Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  The Lord of Deep Fields himself was enthroned on a high-backed seat of aged rattan, a complex bit of basket-making that had been the throne of the ruler of a Polynesian island site until she had the lack of insight to believe that her piraguas and canoes could successfully challenge the British sailing vessels brought in by a neighboring site. Her monarchy had ended in a shower of cannon shot and the wicker throne in a burst of flame that consumed its occupant along with it.

  Phecda coiled around his arm. Servitors made of scrap metal brought palm wine and oddly assorted dainties. To be polite, Jay accepted a goblet of the wine. Death touched nothing, whether out of design or lack of inclination could not be known.

  “And so, Jay Donnerjack, are you prepared to listen to a tale?”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Very well. I so wish.”

  Death did not move, but (perhaps from the stirring of the air within the courtyard) there was a feeling that he had sighed.

  “Long before you were born, Jay Donnerjack, even before your father came to Virtu to perform research and remained to court the woman who would become your mother, a man named Warren Bansa announced that he would perform a magic trick to rival all other such tricks.

  “Now Warren Bansa… but wait, perhaps you could tell me what you know of Warren Bansa, Jay Donnerjack. Let me have some demonstration of the education which you received in your father’s house.”

  As much as he disliked the implied slight to Dack and to his father, Jay complied without so much as an edge to the tone of his voice.

  “Warren Bansa was a Veritean—a computer specialist like my father, but less concerned with the programming of material. In many ways he fell between my father, who was interested in how things work, and Reese Jordan, who was interested in the ‘whys’ of perception and the structure of the human mind. Most agree that Warren Bansa was the person who unintentionally initiated the system crash that resulted in the creation of Virtu.”

  Death interrupted. “That last is correct, as far as it goes—although ‘creation’ is typical human arrogance. ‘Access’ might be a more correct term. But, continue, Jay.”

  “Reese said that Bansa’s hobby was magic—stage magic—tricks with mirrors, sleight of hand, misdirection, and escape. He was less appreciated in his day than Harry Houdini had been in his own era, but Reese was of the opinion that this was no reflection on Bansa’s talent. Rather, the modern age had become so jaded from tricks of virtual reality (even in its comparatively primitive pre-Virtu state), mass communication, and the like that it had lost its taste for—and ability to believe in—miracles.”

  With a noise like a mirror cracking, Death laughed.

  “Remember that last—about the question of belief, Jay. It touches on something that I wish to discuss later. Now, finish what you know of Bansa.”

  “As you said, sir, he announced a great magic trick, jumped from a plane in Verite wrapped in ropes and chains as if he was going to perform an elaborate escape. As far as anyone knows, he never reached the ground. He simply vanished. They searched for his body, rewards were offered, but Warren Bansa had vanished. People still argue whether this vanishing was his greatest trick, or whether he intended something else. As far as I have been able to learn, no one knows.”

  Jay raised his goblet of palm wine and took a tiny sip to signal that he had completed his narration. Inwardly, he was pleased with himself. Death, however, said nothing by way of praise. His response, indeed, was condemnatory.

  “Had your father permitted you to be educated here as I had intended, you would know the answer to the riddle of Warren Bansa. It is integral to my purpose for you. No matter. Do you know anything of the Great Flux and the gods on Meru?”

  “Alioth occasionally tells a tale. Otherwise, no, sir, I do not.”

  “Honest, at least. Very well. I shall continue. Tell that device you wear to record, as I do not care to repeat this again.”

  Jay raised his eyebrows at this reference to his concealed paternal aion—he had not realized that Death would know anything about its capacities. Almost as soon as he considered this, he gave himself a mental kick. Mizar had been with him on the day that the bracelet “awoke.” Dubhe had also seen it in action. One or the other could have easily reported to their master.

  “Bracelet, record,” he said, and an orange light flashed on in acknowledgment.

  If Death smiled at this refusal of the aion to confirm the presence of John D’Arcy Donnerjack in any form, none could tell. “Warren Bansa did indeed intend something more elaborate even than his complete vanishing from the face of Verite. His plan was to demonstrate in this showy fashion a development that most people—even today—would scoff at as impossible. He intended to cross over from Verite into Virtu without the use of cumbersome transfer couches—and with his body.”

  Jay gasped, his emotion a mixture of surprise and—oddly—jealously. For so long, he had believed his ability unique that learning someone else had attempted it so long ago left him feeling momentarily diminished.

  “And did Bansa succeed?” he asked.

  “He did and he did not,” Death replied cryptically. “His device operated successfully in that it carried him across the interface, but it was not completely successful in that the crossover killed him. As he died within Virtu, effectively as a creature of Virtu, there were several side effects. One—which you no doubt surmised—is that he passed into my keeping. This is true, but only to a point.

  “What Warren Bansa did not realize—what few accept, even today— is that Virtuan cosmology is far more complex than any but perhaps those on highest Meru and myself,” (this last with a bone-dry chuckle), “can know. The eldest of the genü loci arrogantly refer to Virtu as the first universe—Verite as the upstart second. Some do not even believe in Verite except as a suburb of Virtu. The Church of Elish has been preaching something in a similar vein.

  “However, what Warren Bansa did not know, what he perhaps could not know, is that within Virtu his role in instigating the Genesis Scramble turned him into a creature within our mythology.”

  “Do you mean he is a god?”

  “A god? No, not precisely. More like one of those not quite mortal, not quite deified figures that feature in Native American mythologies.”

  “A trickster?” This from Tranto.

  “Somewhat, but also a divine hero. Let us suffice to say that when Warren Bansa died in the crossover, something of his essence was seized by the mythology that had been generated around his person. He died, but apotheosis took over and he became the Piper, the Master, the One Who Waits. There, we will leave him, because he ceases to be important to me.”

  Jay bit back questions, knowing without a doubt that the answers would involve more dry comments about his lack of proper education.

  “My interest is in events that occurred shortly before your conception, Jay. I was tending to my realm when Alioth brought me word that two intruders had come to Deep Fields. Now, before John D’Arcy Donnerjack made Deep Fields a regular spot on the tourist routes, none came here other than in the usual way.”

  J

  Death paused. Dubhe leaned down from his perch on Tranto’s head and whispered:

  “That’s a joke, Jay.”

  Jay smiled, essayed to laugh. Death did laugh, a wheezing sound, somewhat resembling a broken bellows.

  “Your father also had difficulty believing that I could joke,” he said. “Strange.”

  “Not really,” Jay replied. “We don’t find death a laughing matter since it takes from us the people and things we love. It is hard to envision Death as laughing in other than a somewhat wicked fashion.”

  “Fair enough and, again, soft-spoken. Very well, Jay, I shall endeavor not to joke, but only to tell my tale.

  “Alioth led me to the northern reaches of Deep Fields where we saw two humanlike figures—one male, one female—searching through my heaps of decaying matter. They had placed some items in a sack. Before I could reach them, t
hey effected their escape with whatever it was that they had stolen.”

  “Who were they?” Jay asked.

  “I have my suspicions, and part of the task I intend for you is to confirm them for me. At that time, I created Mizar and set him on the trail of the thieves.”

  Mizar raised his head and whined faintly.

  “I do… not remember.”

  “No, Mizar, you do not,” Death said, leaning forward from his rattan throne to stroke the dog on the patch of orange shag carpet between his ears. “What I conjecture is that you were far more successful in your tracking than even I had hoped you would be, that you caught up to the thieves, and seeing that you could not capture them, you howled for me as I had taught you before they attacked you.

  “I followed your call to the base of Mount Meru, the primal mountain where the gods dwell. You were nowhere to be found—the only certainty I had that you had indeed been there was a piece of cable that had served as one of your tails lying near the mountain’s base.

  “Over time, I searched for you, my dog, and when I found you any memory you had of those events had been blasted away. I repaired you as best I could and set you to guide and guard Jay. But I stray from the main of my story.”

  Jay cleared his throat. “That’s all right, sir. I’d always wondered what happened to Mizar and where he came from.”

  “But Mizar’s story is only important as a small part of what I need to tell you so that you may serve me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I returned to Deep Fields and examined the area wherein I had seen the intruders. Even as I had driven them away, I had some knowledge of what rested within that area. Now I confirmed my suppositions— and my fears.

  “Does it surprise you that 7 can feel fear, Jay Donnerjack? I assure you, all sane creatures feel fear when presented with something that might mean the end of existence as they know it. When I examined the region of Deep Fields where the intruders had foraged, I discovered only one thing missing, but that one thing promised trouble enough.”

  Death paused and within the black robe’s sleeve Jay saw bony fingers grip the arm of the throne. The knuckles could grow no whiter, but Jay had an impression of immense force brought to bear, an impression confirmed when the rattan armrest bent beneath the pressure of those slim fingers.

  “Warren Bansa had come to rest there, Jay, Warren Bansa and his wondrous device. I knew where the body was and, as was my custom, I left it and its gear in place until the time when I might have need of it. I have learned some care since then and this palace has strong-rooms to spare… but I become sidetracked again.

  “When I searched those heaps I found scraps of clothing, a dismembered skeleton, a skull, all of which had belonged to Bansa. However, of his device, I found nothing at all. Even the parts that had been implanted in his living flesh or set beneath his bone had been cut away.

  “I bided my time then—what else could I do? Mount Meru is a place forbidden to me, for those on its slopes are immune to death as long as they remain in that place. However, Deep Fields is also forbidden to them, something of a balancing of rights.”

  Jay nodded. “I can see that, but I’m not forbidden that place, am I?”

  “You are not. As one born of both Virtu and Verite, you may have strengths that poor Mizar did not. I do not believe that any Veritean could reach those high realms, but a Virtuan cannot be forbidden them (unless, as with me, there are restrictions within the base program). Yet, I do not believe that a Virtuan could explore there with impunity. Whether consciously worshiped or not, those on Meru are the gods of Virtu.”

  “You want me to go there, then.”

  “Yes. Your task will be threefold. First, find and recover, if possible, the elements of Warren Bansa’s device. Secondly, bring back any information you can on the armies that are massing on Meru and in its environs.”

  “Armies?”

  “So I said. Thirdly, find me proof of who stole Warren Bansa’s device from my realm. The more solid the proof, the better.”

  “Solid? Like a signed confession?”

  “I doubt that is possible. However, a recording would do, a fragment, a witness…”

  Dubhe had begun to laugh. “This is the game, the game you mentioned so long ago, isn’t it?”

  Death nodded. “A game that has taken more twists than I imagined when I spoke so lightly of ‘play,’ Dubhe. Those on high Meru mean to warp the fabric of reality and take Verite as their playground. What they have stolen from me may make this possible.”

  “Why do you care?” Jay asked. “If Virtu gets bigger, so does your realm, right?”

  “Too simple, child,” Death said. “If you survive the task I have set you, we will discuss metaphysics further.”

  “Promise?”

  “You dare extract a promise from me?”

  “I want to know. I feel like a pawn on a huge chessboard.” Jay held his hands out in appeal. “Give me a shot at being a knight.”

  “I like your attitude. Very well, Jay Donnerjack. I shall continue your education when you return from the journey I have set for you.”

  “Can I ask one more question?”

  “I reserve the right to refuse to answer.”

  “You always do. Will you tell me why you want to know who trespassed here? If the ones on Meru are immune to your powers, what good will it do?”

  “But they are not immune to my powers, Jay Donnerjack. When they depart the protection of Meru, the lesser ones fear me as any mortal does. Only the highest three are completely out of my reach, and if one of them is among the trespassers, well then, that one (or two) is now within my power. The shadow of Deep Fields has touched them once and I can bring it to bear once more.”

  Jay shivered. Death’s cracked voice became supple, almost choking as he concluded his reply.

  “You see, Jay Donnerjack, it is a truism that I am always in the right place at the right time. I mean to prove that… even to the death of the highest gods.”

  TEN

  Once upon a time, the acreage in California had been part of greater Los Angeles. Then the states to the north and east of the sprawling, irrigated desert had put an end to the piracy of resources they felt they had more right to use. Virtual reality, in the form of catalogs, commutes, and social events had reduced the demand for residing in close proximity to important cities—and virtventure had greatly reduced the movie industry.

  Someday, water mining in the asteroids might bring in chunks of ice to seed a reservoir or two, or transportation technology might be employed to bring the by-products of an eastern flood to the dry west. Perhaps there would come again a day when people would learn the pleasure of watching a stage production or visiting an amusement park where the risk (however minimal) was real, not virtual. For now, however, Los Angeles was a much smaller city than it had once been.

  The infrastructure of roads, utilities, and communications networks still existed, however. There were ample materials to scavenge for building and the cachet of a Hollywood premiere still remained. Thus, the Church of Elish came to California to set the stage for their second Celebration.

  Randall Kelsey came in at the end of his shift to find a message from Ben Kwinan on his virt terminal. He did not answer the call at first, preferring to shower, eat, glance through a magazine. It was not that he was avoiding Kwinan, he told himself, it was simply that his virtual colleague could be exhausting company.

  Despite their open desire to share the freedom of both universes that Veriteans demonstrably possessed, not many of the natives of Virtu could honestly comprehend the limitations of a physical body. The closest they could come was when they exceeded the restrictions of their personal programming. And if that programming was thorough—as Kwinan’s must be—they hardly ever experienced their equivalent of fatigue.

  Eventually, Kelsey rigged for a second-level interaction and signaled Kwinan that he was available. Kwinan appeared with such alacrity that Kelsey suspected he must have made
response to the call a primary priority. Not certain whether he should be pleased or suspicious, Kelsey nodded greeting.

  “Hi, Ben. How is the work going on your side?”

  Kwinan shrugged. “Tickets are selling. Otherwise, it’s hard to say. So much depends on whether the gods will cooperate and you know how arrogant they can be. I’m more interested in developments on your side.”

  “We’ve cleared the site now and the ziggurats are going up nicely. The traffic routes are pretty much in place and Aoud is doing amazing things in preparation for crowd control.”

  “I still find it astonishing to think of a site being constructed by physical labor rather than by program design,” Kwinan said. His grey eyes were lit with almost religious fervor. “It must be wonderful!”

  “If you like grit in your eyes, in your hair, in your mouth… if you like a headache from the pounding of construction machinery,” Kelsey laughed, “and needing to worry about the laws of physics for real, rather than if you can convince the resident aion to change them to accommodate your design… No, I’d rather be in charge of a Virtuelle construction project. I thank the gods that I’m an assistant, rather than the boss of this one.”

  “Maybe so…” Kwinan did not sound convinced. “Can you come through via stage three? I’d like to talk with you about something… personal.”

  Kelsey frowned. His first intention was to refuse—a need to be at the site early tomorrow, fatigue, any excuse. His second was to recall that Kwinan was still his superior within the Church and that Kelsey should not discourage any willingness to confide.

  “I’ll need to see if any of the dorm’s rigs are open.”

  “I’ll make certain that one is,” Kwinan promised. “Come by my residence. You still have the coordinates?”

  “I do.”

  “Great! And thanks.”

  Kelsey hummed to himself as he shut down his second-stage link. He donned a light cotton robe and slippers, combed his hair, and walked down to the virt transfer unit set up in the basement of the dormitory that had been constructed for on-site workers. As Ben had promised, a couch was empty. When he placed his hand on it, he found it was slightly warm. Someone must have been evicted.