Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“Desmond Drum, inform those you represent that I will carry the message. Where will you wait for a reply?”

“Here is just fine. I understand that deities can do things pretty quickly.”

“And why should Seaga do so?”

“Because the Celebration is in three days RT and the bookies are giving really good odds that Skyga’s going to be Most High when it’s over.”

“Ah. I shall return.”

“Do better than MacArthur on that one, would you?”

Flash of gold. The messenger was gone, leaving spots dancing before Drum’s eyes. The detective leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. No need to get zapped again when the god returned, and he was so tired.

“Seaga will see you.” Kwinan’s return had been noiseless. “If you would take my hand, I will transport you to him.”

“Thanks.”

Flash of gold. They stood in what appeared to be a gigantic shell beneath moving water. Fish with enormous mouths and phosphorescent highlights swam through the dark water. Seaga surged at one end of the shell, manifesting as a cuttlefish with eyes as large as Drum’s clenched fists. Kwinan, now transformed into a long-bodied, swift-moving minnow, darted in the shelter of his master’s many limbs.

“Sire.” Drum sketched a bow.

“You bring a proposition from the Lord of Deep Fields.”

“I never said that, but yes, the Lord of Deep Fields is one of those I represent.”

“One of? He has ever been a loner, that one.”

“And remains so, but for the duration of this crisis he has allied himself with those who oppose the current crossover attempt.”

“Why come to me, then? I do not oppose the concept of crossover. Traffic between Virtu and Verite should run both ways.”

“But this crossover will almost certainly leave Skyga preeminent.”

“You insult my ingenuity.”

“Then you are uninterested in this alliance?”

“I have my own plans.”

Drum had been told to expect that Seaga might not realize how severely endangered he was. Those who have been first often do not seriously consider that it could be otherwise. Reason, he had been told, would not work, but Death had given him another tool.

“The Lord of Deep Fields has commanded me to say to you thus: ‘If you do not consider this alliance, Seaga, then I shall have no reason to forgive you for your trespass into my realms. I know now which two stole Bansa’s device from my keeping. That you were betrayed thereafter gives me some slight sympathy for you. I offer you increased odds of revenge. If you refuse, know that where you stand on Meru is no longer forbidden to me. I will come.’ “

Drum watched for Seaga’s reaction, but even his training had not prepared him for reading the expressions on a cuttlefish’s face. Death’s message was a challenge, not a promise of instant demise. Seaga was still protected by his divinity—Death’s words were merely a reminder that the deity was no longer perfectly safe.

To Drum, a human who lived with the possibility of immediate death from any number of causes and who would die most certainly someday, this threat was ominous. To Seaga, an immortal who had never even casually contemplated his own termination, it was apparently terrifying.

“Perhaps we can come to an accord. Tell me what Death and his allies desire.”

Drum began recounting what they had in mind, outlining Seaga’s role in it. As he spoke, the cuttlefish’s tentacles moved excitedly. Minnow Kwinan swam closer.

Hooked ‘em , Drum thought. Just hope they’re not so big that they putt the boat under .

Randall Kelsey looked out over the swirling mass of humanity streaming into what had been as little as a week before a raw construction site. They’d had to cut corners to get done in time. Only two of the ziggurats were actual structures. The other two were mockups with hollow interiors. One of these mockups, however, had a stronger frame than the others and it was at the top of this that Kelsey had hidden (with no little trepidation) the translation device that Ben Kwinan had arranged to be delivered to him.

Still, mockups or not, it was a good job. Trailing jasmine, bougainvillea, and roses evoked the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. A garden supplier had sold them its entire crop of hibiscus; now the flaring trumpetlike flowers in red, yellow, pink, and white spilled from pots fixed up and down the steps of the pseudo-ziggurats. Hummingbirds had already located the flowers and added their darting color to the landscaping.

The throng was seated in grandstands in front of the two pseudo-ziggurats. A broad avenue between the two completed structures would be used for processions between the ziggurats and the open temple dais from which the ceremonies would be conducted.

Kelsey was glad that he had not been high-ranking enough to be assigned a place on the dais. In order for the audience (congregation) to have a clear view of the show (ceremony), the dais lacked even an awning. His station on the ziggurat had been thoughtfully provided (at his own orders) with a six-foot hibiscus that provided just a touch of shade. It wasn’t much, but he was thankful to have it. The California Celebration promised to be even hotter than the one in New York City.

He longed for one of the iced fruit drinks the vendors were handing out in the stands (Aoud Araf’s suggestion—a comfortable crowd is easier to control), but such things had been ruled as undignified. Virtu had ruined audiences. They forgot that human performers had limitations (even while still demanding that their own be catered to). The compromise that had been agreed on was a water flask hidden within the scepter each priest or priestess carried.

Kelsey took a sip. The water was warm already and tasted of plastic.

He sighed. At least there were no stupid balloons this time. Gods willing, everything should be peaceful, orderly, and impressive. Gods willing. God!

Not in this reality or any other had there ever been a train like the Brass Babboon and Jay, after arguing B.B. into agreeing that this time they were going to sneak into the Meru fields, felt a certain degree of relief at the thought. His father, he decided, must have had a touch of the mountebank beneath the sober, rational exterior he showed most of the world. Why else would he have given the Brass Babboon such an exhibitionist nature?

But the train was intelligent and (mostly) rational. It had agreed that the same trick could not be expected to work twice and that at the very least the gods would send someone to inspect the area of the train’s passage. If they were feeling really paranoid, they might simply try to destroy it out of hand. That might be difficult, but it would have severe consequences for Jay, Alice, Dubhe, and Mizar.

And so the Brass Babboon took a route that enabled him to just barely penetrate the interface and the group slipped off into the brilliantly lit, grassy plains at the base of the primal mountain. As prearranged, Mizar immediately departed to scout, crouching below the level of the tall grass.

“I’m getting claustrophobia,” Dubhe muttered. “Monkeys are not programmed to creep around on the ground. All my instincts are screaming that a jaguar is waiting to munch me.”

“Hush,” Jay said. “Sit on my shoulders if that will help, but keep your head down.”

Minutes passed. Alice glanced at her watch.

“If this is still keeping Veritean time, the Elshie Celebration should be warming up about now.”

“We have time,” Jay said with more confidence than he felt. “The script that Drum swiped indicated that there would be lots of prayers and singing before the main event.”

They waited, nerves slowly fraying as they envisioned what could be happening to Mizar. Jay, fretting over images of his childhood playmate reduced to component parts, admired Alice’s cool as she checked over her gear. Alice, restlessly examining every item in her pack, wondering how effective a CF pistol would be against a deity, admired Jay’s calm alertness. Dubhe chewed the tip of his tail and thought about jaguars and lions.