Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “No one left, Doctor,” the AP said politely. “The rest can be handled by automata.”

  “Thank you, Delia,” Lydia said. “I’m going to slip out the back way.”

  “Very good. Have a pleasant evening.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Returning to her apartment, Lydia saw with guilty pleasure that Alice was out. It was not that she didn’t love her daughter or enjoy her company, but Alice was so intense and, by necessity, Lydia had been a single parent.

  Her own parents had been helpful, but they were so over-protective (having never been able to forget the peculiar fashion in which their grandchild had been conceived) and yet so inclined to spoil the girl, that Lydia had spent some of her money for an AP nursemaid and had taken on herself the full responsibility for making certain that Alice did not become egocentric and asocial as was often the case with children left too much in the care of APs.

  She supposed that she had done well enough. Alice, admittedly, was a peculiar young woman, but she cultivated her own resources and, as Link, had already made some contributions to society about which her mother felt ridiculous pride. Sometimes Lydia wished that Alice spent more time with people her own age, but then she would recall how during her own long-ago virt holiday the thing she had craved most of all was privacy.

  Now, luxuriating in her empty apartment, she left a note for Alice, then made a light meal of salad and bread. Nibbling on the heel of the loaf, she walked into her suite. There, in a small room, was one of the indulgences that her parents had insisted that she have—a private virt transfer couch of the latest model.

  Given her experience with the public transfer facility, Lydia had not protested, although she was quite certain that Ambry, rather than any flaw in the transfer facility’s equipment, had been responsible for her “disappearance” and ensuing pregnancy. Nor did she worry terribly about the transfer facility having been forced to pay damages. Through one of fate’s little ironies, they had been insured by Hazzard Insurance, so Abel and Carla’s own company had provided the seed fund for the annuity that would, one day soon, make their granddaughter ridiculously wealthy.

  Lydia Hazzard fully approved of irony. As far as she was concerned, it was one of the things that real life did far better than art.

  Stripping, she placed the transfer couch links against various key points and went to find her husband. Her last thought as the drugs carried her across the abyss between the universes was that all those who pitied her for her solitary state would be amazed at how rich a married life she actually had.

  Irony again.

  * * *

  She strolled to a site behind the North Wind, a place that was on no one’s maps of Virtu and whose resident spirit arrogantly refused to acknowledge any power but its own. This genius loci, however, was friendly to them both and directed her (by means of a rolling pebble, a bird hopping from branch to branch, a sudden bursting of a climbing rose into flower) to Wolfer Martin D’Ambry’s side.

  He was tending to his bagpipes when she came up to him and, hearing her footsteps, put them aside with unaffected joy.

  “Lydia!”

  They embraced and, as she rested her head against his shoulder, Lydia thought about how little Ambry had changed since she had first met him. His beard remained neat, though she never saw him trim it, and he maintained his preference for clothing of a rough, archaic style.

  She, however, had permitted her virt persona to resemble her RT self. In the years that had passed, her apparent age had caught up to his. If things proceeded in a similar fashion, it would surpass it—although she had reached the years where change was small and gradual. Idly, she wondered if someday her vanity would cause her to arrest those changes—at least in Virtu.

  Eventually, Ambry released her, though he still kept hold of her hand, and seated her on a rock beside him. Beneath his delight at her arrival, Lydia could see the thing that had changed in the years since their first meeting. When she had met him, Wolfer Martin D’Ambry had been a figure of mystery, but essentially a carefree sort, content to play his bagpipes and win friends among the genius loci of the wilder sites.

  Now, worry darkened the eyes beneath the heavy brows. He still played his pipes, but with care, for, as he had confided in her, he was a renegade from a being whose power was great enough to drag him back into service if it could lock onto him. Once, she had wondered aloud why he did not simply give up his pipes if this was what would draw his old master to him. Ambry had looked shocked then and had told her that he was the Piper—if he did not play he could cease to exist.

  Hating his distress, Lydia did not question further. Virtu held mysteries she was only beginning to understand, despite her initiation into secrets that most Veriteans could only guess at.

  “I am glad that you came to me, love,” Ambry said. “More so than usual.”

  “Why?”

  I am of a mind to consult a physician.” Can you grow ill? I have never considered that. What is wrong?”

  Ambry scratched his left jawline, just above his beard. It struck Lydia as a shy gesture, telegraphing a need for a sort of comfort that she had not seen in him before. She put her arms around him and squeezed, just as she might have squeezed Alice when Alice was small. He laughed, deep within his throat, but she could tell that he was pleased. “I have been finding gaps within my memory.” He hastened to clarify. “Not gaps such as a failing computer program might develop—at least I do not think so. I have not seen the moire—the dark warping— that often presages a fatal deficiency in a proge.”

  Lydia felt odd to hear her lover describe himself in such a fashion, but she kept her peace. Ambry continued.

  “I come to myself in places to which I do not recall traveling. Sometimes I am walking with a cane. Once I found myself laboring over an odd piece of equipment in our old cottage.”

  Frowning, Lydia dragged her hands through her hair, a habit that in Verite often left her looking disheveled. Here the genius loci sent a zephyr to set it straight.

  “If I heard a story like this from a patient in RT, my first inclination would be to ask if he had been experimenting with any new drugs. Virtu has its analogues of such—have you tried any?”

  Ambry shook his head. “Nothing but the dark stout I have always enjoyed.”

  “Another possibility is a mental disorder,” Lydia said, more hesitantly, trying to maintain her physician’s detachment. “Is there a history of such in your… would you call it a family?”

  Wolfer Martin D’Ambry tilted his head to one side, stroked her hand.

  “There are indeed those native to Virtu who belong to what can only be considered families. Reproduction proges are as old as the first simple copy programs. I, however, have never known my origin. I have no memory of not being, yet after a point, I have difficulty retrieving data in any organized fashion. Normally, it takes an event like my old master seeking to reclaim me to remind me that I have ever done more than play my pipes, sail my boat with its red sails, and love my Lady Lydia.”

  Lydia glared at a rabbit that appeared to be listening too attentively to their conversation. It loped off.

  “So there could be a… flaw in your base programming. Are there diagnostic programs we could run?”

  “There are. I have never used one, but we should be able to find a discreet locus that is so equipped.”

  “Then that is what we need to do. If you are doing things that you do not recall, perhaps there is something in your older memories that is being stimulated by your recent flight. Do you remember how before Alice was born we visited with a woman who claimed to live at Castle Donnerjack?”

  “Of course. How could I forget? The implications of her coming terrified me into flight.”

  “The Donnerjack Institute is one of the few organizations that holds interests in both medical science and virtual engineering. What do you think about consulting them?”

  Wolfer Martin D’Ambry hesitated.

  “I have lived
in isolation for so long that going to such a public place is almost frightening.”

  “More frightening than coming to yourself in a strange place with no memory of how you came there?”

  “No.”

  “Ambry, we can try a smaller automated diagnostic center if you wish, but it may not be equipped to deal with your difficulty any more than the automated med-techs in RT are equipped to deal with all medical conditions.”

  She paused, having never considered her husband’s financial situation. In Virtu he always seemed to have what he needed, but now that she thought about it, he lived fairly simply—off the land, in a sense.

  “If you’re worried about sufficient eft, Ambry, I have more than enough.”

  He grinned at her. “My rich wife. I did well for myself, did I not? I spirited away a pretty girl and found her to be brilliant, talented, and from the best family.”

  “But not so pretty,” she said playfully. This was a game they had played before. She knew from his smile that he would take her advice and go to the Donnerjack Institute—the understanding was unspoken between them but no less certain for all that.

  “Not so pretty?” Ambry pretended to be affronted. “With those eyes of green and a smile to break hearts? Pretty is not word enough to describe you, Lady Lydia.”

  She laughed and pulled him from their stony seat onto the wild flower-flecked meadow. He plucked an anemone and set it behind her ear and she wove a solemn purple grass stem into his beard. Beyond them, the North Wind blew stronger, making them safe.

  EIGHT

  To Jay’s great surprise, when they came to the train station, the Brass Babboon was waiting for them. Sleek, giving the impression of great speed even when motionless, it rested on the tracks, huffing lazy sparkler puffs from its stack. When it saw them, the grin permanently etched onto its babboon-faced front broadened. It chuckled, sparks lime and lilac flurrying forth to glitter and then vanish.

  “So you’re the Engineer’s son,” it said by way of greeting. “I can’t say that I would have known you anywhere, but there’s enough of old J. D. in you that I don’t doubt you’re who they claim.”

  Jay, who had counted on having some time in the station to prepare his speech, could hardly think what to say.

  “There is? Who claims? Did you really call my father J. D.?”

  “How do I answer all of that?” it asked, still good-natured. “Let’s see: Yes, you do bear your father some resemblance. There are those who knew old J. D., who have spoken of you since you began toddling about Virtu and some knew you for Donnerjack kin—though many did not know that you were his son. I did, though, since I was with him when J. D. battled Death for your freedom.”

  “And you called him ‘J. D.’ ” Jay said, fascinated by this irreverent treatment of his father, a person who had been presented to him as hero,

  as genius, even as tragic figure, but never as someone so human that lie might be nicknamed.

  “I did and he never quibbled, though perhaps even the Engineer might hesitate to quibble with one such as me.”

  The Brass Babboon punctuated this last with a cascade of sky rockets ending in a blue and silver chrysanthemum burst.

  “How did you know I would be coming here?” Jay asked.

  “To where else would a boy and a monkey ride the most ancient of phants guided by memory, curiosity, and a dog created by the Lord of Entropy?”

  “Mizar was created by Death?”

  “He was, and better proof was never seen that Entropy and Creation are poor bedfellows. The Lord of Deep Fields did better with your mother, but then he had some help there.”

  “He did? Who?”

  “You’re full of questions, J. D., Junior. Would you prefer me to call you just ‘Junior’?”

  “I’d prefer that you call me ‘Jay’ as my friends do.”

  “Arrogance and humility in one. Tastes like sweet and sour soup, you know. Rests oddly on the tongue, but the hankering for just a bit more remains.”

  Jay stared, letting the words roll off of his resisting mind. When he had imagined the Brass Babboon, he had imagined something dark and terrible, something fit to intimidate the Lord of the Lost. How could this peculiar and irreverent entity win him through to Deep Fields? Perhaps it had been created for just one use. Perhaps he should seek elsewhere for his passage.

  The Brass Babboon must have divined something of his indecision.

  “I’d guess you want to take passage on me and there’s one journey for which I became instant legend.” He paused, expectant.

  “The journey in which you carried my father into Deep Fields,” Jay said.

  “And out again alive,” the Brass Babboon added. “The fact that he returned is what most remember, though frankly, I think the Lord of Deep Fields was pleased enough to see us go.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “Can I or will I?”

  “Both, I guess.” Jay straightened, recalled his purpose, the courage that had melted from him at the train’s first words. “I suspect that you can. Will you?”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “A remission from your boredom.”

  “Who said I’m bored?”

  “I was just guessing. A creature of your power must have finished the tourist route long ago. Very well, if a remission from boredom is not enough, how about a chance to add to your legend?”

  The Brass Babboon farted cherry bombs.

  “I’m legend enough, but I could be convinced to carry you for the fun of it. Are the phant and the monkey coming?”

  “And Mizar.”

  “Hey! I always wanted to be a circus train. Climb aboard!”

  Jay glanced back and noticed that a flatbed, suitable for Tranto, had appeared among the boxcars and coal cars. A broad ramp slid out and the phant lumbered up, Mizar at his heels. Once they were aboard, the door to the front cab opened of its own accord. On the seat rested a striped engineer’s cap. Jay picked it up, hit it against his knee so that the dust flew.

  “That was your father’s,” the Brass Babboon said. “If you look around, there should be a red bandanna as well.”

  Jay found the bandanna, tied it around his neck. The cap was a perfect fit. He grinned at Dubhe.

  “All aboard!” the Brass Babboon howled. “All aboard for Deep Fields.”

  Jay took his place, Dubhe beside him. The monkey stretched a skinny arm and pulled the whistle.

  Jay shouted above the tumult. “Can we make a stop for strange attractors first?”

  “Consider it done,” the train replied, wheels turning rhythmically, increasing in speed. “I’m glad you reminded me.”

  Outside the cab, the landscape began to blur: arctic ice, jungle tangle, desert sand, plains flat and golden, mountains purple, green, white with snow. In each virt site, the genius loci muttered about the intrusion. None, needless to say, cared to do more than mutter.

  * * *

  On Main Street Virtu, the place from which many lesser sites— conference rooms, bowling alleys, boutiques, Roman baths, and skating rinks—could be accessed, Link Crain wandered, looking for a birthday present for her mother. The street was pleasantly crowded, designed for browsing anonymously without risking a sensation of claustrophobia.

  Stopping where a sidewalk vender had spread out a blanket displaying a variety of African pots and carved wooden fetishes, Link examined the wares. Intellectually, she knew that these were just scanned images of pieces that were no doubt stacked and crated in a warehouse in Verite, but the illusion was convincing. She could feel the roughness of the glaze on the piece she held, see the whorl of the potter’s fingerprints partially preserved in the clay. The mixture of artistry and error would appeal to Lydia, who never ceased to note that medicine was an art, not a science.

  As Link set the pot down and reached for another, she noticed a neat stack of tee-shirts off to one side. The plain white fabric was printed with a slogan in square black letters. Glancing at the vendor, Link remov
ed a shirt from the stack and shook it out. The words read: “Ginger Rogers Did Everything That Fred Astaire Did, Only She Did It Backwards And In High Heels.” On the back of the shirt was a simple, Art Deco style drawing of a man and a woman waltzing.

  “What’s this?” Link asked.

  “It’s a tee-shirt,” the vendor said, helpfully. “That slogan is very popular right now.”

  He gestured, and following his motion, Link noticed that several of the people sauntering along the sidewalk wore them as did many of the sidewalk vendors.

  “What do they cost?”

  “It’s cheap for a copyrighted product,” the vender replied. “Ten eft for Virtu, fifteen for hardcopy in Verite—the shirt is a hundred percent preshrunk cotton.”

  Her reporter’s senses alert to a possible story—pieces about fads and trends always sold well, especially if the writer could anticipate (and thus, to some extent, create) the fad.

  “I’ll take one of each,” Link said. “Is that first pot I was looking at a unique item?”

  “Of course, sir. As my sign says, everything here is handmade in one of the West African nations.”

  “I’ll take that pot, then.”

  “One pot and two shirts. A pleasure doing business with you, sir. Do you wish to wear your virt shirt now?”

  “No, just send the license and software along to the same address as you’re sending the hard goods.”

  “Very good. Have a good afternoon.”

  “You, too.”

  Link strolled on. She saw more of the tee-shirts as she walked. Impulsively, she hit her recall. Obviously, there was no time to be lost if she wanted to file this story first.

  * * *

  His brain a cloud of fury, Sayjak beat Svut with a branch he had torn from a nearby tree. Mechanically his arm rose and fell; Svut crumpled. As quickly as his fury had arisen, it faded. Sayjak glared at the assembled band of the People.