Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “Someone with a virt power might produce an effect like that. I don’t know how they make it work here.”

  Daimon withdrew his hands from his sleeves and passed Link a folded slip of paper. Link examined it.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “A figure,” Daimon replied, “which, if sufficient, will be deposited in your personal account each month for so long as you honor our agreement.”

  “A twenty-four-hour scoop…”

  “…And the right to try to talk you out of using certain material. Do we have a deal?”

  Link rose and extended his hand. Daimon clasped it.

  “We have a deal,” Link said. “And as a sign of good faith, you can look over the stuff I picked up tonight. I haven’t even had a chance to check it myself.”

  He passed him the “Personal” directory and the “Organizational” notebook he had acquired earlier.

  Daimon accepted them, flipped through “Organizational” and passed it back.

  “Publicly available,” he said. Then he looked through the other.

  “Not sure what this one is,” he said. “But don’t get your hopes up. Possibly field notes of some sort, not worth entering in the system till they reach a certain point. Still… Let me look it over and get it back to you.”

  “All right. Do I ever get a scoop from you?”

  “That’s not part of the deal.”

  “I know. How do I get in touch with you?”

  “You go through Drum.”

  “And if he’s not available?”

  “Then I’ll be in touch with you.”

  Link shrugged.

  “It’s your show,” he said.

  Daimon turned away, so as to adjust his mask as he raised his cup.

  Moon broken on lake’s bottom; black glass hands turning pieces: dream of tea.

  Clouds blew up on the way home, and it was raining when Drum dropped him on the corner.

  “I think you made a good deal, kid,” the detective told him as he passed him his business card.

  “We’ll see,” Link said, glancing toward the sky.

  Immediately, Drum looked upward, scanned the heavens. But all that he saw were clouds, a few stars in the canyons between them.

  When he looked back, Link was smiling. “Drive carefully,” he said.

  Moments later, the blue Spinner was turning a corner.

  Raindrops: wet banderillas: Moon in Taurus: black wrist o’er demon

  glove.

  Inside, Link created a file the old-fashioned way. He wrote out all his recollections of the evening in longhand, in a notebook, one of many on his room’s shelves.

  * * *

  In a garden in Virtu, a garden created by the aion Markon for the pleasure of his beloved Virginia Tallent, the two sat in close converse. That they had been closer still not long before could not be doubted, for Virginia was unclad and still lightly dappled with perspiration. Markon, who had assumed something of a human shape for the convenience of his lover, retained it still and could not precisely be said to be unclad as his skin had never known the caress of fabric.

  He smiled at her now from a face whose noble brow and cleft chin did not escape a certain eldritch quality. Certainly the cat’s-eye pupils of his sky-blue eyes, or the utter lack of hair anywhere on his smooth ivory-colored skin, added to the sense of otherness, but Virginia delighted in him. She would have found the aion much diminished if he had limited himself to the colors and tones found naturally in humanity. Indeed, there were times when he assumed a form that was not precisely human, but at those times she found an extra set of arms or other endowments more an advantage than not.

  Virginia returned his smile and pillowed her head on his chest, noting absently the lack of nipples as she did so. The greater part of her attention was caught up in what Markon was saying.

  “Portents and omens, Virginia. A time of change is upon us again. Just two days hence, Kordalis told me that a man with a scar from the top of his head to the sole of his left foot had crossed the borders of her territory. I, myself, not more than a year ago saw a man bearing a rhomboid box, all of crystal and platinum, on one shoulder, and he limped heavily.”

  “Many strange things can be seen in Virtu,” Virginia said, hoping to comfort, for she knew Markon intimately enough to know that the ancient aion was perturbed.

  Markon’s voice seemed to reverberate less from his chest than from the trumpet flowers that grew over their bower.

  “Strange. Yes, but unlike you little ones of what you call Verite, we who are of the older realm know that the gods exist. Exist and are flawed and contentious. I have told you of our ancient wars?”

  “You have.”

  “And you believed the truth of those tales?”

  “I did.”

  “Then let me tell you further that even then those battles were not believed to be the last that we would join. We knew that change would come again, whether we willed it so or not. Among the omens of that change would be the resurfacing of figures from those ancient days. Kordalis and I are not alone in seeing evidence that the Threefold One has entered into Virtu’s affairs once more.”

  “The Threefold One? I don’t think you’ve mentioned that name before.”

  “The Piper, the Master, and the One Who Waits. What Kordalis saw, what I saw, are two of his aspects. And sporadically, these fifteen years or more, the Piper’s music has been heard.”

  “Just music?”

  “Some rumors of sightings as well, but the Piper’s music is the stuff of legend. It has the sense of age and tradition but when examined is discovered to be wholly new. Some believe it a metaphor for his relationship to the Master.”

  “This is going over my head, Markon.”

  “I shall explain in greater detail, more slowly, my love. I would have you understand my fear in the sighting of a train that can transverse realities and in other omens. I have spoken but circumlocutiously before… These are the secrets of the aions’ religion.”

  Virginia squeezed the body against which she rested.

  “I would not relate or record anything you revealed to me in confidence, Markon.”

  “So we agreed long ago. When war comes again to Virtu, what will happen to you?”

  “Happen?”

  “Realities ripple when aions battle, Virginia. Your little virt form would be unable to withstand the stresses. Yet to return your free spirit to the prison of your body in Verite…”

  “A body aging and progressively crippled by atrophy…” Virginia gasped and sat up, did not notice that the human-form vanished when she released it. “Markon! Is this war certain?”

  A tendril of vine reached out and caressed her cheek. “I have no reason to believe otherwise. The Highest on Meru gather their forces and make their alliances. Thus far I have not accepted any of the offers to ally myself with one or another of the great ones. I cannot dally forever, though. Fortunately for our poor love, time as seen by the dwellers on Meru and time as experienced by humans is different. You may be gone to Deep Fields before I need worry for your safety.”

  Virginia understood his meaning, knew there was truth in it. Her damaged body in Verite could not live eternally. In Virtu she was unchanged, but eventually her flesh would no longer be able to support her spirit.

  “Forgive my weakness in confiding to you, Virginia.” Markon spoke with a voice crafted from the wind in the trees. “But you are closer to me, dearer to me, than any in existence. I could not pretend that nothing was amiss and maintain honesty.”

  Virginia blinked away her tears. Her own mortality was something she had long meditated on. Markon’s danger was a new and terrible thing to contemplate.

  “There is no forgiveness necessary, love,” she said, stroking the fur of a great dire-cat who had emerged from the thickest foliage. “Tell me more. Perhaps I will be able to help.”

  Markon did. Virginia listened, requesting clarification from time to time. Eventually, the dire-cat began
to purr. Virginia, who had grown accustomed to the varying ways her aion showed his satisfaction, smiled to the sun.

  FIVE

  When next Jay Donnerjack came for his lessons in mathematics with Reese Jordan he carried a book in one hand. Mizar came with him, not frolicking precisely, for it was impossible that such a horror as that vaguely canine construct could frolic, but tossing what looked like an old leather shoe up into the air and catching it again with an attitude of satisfaction. Reese was sitting on a rock by the pool’s edge, talking seriously with Caltrice. The genius loci waved shyly then vanished beneath the waters.

  “Hi, Jay.”

  “Hi, Reese.”

  “You look troubled. Been watching Sayjak’s people again?”

  “No. I…” Jay held out the book so Reese could see its cover. It was Arthur Eden’s Origin and Growth of a Popular Religion. “What do you know about the Elishites, Reese?”

  “Mostly what I’ve read, heard. That book you have there is probably the best study out there. It’s somewhat dated now—doesn’t take into account the Church’s current growth or some of the more flamboyant virt powers that have manifested in the last several years, but what it deals with has a solid foundation.”

  “Then you believe in the virt powers?”

  “Believe? Is it a matter of belief when something is true?”

  “All right. Then what you’re saying is that they do occur.”

  “Yes. They range from something like luckiness to telekinesis to levitation to… well, some of these recent virtuosos seem to be able to manifest a second body.”

  “I read about that in a newstrip,” Jay commented, frowning. “The virt form almost always resembles something out of the Sumerian/Babylonian pantheon. I suppose that makes sense, since their religion employs those forms, but it’s…”

  “Creepy?”

  “I guess. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen in Verite. Ghosts are about as strange as things get.”

  Reese chuckled but didn’t comment. If the boy wanted to imagine that he lived in a haunted castle it was a safe enough fancy.

  “Why the interest in the Church of Elish, Jay? I thought you were into Cabalistic philosophy and updating Leviticus.”

  “I’m still going to that—” Jay stopped and stared at Reese. “How did you know? I thought I was careful!”

  He glared wildly at Mizar as if the dog might have reported on him, but the dog stopped shredding the old shoe long enough to look innocently at his accuser from his uneven eyes of red and green.

  “I told him, son,” said the bracelet in the voice of John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Senior. “You could hardly think that I would not notice your forays. I asked Reese for his advice since he has raised children and I have not. He told me that thus far you were behaving safely, prudently, and so I was inclined to permit you to continue your adventures.”

  Jay scuffed the turf with one bare toe and scowled at the bracelet. It had rested there on his wrist for so long, the band expanding as he grew, that at times he completely forgot its existence. Even when he took virt form, as he did now, it translated with him, apparently as indispensable to his entirety as his heart. Lately, however, when he looked at it the image that spontaneously sprang to mind was of the crusader ghost and his ankle chain.

  With vast effort, he kept from voicing his objections to having his life so carefully monitored. The bracelet’s knowledge had been all that had saved him when the Lord of Deep Fields assaulted the castle. Protestations that he could take care of himself would seem petty, and worse—adolescent.

  “Reese, I’ve been thinking about these virt powers the Church of Elish claims to engender in its acolytes. When you think about it, isn’t it a bit like what I can do? In both the case of my ability and these virt powers, something crosses the interface that should not be able to cross.”

  “True,” Reese said, patting the stone nearest to him in mute invitation for the boy to sit. “Of course, there is a great difference between most virt powers and what you can do.”

  “All but this latest trend toward physical manifestations,” Jay protested. “That’s pretty close.”

  “It is,” Reese said, “if the reports are accurate. I have never seen one of these manifestations myself. There are some clever ways people can be fooled into believing they see something—especially if they have preconditioned expectations.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Jay agreed.

  “And we still haven’t figured out how you achieve the virt crossover. Is it something you inherited from your mother? Is it inherent in the bracelet? How did you pull Dubhe across?”

  Jay shrugged, then winked at Reese.

  “Bracelet, are you what permits my virt crossover?”

  “I am not permitted to answer that question.”

  “Not permitted,” Jay said, raising the bracelet to eye level and staring at it, “or cannot?”

  “I am not permitted to answer that question,” the bracelet replied, but a faint sound that might have been a chuckle accompanied the words.

  “Too many variables.” Jay sighed, lowering the bracelet. “Very well. Reese, I want to go into the Verite—the public areas, not just Castle Donnerjack.”

  “Very well. For any particular reason?”

  Jay, prepared to argue, had to stop and collect his thoughts.

  “I’ve heard rumors that the Church of Elish is planning a big festival to celebrate some anniversary of its founding. It will begin in the Verite with public demonstrations of virt manifestations, then cross into Virtu for private services for the faithful.”

  “And you want to see the virt manifestations. Good thought.”

  “I… You agree?”

  “I told you once, I know that I cannot keep you from doing what you want to do if you have your mind set on it. I appreciate your confiding in me. However, you are going to be at considerable risk.”

  Jay swallowed. Until Reese gave his permission he hadn’t realized how much he expected to be prevented from going. He leaned forward to concentrate on what Reese was saying.

  “People are different in the Verite than in Virtu, different in all sorts of subtle ways that I cannot codify for you. The similarities are greater, however, and should guide you. Where is this festival to be held?”

  “On the North American continent. I believe they’re trying for a big city so that the virt transfer facilities will be in place.”

  “New York is my guess, then. This time of year the weather won’t be too bad and Central Park would make a good gathering point. I suggest that you tell anyone who asks that you are a foreigner—Scottish, perhaps. Can you do the accent?”

  “Aye, I hae listened to Angus and the Duncan.” Reese looked at the bracelet. “Any comments, John?”

  “I am not in favor of this trip, however, I bow to your superior knowledge of human psychology. Let’s contact Paracelsus at the Donnerjack Institute to arrange transportation and papers for the boy. I don’t want him leaving any records.”

  “Thanks… Dad,” Jay said, his earlier apprehension giving way to excitement.

  The bracelet only sighed.

  * * *

  Randall Kelsey lingered to speak with Ben Kwinan after the rest of the meeting had been dismissed. The walls of the conference room still displayed projected maps of the celebration site in New York City’s Central Park—surface access marked in blue, landing pads marked in violet, vendor’s avenue in green, permanent transfer facilities in red, temporary facilities in brilliant tangerine orange.

  “Do you think we’ll really pull this off?” Kelsey asked.

  “I have no reason to believe otherwise. The last remaining problem was convincing the mayor that we could provide security for the event. Aoud Araf has done so to the mayor’s satisfaction and, more importantly, to mine.”

  Kwinan crossed to the bar, poured himself a drink, mutely offered Kelsey one. Kelsey shook his head.

  “Nothing thanks, I have to drive.”

  �
��One of the advantages, I suppose, of being virt born is I need not worry about such things,” Kwinan said, “but I long to breathe the air of Verite.”

  “Not in New York City, you don’t,” Kelsey said with a chuckle. “Even with the improvements of the past century it can get a bit ripe—especially if the day is warm.”

  “It still seems peculiar that we cannot simply petition the resident

  AI for ideal weather.” Kwinan shook his head in wonder. “An entire world—an entire universe—without gods. We will do the Verite a great favor when the divine plan is fulfilled.”

  “Maybe,” Kelsey said hesitantly. “Ben, do you even wonder at the wisdom of what we are doing?”

  “Wonder? Only at the slowness of our pace. Are you having second thoughts, Brother Kelsey?”

  “Not really, but the gods… I have never met one of the great ones, only encountered them from a distance during ceremonies. They are creatures of awesome arrogance. Will they understand the delicacy of our world?”

  “They are gods,” Kwinan said.

  “Yes, and the mythology of the region from which they claim origin is full of stories of divine vengeance on a catastrophic level—the Great Flood, monstrous creatures, plagues. Remember that the Old Testament owes much of the harshness of its god to the influence of the Sumerians, the Babylonians, the Assyrians.”

  “Yes.”

  “Should such gods be allowed to roam free in a world with atomic weapons? Verite cannot be reprogrammed from the baseline up. When the template is lost, it is lost.”

  “You are having second thoughts, Brother Kelsey.”

  “If you say so. I prefer to think of it as intelligent questioning.”

  “So did your student Emmanuel Davis—he who was Arthur Eden, author of that very unkind book.”

  “It did not lie.”

  “No, but it asked questions that we were not prepared to have asked, raised questions of motive and faith.”

  Ben Kwinan sipped from his glass, looked at the color of the liquor, sipped again.

  “Randall, in the years since the revelation that Emmanuel Davis and Arthur Eden were one, your place in the Church has suffered. You have more talent than many, but have never been considered for the greater priesthood, for initiation into the deepest mysteries.”