The Ware Tetralogy

by Rudy Rucker

  Yoke knew by now that Onar used “HRH” to stand for “His Royal Highness,” meaning the King. Ugh. For whatever reason, Yoke hated all things British—with the single exception of Lewis Carroll.

  “That’s right,” said Tiko. “Onar Anders. My wife Waloo is working at the New Beach Guest House. You gonna stay wid us again?”

  “Yes indeed,” said Onar. “We’ll walk there from here. As you see, we traveled light.” He nudged the two little bags at his feet.

  “All the way inside dis moldie,” mused Tiko, gingerly patting Cobb’s shoulder. He leaned close to Cobb, sniffed him, and burst out laughing. “Low tide at da lagoon.”

  “I’m actually a human in a moldie body,” said Cobb, drawing back. “Cobb Anderson. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  “No sir,” said Tiko. “What are you known for?”

  “I built the first robots for the Moon, sixty years ago,” said Cobb. “The boppers? And then the boppers chewed up my brain and extracted my software. I’ve had a series of robot bodies since then. This one is the best. Look.” Cobb flipped his wrist and his right arm split up into five thin arms, with a tiny hand at the end of each of them. He picked a different seashell up with each of the five minihands and waved them about.

  “Most kinky,” said Tiko. “And you can fly. Yes, I saw you three come shootin’ down like a diving bird. Did you come in one jump all da way from America?”

  “Never mind where we came from,” said Onar.

  A big handsome woman had joined Tiko. She wore a ground-length skirt and a yellow T-shirt with a picture of some kind of sea creature that Yoke couldn’t make out. “Did Onar pay you?” the woman asked Yoke. Odd question.

  “No,” said Yoke. “We’re friends. My name’s Yoke. I’m from the Moon.”

  “I’m Oofa,” said the woman. “That’s my boat over there.” She pointed to an insectlike hydrofoil boat with a quantum-dot-powered water-jet motor. “When you’re ready to go diving, I’m the one to take you.”

  “I’m very interested in diving,” said Yoke.

  “I’ve got the equipment and the helpers,” said Oofa. “I work with Sea Cuke Divers, right over there behind the guest house.” She pointed across the street.

  “I’m planning to use him for my dive-suit,” said Yoke, nodding toward Cobb.

  “Moldies are the only way,” said Oofa. “But I think you better use a local. We’ve got moldies working out of Sea Cuke. I dive in them all the time. I’ll engage two moldies and show you some very special things.”

  “Just get one for yourself, Oofa. I trust Cobb. Maybe we could go diving tomorrow. Is that okay with you, Cobb?”

  “What?” The old man moldie’s attention tended to wander.

  “Okay if you and I go diving with Oofa tomorrow?”

  “We’d better check our schedule with HRH first,” said Onar. “It’s possible that he’ll have plans for us tomorrow. Or perhaps Cobb will have something he’d rather do.”

  “What’s with you, Onar?” said Cobb. “Of course I’m taking her diving. I didn’t get a new body and fly all the way down to Earth just to start kissing large Polynesian butt.”

  “No problem, no problem,” interrupted Oofa. “We’ll go diving in the morning. I’ll line up two moldies just in case Cobb changes his mind. Tashtego and Daggoo.”

  Tiko walked down to the New Beach Guest House with them; he insisted on carrying their bags. It was early afternoon and plenty hot in the sun. Down here, February was high summer. Onar pointed along the heat-shimmering road to the white Victorian building in the distance.

  “That’s the Royal Palace, Yoke. It burned down in 2010, but the Tongans faithfully rebuilt it. I think we may be having dinner there with the King tonight.”

  “Da King don’t live in it no more,” corrected Tiko. “He started livin’ down by da lagoon.”

  “I can imagine why,” murmured Onar, but Yoke didn’t push him to explain. The sun made talking too difficult.

  The New Beach Guest House dated back to the twentieth century; it was a quaint cinder-block structure with a wide concrete porch and many open doors. There were swaying palms. The shade was a palpable relief. Yoke flopped down on an ancient metal porch chair and caught her breath.

  “Mrs. Yoshida?” called Onar, but no answer came.

  “She not gonna answer,” said Tiko. “Everyone resting till suppertime. Just pick an empty room.” He waved a good-bye and disappeared off behind the house.

  “Two rooms,” said Yoke.

  Onar looked at her with mild disappointment. “We won’t be sleeping together? It would be less expensive to share. Not that I want to presume on our brief acquaintance.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Yoke. It had been pleasant enough when they’d smooched a little last night—even if she’d only been kissing Onar to somehow spite Phil for Kevvie. But flying all the way here squeezed into Cobb with Onar had been a definite turn-off. And now Onar kept acting so—British.

  “Quite,” said Onar, with a little bow. “I’ll wage a courtship for your favors, milady Starr-Mydol.” Double ugh.

  Yoke and Onar found two empty rooms on the ocean side. The New Beach Guest House was an incredibly casual place, with no locks on any of the doors. Some of the other guests were in their rooms napping or reading. While Onar made some uvvy calls, Yoke took a shower and put on her silvery summer dress.

  “HRH is sending ’round a limo for us in half an hour,” announced Onar when Yoke reappeared on the porch. “He’ll be entertaining us at his country estate. It’s on a little spit in the Fanga Kakau Lagoon.” Onar sat calmly on a rusty chair, looking pleasant and relaxed. He really was very handsome. The breeze plucked at his long reddish-blond hair and rattled the leaves of the palms. “I suppose I should bathe.”

  “Where’s Cobb?” asked Yoke.

  Onar pointed, and Yoke noticed a shiny puddle of plastic on the ground near the guest house. Cobb was relaxing moldie-style, lying there in a patch of sun and letting his algae soak up the light.

  Onar went off for his shower and Yoke got a bottle of soda from the kitchen fridge. She sat on the porch and looked at the ocean and the sky, with the endless puffs of cloud marching out over the Pacific forever. She picked up a handheld fan, a woven palm thing with feathery fringed edges. She waved it gently, enjoying the gentle pulses of air.

  A vortex is like a boulder, mused Yoke as she played with the fan. If you hit a boulder, it breaks into smaller rocks; if you jolt a vortex, it decomposes into a pack of smaller vortices. The vortices coming off the edges of the fan would be interesting to model.

  Overhead the light breeze rattled the leaves of the palms. It was so wonderful to be loose in the open air of this great living world. After a lifetime in the pawky corridors of the Moon, Yoke couldn’t get over the oceanic dimensions of Earth’s atmosphere. The lucky mudders walked around at the bottom of a very sea of air.

  Around four o’clock the “limo” showed up, a tiny electric car like all the others, chauffeured by an enormous Tongan man named Kennit. He had generous Polynesian features, and his curly hair stood up in an Afro. He wore a shirt with a necktie and a blue serge skirt. Over the skirt he had tied on a tattered palm mat, some kind of ceremonial thing. He was formal, though with a cheerful twinkle. He had a funny accent; he said “yis” instead of “yes.” Onar already knew him. Apparently Onar had once won a little money from Kennit in a pinochle game—and didn’t want to let Kennit forget it.

  Hearing Onar and Yoke preparing to leave, Cobb perked up and poked his head up out of the puddle. “Am I invited?” he wanted to know.

  “You definitely should follow us down to the Foreign Ministry to register,” said Onar. “But as far as dinner goes—I mentioned you to HRH’s secretary, Cobb, and of course HRH would like to meet with you, but I’m afraid our little party will be for humans only.”

  “I’m human,” protested Cobb, his plastic old man’s head bulging out of the shiny patch on the ground.

  “Maybe you sh
ould try making friends with the Sea Cuke dive moldies,” continued Onar. “Or if you want to be with humans, you could go to a bar. The Happy Club is quite colorful. There’s a lot of fakaleitis there.” Onar looked over at Yoke and explained, “That’s the Tongan word for transvestites. Boys raised as girls. It’s not uncommon. They’re quite promiscuous. Takes some pressure off the women, I suppose.”

  “The Happy Club’s a dangerous place, Mr. Anders,” put in Kennit.

  “But isn’t it true that moldies are welcome there?”

  “Maybe a little too welcome,” said Kennit, making an abrupt slicing gesture down his front.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Cobb in alarm. He’d grown himself back up into human form.

  “That happens here too?” said Onar.

  “Yis,” said Kennit.

  “What happens?” asked Cobb.

  “Oh, you know,” said Onar. “Sporeheads slitting open moldies to get all of their camote at once.”

  “God,” said Cobb, looking down at his body. “If they want those little fungus nuggets so much, they only have to ask me. I gave some camote to my great-grandson just the other day. Randy Karl Tucker. He’s a little that way. It comes from being a cheeseball. I just hope he’s staying out of trouble in San Francisco. That boy.” Cobb sighed heavily. “I better not go to the Happy Club.”

  “Whatever you like, Cobb,” said Onar. “But right now you should follow us to the ministry so we can get you a chirper. According to Tongan law, moldie visitors have to be tagged. It’s like an electronic visa.”

  “I don’t need no stinkin’ visa,” said Cobb. “You go on without me. I think I’ll fly around the island. See you here in the morning, Yoke. We’ll go for a dive.”

  Onar shrugged. “I thought you might feel that way. Just as well if you don’t come at all.”

  The elevator in the Foreign Ministry building had a marble floor. It was possibly the only elevator in Tonga, and it was manned by a dignified man dressed like Kennit: white shirt, tie, and blue serge skirt.

  “Hello,” Yoke said.

  “Malo e leiei,” said the elevator operator, kindly but firmly. “You must learn to say hello in the Tongan way. Malo e lelei.”

  “Malo e lelei.”

  A trim Tongan woman in a gray dress greeted them near the elevators. She was wearing an uvvy.

  “Hello, Mr. Anders, I’m glad to see you. We are on the point of closing down for the day. Quitting-time is the one appointment that Tongans observe punctually! But I believe Mr. Olou is still here. And first we have our little business with your friend’s visa.”

  “Excellent, Eleani,” said Onar. “Let me introduce my friend Yoke from the Moon. Yoke, this is Eleani Matu. She’s a Vice-Minister.”

  “Did Onar get you a contract from Meta West Link?” Eleani asked.

  “No, I’m just a tourist along for the ride.”

  “Yes, yes,” laughed Eleani. “Of course you are. Step into my office and I’ll give you the visa.” Eleani led them into a cool, dark room with elegant modern furniture. “Sue Miller,” she said, nodding to Yoke. “It’s all set.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s your identity of record,” said Onar. “Eleani’s in charge of Tonga’s interface to international ID protocols. Tongan counterintelligence, that is. She’s setting up some one-month ID viruses for you and Cobb.”

  “Why?”

  Onar looked cagey. “You’ll find out later on tonight. When we go to meet the King. Suffice it to say that HRH wants you to help him with a mission that could lead to you getting hold of something extremely valuable, and he doesn’t want any off-islanders hounding you for it. It’ll be for your own good if nobody can recognize you.”

  Eleani looked hard at Yoke, then gazed blankly at the wall for a moment, off in the cyberspace of uvvy. “Yes,” she said presently. “It’s all here. Sue Miller died in a fire and shipwreck off Tongatapu last year and our navy recovered her body. She had a sailor moldie named Squanto who was also lost in the fire. We’ll morph you into Sue and Cobb into Squanto, Yoke. I’m releasing the ID viruses now. They’ll live till next month, and they’re smart enough to actively search and replace any images of you two. That way if any person or moldie happens to video you, Yoke, the transmitted image is going to show Sue. This means that for the next month nobody’s going to be able to take a picture of you. It’ll look like this.” Eleani uvvied Yoke an image of a skinny woman with short, dark hair.

  “But isn’t Sue Miller on record as being dead?” asked Yoke.

  “No, no,” said Onar. “In this day and age, an identity is a precious thing. When the Tongans find a body, they always incinerate it and base an ID virus on that person.”

  “This is creepy,” protested Yoke. “You’re not planning to murder me or something, are you?”

  “Of course not,” said Eleani. “Silly girl. This is for your protection, I’m sure! All right then, Yoke, I’m going to uvvy you the Sue Miller and Squanto identity codes now, in case someone directly asks you for ID. Very good. You have a registered Tongan visa in the name of Sue Miller for thirty days. Now let’s see about Mr. Olou.”

  “If I have this fake ID,” said Yoke, “does this mean I have to call myself Sue while I’m here? And have to call Cobb—Squanto?”

  “Too much trouble,” said Eleani. “On the islands nobody pays so much attention to details. My understanding is that we only need the fake ID for the rest of the world. In case someone takes your picture after you get hold of whatever it is you’re supposed to get. With the ID virus nobody need ever know it was you. You’ll be able to return home and live peacefully.”

  At the end of a marble hall they found a darkened office with a leathery Tongan man sitting in an armchair wearing an uvvy. All the blinds were drawn. The Tongan’s eyes were closed, but he opened them when Onar, Yoke and Eleani entered.

  “Onar?” he said. “Very good, very timely. Put on your uvvy, if you would, and join me.”

  “Would this be of interest for my friend Yoke as well?” said Onar.

  “She is most welcome,” said Mr. Olou. “Malo e lelei, Yoke. Please take a seat, both of you.”

  They settled into a matching pair of chrome and leather Barcelona chairs. Eleani glanced at her watch and excused herself.

  Yoke put on her uvvy and followed along as Onar joined Olou in cyberspace. The three of them seemed to be standing in a cartoon jungle, with bright colored vines stretching from the ground upward to—well, upward to nothing. No trees in sight, just lots of colored vines rising up forever above the simmie body icons of Yoke, Onar, and Olou. Glancing down at herself, Yoke saw that she was wearing her usual simmie, the Alice from Alice in Wonderland. The ground beneath her feet was soft black dirt with little beetles and sow bugs in it.

  “The vines display the Cappy Jane sky-ray signal flow,” said Olou. He looked like a grass-skirted, spear-waving Tongan warrior. “I’ve been improving the visualization, Onar. As you know, one hundred percent of our Cappy Jane signal flux is licensed to Meta West Link. The color spectrum codes from red through blue represent the various fee levels.” The vines were glowing like rainbow neon tubes.

  “Can you show me one of the bandwidth pirates?” asked Onar, whose body icon was that of a natty man in tails and top hat.

  “Wait,” said Olou, crouching with his spear at the ready. All at once he flung the spear at a purplish-white vine in the middle distance. “That’s one of them,” he said. “Bull’s-eye. Now I’ve captured that signal into nonvolatile storage.”

  “I may be able to display it as a richer image,” said Onar. “I have some rather wonderful virtual tools. They’re in-house products of Meta West.” He began pushing his way through the thickets of colored tendrils, closely followed by Olou. Yoke tagged along, wondering at the tingly feel of the vines.

  Working quickly, Onar and Olou hauled down dozens of meters of the purplish-white pirate vine from where it disappeared up above. This preliminary task accomplished, Onar
caught Yoke’s eye and smiled confidently. He drew himself up and bowed as if beginning a performance. To begin with, Onar made some occult passes with his hands, and a beautifully inlaid, coffin-sized box appeared between him and Olou. It looked like a prop used in a “Disappearing Lady” stage-magic illusion. Then with an elegant snap of his fingers, Onar produced a scimitar from the air and proceeded to wield it like a homicidal maniac, slicing the vine into a mound of two-meter segments. He did this with great theatrical flourishes and much mad rolling of his eyes. Yoke began to giggle and Onar glowed with pleasure. He stuffed the inlaid box with what seemed like many more segments than should fit—and perched himself on the lid, quizzically cocking his head to listen.

  “Shroop!” sang the box. “Shroop, shroop, shroop!” The high, metallic sound reminded Yoke of an artisan’s band saw cutting up slabs of moon-rock.

  Onar hopped behind the box and started to open the lid, which faced roughly toward Olou.

  “Careful there,” said Olou, seeing something. He backed off so rapidly that he got tangled in the vines. For just that critical moment he was pinioned in front of the box. “Onar, don’t!” he screamed.

  It was too late. The lid slammed all the way open, and out rushed something quick and bright and overwhelming, something that leapt at Olou and crumpled him. This happened in an instant and then the thing was heading for Yoke, spreading itself out to an immense size. Yoke was already moving her arm to pull her uvvy off her neck, but the fast shiny thing got to her too quickly. It looked like a jellyfish, but with a smiling humanoid face that was somehow etched into its transparent flesh. It engulfed Yoke, and her overloaded uvvy sent out a stunning burst of pain. As if from very far away Yoke felt the slow-motion jolting of her body falling from the Barcelona chair.

  When Yoke woke it was dark. Her head was throbbing. She was lying on the hard marble floor. The Foreign Ministry building around her was completely silent.

  She peeled her uvvy off her neck; the skin underneath was raw and tender. She couldn’t see if Onar and Olou were still in the room. Unsure where the light switch was, she went over to the window and opened the shade. The faithful Moon was a few handbreadths above the horizon, bright and full and tropical behind palm frond silhouettes. People were calling to each other, dogs were barking, and somewhere nearby an animal was grunting. Nuku’alofa came alive at night.