Roger Zelazny - Donnerjack

Mermaid Beneath the Seven Dancing Moons, Cantress of the Siren Song,

Drown our enemies in the data-stream. Nymph of the Logic Tree,

Child of the First Word,

Give our antagonist to grief.

Transformation was swift and painful. Winged mermaid, she bore the Sword of Wind and Obsidian in one hand while dragon’s wings of bright mylar beat to carry her upward.

Looked at through her ancient knowledge, Ayradyss no longer found the guardian blockading the moon portal a thing of fear. It was rather humorous, pathetic even, huddled there in terror of her glory. Its component proges were easily unencrypted, routinely deciphered, rendered into code, into data bits, into nothing but loam for Deep Fields.

Raising the Sword of Wind and Obsidian, Ayradyss did this thing, and as the guardian fell into oblivion, she felt cold hands shoving beneath her wings, pushing her toward the rock wall.

A round, dark depth she barely recalled was the moon portal loomed before her. Reflexively, she tried to furl her wings, knowing that their breadth could not pass. She was not swift enough. Something—interface?—shredded her wings. Without them she could not fly; fish-tailed, she could not stand. Dropping the Sword of Wind and Obsidian, she curled her arms to protect herself as best she could…

Firm metal grips caught her by her upper arms and held her when she would have fallen onto the tunnel floor.

“Mistress Ayradyss?” Voit said, its mechanical voice managing to project authentic concern. “Are you injured? Do you require the services of a medbot?”

“No… Yes… I…”

She caught her breath, looked down at herself. Her body was human once more. Human as she had been before the caoineag had begun her charm, everything in place including the distorting, awkward, beloved swell that was her baby. As if to reassure her that he had not suffered from her unwitting transformation, the baby kicked out solidly.

“I am fine, Voit,” she managed at last. “Well, even. I was just startled. We had a rather more difficult time than anticipated.”

“Then there is no need to forward a report or request assistance?”

“I would prefer if you did neither, Voit.”

The caoineag was waiting in front of the moon portal, her face impassive, her hands folded in front of her as if she expected rebuke. There was not even a glimmer of triumph or superiority in her bearing. If anything, she seemed diminished and paler than was her wont.

“How…” Ayradyss stopped and rephrased her question. “Where did you find that incantation? How did you know what it would do?”

“Your many names, Lady Ayradyss. I have said before that what you have been binds you to myth in a way that others are not bound. The charm came to me in the dreaming channels as I rehearsed the charm taught to us by the Lady of the Gallery and fretted as to whether a Christian charm would be efficacious against a pagan creature.”

“It just came to you?”

“Not in a flash, more in a substitution. I found myself calling on the Angel of the—”

“Don’t say that name,” Ayradyss interrupted. “I fear its power.”

“It is your name.”

“It was. The Great Flux is the ancient beginnings of Virtu. I did not belong to myself then, but instead to the legions of one of the warring powers.”

“And you belong to yourself now?” the caoineag said with a pointed glance at Ayradyss’s pregnant belly.

“Now I am Ayradyss. I belong to that person. The other… belonged to another and to another’s needs. I had not realized how much I

dreaded a recall into that being until you—albeit briefly—forced me into that form again.”

“I understand,” said the wailing woman. “Once I was Heather, daughter of the laird. Now I am the caoineag . When I am caoineag no more, what will I be? Can I return to Heather? I long for my first self, but having seen you as what you were I can understand your reluctance to return to that—although it seems to me that your first self had great power.”

“But little free will. When my creator commanded, I had no choice but to act as was dictated to me. After the days of conflict, I managed to hold a small portion of myself—something of my mystery and something of my glory—and shape what became Ayradyss.”

“You asked me for pity.” The caoineag’ ?, words were not quite a question.

“I did not know I could be called back into that form. And although the form of the charm told me what my immediate purpose was, I could feel the tug of my creator at the back of my mind. I feared a recall.”

“Your creator?”

“One of those On High, the Dwellers on Mount Meru. Most call him Seaga and his domain is the vast tidal masses of data in Virtu. Along with Skyga and Earthma, he is one of the great Trinity.”

“Father, Son, and Holy Ghost?”

“No. It is less metaphysical than that—or perhaps merely other. Skyga oversees the general power of the system’s structure. Earthma is the aion of all aions, the base program for all loci. Other deities reside on Meru, each with their own hard-won areas of authority, status defined by how high they can ascend on the mountain’s slopes.”

“Has it been this way since the beginning?”

“No. There were many battles. Many things—forgive my weakness, dear friend—that I prefer to forget. As I have said, I am not very religious—even in the religions of Virtu. This is the reason why.”

“Are you too angry with me?”

“No. You did warn me that I might not like what you planned to try. How can I blame you for not knowing what you were inflicting on me? And it did get us past the guardian.”

“It did that. Ayra, forgive me for saying so—having been the one to use you so hard—but you look exhausted.”

“I am, but I don’t know if I can rest.”

Voit interrupted. “My limited reading of your vital signs indicates that rest would be the optimal choice. Refusal to rest could be hazardous to the developing infant.”

“I will rest, then. One thing continues to trouble me, Heather.”

“What?”

“Who sent you that charm?”

“I thought I just drew it from the collective unconscious of the race—the anima mundi as Yeats was fond of calling it.”

“Wasn’t Yeats rather after your time?”

“There was a poet of idle habit but romantic nature who often came to the castle’s ruins and read Yeats’s works aloud. Still, to return to your question, I have often simply known something I needed—modern dialect, for example. I believed it to be one of the benefits of my job.”

“I suppose that could be the answer, but wouldn’t the charm you recited have come from the anima mundi of Virtu, rather than that of Verite?”

“True. But then, as with the place we just departed, there seems to be overlap.”

“Yes, and I find that disturbing. I do know enough of the religion of the aions to know that there are those who claim that Virtu, not Verite, is the first reality. These claim that the computer network simply provided the means for the crossover.”

“So?”

“I wonder if they could be right, and if so, for how long will the gods of Virtu be content to take second place? Could they be mustering their armies, awakening the old legends? I seem to hear a form of your incantation still drumming in my brain, calling me back.”

“You are exhausted, Ayra. Tell your robot to take you to your room. When you have slept and eaten, then see if there is still drumming in your ears.”

“You may be right. Perhaps, I should not have taken this journey in my condition.”

“Rest now, Ayra. We will talk later.”