The only other place such things would work would be here, in Zone, and so that’s where he remained. His home hex of Ulik didn’t mind; as they saw it, they benefited two ways. Their ambassador was the most powerful and crooked (but not corrupt—there is a big difference) politician on the Well World. As such, Ulik benefited greatly from the fear and respect Ortega generated. And, of course, they never had to worry about such a powerful personage as Ortega ever coming home to muck up the local works. He could not leave. That would break the spell, and he was very old.
And so they let him rant and rave, and let him tell them what to do the few times some crisis or another came up. And they hated him for it. He knew it, but really didn’t give a damn.
“Now, then, Ambassadors, now that we’ve had our little prologue,” he continued sweetly when he knew by his broad and long experience that they were back, “let’s take a rational look at this. You have now seen what unilateral action does; it gives the enemy more converts and more power. Even had the attempt on Chang succeeded, the involvement of the Colonel alone would have been enough to guarantee their emnity—and never mind the murders of those innocents. What’s worse, the Colonel has done an awful lot of favors and undertaken an awful lot of work for many of us. Some of you, firmly voting with us not long ago, are now wavering toward neutrality, and we’ve all seen what that road means. Others of you are undertaking pretty vicious pogroms against Entries, despite our agreement not to do so. Well, it’s your neck. But if you agree to a common policy and then violate it, well, what chance do we have on the battlefield? Make up your minds which way you will go. You are either our friends, which means you agree to work as part of a coordinated whole and abide by its policies and decisions, or you are our enemies. Is there anyone who wishes to change over to the enemy list? Speak now. We will not overlook breaches in the future.”
Nobody spoke.
After waiting as long as he thought reasonable, Ortega sighed and resumed. “Very well, then. The killing stops. Now. Think of them as hostages, but not as hunter’s quarry. Not now, anyway.”
“All pretty well for you to say,” an acid-sounding voice responded. “We have no room for such newcomers, and no way to treat them other than as fertilizer. Should we ship them to you?”
The Ulik thought it over. “Why not? There are a number of hexes with open expanses, even some where the entire surface isn’t used. These would make pretty good camps, which could be managed by very few guards. Mix up the species and they’ll be a mishmash of alien creatures who can’t even talk to one another. How about the ambassador from Kronfushun? Kent Lucas, you there?”
“I’m here,” a voice responded, sounding none too thrilled. Kronfushuns were creatures of extreme Arctic cold, odd, whirling disks that skipped across the frozen ice and could not live in temperatures approaching zero.
“Kent, you’re an Entry from the Com, as I know. You’re best to handle this. Can you put together a committee—Entries at or near our level, if possible— to see to that?”
“I’ll give it a try,” Lucas responded, still sounding none too enthusiastic.
Ortega couldn’t blame him, but nonetheless felt that a recent Com Entry would tend to be far more sympathetic to saving lives, particularly the lives of their old race.
“On the military front, we’ve organized into wet and dry military zones across the whole hemisphere,” he told them. “Mobilization is proceeding fairly well, particularly in the critical areas—the routes away from Glathriel, where we’re sure the enemy will head first. You water hexes and boating cultures are particularly important now. If Brazil tries to run by sea, we really don’t have anything like a navy to stop him, and there’s no time to build one. But if we know he’s on a ship, and where that ship is, we can certainly arrange to sink it without problems, then pick Brazil off the inevitable iceberg that will be conveniently floating by near him, even if it’s in a tropical hex. Things will turn our way shortly, the staff meeting means they’re getting ready to move. When we see where they move, after converging on Ambreza-Glathriel, their logical first move, it’ll be all our way after that.”
“You really believe that?” somebody asked.
“I do,” he responded firmly. “And you’d better, too.”
“He outsmarted us to get here,” somebody else noted. “What makes you think he won’t pull any more fast ones?”
“He very well might,” Ortega admitted. “I have no idea. That’s what we have to watch out for. Remember, though, we’ll have people undercover with their forces as well. Once their plan starts, it’ll become clear what they’re doing.”
It was mostly a pep talk, and after he said his piece he let them rant and rave and worry at each other while he tuned them out. Somehow, he thought grumpily, it doesn’t really seem to matter any more.
He reached down and pulled out a sheet of crumpled paper from a desk drawer, smoothed it out, and read it again. It had been put on his desk not long ago, while he had stepped out to the bathroom. There were no signs that anybody had entered or left the office, but there it had been. He looked at it again and again, as if it were some impossible ghost from the past— which, in a sense, it was. It was written in Com language, in a clear hand, with what looked like a quill or fountain pen.
Dear Serge,
Sorry to have missed you on the way in, but you’ll understand why I didn’t stop to chat. I wanted to get this off to you first to stop all the unnecessary killings of those Nathan Brazil copies. I’m in. You don’t have to do that any more. As you might have been told, I’m not doing this by choice, either. Frankly, the only real appeal all this has is that it promises some fun, a little change from the ordinary—but you’d understand that, wouldn’t you?
I don’t understand you, I’ll admit that. It seems to me that what you want to do to me by force you have done to yourself—put yourself in a velvet prison. That isn’t the old Serge I used to tear up bars on dozens of worlds with. Not even the old S.O.B. who took me for a sucker the last time I was here. If you want out of that prison, then come and join me if you can. Contrary to what you believe, the spell won’t suddenly turn you into a thousand-year-old wizened corpse. You’ll just pick up where you left off. So if you want to be in on the big finish, just come on out at the right time. If you make it into the Well with me, I can even fix your problems. You have my word on it.
You doubted my story about being God when most people swallowed it whole. We’re two of a kind, you and me. We understand each other. But whether I’m God or not, I know how to work these damned machines. That you know, so you know I can make good. Think it over. Even if you’ve changed so much we don’t meet again, well, it’s always a pleasure to match wits with you. But if you go against me this time, I’m going to whip you so bad that that long tail of yours will tie itself into knots of its own accord.
My best, regardless. This is going to be fun, isn’t it? Like old times… And in that spirit, I am, as always,
He held it there, staring at it over and over, then finally reached into his desk again, came out with a box, some matches, and a small ceramic tray. Striking a match, he lit the letter and held it until he had to drop it, flaming brightly, into the tray. Soon it was completely consumed. Only some small bits of ash still with traces of writing remained, and they were easily crushed into powder.