Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

“No, ma’am, I do not.”

Ayradyss rose, dropped the broken conch into the deep pocket of her now damp skirt. Rinsing her sandy feet, she stood on a rock until the wind and sunlight dried them, then she redonned her sandals.

“John doesn’t either,” she said softly. “He forgets that I am a proge of Virtu, not merely the dark-haired, dark-eyed lady he courted in fantasy. He never asked me when I was generated.”

She walked up toward the road. Dack hovered after her, silent, robot-mind content to let her muse, knowing that she was taking comfort in his patient listening.

“Did you get the bed, Dack?”

“Yes, I did, ma’am. The shopkeeper became quite reasonable when I pointed out to him that observable evidence showed that the piece had been in his shop at least two years and that such elaborate set pieces are no longer as popular as they once were thanks to increasing access to Virtu.”

“Thank you, Dack.” Ayradyss’s lips curved in a pretty, gentle smile, her brooding completely gone. “John will so like it—he is a poet, you know, for all his science.”

“I am not surprised to hear you say so, ma’am.”

The waves crashed behind them as they made their way away from the ocean, toward the honeymoon cottage. Riding the winds over the clear waters, a seagull spotted a bit of flotsam on the waves, dove and swallowed it in a single triumphant gulp.

Polish sausage. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Carla and Abel Hazzard regarded their daughter’s recumbent form. Her chest rose and fell slowly.

“Let me get this straight,” Abel said. “You’ve lost her.”

“Of course we haven’t lost her,” Chalmers answered. “She’s right there in front of us in good health.”

“You know damned well what I mean,” Abel said. “You can’t call her back and you don’t know why you can’t.”

“It is not a thing without precedent,” Chalmers said. “There are certain states—partly psychological—which can induce total resistance to recall.”

“What causes these states?”

“We are not certain. It-is not a common condition.”

“What brings them back out of it?” Carla asked.

“There is no single stimulus we have been able to identify. It seems to be more a constellation of factors, which varies in each case.”

“Have these factors anything in common?”

“Not so far as we have been able to determine.”

“Can’t you trace her to wherever she has traveled in Virtu and determine what factors are operating? It would seem you could just ask her.”

“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” he said. “But that’s why these cases are so peculiar. She’s found her way into uncharted territory and we’ve lost the signal.”

“You lost the signal in other cases of this sort, too?”

“Yes, it’s a classical sign of the syndrome.”

“And you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do to bring her back?” Abel said.

“No, I never told you that. First, you must realize that she’s in no real danger. The support systems are more than adequate for her health. Nothing to worry about on that count. Second, we are consulting the physician who treated most of the other cases over the years, a Dr. Hamill. He is considered the expert on this phenomenon.”

“When you speak of other cases— Just how many have there been?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not permitted to discuss that.”

“I take it you carry a lot of insurance for these matters.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good. You’re going to need it.”

As they spoke, the inhabitants of several dozen other virt transfer units about the world—public and private—became briefly agitated, grew pale of face, and then expired from failure of the oxygen supply to their brains. This contingency was not unaccounted for in their contracts, however, for some commuters were engaged in hazardous occupations and death was not an uncommon sequel to certain enterprises. All of these individuals being bounty hunters, the appropriate waivers were present in file, and the matter of their passing was handled routinely. It was noted early on that theirs were the repercussive equivalents of decapitation. Even as a small smile crossed Lydia’s face and her body began to twitch once more both categories of recall failure were entering the realm of statistics, which, of course, was yet another territory of Virtu. But while some of the bounties caught the flash of moire and perhaps even fragmented glimpses of Deep Fields, Lydia’s was a more pleasant while equally engaging prospect.

Ben Kwinan, arms forming an X upon his breast, stood within a pillar of green flame in the inner sanctum of the main Elishite temple in Virtu. His lips twisted through a series of small smiles within his changing face as he communicated with the Powers On High. Now aquiline and widow-peaked, now lantern-jawed with his hair a sea of burnished curls—all of them people he had once been—he flowed in response to the shifting nuances of revelation. He did not normally lose control in this fashion, tending to keep the outer man and the inner apart from each other, save in willed assumptions of appearance for the promulgation of policy. Now, though, vigilance relaxed by ecstasy, the shapeshifting forces of his spirit swam unchecked through him, and he changed in height, width, limb length, and pigmentation in response to the sweetened charges he’d received.

As the light began to fade his body grew stocky and lost height, his features became coarser, skin grew more porous. His eyes shifted to match the grey of his hair. He smiled, and he muttered in tongues until the light was gone. Then he walked.

He walked out of the sanctum and into the innermost temple. He walked to the north wall, touched a design upon it, and spoke to it. It became an arched opening of smoke. He walked into it.

He stood in a bright, tiled room, decorated with form-adjusting furniture, nonrepresentational sculpture of metal, light, and stone, iris flowering yellow, orange, and blue, wide, cool painting of aquatic mood. He passed his hand through a spiral of light to his left and a faint tone followed. Then he crossed to a blond mahogany bar along the far wall and considered its stock.

A door opened to the right of the bar and a thin, dark-haired, dark-mustached man entered the room.

“Mr. Kwinan,” the man said. “Just received your signal.”

“Call me Ben,” the visitor replied. “I need to talk to Kelsey.”

“I’ve already advised him as to your arrival. He’s on his way over.”

“Good.” The being who now called himself Ben Kwinan lifted a bottle of California Burgundy from a rack. “Would you recommend this one, Mr.—?”

“Araf,” the other replied. “Call me Aoud. Yes, I am told that it is quite good.”

Ben smiled, located a corkscrew, set to work opening the bottle. Then he filled a glass halfway, sniffed it, sipped it.

“Are you in the flesh or holo?” he asked.

“The flesh.”

“But you don’t drink?”

“Old habits die hard.”

“Too bad. I’d have asked you whether this wine tastes the same here as in Verite proper.”

“I’m sure that it does, Ben. Or it’s such a close approximation that it doesn’t make any difference.”

“You might pour me a glass,” said the large red-haired man who suddenly stood in the center of the room.

Ben turned and stared.

“Kelsey,” he said, “not quite in the flesh.”

The man nodded. “I was too far away to get here quickly in that fashion. I heard your musing, though, and I wanted you to know I’ve tasted things both ways and they’re the same.”

“But you are of Verite. It may be different for one from Virtu.”