05. Twilight at the Well of Souls - The Legacy of Nathan Brazil Read Online Free
Author: Jack L. Chalker
the Museum of Hakazit Culture sometime and see the dioramas and displays about it. But there's nothing much now. None of the surrounding hexes could live in the radiations of the day, and they're not up to tackling us even if there was a reason." He shrugged as they continued walking to the palace.
That was it, of course, Marquoz realized. A warriorpeople created for a nightmare planet that they had conquered here, thereby proving that they could make it out there in the real universe. But that had been during the Markovian experiment, who knew how many millions of years ago, gone now, done now, leaving the descendants bred for battle but with nothing left to fight.
It would create a strange, stagnant culture, he decided. He understood now what sort of entertainment probably went on at the People's Stadium, for example. So a rigid sort of dictatorship would be necessary to control a population made up of such muscular death machines—although he wondered how any regime could sustain itself for long if the people truly got pissed off at it. Maybe they were so accustomed to the situation they never considered the alternatives, he speculated to himself. Or maybe, deep down, they knew there was only one way to keep the place from breaking down into carnage and savagery—as it ultimately would, inevitably, anyway. This dictatorship was just buying time, but it was the best justification for a dictatorship he could remember.
The palace proved to have surprisingly few people in it. He had been conditioned by the Com to expect a huge bureaucracy, but only three officials were in evidence in the entry hall, and he had the impression that two of them were waiting to see somebody or other. Commander Zhart introduced him to the one who seemed to belong there and bid him good luck and farewell.
The official looked him over somewhat critically. "You are an Entry?" he asked at last.
Marquoz nodded. "Yes. Newly arrived in your fair land."
The official ignored the flattery. "What were you before?"
"A Chugach," Marquoz told him. "That would mean very little here."
"More than you think," the other responded. "Although we're both speaking Hakazit, I wear a translator surgically implanted in my brain. It translated your own term into a more familiar one. There's a bit of telepathy or something involved, although it'd be easier if you were wearing one, too. I got a picture of what your people were like and I recognize them. Here on the Well World they are called the Ghlmonese."
"Ghlmonese," Marquoz repeated, fascinated. His racial ancestors . . . Somehow that had never occurred to him. He decided he would like to visit there someday, if he could.
"You told Commander Zhart that you worked mostly on alien worlds in your old life," the official continued. "Glathrielites and Dillians mainly. Naked apes and centaurs. Very unlike your own kind. You said you were a spy?"
Startled, Marquoz realized suddenly that somehow he had been bugged since being discovered on the surface by a military patrol. This explained Zhart's chum-miness in contrast to the coldness the others showed— but it didn't really matter. What mattered was that he should have anticipated this and had not. He hoped he wasn't becoming old and senile.
"A spy, yes," he admitted, realizing, too, that this individual was some sort of psychologist, possibly for the inevitable secret police. "You understand that my people were discovered by the others. They were an aggressive, warlike lot with a strong sense of cultural superiority that matched their real technological superiority. We hadn't developed space travel, and most of our weaponry was museum vintage, even to us, except in sport. They had a big interworld council, of course, but we were entitled to only one seat and one vote as a one-world culture—hardly a position of influence. They needed somebody out there, traveling around, observing trends, attitudes, threats, and possibilities, and reporting same. A lot of
That was it, of course, Marquoz realized. A warriorpeople created for a nightmare planet that they had conquered here, thereby proving that they could make it out there in the real universe. But that had been during the Markovian experiment, who knew how many millions of years ago, gone now, done now, leaving the descendants bred for battle but with nothing left to fight.
It would create a strange, stagnant culture, he decided. He understood now what sort of entertainment probably went on at the People's Stadium, for example. So a rigid sort of dictatorship would be necessary to control a population made up of such muscular death machines—although he wondered how any regime could sustain itself for long if the people truly got pissed off at it. Maybe they were so accustomed to the situation they never considered the alternatives, he speculated to himself. Or maybe, deep down, they knew there was only one way to keep the place from breaking down into carnage and savagery—as it ultimately would, inevitably, anyway. This dictatorship was just buying time, but it was the best justification for a dictatorship he could remember.
The palace proved to have surprisingly few people in it. He had been conditioned by the Com to expect a huge bureaucracy, but only three officials were in evidence in the entry hall, and he had the impression that two of them were waiting to see somebody or other. Commander Zhart introduced him to the one who seemed to belong there and bid him good luck and farewell.
The official looked him over somewhat critically. "You are an Entry?" he asked at last.
Marquoz nodded. "Yes. Newly arrived in your fair land."
The official ignored the flattery. "What were you before?"
"A Chugach," Marquoz told him. "That would mean very little here."
"More than you think," the other responded. "Although we're both speaking Hakazit, I wear a translator surgically implanted in my brain. It translated your own term into a more familiar one. There's a bit of telepathy or something involved, although it'd be easier if you were wearing one, too. I got a picture of what your people were like and I recognize them. Here on the Well World they are called the Ghlmonese."
"Ghlmonese," Marquoz repeated, fascinated. His racial ancestors . . . Somehow that had never occurred to him. He decided he would like to visit there someday, if he could.
"You told Commander Zhart that you worked mostly on alien worlds in your old life," the official continued. "Glathrielites and Dillians mainly. Naked apes and centaurs. Very unlike your own kind. You said you were a spy?"
Startled, Marquoz realized suddenly that somehow he had been bugged since being discovered on the surface by a military patrol. This explained Zhart's chum-miness in contrast to the coldness the others showed— but it didn't really matter. What mattered was that he should have anticipated this and had not. He hoped he wasn't becoming old and senile.
"A spy, yes," he admitted, realizing, too, that this individual was some sort of psychologist, possibly for the inevitable secret police. "You understand that my people were discovered by the others. They were an aggressive, warlike lot with a strong sense of cultural superiority that matched their real technological superiority. We hadn't developed space travel, and most of our weaponry was museum vintage, even to us, except in sport. They had a big interworld council, of course, but we were entitled to only one seat and one vote as a one-world culture—hardly a position of influence. They needed somebody out there, traveling around, observing trends, attitudes, threats, and possibilities, and reporting same. A lot of
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