“Is good place. Healthy for young. Lots of food. You think this only reason I bring you here?”
Most looked at their feet. Otlag, still the most intelligent of his subordinates, pursed his lips and blew a thoughtful spit bubble.
“Great Sayjak always have more than one thought.”
Sayjak slapped the ground. “That true. Each of you pick from your bands two of your strongest. Come back with me. We go to other place. Take things away. Come back here. Got?”
Heads nodded. Sayjak knew that most didn’t understand. If he was to probe his plan, he would be forced to admit that he didn’t fully understand. Big Betsy had told him to come here, take this site, and use it as a base to raid another.
“Even your mighty warriors would have difficulty getting in through the normal access points,” she had said. “But you’ll just go in the back door. You’re good at that, aren’t you?”
Here she wriggled her hindquarters so provocatively that Sayjak had almost forgotten to listen, but he had dragged his attention back. Big Betsy wanted them to acquire an arsenal of weapons more powerful than machetes—weapons like those the eeksies and the bounties used: CF prods, pistols, rifles.
The idea amused him greatly, although he wondered, in some small corner of his mind, what Big Betsy intended for the People to attack. What was so big that brute force and the sharp cutting sticks that had served them thus far would not serve?
The wondering slipped his mind, as most things did. Sayjak knew power, glory, and immortality lay in action, never in thought. Listening to Big Betsy had made him more famous even than Karak. He certainly would continue to follow her suggestions.
Not in this reality nor any other had there ever been a creation like the Brass Babboon. With Jay Donnerjack in the cab, his father’s cap snugged on his head, Death’s dog and monkey crouched beside him, the train howled its way through virtual settings, upsetting numerous aions and troubling those from the Verite who sought to hold onto the illusion that Virtu existed solely for their amusement and convenience.
Unknown to the passengers on the train (or to the train itself, who would not have cared even if it knew), that illusion was steadily fraying. From site after site, reports were coming in of unrequested manifestations. Emaciated vampire sprites invaded a Golf and Eastern board meeting, terrifying the staid members and leaving behind graffiti in a language no one could translate. The Happy Land of Molly Meeper had been invaded by lewd, carnivorous proges with a more than passing resemblance to great apes.
In DinoDiznee, the dinosaurs suddenly turned on each other (and any who got in their way), destroying the basic site, driving the genius loci to nonfunctionality, and losing the parent corporation millions in revenue. Some reported that at least a score of the larger dinosaurs were seen to vanish through the interface. No further reports of their whereabouts were given, so this last was dismissed as rumor. Cancellations of virtual vacations arrived by the score, jamming travel agents’ terminals.
The only virtual sites that had increased their traffic were those connected to the Church of Elish. As more than one visitor was heard to say, “They seem to know more about Virtu. It wouldn’t hurt to be in their camp if things happen.” What those things were was usually left undefined, but it was generally understood to mean the promised crossover of the gods and the wonders and annexation that would follow.
Those speeding through the realities aboard the Brass Babboon knew nothing of this, but they would not have been surprised if they did. Although they did not possess the entire picture, they knew enough to realize that Bad Things were pending for the status quo. What did surprise them was when a signal post manifested along the freshly laid track, flag out.
“Someone’s waiting for a train, Jay,” the Brass Babboon reported. “I can’t think of anyone doing that in all the years I’ve been running the rails. Want me to stop?”
Jay considered. “Sure, might be that the Lord of the Lost has some last-minute information for us. If it’s someone wanting to play train robbers, I doubt they could give you any trouble, B.B.”
The train’s reply was rude and vaguely flatulent. Tearing through a Valley of the Kings, Alexander’s campaign against Persia, a domed settlement on Titan, and a burning of Atlanta, the Brass Babboon came to a halt at a train station at what appeared to be Union Station, Washington, D.C.
“Do you generate these stations the way you lay your own track?” Jay asked, as the train slowed.
“Not this one. Belongs to the D.C. site, nineteenth-century incarnation. Looks sharp, doesn’t it?”
“Sure does. I wonder where our passengers are?”
“If they figured out a way to send a signal up my line, they’ll find us. Relax and try to figure out what you’re going to say to them.”
“Can’t,” Jay said, leaning back and putting his feet up on the control board. There was something about the Brass Babboon that bred arrogance. “Don’t know who it is.”
Dubhe was studying the throng. “I don’t think most of those people can see us.”
“My scanners tell me those are simple proges,” the Brass Babboon answered. “Hardly more than ambulatory wallpaper. They’d only react if there was a visitor or a more complex proge present. Odd… I don’t see any tourists.”
“Don’t… smell either,” Mizar added.
“Maybe this isn’t a popular site now,” Jay said, sitting up and looking around.
“Maybe.”
At that moment, three figures entered through one of the curved arches. One, slender and lithe with dark hair, was clearly female despite her anachronistic and less than flattering khaki uniform. The second was male, big, with a feel of the thug about him. The third could have been a slightly-built young man or a rather androgynous young woman. All three wore clothing out of phase with the setting.
“That’s got to be our group,” Dubhe said.
“Yeah,” Jay said. “Two of them look familiar… Wait here!”
He jumped to his feet and hurried down the ladder to the platform.
“Desmond Drum and Link Crain!” he said. “What the… what are you doing here?”
Drum tugged at his earlobe. “Waiting for a train. That train, to be precise. Damn, Virginia, you said the train we wanted was strange, but I never expected this monstrosity. It’s great!”
Virginia Tallent was studying Jay, her hand just in the vicinity of her CF pistol.
“Drum, Alice, do you know this young man?”
“Sort of,” Alice said. “When we met him, he was going by the name Jason MacDougal. We think his real name is John D’Arcy Donnerjack, Junior.”
Jay stared. “How…”
“I tried to call and thank you for your help during the riot. There was no one in Scotland with that name or description. I hired Drum to find out who or what you were.”
“Help during a riot?” Virginia asked.
“The Central Park Celebration,” Alice answered. “Jay was okay then. I didn’t expect to find him on this train, though, but maybe it makes sense. According to what my mother and Markon both said, his father was the Engineer.”
Jay could hear the capitalization. “You know about that?”
“I just found out that my father is the Piper—and a whole lot more,” Alice said, almost defensively.