paths to our door, not just the obvious. It might not be Bludarch. Josich did not get as far as this or survive this long by being obvious, and the Empress must
never
be underestimated. There are other land areas not much farther off. You don't move forces through this kind of distance without a lot of preparation, and Josich's generals will not make the overconfident error of leaving supply lines vulnerable and stretched again. We have the only land, small as it is, other than Ochoa, between the western continent and the Far East. It is not the best port for them, but it would do. And if an entire enslaved population expanded it artificially, it could become formidable indeed. We need to know how they are coming. We need to know who our friends are, who our enemies are, and how those sitting on the fence will jump if things begin to happen. Follow the preparations. Find the route and follow it. When you have it, get back here and map it out."

"All by ourselves? You must think a lot of us," Ming commented. "We may be two minds, but we're only one body." And you're sure painting a target on us, she added to herself.

"You will have an easier time if you do not take a crowd," Core told them. "You will not, however, be alone in this endeavor. Others are working on this. It is best that none of you know who the others are, not names or even races, until and unless it is necessary to know. That way, no one can betray anyone else. However, anyone you feel you
can
trust would be welcome. Simply watch your back."

"I assume that O'Leary and Nakitt will have things going on," Ari said thoughtfully. "What about the angel girl?"

"O'Leary, Nakitt, and their people are not water breathers. They cannot do what you can, but will be doing much the same on land. And as for the angel, unexpected as that was, I believe that she is evolving. And whether or not she will be a help, a hindrance, or an entirely separate problem has yet to reveal itself."

"Huh?"

"If you look at the histories and the old guides, you'll find that even the creatures here—all 1,560 races of both north and south—are not the same as they were in past times. Oh, they're
close,
but the sleek centaurs of Dillia, for example, seem almost like streamlined, stylized idealizations of their coarse, muscular, and far more brutishly equine ancestors. The same goes for almost every race here. The Kalindan of yesteryear could not breathe air at all for any length of time. They were quite rough, mottled, and more leathery than scaly. There may have been a point after that when we were primarily air breathers, and we are now in the process of losing that ability. Certainly we are
primarily
of the water. Unlike the mermaidlike race of the west, our tails are vertical, not horizontal, and we have never lost the dorsal. I can give you almost as many examples as races, save for some of the northern ones where nobody could tell. Evolution did not stop simply because it was a limited population. Given enough time, it continues.

"The Amborans, they are quite a bit different than the much more fragile creatures of their past. The males, who are now basically short, fat groundlings, were once winged as well and sleeker. The females, who now have all the muscular power and the wings, at one time were extremely fragile, and once they mated, they lost the ability to fly. They've evolved into a much more stable, more survivable biological form. Somehow—perhaps it was partly my doing, partly the sheer empty vessel provided and the magic-masked sophisticated biochemistry of the Amboran priesthood—the ongoing process has been sped up. The angel girl is currently a mutation, but in directions that so far indicate that her development reflects what the race may become in tens of thousands or more years. She is not done yet. What is happening to her might have taken hundreds of thousands of years for the whole race. Then again, she may well be a freak, one of a kind. In either case, if she survives, she may well be one of the most powerful single creatures on the face of this planet."

"Oh," was the only thing either Ming or Ari could think of to say.

"We must ensure that she regains or at least retains some toehold, however minuscule, in her past humanity. I hope I did not strip all of it from her. If so, it may well be the Well of Souls that must deal with her, lest she become a god. Until and unless I can be certain of which way she will go, it is essential that she at least feel comfortable with us, that our side is the side of the just. Understand?"

"I think so," Ari replied, and indeed they both saw the threat. "So, when do we leave, and how do we work out reports and contacts with you and the government?"

"You will report only to me, and to those whom I can code to work entirely for me. The message traffic will be to and from Zone only. I do not believe that the whole of the government is reliable. Some of it would willingly sell us out to Josich. A good share of the rest would surrender rather than face genocide—and, frankly, if that were the only choice, who could blame them? For now, we—those of us who come from other places, who came here knowing one another—are the third force on the Well World, and we damned well better keep it that way."

In fact, Ari and Ming were more than eager to get out of the straitjacket they'd been in since arriving on this strange world. Unable to see and enjoy their new, exotic, combined form, they'd been kept effectively prisoner, and treated like freaks—which, both had to admit, they were, under most definitions.

The odd thing was how well the master crook's somewhat bent nephew and the pretty but tough policewoman had gotten along. Of course, the alternative to getting along was committing suicide. Even so, with the truth of each of their backgrounds known to the other, there was a compatibility they would not have expected. Control wasn't much of a question; each automatically deferred to the other whenever appropriate. An observer could not tell which one was in charge at any given time. And the ability to have a full dialogue with the other at the speed of thought, without eavesdroppers, was often quite useful.

There was
one
point of privacy that had driven each of them crazy since they awoke as two different minds in a single body. Neither was ever alone. Ever. Oh, there was a level to which each could withdraw mentally. Nonetheless, the other was always around, always observing. Both felt it, and neither was completely comfortable with it.

Recently, Ming was disturbed by a new wrinkle, one she didn't yet feel confident enough to bring up with Ari. She was beginning to dream his dreams; to dream things that were related to his old experience but not to hers. There was also a sense of memory leakage that hadn't been there at the start. At first it had been hardly noticeable. Now, it was common to be thinking over something when, suddenly, a memory or piece of data popped into her mind from what could only have been his half of the brain. No one had discussed the future with them, but she and Ari had overheard some of the medical and psychological types back in Kalinda when they were still specimens. The near unanimous prediction was that they would begin to merge into one. It was supposed to have been slow, and happen without them really realizing it, but that wasn't the way things were occurring.

Ming knew, and she suspected that Ari did, too.

She didn't want to be a part of him. To her, it was like dying. What was her would be there, of course, but it wouldn't really be her anymore, nor him, either. A person was more than the sum of his or her memories.

Even that poor girl whose physical shell should have contained Angel Kobe's mind but instead had no personal memories at all, Ming thought, was still more Angel than not. Angel's body had been newly created from a shell of an old mind whose personality had been erased before it ever got to the Well World. Yet much of what Jaysu the Amboran Priestess was could be recognized as the essence of the original Angel Kobe—from the search for spiritual heights beyond the material world, and the drive to serve, as well as the ironic physical incarnation of the poor girl's birth name.

How Angel Kobe would have loved being that person!

Ming couldn't help but wonder where those memories, that personality, were now. Most likely nowhere; unlike Angel, Ming never believed in any sort of hereafter or deities.

Core thinks her memories and personality module are still back in the old computer back on Uncle Jules s gallery world,
Ari commented telepathically.

Ming was startled.
You heard me musing?

Yeah. Sorry. Didn't know you weren't doing it for my benefit, or at least without caring if I heard or not.

How much of my thoughts do you get?
she asked him, the worry coming back again.

Probably exactly as many as you get of mine. It's gonna happen. Bound to. There's really only one brain and central nervous system here. You heard 'em.

For his part, Ari was as insecure as she was, though more resigned. Many times upon awakening from sleep, it took a while before he could remember which one he was. At least once recently he'd awakened thinking he was her. Only when her own consciousness awoke and was clearly Ming did he realize his mistake and suddenly become "Ari" through and through again. Funny, too—her cultural heritage was eastern and mideastern; stoicism and pragmatism were part and parcel of that upbringing. His background was Latin, Greek, and Slavic—emotional, explosive types, expressive and always fighting against the Fates. For all her lack of belief, Ming was more Zen Buddhist deep down than he was Catholic. Yet, he was the accepting one, while she was fighting like hell.

Of course, "stoic" was a Greek word . . .

You want to go see this dump?
he asked her.

Might as well. Besides, if I said "no," you'd go anyway.

Might as well see what the budget is, at least for starters,
Ari suggested.
In a way, this could be like old times.

No,
she responded slowly, sadly.
It can
never
again be like old times.

Ambora

ANGEL KOBE, KNOWN AS JAYSU, RETURNED TO HER HOMELAND more upset and confused than ever, both about herself and about the way the world should be.

So many dead. So much evil. The very existence of it, the depth of it, was upsetting to her. She could feel it, at that extreme, just being in proximity to the representatives, the diplomats and soldiers, who served it back in that Zone place.

And that gill monster—the Kalindan they called Core— she could hardly bear to be close to the creature. Though it was less evil than an enormous, cold emptiness. It was like flying over a great bottomless pit and working to keep from being sucked into it, then falling, falling, falling forever in the cold and dark. Only in the triangular, leathery winged ones, the Ochoans, had there been a real sense of the soul. But the urge to violence and the sense of vengeance threatened to consume even them.

It was a strange sensation to look inside others and interpret what she was seeing. She knew that to cure the darkness that ate at the souls of the living was a priestess's main job, but to see it so starkly, so organically and effortlessly, and in every race—that was something new.

Their tools were the ancient tools of an ecclesiastical society: counseling, prayer, fasting, penances. None of them could simply reach inside and change what they sensed by an act of conscious will. But she could, and it frightened her. Gods might have such power, but not mortals. Certainly mortals should not, and more certainly not her.

She had spent much of her time by herself in the volcanic
beauty of Ambora's wild places, praying, reflecting, to reason it out. She hoped for a sign from Heaven that this was something she should use—or something she should fear and avoid.

The isolation hadn't helped. It had accelerated the continuing changes going on inside her. Priestesses did not fly; although they had those wonderful white wings, they were decorative. The muscles were inadequate to use them properly, and their bones were thickened, almost solid like the men's. Her own snow-white wings were enormous, far larger than any priestess's wings. The feathers had a lushness about them she'd not seen in any others.

There had been a period after she'd drunk the potions, faced the Grand High Priestess, and accepted her vocation, that she'd lost strength and her flying ability. She'd begun to feel progressively heavier; but no more.

Now, standing atop Mount Umajah—its great black, steaming caldera stretched out below her as a demonstration of the power of the gods—she stretched and spread those huge wings. Almost as if on cue, a brisk, cool wind swept across the vast pit below, striking her unexpectedly and causing her to lose her footing. She fell forward into the caldera perhaps a kilometer or more below her. The wings spread, and
she flew!

She flew, not as the warriors flew, with the speed and nimbleness of the huntress; no, not like them. Instead she soared, majestically, rising up almost without effort, the great wings barely beating every few minutes in response to a change.