Quest for the Well of Souls

Why did you decide to die? It was your intention all along, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. The Well isn’t for me. I survived to complete the commission, to make certain that New Pompeii would never be in the hands of such as Trelig or Yulin. So after that, what? All my life I’ve prided myself on my independence. To return to the Well World is to be made into something random, maybe even a whirling flower or a thinking clam or maybe a Wuckl or an Ecundan. Someone else’s choice. And even if it’s a good one, your universe is the Well World, your existence confined to an area no bigger than New Pompeii. As for the Com—for a while I’d be a hero, but soon I’d be yesterday’s hero. Then I’d be just a freak, a four-legged woman with a tail. Maybe a nice compound for the heroine somewhere, like in Glathriel, or a circus, or some form of luxurious zoo. No freedom, no ship, no stars, no self-determination. What other choice did I have? Even what little I have left, my own life and accomplishments, turn out to be a lie. I don’t owe you and you don’t owe me, I always believed. But the beggars took me in because they were asked to, and helped me because they were asked to or paid to. The same one who did that sent my husband to me to get me out of the whore house.”

“But he did care for you,” Obie pointed out.

“I think he did—but that’s not the point. He would never have been there without Brazil. Even if we met, once, by chance, I’d just have been another bar girl. Now that I’ve thought it out, I wonder if any of it was for real? How many times did I escape because of outside interference? So many things broke right. So many things always broke right. Little things, big things, but they add up to my life. Even you—you programmed me as your agent for your own ends, and I did exactly what you wanted done, while my grandparents and Brazil’s friend Ortega looked after me on the Well World.”

“You underrate yourself,” Obie scolded. “You did it all yourself. Opportunity is not accomplishment. You did it, by ingenuity, by resourcefulness, by guts. You really are as good as you thought you were, and you have the potential to be much better.”

She shook her head. “No. Even if I accept all that, there’s Joshi. I liked him, and he was useful to me.

He was something I needed. But I’m sure I never would have…” Her voice faltered. “Never—do what he did, for him. He gave his life to save mine! Why?”

“Perhaps he loved you,” the computer replied kindly. “Love is the most abused word in history. It is, simply, caring more for others than you do for yourself. It’s a measure of greatness that flashes rarely in an otherwise pretty sordid universe. This is the quality that the Markovians lost, for godhead is inherently selfish. They lost the capacity to care for others, to give as well as receive, to love others as they would be loved. Their curse was the hollow emptiness left inside them when the ability to love was lost. Such was their tragedy that they could no longer even comprehend it.”

She sniffed in derision. “And me? It’s not within me, Obie. Others have loved me, I suppose—Brazil, my parents and grandparents, and most especially Joshi—but I never returned it, couldn’t return it. I don’t know how. I don’t even understand you now.”

“When Joshi died, you cried,” Obie reminded her softly. “Now you are lost and wallowing in self-pity, yet it is within you to grow, to learn it, Mavra Chang.”

“Another of those quantitative measurements you make when I run through you?” she retorted.

“It cannot be quantified,” Obie replied. “That’s why the Markovians couldn’t discover it. That’s why the Gedemondans will fail as well. They have sealed themselves off from the rest of mankind, in whatever form. All their energies are directed to isolating, to quantifying the element. And in that very act they reject their own potential for giving to others.” He paused for a moment.

“So, like the Markovians, you are forced to face the nonquantifiable, something you can’t touch, measure, or define except by example, and your own selfish nature eats you alive so your ego can be shattered. You want to die, as the Markovians finally wanted to die, but without even their noble motives. It is ironic that their very sacrifice was an act of that quality they, too, believed they no longer possessed.”

She laughed mirthlessly. “I can’t see the profit, the reason. As a beggar, I learned that most charity is really guilt. I deserve to die.”

“But you don’t,” Obie responded. “You could have killed yourself a thousand times, just in the last three days. Is that why you wish to retain that most inconvenient form? Punishment for the guilt you feel? Here! I give you choices, and they are freely given. You wish to be an animal? I shall place you where you want, as you are or as you wish to be. Want to be a queen? Just name the race. Anything you want, any place you want, alive, dead, productive, destructive. What is your wish? I will see that it comes about! Or—join me in exploring the nearly limitless stars, in helping where I can, in learning as well. In meeting the challenges to come. Very soon our human relatives will meet with not one but several other alien cultures. Are they to clash and condemn themselves, or mesh and grow? Do you want to join me in working at such grand projects, or will you allow your guilt and self-pity to place you in a hell most assuredly of the worst kind because it is of your own device? Tell me. Take your time—we have a lot of it, perhaps all there is.”

The words of the Gedemondans again floated through her mind.

First you must descend into Hell. Then, only when hope is gone, will you be lifted up and placed at the pinnacle of attainable power, but whether or not you will be wise enough to know what to do with it or what not to do with it is closed to us.

She’d once defined hell as the absence of hope, and Obie had added guilt and self-pity, so hell she had attained indeed.

She shook her head slowly in puzzled wonder, not able to comprehend or control new feelings that were rising inside her. For a long while she was silent. At last she looked around at the wrecked control room, at the air around her.

“Partners?” she asked softly, hesitantly.

“Partners!” Obie shouted joyfully.

Appendix I: Races of the Southern Hemisphere

Only those hexes that have people or geography in this second half of the book are listed. Those from Exiles of the Well of Souls are listed only if they and/or theirs actually also appears in Volume II. Names are as one would hear them. Pronunciation is left up to the reader; if you want a rule, treat it as you would Polish—pronounce every letter and syllable.

H = High-tech hex. All technology works here if you invent it and can develop it.

S = Semitech hex. Steam and internal combustion work, but not electrical, atomic, or more sophisticated systems.

N = Nontech hex. No machine not directly or indirectly powered by muscle works here. Oil and gas still burn and can be used directly for light and heat, but they won’t move a piston.

A parenthesis around the tech designation—e.g., (S)—indicates that it is a water hex.

The letter M following a tech designation—e.g., NM—means the hex has what would be regarded as magical capabilities by those who don’t have them.

Atmospheric composition and pressure vary widely, but there is no hex listed here in which others could not live without artificial aids.

AGITAR H Diurnal Males satyrlike; females reverse animalism of males but are smarter. Males can store and discharge high electrical voltages without harm. The pegasus is native to Agitar.

ALESTOL N Diurnal Moving, barrel-shaped plants; carnivores that shoot a variety of noxious gasses.

AMBREZA H Diurnal Resemble giant beavers. Used to be N until they beat the Glathriel in a war and forced them to swap hexes.

CZLAPLON H Diurnal Look like a giant ball of tangled nylon cord with a little head and internal brain case. The captain of the Toorine rader is a Czlaplon.

DAHIR N Diurnal Huge lizardlike creatures who can change color to blend almost invisibly with any background. The Parmiter’s henchmen are Dahir.

DASHEEN N Diurnal Basically minotaurs. Females are much larger and dumber than males, which they outnumber 100 to 1, but males are dependent on female’s milk for calcium and lactose.