Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “Yes, I know, but despite this I have served the Church faithfully. I brought these concerns to you because I believed that you would listen.”

  “I am listening, Randall. I am even going to treat this conversation as a matter of private confession. My star has risen; yours has not, but we have been friends for a long time. Speak only to me of your concerns. I, in turn, will privately sound out the great leaders.”

  “Have you ever met the Hierophant, Ben?”

  “Only in great company and shrouded in glory. You know that it is said that the Hierophant is an AI. Although the reach and power of an AI seems vast to a human of Verite, even the greatest are vulnerable to attack. There are virus proges, seeker programs, worms, overwrites. The identity of the Hierophant is a secret to everyone, I believe, but the greater gods.”

  Randall Kelsey rose, crossed to the bar, poured himself two fingers of Scotch whisky. It burned as he opened his throat and swallowed.

  “Peat bog. Dogs body. I’ll have another and call a cab.”

  Kwinan watched. “You will keep your counsel? I would not see you harmed in any way.”

  “I will,” Kelsey said as he rose, thumbed the intercom for a cab. “I’m in far too deep to back out, my friend. I just want to do the best thing for everyone.”

  “So do we all.”

  They sat in silence until Kelsey’s cab landed on the roof. When their goodbyes were said, Kwinan carefully checked the room for bugs or recording devices (after all, his own faith could have been being tested). Then he drew down the menu and selected the coordinates for his own locus.

  Ben Kwinan communed On High. The secure link bore him the sweetened charges, filling him with virtue as he let his form shift into that of a golden youth clad only in a jockstrap and sandals. When he had assumed the expected appearance, he stepped forth into the chamber within which he conspired with Seaga.

  Since such discussions could not be held on Meru, where Skyga hummed his hums, and Earthma could be trusted to eavesdrop, Seaga had created this refuge, deep inside of the data-stream. In appearance it was not unlike a great chambered nautilus, pink, nacreous, and just translucent enough that any listener would be instantly detected and swallowed by the ferocious bytes that cruised these sacred streams.

  Within this shell, Seaga manifested himself in the form of a cuttlefish, as blue as a jazz musician’s soul and cruelly beaked. The hesitant, almost worried voice that emitted from this monstrosity nearly made Celerity grin, high as he was on virtual liquor and divine power, but he suppressed it quite effectively by remembering the power of Seaga—power so vast that only the power of Skyga and Earthma could be considered equivalent.

  “And what do you have to report?” the cuttlefish asked.

  “Great Lord through whom data flows,” Celerity said, “the celebration of the Church of Elish is readied. I hear whispers in the hierarchy that one of the Greater Gods of Sumer will attempt the crossover during the festival.”

  “Great God!”

  “The power needed for the transmission of the data will be enormous. I cannot think that the crossover will be of long duration.”

  “Who do you think will attempt the crossover?”

  “That is a highly guarded secret, Seaga. My bet is either Marduk or Ishtar. They both manifest in a highly showy fashion. Ea or Shamash are distinct possibilities as well.”

  “Have you learned who they really are?”

  “That they are of the dwellers on Meru is without a doubt, but, except for some of the lesser aions, none who associates with the Church of Elish makes it too commonly known.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Everyone wants to give the impression that they have mana and enough to spare.” The cuttlefish clattered its beak. “Celerity, I have reached the conclusion that Skyga is in some way connected to the Church of Elish.”

  “So you have said before, mighty Seaga.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Celerity. I am well aware that you have set yourself to be on the winning side no matter how this war progresses. If you betray me, I will use my last byte to search you out and rend you into such trash that even Deep Fields will reject.”

  “Yes, Great Lord. I humbly beg your forgiveness. I am but a lesser god and it has been a long day.”

  “Better. Now take your chin off my clean floor and listen. Skyga recreates his best troops from the wars following the Genesis Scramble. He recruits among those who remain free agents.”

  “And you?”

  “I do the same—balance of power and all that.”

  “And Earthma?”

  “Who knows what game she plays? Sometimes I think she has no care for the coming conflict. Other times I am certain that she is allied with Skyga. Other times… Celerity, may I tell you something in great secrecy?”

  “I would be honored, lord.”

  “Earthma is to bear a child. She has hinted ever so coyly that it is mine.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “The children of gods are not always matters for rejoicing, Celerity, especially of gods such as ourselves. Recall the hundred-handed giants spoken of by the ancient Greeks, or the monstrous bull that Ishtar brought forth to punish Gilgamesh.”

  “I see your point.”

  “Is this her way of hinting that she would ally with me, or her threat that she has gotten of me a fearsome weapon?”

  “I do not know, lord.”

  “Of course, you don’t, but if you should hear something…”

  “I will listen carefully, lord, and ask careful questions.”

  They spoke some time longer, then Celerity retreated from that place to Ben Kwinan’s home within Virtu. As he made the transit, he reflected that he had not mentioned Randall Kelsey’s disaffection to Seaga, but that did not seem important.

  * * *

  Of sex and of violence, Sayjak dreamed.

  The drum beat at the Circle Shannibal. Machete clamped between his teeth, he swung through the trees on his powerful arms, rapidly outdistancing his followers.

  Who would beat the drum? Sayjak was Boss of Bosses. All was good for the People. There was much food. The bounties no longer came into their territory. The eeksies had found it prudent to employ their regulatory efforts elsewhere. The People gorged themselves, screwed, and expanded their range into jungles that they had not dared venture into before. Who, then, would beat the drum?

  When Sayjak came to the Circle Shannibal, the noise was so great that the lobes of his ears shook as if buffeted by a wind, but when he looked to see what great throng made the noise, he saw only one. A mighty figure, larger than himself in his prime, covered with coarse brown fur like a coconut husk over back and shoulders, legs and arms. Breasts (pendulous, full, shaking with the pounding dance) and buttocks (rounded, flushed crimson in invitation) were free of hair. Altogether, Sayjak had never encountered so desirable a female. His dick stood straight in salute.

  Something, though, was wrong about the head. He dropped from the trees, took his machete into his right hand, advancing even as he sought to puzzle out the strangeness. The female continued her pounding dance, moving, though she must be aware of him, to keep her face away from him. As this brought her backside to his greater attention, he did not protest. Indeed, he felt that there was an invitation.

  Dropping the machete, he bounded up the slope of the Circle, knuckles brushing the ground. The female did not cease from her drumming. In a single leap he was upon her, thrust into her, one hand groping her breasts, the other grabbing a liberal handful of her hair lest she try to escape. She kept up her thudding on the drum—foot, foot, hand, hand, foot, foot, hand, hand—giving an odd rhythm to his ride.

  He increased the violence of his thrusts, pinching hard at one nipple to show his displeasure at her lack of attention. Then she ceased drumming, pressing back against him with gratifying—indeed, frightening— enthusiasm and strength. He jerked at her hair, reining her in, and shockingly, the head came off in his hand.

  His arm wrenched back at
the unexpected lack of resistance and the head dangled before him. From lips as full as when he had severed her head from her body, Big Betsy smiled at him. Sayjak screamed and pitched the head away from him. It stopped in mid-arc, corrected its course, swooped back, and reattached itself to the neck stump. Big Betsy looked back at him, over her shoulder, coyly wriggling her rump.

  “Come on, shrivel dick, can’t you finish what you were doing?”

  Sayjak indeed felt his dick shrivel, but Big Betsy’s challenge was too much for him to ignore. With an effort of will as powerful as he had brought to the many battles for his life, he concentrated only on her charms. He slapped her face so that the human eyes with their sardonic wit were turned away, struck her several times more for good measure, and when he heard her scream felt himself to be in good form again.

  “I take your head again,” he growled, when he had finished, pushing her face into the dirt as a reminder of who was Boss of Bosses.

  Big Betsy rolled onto her back, submissive in posture, her breasts wealed from his attentions, but her teeth-bared smile and narrowed eyes full of challenge.

  “Boss of Bosses, they call you, eh?”

  “That’s me. Boss of Bosses.”

  “Like old Karak?”

  “Like Karak, only better, meaner. Karak never kill so many bounties—scared away the eeksies. Only Sayjak do that.”

  “Only because you stole my machete,” she taunted.

  “I twist your head off your neck,” he said as a reminder.

  She did not seem cowed. For a long moment she studied him from Big Betsy’s eyes. They were blue, he noticed.

  “What if I give you a real fight?”

  “Huh? You and me?”

  “No, you and your people. Big fight. Hearts to eat, livers, too. Reason to dance, boast, shout about how great is Sayjak, Boss of Bosses, better than Karak.”

  “The People don’t need nothing. Nobody give us any trouble. Why should we fight?”

  “You afraid of a big fight? You scared?”

  “Sayjak isn’t afraid! Not of nothing!” he shouted, but he only told a half-truth.

  He was afraid of this she with her human head and her body like the most perfect of the shes of the People (though maybe a bit too big in the tits), a body that already his traitor dick was beginning to desire again. Perhaps he could leap her from the top, screw her like humans do. It would not be as satisfying as feeling himself slap against her buttocks, but…

  Big Betsy smiled a smile with too many teeth and parted her legs as if she divined his thought.

  “You afraid,” she taunted.

  “Am not!” he growled, and he leapt on her, struggling with the awkwardness of the unfamiliar position, feeling the rich softness of her breasts before he levered himself onto his arms. She welcomed him inside her and as he beat against her, she spoke, her voice husky, rich as loam or blood.

  “Sayjak, I say unless you take this fight, you are a coward. Fear will wither your loins and your teeth will fall from your gums. A younger male will defeat you and, laughing, drag your liver in bloody gobbets out through your nostrils. The People will fall into tiny tribes, hunted and terrified. The bounties will string your favorite shes’ ears about their necks.”

  Sayjak rode harder, willing himself not to hear her. He wanted to break her teeth, force her to swallow her curse, but he could not raise a hand and maintain his balance between her open thighs. A lust more powerful than any he had ever known forced him to thrust on and on, unwilling rapist.

  Beneath him, Big Betsy moved like an earthquake: rippling, squeezing, clawing at his back and shoulders. She sunk her teeth into his earlobe until the blood ran, splashing over her face, her throat, between her breasts and matting his fur.

  “Coward,” she whispered.

  And Sayjak knew that he was beaten. A perverse defeat, for even as he resigned to her command, he shot himself into her, taking her, claiming her, as he had never claimed another.

  Of sex and of violence, Sayjak dreamed.

  * * *

  A long-range cruiser landed on the roof of Castle Donnerjack promptly at noon two days before the Elishite celebration was to be held in Central Park. The driver, a taciturn android who could be trusted never to speak of his mission, bent his lips into an expression of perfect nonhearing as Dack presented Jay Donnerjack his overnight bag, an eft stick, and much advice.

  “Now, remember, Master Jay, you will arrive in New York with time enough to rest. Accustomed as you are to virt travel, don’t overlook the effects of jet lag… I remember your poor mother, but that’s neither here nor there. Obey the instructions of whomever Paracelsus sends to advise you.”

  “I understand, Dack.”

  Jay would have stepped into the cruiser, but Dack placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Listen to the weather report and dress appropriately, young sir. New York summers are very changeable, so don’t forget a sweater if you plan to be out after dark. You…”

  “Yes, Dack.” Jay touched the robot on his arm. “I’ll be careful, really. Watch out for Dubhe for me, will you?”

  Dack glanced to where Dubhe stood. The spidery black monkey looked truly miserable as he hung back in the doorway. He understood why he could not accompany Jay, but he was unhappy about having his friend and protector depart. He scrubbed something suspiciously like a tear from the corner of one eye.

  “Have fun, Jay,” he called.

  “I will. See you in a couple of days.”

  Dack finally let him board the cruiser. “I will take care of Dubhe for you. Be careful.”

  Jay muttered further reassurances until he was in his seat and the door sealed shut. He pressed his head against the window and waved until the castle, then all the island called Eilean a’Tempull Dubh, was swallowed in the mist. Then he leaned back against the headrest and tried not to show too much of his excitement. He was out—out in the Verite—on his own.

  He glanced at the bracelet. Well, almost. Remembering his manners, he turned to the driver.

  “I’m Jay Donnerjack. Thanks for coming to get me.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’m Milburn. I work for the Donnerjack Institute. It is a pleasure to meet our founder’s grandson.”

  “Grandson? I always thought that my dad founded the Institute.”

  “No, it was your grandfather. He made quite a lot of money in medical research and established the Institute to promote various research foundations and to take care of his family. Your father’s work considerably added to the Institute’s fortunes, however.”

  Jay stared down into the white cloud mountains over which Milburn guided the cruiser. It did not occur to him to be amazed by the vista, for he had seen far stranger in Virtu. As of yet, he had not meditated on the role of chaos in shaping Verite.

  “I wonder if I will ever do anything to add to the Institute’s fortunes,” he said after a time.

  “You wonder at this?” Milburn asked. “Your heritage would seem to make it a certainty.”

  “But what can I do? I live locked up in that castle. I don’t do anything, really, except roam around Virtu. What good am I?”

  “You are educated?”

  “I guess so. Lots of math, literature, some languages. Is that any good?”

  “More than, sir. Many people cannot do even those things. Virtu is the ultimate tool for creating an unlettered proletariat. Many service tasks that once took great skill are now performed in virt space in a simplified fashion for which computer programs provide the details.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A simplified example: Once a human clerk needed to know how to type and file. Today correspondence is dictated to a virt assistant—a computer proge—that then creates the document, edits it for spelling and grammar, perhaps flags any infelicities, and returns it for approval before sending it on. Filing is so automatic as to hardly merit a separate name. When a document is no longer needed, it is immediately filed or erased. The human does not even n
eed to know how to recall it—the virt assistant handles that.”

  “So?”

  “So once being a clerk or secretary was a skilled job. Now it is handled via virt.”

  “That frees more people to get better educations, right? And to do things like colonize the solar system or advance human knowledge.”

  “Only in theory, sir. There are many humans who, through lack of intelligence or temperament, simply cannot profit from higher education or more elaborate training. Now that they are unemployed, they are either forced into what labor is not already done by artificial people or onto public support. Neither is satisfactory.”

  “Somehow you seem like the last type of person I would expect to be lamenting technological unemployment.”

  “Because I am an android? I am complex enough to lament waste, Master Donnerjack.”

  “Jay,’ please.”

  “Jay, then. I see lives left without direction. No one starves or goes without minimal health care. Since they do not need to struggle to survive, all the energy of these basically intelligent people must go into something. I mention this because you are going to a celebration held by the Church of Elish. Many of their followers are drawn from the ranks of those who have no place in the Verite. Uneducated, they are captivated by the promises of the Church, the vague hints of higher knowledge.”

  “I wondered how so many of the people I met at services had time to learn all the arcane rituals. I could barely fit the basics into my study program, and Dack was willing to let me include them into my curriculum as theology and anthropology.”

  “Many have nothing more important to do than worship modern interpretations of ancient gods, Jay.”

  “Have you been to the Church?”

  “Only once. They do not actively encourage APs.”

  “That’s odd. The stories are that the religion was founded by an AI.”

  “There is a social separation between our kinds. Since we have greater mobility—effectively dwell within the Verite—many aions dislike us. Yet, despite our greater physical mobility, we are more limited than almost any virt aion since our systems cannot carry memory to match that of the aions. Some of the greater aions have commented that even a sophisticated AP is little better than a proge.”