by Rudy Rucker
“It’s gonna help my ratings, Ma,” said Ashley. “I’ll be one in a million!”
“You want me to take that thing away?” said her mother. “Go sit down."
Ashley stomped across the beach, scowling and delivering an angry commentary to her hand.
“How—how would a kid get a vlog ring?” I asked Cammy. It was hard to believe Cammy was here, back from the dead, with me talking to her.
She gave me a worried look. “We just finished writing a song about it with K-Jen, Bela. ‘Evil Eye?” I still looked blank, so she continued. “Veeter and Leni Pex are giving vlog rings away with the meals at all the Monogrubs for their One in a Million show, and it’s really a Heritagist data-mining scam? Come on!”
“Oh, that’s right,” I said. Apparently that show had been around longer on Earth-2.
Cammy stared searchingly at my face. I found it very strange to see her in motion, to hear her low, urgent voice. “Are you tripping?” she asked. “Or did you hit your head? Lie down for a minute, Bela. You’re shaking.”
I stretched out beside Paul, who was curled up with his eyes closed. Up the beach, the ranger arrived, a wild-haired, bearded Big Sur type wearing official green work clothes and a hat with an insignia. When the dark-skinned woman ran towards him, little Ashley darted over to us, camera hand extended again.
“Was she your girlfriend?” she asked, holding her vlog ring towards Paul.
“What the fuck?” said Paul, opening his eyes.
“Ooooh,” squealed Ashley.
“Sir!” called the ranger, walking over with Cammy at his side and the tan woman and the blonde boy close behind. “Is either of you injured? I’ve called the sheriff and an emergency vehicle. One of you can ride to the hospital with your friend. They’ll be taking her to Monterey.”
“I’ll go with her,” said Paul quietly. “You and Cammy pick me up there, Bela.”
Paul and I found some of our clothes on the towels; we got dressed.
“Paul’s crying,” said Ashley to her hand.
“I warned you, Ashley,” said the tan woman, but the avid little girl stayed well out of her mother’s reach, reporting the events and building up her ratings: circling us like a seagull as Paul and the EMTs carried Alma away; recording my minimal statement to the sheriff; filming Cammy and me leaving that unhappy beach.
My car was in the lot, much the same squinty whale as before, although the script chrome insignia on the tailgate now said “Golden Mullet” instead of “Bel Paese.” I set down the surfboards and gazed at Cammy standing there tough and relaxed, Cammy watching me with alert eyes.
“You zipped the key into your wet suit,” she said, as if reading my mind. “Give it to me and I’ll drive. You’re in no condition.”
I found the key and—wonder of wonders—in this world it still worked. I unlocked the car and slid in with Cammy, letting her take the driver’s seat. It was kind of great to be alone with her. Yes, she was weak-chinned, slightly buck-toothed, and her lips were rather thin. But she had such poise, such grace, such womanliness. Cammy was vibrant and approachable and matter-of-fact.
Maybe things would settle down and be okay. I could do worse than have Cammy for my girlfriend. With all the alternate worlds to choose from, perhaps the death of one Alma on one Earth wasn’t such a huge deal. Yes, I know that sounds callous, but that’s where I was at just then. Maybe I was in shock.
I leaned over and slowly kissed Cammy. She wasn’t surprised; she didn’t pull back. I concluded that in this world we were lovers. Probably we’d fucked at Ma’s.
Cammy drove up the winding beach road to Route One, then headed north towards Monterey.
“You’re still down with opening for AntiCrystal on Saturday?” said Cammy.
“Huh?”
“AntiCrystal. Waclaw Smorynski? Chainsaw Crying Clown? Jutta Schreck? It was Jutta’s idea, remember, she heard our San Jose concert on the Web. And when the singer for their opening act OD’ed this week, Jutta thought of us. Jutta’s my hero as a bass player. And Waclaw is the greatest singer on Earth.” Cammy pronounced his name with relish, using what must have been the correct Polish pronunciation: Vahkwahv. “There’s gonna be a huge crowd. We’ll have to step way up. We’ll rehearse tonight—hopefully you’re not too wrecked—and tomorrow. Don’t even dream of holing up with Paul and Henry Nunez to work on the Gobrane. Our sound check at Heritagist Park is four o’clock Saturday afternoon.”
I was relieved to hear her mention Gobranes. That meant that, if all else failed, I could eventually return to La Hampa and rejoin Alma. But for now—“Heritagist Park?”
“The San Francisco baseball stadium, Bela? The Heritagists bought the naming rights a couple of months ago when they kicked off the hundred-percent campaign. You’re tripping, right?”
“Um, I have memory loss. Now that we’re alone, I guess I can tell you about it. You’re not vlogging us or anything, are you?” “Vlogging’s for goobs anymore, with that Monogrub One in a Million show,” said Cammy. “No way would I vlog now. I’ve never seen a new medium turn to shit so fast. You were hip to ride that edgy first vlog burst and get Washer Drop’s music out there in time, Bela.” She looked over at me, a half-smile on her lips. “You three huffed those conotoxins, huh? That’s why you did such a—I’m sorry—such a fucked-up dumb-ass maneuver like trying to surf through that little square hole. It must suck to be tripping in the middle of a tragedy. I bet things seem horrible to you right now.” She gave me a reassuring pat on the hand. “When I’m in a really bad place mentally I always try turning it into music. Or I talk it out.”
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “I’m a different Bela from the one you drove down here with, Cammy. I’m Bela from an alternate Earth. You died on that alternate world; a stalker stabbed you to death. I couldn’t stand it, so I went up to a higher world and found my way to an Earth where you’re still alive.”
“Those are some twisted hallucinations all right,” said Cammy shaking her head. “Are you so high that you don’t even know it? Alma was showing us the squeeze-bulbs on the way down, remember? She got them from her brother Pete. Three doses.”
“I’m not the same Bela that you knew. But I still want to be your lover.”
“It’s the old Bela that I want,” said Cammy, kind of joking around. “Where’s the old Bela?”
“Paul and I bumped him and the other two. We forced them into that natural bridge so they’d go to the higher world.”
There was a silence. The car slowed down. “I hope you’re not saying you murdered Alma. Or that you imagine you did. Because if—”
“I wasn’t even under the bridge when the earthquake hit,” I said. “The old Bela was in there, but I was outside, waiting.”
“Stop it!” said Cammy, giving me a hard poke. “You’re creeping me out!”
I decided to back off. “Sorry,” I said. “Maybe I’m hysterical. The shock of Alma’s death. And, yeah, the conotoxins. Talk about a bad trip.” Apparently conotoxins were a street drug on this world—put here as a cosmic joke on me by the jellyfish god.
“Just rest,” said Cammy. “Forget what I said about ‘talking it out.’ If you’re still tweaking this hard when we get to Klowne- town, I’ll score you some Quaak. Spun ravers always use Quaak to come down.”
“What’s Klownetown?”
"The place where you live, Bela? A university town across the bay from San Francisco? Named after the early Golden State settler, Willem Klowne. I learned all about him at dear old Akron High School.”
“That town was called Humelocke in the world I came from,” I said.
“Enough with the bootsy nightmares, bud. Bottle them up and make a song. We need two more by Saturday.” Cammy fiddled with the radio. “There’s hardly any stations—oh, here we go.”
“. . week the hundred-percent campaign has been gaining a surprising amount of traction,” said a journalist’s voice. “When President Doakes proposed his hundr
ed-percent campaign in his State of the Union message last January, the notion was derided and then ignored. But somehow a series of news developments over the last few days have brought the hundred-percent campaign to the front burner, and to full boil.”
“I hate those freakin’ anti-humanity pigs so much,” said Cammy reaching for the radio.
“Leave it on,” I said, touching her hand. “I need this information so I can orient myself.”
“Oh, this news is gonna be perfect for you, where your head’s at right now,” said Cammy. "It’s gonna seem like you’ve ended up in a sick, weird, evil alternate reality. Feel it, bud, that’s the world we’re livin’ in.”
The show had switched to a tape of Joe Doakes at a recent rally. “In these perilous times, our nation deserves a hundred percent Heritagist government. We can afford no less. Now, I don’t mean to question the patriotism and honesty of each and every member of the Common Ground party. But—if you buy a dozen eggs and one or two or three of them is rotten— common sense says you get your money back and a fresh dozen from the store.” His voice was dry and humorless as a locust’s chirp.
“What I’m saying is simple common sense,” continued Doakes. “Over and over, the elected and appointed officials of the Common Ground Party have let our people down—in our Congress, in our courts, in our state legislatures, and in our governors’ mansions. I’m proposing a hundred-percent Heritagist victory this fall. We won’t settle for a mere majority. We’ve endured the sorry parades of Common Ground filibusters, we’ve seen our dreams die in the power-brokered special-interest Common Ground committees, we’ve tasted the lash of the willful, revisionist Common Ground courts.” Doakes was a madman. But each time he stopped, his audience burst into wild applause.
“With complete control of the Congress and the state legislatures, we can use the constitutional power of impeachment to remove the activist Common Ground judges,” rasped the mean little voice. “This is what the balance of powers stands for. With complete control of the Congress and the state legislatures, we will propose and, with the people’s help, pass a constitutional amendment to remove the outdated notions of Presidential and Congressional term limits. This is what a stable democracy deserves. The success of the hundred-percent campaign will bring lasting homeland security, a wave of transformative legislation, and an end to the prideful tyranny of the courts. Our great nation deserves no less than the hundred-percent freedom that a hundred- percent Heritagist victory will bring.” The applause crested like a thunderous wave, with the audience members cheering themselves hoarse.
“That was President Joe Doakes addressing a national congress of trade unions,” said the journalist’s voice. “Only a few months ago, the hundred-percent campaign seemed dead on arrival, yet this week President Doakes received a warm welcome from what had once been a Common Ground constituency. How is it that the hundred-percent campaign has made such inroads in the mainstream this week? Part of the explanation seems to lie with the new Heritagist publicity campaign being orchestrated by Congress’s latest addition, the former high-tech executive and new Speaker of the House, Van Veeter.”
“Your pal,” said Cammy. “You should be ashamed.”
I took in a little more news, and then I must have dozed off. When I awoke Cammy was parking the car on a hill overlooking the bay in front of the low, modern Steinbeck Memorial Hospital. “Here we are,” she said brightly. “Got meds? Doesn’t look like the earthquake had any effects up here. Oh-oh, there’s Henry Nunez talking to Paul. Don’t let him pull you into another big science pow wow, Bela. We need to get back to Klownetown and rehearse.”
Paul and Nunez were right inside the hospital main door in the waiting area, with Nunez’s red car parked by the curb. From their body language, it looked as if Paul and Nunez were on very good terms. I saw no sign of that skinny mean security guy who’d been with Nunez before—Tito Cruz.
My mind was kicking back into gear; I still had some of that hierophantic thing working for me. In this world Cammy hadn’t been murdered; therefore Veeter had kept Paul and me as consultants; therefore we were Van’s and Nunez’s trusted coworkers. Thanks to the four-way collaboration, the Gobranes were working really well; therefore the Heritagists were using the Gobranes to predict the effects of their news releases and ads; therefore the Heritagists had gotten the upper hand in manipulating public opinion. Veeter must have been doing some manipulating on his own hook as well, if he’d already become Speaker of the House.
“Hi Bela,” said Nunez in an easy voice as I entered the hospital. "What a tragedy. Alma was a wonderful woman. So lovely, so interesting to talk to.” He had a warm smile and pleasant eyes.
“We’re about done here,” said Paul. “They’ve notified Alma’s family. I think I’d rather not wait for them.”
He gave me a significant look, and I remembered Pete Ziff’s last words to us: “You two guys want to be worrying about taking good care of my baby sister. Or I’ll waste your ass.” Of course that had been back on Earth-1, but the Pete of Earth-2 was likely to have the same attitude.
“It’s a shame nobody could predict that little earthquake,” said Nunez in his gentle tone. “Another few weeks and we might get tectonics modeled, too. You two should think about morphon structures for geology. After you’re done grieving, of course.”
“Oh, Pauli” It was Lulu Cliff, coming across the lobby from the ladies’ room with her arms outstretched. She hugged Paul hard, for quite a long time, with tears running down her face and leaving trails of mascara. “You two were perfect together,” said Lulu. “If there’s anything at all I can do . . .” She stepped back and dabbed at her eyes, looking quite fetching in her sleeveless lacy lavender blouse, red miniskirt, and low, fleece- lined gold boots, with her all-purpose cell phone device clipped to one boot top. She leaned against Henry Nunez, keeping her eyes fixed on Paul.
“Soooo,” said Cammy. “Do we go home?”
“I guess so,” I said.
“I brought Bela and Paul some new toys,” said Nunez, glancing around the lobby to see if anyone was filming us. "Come on out to my car. And, Cammy and Lulu, this is one of those paranoid non-disclosure things, so—”
“Circle jerk time,” said Lulu. "The boys and their toys. I love how you play bass, Cammy. I was thinking of writing a song for you about lugs and bis. I’m looking for a new career.”
“That could almost be a title,” said Cammy, evenly regarding Lulu from beneath her long, level eyebrows. “I like it. We need more numbers for the stadium concert Saturday night.”
“It’s so awesome that you’re opening for AntiCrystal,” gushed Lulu. “Henry got us really good seats. You should come see Washer Drop with us, Paul. You don’t want to mope at home.”
“You should go with her, Paul,” put in Henry. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you yet, Lulu, but I can’t make it to that concert. We’re putting in a new production line at the Watsonville plant this weekend.”
“You’re handing me off?” said Lulu, an edge in her voice. “After getting me fired from Buzz? Well, I think you’re too short for me, how about that? And your company’s core business sucks. Take me to the Washer Drop concert, Paulie?”
“I don’t know,” said Paul. “Maybe moping at home is precisely what I need to do. Alma’s lying dead in a cooler about a hundred feet from here.”
“Sorry!” said Lulu. “Let’s go outside so we can smoke, Cammy.”
“I have the title for your song,” said Cammy as they made their way to the door. “ ‘Lug Bi War Bride.’ Patriarchy and the battle of the sexes. And it’s like the singer is from another country.”
“Yes!”
Cammy and Lulu stood in the shade of a eucalyptus tree, smoking and talking while Paul and I sat in the back of Henry Nunez’s car with him between us. Henry reached up to the passenger seat and got two small, cubical, black leatherette cases for us.
“Look inside,” he said with a low chuckle. “G
obrane, phase two. We’ve already trademarked it as the Gobubble. Van’s written a new operating system for it. He’s holed up on his ranch in the Santa Cruz Mountains.”
I tipped back the hinged lid of my velvet-lined box, letting the sun shine in to reveal an object very much like a leathery soap bubble: a shiny, hollow, semi-transparent sphere with iridescent colors playing over its surface. When I pushed down on it, the skin dimpled. It felt tough and unlikely to pop.
“Do you have to mount a Gobubble in something else?” asked Paul, staring down at his magic ball. He’d taken it out of the case and was rolling it from hand to hand. “Like the way we put the Gobrane into a teapot?”
“Teapot?” said Henry. “Oh, right, you’re talking about Van’s prototype models, not about those clunky jobbies we’ve been shipping to D.C. inside the buzzing beige computer boxes— which makes them look like what the Government Purchasing Office expects to see. This week feels like it’s lasted ten years, doesn’t it? Forget about Internet time, guys, we’re in the paracomputational Singularity.” He prodded my Gobubble with his finger. “Does it look like it needs a support system?”
“No,” I guessed. “It’s stand-alone. It runs on solar power and it uses wireless Web surfing to get data.”
“Exactly,” said Henry. “And of course it has global positioning, so it always knows where it is. We’ve reached a fully mature technology in two steps. We couldn’t have designed the Gobubble without using our Gobrane paracomputers, by the way. We’ve been bootstrapping like crazy. Van ported an improved version of Paul’s human-predictor app to the Gobubbles this morning.” Henry’s face was wreathed in smiles.
"Can you predict—Pete Ziff?” said Paul, glancing out the car window towards the street.
“You’re talking about Alma Ziff’s brother?” said Henry. “Maybe—especially if he’s picked up one of those Monogrub vlog rings.” He gave Paul’s Gobubble a little pat. “It’s all coming together so fast. Go ahead and ask, Paul. Ask it if it can do Pete Ziff. You’re scared of Pete, huh?”