Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“I can tell you why the Lady Behind the North Wind decided to help you. It’s not merely that Ambry was her friend—it was Skyga’s invasion of her site. The older genius loci are very conscious of their rights and Skyga played havoc with the proprieties.”

“And can you help us find Mount Meru so we can free my father?” Alice asked.

Virginia Tallent nodded slowly.

“Yes, I can, and moreover, I will. As the Lady noted, I am a friend of Markon and one of the Highest on Meru has trapped him into a pact that will mean his death.”

“I don’t understand.”

Briefly, Virginia explained about Earthma’s assault, about the bargain she had offered Markon, about the side effects.

“I faced her down once and Markon grew stronger for a time. Lately, he’s been weakening again. I think Earthma’s bastard is drawing on his power. Yesterday, I saw the moire.”

“The moire. Ambry used that word, too. What does it mean?”

“It is a warping, a fading, a shimmering. In Virtu it means the end of a proge’s life. I believe that this moire was an omen that Earthma’s child will slay Markon. If the real Lord of the Lost had marked him, the end would have already come. He does not toy with his subjects—at least, so Markon told me.”

“Pardon, ma’am,” Drum said, “but you didn’t seem at all surprised by the more outrageous elements of Alice’s story.”

“Because I was not—or perhaps I should say that they were not outrageous to me. Markon has told me about the theology of Virtu. I had already heard of the Piper, the Master, and the One Who Waits. That he had offspring, or that his daughter would wish to rescue him rather than having him remain a pawn in a divine game, did not surprise me at all.”

“Can you guide us to Meru?”

Virginia frowned. “Yes and no. I do not know the way myself, but according to Markon, there is a train…”

Tearing the head from a petite arboreal simian with large pleading eyes, Sayjak playfully squirted the blood fountaining from the neck over Ocro. Ocro howled with coarse amusement, never stopping his own enthusiastic rape of a somewhat bovine herd creature. Later, the memory would add piquancy to dinner.

Their taking of this territory could hardly be dignified with the word “battle.” The area had been designed after a particularly saccharine children’s entertainment series, furnished with gamboling lambkins, frolicking calflets, and chubby fuzzy-bears. Until the arrival of Sayjak’s People, the spreading forests and brightly flowered meadows had been filled with the music of myriad birds and the chattering of the adorable monklings.

Little children had run over hill and dale, learning kindness, caring, and sharing. After witnessing, even briefly, the incursion of Sayjak’s clan, most would be visiting their psychologists for weeks to come.

In a dream, Big Betsy had directed Sayjak to bring his People here, providing the key that would unlock the interface protecting the site. Sayjak grew hard at the memory of that dream, but he decided he would have come here without the bribe of screwing his dream-girl—this place was fun !

The young of the People enjoyed the warm and cuddly inhabitants as much as the human children had—although in a different fashion.

Sayjak interrupted a group playing tug of war with a squealing lambkin.

“You,” he said to a terrified youngling, “go get Dortak, Bilgad, the other leaders. Say Sayjak wants them now.”

The little one scampered off, leaving Sayjak at the center of a circle of awed, admiring eyes. Embarrassed, he grabbed the lambkin, which had been trying to limp away. Grasping it firmly by forelegs and hindlegs, he tugged.

“Christmas cracker,” he guffawed.

Leaving the young to finish dismembering their toy, he knuckled over to join his subordinates.

“This good place, Sayjak,” one said.

The others muttered rapid agreement. Sayjak had been known to beat the snot—and occasionally the life—out of any who didn’t agree with his plans. At first this had been necessary; for instance, when they had first fought in coordination with Muggle’s phants. Lately, even the meanest tumbled over each other in their haste to praise him.

“Is good place. Healthy for young. Lots of food. You think this only reason I bring you here?”

Most looked at their feet. Otlag, still the most intelligent of his subordinates, pursed his lips and blew a thoughtful spit bubble.

“Great Sayjak always have more than one thought.”

Sayjak slapped the ground. “That true. Each of you pick from your bands two of your strongest. Come back with me. We go to other place. Take things away. Come back here. Got?”

Heads nodded. Sayjak knew that most didn’t understand. If he was to probe his plan, he would be forced to admit that he didn’t fully understand. Big Betsy had told him to come here, take this site, and use it as a base to raid another.

“ Even your mighty warriors would have difficulty getting in through the normal access points ,” she had said. “ But you’ll just go in the back door. You’re good at that, aren’t you ?”

Here she wriggled her hindquarters so provocatively that Sayjak had almost forgotten to listen, but he had dragged his attention back. Big Betsy wanted them to acquire an arsenal of weapons more powerful than machetes—weapons like those the eeksies and the bounties used: CF prods, pistols, rifles.

The idea amused him greatly, although he wondered, in some small corner of his mind, what Big Betsy intended for the People to attack. What was so big that brute force and the sharp cutting sticks that had served them thus far would not serve?

The wondering slipped his mind, as most things did. Sayjak knew power, glory, and immortality lay in action, never in thought. Listening to Big Betsy had made him more famous even than Karak. He certainly would continue to follow her suggestions.

Not in this reality nor any other had there ever been a creation like the Brass Babboon. With Jay Donnerjack in the cab, his father’s cap snugged on his head, Death’s dog and monkey crouched beside him, the train howled its way through virtual settings, upsetting numerous aions and troubling those from the Verite who sought to hold onto the illusion that Virtu existed solely for their amusement and convenience.

Unknown to the passengers on the train (or to the train itself, who would not have cared even if it knew), that illusion was steadily fraying. From site after site, reports were coming in of unrequested manifestations. Emaciated vampire sprites invaded a Golf and Eastern board meeting, terrifying the staid members and leaving behind graffiti in a language no one could translate. The Happy Land of Molly Meeper had been invaded by lewd, carnivorous proges with a more than passing resemblance to great apes.

In DinoDiznee, the dinosaurs suddenly turned on each other (and any who got in their way), destroying the basic site, driving the genius loci to nonfunctionality, and losing the parent corporation millions in revenue. Some reported that at least a score of the larger dinosaurs were seen to vanish through the interface. No further reports of their whereabouts were given, so this last was dismissed as rumor. Cancellations of virtual vacations arrived by the score, jamming travel agents’ terminals.

The only virtual sites that had increased their traffic were those connected to the Church of Elish. As more than one visitor was heard to say, “They seem to know more about Virtu. It wouldn’t hurt to be in their camp if things happen.” What those things were was usually left undefined, but it was generally understood to mean the promised crossover of the gods and the wonders and annexation that would follow.