Quest for the Well of Souls - Jack L. Chalker [101]
"Not many survived, that's for sure," Renard noted. "Maybe three, four people at best. That's enough for this place to support. I wonder where they are?"
The weapons locker had been sealed shut by an energy weapon. Mavra had done that twenty-two years ago, and it was clear it hadn't been opened since. A few weapons were found scattered about, all discharged and useless.
Some time passed before Renard, who knew the world better than anyone else, discovered signs that someone had attempted to leave a message in a small room below the combination guests' quarters and library. The door had been broken in from the outside and whoever did it had fantastic strength because the ornate wooden doors were very thick. Inside Renard found signs of a struggle before the communications gear built into the far wall. A recording module was in place, and the panel still worked, so they anxiously crowded in as Renard ran it back to start.
"This was the monitoring room for Trelig's recording studio," he told them. "He sometimes brought in musicians for private sessions, and he'd listen here to what was being recorded. You can see the hundreds of modules in the wall case. Whatever happened, this module is the last one made here—and might tell us something."
It stopped, and Renard deftly manipulated the controls, then punched play. A screen flickered, and a realsound field enveloped them.
The face was that of a young woman, very attractive and soft, with a gentle face and voice.
"Gossyn!" Renard exclaimed. It was all coming back, after all these years.
"I am Gossyn of Estuado," she said, her voice so true, the projected holoimage so clear, that they felt as if they were peering through a doorway at her. "One of Antor Trelig's former slaves. I am leaving this record in case one of the ships that left here returns, as I expect them to. No matter—it's too late. This afternoon we gathered all of the weaponry in the main courtyard, keeping the guests back. We are all addicted to sponge, and without it we will die painfully, and by bits and pieces. I can feel it eating at me even as I speak. We, the last of Trelig's slaves, will not face that sort of death. When the weapons were gathered, the others stood among them, and I—" her voice broke, and tears appeared in her eyes—"I fired full beam with the rifle beside me. Nothing remains of them now but a brown spot. Soon I will place the rifle charge on feedback overload, and go as well—the last slave, the last weapon." She paused, overcome with emotion, and then continued.
"I do not care what becomes of the guests. They know that this little world can feed only a small number of them. I leave it to them, with the hope that, if it is Antor Trelig who returns, those who survive will somehow rip him slowly limb from limb, as befits a demon and a monster. I don't even know why I'm making this . . . except—oh, hell, I guess I don't want to die." She muffled a sob. "I'm only seventeen," she managed, and pushed forward, blanking out the picture.
Mavra sighed. "Might as well switch it off," she said, but, at that moment, the screen flickered to life again.
It was a different person now, a strong-looking woman of perhaps thirty dressed in a utility uniform. She was not terribly attractive, but something extraordinary was revealed in her face and movements.
She was terrified.
"Anyone! Oh, Lord! If you came back and got this far!" She stopped as a hard thud reverberated behind her. It was so realistic that all the listeners' heads turned toward the ruined door. The ghost of a moment was very real in the room.
She hurried. "He's crazy! Listen! Yesterday the guards destroyed the weapons and themselves. Then somebody started killing the rest." The sound of pounding was clear in the background, and she turned again, then back, getting frantic now.
"One of us—Belden, his name is. He's a plant. One of Trelig's people, put in with us as a spy. When his boss deserted him he went crazy—if he wasn't already."