That was the mission of the Nautilus this time: an exclusive resort with a wonderful reputation gained through free miracle cures and word of mouth, attracted the wealthiest and most powerful. Change those minds, and, perhaps, a disastrous future could be prevented.
Sri Khat was still sitting, relaxed, when Nautilus seemed to shudder. A momentary loss of power caused lights to flicker and small objects to fall over. The effect was something like that of a mild earthquake; but no such thing could possibly happen here.
She was on the intercom in a second. “Attention all personnel! Calm guests as first priority. Damage Control, see to any problems Topside! All hands stand by!” She flipped a switch anxiously. “Obie! What the hell happened?”
“I—I don’t quite know,” a shaky tenor replied. “One moment all was going well, then, suddenly, I felt a stabbing pain, a real wrenching pain! It caused me momentarily to lose control!”
“You’re a machine, damn it! You can’t feel pain!”
“That’s what I thought,” the massive computer who was Nautilus replied, “but—it was horrible! I can still feel it!”
Khat was thinking fast. “Are you damaged? Did something blow?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I’ve already performed a complete maintenance check. The source is external.” He was calming down, anyway. How many times had she gone through similar things with the computer, calming and soothing him—it was impossible to think of Obie as an “it”? The most sophisticated computer complex known save one, Obie often behaved like a child crying in the night.
That didn’t mean, though, that the situation wasn’t serious. Obie was frightened only because so great a computer normally so much in control now faced something outside his experience. To be reminded that you are neither totally in control nor omnipotent can shatter your confidence.
“Analysis, Obie. What caused it?”
“No way to tell,” he responded, sounding more assured. “It was not a local disturbance. It was not, in fact, anywhere in this galaxy, I think. I—I’m very much afraid that something might have happened to the Well of Souls computer. I experienced a double impact, one much stronger than the other, but from two directions. One would indicate the Well, the other is from somewhere in the neighborhood of the Milky Way galaxy. I’m afraid something terrible has happened—first because the impact was instantaneous, despite the distances, which rules out anything except the fabric of space—time, our very reality; and second because I can still feel it. I think we’d better drop this project for now and investigate.”
Sri Khat agreed. “We don’t want to shock or disrupt anybody, though. We’ll have to manufacture failures of our own, refund everybody’s money and send the Gramanch home. Then we can announce to our agents planetside that we’ve had mechanical problems and will have to go off for a complete overhaul. That should take care of it.”
“But that’ll take several days!” Obie protested.
“Nevertheless, we have a responsibility,” she reminded him. “And we want an orderly withdrawal or we’ll fuel their paranoia as you’ve never imagined when we go.”
Obie emitted a very human sigh. “Well, you’re the captain.”
“You bet your sweet metallic ass I am,” Mavra Chang replied.
In Orbit Off the Well World
IT WAS A STRANGE AND SOLITARY SOLAR SYSTEM; even Obie was not very clear on where it was located. He simply allowed himself to be drawn there along the massive energy force fields radiating from it to all parts of the Universe.
The system itself didn’t amount to much—a medium-yellow G-type star of no special attributes except that it should have burnt itself out billions of years earlier and burnt in fact at a precise, constant rate; some asteroids and planetoids of no consequence or interest; a few comets and other such natural debris; a lone planet circling the star at about one hundred and fifty million kilometers out in a perfect circle.
Beyond the perfection of its orbit, the planet itself was extraordinary. Not huge, not imposing, it shimmered and glistened like a fantastic Christmas-tree bulb, perfectly round, with a dark band around its center. Its period of rotation was a little over twenty-eight hours, standard, and it had no axial tilt.
The two hemispheres defined by that dark band were quite different, although both north and south reflected sunlight from hundreds of hexagonal facets. The blue and white South Hemisphere was home to seven hundred and eighty carbon-based races, each existing in its own hexagonal biosphere; the North, swirling with exotic colors, supported seven hundred and eighty noncarbon-based races that breathed esoteric gases if they breathed at all.
In the first few billion years after the creation of the Universe, a single race had evolved capable of expanding beyond its planetary bounds. Carbon-based but nonhuman, it had attained a demigodhood on planets throughout the galaxies, a state that eventually led to boredom and stagnation that the race, in its greatness, recognized. Something had gone wrong in the climb to the top; the creatures had reached god-hood and found it wanting. Somewhere, somehow they had taken a wrong turn, a turn they could not divine, and they were frustrated. So frustrated, in fact, that they had decided to give it all up, to restage the creation under different rules and circumstances. This banded, honeycomb world, the Well World, was their laboratory, where new races and biospheres were created by the best engineers and artisans and allowed to develop—up to a point. Then, using the great computer that was the planet beneath the crust, they created and developed worlds where the great drama of evolution could be replayed with different rules and a different cast. Giving their own bodies and minds to the project, the masters became their new creations, surrendering immortality and godhood in the hope that their descendants, alien and ignorant of the past, would find the greatness their creators had missed.
Over seven hundred years before the arrival of the Dreel on Parkatin, Obie had double-crossed Antor Trelig at his demonstration on New Pompeii. The computer thought everyone present would die but, instead, the Well of Souls, the great Markovian computer that monitored and maintained reality, had drawn them to the Well World.
“It has been a long time.” Obie’s voice spoke to her from the monitor.
Mavra Chang nodded absently. “A long time,” she echoed.
They paused for a few moments, thinking, remembering experiences from centuries past.
In her natural human form as she appeared now, Mavra Chang was tiny and thin, with the physique of a champion gymnast. Her face was exotic and quite Oriental. Long black hair trailed down her back. Although well over seven hundred and fifty years old, she looked about twenty—Obie’s control over the equations of reality was complete, although localized. A great computer, he easily handled complexities that had baffled the Com, yet he was quantum jumps below the Well of Souls in capacity or sophistication.
“Can you see anything wrong?” she asked him at last, breaking the introspective silence.
“No, nothing,” Obie responded. “There is evidence of a slight seismic disturbance but it did no lasting harm. I am monitoring communications between various high-tech races, but business seems to be going on as usual. The Well World is being maintained.”
On the Well World, the creators had placed limits on the technological capabilities of the hexagonal eco-spheres to simulate difficulties the races would eventually face on their “native” planets. Some could use all energy sources; some were limited to gunpowder and steam; in others no machines would work that were not powered by muscle or tension. This seemingly random system also served as a check on aggression. A high-tech civilization would be helpless in a nontech hex whose military had trained swordsmen and archers; similarly, a low-tech or no tech hex would find it impossible to invade one that had sophisticated weaponry.
“Obie—the Well World’s maintenance isn’t performed by the main computer, is it?”
“That’s correct. After all, something has to power the big machine. From all evidence, it appears that the Well World Computer is in excellent shape. That means the main computer—the one that maintains you and me and everything else—is the problem. I feel the discontinuity, the wrongness now, but I dare not open contact with the Well, you understand.”
She did. Long ago, when they had first come here, Obie had contacted the master computer and then found himself unable to disconnect.
“My analysis,” the computer continued, “based just on what energy output I can monitor, is that something terrible has happened. As you know, the energy that enforces the natural laws of our Universe originates on the Well World and it’s usually a one-way street. Not now, though. I detect massive feedback pouring into the Well Computer. The Well is trying to correct for it but doesn’t seem quite able to do so.” That sounded ominous. “What do you think happened?”
“Hard to say. Looking at the situation, I’d guess that somebody else discovered the principles just as Zinder did, built a huge dish—which is stupid without understanding what you’re dealing with—then misused it, causing this feedback, damaging the Well of Souls. And the energy level of the feedback is increasing.”
Mavra had a queasy feeling in her stomach. “Obie, that computer is all that stands between us and total annihilation. Can it handle the problem or not?”
“I won’t know that until we isolate the cause. From the slight increases I’ve been measuring, though, I’d say not. Mavra, the Well World Computer can snuff out a white hole! What could have happened that would be beyond its power to correct?”
“Let’s find out,” she suggested. “Trace the feedback back to its source, but don’t get too close. We don’t want to be killed by whatever it is.”
“I’ll be careful,” Obie promised. As he did, the big dish on his underside glowed, a violet field enveloped the whole planetoid, and it vanished.
Dolgritu
“CULTS MAKE ME NERVOUS,” GYPSY SAID UNEASILY.
Marquoz was silent, staring at the huge central city square now packed with what seemed to be millions of people. Only his odd form and fiery breath kept him from being tossed about by the mob.
“And to think that only a few months ago it was a little nut-cult with few followers,” Gypsy continued. “Hard to believe.”
“Desperate people manipulated by circumstances they can’t control almost always turn to the supernatural,” the little dragon growled back.
The Fellowship of the Well had indeed grown; it was now the premier religious group in the Com. The cult itself was hard-pressed to handle this sudden success and acceptance; it couldn’t “process” its followers but found they were more than eager to join and stay joined anyway.
The Zinder Nullifiers had been too rushed. Neither they nor their origins could remain hidden long. When Tortoi Kai’s presentation on the history of Zinder’s discovery, the nature of the Markovians, the origins of the Olympians, and even of the Well of Souls name itself, was made public, the data seemed to confirm everything the cult had been saying. When, at the time, the people realized a hungry giant was growing in the void and that the Com was powerless to stop it, locating the god implied by Zinder’s math to get him to save the Com provided a powerful new incentive to belief in the Olympian creed. Even the nonhuman races seemed interested, although they rejected the idea of a god in human form that the cult sought.
So an awful lot of people were now looking for Nathan Brazil. If in fact he were as real as Gypsy said he was, Marquoz hoped he was well hidden.
Marquoz and Gypsy weren’t present to watch the ceremony or listen to the speeches, but to meet with the High Priestess, who would address the crowd. The Olympians had made overtures to the Council about use of the newly declassified computer files. Marquoz had come to talk about that point.
The Council was scared, too.
Gypsy was entranced by the size of the crowd. He looked at it unbelievingly, admiringly. “What a scam!” he breathed. “What a wonderful scam!”
The Chugach seemed amused. “Why are you surprised? Nothing has taken more money or killed more people in the history of your race than religion, and for all its mummery this one has more going for it than most. When the true nature of god is being seriously argued by two dozen hard-headed astrophysicists, this is indeed the line to be working in.”
Gypsy laughed. “So how are we gonna get through this crowd? It’s gonna take us a year to get near the State Hall.”
“One of your people’s religions has a tale of a fleeing people caught with their backs to the sea while a hostile army presses. At the proper moment the sea parts. You do it like this.” The dragon removed a flask hanging from his belt, drained it, then replaced it. Then he formed an oval with his wide mouth, inhaled, and slowly blew. There was the smell of brimstone, and fire shot forth. Marquoz, with Gypsy close at his side, had absolutely no problem clearing a path through the crowd.
A greater obstacle was the horde of security Acolytes surrounding the entrances to the State Hall steps from which the High Priestess Yua was to address the multitudes. Their stun rods and stern expressions implied they would not be intimidated by a little hell-fire.
Gypsy looked nervously at the guards, chosen partially for their size and bulk, but Marquoz simply chose the biggest, toughest, nastiest-looking of the lot and walked right up to him. The stun rod rose slightly.
“None may pass!” the Acolyte intoned in the deepest voice Gypsy had ever heard. Gypsy believed him.
“Stand aside, man,” Marquoz replied, his own foghorn voice not a little intimidating. “We represent the Com Council.”
“None may pass,” the guard repeated, and raised the stun rod a little higher for emphasis. Gypsy could tell by the man’s manner that he was just itching to use it, perhaps even more painfully than its designers intended. There was no doubt the fellow could use it as a club to break heads.
“Didn’t I say we were from the Com Council?” Marquoz repeated patiently. “I am Com Police, and any attempt to prevent me in the performance of my duty is punishable by death.”
The big man was not impressed. “None may pass.” This time he added, “Not even the Com is above the will of God.”
Gypsy was somewhat relieved to learn that the man knew more than three words. If he knew several more he might still be reasoned with.
“Your mistress sent for me,” Marquoz told the guard. “Your group seeks our assistance in matters concerning your quest. We were nice enough to agree to talk about it, and your mistress set this as a convenient meeting place. Now, it’s your people who want something of us, not the other way around. You can admit us, tell your mistress that we are here, or send us away. We will convey indirectly to her who prevented the meeting. Your choice. In ten seconds I’m leaving.”
The little dragon had made a tactical mistake. The guard had been provided with three choices and that was one too many. He looked puzzled, trying to resolve a conflict that was beyond him. Finally he resolved it by falling back on orders. “I have been told to expect no one and admit no one,” he responded.
“Not even Nathan Brazil?” Marquoz shot back.
The guard blinked. “But—of course, if the Lord God should—”
Marquoz wasn’t even going to let him finish. “Ah, but your orders said none shall pass, and surely you were not told to expect Nathan Brazil—yet you would admit him. Either you make exceptions or you don’t. If you don’t, you’d bar even Brazil; if you do, then please let us in to go about our business.”
That was too much for the guard. He turned to a younger, slightly less imposing Acolyte. “Brother, tell the mistress that there’s a giant lizard out here who says he’s a cop and wants to see her.”
The brother nodded, turned, and left. Marquoz reached into his jerkin and extracted a silver cigar case inlaid with a very odd coat of arms. He removed a cigar and lit it in his customary manner. The guard blinked in fascination. Marquoz composed a grin revealing numerous nasty teeth and held up the case. “Have a cigar?” he asked pleasantly.
The guard just continued to stare, and the Chugach shrugged and put the case away, settling back on his huge tail to wait. Gypsy rolled his eyes and turned to watch the crowd.
Eventually the other Acolyte returned and whispered to the big guard and several others. Finally he sauntered over to them.
“The High Priestess will see you,” he told them, “but not until after the services, which are due to start any minute now. Please wait until then.”
Marquoz sighed. “How long will these services take?”
“Usually two hours,” the Acolyte replied. “They are quite inspiring, and with this crowd should prove an experience that will move mountains.” His eyes shone. “I have been with them since the beginning, you know,” he added proudly.
The dragon snorted, then turned to Gypsy. “I wonder if there’s any place left in this dump to get a drink?”
Gypsy shrugged. “Probably not, but it’s worth a try.”
“We’ll be back,” Marquoz promised, “in two hours or so.”
As it happened they did find a little bar open; the proprietor was a steadfast materialist who kept railing to his only two customers about how the cult was a plot by the ruling classes to further oppress the masses.
In spite of their distaste for the man’s poorly reasoned polemics, the dragon cop and his strange human friend remained in the bar until almost a half-hour after they noted the first crowds departing the square. Finally Marquoz stood up and started for the door. “Well, time to go find out if somebody who asks for favors then cools the heels of the person she wants a favor from likes that treatment herself,” he said cheerfully.
The bartender broke off his discourse. “Hey! Wait a minute, you two! You owe me for the drinks!”
Gypsy turned and smiled. “Why, I’m surprised at you, sir. Oppressing the masses like that by asking for something as common and distasteful as money. The root of all evil, you know.”
“What’re you? Some kinda anarchist creep?” the bartender sneered, reaching under the bar. “Pay up or I seal the door and we wait for the cops.”
The Chugach stopped, reached into his jerkin, and pulled out a folding wallet. “But, dear sir, I am the police,” he pointed out.
They were outside before the bartender could decide whether or not to risk it.