Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

A block of scuffed marble, white veined with black, now rested in one skeletal hand. He opened it and withdrew a gleaming green object the size and shape of a peach pit.

“Son!” Death called, and for that moment his face and form was that of Earthma. “Catch, son!”

Antaeus reached, grasped. His moire gulped the glowing creation seed, dissolved it. At that moment, the palace settled into itself with a noise like joints popping. Startled, Virginia Tallent paused in the reloading of her CF rifle. Behind her, hinges that held the secret door unscrewed themselves and the door sagged.

“With water, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry, with water, dear Henry, moisten it with water!”

Antaeus froze. Although he lacked face or much of form, the blind motion telegraphed surprise. Near him, a plaster molding fell, shattered into powder. His blobbish form moved, questing as a plant does for light.

“Your Antaeus has no earth left upon which to stand, my dear,” the Lord of the Lost said politely to Earthma.

A wall sagged inward, would have buckled then, but Tranto braced it with his forehead. Still singing, the human trio moved to the shelter of his bulk. Death continued speaking, advancing on Earthma.

“Neither does my fine palace, alas, but the end is certain.” He grinned then and with whiteness shone. “Death comes for us all, even for impudent deities who have trespassed on my realm.”

“I…”

“And on my prerogatives.”

Death gestured at Antaeus and from the moldering moire Markon’s voice was faintly heard accepting Earthma’s offered death.

“You cannot deny that.”

“I…”

“You bitch!” Her voice thin and no longer even faintly feminine, Virginia Tallent screamed. She darted across the room, dodging falling masonry and building timbers with lithe ease.

Jay stopped singing to yell, “Virginia, no!” but his cry could not reach the fury who flung herself on the goddess.

“You killed him to feed that!” Virginia flung a wild hand at Antaeus, little more than a puddle now.

“Killed him too soon,” Earthma said, fending off Virginia’s blows.

“Had I waited longer, Antaeus would have been stronger. I erred in my enthusiasm.”

Idly, she flung Virginia to the floor. The tile cracked with the impact. Virginia struggled to one elbow, a loaded CF pistol cocked in a trembling hand. She pulled the trigger, did not know that the Lord of Entropy added his force to her attack. Dying, she saw Earthma’s manifestation shiver, begin to unravel, and fragment into nonlinear code.

“ But there’s a hole in the bucket …”

“Markon,” Virginia whispered, and then she died.

Had it not been for Tranto and Mizar, neither Jay nor Alice would have made it out of the crumbling Palace of Bones. The phant sheltered them with his body, concentrating on keeping Mizar in sight as the hound found opening after opening, the structure collapsing to rubble around them.

Barely dodging a falling support beam, Desmond Drum recalled his virt form to the Verite, shouting that he would meet them at the Union Station site. Death, of course, was immune to danger from destruction and Phecda remained coiled within his cowl.

Once on the battlefield, a weeping Alice withdrew—saying between sniffles that she would brief the Brass Babboon and the remaining ghosts—and Jay was left alone with Death. Although he tried to face the Lord of the Lost with appropriate courage, he could not hold back his tears.

“Do not mourn too greatly for Virginia, Jay,” Death said with surprising kindness. “She had seen the moire, nor did she care to live on, a cripple in Verite, bereft in Virtu. Remember her kindly and do not think her a coward for choosing this way to end her suffering.”

Jay snuffled back a fresh bout of sobs.

“She’s gone, both here and in the Verite?”

“Yes. Her Veritean body was eaten with disease. When Markon died, only her desire for revenge kept her living. Having achieved something of that, she let herself believe that the injuries she had sustained battling Earthma were fatal.”

“But it isn’t fair! She didn’t really harm Earthma.”

“She may have done more damage than we know.” The Lord of the Lost sighed avery human-sounding sigh. “Antaeus represented agreat expenditure of resources on Earthma’s part. The CFrounds fragmented his programming and your song made it difficult for him to use his moire to draw power from his own destruction as he had done time and again on the battlefield.”

“I wondered what he was doing,” Jay said. “I knew it had to do with creation and destruction, but…”

“Song—patterned sound—is not natural to Deep Fields, where everything loses its pattern. Your live song, as opposed to recordings, created patterns and thus created interference for the moire, which breaks down patterns.”

“I’m glad we helped.”

A glint of white within the cowl. “I wish you had picked a more lovely piece of music. Your father, at least, had taste in such things.”

“Next time.”

“The next battle will not be here, Jay. Nor will I be able to direct it, although I will assist indirectly.”

“The next battle?”

“Surely you intend to oppose the crossover,” Death said dryly. “Or do you want the likes of Earthma and myself to have free reign over the Verite?”

“You have a point.”

“But first, Jay D’Arcy Donnerjack, you and your allies need rest. Deep Fields is good for this, but alas, this time I cannot offer you a bed. I suggest you retreat to Castle Donnerjack. We can confer another time.”

“I don’t know if I can sleep,” Jay said.

“I’ve heard that before. Go. We will speak again.”

Jay sketched an awkward bow and left for the Brass Babboon. As he walked a high-pitched, broken sound followed him.

Surveying the ruins of his restored kingdom, Death was whistling.

“Four days! Can we possibly manage to stop them with only four days?”

The speaker swung by his tail from a cherry tree that swayed slightly with the motion. Caltrice worked programs to stiffen the tree; the swaying stopped; the swinging continued unabated.

“Dubhe, what choice is there?” Reese Jordan said reasonably.

“The Judeo-Christian tradition says that all the earth was created in seven days,” Desmond Drum added. “Most humans believe that Virtu came to be in a matter of hours. Thanks to Caltrice’s altered time flow, we have extra time with which to plan and some privacy.”

“That’s a hint to stop whining and get to work.” Jay reached up and patted Dubhe.

“Right. Hand me a banana, would you?”

Clad in neat black jeans, a white tee-shirt with the “Ginger Rogers” slogan printed on it in black, and sandals, the Lord of Deep Fields sat on a rock near the banks of the stream. Out of courtesy for Caltrice, this manifestation did not emanate the moire. In fact, he could have easily been mistaken for a pale man of somewhat ordinary Caucasian features if it were not for the mien of authority he bore and the fearful deference all accorded to him.

“Actually, Dubhe, there is every reason to believe that we will be able to stop the crossover attempt—the question is how to minimize casualties to our side. We have extraordinary resources at our disposal and, when you consider it, the crossover attempt is so outrageous as to be improbable. In Virtu, such things can change the outcome.

“Moreover, I have considered the effects of our battle in Deep Fields on their plans and I believe that the loss of Antaeus will hurt them sorely.”

“Could you explain why, sir?” Alice asked. “He was powerful, but he struck me as rather mindless.”