Zelazny, Roger - SS - Deadboy Donner and the Filstone Cup.pdf - Roger Zelazny - chomikbob7

DeadboyDonner and the Filstone Cup

Roger Zelazny

I am standing in front of Vindy's and cannot read the racing stix because of the brownout which is the

worst I can remember, when Crash Callahan comes by and the light is not so bad that I cannot see the

bulge beneath his racing jacket, a thing I suspect to be malignant though not a tumor .

"I am looking," he tells me, "for Deadboy Donner and Painted Evelyn, and I will be most grateful for any

information on their whereabouts."

I shake my head, not because I do not know but because I do not want to tell him that I have seen the

pair less than half an hour ago and they are doubtless even now sharing a cavort at Metal Eddie's and

perhaps a drink or several. This is because Crash, while a first-class racing pilot of the sun clipper

variety, is often strung out on various chemicals and is known on these occasions for antisocial behavior ,

such as sending people outside our orbiting habitat for views of Earth, Moon, and stars without proper

attire for comfort. So I tell him only that they have come and gone, but I know not where. This may seem

more trouble than one should care to take for the Deadboy , who, to be fair about such matters,

resembles Crash himself more than a little on the matter of public relations. But my reason is not only

good, it is overwhelming. Namely, my personal finances should wax and brim very soon, but only if the

Deadboy remains among the living long enough to collect on a promise from that strange dark power

which rulesUpper Manhattan .

Donner, like Crash, had been a racing pilot who wound up fairly regularly in the money, earning along

the way good returns for those such as myself who follow these matters and occasionally make a small

wager. He had copped every sun clipper Classic but the Filstone Cup, and that was the one which did

him in. There had long been a nasty rivalry between Donner and Crash over that race, till Donner's

immune system got fried during a solar flareup two years ago, along with the rest of the entrants—it being

a bad year for that sort of thing. Crash was not running on that occasion, and so he is hale.Though the

next year, Donner—who had kept going on drugs—placed, while Crash did not even show. That should

have been it, however, because even the drugs could not get Donner through another year and give him a

last crack at the Cup. So he elected to become a deadboy .

Donner had himself frozen, which is a low-overhead operation here, merely involving closing the door

and opening the windows, so to speak. His intention was to be brought around a few days before this

year's Classic, and be given a temporary fix to get him through it. His experience being what it was, he

was thinking this might be his year of the Cup.

But lo, long before the time he is to be roused, I begin seeing him about town. And I know something

strange is afoot because he avoids me with considerable ingenuity and speedy legwork. Not that we

normally say more than a few words to each other, but now even these are missing. For a Saturday and

much of a Sunday, that is. I manage to be blocking his way when he comes out of a restroom on Sunday

evening.

"Hi, Donner," I say loudly then.

"Uh, hi," he answers, his eyes darting. Then he sees a way aroundme, takes it and is gone, out the door

and off towardForty-second Street , where he turns and vanishes. Could be he forgot something, I am

thinking. I promise myself to ask around about him, but I do not because the next day I see him again and

not only does he greet me first but, "Did you see me anytime this weekend?" he asks.

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"Only last night," I tell him, scratching my head and wondering whether his neurology is burned out, also.

But he smiles—possibly having heard of the peculiar occurrence which brought me to Upper Manhattan,

where I await the running out of certain statutes—and when he tells me, "I would like to talk to you of

matters which would benefit both of us in a financial fashion," I am willing to give his nervous system

every consideration.

Over lunch in Vindy's he tells me of his troubles as I have just related them, and I nod every now and

then to be polite, while I wait for him to talk about the money. Instead, he continues on beyond the point

of being frozen, "… And I awaken," he tells me, "in this place which is like the inside of a videogame,

leading me to believe that I have passed on and the next world is a kind of Cyberbia . There are all these

algorithms putting the make on pixels, and programs champing at bits and sub routines moving about in

simpleminded, reliable ways, as is their custom. The place is not unattractive, and I am watching,

fascinated, for I know not how long. Finally, a sort of voice asks me, 'Do you like what you see?'

"At this, I am sore afraid," he goes on, "and I ask, 'Are you the Deity?'

"'No,' comes the reply, 'I am the AIity .'

"It turns out," he tells me, "that I am a guest of the artificial intelligence which has run our entire satellite

for upward of a generation now, and while it seldom has much to do with individual people it has grown

interested in me. This is because I am hooked up to a special monitoring and alarm system, designed to

bring me around in time for the next race. This system does more than that, however, after the AIity

tinkers with it. It provides access.

"'I have digitized you and brought you here for a reason,' it tells me. 'You are interested in winning the

Filstone Cup, are you not?'

"'Indeed,' I reply, 'and more than somewhat.'

" 'WouldI be safe in saying that you would do anything for it?'

"'This does not sound like an exaggeration,' I answer.

"'Look around you. Would you go stir crazy in a place like this?'

"I give my attention to the central precincts of Cyberbia . While I am about this, it adds, 'For if you were

willing to put in a little time here, I could guarantee you the Cup in this year's Filstone Classic.'

"'I am taken,' I reply, 'by the great beauty of your operating programs, not to mention some of the

subroutines.'

"And that is how we come to make our deal," Donner tells me. "It seems the intelligence is a fan of the

human condition, and has grown very curious what with having spent all these years as an observer. It

has been hot to try it out for some time, but the opportunity had not presented itself till now. So when it

offers to train me for its job with the understanding that I will runUpper Manhattan on alternate days

while it vacations in my body, I am interested. Especially when it points out that it receives and relays all

of the monitoring signals during races and could make certain that mine say I win the next Filstone Cup."

"But your body is ailing," I observe. "What fun would this be for it?"

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"That is another inducement," he explains. "It says that much could be done to improve the medication I

receive while ambulant, and it will institute a new treatment program for me and buy me considerable

extra time without pain. Even sparing it half of my days until the race, I will come out ahead. Then I can

hibernate again after I win, until perhaps someone comes up with a cure."

"This does not sound like a bad deal at all," I observe."Especially the part about the race."

He nods.

"This is why I tell you," he explains."For I want you to manage my betting for me with some of the

unregistered, off-track people such as Blue Louie, who give better odds."

"But of course," I tell him. "Only one thing bothers me. Is it not hard being a stand-in for an artificial

intelligence? I ask only because my life depends on the support systems."

He laughs.

"Perhaps for some it would be," he replies, "but for a natural intelligence I seem to have an aptitude for

this sort of business. I find myself actually liking the work, and I even modify a routine or two for the

better.

"'You are not bad for a NI,' the AI tells me when we change shifts and it checks over the first day's

work. 'Not bad at all.'

"Which is more than I can say for the AI, when it comes to being human.I wake up and find it has left my

body dead tired and with a world-class hangover. Most of my first day being human again is spent

recovering from this. I am even feeling too crummy to call my lady, Evelyn.

"I hook up to the monitoring equipment before I go to bed that evening, like I promise. When we switch

over later on, we have a little conference wherein we brief each other on the day's events.

'"Go easy on the body,' I say, 'for it is the only one we have between us.'

"'I am very sorry,' it replies. 'But this being my first time out and all, it is hard for me to judge things. I will

try to be more careful in the future.'

"But, alas, an AI is not always as good as its word," he tells me. "A couple of turns later I come back to

cracked ribs, assorted bruises, and another hangover. It seems it had been drinking at Hammer Helligan's

and had gotten into a fight. Again, it apologizes, explaining it is still having some difficulty judging human

reactions, and saying it feels particularly badly about things when it sees what a fine job I am doing as

substitute AI. Well, I am not about to back out at this point. So I tell it to go easy on the booze and other

substances and I head off to work. I continue to streamline operations, realizing that if I trusted my

opposite number more I would not mind running the show for even longer periods of time. But the AI

gets me into enough trouble on our fifty-fifty timesharing setup—for the following week I realize that I

have contracted clap, and it is not I who have been up to anything which might result in this condition.

Once more, it claims to be sorry. I tell it it had better remember to take our medication which it has

prescribed, or I may reconsider our entire deal."

"So what happens?" I ask.

"It behaves," he replies. "For several days now it seems to have kept our nose clean. I am feeling much

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better, the race is next week, I am all registered and I will be sailing Hotshot III to victory and glory and

money."

So I lay his bets and I lay my bets and I await the race with the honest pleasure of a man who knows

that the fix is in.

Then he begins avoiding me on a steady basis. I know better than to try talking to him on alternate days,

for I know that that is when the AI is in charge—and though I approach it once and it lets me buy it a

drink, it grows most upset when I let it know that I am aware of its pact with Donner. Then several days

pass, and the race is nigh, and Donner will not give me the time of day if 6:47 will save my life, though I

see him and Painted Evelyn nearly everywhere for a time. I begin to grow suspicious, and then alarmed.

Then Crash Callahan comes by and asks after them. I suspect they are at Metal Eddie's, but I do not

think they will appreciate the surprise Crash represents with the bulge beneath his jacket there in the

middle of the brownout, and so I shake my head.

"… I know not where," I tell him.

"You do not understand," he tells me, "what is happening."

"That is possible," I answer."Likely, even. For this man has led a strange life of late."

"Stranger by far," he tells me, "than you may think. For he is not the person he seems to be."

"Of this I am aware," I agree, "though I am curious how you come to know it."

"I know it," he replies, "because I am Donner."

"You look more like Crash," I answer.

"Crash is responsible for the brownout," he says, "for he cannot run a power grid any better than he sails

a racing clipper. It is all very simple."

In that I do not think so, we wind up in Vindy's , where he says that he wishes to charge some elaborate

dining on Crash's account. When I question the fairness of this he points out that half of the food is going

to wind up in Crash's belly and the rest may be viewed as pre-race entertainment—Crash being a

last-minute entry in this year's Filstone Classic.

"I do not think you believe me," he says, "for I am not at all sure I would. But because I desire your

cooperation, I will explain. Iam inhabiting the body of this lower life form because it is the only one I can

get my hands on, on the spur of the moment. You would be surprised how difficult it is to find a body

when you really need one. Fortunately, Crash is givento many vices. So of course I take advantage of

this."

"Even now," I say, "I do not understand."

"It is very simple," he replies. "One day I get much on top of my work as substitute AI, so I decide to

look myself up. I chase my credit trail around town. Then I set about infiltrating everything electronic in

Blue Louie's Drugs, Alcohol & ElectronicVice Emporium, which of course is the legitimate cover for his

gambling operation, for that is where my latest charges come from. There, through the burglar alarm

camera, I see myself sitting at the bar with my lady Evelyn, who seems to be enjoying herself more than a

little. This, you must admit, is a low trick, making out with my girl while using my body, perhaps not yet

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even fully recovered from a certain embarrassing social condition."

Unless, of course, he catches it from her, I am thinking.For she has always struck me as a hard and

calculating lady. But I do not say this to Deadboy Donner in Crash Callahan's body, in case he feels that

I do not trust artist's models and perhaps wishes to introduce me to skydiving of the orbital variety. So,

"This is distressing," I say. "What do you do then?"

"I fear that I let my temper get the better of me," he answers, "and I overplay my handas is sometimes

the case when someone else in your body is romancing your girl.

"I cut," he says, "simultaneously, into the nearest speaker and vidscreen . I identify myself and then I flash

upon the display field a series of circuits with slash marks through them, suggesting that I am

contemplating AIicide unless it quits conning the lady. It rises and attempts to depart the establishment in

a hasty fashion, an action I foil by closing the automatic door before it and continuing our conversation by

means of another speaker, nearby. I suggest an immediate rendezvous at the interfacing equipment back

in my apartment, failure to comply with which suggestion I will consider a breach of our contract. Then I

open the door and let it go."

"Is there not a nasty paradoxical dilemma here?" I ask.

"Oh, Blue Louie is somewhat upset with my arguing through his sound system and flipping on and off the

lights, the dance-floor strobes, the blenders, the shakers, the cash register drawers, the icemaker and

such to emphasize my points. But when I explain a little of what is going on and ask him to keep an eye

on Evelyn for me while I deal with a welshing intelligence construct, he is happy to oblige."

"I do not mean problems with Blue Louie," I say, "who is occasionally a gentleman. But it occurs to me

that you cannot hurt the AI while it is in your body without harming yourself, and if you let it return to the

grand system ofUpper Manhattan it will be practically immortal there."

"These are not matters I have neglected thinking over," he replies, "and there are more ways to deal with

artificial welshers than one may suppose at first glance. I assume the AI wishes to be reasonable,

however, and come to some final understanding, since we both occupy awkward positions."

"So what does it say when you have your meeting?" I ask, for he has paused for dramatic effect and

several mouthloads of chicken cacciatore, and I wish to seem interested in his problem as we are heavy

betting partners as of several days now.

"Nothing," he answers a few swallows later. "For it does not show for the meeting. It decides to head for

cover and lie low for a time."

"This seems very foolish," I observe, "when it knows that you are in a position to follow its electronic

tracks throughout the city."

"Nevertheless," he replies. "It may feel it still knows a few tricks I do not, though it only postpones the

inevitable. I locate it within a few blocks, and then I decide to come looking in the flesh—using Crash's

flesh."

"A question occurs to me," I say, "not knowing anyone who has ever done a hit on an AI. What happens

if you take it out? I understand it coordinates everything from banking to the disposal of solid wastes."

He laughs.

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Zelazny, Roger - SS - Deadboy Donner and the Filstone Cup.pdf

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