Donnerjack

by Roger Zelazny

  “Anyone else have problem with what I say we do?”

  Heads (bullet-shaped, round like coconuts, furred, balding, broad-nosed, narrow-eyed, thin-lipped or full, all the varieties of the People) shook in frantic denial. Sayjak hardly recalled what Svut had said to put him into such a temper, but he knew that the underling had dared challenge what Sayjak—Boss of Bosses, greater even than old Karak—had commanded. Now Svut whimpered on the ground, leaking blood and piss. Two of his friends, Hoga and Congo, had crept forward and were looking to Sayjak for permission to drag him away and possibly mend him. Regally, Sayjak nodded.

  “We go now,” he said, “out of the jungle, across to another jungle. We beat up all the creatures there. Take their jungle. Live there for a while.”

  (Sayjak remembered now what Svut had said. He had asked what was wrong with their jungle. The eeksies and the bounties did not dare come into the People’s territory anymore. Sayjak felt a return of the red fury when he recalled the question.)

  The war band leapt into the tree branches heading in the direction Sayjak had indicated. Many carried machetes, others carried clubs. A few shes too small to fight, their fur honey brown and lit with a golden light, carried hollow logs that made good drums. These they hit against tree trunks or pounded on with rocks or other sticks. The pounding could not be called music, but it did awaken battle fury in the fighters. Sometimes Sayjak wondered where they had gotten the idea; most of the time it did not occur to him to wonder.

  He knew, however, when they had reached the jungle that was not their jungle. The tree limbs felt the same under his hands, but the wind was not so friendly.

  “Watch now. Enemies come soon.”

  Grunts answered his warning. The People moved on more cautiously. Sayjak had no idea what their goal was, only that he would know it when they had reached it. So they moved on, killing everything that they encountered, everything that they could reach. Sayjak himself pulled a long-tailed bird from the air as it fluttered in panic from its nest. Its bones crunched nicely and it made a refreshing snack.

  They met the first organized resistance to their progress in an open space near the banks of a stream. When the People dropped from the branches of the trees to ford the water, two-headed, long-necked lizards erupted from the pebbly ground near the water. Although they were small, they were ferocious. Two of the People were killed outright, others wounded before Sayjak had an insight into how the lizards would be best slain.

  “Rip ‘em like wishbones,” he hollered, demonstrating by grabbing a lizard so that he clamped both sets of jaws closed. Then he pulled outward, one hand on each head. The lizard split down the middle, revealing that it possessed two backbones—a nicety of design Sayjak was not equipped to appreciate.

  The young shes began pounding their drums. A scream reverberated through the still air. Battle was joined. The People surged forward. To a watching eye, they glowed with a faint, golden light. Sayjak glowed more brightly than any other.

  * * *

  In his grove at the heart of his site, Markon received a most unwelcome visitor. Full-breasted, round-bellied, nude except for a great fall of dark green hair, she had appeared in his private realm uninvited. Reluctantly, Markon left his creatures to fend for themselves.

  Virginia Tallent (who had refused to depart Virtu when the assault began) came to his side as he manifested himself in a shape of living stone. She held a Chaos Factor rifle loosely in both hands, its barrel aimed at the intruder’s pregnant abdomen. There could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that the ranger not only knew how to use her weapon, but that she was quite prepared to do so. Although he knew he should not be, Markon felt heartened by her presence.

  “Earthma,” he said formally.

  “Markon, you know me still, after so long.”

  “How could I not? You, I presume, are the force behind this assault?”

  “How did you ever guess?”

  “The aura of the attackers reeks of sweetened charges. Only one of the dwellers from Highest Meru could continually support such a force within my realm. Tell me. I have rejected all attempts to make me an ally within this brewing war. Why do you assault me? I wish only to remain neutral.”

  “You are too powerful to be permitted neutrality, Markon. I have decided that if you do not ally yourself with me, you shall be destroyed so that you cannot side with one of the others.”

  The stone shape flared with a living green fire that made Earthma’s hair look as thick and flat as algae by comparison. Virginia Tallent steadied her rifle. Earthma did not alter her position by as much as a step.

  “Earthma, you are perhaps arrogant if you believe that your conscripted proges can destroy my site. Already many of them bleed and fall inactive.”

  “And I send charges to heal them.”

  “Harder and harder to do as they come further into my nexus of power.”

  “I tell my minions the weaknesses of each opponent you send against them. Already they have drunk the blood of the bicameral lizards and slaughtered many hunting wilches. Your dire-cats are deadly, but you are too careful of your internal ecology to have many of those great predators.”

  “II I run out of wilches and dire-cats I will use herd-mice to undermine the trees in which your minions swing. I will trample them beneath the hooves of my grohners.”

  “Look to your border with Kordalis. Tell me what you see there.”

  There was a pause. Virginia Tallent was aware of Markon separating a portion of his attention. She fought against an impulse to fire her weapon into the fecund figure who treated her Markon with such arrogance. Only the theology Markon had taught her made Virginia hold her fire. If this creature was indeed an aspect of Earthma, the CF rifle might ruin this manifestation, but it would no more destroy her than destroying a dire-cat would kill Markon. Still, she resolved that if Markon refused to surrender, she would empty the rifle into that obnoxious belly.

  Markon spoke. “I see, Earthma. Phants stand ready to make this a two-front battle. Tell me, did you conquer Kordalis or did she willingly side with you?”

  “Kordalis is not as stubborn as you are, Markon.”

  “Did you promise her my realm if she aided you?”

  “Only if you failed to cooperate. I would prefer you as an ally. I have something I wish to hide and your realm would be perfect.”

  “Tell your minions to hold and I will listen to your proposal. If we cannot agree, we can pick up the battle with little lost.”

  Abruptly, the screams and wails, the thumping of the tree trunk drums that had been the backdrop to their converse, ceased. In the silence, one of Markon’s long-tailed darters broke into song.

  “You will do nothing to continue the attack?”

  “I thought to heal some of my creatures. They are sorely wounded.”

  “Then I shall do the same.”

  “As you wish. Consider using your powers on mine as well, Earthma.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “You wish my realm to serve your needs. How can it do so if you have ruined it, or if I must exhaust my resources to mend my programs?”

  Earthma laughed. “As a gesture of good faith, I will do as you ask.”

  “Speak your piece, then.”

  “Tell your companion to lower her weapon.”

  “Virginia, please do as she asks.”

  The rifle barrel diverted to one side, but Virginia held it ready.

  “I will not let her harm you without fighting back, Markon.”

  “I would not ask you to do so.”

  Earthma rolled her eyes. “Such devotion! Veritean, I have no desire to harm Markon. Only to have him do me a service.”

  Virginia shrugged. “I’m just the hired help. He’s the deity.”

  “Hired help? I think not, but have it as you will. Markon, I wish to conceal something within your realm. If you agree to take it in and guard it until I am ready for it, then I shall restore your site, remove my minions, and even give out that y
ou are so powerful that I am inclined to respect—even to promote—your claim to neutrality.”

  “Clever,” Markon said. “If I am established as neutral none will look for your—whatever—here. What do you wish me to keep for you? Is it a weapon?”

  “Perhaps, but not against any of those on Meru.”

  “You intrigue me. Pray, continue.”

  “I bear a child—a child with fine lineage, for Seaga is its sire. When it has come to strength I plan to install it in a realm that I believe has been too long independent of the authority of those on High.”

  “What realm is this?”

  “Deep Fields.”

  “Then you wish to supplant its lord?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you wish me to harbor…”

  “Yes, the new Death of Virtu. The new Death, if all goes well, of both Virtu and Verite. I am certain that my offspring would be grateful to its foster father.” Earthma glanced sarcastically at Virginia. “Or I should say to its foster parents? What is your answer, Markon?”

  Markon gestured and a stony cradle shaped itself from the rock nearest to Earthma.

  “That is my answer. I will consider the ‘child’ a hostage against your adherence to the agreement you outlined.”

  “But of course. That has ever been the way with foster parents.”

  Virginia Tallent set her rifle aside, placed her hand within the green flame of Markon’s aura. It caressed her, unburning. Earthma began to groan. To divert herself, Virginia Tallent recited:

  Ten centuries of stony sleep were broken by a rocking cradle What rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

  * * *

  Although Dr. Hazzard’s patients were normally residents of Verite, she had no trouble getting a recommendation for a consultation with one of the staff of the Donnerjack Institute concerned with Virtuan medical considerations.

  At the appointed time, she and Wolfer Martin D’Ambry shifted site coordinates and found themselves in a neat room furnished with three comfortable chairs positioned equidistant from each other on an oriental rug in which muted tones of rust, amber, and rose dominated. As they seated themselves, a third person joined them.

  His white coat and stethoscope identified him as a doctor. The badge pinned above his right breast pocket said “SID.” His hair and short beard were ash blond and the expression in his warm brown eyes was friendly.

  Lydia rose. “I’m Lydia Hazzard. Thank you for making time to see Ambry.”

  Sid extended a hand, shook hers firmly, turned to Ambry and repeated the gesture.

  “Delighted to be of service. I’m on loan from the Center for Iatropathic Diseases. Things there have been—I’m pleased to say—slow. Now, Ambry, would you explain what has been troubling you?”

  Tersely, obviously ill at ease, Ambry explained his situation. Sid took occasional notes, but mostly he listened.

  “Could you describe the device you found yourself studying?” he said when Ambry finished.

  “Well, it was attractive in an Escheresque fashion. Silver and platinum I would guess, with long crystals… hexagonal, maybe octagonal. It occasionally spat sparks or glowed with lights of rather anemic pastel hues.”

  Sid leaned his chin on his hand. “Earlier you mentioned that you have no real memory of your site of origin. Do you think it is possible that you originated during the Genesis Scramble?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “What site do you reside in now?”

  “I’d prefer not to say. It’s one of the wild sites.”

  “I assure you, whatever you tell me here is confidential.”

  Ambry frowned. Lydia interjected a comment into the awkward silence.

  “It isn’t that we don’t trust you, but Ambry has been having difficulties with an old enemy.”

  Sid raised his eyebrows. “Could your enemy be responsible for these memory lapses?”

  Ambry hesitated. “It is possible.”

  “I think so, too. Without knowing more, I can’t be more specific, but I would guess that in forcing you to take actions against him or her—”

  “Him.”

  “—that your enemy is awakening some alternate or base program. This could be an escape routine, but it also could mean eventual sublimation of your current persona proge to one of these secondary routines.”

  Lydia interrupted. “Are you saying that Ambry could effectively cease to be himself and become someone else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would he know who he had been?”

  “Judging from the amnesia he has already experienced, I would say not.”

  Lydia turned to Ambry. “I couldn’t bear to lose you again. The first time was hard enough.”

  Ambry nodded. “Not only for you, my love. Dr. Sid, what do you suggest?”

  “That you trust me. Tell me why you are fleeing. I may be able to suggest alternate ways for you to protect yourself—ways that will preserve your base integrity.”

  “The knowledge may endanger you.”

  “I can accept that. I’ll even admit to rank curiosity. You see, the name of Lydia Hazzard is familiar to me through one of my other areas of interest.”

  “Oh?”

  “The study of the phenomenon where virt participants become lost in uncharted territory. I saw some of Dr. Hamill’s early, unpublished notes on your case—notes from before the court decision was handed down and forced him to refer to you as Patient F17.”

  “Ah

  “And I can deduce that Mr. Ambry here may have had some role in that disappearance.”

  Lydia glanced at Ambry. He nodded.

  “The probability is high.”

  “And the interesting question of your daughter…”

  “Parthenogenesis.”

  “Of course. What else could it be?”

  “What else?”

  The three studied each other. Sid with hands folded in his lap, Lydia somewhat anxious, Ambry guarded—even dangerous. After a long silence, Ambry nodded sharply.

  “Very well. I will trust you. I only hope that you will not regret your choice.”

  Sid smiled. “Me, too.”

  “No publishing this material.”

  “No.”

  “No prying into Alice’s life.”

  “Very well.”

  “And if you must consult with a colleague, you will do so with utmost discretion.”

  “I have no problem with that.”

  Ambry relaxed slightly. He reached out and took Lydia’s hand.

  “I am the Piper.”

  Sid started.

  “Sir?”

  “I am the Phantom Piper who once played for the legions of Skyga. He has reawakened my regiment and seeks to draw me to them again.”

  Sid’s brown eyes were wide. He looked as if he would kneel, shout, run about the room. He settled for juggling his notebook from hand to hand.

  “The Piper! The Phantom Piper! By all the gods on Highest Meru, that explains it! I had wondered when you mentioned the machine, but…”

  Lydia and Ambry stared at him.

  “Would you please explain to us?” Lydia said dryly. “Apparently you are privy to knowledge that neither of us share.”

  “You mock me!”

  “No,” Ambry said. “As far as I know, I am Wolfer Martin D’Ambry, the Phantom Piper of the fabled Regiment of Skyga. That is all—I thought it was quite enough.”

  Sid calmed himself with visible effort.

  “Although it is little known beyond ourselves, there is a theological tradition held by many of the aions.”

  “I have heard something of that,” Ambry said, “but never cared to pursue it.”

  Sid shook his head in disbelief. “In that tradition, the Piper is one of the incarnations of a Veritean scientist named Warren Bansa.”

  “Bansa,” Lydia said. “I read about him. He was the one who jumped from a plane claiming to be performing a skydiving act. He vani
shed and was never seen again.”

  “Yes. That’s the man. To us, however, his more important role was as the primal mover in the creation of the Genesis Scramble. Tradition says that he is the one who overloaded the World Net so that it crashed.”

  Ambry spoke softly. “And when it awoke, all was changed and Virtu was born. I remember nothing of that.”

  “I cannot say why,” Sid continued, “but our traditions hold that Bansa—alone among the three sanctified Veriteans—has multiple forms. One is the Phantom Piper, one is the Master, and the last is the One Who Waits.

  “The Master was recalled to me when you mentioned coming to yourself over a strange piece of equipment—for our traditions say that the Master is the geometrician who had a major role in the creation of the universe. In our iconography, he is often portrayed carrying a strange machine. The One Who Waits has a scar that runs from the top of his head to the sole of his left foot. Legend says that he will figure in the closing—or perhaps only the change—of Virtu.”

  “It is almost too much,” Ambry said, and Lydia squeezed his hand in agreement. “I thought I was one legend—now you tell me I am three—or is it four? I resisted Skyga rather than join his battles again, but now you tell me that I have a fate that seems to insist on even greater things.”

  Sid nodded. “This is more than an overwritten psyche proge—let me tell you that. Still, I believe you when you say who you are and, if our theology is correct, then the rest follows.”

  “Oh.”

  Lydia frowned. “And what happened to Warren Bansa?”

  “I have no idea,” Sid confessed. “Our legends never dealt with that. His vanishing seemed just a part of the legend—like Arthur going to Avalon and promising to return someday.”

  “And what can we do for Ambry?”

  “Can you stay with him?”

  “I will need to contact Alice, but I believe so. The clinic will function without me.”

  “We can even arrange some extra medical help through the Donnerjack Institute,” Sid offered. “I think the best thing that can be done for Ambry right now is for him to keep to the wild lands and for you to stay with him. If he begins to change, you will need to protect him—to keep him from doing anything crazy—and, if you don’t mind, to contact me.”