The Ware Tetralogy

by Rudy Rucker

  “Show them to me.”

  Randy pulled Sammie-Jo and Angelika out of the bottom drawer of his dresser. They smelled rotten, and their colors had turned muddy gray.

  “Whew!” said Parvati. “They’ll be completely dead in a week to ten days. That is exactly how I do not want to end up.”

  “Do you want them?”

  “I should say not. Most distasteful. Bury them. Or set them afire.”

  “What am I gonna do for sex?”

  “I’ll come and see you twice a week,” said Parvati softly. “Every Saturday and perhaps every Tuesday. I’ll be your steady girlfriend. How would you like that?”

  “It’d be swell! Hey, if you’re my girlfriend, why don’t you come on and walk around the neighborhood with me? You can help explain stuff to me, and maybe—maybe you can help me buy some new sex toys. Also I’d like to get something to eat.”

  They went to the Mavalli Tiffin Rooms, a vegetarian snack place near the Lalbagh Gardens park. Randy got them a table in front, near a window, in case Parvati’s smell were a problem. But the moldie’s presence didn’t disturb anyone; indeed the other groups in the room seemed pleasantly amused at the singular pair made by Randy the hillbilly cheeseball and Parvati the moldie goddess—the couple were visible proof of Bangalore’s modernity and advancing technological prowess!

  After eating some pancakes stuffed with gnarly yellow roots, Randy took Parvati to see the sadhus. The sadhus were greatly excited at the sight of Parvati. Two of the sadhus heaped some thorny branches on the ground and rolled in them till they bled; another thrust a long staff through a hole in his penis and worked it up and down. Still another sadhu fed a well-worn imipolex snake down his throat and then—with much bucking of his stomach muscles—he pushed the snake out of his anus. Parvati acknowledged the sadhus’ homage with graceful motions of her arms. Randy stood right behind her, with his hands tight around her waist. Parvati’s smells and motions were nectar to him.

  “I used to see guys like the sadhus at the Kentucky State Fair,” said Randy. “We called ’em carnival geeks. There was a time I thought I might grow up to be one. Hey, do you wanna go help me pick out some imipolex sex toys?”

  “Don’t fritter your money away on toys, Randy,” said Parvati, pushing her bottom against Randy’s crotch and growing some temporary butt fingers to secretly fondle him. “All of your extra money should come to me. If you promise to bring me seven hundred and fifty grams of imipolex instead of just five hundred next payday, we can go back up to your room right now. And I’ll come make love to you three times a week.”

  As they started to leave, the sadhus began holding out begging bowls to Parvati and clamoring for moksha. Parvati stretched out her left arm and lumps seemed to move out along the back of her hand. And then the tips of her fingers popped out four black nuggets like wrinkled marbles. The sadhus began fighting savagely over them.

  “What’s that?” asked Randy.

  “Those are lumps of chipmold mycelium, technically known as sclerotia, but commonly called camote in the Americas and moksha in India. They are a powerful psychedelic, greatly prized by the sadhus.”

  By now the camote nuggets had been devoured by four lucky sadhus who lay prostrate in adoration at Parvati’s feet. Randy and Parvati picked their way around them and headed back toward the Tipu Bharat. It was getting late, and beggars were bedding down for the night on the sidewalks. When a man in a turban rode past on a unicycle, Parvati pulled Randy into a dark doorway.

  “Look out for that one,” she whispered. “He’s a dacoit—a mugger from a gang.”

  They lingered in the shadows after the dacoit was gone, hugging and kissing and feeling each other, until suddenly a moldie came plummeting down out of the sky and landed in front of them. He was shaped like a lithe nude Indian man, but with leathery wings, four arms, and a shiny crown like Parvati’s. He had an enormous uncircumcised penis. Parvati cupped her enlarged new breasts and ingratiatingly hefted them at the interloper. He glared at her with his mouth open, apparently talking to Parvati via direct moldie radio waves.

  “It is none of your affair,” shouted Parvati suddenly. “You should be grateful to me!”

  The four-armed moldie gave Randy a rough shove that sent him sprawling, then leaped up into the air and flew away.

  “Who in the world was that?” asked Randy, shakily getting to his feet. “Looked like one mean motherfucker!”

  “That was my husband, Shiva the destroyer. Ridiculous as it may seem, he’s jealous of you. As if sex with a human could possibly mean anything to me. Shiva thinks I should come back to our nest right away. I’ll teach him a little lesson in etiquette. I’ll spend the entire night with you.”

  Back in Randy’s room they had sex again, and then Parvati started looking bored. “I’m bound and determined to stay here all night, Randy, but I’m not conditioned to sleep anywhere other than in the security of my home nest. What shall we do?”

  “Maybe we should take like a drug trip together,” said nude Randy. “You give me a lump or two of that camote stuff, and I’ll put the leech-DIM on you.” He held the postage stamp-sized leech-DIM out to her on the palm of his hand.

  “What an odd idea,” said Parvati. “For a moldie and a human to ‘take like a drug trip together.’ You’re quite the singular cheeseball, Randy Karl Tucker.” She peered at his leech-DIM. “Let me try it just for a minute at first. Put it on me and count a minute by your watch, then remove it right away. I want to see if I like it.”

  Randy pressed the leech-DIM against Parvati’s left shoulder—like a vaccination. The leech-DIM had been dry and papery to the touch, but as soon as the leech touched Parvati it softened and then quickly twitched itself into a position of maximum contact.

  Parvati’s skin lit up like a Christmas tree, and her limbs sank back into her body mass. She lay there on Randy’s bed like a living mandala. Once the minute was up, it took a bit of effort to pry up an edge of the leech, but after that was done Randy could easily peel it off. Parvati’s usual shape gradually returned, her limbs and head slowly growing out from the mandala.

  “Goodness me,” said Parvati. “That was really something.” She gestured fluidly, and two chipmold sclerotia appeared in the palm of her hand: one black and one a hard gemlike blue. “Eat these, Randy, and put the leech-DIM on me. We’ll make a nightlong debauch of it.”

  Randy ate the camote. It was crunchy, juicy and bitter with alkaloids. He started feeling the effects almost immediately. With wooden fingers he put the now-soft leech-DIM back on Parvati and lay down on the bed with her, wrapping himself tight around the pulsing egg of her body.

  The camote took Randy on an express ride to a classic mystical vision—he saw God in the form of an all-pervading white light. The light recognized Randy and spoke to him. “I love you, Randy,” it said. “I’ll always love you. I’m always here.” Years later, Randy would learn that Stahn Mooney had a similar voice-of-god experience on a merged trip.

  Here in Bangalore filigreed multidimensional patterns of tubes surrounded Randy like pipes all around him, wonderfully growing and branching pipes leading from Randy out through the white light and in the distance homing in on—someone else. Parvati. “Randy?” came her voice. “Is that you? Are we in this dream together?” “Yes oh yes we are,” answered Randy. “Let’s fly together,” said Parvati, and her essence flowed through the pipes to mingle with Randy’s, and then they were adrift together in a sky of lovely shapes, endlessly many shapes of infinite intricacy, all gladly singing to the pair of flying lovers.

  When Randy woke up, he was lying on the floor with Parvati’s tissues completely surrounding his head. He was breathing through a kind of nozzle Parvati had pushed into his mouth. For a moment Randy feared she was attacking him, and then, peeling her off of him, he feared she was dead. But once he removed her leech-DIM, Parvati livened up and began pulling herself back together. The hot morning sun streamed in Randy’s window, and the thousand noises of the street
came drifting in—the chattering voices, the bicycle bells, the vendors’ cries, the Indian radio music, the swish and shuffle of moving bodies—a moire of sound vibrations filling the air like exquisite ripples in a three-dimensional pond.

  “Wow,” said Parvati.

  “Did you have a good time?”

  “It was—wonderful. But it’s so late, I have to run. Shiva will be worried sick. I’ll come see you again day after tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TRE

  March 2049 - October 30, 2053

  Tre Dietz had very long hair that was straight, sun-bleached, and tangled. He had lively brown eyes, a short mouth, and a strong chin. He stood about six feet tall and enjoyed the easy good health of a young man in his twenties.

  Tre was a classic American bohemian. Like so many before him, he grew up in the rude vastnesses of the Midwest and migrated west to the coast, to sunny Californee.

  Tre’s mother was a teacher and his dad was a salesman. Tre was at the top of his graduating class in Des Moines. He got accepted at the University of California at Santa Cruz, and the Des Moines Kiwanians gave him a scholarship. While at UCSC, Tre smoked out, sought the spore, and transchronicized the Great Fractal, as did all his circle of friends—but Tre also managed to get a good grounding in applied chaos and in piezoplastics. Before he could quite finish all the requirements for a degree in limpware engineering, he got an offer too good to refuse from Apex Images. It happened one rainy, chilly day in March 2049.

  Tre was on spring break from UCSC. He was living in a cottage down the hill from the university, down in a flat, scuzzy student part of Santa Cruz, rooming with Benny Phlogiston and Aanna Vea. Aanna was a big strong-featured Samoan woman, and Benny was a tiny Jewish guy from Philadelphia. All three of them were limpware engineering majors, and none of them was in a romantic relationship with any of the others. They were just roommates.

  Tre was already dating his future wife Terri Percesepe, although Tre and Terri hadn’t realized yet that they were fated to mate. Terri was taking art courses, living with a girlfriend, and working for a few hours every morning selling tickets for the Percesepe family’s day-excursion fishing boats. People still liked to fish, even in 2049, though these days there was always a slight chance of snagging a submarine rogue moldie and having to face the rogue’s inhumanly savage retaliation. Each fishing boat was equipped with a high-pressure flamethrower for just this eventuality.

  The day when Tre’s life changed, the uvvy woke him. Tre was on his thin sleeping pad, and the uvvy chirped, “Tre Tre Tre Tre . . . ” Tre grabbed the uvvy, which was about the size of an old-fashioned telephone handset, and told it to project. You could use an uvvy one of two ways: you could ask it to project a holographic image of your caller or you could set it onto your neck and let it make a direct electromagnetic field connection with your brain.

  In projection mode, part of the uvvy’s surface vibrated to cast a lifelike holographic image into the air, and another part of it acted as a speaker.

  “Hello. Tre Dietz?” The image showed the head of a conventionally attractive blonde California woman in her twenties.

  “Yaar,” said Tre. “It’s me.”

  Rain was spitting against the windowpanes and a brisk breeze was picking at the house’s thin walls. From a certain angle Tre could see a patch of ocean through his window. The ocean looked cold, silvery gray, rife with waves. This afternoon he was going out surfing with Terri at a beginner’s nook just below Four Mile Beach; Terri was going to give him a lesson. Answering the uvvy, Tre had been hoping it was Terri. But it wasn’t.

  “Wonderbuff,” said the hollow of the conventional blonde. “I’m Cynthia Major. I’m in human resources at Apex Images in San Francisco. Tre, the Mentor wants me to tell you that we’re very happily discombobulated by your Perplexing Poultry philtre.”

  A philtre was a type of software that you put onto an uvvy, so that the uvvy images would come out all different. Philtre like filter, but also philtre like magic potion, as a good philtre could make things look way strange if you put the philtre onto an uvvy that you were wearing on your neck. Philtres were a wavy new art hack.

  Tre had made the Perplexing Poultry philtre in February with a little help from Benny, Aanna, and, of course, UCSC’s Wad. Formally, Perplexing Poultry was about the idea that space can be thought of as a quasicrystal, that is, as a nonrepeating tessellation of two kinds of polyhedral cell. This fact was a mathematical result from the last century that had become important for modeling the structure of imipolex. Tre had learned about quasicrystals in his course on Limpware Structures. To make the philtre visually engaging, Tre had deformed the two basic polyhedra into a pair of shapes which resembled a skinny chicken and a fat dodo bird.

  Experientially, the Perplexing Poultry philtre was a totally bizarre lift. If you fired up Perplexing Poultry in an uvvy on your neck, all the things around you would seem to deform into the shapes of three-dimensional Perplexing Poultry, i.e., into things like linkages of odd-shaped birds with weird multisymmetrical ways of pecking into each other. You yourself would become a wave of perplexity in the Poultry sea.

  Tre had written his philtre as a goof, really, as something to wrap himself up in when he was lifted. It was very weightless to check out the beach or a coffee shop with your weeded-up head way into Perplexing Poultry.

  Philtres were cutting-edge in terms of image manipulation. Rather than being a static video or text, a philtre was a system of interpretation. The technology had evolved from a recreational device called a twist-box that had been popular in the early thirties. Twist-boxes had been marketed as a drug-free method of consciousness alteration, as “a pure software high.” Like uvvy philtres, twist-boxes worked by distorting your visual input. But the twist-box used a simple Stakhanovite three-variable chaotic feedback loop, rather than a ideologically designed process, as was characteristic of the new philtres. And in these Dionysian mid-twenty-first-century times, people tended to use philtres as an enhancement to drugs rather than as a replacement for them.

  The realtime human neurological mindmeld involved in programming a philtre was too complicated for Tre to have done on his own, of course, any more than a dog would have been able to paint its self-portrait. But Tre had access to UCSC’s Wad, a cosmic mind-amplification device that was a grex, that is, a symbiotic fusion of several different moldies.

  With Wad, many things were possible, particularly if your problem happened to be one that Wad found interesting. Since the flickercladding plastic of moldies’ bodies was quasicrystalline imipolex, Wad had thought the quasicrystal-related Perplexing Poultry philtre to be totally floatin’ and had done a solar job for Tre.

  So here was Tre getting an uvvy call about his Poultry from a businesswoman in the city.

  “I’m glad you like it,” said Tre. “How come you’re calling me?”

  Cynthia Major laughed, as though this were a refreshingly naive thing to say. “We want you to sign a contract with us, Tre. Do you know anything about Apex Images?”

  “Not really. You do ads?”

  “We’re the thirteenth-biggest image agency worldwide. Ads, music viddies, hollows, uvvy philtres—we do it all.”

  “You want to use the Perplexing Poultry to sell stuff like wendy meat?”

  Cynthia Major laughed infectiously. “Good guess! Apex would like to sell wendy meat with Perplexing Poultry. We do have their account. Or sell uvvy sets. Or politicians. Who knows? The lift is, we at Apex Images want to have rights to lots of floaty philtres that we can license and put out there in all kinds of ways.”

  “You want to own the rights to Perplexing Poultry?”

  “Well, that whole issue is more complicated than you realize, Tre, which is why the Mentor thought of having us call you. Have you ever heard of a company called Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd.?”

  “Yeah, I have,” said Tre. “They make imipolex. They’re based in Bangalore, India. What about them?”

  “They
want to sue you. They own all the patents to Roger Penrose’s work on quasicrystals, and they claim that your philtre is, in fact, derived from drawings which Penrose created for a 1990s two-dimensional quasicrystal puzzle that was also known as Perplexing Poultry. I assume this isn’t news to you?”

  “The lawsuit is news. But, yeah, of course I know about Penrose’s work. We had a lecture on it in Limpware Structures. Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd., is suing me? That’s ridiculous. What for? I don’t own anything.”

  “Well, Emperor Staghorn doesn’t really want to sue; they’d much rather settle for a piece of your action. So before taking any irreversible steps, they got in touch with Apex through the Mentor. He’s quite well connected on the subcontinent, you know. If you sign on with Apex, we can smooth this over, Tre, and we can handle all the bothersome legal aspects of your work in the future. And we’ll pay you a nice advance on future royalties.”

  As the woman talked to him, Tre was moving around his room putting on warm clothes. The sun was peeking out now and then, turning the ocean green when it shone. Tre’s life right now suited him fine. He was not happy to see a possible change.

  “I’m not clear what I’d be signing up for.”

  “You sign with us, and we arrange contracts and for people to use your work. We take a commission and maybe from time to time we might encourage you to design something to spec.”

  “This sounds awfully complicated. I’m still a student. I don’t want to work. I want to hack. I want to stay high and get tan. I’m learning to surf.”

  Cynthia gave a rich conspiratorial laugh. “Mr. Kasabian is going to love you, Tre. He’s our director. Can you come up to the city for a meeting next week?”

  “Well . . . I don’t have any classes on Tuesday.”

  The blonde head consulted someone not visible in the uvvy’s sphere of view. “How about Wednesday?” the head responded. “Eleven a.m.?”

  “Zoom on this,” said Tre. “What kind of an advance are we talking about?”