Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  When Ayradyss waved him over, he hummed on his air cushion to attend her, moving skillfully around the shop’s clutter: dodging chipped Fiesta ware, battered teddy bears, vinyl records, paperback books, and a mannequin wearing bell-bottom jeans and a matching, hand-embroidered denim vest.

  “If by ‘love’ you mean, ‘Do I find it attractive,’ ” the robot responded, when he was close enough that the shopkeeper could not overhear their conversation, “yes, I do. It is a pleasing construct. Do you wish me to contact Master Donnerjack so that he can also view it?”

  Ayradyss thought of John, busy with his portable computer back in their latest honeymoon retreat (this one a beach-front, weather-beaten cottage on Cape Cod) and some of her pleasure faded. She had so wished him to come out with her, to hold hands as they walked the beaches, to giggle at the funny little purple-and-blue crabs with their oversized right claws, to wander into shops. In the polished chrome of Back’s front panel, she saw herself pouting and shook the expression away with an angry toss of her ebony tresses.

  “No, Dack,” she said. “Let’s leave John to his work. The sooner he finishes, the sooner he can come out and enjoy himself.”

  She looked back at the bed frame’s tangling vines, thought of the fairy-tale Virtu realm in which she and John had courted, and a warm, loving smile rose to banish the remnants of the pout.

  “John will be enchanted, I suspect,” she said happily. “Dack, let’s pay for it and have the shopkeeper ship it directly to Scotland.”

  Dack nodded, but when he scanned the price ticket, his fiscal programming insisted that he question her decision.

  “Madam,” he said softly, “the cost of this one piece is so high that I believe we could have an entire bedroom suite in this idiom fabricated for the same price. The reproduction would be indistinguishable from the antique…”

  Ayradyss shook her head, dark hair cascading like water taking color from an obsidian cliff face. “No, Dack. It has to be this one—not a reproduction. A reproduction wouldn’t have the same feeling—it wouldn’t be real. Do you understand?”

  “No, madam,” Dack said honestly. “But I suspect that Master Donnerjack would. I shall endeavor to negotiate with the shopkeeper. Perhaps we can reach a more equitable price.”

  Ayradyss patted his shoulder. “Do as you will, Dack. I acknowledge that you are my better in this.”

  She wandered out of the shop to give Dack more freedom, content to know that the bed frame would soon be on its way to embellish the master bedroom in Castle Donnerjack. The sunlight was bright, glinting stars off of the waves. Unable to ask the genius loci to redirect the intensity, she slipped her sunglasses down from their perch on the top of her head and, kicking off her sandals, wandered down to the water.

  Wading through the surf, she bent to pick up a broken conch shell no bigger than her hand. It was a poor thing compared to the fantastical creations of the ocean she had known in Virtu, but there was a beauty here, a wonder that touched her. She lost herself in contemplation of its rough exterior, stroking first the tiny pinprick holes made by some ocean parasite, then the smooth inner core (ivory just blushed with the faintest pink) where the shellfish had lived.

  “What do you think happened to it?” she asked Dack, hearing the robot’s approach, feeling the slight sting of the sand stirred up by its air cushion against her bare skin.

  “I wouldn’t really know, ma’am.”

  “A bird, perhaps, one of those gulls out there,” Ayradyss said, seeing in her mind’s eye the strong curving beak probing inside the shell, pulling out the soft creature within, now no longer a creature, just sweet flesh for a seabird’s meal.

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Or possibly a sea otter,” Ayradyss said, recalling a holovid she had seen of the clever, thick-furred, aquatic mammals. “They use flat rocks to break open shellfish; this conch’s shell could have been broken that way.”

  “It does seem a viable alternative.”

  “Perhaps it was a whale or even a freak storm or a fishing boat. We had conch chowder for an appetizer at the inn last night. It was quite good.”

  “I am pleased to hear so, ma’am.”

  “There are so many ways to die,” Ayradyss said, looking into the broken heart of the shell, “so many even for a conch. More for humans. Proges just wear out. Some last for human generations, like that great phant John and I saw, some last for barely a human lifetime. Do you know how old I am, Dack?”

  “No, ma’am, I do not.”

  Ayradyss rose, dropped the broken conch into the deep pocket of her now damp skirt. Rinsing her sandy feet, she stood on a rock until the wind and sunlight dried them, then she redonned her sandals.

  “John doesn’t either,” she said softly. “He forgets that I am a proge of Virtu, not merely the dark-haired, dark-eyed lady he courted in fantasy. He never asked me when I was generated.”

  She walked up toward the road. Dack hovered after her, silent, robot-mind content to let her muse, knowing that she was taking comfort in his patient listening.

  “Did you get the bed, Dack?”

  “Yes, I did, ma’am. The shopkeeper became quite reasonable when I pointed out to him that observable evidence showed that the piece had been in his shop at least two years and that such elaborate set pieces are no longer as popular as they once were thanks to increasing access to Virtu.”

  “Thank you, Dack.” Ayradyss’s lips curved in a pretty, gentle smile, her brooding completely gone. “John will so like it—he is a poet, you know, for all his science.”

  “I am not surprised to hear you say so, ma’am.”

  The waves crashed behind them as they made their way away from the ocean, toward the honeymoon cottage. Riding the winds over the clear waters, a seagull spotted a bit of flotsam on the waves, dove and swallowed it in a single triumphant gulp.

  Polish sausage. Not bad. Not bad at all.

  * * *

  Carla and Abel Hazzard regarded their daughter’s recumbent form. Her chest rose and fell slowly.

  “Let me get this straight,” Abel said. “You’ve lost her.”

  “Of course we haven’t lost her,” Chalmers answered. “She’s right there in front of us in good health.”

  “You know damned well what I mean,” Abel said. “You can’t call her back and you don’t know why you can’t.”

  “It is not a thing without precedent,” Chalmers said. “There are certain states—partly psychological—which can induce total resistance to recall.”

  “What causes these states?”

  “We are not certain. It-is not a common condition.”

  “What brings them back out of it?” Carla asked.

  “There is no single stimulus we have been able to identify. It seems to be more a constellation of factors, which varies in each case.”

  “Have these factors anything in common?”

  “Not so far as we have been able to determine.”

  “Can’t you trace her to wherever she has traveled in Virtu and determine what factors are operating? It would seem you could just ask her.”

  “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” he said. “But that’s why these cases are so peculiar. She’s found her way into uncharted territory and we’ve lost the signal.”

  “You lost the signal in other cases of this sort, too?”

  “Yes, it’s a classical sign of the syndrome.”

  “And you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do to bring her back?” Abel said.

  “No, I never told you that. First, you must realize that she’s in no real danger. The support systems are more than adequate for her health. Nothing to worry about on that count. Second, we are consulting the physician who treated most of the other cases over the years, a Dr. Hamill. He is considered the expert on this phenomenon.”

  “When you speak of other cases— Just how many have there been?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not permitted to discuss that.”

  “I take it you carry
a lot of insurance for these matters.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Good. You’re going to need it.”

  As they spoke, the inhabitants of several dozen other virt transfer units about the world—public and private—became briefly agitated, grew pale of face, and then expired from failure of the oxygen supply to their brains. This contingency was not unaccounted for in their contracts, however, for some commuters were engaged in hazardous occupations and death was not an uncommon sequel to certain enterprises. All of these individuals being bounty hunters, the appropriate waivers were present in file, and the matter of their passing was handled routinely. It was noted early on that theirs were the repercussive equivalents of decapitation. Even as a small smile crossed Lydia’s face and her body began to twitch once more both categories of recall failure were entering the realm of statistics, which, of course, was yet another territory of Virtu. But while some of the bounties caught the flash of moire and perhaps even fragmented glimpses of Deep Fields, Lydia’s was a more pleasant while equally engaging prospect.

  * * *

  Ben Kwinan, arms forming an X upon his breast, stood within a pillar of green flame in the inner sanctum of the main Elishite temple in Virtu. His lips twisted through a series of small smiles within his changing face as he communicated with the Powers On High. Now aquiline and widow-peaked, now lantern-jawed with his hair a sea of burnished curls—all of them people he had once been—he flowed in response to the shifting nuances of revelation. He did not normally lose control in this fashion, tending to keep the outer man and the inner apart from each other, save in willed assumptions of appearance for the promulgation of policy. Now, though, vigilance relaxed by ecstasy, the shapeshifting forces of his spirit swam unchecked through him, and he changed in height, width, limb length, and pigmentation in response to the sweetened charges he’d received.

  As the light began to fade his body grew stocky and lost height, his features became coarser, skin grew more porous. His eyes shifted to match the grey of his hair. He smiled, and he muttered in tongues until the light was gone. Then he walked.

  He walked out of the sanctum and into the innermost temple. He walked to the north wall, touched a design upon it, and spoke to it. It became an arched opening of smoke. He walked into it.

  He stood in a bright, tiled room, decorated with form-adjusting furniture, nonrepresentational sculpture of metal, light, and stone, iris flowering yellow, orange, and blue, wide, cool painting of aquatic mood. He passed his hand through a spiral of light to his left and a faint tone followed. Then he crossed to a blond mahogany bar along the far wall and considered its stock.

  A door opened to the right of the bar and a thin, dark-haired, dark-mustached man entered the room.

  “Mr. Kwinan,” the man said. “Just received your signal.”

  “Call me Ben,” the visitor replied. “I need to talk to Kelsey.”

  “I’ve already advised him as to your arrival. He’s on his way over.”

  “Good.” The being who now called himself Ben Kwinan lifted a bottle of California Burgundy from a rack. “Would you recommend this one, Mr.—?”

  “Araf,” the other replied. “Call me Aoud. Yes, I am told that it is quite good.”

  Ben smiled, located a corkscrew, set to work opening the bottle. Then he filled a glass halfway, sniffed it, sipped it.

  “Are you in the flesh or holo?” he asked.

  “The flesh.”

  “But you don’t drink?”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  “Too bad. I’d have asked you whether this wine tastes the same here as in Verite proper.”

  “I’m sure that it does, Ben. Or it’s such a close approximation that it doesn’t make any difference.”

  “You might pour me a glass,” said the large red-haired man who suddenly stood in the center of the room.

  Ben turned and stared.

  “Kelsey,” he said, “not quite in the flesh.”

  The man nodded. “I was too far away to get here quickly in that fashion. I heard your musing, though, and I wanted you to know I’ve tasted things both ways and they’re the same.”

  “But you are of Verite. It may be different for one from Virtu.”

  Kelsey shrugged. “It may be different for every human being in the world—either world,” he said.

  “Well taken,” Ben acknowledged. “Yet it is not entirely academic.”

  He shifted his gaze to Aoud, then raised his eyebrows.

  “I think I’d best be leaving now,” Aoud said suddenly, “so you can get on with your conference and me back to warding.”

  He bowed slightly and Ben and Kelsey nodded to him.

  “Yes,” Kelsey said, and Aoud turned and was gone.

  Kelsey moved forward and extended his hand. Ben clasped it.

  “No different than if I’d driven over,” he said, squeezing for emphasis, “or if you’d stayed home and I’d projected there.”

  Ben returned the squeeze with an instant of great force, then released it.

  “I disagree,” he said. Then he moved to the window and looked out from their high tower across the town, down at the traffic, over toward the ocean. “This place is special,” he said. “Synthetic: a meeting ground. Is this window’s view a real representation of what’s outside?”

  “Yes.”

  “I couldn’t leave here, go out into that.”

  “Neither could I, in this form.”

  “But you have another.”

  “And so do you. You can use it to do things that I cannot, in Virtu.”

  “Understood, though you’ve an edge on me in that department. Everyone from Verite does. It would be good to come and go as I would, on both sides.”

  Kelsey shrugged.

  “Just the nature of things,” he said. “Your world is the copy and ours the original. Yours was built to be accessed, not the other way around. We never foresaw the natural evolution of artificial beings in such an environment.”

  “Too bad,” Ben said. “You can do as you would, but we can only come to visit in special places such as this. It would have been more decent if things worked both ways.”

  “You have an entire universe inside there.”

  “That’s true. And you have two. That one and this.”

  “I’m not arguing equity. You’re right. It would probably enrich both sides if it worked both ways. But not only was your development unforeseen, the technology just wasn’t there to make it a two-way affair. It still isn’t. Maybe it never will be. Maybe it’s an impossibility, like squaring the circle. You may just be trapped by the nature of things.”

  “I think not,” Ben said.

  “Oh?”

  “In fact, this is the matter that I came to discuss with you,” Ben replied. “Transference.”

  “Transference? Of what sort?”

  “A modest beginning, a stopgap, I suppose. Still, something further advanced than that virt power you wield.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kelsey said, moving to the bar, pouring himself a glass of the wine. “What has my paranorm ability to do with it?”

  Ben chuckled.

  “The awarding of powers which sometimes crossed the interface was an experiment,” he said. “True, it was also a reward to the faithful. But it was part of an ongoing program involving manipulation of that interface from the other side. Much was learned in the process.”

  He took a sip from his glass. Kelsey raised his and took a larger swallow.

  “Now,” Ben said, “with a little help from your side it may be possible to advance things even further.”

  “There has been a breakthrough?”

  “A real revelation. Of course, it must be tested. In several stages, actually.”

  “Tell me what I must do to help.”

  “For now, just some simple experiments in the transfer chambers.”

  “Certainly. What are the particulars?”

  Ben took another drink, strolled to the bar. He fini
shed it there and set down the glass. Kelsey followed him and did the same.

  “Come with me,” Ben said. He reached out and placed his hand upon the other man’s shoulder. Turning him, he began walking toward a helix of rusty light in the far corner. Before they reached it, there came a sound like running water. “This way.”

  The room twisted away from them, and they found themselves in the virt representation of a transfer chamber.

  “It’s easiest just to show you,” Ben said, opening the cabinet beneath one couch and exposing its equipment.

  * * *

  Sayjak regarded the camp by scattered firelight. Bodies lay strewn everywhere, some of the People’s as well as all of the bounties. In his left hand, he held a human head by its hair; in his right, his machete gleamed dully amid its stains. Others of the People cavorted about him, tossing equipment into the fires, chattering, brandishing blades they were using to mince corpses. Some of them, this night, he’d known, would learn to use the cutting sticks. And some would carry them off with them. Too bad. He would have liked to keep that secret to himself. But he would not make an issue of it now, or the weapon’s importance would be emphasized. Left to themselves, he was sure they would lose many, forget their wielding. No, now was not a good time to exert discipline. Not on the occasion of the People’s first great victory over the bounties. Let them eat the bounties’ livers and hearts, drop their pants and bugger their corpses. Let them swap dismembered body parts and reconstruct their owners grotesquely. The People had to have a little fun after all the tension they had been under. He let out a calculated whoop and playfully tossed an arm at Chumo’s head. Chumo caught it and grinned at him.

  “We got them all, boss! We got them all!” Chumo called back, tossing the limb at Svut.

  “We did good.” Sayjak grunted, then turned to survey the rest of the area. The smaller, westernmost encampment had fallen easily. But this one—the big, southern camp—had caused him more than a little concern. Fortunately, the People’s experience at the western one had given them the confidence they’d needed, shown them that bounties could be overwhelmed by the People.