Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“Well, there was yesterday, and then there’s today.”

“Tomorrow? Tomorrow you give the challenge?”

“The day after. I meant three full days. Everybody will have an idea what I look like by then. It’s the closest I’m going to get to being introduced.”

“But that’s just not how it’s done. Usually, they start out fighting some lower phant and work their way up. Somewhere along the line they find their level, and that’s that.”

“I’ve a pretty good idea where I’ll wind up. I’m just cutting out the middlemen.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I’m glad he appreciates it.”

“Excuse me.”

Continuing his browsing, Tranto noted after a time that Muggle had moved into Scarco’s vicinity as if in the accidental course of his breakfast foraging. They were together for some small while. Then a black bird came and sat on Scarco’s head.

Later in the day, Muggle wandered his way again.

“I was talking to Scarce a bit ago…” he said.

Tranto grunted.

“He thinks it rather ill-considered for you to do a thing like that when you’re not even familiar with the group. What if—speaking hypothetically, of course—you fought him and won and then discovered that you didn’t even like the job or the area or your constituents?”

“We could always move to a different area,” Tranto said, “and, as for the job, I think I indicated I’ve held the like before. Never had any-trouble with my herd then, either.”

Muggle nodded.

“The boss had anticipated your saying something like that. He’s pretty smart as well as tough, you know. Tough just isn’t enough to have kept him where he is for as long as he’s been there. Now he felt you might need a little time to make up your mind about whether you were really doing the right thing.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Bear with me a moment. Scarce appreciates your feelings—as an outcast looking for a home, as a phant so desperate for acceptance that he’s willing to risk his life for a herd. So he asked me to make you a proposal: Hold off on the challenge and he’ll waive the waiting period. You won’t have to wander about the fringes of the herd looking pathetic and sucking up to everybody. You’ll be in, effective immediately, with all the rights and privileges that entails.”

“That would still leave me at the bottom of things, which is unacceptable.”

“You could still fight your way up, a rung at a time, whenever you felt up to it.”

“Too slow. No thanks.”

“He will be sorry to hear that.”

“I’m certain.”

Muggle lumbered off. Tranto watched him browse his way toward Scarco again. Later in the day he came back.

“How’s about this?” he asked. “He lets you in at the middle level. No getting dumped on like the guys at the bottom. In fact, you’ll have plenty of guys you can push around yourself then. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Acceptance and a little fun?”

“What about the guy I displace?”

“The boss just tells him to eat a little shit. He’ll do it. That’s what life is all about.”

“What about the ones I’ll suddenly be over?”

“They eat a little, too. But they’ll get over it.”

“Whoever would be right above me and right under me wouldn’t accept me, seeing how I’d gotten my position. I’d have to fight them to consolidate things.”

“That’s up to you.”

“True, and since it means I’d have to fight anyway, I’ll just start at the top.”

“Scarco’s awfully tough.”

“I never doubted that.”

“Did you really get that scar knocking down a—what do you call ‘em?—circus tent?”

“No, that’s the one over on this side. I got that one tearing a fighting vehicle apart.”

“I’m not sure I know what that is. But I’ll go and pass along your answer now, if it’s final.”

“It is.”

Muggle moved away. Tranto foraged some more, wandered over to the water hole and drank, climbed a hill, and watched the day end. As the shadows drifted about him, he descended its far side, lowered his head, and drowsed.

Somewhere in the middle of the night he was roused by the sense of a large presence moving nearby. Despite their great bulk, phants can move with ghostlike stealth. Yet it is not that easy to surprise a fellow phant who is experienced in that area himself.

“Good evening, Scarco,” Tranto said.

“How did you know who it was?”

“Who else would it be?”

“True. I guess we’re the only two with anything to talk about at this hour.”

“So it would seem.”

“I know who you are.”

“The bird. I saw it.”

“I might have guessed without it, Ancestor.”

“Well, I’ve been around a lot, that’s true. I don’t know that it matters, makes me special some way.”

“Ah, but it does. As a child, I heard stories of you. I still hear them. I often wondered whether you were truly real, or but a legend. I confess I felt it to be the latter. Now, it appears that I must fight you for the leadership of the herd.”

“Well, yes. I’m not giving you much choice. But look at it this way: When we’re done, you’ll be Number Two. That’s not bad. Takes a lot of the pressure off, in a way, I understand.”

Scarco made a polite noise, then, “That’s not entirely it,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You are right that being Number Two might not be bad. After all these years it might even be something of a relief. I could stop worrying about challenges, stop worrying about all the big decisions, take life easy for a change, and still enjoy everyone’s respect. The position does hold considerable appeal.”

“Then what’s the problem? We fight, and—win or lose—you still end up in a desirable position.”

“Dead is not a desirable position.”

“Who’s talking dead? We both know that these things only go as far as they have to.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But, well… I’m a little leery about this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to be frank—no insult intended, mind you—I’ve heard that you’re a rogue. Once you lose your temper and start smashing things, they say, there’s no stopping you. It occurs to me that this might be the case in a combat for leadership, that you just might not stop where anyone else would if someone were to call it quits.”

“Oh, no. This is a misunderstanding of my condition—though it’s easy to see how the rumor might have gotten around. What it is, is that I’ve an old injury that sometimes acts up, and when it does the pain tends to drive me rather wild. This doesn’t occur too often, however. Years often pass between spells. In fact, I’ve just gotten over one recently, so it should be a good long time before I’m troubled by another. Generally, I even feel it coming on and have time to get away from my friends. So there’s really nothing to worry about on that account.”

“What brings them on, Tranto?”

“Oh, different things. Apart from the times when they just come on by themselves, various traumas might set them off. A CF prod, for instance. Hate the things.”

“Oh, they’ve had you on forced work crews?”

“Indeed. Usually a mistake on their part.”

“I can imagine. Well, look, you can’t blame a fellow for being cautious.”

“Of course not.”

“Then you understand my feelings. If you’re not absolutely certain what sets all of them off, how am I to know whether a thrust from me might trigger one?”

“I see what you’re getting at. Unfortunately, it’s like anything else in life: I can’t offer you assurances. On the other tusk, I think it highly unlikely.”

“Hm.”

“That’s the best I can do. Sorry.”