Exiles at the Well of Souls

platform, and the blue field was forming.

“What the hell are you going to do?” Trelig shouted.

“He’s going to poison the poor bastards,” Gil Zinder replied. He looked up at Yulin. “But—why? With sponge they’ll be back under your command again anyway.”

Ben Yulin shook his head. “Maybe upstairs—maybe. But not these folks out there. They are already resigned to death and they’re committed.” He turned to Trelig. “Keep a watch on old doc here while I get the stuff,” he called.

In a flash Yulin was off, bounding down the stairs to the platform. Carefully, he examined the two packages, found some gloves, and picked up both of them. He still didn’t quite trust Obie. And then he was back.

“Have we still got communication?” he asked the councillor.

Trelig nodded. “I think so, unless they’ve shot out the circuits. Try it.”

Yulin went over to the wall, flipped a switch. “You, out there!” he called, hearing his own voice echoing eerily from the vast pit beyond the wall. “Listen to me! We have sponge! Things aren’t hopeless! We’ll give it to you if you surrender your weapons!” He flipped the intercom back to Open.

There was a sudden silence from the outside, as if the news had unsettled the others, which was good. There was no reply as yet, but no shots, either.

After what seemed like an interminable wait, Trelig growled, “They didn’t buy it.”

Yulin, although fearing much the same thing himself, replied, “Don’t jump the gun. They’re probably voting on it. And thinking about the pain of no-dose for the first time. Even though they won’t really start to feel the effects for a while, they feel it in their minds even now.”

And he was right. A few minutes later the intercom burst into life.

“Okay, Yulin, maybe you get out,” came a rather pleasant voice with a very unpleasant undertone. “But how do we know you aren’t lying? We know how much sponge comes in. Every gram.”

“We can make it! All you need!” Yulin responded, trying to keep his tension and anxiety out of his tone. “Look, I’ll prove it to you. Send a representative over the bridge. Any one. I’ll toss out a fiver. Try it. You’ll know what I say is the truth.”

There was another long silence, and then the same voice came back, “All right. I’m coming over. But if I don’t make it or the stuff’s no good, the other six will get you if it’s the last thing they do—and there’s plenty more of us Topside. They know what’s going on down here.”

Yulin grinned to himself. Another piece of useful information. The intercoms on Topside still worked. Now he knew just how much of the story they would know, and that intelligence would possibly make the difference.

A few minutes later a lone figure could be seen walking across the great bridge that spanned the pit to Obie’s major core. It was a tiny, frail-looking figure, dwarfed almost to insignificance by the magnitude of the structure around it. It was either a very young girl or one of the screwy sexers. It didn’t matter.

The former guard seemed to take forever to get there, and finally stopped about ten meters from the doorway.

“I’m here!” she (he?) announced needlessly.

Yulin gripped the small bag of pure sponge. “Here it comes!” he shouted and tossed it onto the bridge. It hit with a pock sound and slid almost to the other’s feet.

The guard picked it up, looked at it, then tore open the plastic and pulled out the tiny piece of yellow-green sponge, an actual living creature of sorts. It really was a sponge, too, a denizen of a beautiful world that had been settled centuries ago by a prototype human colony. Interaction of alien bacteria with some of the synthetic elements in the colony’s initial food supply had spawned the horror that made Antor Trelig and his vast syndicate so powerful. The new mutated substance had permeated every cell of the humans’ bodies, replacing vital substances. The cells took to it fantastically; once in, it was neither rejected nor displaced. Indeed, the cells actually started making more of the stuff. The initial contamination was irreversible. A moderate amount caused no apparent physical changes, but was there all the same. A large amount, as the guards had gotten, caused cells to trigger in strange ways, causing deformity, accenting opposite sexual characteristics, or, as in Nikki Zinder’s case, causing runaway obesity or other equally horrible characteristics. It varied with the individual, although sexual characteristics, being the most sensitive, were the most common.

The organism, however, was totally parasitic. It would consume the host, particularly its brain, where brain cells died irreplaceably in a great progression. Unchecked, the mutant substance would slowly destroy the mind well ahead of the body; it was painful. Since the stuff was not selective, often mental capacity was reduced or limited for all intents and purposes while the central core of one’s being was the last to go. One knew what was happening, knew until it struck the cerebral cortex full and turned one first into an animal, then into a vegetable that would simply lie there and starve to death. A slow-motion lobotomy.

Sponge was not the drug, it was the antidote. Not an effective one, since it had to be periodically renewed, but the secretions of the native sponge plants did in fact arrest the growth of the mutant strain. To need sponge was to become the syndicate’s slave. The stuff was too dangerous for the Com to keep around; the sponge itself contained the addicting material. But greedy, ambitious politicians had it, grew it, and ruled with it.

Facing such a future, the guard greedily and unhesitantly gobbled up the sponge in the plastic envelope. It was not a sufficient dose—all of New Pompeii’s personnel were deliberately given massive overdoses, which required massive amounts of sponge to counter—but it would be convincing.

It was. “It’s real!” the guard shouted, clearly amazed. “It’s the pure stuff!”

“A kilo in exchange for your weapons!” Trelig yelled, feeling in charge once again. “Now—or we wait you out!”

“The word has gone to Topside!” came a new, deeper voice from the intercom. “Okay, we’re coming over —four of us. The others will make sure you don’t blast us. You get their weapons when we get the kilo and you come out. Not before.”

Trelig waited what he thought would be a convincing period of time, grinning evilly now. Their ploy was all too obvious.

Three more joined the first one, looking somewhat eagerly at the very door that, just moments before, they’d been trying to blast.

“Okay, here’s the kilo!” shouted the master of New Pompeii, as he heaved it out.

They almost pounced on it, and two of them made a simultaneous grab for the package. One scooped it up and started running back to the other side, while the other three nervously blocked Trelig’s view.

“What if they don’t take it right away?” Yulin whispered, worried.

“They will,” Trelig replied confidently. “They’re overdue, remember. How powerful is that stuff?”

“It should feel great for five or six minutes,” the younger man told him. “After that, well, they should just all get massive heart seizures and keel over.”

Trelig looked suddenly worried. “Should? You mean there’s some doubt?”

“No, no, not really,” Yulin replied, shaking his head. “I didn’t really mean that. No, what’s in there is enough to kill an army. Give them ten minutes, no more.”

“Think they’ll run for Topside?” Trelig continued, still worried. “Or maybe one will live long enough to radio a warning.”

Yulin considered this. “No, I doubt if they’ll wait to get to Topside. You yourself just said they’re overdue. As for one giving a warning, well, if you can find a personal intercom, we ought to be able to find out.”

They waited anxiously. Trelig could not find the intercom; the one he had originally worn was long smashed in the reversal. “We’ll just have to bluff it through,” he growled, uncertainty again in his voice. “Say—how will we know they’re gone? You want to be the first target? Or maybe Doc, there?”

Yulin shook his head. “Not necessary. Obie’s sensors are still on.” He walked over to the console.

“Obie, are the guards still alive?”

“No, Ben,” responded the computer. “At least, I register no life forms in their old area. They winked out pretty suddenly. You murdered them clean.”

“Save your sarcasm,” Yulin growled. “Did you monitor any transmissions to Topside?”

“I haven’t much capability there,” Obie noted. “I don’t know.”

Ben Yulin nodded, then turned to Trelig. “Well, we got by obstacles one through six. Topside’s gonna be a