Complete Stories

by Rudy Rucker

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  Veruschka scheduled the meet at a Denny’s near the Moffat Field blimp port. Veruschka had an unshakeable conviction that Denny’s was a posh place to eat, and the crucial meeting had inspired her to dress to the nines.

  “When do they want to have sex with us?” Veruschka fretted, paging through her laminated menu.

  “Why would they want to do that?” said Janna.

  “Because they are fat capitalist moguls from the West, and we are innocent young women. Evil old men with such fame and money, what else can they want of us? They will scheme to remove our clothing!”

  “Well, look, Tug Mesoglea is gay.” Janna looked at her friend with concern. Veruschka hadn’t been sleeping properly. Stuck on the local grind of junk food and eighty-hour weeks, Veruschka’s femme-fatale figure was succumbing to Valley hacker desk-spread. The poor thing barely fit in her designer knockoffs. It would be catty to cast cold water on her seduction fantasies, but really, Veruschka was swiftly becoming a kerchiefed babushka with a string-bag, the outermost shell of some cheap nest of Russian dolls.

  Veruschka picked up her Pumpti, just now covered in baroque scrolls like a fin-de-siècle picture frame. “Do like this,” she chirped, brushing the plump pet against her fluffy marten-fur hat. The Pumpti changed its surface texture to give an impression of hairiness, and hopped onto the crown.

  “Lovely,” said Veruschka, smiling into her hand mirror. But her glossy smile was tremulous.

  “We simply must believe in our product,” said Veruschka, pep-talking to her own mirror. She glanced up wide-eyed at Janna. “Our product is so good a fit for their core business, no? Please tell me more about them, about this Dr. Tug and Mr. Revel. Tell me the very worst. These gray-haired, lecherous fat cats, they are world weary and cynical! Success has corrupted them and narrowed their thinking! They no longer imagine a brighter future, they merely go through the rote. Can they be trusted with our dreams?”

  Janna tugged fitfully at the floppy tie she’d donned to match her dress-for-success suit. She always felt overwhelmed by Veruschka’s fits of self-serving corn. “It’s a biz meeting, Vero. Try to relax.”

  Just as the waitress brought them some food, the glass door of the Denny’s yawned open with a ring and a squeak. A seamy, gray-haired veteran with the battered look of a bronco-buster approached their table, with a bowlegged scuff.

  “I’m Hoss Jenks, head o’ security for Ctenophore.” Jenks hauled out a debugging wand and a magnetometer. He then swept his tools with care over the pair of them. The wand began beeping in frenzy.

  “Lemme hold on to your piece for you, ma’am,” Jenks suggested placidly.

  “It’s just a sweet little one,” Veruschka demurred, handing over a pistol.

  Tug Mesoglea tripped in moments later, sunburned and querulous. The mathematician sported a lavender dress shirt and peach-colored ascot, combined with pleated khaki trail-shorts and worn-out piezoplastic Gripper sandals.

  Revel Pullen followed, wearing a black linen business suit, snakeskin boots, and a Stetson. Janna could tell there was a bald pate under that high hat. Jenks faded into a nearby booth, where he could shadow his employers and watch the door.

  Mesoglea creaked into the plastic seat beside Veruschka and poured himself a coffee. “I phoned in my order from the limo. Where’s my low-fat soy protein?”

  “Here you go, then,” said Janna, eagerly shoving him the heaped plate of pseudo-meat that the waitress had just set down.

  Pullen stared as Mesoglea tucked in. “I don’t know how the hell this man eats the food in a sorry-ass chain store.” Nevertheless he picked up a fork and speared a piece of it himself.

  “I believe in my investments,” Mesoglea said, munching. “You see, ladies, this soy protein derives from a patented Ctenophore process.” He prodded at Veruschka’s plate. “Did you notice that lifelike, organic individuality of your waffle product? That’s no accident, darling.”

  “Did we make any real foldin’ money off this crap?” said Revel Pullen, eating one more piece of it.

  “Of course we did! You remember all those sintered floating gel rafts in the giant tofu tanks in Chiba?” Mesoglea flicked a blob of molten butter from his ascot.

  “Y’all don’t pay no never mind to Dr. Mesoglea here,” Revel counteradvised, setting down his fork. “Today’s economy is all about diversity. Proactive investments. Buying into the next technical wave, before you get cannibalized.” Revel leered. “Now as for me, I get my finger into every techno-pie!” His lipless mouth was like a letter slot, bent slightly upward at the corners to simulate a grin.

  “Let me brief you gentlemen on our business model,” said Janna warily. “It’s much like your famous Goob dolls, but the hook here is that the Pumpti is made of the user’s very own DNA. This leads to certain, uh, powerful consumer bonding effects, and …”

  “Oh good, let’s see your Pumptis, girls,” crooned Tug, with a decadent giggle. “Whip out your Pumptis for us.”

  “You’ve never seen our product?” asked Janna.

  “Tug’s got a mess of ‘em,” said Revel. “But y’all never shipped to Texas. That’s another thing I just don’t get.” Pullen produced a sheaf of printout, and put on his bifocals. “According to these due-diligence filings, Magic Pumpkin’s projected online capacity additions were never remotely capable of meeting the residual in-line demand in the total off-line market that you required for breakeven.” He tipped back his Stetson, his liver-spotted forehead wrinkling in disbelief. “How in green tarnation could you gals overlook that? How is that even possible?”

  “Huh?” said Janna.

  Revel chuckled. “Okay, now I get it. Tug, these little gals don’t know how to do business. They’ve never been anywhere near one.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Tug admitted. “No MBAs, no accountants? Nobody doing cost control? No speakers-to-animals in the hacker staff? I’d be pegging your background as entry-level computational genomics,” he said, pointing at Janna. Then he waggled his finger at Veruschka, “And you’d be coming from—Slavic mythology and emotional blackmail?”

  Veruschka’s cobalt blue eyes went hard. “I don’t think I want to show you men my Pumpti.”

  “We kind of have to show our Pumptis, don’t we?” said Janna, an edge in her voice. “I mean, we’re trying to make a deal here.”

  “Don’t get all balky on the bailout men,” added Revel, choking back a yawn of disdain. He tapped a napkin to his wrinkled lips, with a glint of diamond solitaire. He glanced at his Rolex, reached into his coat pocket, and took out a little pill. “That’s for high blood pressure, and I got it the hard way, out kickin’ ass in the market. I got a flight back to Texas in less than two hours. So let’s talk killer app, why don’t we? Your toy pitch is dead in the water. But Tug says your science is unique. Okay, but how do we sell the Pumptis?”

  “They’re getting much prettier,” Janna said, swiftly hating herself.

  “Do y’all think Pumptis might have an app in home security?”

  Janna brightened. “The home market?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Strategic Defense for the Home.” Pullen outlined his scheme. Ever the bottom-feeder, he’d bought up most of the software patents for the never-completed American missile defense system. Pullen had a long-cherished notion of retrofitting the Star Wars shield into a consumer application for troubled neighborhoods. He was wondering if Pumptis might take the place of the missiles.

  Revel figured that a sufficiently tough-minded, Pumpti could take a round to the guts, fall to earth, crawl back to its vat in the basement, and come back hungry for more. So if bullets were fired at a private home from some drug-crazed drive-by, then a rubbery unit of the client’s Pumpti Star Wars shield would instantly fling itself into the way, guided by that fine old Star Wars software.

  Veruschka batted her eyes at Pullen. “I love to hear a strong man talk about security.”

  “Security always soars along with unemployment,” said Pul
len, nodding his head at his own wisdom. “We’re in a major downturn. I seen this before, so I know the drill. Locks, bolts, Dobermans, they’re all market leaders this quarter. That’s Capitalism 301, girls.”

  “And you, Ctenophore, you would finance Magic Pumpkin as a home-defense industry?” probed Veruschka.

  “Maybe,” said Pullen, his sunken eyes sly. “We’d surely supply you a Washington lobbyist. New public relations. Zoning clearances. Help you write up a genuine budget for once. And of course, if we’re on board, then y’all will have to dump all your crappy equipment and become a hunnert-percent Ctenophore shop, technologically. Ctenophore sequencers, PCRs, and bioinformatic software. That’s strictly for your own safety, you understand: stringent quality assurance, functional testing and all.”

  “Uhm, yeah,” nodded Tug. “We’d get all your intellectual property copyrighted and patented with the World Intellectual Property Organization. The lawyer fees, we’ll take care of that. Ctenophore is downright legendary for our quick response times to a market opportunity.”

  “We gonna help you youngsters catch the fish,” said Pullen smugly. “Not just give you a damn fish. What’d be the fun in that? Self-reliance, girls. We wanna see your little outfit get up and walk, under our umbrella. You sign over your founder’s stock, put in your orders for our equipment—and we ain’t gonna bill for six months—then my men will start to shake the money tree.”

  “Wait, they still haven’t shown us their Pumptis,” said Tug, increasingly peevish. “And, Revel, you need to choke it back to a dull roar with the Star Wars attack Pumptis. Real world ballistic physics is chaotic, dude, which means unsolvable in real time.” Tug muffled a body sound with his napkin. “I ate too many waffles.”

  Janna felt like flipping the table over into their laps. Veruschka shot her a quick, understanding glance and laid a calming hand on her shoulder. Veruschka played a deep game.

  Veruschka plucked the Pumpti from her furry hat and set it on the table.

  Tug did a double take and leaned forward, transfixed

  Veruschka segued into her cuddly mode. “Pumpti was created in a very special lab in Petersburg. In the top floor of old Moskfilm complex, where my friends make prehistoric amber jewelry. You can see the lovely River Neva while you hunt for dinosaur gnats—”

  As she put the squeeze on their would-be sponsors, Veruschka compulsively massaged her Pumpti. She was working it, really getting into it finger and thumb, until suddenly a foul little clot of nonworking protein suddenly gave way inside, like popping bubble wrap.

  “Stop it, Vero,” said Janna.

  Tug daintily averted his gaze as Veruschka sucked goo from her fingers.

  “Look at mine,” offered Janna. She’d programmed her Pumpti to look rubbery and sleek, like a top-end basketball shoe.

  “Hey, any normal kid would kill to have one of those,” said Revel cheerily. “I’m getting’ another product brainstorm! It’s risin’ in me like a thunderhead across Tornado Alley!”

  “The junk DNA is the critical aspect,” put in Tug. “Those are traces of early prehuman genomics. If we can really express those primordial codons, we might—”

  “Those globbies suck the DNA right off people’s fingers, right?” demanded Revel.

  “Well, yes,” said Janna.

  “Great! So that’s my Plan B. Currency! You smash ‘em out flat and color ‘em pretty. As they daisy-chain from hand to hand, they record the DNA of every user. Combine those with criminal DNA files, and you got terrorist-proof cash!”

  “But the mafiya always wears gloves,” said Veruschka.

  “No problem, just turn up the amps,” said Pullen. “Have ‘em suck DNA fragments out of the dang air.” He wiggled his lower jaw to simulate deep thought. “Those little East European currencies, they’re not real cash money anyways! That user-base won’t even know the difference!”

  Mesoglea blinked owlishly. “Bear with us, ladies. Revel’s always like this right after he takes his meds.”

  “Now, Tug, we gotta confront the commercial possibilities! You and I, we could hit the lab and make some kind of money that only works for white males over fifty. If anybody else tries to pass it, it just, like—bites their dang hands off!” Pullen chuckled richly, then had another drag off his cig. “Or how about a hunnert-dollar bill that takes your DNA and grows your own face on the front!”

  Mesoglea sighed, looked at his watch, and shook it theatrically.

  “But this is such pure genius!” gushed Veruschka, leaning toward Revel with moistening eyes. “We need your veteran skills. Magic Pumpkin needs grown men in the boardroom. We wasted our money on incompetent artists and profiteers! We had great conceptual breakthroughs, but— “

  “Can it with the waterworks and cut to the chase, ptista,” said Pullen. “It’s high time for you amateurs to roll over.”

  “Make us the offer,” said Janna.

  “Cards on the table,” said Pullen, fixing her with his hard little eyes. “You’ll sign all your founder’s stock over to us. I’ll take your stock, chica, and Tug’ll take your pretty Russian friend’s. That gives us controlling interest. As for your Dad’s third, he might as well keep it since he’s too maverick to deal with. Dad’s in clover. Okay?”

  “You’re not offering us any cash?” said Janna. “I don’t believe this. The Pumpti was our original idea!”

  “You sign on with us, you get a nice salary,” said Pullen. Then he broke into such cackles that he had to sip ice water and dab at his eyes with a kerchief.

  “You two kids really are better off with a salary,” added Tug in a kindly tone. “It won’t be anything huge, but better than your last so-called jobs. We already checked into your histories. You’ll get some nice vague titles too. That’ll be good experience for your next job or, who knows, your next start-up.”

  “The sexy Russki can be my Pumpti Project Manager,” said Pullen. “She can fly down to my ranch tomorrow. I’ll be waitin’. And what about the other one, Tug? She’s more the techie type.”

  “Yes, yes, I want Janna,” said Tug, beaming. “Executive Assistant to the Chief Scientist.”

  Janna and Veruschka exchanged unhappy glances.

  “How—how big of a salary?” asked Janna, hating herself.

  -----

  After the fabled entrepreneurs departed the Denny’s in the company of a watchful Hoss Jenks, Veruschka dropped her glued-on smile and scrambled for the kitchen. She was just in time to save the Tug’s and Revel’s dirty forks before they hit the soapy water.

  Shoving a busboy aside, Veruschka wrapped the DNA-soiled trophies in a sheet of newspaper and stuffed them into her purse.

  “Veruschka, what do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m multiplying our future options. I am seizing the future imperfectly. Visualize, realize, actualize.” Veruschka’s lower lip trembled. “Leap, and the net will appear.”

  Stuck in the clattering kitchen of Denny’s, feeling sordid and sold-out, Janna felt a moment of true sorrow for herself, for Vero, and even for the Latin and Vietnamese busboys. Poor immigrant Veruschka, stuck in some foreign country, with an alien language—she’d seen her grandest dreams seized, twisted up, and crushed by America, and now, in her valiant struggle to rise from ash heap to princess, she’d signed on to be Pullen’s marketeer droid. As for Janna—she’d be little more than a lab assistant.

  At least the business was still alive. Even if it wasn’t her business anymore.

  When they returned to their San Francisco lair, they discovered that Hoss Jenks had arrived with a limo full of men in black suits and mirrorshades. They’d seized the company’s computers and fired everyone. To make things worse, Jenks had called the police and put an APB out for Kelso, who had last been seen departing down a back alley with a cardboard box stuffed with the company’s petty cash.

  “I can’t believe that horrible old cowboy called the cops on Kelso,” Janna mourned, sitting down in the firm’s very last cool, swoopy Blobular C
oncepts chair. “I’m glad Kelso stole that money, since it’s not ours anymore. I hope he’ll turn up again. I never even got to make out with him.”

  “He’s gay, you know.”

  “Look, Kelso is not gay,” yelled Janna. “He is so totally not gay. There’s a definite chemistry between us. We were just too incredibly busy, that’s all.”

  Veruschka sniffed and said nothing. When Janna looked up, her eyes brimming, she realized that Veruschka was actually feeling sorry for her. This was finally it for Janna; it was too much for flesh and blood to bear. She bent double in her designer chair, racked with sobs.

  “Janna, my dear, don’t surrender. The business cycle, always, it turns around. And California is the Golden State.”

  “No it isn’t. We’ve got a market bear stitched right on our flag. We’re totally doomed, Veruschka! We’ve been such fools!”

  “I hate those two old men,” said Veruschka, after the two of them had exhausted half a box of Kleenex. “They’re worse than their reputations. I expected them to be crazy, but not so—greedy and rude.”

  “Well, we signed all their legal papers. It’s a little late to fuss now.”

  Veruschka let out a low, dark chuckle. “Janna, I want revenge.”

  Janna looked up. “Tell me.”

  “It’s very high tech and dangerous.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s completely illegal, or it would be, if any court had the chance to interpret the law in such a matter.”

  “Spill it, Vero.”

  “Pumpti Gene Therapy.”

  Janna felt a twinge, as of seasickness. “That’s a no-no, Vero.”

  “Tell me something,” said Veruschka. “If you dose a man with an infectious genomic mutagen, how do you keep him from knowing he’s been compromised?”

  “You’re talking bioterrorism, Vero. They’d chase us to the ends of the earth in a rain of cruise missiles.”

  “You use a Pumpti virus based on your victim’s own DNA,” said Veruschka, deftly answering her own rhetorical question. “Because nobody has an immune response to their own DNA. No matter how—how very strange it might be making their body.”