Mick Farren - Dna Cb 04 - The Last Stand of the DNA Cowboys.rtf

BRIDGE OVER

TROUBLED WATER

Novice Wellblessed sat on the rail of the Half Bridge, only a matter of feet from the start of the nothings. He was eating a limon and tossing the pieces of green and yellow rind into the shimmering nonmatter, watching the way they smoked and vanished as they touched it.

    The Half Bridge was a simple wooden footbridge that half arched across the stream that marked one of the boundaries of the Sanctuary. On one side of the stream, there was a serene normality; on the other there was the nothings. The water simply went to the edge of the Sanctuary's stasis field and stopped. The bridge did exactly the same thing. It reached its apex and stopped. The novices were supposed to use it as a meditative aid, an idea made solid that they might use to contemplate the transitory nature of the material world. All Novice Wellblessed used it for was to sit and stare and contemplate suicide.

By Mick Farren

Published by Ballantine Books:

THE LONG ORBIT

THEIR MASTER'S WAR

THE ARMAGEDDON CRAZY

THE LAST STAND OF THE DNA COWBOYS

THE LAST

STAND

OF THE

DNA

COWBOYS

Mick Farren

A Del Rey Book

BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

A Del Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

Copyright © 1989 by Mick Farren

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultane­ously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Peer-Southern Organization for permission to reprint an excerpt from the lyrics of' "WHEN MY BLUE MOON TURNS TO GOLD AGAIN" by Wiley Walker and Gene Sul­livan. Copyright 1941 by Peer International Corporation. Copyright renewed. International Copyright Secured. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 89-90953

ISBN 0-345-35808-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: September 1989

Cover Art by David Schleinkofer

It was the central paradox of human behavior and, by direct correlation, all of human history. Each time humanity achieved a peak, it seemed that some pathological instinct moved it im­mediately to seek an abyss into which to hurl itself. Shortly after the human walked erect and organized himself into tribal groups, he hit upon the concept of warfare. Simultaneously with the discovery of fission energy, humanity began to contemplate nu­clear planetary annihilation. The discovery of the Mahler drive took the species to the stars, but once it was there, it courted extinction by engaging in the disastrous Thousand Years War with the Draan Hives.

    Thus it was, in the supposedly divine moment when human metaphysics freed the core psyche from the limitations of the corporeal organism, humans developed almost insurmountable problems regarding the exact nature of reality.

— Pressdra Vishnaria

The Human Comedy, Volume 14:

The Damaged Perception

CHAPTER ONE

the caverns were entering one of their regular phases of melancholy, and the Minstrel Boy knew that it was time to move on. The halls and tunnels softly rang with mournful horns, and muffled drums echoed on the stairwells. It was as though the warmth had gone out of the basalt walls and been replaced by the first hint of a stiletto chill that would eventually pierce to the bone. The carvings that lined the walls had changed, too. Where once the frowns of the gargoyles had been sardonic, puzzled, or even amused, the stone eyes had begun to take on a hard, evil glint. In the Caverns such changes of mood followed a pattern that was as regular and predictable as the seasons. The soft, carefree summer of hedonism was cooling to an autumn of perverse cruelty. That, in its turn, would degenerate into a winter of dark ritual, horror, and brutality. For those who sur­vived, spring would come with exhaustion and the final, hollow-eyed knowledge that nothing remained that could be done and that there was nowhere farther to go. Those who went to the edge eventually had to return. It brought the inevitable regen­eration that enabled the cycle to turn yet again. The Minstrel Boy was strictly a summer migrant. He had no desire to expe­rience the soul winter of the Caverns.

    There were those who claimed that the changing moods of the Caverns were only a reflection of the emotional shifts of the Presence, the amorphous, nonhuman, and never-seen entity that was reputed to live in the bowels of the extinct volcano that also housed the Caverns. Very little was known about the Presence except that it was there — and that it subtly affected the behavior of those who lived within the margins of its environment. There was a theory that the Presence actually generated the stability of the entire volcanic structure, and its proponents pointed to the fact that the Caverns had no visible stasis generators. There was an even more elaborate scenario in which the Presence derived some strange alien gratification from the agonies and ecstasies of its mortal neighbors and used its influence to ease them toward the greatest possible excesses.

    As in most things, there was an opposing school of thought. It maintained that the Presence did not exist at all: It was a collective wish fulfillment. The denizens of the Caverns had invented a sinister, lurking, but wholly fictitious demigod on which they could blame their worst indulgences.

    The Minstrel Boy did not know if he believed in the Presence. When he thought about it, he imagined some malevolent liquid being, a flash of poison green reflection on a black sumpwater surface, way down at the bottom of an infinitely deep shaft. If it existed, he was quite prepared to be afraid of it.

    The Minstrel Boy crawled from the nest of furs and scarves and silk cushions and lay facedown on the chill, green polished stone of the floor. It felt good. Cyo and Yosee had exhausted him. Every muscle ached, and he was as limp as a wrung-out and discarded rag. Indeed, he had been discarded. The Minstrel Boy had no illusions about the way things were done in the Caverns. The two young girls were now engrossed in each other, vigorously coupling, minds disconnected and lithe bodies quiv­ering and pumping, one skin pearlized and the other rainbow silver. The Minstrel Boy dragged himself a little farther to where cold water splashed into the shallow basin that had been carved in the floor. He dunked his head in it and shuddered, then looked up, trying to focus his eyes. If he did not get out of that place soon, he had no doubt that one way or another it would kill him.

    He looked back at his two former companions, half-hidden in the furs and silks, showing just the momentary flash of an outflung arm or leg. He dunked his face in the water again and shook his head. Cyo and Yosee were too driven in their constant quest for the oblivion of sensuality to have any idea what was to come. When the Caverns slid into their season of honor, the gilded pair would undoubtedly become Victims.

    Gradually, and with considerable groaning, he pushed him­self into a sitting position and then, after a long pause, finally stood up. He stretched wearily and walked back to the cushions. He picked up a silk sheet and wrapped it around his hips, sarong style. The girls momentarily stopped what they were doing. It was an unexpected courtesy.

    'Are you going?'

    He nodded. 'Yeah, going.'

    'Where are you going?'

    The Minstrel Boy shrugged.

    'For a stroll?'

    The girls talked in rotation, asking alternating questions.

    'Are you tired of us?'

    The Minstrel Boy allowed himself a tired grin. 'You look like you can handle things on your own.'

    'Are you coming back?'

    'Maybe. Later.'

    'We'll probably go to the Grand Hall later for the masque.'

    'I don't think I could cope with the Grand Hall.'

    'Are you getting ready to leave us, Minstrel Boy?'

    Again he shrugged. 'Right now I'm just going for a walk.'

    'The Presence doesn't like people leaving. It makes him sad.'

    'I haven't said I'm leaving.'

    'I think you're going to leave us.'

    Cyo was the last one to speak. The Minstrel Boy found that he did not want to look her directly in the eye.

    'If I do, I'm sure the Presence won't miss me.'

    They were in a small side arbor just off the Curved Stairs, a romantic trysting place in a forest where the trees were carved from the living rock and a trompe l'oeil stream fed water into an artificial pool. Muted blue light filtered down through a can­opy of basalt leaves and branches. It appeared to have been expressly designed for sexual liaison and very little else.

    The Minstrel Boy, still wearing the silk sheet, stepped out into the brighter light of the stairs. The Curved Stairs were an awe-inspiring helix of wide stone steps that dropped through some hundred vertical feet, spiraling around the outside of the volcano's central shaft. It was one of the main human thorough­fares in the Presence's domain. There was a certain amount of debate as to the exact nature of the Presence's volcano. More than a few maintained that the mountain had no true exterior, that the nothings simply started at a set average rock depth be­yond the interior surface. Certainly the Minstrel Boy had never met anyone who claimed to have been on the outside. The only route he knew about by which travelers could come in and out of the Caverns was on a submarine shuttle, along the sea tunnels that ran through the roots of the volcano and down to a stasis-generated disjointed sea. The counterargument was a fairly primitive one: What had an inside had, by definition, to have an outside. The Minstrel Boy could not accept that. He knew for a fact that such axioms had no validity in a universe where logic had been replaced by kinetic paradox. It was one of a long list of things he did his best not to think about.

    The outside of the volcano might have been the subject of debate, but the inside was absolute in its extravagant reality. There was no question that it was unique in its baroque mag­nificence. Every surface in the miles of tunnels, stairways, cav­erns, and bridges was shaped, polished, and carved into an infinity of patterns that ranged from sweeping abstracts to lung­ing, prancing reliefs of huge mythical beasts. Massive stalag­mites were fashioned into three-dimensional depictions of the gargantuan congress of giant pornographic demons. Flying bridges arched like the wings of eagles across apparently bot­tomless caverns, while the smooth curves of lava flows became the stomachs and thighs of nude basalt sirens. The overwhelming impact of the endless carvings was enhanced, if indeed that was possible, by shifting beams of lights that zigzagged from polished surface to polished surface. Eruptions of natural steam were reminders of a wild volcanic past, and a system of con­stantly running water that punctuated the relentless stone with fountains, waterfalls, deep cisterns, and mirror-smooth pools provided a constant liquid counterpoint to the man-made music of the place.

    The Minstrel Boy started up the wide expanse of the Curved Stairs. His private chamber, where he kept the few possessions he had brought with him when he had fled the outside and where he went when he wanted to think or sleep alone, was high in the upper levels of the Caverns. He took the climb slowly. The steps of the Curved Stairs were not particularly steep, but there were a great many of them. He passed a young man, emaciated body covered with a patina of grime, sitting motionless with his back against the outer wall. He was staring vacantly at a point somewhere about three feet in front of him. He was either discorporate or completely mindless — to the observer there was very little difference — and it was quite possible that he had been in the same position for days. It was also possible that he would remain as he was until he simply faded into death. In recent days, the Minstrel Boy had seen a number of similar motionless figures.

    A young couple was walking down the stairs toward him, arm in arm; they were both exceptionally fair. Their straight blond hair hung almost to their waists, and they were naked except for the dense garlands of roses that were woven around their necks. He could see flecks of blood where the thorns had pierced their chalk-white skin. They were another typical indication of the changing season. Even sensuality was becoming a matter of solemnity and pain.

    The Minstrel Boy's chamber was off a corridor, the entrance to which was the gaping maw of a multieyed dragon that seemed to be screaming either in rage or in some unimaginable agony. At the far end there were flights of Escher stairs that appeared to defy both reason and gravity. It was an out-of-the-way part of the Caverns, and he rarely saw anyone on the impossible stairs. On this day, however, he spotted four other figures, their shoulders hunched into long back cloaks that gave them a de­cidedly sinister look. On each cloak, over the heart, was an insignia of a golden sword. The Minstrel Boy immediately rec­ognized the emblem; it was a very bad sign. The Society of Hunters should not have been active quite so soon in the Cav­erns' emotional autumn.

    There were no doors in the Caverns. Only transients like the Minstrel Boy had individual possessions. Those who had made the black volcano their permanent home shared everything with an uncaring and uncomplicated innocence. If a person did not want anyone entering his private chamber while he was out, he simply placed a thin copper baton in the floor of the entrance. The symbol was always respected.

    With a sigh the Minstrel Boy sat down on the chamber's nar­row bed. He was disgusted with himself. He had been seduced so completely, sinking like a drowning lemming into mat loose lotus world where past and future, will or manifest destiny, meant nothing. Tactile gratification was all. For far too long he had been absolutely content to drift in a dreaming present on the slow tide of wine and roses.

    He could not say that he particularly missed past, future, will, or manifest destiny, but if he was truthful, he had to admit that for a while he had been feeling the kind of immobilizing leth­argy that was the first watchtower warning of boredom. It had been easy to ignore the distress signals when the present had been an unending opium chaos of warm, indolent bodies, but now that he could feel the future's cold breath, he had to read the writing. Reluctantly he stood up, crossed the chamber, and peered into the small mirror that was mounted on the far wall. 'You look a mess, boy. You really look a mess.' The kohl around his eyes had run, emphasizing the dark cir­cles of dissolute exhaustion. Even his hair looked dead, and the dyed streaks in the dark curls simply looked ridiculous. He pointed an accusing finger at his own reflection.

    'Time was, you were a hard man, boy. Freebooter musician poet — a DNA Cowboy, no less. Remember all the stories? All those rough, tough tales of s...