Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  As she watched, the stone seemed to form features, eyes focused in her direction. The dark, wet lips moved:

  “Virginia,” it said, “the main erosion occurs upon eastern slopes, partly as a function of wind direction, partly from the angles and drainage of the slopes themselves, predicated upon events past.”

  “Markon!” she said.

  “Yes.” The stone changed shape now, growing into a life-sized statue as the genius loci continued their conversation. “The wind direction is determined partly by temperature differentials between this and six major and eleven minor areas, the coastal pair and that containing Lake

  Triad being most prominent. Have you had a fruitful journey, thus far?”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “I’ve always found your realm particularly fascinating.”

  “Why, thank you. What of my neighbor Kordalis’s?”

  “It’s interesting. But the rapid spread of wildfire vine tends to crash the botanical cycles over-frequently.”

  “I feel it is because of the floral coloration. She is over-fond of yellow.”

  “I never considered it from the standpoint of aesthetic preference on the part of a genius loci.”

  “Oh, yes. It is a consideration you should not neglect among the younger ones.”

  “The older ones are beyond that sort of thing?”

  “No. But you will, in general, find them to have developed better judgment. On the other hand, you will find some whose taste never improves.”

  “Would you care to name some of these?”

  “Certainly not. That would be very petty of me. I am sure you are capable of forming your own opinions.”

  She smiled and wiped her face on her sleeve.

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  The features flowed again.

  “There is a need—” Markon stated, and the face began to fade. Then, “No. My world will hardly be destroyed if I do not respond,” it said. The expression returned to the stone, smiling faintly, briefly. “I see you so seldom, Virginia. How have you been?”

  “Very well, thanks,” she replied. “And from the look of the land, the same might be said for you.”

  The stone swayed forward and back. The being had nodded.

  “No epic battles with my neighboring spirits of place,” he answered, “if that is what you mean. Those days seem very remote, a thing of beginnings.”

  “I never even heard of them.”

  “They are not a part of common knowledge, now I think on it. So that could not have been your true question.”

  “No, it was not. But I am fascinated by it. This must have to do with the transition from pure programming to independent evolution in Virtu, both near its establishment. I’d never heard of the wars of the genü loci, though.”

  “I do not understand this talk of something called Virtu. There is only the world. What else can there be? And yes, we fought for control of our pieces of it in the days after creation, when the place was not yet fully formed. There were alliances, betrayals, glorious victories, ignominious defeats. They were great days, but in truth I am glad that they are gone. One can grow tired of living heroically. True, individual feuds and vendettas do still sometimes occur, but these are as nothing beside the conflicts of the unsolid days. I have not engaged in one for some time, and that is fine with me.”

  “Fascinating. Has anyone official—such as myself—ever recorded these matters?”

  “I can only speak for myself, and I have not given this information. The others of my acquaintance tend to be as close as me, however, when dealing with mobile sentients.”

  “Then why do you tell me?”

  “I have known you for some time, Virginia, and you told me of your blindness and paralysis from an untreatable neurological condition. I don’t suppose you speak often of it, either. It is good that you have two bodies.”

  “Well, I’d rather be here than there. But it might be good for you to have your reminiscences of those times remembered, to preserve them.”

  “Nothing is lost so long as one mind remembers.”

  “It might be good to share them. Design theoreticians could learn a lot from them.”

  “I am not here to teach them. I am no friend of the designers.”

  “It might help them to do better jobs in the future.”

  “I do not want any jobs done in my territory. Or anyplace else, for that matter. They had their chance. They are done. They are not welcome here.”

  “I only meant it as an increase of general knowledge.”

  “Enough!” The face twisted into a scowl. “I would talk of it no more!”

  “As you would, Markon.”

  “Yes. As I would. Shall I summon my elemental servants to dance for you?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Water rose from the ground and met the waters falling from the sky. They formed themselves into glistening bodies, faceless, sexless. Beside them, heavier figures, of mud, rose and took form. Winds began to lash the leaves. From openings in the earth flames leaped up, began to sway, to bifurcate. The winds picked up numerous bits of detritus, formed it into debris devils.

  “How strange and how lovely,” she said as the figures came loose from their points of origin and began to move about.

  “Few, if any, of your kind have seen it,” he said. “Come sit by me and watch. I will make it drier and warmer here.”

  She rose and went to seat herself beside him. The figures began to move more quickly. Shadows danced within them.

  * * *

  Arthur Eden returned from a long sojourn in Virtu. Departing the church’s transfer facility, he took public transportation through a chaotic series of changes about town, coming at last to one of his homes. Partway there, his stomach began to rumble, active again following its long rest. The first thing he did on entering his apartment was to order a meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, fruit juice, coffee. As his kitchen unit labored to comply, he stripped and stepped into his shower. There, amid sizzling jets, he relived the week’s apprenticeship—called “claiming the program”—a simple exercise in the manipulation of local reality required of all initiates in the lowest grade of priesthood. He recalled the mental movement, the reaching, the capture of forms, the acceptance of spaces… It had been fun, playing the ritualized, programmed games. No way to lose, of course. Everyone who participated became a minor adept by the course’s end. He would have to give it an entire chapter, as a reinforcement of a mindset. Presumably, the higher ones functioned in the same fashion. It didn’t really explain the rare carryovers. But then, they might have involved latent psi powers stimulated by all the attention. The faithful were required to report such powers’ appearance under pain of excommunication for noncompliance.

  He toweled himself dry and donned a pair of purple pajamas, a green-and-blue paisley dressing gown, a battered pair of brown, fleece-lined leather slippers. He reviewed messages and headlines as he ate. There was another long letter from Dr. V. Danton, somewhere in the asteroid belt, taking issue with the piece wherein he’d suggested that the Elishite religion was not exportable—and hence, was atavistic—because of its necessary linkage to Virtu here on Earth. Danton had maintained that Virtu itself was unnecessary for the functioning of the creed as a true religion, arguing that its doctrines alone were sufficient for this. While Eden wondered whether it would hold up without the splash of virtual reinforcement, he had to concede that there might be sufficient substance there to maintain it. He wondered whether Danton were himself an Elishite.

  He thought again of his own status with regard to the Church. To them, he was Emmanuel Davis, a research librarian. Davis even had an apartment in another part of town. But he had wanted to be in his own place tonight, to work on his notes while he was still fresh on the material. If they learned of his dual identity his membership would be terminated immediately, he knew. On the other hand, he was certain he never would have been accepted as a member in the first place, let alone as a candida
te for the priesthood, had they been aware of his standing as a religious scholar. Especially not had they known of his intention to treat them as a subject. Now, his duplicity had been solely in the cause of truth. He’d no intention of publishing secret rituals or expounding esoteric bits of doctrine. His interest lay in developing the sociology of the growth of the new religion.

  He had spent months documenting the Davis persona before approaching the Elishites for religious instruction. Davis’s identity had been strong enough to pass any initial investigation they might have conducted. He had also provided Davis with more than ordinary reasons for travel. And he checked into Davis’s quarters often, to respond to messages both spurious and bonafide, for Davis actually labored in the vineyards of research. Davis also had a horde of relations and friends with whom he visited at the drop of a hat. So far, there had been no indication that Davis had ever aroused unusual scrutiny from any quarter.

  He wondered, though. If that identity were penetrated, he wished to be certain that the deception could never be traced to him. Perhaps he should add a second layer to Davis, complicating his life, providing confusion in the event of deep scrutiny. Yes, that seemed a good idea. He would work out details, begin installing it soon.

  He forced himself to eat slowly, savoring every mouthful. His stomach growled happily, and he smiled and took a drink of juice. The entire exercise would probably be redundant, he reflected. For even if he somehow made the Elishites’ shit list, what could they really do to him? Take legal action if he had violated a law. Excommunicate him and ostracize him if they could not hurt him in the courts.

  He wondered, though, at the volatility of emotions in the followers of religions, never having felt such feelings himself. He supposed that if his study aroused sufficient ire there might be death threats and such from the laity rather than the clergy, and perhaps someone would vandalize Davis’s apartment. He might actually be physically assaulted, if recognized as Davis. He had not thought of these earlier, but suddenly they were there. As he sipped his coffee and considered the more fanatical aspects of religions, he saw that believers were always harder on their own, particularly those deemed apostate, than ever they were on outsiders.

  Over his second cup of coffee it seemed even more possible. When his book finally came out it would be readily apparent that its author had been for a time a member. An effort would be made to identify the individual he had been. Fortunately, this was years away. He hadn’t even begun writing the volume yet, and it would be some time before he did. Time enough to get in a lot more work on covering his tracks. Yes, Davis definitely needed more layers to his existence, more complexity, blind alleys, extra identities within his own—confusion. Any trail that might lead to Arthur Eden would be thoroughly muddied. It was good that there was so much time in which to do it.

  He began considering the ways. The only thing he could think of that might be on par with what he was going to do would be to develop a virt power that transferred and not report it. They liked to keep track of their adepts. They did not like freelance psis. He wondered, though, what they could really do about it. A person had a right to join or quit any religion he cared to. And he’d never heard of any way to recall a virt power. It was just something you learned, and once you had it, it was yours. Then he wondered what they might plan on doing with their human psis in Verite. He’d never heard of any real activity here in that area.

  Was there a way to strip one of such a power? Or a way to control it? To counter it? After a week of working on his telekinetic reflexes in Virtu, this lay upon his mind, though it was more of a game there, a matter of connecting with that function’s in-place programs and learning their uses. Whether that would actually help here—and how it might help—seemed anyone’s guess.

  He filed some correspondence, trashed the rest. He scrolled his personal newspaper and caught up on the world’s doings in his absence. Then he mixed himself a stiff drink and took it to bed with him, along with his voice pad to which he told all his recollections and dictated conclusions, fresh ideas, new assumptions. For a while after, he cast them all into his near-elegant prose.

  Then he drowsed, and drowsing dreamed. At some point he recalled a thing he should have recorded and his hand moved to the table where he had laid the pad.

  He felt the pad slip away, tip.

  Then his eyes were open and he was leaning forward, groping. His mind rushed into the past week’s exercise pattern.

  The pad hung suspended, five inches below tabletop level.

  He stared for several moments. Then, slowly, he reached out and took hold of it.

  “I am the walrus,” he said.

  FIVE

  The diagnostic unit weighed her and took her pulse, blood pressure, and brain wave profile immediately when she sat in it. It took several moments longer to digest a few milliliters of blood.

  Set for voice response, it answered her then:

  “Madam, you are pregnant.”

  “You are mistaken,” she said.

  A moment passed. Then, “Diagnosis confirmed,” it reported.

  “You must be malfunctioning.”

  “Unlikely,” it responded. “I am very new, and I was fully tested at the factory.”

  “There is a reason you came with a full year’s warranty at no extra charge,” she said.

  “Yes, because it is a gesture on which they seldom have to pay. I can provide you with the number to call for televaluation.”

  “All right. Let’s have it.”

  Later, the service tech, who insisted on eyeballing the unit in virt, shook his head.

  “There’s nothing wrong with it. It tests perfectly,” he said.

  “But I can’t be pregnant!”

  He glanced at her, smiled faintly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It just doesn’t work that way,” she said.

  He shook his head.

  “I’d better not ask you what you mean,” he said. “But, believe me, there’s no product liability involved. What you decide to do with the information is, of course, your own affair.”

  She nodded as he made his farewell and went out like a light.

  She wandered the castle’s high halls thinking of children. Shadows slipped about her and drafts stirred curtains and tapestries. Small things scuttled, scratching, across rafters. And what was that other sound?

  She wondered at the impossibility of it. The mating of Virtu and Verite was always sterile, had to be sterile. It was a part of the way the worlds worked. There was no room for negotiation with principles. She could not be pregnant. She halted and regarded herself in a wonderfully warped mirror, where a slight side-to-side movement made her left cheek look as if she were chewing gum. She amused herself with the effect each time she passed.

  What had happened between her passing in Virtu and her reassembly in Deep Fields?

  The sound came again, musical, metallic. Whatever else was involved, the Lord of the Lost had been able to send her reembodied self across the interface to become a genuine resident of Verite. And by way of the scenic route, at that. Might that change also have included a susceptibility to impregnation in her new home? How long had she been in Verite now? Six months? A year? It was hard getting used to the way time worked in this place.

  Again—and nearer now—that sound. Was it from the small room to the left or the little corridor beyond it? She slowed, glanced into the room as she came to it. Nothing. She stepped inside.

  At her back, she heard a small sound. Turning, she beheld behind her in the hallway the shadowy figure of a small man in a ragged tunic and breeches, bearded, a chain about his ankle.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He paused in midmoan and turned his head, as if studying her.

  “Who—are you?” she repeated.

  He uttered something incomprehensible but vaguely familiar. She shook her head.

  He repeated it. It sounded something like, “Dinna ken.”

  “You don’
t know who you are?”

  “Nae.” Then there followed another sentence which almost slipped into place. She worked her analysis programs around his accent. The next time he spoke she was able to update and edit his words:

  “Too long,” he said, “down memory’s dim path. Name’s forgotten, deeds unsung.”

  “What were your deeds?”

  “Crusader,” he replied. “Outremer. Many battles.”

  “How did you end up—here?”

  “Family feud. Mine lost. Prisoner, long time. Darkness.”

  “Your enemies?”

  “Gone. Gone. Different now, this place. Fell down, went away. But its spirit remains. Wandered the ghost castle, I did, still do. Me and others from days gone. It’s here, in the shell of the new one. Sometimes I see it, others I don’t. Fading, like me. Now, though, your brightness. Good. Used to be I’d wander and it would fade. High in the air then, me, and afraid of heights. Stay. Better wandering now. Your name, m’lady?”

  “Ayradyss,” she replied.

  “To you and your bairn-to-be well-met. There’s a banshee been watching you.”

  “A banshee? What’s that?”

  “Noisy spirit. Sees bad things coming and howls when she does.”

  “I heard a howling last night.”

  “Yes. She was about it again.”

  “What will the bad thing be?”

  He shrugged and his chain rattled.

  “Banshees tend to be generalists rather than specialists when it comes to their announcements.”

  “It doesn’t seem a very useful function then.”

  “Banshees are more for atmosphere than utility.”

  “I’ve only heard you occasionally, and this is the first time I’ve seen you. Where do ghosts go when they’re not haunting?”

  “I’m nae sure. I guess it’s sort of like dreaming. Sort of. But it’s a place, places, pieces. Past jumbled together with new things. But then so is waking, often. We’re more awake when there are people around, like now.”

  She shook her head.