Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

He thought again of his own status with regard to the Church. To them, he was Emmanuel Davis, a research librarian. Davis even had an apartment in another part of town. But he had wanted to be in his own place tonight, to work on his notes while he was still fresh on the material. If they learned of his dual identity his membership would be terminated immediately, he knew. On the other hand, he was certain he never would have been accepted as a member in the first place, let alone as a candidate for the priesthood, had they been aware of his standing as a religious scholar. Especially not had they known of his intention to treat them as a subject. Now, his duplicity had been solely in the cause of truth. He’d no intention of publishing secret rituals or expounding esoteric bits of doctrine. His interest lay in developing the sociology of the growth of the new religion.

He had spent months documenting the Davis persona before approaching the Elishites for religious instruction. Davis’s identity had been strong enough to pass any initial investigation they might have conducted. He had also provided Davis with more than ordinary reasons for travel. And he checked into Davis’s quarters often, to respond to messages both spurious and bonafide, for Davis actually labored in the vineyards of research. Davis also had a horde of relations and friends with whom he visited at the drop of a hat. So far, there had been no indication that Davis had ever aroused unusual scrutiny from any quarter.

He wondered, though. If that identity were penetrated, he wished to be certain that the deception could never be traced to him. Perhaps he should add a second layer to Davis, complicating his life, providing confusion in the event of deep scrutiny. Yes, that seemed a good idea. He would work out details, begin installing it soon.

He forced himself to eat slowly, savoring every mouthful. His stomach growled happily, and he smiled and took a drink of juice. The entire exercise would probably be redundant, he reflected. For even if he somehow made the Elishites’ shit list, what could they really do to him? Take legal action if he had violated a law. Excommunicate him and ostracize him if they could not hurt him in the courts.

He wondered, though, at the volatility of emotions in the followers of religions, never having felt such feelings himself. He supposed that if his study aroused sufficient ire there might be death threats and such from the laity rather than the clergy, and perhaps someone would vandalize Davis’s apartment. He might actually be physically assaulted, if recognized as Davis. He had not thought of these earlier, but suddenly they were there. As he sipped his coffee and considered the more fanatical aspects of religions, he saw that believers were always harder on their own, particularly those deemed apostate, than ever they were on outsiders.

Over his second cup of coffee it seemed even more possible. When his book finally came out it would be readily apparent that its author had been for a time a member. An effort would be made to identify the individual he had been. Fortunately, this was years away. He hadn’t even begun writing the volume yet, and it would be some time before he did. Time enough to get in a lot more work on covering his tracks. Yes, Davis definitely needed more layers to his existence, more complexity, blind alleys, extra identities within his own—confusion. Any trail that might lead to Arthur Eden would be thoroughly muddied. It was good that there was so much time in which to do it.

He began considering the ways. The only thing he could think of that might be on par with what he was going to do would be to develop a virt power that transferred and not report it. They liked to keep track of their adepts. They did not like freelance psis. He wondered, though, what they could really do about it. A person had a right to join or quit any religion he cared to. And he’d never heard of any way to recall a virt power. It was just something you learned, and once you had it, it was yours. Then he wondered what they might plan on doing with their human psis in Verite. He’d never heard of any real activity here in that area.

Was there a way to strip one of such a power? Or a way to control it? To counter it? After a week of working on his telekinetic reflexes in Virtu, this lay upon his mind, though it was more of a game there, a matter of connecting with that function’s in-place programs and learning their uses. Whether that would actually help here—and how it might help—seemed anyone’s guess.

He filed some correspondence, trashed the rest. He scrolled his personal newspaper and caught up on the world’s doings in his absence. Then he mixed himself a stiff drink and took it to bed with him, along with his voice pad to which he told all his recollections and dictated conclusions, fresh ideas, new assumptions. For a while after, he cast them all into his near-elegant prose.

Then he drowsed, and drowsing dreamed. At some point he recalled a thing he should have recorded and his hand moved to the table where he had laid the pad.

He felt the pad slip away, tip.

Then his eyes were open and he was leaning forward, groping. His mind rushed into the past week’s exercise pattern.

The pad hung suspended, five inches below tabletop level.

He stared for several moments. Then, slowly, he reached out and took hold of it.

“I am the walrus,” he said.

The diagnostic unit weighed her and took her pulse, blood pressure, and brain wave profile immediately when she sat in it. It took several moments longer to digest a few milliliters of blood.

Set for voice response, it answered her then:

“Madam, you are pregnant.”

“You are mistaken,” she said.

A moment passed. Then, “Diagnosis confirmed,” it reported.

“You must be malfunctioning.”

“Unlikely,” it responded. “I am very new, and I was fully tested at the factory.”

“There is a reason you came with a full year’s warranty at no extra charge,” she said.

“Yes, because it is a gesture on which they seldom have to pay. I can provide you with the number to call for televaluation.”

“All right. Let’s have it.”

Later, the service tech, who insisted on eyeballing the unit in virt, shook his head.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It tests perfectly,” he said.

“But I can’t be pregnant!”

He glanced at her, smiled faintly.

“Are you sure?”

“It just doesn’t work that way,” she said.

He shook his head.

“I’d better not ask you what you mean,” he said. “But, believe me, there’s no product liability involved. What you decide to do with the information is, of course, your own affair.”

She nodded as he made his farewell and went out like a light.

She wandered the castle’s high halls thinking of children. Shadows slipped about her and drafts stirred curtains and tapestries. Small things scuttled, scratching, across rafters. And what was that other sound?

She wondered at the impossibility of it. The mating of Virtu and Verite was always sterile, had to be sterile. It was a part of the way the worlds worked. There was no room for negotiation with principles. She could not be pregnant. She halted and regarded herself in a wonderfully warped mirror, where a slight side-to-side movement made her left cheek look as if she were chewing gum. She amused herself with the effect each time she passed.

What had happened between her passing in Virtu and her reassembly in Deep Fields?

The sound came again, musical, metallic. Whatever else was involved, the Lord of the Lost had been able to send her reembodied self across the interface to become a genuine resident of Verite. And by way of the scenic route, at that. Might that change also have included a susceptibility to impregnation in her new home? How long had she been in Verite now? Six months? A year? It was hard getting used to the way time worked in this place.