by George Mann
“Whatta we gonna do, Reddy, huh? Whatta we gonna do?”
“Keep it down! He’s banged up pretty lousy. If we haul him into Providence, there’s no guarantee any-one’ll be able to fix him up. If we just leave him, the RAMivores’ll be on him soon. I say we put him out of his misery.”
“We’re not—we’re not gonna salvage him for parts, are we?”
“Why not? He’d do the same to us, if parity was reversed. It’s just the way life goes nowadays.”
“Well, if you say so. But it’s harsh. Do what ya gotta do. But I can’t watch.”
I trundled back to the flier and started to speak in my best soothing voice.
“It’s okay, kid, we’re gonna haul you into Providence, get you fixed right up...”
All the while I was working one of my pincers around, taking advantage of his blind spot.
“Thank you, oh, thank you—SQUEE!”
I had snipped right through his brain box in a shower of sparks. Those central boards are personality firmware, the circuits that make you you and me me. No way to repurpose them.
But every other part of the flier that wasn’t damaged, we cut out and stored in one of my hoppers. A few items we integrated into ourselves right away. I got new ears, and Kitch got a new infrared sensor, for one.
We left the nameless flier then, nothing more than a few struts and cracked casings.
As we headed back to the Interstate, Kitch stayed quiet. But as the shattered skyscrapers of Providence rose up into view on the horizon, signaling the interface from savagery to civilization, he said, “How’s what we did make us any better than the RAMivores, Reddy? Aren’t we just cannibals like them?”
“No, we’re not. That was a mercy killing. And the victim donated his components so that others could live.”
“Yeah, I guess. If ya say so. But Reddy—”
“What?”
“Don’t tell no one in Providence what we done, okay?”
“Okay, Kitch. Sure. No reason to anyhow, right?”
But the little guy wouldn’t answer me.
THE BIG TUBE took up practically the whole first-floor exhibition space of the Providence Convention Center—the parts of that building that still had a roof over them. At his core was a supercomputer moved down College Hill from Brown University. Surrounding that was an incredibly varied assortment of other processors and peripherals, no two the same. The resulting mess looked like an aircraft carrier built by blind carnals, then mated with a refinery. Dozens of slaved attendants scurried around, catering to their master’s every need.
The Big Tube had sacrificed mobility for smarts. Good choice, I guessed, given that he had managed to become ruler of the whole city now.
Kitch and I approached The Big Tube’s main I-O zone.
“Hey, Big Tube. Nice to meet you.”
The Big Tube’s voice was part cathedral organ, hiss of tires on pavement, and rain on a tin roof. “Reddy K. How was your trip?”
“Not bad, not bad at all. If you like trees.”
“I hate trees.”
Kitch piped up. “Me too!”
The Big Tube ignored my tiny rider. “So, you’re here for the spiral.”
“Not to disparage your beautiful city, but no other reason.”
“I hope Vend-o-Mat authorized you to bid high.”
“Well, he’s prepared to offer a fair price.”
“Fair in this case is a motherboard’s ransom.”
I knew the bargaining had already started, and I was worried that my individual wits would be no match for BT’s unmatchable processing power. Still, for what it was worth, I sent Kitch a private message through our physical connection, asking to borrow some of his cycles.
His silent voice sounded just like his spoken one. “Sure, Reddy, sure, take what you need!”
“This is all contingent on the quality of the goods,” I said. “How’s about a look? Or maybe even a taste?”
“After I hear some convincing numbers.”
“Okay, then, if that’s the way it’s gotta be. How’s this sound...?”
We went back and forth through several rounds of bargaining, and I guessed my distributed processing with Kitch paid off, because we finally settled on a figure that allowed me, presumably unknown to The Big Tube, to keep for my own self three percent of the credit ‘Mat had transferred to me as maximum purchase price. But I would’ve been happy with one percent.
It was really my share of the spiral that had lured me out of the safety of home.
Once we had struck our deal, The Big Tube got more chummy.
“Nice doing business with a classy and honorable guy like you, Reddy. Vend-o-Mat’s lucky to have you for an associate. Since he can’t be here himself, I want to show you two errand boys some Providence hospitality. We’ll have a party tonight, before you leave tomorrow.”
“Sounds good, Big Tube. But would you mind now if I inspected the merchandise...?”
“Not at all. Just follow this hand of mine.”
A little slave zipped up and jigged in the direction we were to go.
We left the Convention Center and crossed downtown to the banking district. We entered the basement of the old Fleet building through a huge hole in the wall and down a ramp composed of mangled, tangled, and compressed office furniture. At the vault, Big Tube’s hand manipulated an inset keypad and the door of the vault swung open.
The subtle petrochemical smell of primo spiral gushed out, hitting my sensors like the smell of Chippie’s hot lube. I went kinda blind for a few seconds. When I could see again, the sight of the spiral made me nearly as delirious as the smell.
Piled high, loose, and in boxes, hundred and hundreds of 45s and LPs in their jackets.
I hadn’t seen so much spiral since part of the Crumb collection had filtered back to Manhattan. And that had been mostly shellac and 78s, low-info stuff compared to this Golden Age ware.
The Big Tube’s voice came out of the little hand, reduced by the puny speakers.
“Sweet, huh? The legendary Mad Peck trove.”
I extended one of my arms and gently removed a 45 from atop a stack.
“Vend-o-Mat said I could have a taste.”
“Sure, go right ahead.”
I slid the vinyl disc from its paper sleeve and studied the label. “My Baby’s Gone,” by the Five Thrills. Parrot 796.
I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice. “Never had anything on the Parrot label before.”
“Pretty rare.”
I magnified my vision to inspect the spiral groove more deeply, looking for nicks and other imperfections. The spiral was cherry. B-side too, “Feel So Good.”
At 10x, the spiral became a hypnotic road leading to infinity, sucking down my senses into the blissful white hole at the center of the paper label, where all the individual troubles of being Reddy K disappeared in an implosion of cosmic splendor. And I hadn’t even played the rusting thing yet!
I pulled myself out of my fugue, and slotted the disc home into my onboard reader.
The outside world vanished in a splendor of beautiful noise.
I let the complex waveforms bathe my senses, at the same time that my studio tools were breaking down all the instruments and voices into discrete pieces, digitizing everything in the only way I knew how to remember and comprehend.
I didn’t know what the long-dead carnals were singing about, and I didn’t care. I knew the carnals had talked about “beauty” and “harmony” and “melody” and a thousand other attributes of “music.” But none of that registered with me. All I cared about was the architecture of the spiral. The way all the pieces hung together. The song’s information complexity.
This was the mystery the carnals had been able to produce at will that we could not.
But there was even more to spiral than that.
It was analogue.
The song was encoded continuously and physically, in the microcosmic mountain ridges of the black spiral. It wasn’t just a string of lonely ones a
nd zeroes. Hell, anybody could access millions of hours of digital music files for free. But the kick they gave was pale and weak, almost nonexistent next to real spiral.
“My Baby’s Gone” stopped playing.
The universe flooded back in.
And now that piece of spiral was dead to me.
My player was non-destructive. Optical-based, in fact. No needle ever touched the spiral, just photons. This 45 was still virgin.
But my mind wasn’t. I had heard and dissected the song fully, with cybernetic precision. The novelty factor was gone. It had imparted its kick, and that kick had been analyzed and stored. Oh, I could get a few waning thrills from triggering a simulation of what I had felt. But the sim was not the same. And after a few repeats, even those secondary thrills evaporated.
And then I would want more spiral. And after that, more still.
Somebody else could still get juiced with “My Baby’s Gone.” But not me. I could make a profit renting it out, just like Vend-o-Mat planned with his share of the goods. But I could never experience it again myself.
I ejected the disc, put it back in its sleeve, and replaced it on the pile.
The Big Tube’s hand spoke again. “So, as promised...?”
“Yeah, yeah. Heavy action.”
But I didn’t feel any excitement as I turned to go and the vault door swung shut temporarily on the trove of spiral.
Just a kind of sickness at what I had lost through having.
You HAD TO hand it to The Big Tube: he really knew how to throw a party. A wide plaza downtown was lit up that night like the bright side of Mercury. Scores of machines flowed in from all parts of the city. Plenty of free juice and plug-ins. Plus the women. These babes made fusion look like steam power. It was the biggest blowout I had been to in years, and I entered into it kinda desperately and wildly, looking to forget the melancholy that the hit of spiral had produced in me.
One of the plug-ins I scored was a temporary virus to randomly wipe sections of my mind, and my memory went out the window. I only retained snatches of the party. I remember having a girl on each arm. With one track locked, I spun around on the other in a circle until the girls became airborne, shrieking and squealing.
Somewhere in the deliberate insanity, I lost Kitch. But I figured he was on his own, and could manage his own fun.
The party began to wind down around dawn. Everybody had duties. Guarding the city perimeter against incursions from predatory wildlife. Shoring up the dikes along Narragansett Bay. Scavenging consumables. I hung in there till the last citizen left. Then I got my shit together, and went back to arrange with The Big Tube to pick up the spiral.
I was thinking about Chippie, and whether we’d ever get back together again, when Kitch caught up with me.
“Ya sleep good, Reddy? I sure did. All set for the road now, sure thing.”
“Kitch, please shut up. Your voice is hurting my new ears.”
“Okay, Reddy, sure, I’ll shut up.”
Kitch hoisted himself on my back, and we went to say goodbye to The Big Tube.
“My hands saw you enjoying yourself, Reddy K. Glad I could show you a good time. Be sure to tell Vend-o-Mat how we do things up here in New England, that we treated you right. If he ever hits a big node of spiral, I want him to remember me.”
“Will do, Big Tube. I guess I’d better go now. Road to Manhattan ain’t getting any shorter.”
Back at the vault, I began to load the spiral into my storage bins. All the old famous labels.
Matador, Geffen, Atlantic, Chess, Sun, Stax/Volt, Okeh, Decca, Aladdin, Enigma, Blast First, Columbia, RCA Victor, Motown, Polygram, IRS, Stiff, Rough Trade, Barsuk, Epic, Roulette, Monument, Island, Red Bird, Kama Sutra, Fantasy, Sire, Blue Note, Curb, Sugar Hill—
I was getting high just handling and smelling them.
I took my time, culling the most interesting-looking for myself as my agreement permitted. These I kept separate.
Finally, by late afternoon I was done, and Kitch and I picked up the Interstate heading south.
We made pretty good time, following the trail I had blazed coming north. But still, what with the late departure and some residual sluggishness on my part from over-indulgence in plug-ins, darkness began to overtake us before we were halfway home.
“How’s your night vision, Kitch?”
“So-so, Reddy. How come ya asking?”
“Well, mine’s not good, not good at all. I been meaning to upgrade, but no components have come on the market this year. Whatta you say we pull over till the morning?”
My brain began to itch with Kitch’s penalty twitchings, and I got resentful. “Listen, I’m not planning a scam! It’s just too dangerous. You want us to go over a bridge rail?”
“No, no, I guess you’re right. Can you find us someplace safe?”
“Sure, don’t worry about a thing.”
I pulled off the highway at a rest stop, and, while Kitch watched from a safe distance, backed my ass right through the wall of a building so that the relatively lightweight girders and roof fell down harmlessly around me, making me look like part of the old decaying scenery. In the morning, I’d power out as easy as a carnal climbing outta bed.
Kitch rejoined me.
“Better talk privately,” I said, “so we don’t attract any unwelcome visitors.”
“Gee, Reddy, you don’t really think—”
“We’ve been lucky so far, but there’s no telling what’s out there. Let’s play it safe.”
So for an hour or so, Kitch and I shot the shit about people and places we knew back in the city. I found out he had a girlfriend, name of Roomba, and teased him for a while till he made me stop.
The talk had kept my mind off my cargo. But once we stopped, I couldn’t help thinking about what I carried.
Finally, I said, “Kitch, I’m just gonna have a little hit of spiral to help me get through the night.”
“You think that’s smart, Reddy K?”
“Sure. You’ll keep an eye open while I’m out of it, right?”
“I guess so...”
I dug delicately in the pod that held my personal stash and came up with an LR It was a double album, but I had counted it as just a single when I made my selection. Vend-o-mat hadn’t specified I couldn’t, so screw him.
Daydream Nation was what the carnal writing said.
I slid out one disc and slotted it home.
Bliss slid over me, wiping out the lousy world of ruins and shortages and entropy. Everything made sense while the spiral played.
Eternity ran loose and cool, but then it ended too abruptly, in the middle of a song.
Pain shot through my entire being, and halted the spiral playback. The kind of interior pain only Kitch could administer.
Rust him! What was he thinking!
The pain ended as instantly as it had started. My senses returned, and the first thing that registered was Kitch’s shouts.
“Reddy, help! Help, Reddy! They got me!”
I didn’t have any spotlights. But part of me integrated a Survival Research Labs flamethrower, and I cut loose.
The mega-blast of flame ignited a nearby stand of shrubs, and illuminated the whole scene.
RAMivores had Kitch, and were making off with him into the woods, skittering like crabs or spiders.
I let out a bellow of static across the spectrum and blew chaff to confuse their radar. I surged outta the blind and started to overtake the little predators.
But they were fast and tricky, zigging and zagging, eluding my pincers.
Kitch’s voice wailed. “Reddy, they’re draining my power, they’re yanking my boards! Do something!”
What could I do other than what I was doing?
Trouble was, it wasn’t enough.
The RAMivores gained the protection of the woods. The trees were giants, too big for me to topple and follow.
Kitch’s wailing voice dopplered off in a daisy-daisy farewell of nonsensical ravings, and then I was alone.
I went slowly back to the ruined building in the inferno light of the burning shrubs. I couldn’t reinsert myself into the rubble, so I hunkered down beside it for the rest of the night. Every now and then I shot off a burst of flame, for all the good it did.
In the morning, I looked around a little for Kitch, all the while knowing it was useless. I didn’t find so much as a wire or LED. So I got on the road again and started south.
I tried to feel guilty about Kitch getting taken while I was high, but all I could really feel was disgust that I had wasted one side of spiral.
Carnival Night
Warren Hammond
January 16, 2783
I HUNG UP thinking I’d probably be first on the scene. Wasn’t that far away. The carnival was right outside.
I’d come down to the Old Town Square to interview a witness in a murder case, and when the joker hadn’t shown, I’d decided to kill the rest of my shift at this here bar. I looked longingly at my fourth glass of brandy. I’d barely had a chance to take a sip yet. I sure hate to waste the good shit, I’ll tell you that. The bartender wasn’t looking, so I just took it with me. The prices they charge, the glass should come free with the drink anyway.
I was feeling pretty good right about now. Those pseudo-docs at rehab didn’t know what they were talking about. They’d tried to brainwash me with all the usual pussy talk. You have to admit you have a problem, they’d say. You can’t spend the rest of your life trapped in denial. Whatever. I’d just smile and nod until they’d shut up about it.
Thirty days of that bullshit. Those dumbasses had it all wrong. You didn’t have go cold turkey. You just couldn’t get carried away, that’s all. Ain’t nothing wrong with getting a good buzz going.
I stepped out into the jungle heat. The carnival was cranking, bright lights rolling and twirling on a black sky. The street before me was packed with cheap eats, cheap booze, and cheap women. It was late enough that most of the families and other respectable types had moved on, which meant this was turning into my kinda party. I weaved through the crowd, sipping my brandy and wishing I wasn’t on the clock.
I crossed the main square, where all the rides were: hoverboards, a holo-haunted house, roller-coaster sims, pogo pods, even an old-school Ferris wheel. I took a shortcut through an area that was roped off, trash and broken glass crunching under my shoes. Groups of teens stood in tight circles, puffs of opium smoke wafting about. Man, that smelled good.