Chalker, Jack L. - Well of Souls 02 (39 page)

"So the Yaxa will get there first," the Czillian concluded, staring again at the map.

"Maybe, maybe not," Ortega said. "Depends for one thing on the strength of the Qasada resistance, and on whether the others listen to the Zhonzorp. I'd fly over Alestol ferrying everybody in a continuous airlift. The air is uncomfortable, and it stinks, but the Alestoli are barrel-shaped moving plants that emit a variety of nasty noxious gasses. You can't talk to them— but they have no air capability whatsoever. If the Makiem-Agitar-whatever alliance can push through Olborn, I'd say that it might be a dead heat."

Vardia looked at Olborn. "What do you know about the place?" it asked curiously.

The big snake-man shook his head. "Not much. No ambassador I ever knew about. Sealed itself off from the outside world. Anybody who tries to go in never comes out. They're mammals there, air's okay, and my stuff says that they're a semitech hex with light magic capabilities, whatever that means. You gotta watch those magic types. All sons of bitches or fanatics— if there's a difference. Even Zhonzorp goes around them, but I can't imagine the most powerful hex on this planet standing against the kind of combination roaring in there. A magic hex tends to rely on its magic too much for its defense; a good bullet stops a good spell every time when you're outnumbered four to one by now well-seasoned troops."

"So either one has a crack at being first to Gedemondas," the Czillian mused. "And what about them? Anything?"

Ortega shook his head. "Nothing. Very high mountains, cold, and snowy mostly. They live high up. They're big— Dillians have seen them, but only briefly. Big suckers, three meters, all covered in snow-white fur, almost invisible against a snow field. Big four-toed clawed feet. They shun all contact, but if you go in too far, they'll drop an avalanche on your head."

The relief map showed a mild plain at the Alestol-Palim-Gedemondas border, then tremendously high, faulted mountains, four to five thousand meters many of them. Rough, cold country.

"Any idea where in Gedemondas the engine module fell?" Vardia asked the snake-man.

Serge Ortega shook his head. "No, not really, and neither do they. Not on the plains area, though." He hesitated. "Wait a minute! Maybe I do!" He rummaged through a bunch of papers, cursing and fussing. Papers went everywhere, until he finally came across a tattered yellow sheet of lined notepad. "Here it is. The Agitar plotted the mass and shape of the mod from the pieces they already recovered, checked climatological data and such, and came up with the probable location. About sixty to a hundred kilometers inside the northeast border, give or take ten. In the mountains, but still a needle in a smaller haystack."

"How in the world did you get hold of— " the Czillian started, then decided questioning Ortega wasn't worth it. He'd only lie, anyway. "Then there's not only the possibility of a search, but, if they find it, there's a fifty-fifty chance that the Gedemondas will either let them take it out or try to destroy them. That's not a body to be deterred that easily in the latter case."

Ortega nodded. "They're funny people, but we just don't know. That's the problem. We need to know. We need to send somebody in there to try and talk to the Gedemondas, ahead of the armies, if possible. Maybe they'll run away, maybe they'll try to kill them, but we have to try. Warn them ahead of time. Offer to— "

Vardia turned and faced him. "To take the engines off their hands, perhaps?"

Ortega shrugged. "Or, failing that, to try and destroy them."

Vardia would have sighed if it could. Instead, the Czillian asked, "Who do you have in mind for this suicide mission to the frozen wastes? Count me out. I go dormant under two or three degrees centigrade."

He chuckled. "No, you had your fun once. Or one of you did, anyway. No, I don't like what I'm thinking, but it keeps coming up the same answer. There's only one person qualified to inspect the engines, decide if they can be moved, or, failing that, know how to destroy them beyond repairing."

Vardia nodded. "Mavra Chang. But you said she was too valuable to risk!"

"And so she is," Ortega admitted. "It's a calculated risk, I agree. But she's the only one who can do the technical end of the job for us. We'll try and minimize the risk, of course. Send some other people along with her for protection, not expose her to any needless risks."

"From what you've said of her, I doubt that sincerely," the Czillian replied skeptically. "But, all right. It's come down to this. We have been passive observers, and we'll continue to be passive observers watching the Trelig or Yulin bunch blast off for the satellite unless we do something. I agree action is called for. I only wish we'd done something sooner."

"Sooner, none of us thought either side had a prayer of actually making it," Ortega reminded the plant-creature. "Now we know it's possible. It's now or never."

The Czillian turned. "I'll notify my population and our friends as discreetly as possible. You will assemble the personnel, I assume?"

Ortega smiled. "Of course— subject to Czillian Crisis Center's approval, of course."

"Of course," Vardia echoed, not at all certain it made any difference.

Ortega went back to his maps and was soon talking to himself. Xoda was out; the Yaxa would be there. That left Olborn. Damn! . . .

Lata

He'd taken two days to get to the Lata border, although Doma could have gotten him there in one. The great horse would never let on, but it was almost worn out, and Renard had set down as soon as they'd cleared the storm and he felt far enough away from the war to be safe.

He had no provisions, nor did this land provide any. Doma could eat the leaves of trees and the tops of tall grasses, though, and there was water, so he felt she could survive. Lata was the only idea in his mind; he would wait to eat there. Agitar were omnivores, too; if Mavra Chang could exist there, so could he.

He had a couple of close shaves before he made the border. Some of the hives had left skeleton guard forces, and he was occasionally called upon to fight, but such action was scattered and usually broke off when he turned to avoid combat. There were too few of them to get drawn far from the hives.

Still, he was feeling mentally and physically exhausted, drained. His internal charge was down to a mere pop, and he wondered if a certain amount of stored energy was necessary for his body. Probably; it filled some need in his now alien biochemistry or it wouldn't be there. He stopped several times to run and thereby get a little back into him, and it did help, although he was otherwise so physically washed out that the running, prancing, and turning soon had him winded.

But now here it was— the goal in sight from five hundred meters. He had not yet gotten over the incredible sight of a hex border. It shimmered a little from the effect of the two different atmospheric compositions— not terribly different, but enough, like some odd clear plastic curtain. At the border, the life and terrain, often weather, stopped and was replaced by a dramatically different scene. Only the landforms and water bodies were constant; rivers flowed through without notice, seas of one washed on beaches of another, and foothills like those below continued on unbroken.

Djukasis was a dry hex; the thunderstorm was a rarity this time of year, and yet such sudden and violent storms provided most of the hex's rainfall. The grass was yellowish, the trees tough and spindly.

Now, at the Lata border, there suddenly started a deep-green carpet of rich grass, and tall, thick trees with great green leaf-covered branches reaching up for the sky, broken here and there by pools, meadows, and rolling glens. There was no sign of roads and, in the bright sunlight, no sign of people, either.

He wished he knew what kind of people lived there.

About a thousand meters into the hex, when he was still feeling the effects of a quadrupling of the humidity and a ten-degree temperature rise at least, he found out.

Multicolored energy bursts outlined Doma, who reacted nervously but had no place to go but back.

They're shooting at me! he thought in panic, then realized that the bursts were intended to discourage, not kill. Not yet, anyway.

He took the hint and made a 180-degree turn, crossing back into Djukasis. The moisture-hungry air of the bee's home started to dry his perspiration-soaked upper torso under his combat jacket, which he hadn't yet shed.

He set Doma down as close to the border as possible and jumped off, looking warily just across the line, wondering who or what was looking back at him. He took off his uniform jacket and tossed it away, leaving just the standard military blue briefs. Taking Doma's reins, he cautiously proceeded back to the border, leading the horse on the ground.

This time, only ten or fifteen paces inside the border, he was challenged. The trouble was, it sounded like a lot of angry bells; he couldn't understand a word of it.

He stopped, looking out at the silent forest. The bells stopped, too, waiting. He pointed to himself. "Renard!" he shouted. "Entry!" That second word was different in most languages, though, he realized. It might not be understood here. "Mavra Chang!" he called out. "Mavra Chang!"

That set off more discussion. Finally, the universal rules set themselves in motion. When in doubt, pass the buck.

He put up his hands in what he hoped was a recognizable sign of surrender, hoping they, too, had hands and could understand his meaning.

They did. Suddenly a whole host of them erupted from the trees, armed with nasty-looking energy rifles. As a Djukasis veteran, he also immediately noticed the pretty but obvious stingers.

Pixies! he thought in surprise. Little flying girls. A high-tech hex, though; those rifles looked plenty effective, and whether that antiaircraft fire was automatic or them shooting, they could hit anything they wanted, of that he had no doubt.

They surrounded him, looked wonderingly at Doma, and made unmistakable gestures that he was to move ahead. He saw that they all wore goggles and seemed very uncomfortable. He suspected that they were nocturnal creatures. They led him to a clearing a few thousand meters farther on; one of them made a lot of sign-language gestures that gave no doubt as to their meaning. He was to stay there and make no move, and he would be covered, so no funny business, or else.

That suited him. He was used to waiting now. Doma grazed on the rich new grass, and he stretched out and went to sleep.

* * *

Vistaru came into Mavra Chang's ground-level quarters in a hurry.

"Mavra?"

She had been lying there on a specially constructed bed, looking over Well World maps and geographies, mostly children's picture books. You didn't learn a complex language in a few weeks, particularly one established for a vocal system you couldn't imitate.

"Yes, Vistaru?" she responded, weary and bored from doing nothing.

"Mavra, there is one of the creatures involved in the war who came in from the Djukasis border a few minutes ago. We just got a radio report."

The news was mildly interesting, but didn't change her situation at all. "So?"

"He came in on a huge flying horse! You won't believe it! Gigantic, pale green. And, Mavra— he kept calling for you! Over and over! By name!"

She was on her feet in a moment. "What did this creature look like?"

The Lata shrugged. "An Agitar, they say. Bigger than Lata, smaller than you. All dark blue and fuzzy at the bottom."

She shook her head. "That's a new one on me. What do you think? A trick?"

"If it is, it's misfired," the Lata responded firmly. "Anything funny and he'll never leave Lata alive. They asked whether you'd talk to him."

"If I can," she replied, and walked out.

There was no problem getting her there quickly. Although the Lata flew and hence had no need for roads or aircraft, they did have to move freight and foodstuffs all over. They just diverted a large, crate-laden truck on government authority and much to the driver's disgust. Mavra Chang and three thousand crates of apples sped south to the border in a flatbed dual-rotor helicopter, skimming the treetops. The trip took about three hours, and the sun was into late afternoon when they arrived. With a straight axial tilt, all hexes had equal amounts of daylight, a little over fourteen standard hours each.

The pegasus was really as grand and beautiful as had been described, and its rider was as short, squat, and ugly.

"Cute little devil," Mavra muttered mostly to herself— and that's what the face looked like. An old Traditionist's view of the devil in dark-blue and black hair. The creature had awakened when the helicopter approached, and stood and walked around. The thick body and the terribly thin legs looked almost impossible; he moved as if on tiptoe, and reminded Mavra of a costumed ballet dancer.

Guards armed with energy pistols motioned him to a cleared area and flanked him on all sides. He wondered idly what bigwig had come to see this new intrusion, but then he looked again and there was no mistake.

"Mavra!" he cried, and started to move toward her. The guards were quick, no doubt about it. He stopped cold. He pointed to himself. "Renard, Mavra! Renard!"

She was more than surprised. Although she knew the system of the Well— it had been explained at length to her— this was the first time it really hit her in the face. She chuckled, then turned to Vistaru. "This translator— can I talk to him?"