"So I guess you wouldn't even want to do anything crazy, like bugging out on it all. Like going on the Virtual Mode, where you wouldn't be queen, and maybe wouldn't even have any magic, and might get wiped out at any time."
The girl's words were in her own idiom, but her meaning was clear, thanks to Seqiro's translation. It was indeed her foolish desire. But Nona knew the girl did not want her along, for excellent reason. So she would not ask. She averted her face, trying to stifle the tears.
"Damn it, woman!" Colene exclaimed. "Not only are you prettier than me, and have way more magic than I ever will, and you can play music the way I never could, you're way nicer too! You're everything I wish I was!"
"No, you have such courage and generosity," Nona protested. "You went back to your world to get the information I needed, and you risked your life to fight a despot to give me time. I owe you so much, and I would trade places with you, were it possible. You are the kind of decisive person I will never be. You deserve to be queen, as I do not." In fact Colene might even like it, as Nona did not. "Perhaps I could teach you some of my music, before you go. I have taught music to a number of students. Seqiro makes it easy to tame familiars, and perhaps he can help similarly with music. In just a few hours, perhaps—"
"You're the very last woman I want near my man or my horse! You could take them both from me, just like that."
"I am sorry," Nona said. "But when you go, you can close down that anchor, and—"
"We do need to close down an anchor," Colene said. "Because Provos and I found a bad mental monster near Darius' anchor, and it may be lurking there again, so we won't get through. If We take out an anchor, the realities will spin until we latch onto a new one, and then the Virtual Mode will stabilize again, and it'll be all new paths, but we should be able to get through. We hope."
"Yes, I understand."
"But it doesn't have to be your anchor. Provos is going home; she's through with the Virtual Mode, and Slick and Esta will never want to go back to Earth. So that's the one to dump. After we go there with her, on the familiar route, to be sure she's safe. We don't want to change an anchor first, because there might be a new sea or something cutting her off from hers."
"I suppose that's true," Nona said. "You must do what you feel is best."
"So will you come with us?"
Nona blinked. "You can not mean—"
"Listen, I did some thinking, and I realized that I'm sort of right between you and Esta. You're older and better than I am, and Esta's younger and suffered worse than I ever did. I'm sort of helping her to be more like me, to stand up for herself and know she's worth something, no matter what happened before. But meanwhile how do I get better myself? And what I realized was that if I ever want to be anything like you, I'd better start acting more mature. It's no good to torpedo someone else who doesn't deserve it. I've just got to improve myself. To damn welt learn to be the kind of person I want to be. To study you. Darius and Seqiro like you, and Provos doesn't care, and I—I thought you'd want to be queen, but Seqiro says you'd just about rather die, and I know about that son of feeling. So I want you too. Maybe it's my suicidal nature again, my deathwish, forcing me to flirt with the worst possible threats. I know how there's that attraction between you and Darius. Because you're both great people, and I do like you too, and maybe I can learn enough from you to be what I want to be, and win him fair and square, and if I can't, then I don't deserve him. And in that case, there's nobody I'd rather have marry him or whatever than you. So will you come?"
Nona gazed at Colene for a moment, mentally untangling her convoluted logic. She had called the girl brave and generous. How right she had been! Then her last barrier fell, and she dissolved into tears.
THE two great red roses of the Megaplayers' stone-hammered dulcimer were glowing. The anima had come, and changed them, and the way was open.
Nona held the hand of the girl Esta, for Nona was an anchor person and could conduct another person across the Virtual Mode. Yet it was Esta who had the greater experience here, and she was glad to share all she knew of it. Darius conducted the man Slick, leaving Provos and Colene to show the way. Seqiro, loaded with the supplies they had recovered from the former despots, including Colene's strange science-magic bicycle machine, followed, keeping them all in touch with each other. There were timid dragons and other oddities. It was exactly the kind of adventure Nona delighted hi.
Then they stood at Provos' anchor and watched the woman, man, and girl cross out of the Virtual Mode. It was done, and Provos had already forgotten almost their entire association. She saw no more than the bright future for herself and her family. Only Esta turned back momentarily, to wave. Then Provos did the final thing, and the anchor let go.
The forested world spun around and through the other forested realm in which the four of them stood. Nona was awed, though she had been warned. Whole sections of scenery collided without colliding, and the nature of reality changed fantastically around them.
Then it stopped. Things stabilized. Another anchor had been set. A new Virtual Mode had formed. Before them stood the strangest monster Nona could have imagined.
"Uh-oh," Colene said.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I had this novel scheduled for writing during the first three months of 1991. But I have hired a research assistant for a year, Alan Riggs, and naturally I want to do my heavy research while I have him, not when I don't. So I set up to do my World War II novel, Volk, the fall of 1990. I started Volk in 1980, ten years before, but found no market for it. Publishers wanted only science fiction and fantasy from me. They insisted on typecasting me. It didn't matter whether I could be competent in a new genre (I can be) or how good a novel it was (contrary to critics, I do know how to write), or whether I had something original and evocative to say (I did); they were tuned out. I have chafed under this idiocy for long enough, and now I am doing something about it. More on that in a moment.
But I knew that other commitments could fall due in this period, causing Volk to run a month or two into 1991. That would squeeze Fractal Mode, and the contract deadline dictated that this must not happen. So I moved the novel up to AwGhost, SapTimber, OctOgre of 1990. Better early than late. Then interruptions came, such as a couple of conventions I had to attend to promote my works, and half a spate of interviews, and it ran into NoRemember. I hate to travel, and I'm not all that keen on conventions, and I'm tired of interviews, but such things seem to be the price for what I want to do, so I do them. So this novel ran a bit overtime, but since I did it early, I'm okay.
So how did it go, otherwise? That question reminds me of the sick joke: "Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?" A novel doesn't just go, any more than a marriage does; it's a life experience. It is struggle and frustration and wonder and pain and joy. (Note to Ye Copy Editor: Leave my "ands" alone!) And yes, sometimes I find my fiction becoming reality, in devious ways. At the time I was writing the scene in Chapter 3 in which Darius condemns Colene for her deceit, and she blasts back at him with her statement of desperation, something similar happened to me. It had to be coincidence, because I saw that scene coming before I finished Virtual Mode. There are ways in which Darius is like me. Not in appearance—he is young and handsome—or in ability—he can do magic—but in his judgment of people. He has a relatively inflexible standard of honor, as I do, and many folk do not understand this. Those who cross me in a matter of honor might as well travel to some other world, as far as I'm concerned, for they will not be in mine. This applies to individuals and to corporations, to friends and to publishers both amateur and professional, and I have left a fair trail of ex-associates behind me. This does not mean that there is animosity, though there can be, or that I will not do business with them; sometimes I have to. Just that they will never again have my respect. Many do not understand my objection to their ways—and that is the point. Honor is not a thing swine can grasp. But there are different codes of honor, some of which can be respected by those who d
o not share them, and here is where the interactions can get tricky. Colene is not a bad girl; her code differs from Darius' code, but is consistent to itself. He judged her by his code, and he did not have the right. When he saw that, he apologized, and thereafter did not mention it again. It is to Colene's credit that she did not hold a grudge. Similarly I judged a woman by my code, and hurt her thereby, and then saw that I had erred. Such error is no light matter to me. I apologized, and the matter is at rest. We are in intermittent touch, not close; that's not the point. It is a question not of closeness but of mutual respect. It was eerie, seeing it happen in the novel and my life at the same time.
There was also solid research in this novel. Fractals are simple in theory but can be mind-bendingly complex in practice. The Mandelbrot set exists, not precisely as described in this novel, but it is indeed called the most complicated object in mathematics. I encountered it inadvertently. I saw an article on it years ago and was intrigued, but did not follow up. Then later a correspondent, Dave Alway, introduced me to Ed Pegg, who founded Centaurs Gatherum, a magazine for centaurs. Ed introduced me to the artist Kurt Cagle, who founded Sea Tails, a magazine for merfolk. You'd be amazed at the varieties of centaurs and merfolk there are! Kurt sent me a copy of Chaos, by James Gleick, a fascinating book—and there within it were the pictures of the Mandelbrot set. I had bought a copy of this book on my own, several months before, and hadn't yet gotten to it; it was Kurt's copy that got my attention. So it seemed fated that I would get into fractals; when I didn't follow up, other sources brought them to me again.
It turned out that Ed Pegg, too, was a fractals fan. He offered to get me more information. I accepted. Before I was done, I had amassed a small collection of books on fractals, gotten a computer program to generate them, gotten in touch with Benoit Mandelbrot himself, and subscribed to Amygdala, a newsletter of fractals. It was from the last that I got the system of nomenclature Colene encountered. I had also spent many hours entranced by the devious and marvelous underlying order of the Mandelbrot set. I just had to do something with this, and so I made it the setting for this novel. I did my best to simplify its ramifications, because even professional mathematicians can have trouble fathoming aspects of the set, and it can be bewildering for average folk. If you found part of Chapter 15 confusing, that's why. I took significant license adapting it; this is a novel of fantasy with respect to some of the concepts as well as the garden-variety magic. But for those who want to see how convoluted and beautiful the Mandelbrot set is in full color and detail, watch the video tape Nothing But Zooms or its longer sequel, Mandelbrot Sets and Julia Sets, both put out by Art Matrix. This is where mathematics merges with art.
Now back to what I am doing to achieve my independence from typecasting by publishers. Publishers, like women, are not all alike, but in certain respects they seem so. In fact, sometimes they seem like flocks of chickens, all spooking together at something inconsequential. Sometimes they seem like sheep of Orwell's Animal Farm persuasion, defining things irrelevantly: FOUR LEGS GOOD, TWO LEGS BAA-AA-AAD! Sometimes they merely seem like idiots. One publisher, advised that I want my box number used for regular mail so that stray fans won't be able to find my house and drop in on me unannounced, now sends all my regular mail to the house address except for an occasional one to the box with the name Piers Anthony deleted and the words "Don't Use Number" substituted. So much for that. (So how come this comment is seeing print? Well, the present publisher, like my wife when I remark on women drivers, knows that I wouldn't dare say anything bad about it. ) Good books do get denied, and bad ones do get published, and foulups are chronic. So I am going to see what I can do for myself. I can foul up readily enough on my own, and I might as well publish my own bad books.
So I am setting up my own marketing facility, HI PIERS, and if your local bookstore won't sell you an Anthony book, calendar, or whatever, call my "troll free" number 1-800 HI PIERS and we'll sell it to you. If no publisher takes what I write, I will publish it myself, and HI PIERS will sell it. That's how this got started: I couldn't get a publisher for the 1991 Xanth Calendar, despite the fact that it may be the most beautiful calendar extant, so I published it myself. It's easy enough to do; all it takes is time and suicidal nerve about risking money. So maybe I'm a little like Colene too. At this writing we are running TV ads and building up our mailing list, hoping to make this work. (e-book note: this phone number is no longer valid. For similar information try the official web site at http://www.hipiers.com instead.)
So it was in this period that I had to take time off from writing to go to the TV Channel 6 studio in Orlando, Florida, and speak my amateurish lines under the lights. You would think I would be able to do a professional job of being Piers Anthony, but I found I was capable of fluffing even that. Something about reading from the monitor that makes me lose any naturalness to which I might aspire. Something about speaking for a microphone that turns my voice into duck talk. So I struggled through, constantly being assured that this disaster was great.
But I did get one fun commercial in, in which I pretended (pretended?) to foul up, and concluded, "Oh, just buy the bleeping book!" And would you believe it: the cable TV outfits wouldn't run it, for reasons which changed each time we inquired: because of the dirty word "bleeping," because it was facetious, because they were afraid they'd get blamed for running a reject. Publishers' syndrome, again. So we added that to the videotaped Interview With an Ogre. That's what I mean: I now have the means to get my stuff to my readers despite whimsical editorial censoring. What a feeling of power!
At any rate, at this writing it remains to be seen whether HI PIERS will turn out to be genius or idiocy. That is, whether it succeeds or fails. But its object is to make my titles readily available to my readers, help promote my works, and make me better known as a writer. The addresses of those mentioned in this Note may have changed by the time you read this, so I haven't run them, but if you call HI PIERS they'll give you current information. If you are curious whether HI PIERS is succeeding or failing, call the number, and if you get a no-such-number intercept you'll know it failed. If you get a response of "Hi Piers" you're stuck; you will be locked onto our mailing list forever.
In this period another venture saw fruition: the ElfQuest folk, Father Tree Press, published Return to Centaur, the first part of the graphic adaptation of my thirteenth Xanth novel, Isle of View, which was also published at this time. This is the one featuring Jenny Elf, the character made from the girl who was paralyzed by a drunken driver. I told her story and gave her address in the book, and letters poured in to her at the rate of ten a day. They were all nice letters too. At this writing about 350 have reached her, and I think they are like a lifeboat, buoying her, showing how people care.
Jenny herself managed to get in trouble in school. There was a stiff note from the principal. How does a girl who can't get out of her wheelchair and can't speak get in trouble at a special school for just such students? Well, it seems she wore a button in her cap. She had found the button when shopping. Now, why would the school officials get so upset about that? Well, possibly it was because of the nature of the message on it: I'M BAD WITH NAMES. MAY I CALL YOU S——HEAD? (I have edited out part of the original, in the interest of not getting a note from the principal.) Jenny may be paralyzed, but she's full of mischief. She was the same age as Colene at this time, fourteen, which may explain it. But as I was editing this novel in NoRemember she won the school's "Citizen of the Month" award. Right: they didn't remember that button. She is now making a determined effort to walk again. She uses a walker, and has succeeded in making it across a room. There's still a long way to go, but this is significant progress.
I also got into another experiment. Another correspondent—I have half a slew of them!—urged me to try a special line of health foods. These are Oriental herbs refined and concentrated to powders which can be used as supplements and foods. Theoretically great improvement can result. I am a skeptic, but I try not to condemn anyth
ing on the basis of ignorance. So I pondered a few weeks, and finally agreed to try it, cautiously. My expectation is nothing; I already have a healthful life, having no "vices. " That is, I don't smoke, drink coffee, or use drugs, and while I'm not a teetotaler, I touch alcohol only when social protocol requires, and then quite sparingly. I exercise and sleep regularly, have a consciously healthy diet, and always use a seat belt when riding in a car. I am a workaholic, though; nobody's perfect. In short, I see little to be gained from Oriental powders. But sometimes I am surprised. For example, just before starting on this novel I read a book about the search for the so-called Dark Matter in the universe: The Fifth Essence, by Lawrence M. Krauss. The theory is that we are unable to perceive 99% of our universe. Ridiculous, of course; they probably just hadn't thought to check for the amount of matter hidden inside the black holes in the center of the galaxies. But I checked, just to be sure. And that book converted me. I now believe in Dark Matter, and this novel offers a hint about its whereabouts. So I'm giving this diet the same fair trial, and will in due course form an informed opinion. Tune in, next Author's Note, maybe.
I spoke of health. I do work at it, and am probably in the upper percentiles of healthiness for men my age, which at this writing is fifty-six. But there are annoying deficiencies. I remain diabetic—fortunately Type II, the mild type—and can not stand on my feet for more than a few minutes without getting tired. Thus it is true that I can run longer than I can stand; it is as if my engine lacks an idling jet. Every so often a change in weather can bring me a bad fit of allergy, so that I have to stuff tissue in my nose to stop it from dripping into the keyboard. My knees have improved slightly in the past decade, but I still can't quite squat without pain. And remember my tongue? In the Note in Virtual I told how it was sore, and the dentist smoothed out a worn onlay. Well, that didn't do it. In the end I had two onlays replaced with smooth new crowns, and still my tongue was sore. After fourteen visits to dentists, during which my mouth was seen by five different ones, I still have only a stop-gap solution: a plastic appliance, or stint, that I put in my mouth to cover the region that makes my tongue sore. It seems that I have an "ectopic" taste bud on the side of my tongue that has become sensitive to something in that part of my mouth. Stop that sniggering, you women; this is nothing like an ectopic pregnancy.