Although she bent over the sarcophagus which held her nascent Death, Earthma sensed the out-flowing of material. She straightened.
“This will not do!” she said angrily.
Throwing back her head, her thick green hair trailing to the ground, she gave a horrible cry, a sound that was both summation and parody of the suffering of every woman who had ever been in labor. The shield fell away from the sarcophagus. Brilliant citron light flared.
Markon’s site flashed pure white as the myriad programs were wiped and their power transferred to the form emerging from the coffin. Then there was darkness, the absolute black that knows no color, no life, no potential. Markon was gone.
From herself, Earthma generated a greenish glow and inspected the hooded thing, shadowed in moire, that now hovered at her side.
“Perhaps a bit premature, but more than enough to do the job, I think. Come, son.”
The thing floated after her. Earthma raised her sweet, lovely voice in song:
“Tu-ra-lura-lura/ Tu-ra-lura-li/ Tu-ra-lura-lura/ Virginia’s gonna cry-ai!”
* * *
Chaos, Chaos…
(Oh, my dear seven-limbed angels) Chaos, Chaos is… Terrified.
TWELVE
When Mizar returned his tails were switching with excitement and he was liberally shedding sections of shag carpet.
“I… have found… it. The thing… I tracked… when I was made. Found the scent.”
“You remember?” Jay asked.
“Base… proge. Stimulus… activated. Am sure.”
Alice hunkered down next to the fearsome hound and gave him a tentative scratch behind one flopping ear. The tails wagged harder.
“Can you tell what it is from the scent—the way you might tell a deer from a horse?”
“Good question, kid,” Drum muttered.
“Can… not,” Mizar wheezed sadly. “Can tell what… is not… but… not what is.”
“I don’t get it,” Alice admitted.
“I think I do,” Jay said. “Mizar knows what it isn’t—and he knows the scents of lots of things, both active and passive proges—but he has never had this particular scent identified for him before so he cannot say what it is.”
Mizar wheezed agreement, evidently pleased that he did not need to find the words for an explanation.
“I see Virginia coming,” Dubhe said. “She doesn’t look really good.”
The VSD scout was indeed pale. Jay hurried out to help her. Without protest, she leaned against him, letting him half carry her to the others.
“Were you attacked?” Dubhe asked, looking around nervously.
“No,” she whispered.
Alice handed her a canteen. Virginia sipped a little before setting it down so absently that it nearly spilled.
“I felt… I felt something terrible. A great out-welling, then nothing.” Tears were beginning to course down her cheeks. “I think that Markon is dead. That bitch has borne her child.”
She crumpled, sobbing so hard that the sound alone was a physical pain. Jay knelt next to her, gathering her up into his arms. For a woman who was so strong, she proved to be easy to hold.
“Earthma won’t dare conceal her child any longer,” Dubhe said. “The Lord of Deep Fields will know that one of his rightful prey has been taken and he’s going to know that he didn’t do the taking. When he realizes that the victim is one of the older genius loci, he’s going to know that there is trouble.”
Over Virginia’s sobbing, Jay said, “We need to warn him. Without the Brass Babboon, there’s only one of us designed to cross the interfaces without needing to use the Road. Mizar, can you remember what the Lord of Deep Fields must be told?”
“I… can… but give… me written… message.”
Alice grabbed a light slate and began writing.
“Good idea. Mizar is smart, but he takes a long time to say anything clearly. I’ll scribble a report. The rest of you download what he saw when he was scouting.”
“Can we do that?” Drum asked Death’s dog.
“Transfer… flawed, but… I… can try.”
“Give me one of the light slates,” Dubhe said. “I was there when Death created Mizar. I remember some of the routines he was imbued with. If Drum will help, I think we can manage this.”
As messages were written and information transferred, Virginia’s sobs slowed, then ceased. The tears continued to course down her cheeks.
“Without Mizar you’re going to need me, so don’t even think about sending me away.”
Jay nodded. “As you wish.”
And with those words John D’Arcy Donnerjack experienced an epiphany. He was in charge of this expedition. On some level he had expected one of the adults to lead, but although Virginia might insist on coming with them, she could not be trusted for clear-headed decisions.
Drum could offer advice, but the Verite, not Virtu, was his native realm.
And Alice—Link? She was Jay’s own age and, like Drum, out of her element. Duhbe would do what he could, but he was a monkey, after all, and a follower, not a leader. If Tranto had been there… but that was wishful thinking, nor could the Lord of Deep Fields be expected to send in the cavalry. Even if he had been so inclined, he would not be able to now.
Jay felt very old, very young, very frightened, and very excited all at once. The jumble of emotions was so strong that he almost forgot to hug Mizar before Death’s dog departed.
“What do we have?” he said, moving over to where Drum and Virginia were studying Mizar’s input. Alice, although obviously interested, had joined Dubhe in keeping watch.
Drum handed Jay the light pad on which he had started a map.
“You’re the cartographer, so you update the map while we fill you in. ‘Ginnie?”
Virginia cocked an eyebrow at the unexpected nicknaming, but otherwise forbore from commenting.
“When I went south, I saw considerable activity on the mountain’s lower slopes. I didn’t dare get close, but it appeared that someone was setting up a series of transfer stations. Judging from the winged bulls and lions guarding them, I would guess that they are associated with the upcoming Elishite Celebration.”
“Anything else?” Jay asked, after he had sketched in her observations.
“I don’t really know what is normal and what is not,” Virginia confessed. “The upper slopes, as far as I could tell, held numerous temples in a variety of styles.”
“Probably related to the various deities worshiped in both Virtu and Verite,” Jay said, and from where he watched, Dubhe nodded agreement.
“That’s it for me,” Virginia said. “Mizar’s information may be more useful.”
“Can you sum up for him?” Jay asked.
“Pretty well. The information is fragmented. Whatever fried his systems did a thorough job.”
“Go ahead.”
“On the other side of the mountain, about halfway up, there is a heavily guarded installation. Unlike the constructions I saw, this one does not appear to be overtly religious—although there are religious over-tones—it reminded me more of a factory. This is where Mizar scented the thing you are looking for.”
“You said ‘heavily guarded,’ ” Jay asked. “What are our chances of getting in?”
“One of the things that made me think of a factory,” Virginia said, “is that crated material was being taken from it.”
“So there is traffic?”
“Right. Drum and Alice might be better at working out how we should penetrate the facility.”
“Well, folks?” Jay asked.
Drum nodded. “I’ve looked at the data and I think we can come up with something. We have a fair amount of distance to cross to get there, however, and I’d like to see this ‘factory’ myself before I offer tactical advice. Why don’t we start hoofing it and we’ll give you our plan when we actually see the place?”
“Fine with me,” Jay said. “Virginia, can you take point?”
“That’s what I�
�m trained for.”
“I’ll drop to the back, then. We need to stay within eye-shot of each other, but at the same time be spread out far enough that we don’t make ourselves obvious. Doubtless they have guards, but the Lord of the Lost thought that they wouldn’t be expecting Veriteans. If their base programming is shoddy, I may be effectively invisible to lesser guard proges, and the rest of your virt forms are pretty basic; they shouldn’t attract interest.”
“That’s a comfort,” Drum said. “Let’s start walking.”
“Factory, yes. I wouldn’t have thought to call it that myself,” Alice said, “but I can see exactly where you were coming from, Virginia.”
Looking through his binoculars up the slope of Mount Meru, Jay Donnerjack inspected the long, blocky building that was set into a cut on the slope. It was constructed from a standard fieldstone template that blended nicely with the surrounding rock and scrub brush terrain; otherwise, it was rather unimaginative.
“I don’t see what you’re seeing,” he admitted, “but then I don’t think I’ve ever seen a factory.”
Alice stared at him, but Drum nodded understandingly.
“From what you’ve told us about your upbringing, I’d be surprised if you had,” he said. “Most of your jaunts were in Virtu and the unreal World doesn’t exactly need manufacturing plants.”
He placed a hand on Jay’s arm, his manner suddenly reminding the younger man of Reese Jordan.
“Take a look. Jay. We’ve got a building here with minimal exterior decoration—all of those temples went for adornment in a big way. So we have a utilitarian structure. Next, note the near absence of windows. Even in Virtu, buildings tend to follow the Veritean custom and allow for ‘natural’ light.”
“I’m with you so far,” Jay prompted.
“Then there are the large bay doors neatly spaced along the front, each with road in front of them rather than paths or sidewalks. Clearly these are meant to facilitate the delivery of building materials and the removal of completed products.”
“Okay,” Jay said, “we have a factory here. Why? What purpose would that serve? Legend says that the gods on Meru can imagine whatever they want—that this is how they create their armies and minions.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw the odd expression that crossed Alice’s face.
“Uh, sorry, Alice. That was kind of tactless of me.”
“No, that’s all right, Jay. I’m mostly comfortable with my dad’s history, but sometimes it’s weird.”
“Later, folks,” Drum cut in. “Jay, I can’t answer your question. I don’t know enough.”
Dubhe lowered his binoculars. “I have an idea. What if they’re duplicating whatever it was that Warren Bansa carried across the interface? What if that factory is making artifacts? That would explain the design of the structure.”
“You mean hard copy?” Jay said. “Here?”
“Why not? Bansa’s device supposedly had the ability to permit full-body crossover between the universes. If they applied some aspect of that, then they could create Veritean material, or something that could exist in both places.”
“That’s an unsettling idea,” Jay said, “but it has potential.”
“Another possibility,” Virginia added, “is that the ‘factory’ is a manifestation of one of the divinities—sort of a genius loci meant to guard the area or control operations within.”
“Or it could be both,” Alice said, “an idea that does not fill me with joy.”
“Me either,” Drum said, “but any plan we make is going to need to take both possibilities into account.”
“Now that you’ve seen the structure do you have any ideas?” Jay asked somewhat diffidently. He had hoped to have a brainstorm himself, but the factory only filled him with dread and a certainty that he could never succeed.
“At first we considered having Dubhe go up and scout,” Drum said, “but the Lord of Entropy considered you best for the job. Now, you’re here ‘in the flesh,’ right?”
“That’s right,” Jay said. “If I buy it here, that’s it.”
“True, but you’re also the only one of us who is really a Veritean at this moment. The rest of us are wearing virt forms—despite his unusual history, Dubhe is at baseline a proge.”
“True,” Dubhe said, “repaired and enhanced by the Lord of Deep Fields, but essentially a proge.”
“So I go up alone?” Jay said.
“That’s right,” Drum answered. “Scout. Go in if you can and fulfill your quest. If you can’t do it alone, then come for us. At the least, we’ll have more information.”
“And the rest of you?”
“We’ll lie low, be ready to help, learn what we can that might help us to find Wolfer Martin D’Ambry.”
Jay considered. “As much as it scares me to admit it, your plan makes sense. I’ll do it.”
“I’ve taken a look at the layout,” Virginia said. Her tone was flat, although she was evidently struggling to seem normal. “If you can climb down from the slopes above and behind the factory, you’ll avoid any guard or wards set for the front approach.”
“Climbing is something I’m very good at,” Jay said with a fond glance at Dubhe. “I’ve had a good teacher in Virtu and gone all over Castle Donnerjack.”
“Do it then,” Virginia said. “Given the setup, the back is probably less heavily guarded. They’d count on terrain to do the job. Of course, all bets are off if the structure is a genius loci.”
“Right,” Jay said. “I’ll remember that.”
He looked at his comrades, suddenly a bit awkward, eager to be away and eager to have an excuse to stay. Since when was he so full of contradictory emotions?
“I guess I’ll be off now.”
Drum shook his hand. Virginia nodded, retired already into her private world of pain and loss now that her talents were not immediately needed. Blushing lightly pink, Alice Hazzard kissed him on the cheek.
“Good luck, Jay.”
Dubhe gave one of his wicked chuckles. “And don’t grab any rotten branches, Jay.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
Then he turned, walked into the brush, and was gone.
* * *
“But, Carla, I really think we should go. Think about it—gods on Earth! How often do you think such a thing will happen?”
“Quite frequently, dear, if the Church of Elish is to be believed. This California Celebration is being heralded as the mark of a new era.”
“Still, Carla, I’m going to purchase tickets both for us and for Cindy. You can stay home if you want. I fancy I’ll be able to scalp your ticket.”
“Abel, you’ll do no such thing. The Elshies have quite a way of handling people who cross them and they’ve already made it perfectly clear that scalpers will be handled severely. I, at least, take their threats seriously. Look at what they did to that poor anthropologist. He’s still in hiding, they say. Personally, I think they’ve killed him.”
“Then you’ll come?”
“I’ve made no promises.”
“Thank you, dear. I wonder if I should get tickets for Lydia and Alice? I think the girl has some interest in the Elishites.”
“Surely not in joining them!”
“Oh, no. She was doing some research—a report for school, I think. I saw Arthur Eden’s book on her reader one time when I was visiting.”
“Well, if it would be educational…”
“Then you will come!”
“Oh, Abel, you are such a child! Of course, I’ll come if it means that much to you.”
“We’ll bring a picnic and make a day of it. It should be lovely.”
“Better bring umbrellas, too. Remember what happened in Central Park.”
“Good point…”
* * *
Mizar ran across the realms of Virtu, directing his way down, always down, for Deep Fields lies beneath the areas that others frequent, although, paradoxically, it is tangential to any and all but a very few.
> His course took him through a spectral gothic landscape where the
genius loci withdrew from him, knowing his maker and respecting that final power.
A black butterfly detached itself from a bough of a lightning-struck apple tree. The lightning bolt had severed the tree in twain—one side continued quick and green, covered with flowers. The other was silver, grey, and shriveled. Where Alioth’s wings flapped, blossoms speckled, cracked, and turned to dust.
“You run far and fast, Mizar,” Alioth piped.
“Message… for the lord.”
“Bad news, I’d wager.”
Mizar did not spare the energy to reply.
“Yes, bad news. Many things are changing in Virtu. For the first time since the wars of Creation I have felt the pull of Skyga’s call.”
Mizar ran on. He crossed from the gothic into the fringes of a marvelous seascape. Here the waters were clear and turquoise blue. Beneath them he could glimpse slim, angular fish, and large, impossible shells. The shore sparkled with crushed obsidian, ground-glass sand catching the sunlight and giving it back in minute fragments so that Mizar ran on a facsimile of the night sky, the blue of day at his right shoulder.
“I could be great again,” Alioth continued wistfully. “Great and terrible—a mount for gods and a weapon.”
“A… slave,” Mizar panted.
“Yet, are we not all so? You run to warn one master, follow on the heels of a boy. A clever lad, talented and with great potential, but a boy nonetheless. You could rip him in two with the barest motion, yet you let him order you about.”
“Killing is… easy.”
The landscape had become one of soft golden dunes. Burrs and thorns were crushed under Mizar’s feet. None had yet been imagined that could penetrate the steel and plastic of his pads. Twisting cacti scuttled out of his way as he ran. His sweat left green ink dots in the sand.
“Killing is easy, you say? You were not there in the battles of the earliest days when the ones from Highest Meru recreated their fallen with the merest twitch of thought. In such instances, killing means obliterating memory, or conversely, creating a new memory of an object—a memory so forceful that it overwrites the original conception.”
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