by Rudy Rucker
My heart ached for my son. Obviously this was all my fault. “Why do you work them up by coming in here naked?” demanded Sybil.
“Pssssss,” said Sorrel and Ida, each holding a pencil between their legs like a penis. I found a wet towel on the floor and wrapped it around my waist.
“Fix that shade right away,” Sybil ordered Tom. “Sorrel, you put those desks back. Ida, start picking up.”
I sprang to do these jobs, knowing the children wouldn’t. But the shade tore in my hands, and when I tilted the first desk back up, all the drawers fell out. One drawer landed on my bare foot.
I roared and threw things. BANG, a table hit the wall and gouged a hole! WHAM, the desk flipped and snapped a leg! CRASH, went the whole fucking box of Legos!
The children screamed in terror. Sybil crouched in front of them, tense and protective. Flaring up like this, I’d put myself so far in the hole that it’d take a week to square it. Sybil might even leave me. Garbage, garbage, my life was garbage. I rushed out the door, face twisted in anguish.
As I stepped through, the space around me gave a strange twitch. There was nothing outside. I was floating in emptiness. The door had disappeared. I waved my arms and legs. There was nothing to push against. Slowly I remembered I was not really in Heidelberg. I was somewhere in hyperspace. But why couldn’t I see anything?
“Alwin?” The sweet sound came from all around me. “Alwin, zis is Babs.”
“Are you the sex sphere?”
“I’m Babs za bad hypersphere, za one who ate you up.” The accent was pure Zsa Zsa Gabor.
“Am I inside you?”
“Your vhife, she don’t understand you. You zshould love me best.”
“What do you want from me, Babs?”
“I vhant to be free.”
This was getting nowhere fast. I still hadn’t gotten back my ability to move four-dimensionally. As a physicist, it occurred to me that I might be imprisoned on the hypersurface of a hyperspherical vacuole in Babs’s body. A kind of bubble.
There was nothing around me, nothing but empty curved space. In the distance I could make out a sort of shimmer, a hugely distorted human form. That was me. I was seeing myself around the curve of the hyperspherical space bubble that Babs had stuck me onto.
By way of testing my hypothesis, I took the towel off my waist, wadded it up and tossed it. It dwindled away from me, slowly twisting. Just as the towel seemed to reach the distant shimmer, I felt something hit me in the back of the neck. The towel had circumnavigated my cramped hypercell.
“Let me out,” I begged. “Please let me out of here.”
I can’t take being cooped up. And now my position was like that of an ant on the surface of a toy balloon. No exit. It reminded me of a plastic Thermos bottle I’d had back when I was teaching at State. On the Thermos was a picture of a school bus with Donald Duck getting out, and of schmucky goody-goody Mickey Mouse right there holding up a stop sign. If Donald went right, he’d run smack into Mickey Mouse’s Stop. If he went left, he’d immediately be at the back of the bus, and would then proceed up along it to that same mickey-mouse stop bring-down. In real life, the picture seemed to tell me, there’s no escape from fascist bullshit mickey-mouse stop stop stop. Though, of course, D.D. could have slid up over the lip and into the milk.
Idly I flipped the towel up overhead. A minute later it plopped against the soles of my feet. Huis Clos.
“Are you listenink, dollink?” thrilled the sphere’s rich voice. I hadn’t heard her last few sentences.
“What, Babs?”
“I vhant you to help me free myself.”
“I’d like to be free, too. Offhand, I’d say you’re a lot freer than I am.”
“But Lafcadio trapped a piece of me. Vhat your vhife has in her purse now. A nasty knot in my tail. Oh!” A little exclamation of anger there. “Talkink is zo slow. Here, just let me…”
A tendril came invisibly kata and plugged into my brain. Babs fed me the story of her capture: Zsuzsi and Lafcadio at work under Mont Blanc, their assistant Jimmy Hu, Lafcadio’s “vacuumless vacuum.”
Apparently Lafcadio had bulged space up in such a way that he could knot it into the fabric of Babs’s body. She was tethered to our space, and she didn’t like it. The first thing she’d done was to kill Zsuzsi Szabo. I could see the little bean lying on the concrete under Mont Blanc, angrily buzzing in a puddle of blood. Ugh.
“You mean you ate Zsuzsi Szabo?” I demanded. “Chewed her up?”
The space around me gave a rippling chuckle. “Vhell zhure. I vhas really mad, you know. But I saved Zsuzsi’s brain-patterns. Zis is Zsuzsi’s softvhare talkink to you right now, Alwin.”
“You mean you’re Zsuzsi?”
“Ha, zat cow? No vhay. Now I just got a little Magyar in me is all.”
“You’re…you’re not going to eat me, are you?”
“Vhy bother? Your softvhare I can see like a tile floor. Main zing is zat you help me blast off zat goddamn knot.”
“Sure. But how?”
“Wiz za atomic bomb I’ve been gettink together for two months now!”
“You? It was me and the Green Death who did it.”
“Sure. Zat’s vhat you zink. But I’ve been callink za shots. Usink Lafcadio. Vhatch some more pictures.”
***
Montage: Lafcadio slugs Jimmy Hu. Runs back to pick up the Babsi bean. Rushes out into the parking lot. The Fiat skidding down the mountain curves. Then speeding down the smooth autostrada. Highway signs flicker past: Torino, Milano, Brescia, Verona, Padova, Venezia. Lafcadio in his car, talking animatedly to no one.
Night: Lafcadio in a cheap hotel room. A half-empty bottle of red wine on a table covered with red circles. Lafcadio is cocked back in the desk chair, reading Dante’s Inferno by the light of a bare bulb overhead. He chuckles softly. Somewhere outside, a church-bell rings midnight. Lafcadio jumps to his feet, picks up the wine bottle and with one smooth motion uses it to break the light bulb. Spark and sputter. By his bed we can make out the faint glow of Babsi on the bedside table. Lafcadio’s dark form glides over and stretches out on the white bed. He is shaking gently, sobbing. “Zsuzsi,” you hear him mutter, “O Zsuzsi, non voglio dormire solo.” At the sound of his voice, the glowing little sphere twitches and grows. You can see an ass-crack now, and breasts on top…. “Zsuzsi!” cries Lafcadio, his eyes white and crazy in the dark. “Cara mia!” He picks up the sex sphere and begins to kiss it, his face bathed in radiance.
Morning: Lafcadio inside a café, having breakfast. He chews with his mouth open. One hand stays in his coat pocket, ceaselessly fondling something. There is a newspaper on the table. It has a picture of Beatrice and the headline: Morte Verdi Terroristi. Lafcadio stares fixedly at the accompanying article, reading out loud while he continues to chew. Finally he stands and walks across the room to a phone booth. We can see his face talking through the glass. He writes something down on a paper napkin.
Afternoon: Lafcadio at the police station, distraught and weeping. “Mia povera figlia.” The cops are sympathetic under their stiff-billed hats. They let him in to visit Beatrice. Fear and calculation in her hard, skanky face. He whispers a message, passes her the napkin and leaves, apologizing to the police. “No che mia figlia.”
***
“So he used his connections to find out how to steal reactor fuel,” I mused. “And he fed the info to a terrorist. How did he end up in Rome?”
“He followed za Green Death. Zen vhent to vhork vhiz Virgilio, keepink an eye out for a man like you. He did zis all for love. Your vhife is mean, Alwin. Don’t you love me best?”
I was feeling more and more uncomfortable in my hyperspherical prison. With no definite objects but me and the towel to look at, I was beginning to suffer visual hallucinations. Or maybe Babs was still trickling things into my cortex. Bad, heavy, bloody visions. I understood now what she wanted.
“I’ll help you,” I blurted. “I’ll put your cross section…the little Babsi bean…I�
�ll put it in with the plutonium and set the bomb off. That should get you loose, all right. That should do it.”
“Vhonderful. So I’ll let you out.”
An intricately patterned sphere formed in the air in front of me. A breeze blew out of it. I reached for it, feeling a sort of ridge in space all around the sphere. I dug in my fingers and pulled. The little sphere was a sort of porthole. I slid through it and landed back on the pink outer hide of Babs, the bad sex sphere. Once again I could move my limbs kata and ana, once again I was free in hyperspace.
CHAPTER TEN
The Film Burns Through
The floodlights through the windows covered the ceiling with a complex pattern of squares and triangles. Sybil stared up at the design, trying to ignore the pain in her arms and legs where the ropes dug in, trying to breathe shallowly under the crushing weight of Virgilio. Beatrice, the hard-faced American terrorist, had thought it would be funny to tie up her two hostages in this position: naked and bound ankle-to-ankle, wrist-to-wrist, and with a tight band ringing their two waists.
For the first half hour it had been exciting…they’d even fucked again. Ironically, this had been one of Sybil’s favorite fantasies as a teenager, the fantasy of having a man tied onto her with no clothes on. But now several hours must have passed and her joints were numb. She wanted nothing more than to get out from under.
“Come on, Virgilio,” she hissed. “Let me on top.”
“I can’t move,” he moaned. “My leg hurts too much.”
The red-haired German boy, Peter Roth, had tied a rag around Virgilio’s wound, a simple in-out bullet-hole in the right calf. There hadn’t even been much bleeding, and at first Virgilio had seemed to be recovering. He’d certainly been as ready as Sybil for their little mondo-bondage sexhibition. But now he was weak and whimpering. Basically, women are much stronger than men, Sybil thought to herself. She jerked her left leg sharply.
“Don’t,” Virgilio begged. “Don’t move!”
Sybil jerked her leg again. “Let me on top.”
“Malditti Americana putana!” Hissing with histrionic pain, he rolled over, away from his bad leg. Sybil rolled with him. It felt much better on top, like lying on a bear-rug. She planted a kiss on Virgilio’s tense mouth. Somewhere outside a bullhorn boomed. In the room next door, Beatrice shouted a hoarse response.
“What are they saying now, Virgilio?”
“They’ve brought in a professional negotiator. He’s trying to win Green Death’s confidence. He tells them they are very clever to have assembled an atomic bomb. But he is offering nothing but a fair trial.”
Virgilio wriggled beneath Sybil, trying to get comfortable. “Move your foot up, cara.”
Sybil drew her leg up, lessening the pressure on Virgilio’s wound. “Is that better, you poor darling?” Now that she was on top she could afford to be sympathetic. Drawing up her leg had pressed their privates together. It still felt good. She kissed Virgilio, then pushed her tongue into his mouth. His strong shaft stiffened against her. She rocked her hips, feeling blindly for his tip. This was crazy. They were making their own pheromones now.
Virgilio moaned, though not in pain, and shrugged himself down a bit. Sybil bore down, engulfing his strength in one smooth motion. Doing this made her wonder again what had happened to Alwin. He’d jumped in the giant ass, and it had shrunk to a little ball. The ball was in her purse. And where was the purse? The terrorists had taken it along with their clothes when they moved to a different room, a central room with only one window. In there they were yelling into the night, and in here Sybil and Virgilio were naked and all alone.
While all these thoughts passed through her head, Sybil kept gently jouncing, being careful not to jar Virgilio’s wounded leg. She let her face slide down to rest in the hollow of his neck. This felt so good. She was bad to have started at all—she should have fought Virgilio off—but right now it was still fun. The guilt would come later. Sybil wondered what had come over her to let Virgilio fuck her next to “The Rape of Persephone.” She’d always heard that the imminence of death makes you horny. Or maybe that sex sphere had something to do with it. Virgilio was coming now, she could feel the twitching of his penis and the distant gush of seed. She pressed against him and came as well. Sweet sex, sweet fuck, sweet cock and cunt.
The noises around them came filtering back in. Beatrice was screaming in Italian, her voice rough and cracked. Sybil raised her head, trying hard to understand.
“What’s going on?”
“She asks,” Virgilio paused, listening, “she asks that an armored car come for them to drive to the airport. She wants to fly to Libya with ten million dollars and the bomb.” Beatrice’s voice ranted on, rhythmic and musical. “She wants all the imprisoned Brigate Rosse terrorists released with her. Also Mehmet Agca.”
“Who’s he?”
“Don’t you remember? The man who shot the Pope. She’s crazy.”
“But what if she sets off the bomb?”
“I think she wants to. It’s a shame I have to deal with such people.” Virgilio seemed relaxed and comfortable again. Sex as anaesthetic. “Madmen and terrorists. I just try to make a little money for my family.”
“You’re married?” Sybil felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy. Tied up naked here she felt she could say anything. “Do I fuck better than her?”
Virgilio shrugged beneath her. His limp penis slid out. “E possibile. But where is your husband? What happened to him?”
“That big sphere of skin,” Sybil said. “It must have something to do with what the TV said about Lafcadio Caron. A spacewarp or something. Supermatter. Alwin jumped in. Maybe he saw the bomb dropping.” Not knowing whether he was dead or only hiding, Sybil couldn’t decide how to feel about Alwin’s disappearance. He’d deserted her in the face of danger, hadn’t he? And been unfaithful to her with garter-belt Giulia. Somehow the memories of Alwin seemed so unreal—like remembering a dream. Virgilio was no hallucination—that was for sure. Some boyfriend, a professional kidnapper. Sybil’s train of thought was interrupted by more cries from Beatrice.
“She sets a deadline,” Virgilio whispered. “One half hour. But the police are stalling. I don’t think they will give in.”
“Oh, Lord,” Sybil moaned. “We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to die. Come on, damn you. Stand up.”
She rolled them over onto Virgilio’s good side and drew that leg up. Then, hopping a bit and pressing their hands against the floor, they rose. Virgilio’s clenched teeth were a white grid in the dark of his face.
“Good boy,” Sybil murmured. “Now let’s go downstairs and surrender to the police.”
Their wrists and ankles were still bound together. A single tight strip of cloth encircled their waists. The two-backed beast. Now that they were standing, it was quite easy to move. They eased out of the wood-floored room, out into the marble hall.
The staircase was at the other end of the hall. They shuffled lightly along, then paused by the door of the room holding Peter, Giulia and Beatrice. Should they just dart past and hope for the best? With agonizing slowness, Sybil eased one eye past the door frame and peered in. The three were glued gangster-style to the far wall.
Beatrice held the bomb and stood on one side of the window. Giulia stood on the other side, holding an Uzi and half-facing the door. Peter slouched on the floor. Beatrice was berating him in English.
“Why didn’t the cocksucking bomb go off? I fucking wanted it to when I shot that wop bastard Virgilio. Don’t tell me I got plutonium poisoning just for a shitass dud!” She coughed hoarsely. “I can already feel it. My lungs are going.”
“Alwin panicked us for his own purposes,” mused Peter. “The Styrofoam is in fact so rigid that the force of a conventional explosive is needed to sufficiently compress the device.”
“The pigs are ready to charge and I’m sittin’ here with a fuckin’ dud.” Beatrice spat on the floor. “Look at that blood, Peter. Help me out, baby.”
&nb
sp; The bullhorn shouted, and Giulia shouted back. More silence, then a sudden crash as Beatrice threw the bomb across the room. Sybil snapped her head back and Virgilio took a jerky step away from the door.
But, again, there was no blast. Just the gongy roing-roing-roing of the steel mixing bowls rolling around.
“Look out,” cried Peter. “You’ve split the seam.”
“That’s what I wanted,” grated Beatrice. “I’m gonna play the cymbals, man. I’m ready to rock and roll. I’m gonna get out those pieces of plutonium and…”
“Giulia! Help me grab her!”
Sybil and Virgilio spidered past the door. Glancing sideways, Sybil thought she saw Beatrice wrestling Giulia’s gun away from her. But then they were scuttling crab-style down the stairs, Virgilio giving a little grunt of pain with each step.
There was a burst of machine-gun fire and a scream. Giulia. Peter was yelling, loud and louder. Another burst of gunfire and he fell silent.
“Quick,” Sybil hissed. “Let’s go outside.”
“No!” Virgilio’s voice was sharp. “We go out, they grab us, the bomb goes off, we die. Or it doesn’t…and I go to jail. No! Come this way.”
He waltzed Sybil around to a door set under the staircase. “Down here!”
“Hide in the basement from an atomic bomb?” Sybil had trouble keeping her voice down. “Are you crazy?”
“Lágrimas de Cristo! There’s a tunnel, you dog-bitch, a tunnel to the zoo. I know this.”
Sibyl struggled for a second, then gave in. Virgilio was too strong to drag out the front door. She could hear Beatrice banging metal upstairs. As one wo/man, Sybil and Virgilio hurried down the basement steps.
Set into the stone of the basement wall was a steel door, just as Virgilio had promised. He raised his hands and did something to the latch. Then they were dragging the door open, rusty metal scraping stone. There was total dead blackness in there.
Spiders, thought Sybil, broken glass, oubliettes. “I don’t want to go in there, Virgilio.”