“They’ve been coming through steadily,” ortegasaid to the Southern ambassadors and the representative from the North. “So far we’re processing about one hundred an hour and there’s no sign of stoppage. In fact, the number continues to grow. Already we’ve called upon some of you to supply extra manpower, even army units, to keep everything orderly—but that won’t last. We’re literally being flooded with people!”
“What about simply leaving them in the chamber?” an ambassador asked. “Won’t that block the arrival of newcomers?”
“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
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 chillybut 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.
