by Rudy Rucker
“Can you move us closer, Om?”
There was no audible answer, and Phil expected none. In last night’s dream conversations, Om had explained that she was accustomed to talking only to Metamartians, to beings who lived in endless layers of parallel time. Om’s utterances were so diffuse that a human needed to be asleep in order to achieve a state of mind subtle enough to hear her voice.
But even though the waking Phil couldn’t hear Om’s answer, he could see that his request had been noted, for now the grid pattern of San Francisco began to expand. The crazy, shifting angles of the cross-sectional buildings seemed no more than a few thousand yards off. Phil felt sure Yoke was down there. What if he jumped kata toward her? This might work—or it might not. He might end up like an animated sidewalk painting of a man with all his innards on display. Or fall through Earth-space entirely. Or not intersect it at all.
Someone was tugging on his legs. Da. Last night had been way gnarly. Tempest had gone on to find snap and gabba in the ever expanding catalog and then, though Phil managed not to witness it, the maddened Da and Darla had probably fucked. Ironic, that. All Phil and Yoke had managed so far was to kiss and to lie briefly in the same bed. Kid stuff.
This morning Tempest was nodded out on gabba, but Kurt and Darla were wide-awake on snap, very wired, very lifted. Why did people do this to themselves? “I’ll do it, Phil,” chattered Da. “I’ll go into the Light, and Om will be satisfied. Sacrifice Abraham instead of Isaac. And then Om will let you and Darla go back to Earth.”
“Calm down, Da.” Humpty-Dumpty slid off of Phil, but Phil kept a good hold on the fat egg, lest Da try something rash. Today was going to be xoxxy. This was definitely Hell—or at least that’s what these pheezers were making it into.
“He’s right,” said Darla, her eyes looking glazed and jittery. She was naked again, with Planet at her side. “Kurt and I have been fabbing about it all night. Om must want one of us to jump all the way out of that hole. She’s like curious to see what happens. And if Kurt does the deed, then Om will put us back. Why can’t you wave it, Phil?”
It occurred to Phil that—duh!—he hadn’t yet thought of directly asking Om to return them. So now he tried.
“Dear Om, please put us back on Earth. Please take us back.”
Kurt and Darla were quiet for a minute, looking around, but nothing happened.
“I’m going out now,” said Kurt, tugging at Humpty-Dumpty.
“Stop it!” said Phil.
“Give it to him!” said Darla, prying at Phil’s arms. “It’s the only way!”
“You guys are too spun to know what you’re talking about,” said Phil. “Forget it.”
But then Kurt and Darla set upon him in earnest. The excited Planet began wildly barking. It was hard for Phil to fight back, to strike out at his father and at the plump, nude mother of the girl he loved. But he managed to stave them off—until Darla woke Tempest.
“We need to get the Humpty-Dumpty doll,” Darla told Tempest after jabbing her into wakefulness. The old cracker woman’s eyes were goofball pinpoints of instant rage. “Phil won’t give us the doll,” hissed Darla. “Work out on him, Tempest.” The lean Tempest joined battle with a streetwise savagery.
A minute later Phil’s face was bleeding from where Tempest had clawed him, and he was doubled over from being kicked between the legs. And now Darla had managed to bind his wrists with a knotted loop of material from her discarded clothes. Tempest looked like she was ready to beat up on him some more.
“No, we’re done now, Tempest,” said Darla, shoving the vicious crone away. “We’ve got the Humpty-Dumpty doll. See? Kurt’s putting it on. Time for you to get weightless, Tempest. Take another hit of gabba. That’s a girl. Curl up with Planet there, Yaaar, nice furry dog. Wavy dreams, sistah.” And then Tempest was asleep again.
“I hope you’re all right, Phil,” said Darla, dabbing at his wounds. “I didn’t viz that Tempest would come at you so giga nasty.”
“I’m sorry, son,” said Kurt. “And don’t worry, I’m not just doing this for you. My life’s garbage, has been ever since I left Eve for Willow. I don’t want to go back to Earth. They’ve already had my funeral! I’m moving on. Into the SUN. Can’t be any worse than this. And maybe Om really will set you back down.”
“Da—”
“And one other thing, Phil. I’m sorry I ever dumped on you for not finishing college. It doesn’t matter. You’ll do fine, whatever you do. You’re a good man. You have heart and soul. And you’re every bit as smart as I ever was.”
Hearing that made Phil feel wonderful. Like a weight falling from his shoulders. “Thanks, Da.” He smiled. “You’re good too. Now please take that suit off and tell Darla to let me go.”
“Sorry.” And with that Kurt pushed himself out through the flaw and disappeared.
“Set me loose, Om!” cried Phil. And the knots around his wrists slipped free. Phil peered into Om’s ever-expanding alla catalog, and there, just where he needed it, was a bubbletopper spacesuit. “Actualize,” he said, and when Darla snatched the first spacesuit, he made another one. And then he was halfway out the hole in Om’s hypersphere, peering out through his imipolex visor to look for his dad.
At first he couldn’t find him. He saw a cross section of the Earth, the mountainous pink curves of Om, the six shiny tendrils leading from Om kata toward Earth, and the great SUN ana everything.
And then way out there, silhouetted against the Divine Light, appeared the brave little figure of his father, moving steadily ana.
It would have been nice to end like that, but now something shocking happened. A jagged beaklike form streaked across hyperspace toward his father. Wobbling his head this way and that, Phil could make out a few more sections of the intruder—each view was fierce and angular, like shark jaws, like a heraldic predatory bird. And then the beast struck at his father and ripped him in two.
Phil groaned in agony, as did Darla, who was next to him now, watching as well. Phil had been wondering if he might retrieve his father, but he now knew there could be no restoration. The hyperspace monster tore his father to bits. It was too sad. Da would never make it to the SUN.
But wait—now Phil glimpsed a final resolution. A form like a tattered butterfly lifted out of the torn fragments of Da’s body. Gently beating its wings, the gossamer shape continued ana, ever closer to the final Light.
Phil passed the rest of the day grieving, looking through the alien alla catalog, and praying for Om to take him back to Yoke in San Francisco. He avoided Tempest, but he had a pretty good conversation with Darla, who was supertalkative from all the snap. Finally he was tired enough to go to sleep.
Babs, February 26
Babs and Yoke alla-made themselves some nice new outfits for the evening’s outing. Yoke made herself a plush green crop-top and black leather pants with elastic along the seams. Babs made herself a form-fitting red dress with a low decolletage, a white cashmere cardigan, and a funny little red flower-bud of a hat.
Outside it had turned cold, and the wind was picking up. Babs, Randy, Yoke, and Cobb picked their way down the street to the Anubis.
To Babs’s embarrassment, Thutmosis Snooks recognized Randy from thirty feet away. Thutmosis was, as usual, working the street out in front of the Anubis, acting as doorman and barker, inchworming his bulk back and forth, flaunting his stylized pharaoh beard and his striped blue and gold headdress.
“Randy Karl Tucker,” bellowed the shiny gold moldie. “Got some more money from home? Isis is booked solid tonight, but—you’re gonna need your sperm for this, my man—we’ve got six new moldies, three female and three—”
“Hey, damp it down there, Thutmosis,” said Randy. “I ain’t into that kilp no more. This here’s my lady friend, Babs Mooney.”
Babs gritted her teeth, smiled and bowed. “Babs Mooney?” said Thutmosis, peering closer at her. “I’m terrible at recognizing fleshers. Except for the egregious few like our Kentucky Fried Randy Karl Tucker. It�
��s an honor to have you visit us, Ms. Mooney. Give our very best regards to Senator Stahn. I’m going to comp you and your party.” He gave Randy a soft shove toward the ship. “That means no charge, country cousin, so go right in. Enjoy yourself. And ah, here’s old Cobb again too. Kleopatra’s been talking about you, you dog. What a stellar company this is! And, hmmm, last but not least is little Yoke Starr-Mydol, isn’t it? The moon-maid. No superleeches tonight, I trust? Where’s your friend Phil? His ex recently joined our staff.”
Some passersby were hesitating as if wondering whether to come in, so now Thutmosis started in on them. “Yes, noble pilgrims, you’ve found the good ship Anubis. Come aboard! You’ll be beamed, steamed, dreamed, reamed, and triple-creamed. We got the biggest, juiciest, gnarliest camote nuggets in town. The toughest moldie dicks and the tenderest moldie janes. Take a walk on the Egyptian side. Are any of you gawking fleshapoid hicks experienced? Wonderful. Guess what, my floatin’ friend, we’ve added six, yes six, moldie staff members! And an amazing new lady performer as well. Hurry on in and you can catch our all-new stage show featuring the meltingly human Kevvie in a uniquely personal encounter with the bird-headed moldie Haresh. This evening’s second performance is just starting. Pay once out here, friends, and the rest of the evening is cost-free plus standard gratuities.”
“Gratuities like your brain and everything you own,” muttered Babs as she and Randy walked up the gangplank, which flowed with a million colored lights. “You’re lucky you didn’t pick up a thinking cap here Monday night Randy.”
“I know all about that,” said Randy, pulling something out of his pocket. Two transparent, flexing pieces of plastic, a bit like limpware dental appliances, capable of adjusting themselves to fit. “These are titaniplast nose blockers. I brought the two along so’s you could use one too.”
“Can’t we just avoid getting too intimate with any moldies?” asked Babs. “I hope you’re not planning to—”
“All I’m here for is to ask the Metamartians about the allas,” said Randy. “Swear to God, Babs. And to show you a good time. But wearin’ a nose blocker in this kind o’ place is what I’d call a reasonable precaution.”
Babs was intrigued by Randy’s low-life expertise. They stepped off to a quiet corner of the ship’s deck and she let him show her how to put on the nose blocker while Yoke and Cobb watched. You had to half swallow it and then use your tongue and breath to push it up over your dangling throat thingie—over your uvula—and into the back of your nose. And once it was there it settled itself into place. It made your voice sound funny, and for a minute Babs and Randy stood there making honking noises at each other and laughing.
“Hey,” interjected Cobb. “I’m going on down below to look for the Metamartians. See you three later.”
“Thanks a lot for not bringing me a nose blocker!” said Yoke to Randy after Cobb left.
“Like I’m gonna be doin’ you favors,” said Randy. “Little snip. Alla up your own nose blocker, why don’tcha? Ain’t nobody watching us.”
“Incorrect,” said a small, deep voice.
“It’s Josef!” exclaimed Babs. “I recognize his voice. That cute little beetle? I don’t think you noticed him the other day, Randy. He’s one of the aliens. Where are you, Josef?”
“Here,” said the beetle, and buzzed down from the ship’s rigging to land on Babs’s shoulder. “It’s safe to use your alla, Yoke, almost everyone else is belowdecks for the performance.” So Yoke popped a small glowing mesh into the air and made herself a nose blocker.
“Is that skanky Kevvie really doing a moldie live sex show?” asked Babs.
“That’s what Thutmosis meant?” said Yoke in a strangled voice. She’d just put the nose blocker in her mouth.
“This must be Kevvie’s new job,” said Babs. “I hear she has to move out of Derek and Calla’s place by March first. She’s hustling to get money for a new room.”
“Yes, Kevvie and Haresh have been performing together,” confirmed Josef. “But they already did it once this evening, and Haresh is questioning the artistic validity of repeating such an act. We’re about to leave the Anubis in any case.”
“Hell, I think this tub’s got a primo buzz to it,” said Randy. “Sex and drugs and moldies and aliens. Something waaald about a party boat, even if it is stuck in the mud. Have you ever tried camote, Babs?”
“I did all that in high school,” said Babs. “Drugs make me uptight. I try to see God, but I end up in a loop of neurosis. That’s just how it is for me. I’m fine with beer, wine, and loud music.” She let Josef crawl onto the tip of her finger. “Anyhow, Josef! We want you guys to tell us how to make allas. Because today Randy figured out that when one of us dies, our alla registers itself to the next person who picks it up. Which means, since people are such greedy pigs, that when the secret gets out, we’re dead meat.”
“Interesting,” said Josef, and fell silent for a while. “This had not occurred to me,” he said finally. “And I’ve just uvvied the others, and they hadn’t thought of it either. You must realize that death for us is a very minor thing, what with our two-dimensional time and many lives. In your merely one-dimensional time, death is—”
“You gonna tell us how to copy allas or not?” demanded Randy. He swept his hand like someone catching a fly, trying to snatch up Josef, but the prescient beetle eluded him by sliding down Babs’s finger at just the right instant.
“Force will get you nowhere, Randy,” said Josef from Babs’s palm. “It’s not our decision as to when you humans can have the power to make an unlimited number of allas. But I’m sure Om will give you the knowledge soon. Om likes for beings to use her allas.”
“Who is this Om?” asked Babs. “You guys said ‘Praise Om’ the other day.”
“Om is our god,” said Josef. “She follows us around. Now that the Metamartians are on Earth, Om is present.”
“Om has something to do with the powerball as well as the allas,” added Yoke. “What about Phil, Josef? Can you ask Om how Phil’s doing? Or can Om talk to me directly?”
Josef was quiet for a moment. “Om says Phil is fine. And that he’ll be back soon. But, no, Om can’t easily communicate with humans due to the one-dimensionality of your time.”
“Shitfire,” exclaimed Randy. “All this bug can do is bitch about our time? What kind o’ bullshit is that? He’s wastin’ our time, what it is. I say we go downstairs and see the show. I missed it on Monday.”
“Wait,” said Yoke. “Don’t forget that we want Josef to tell Om to prevent allas from making plutonium.”
But Josef had already flown off.
Babs, Randy, and Yoke headed across the deck to the companionway. There were a few others grouped here and there on the deck, many of them well into trips on various kinds of drugs. Their faces made Babs think of people sitting on the John. Listening to their bodies.
Down below there was an Egyptian-looking bar decorated with lotus-stem columns, a hieroglyph mural, and an overhanging textured plastic Sphinx head. Hieroglyphs covered the other walls as well, and there was a music mix going, a combination of notes and sound samples. Not all that great, thought Babs. But of course people didn’t come here because of any wonderful artistic ambiance—they came for the illicit things they could do. The room reeked of moldies, of corruption and decay.
A Snooks moldie who resembled a partially unwrapped mummy was busy behind the bar, serving up whatever concoctions were requested. Now and then he plucked a camote nugget out of his windings. Randy got beers for himself and Babs, but Yoke didn’t want anything. She just wanted to run around looking for the Metamartians. Babs suggested they meet up again inside the big show room.
As she drank her beer Babs noticed that there was a sound-DIM stuck to the side of the bottle, and that when she moved the bottle, a little bit of the music changed. When she wiggled the bottle back and forth, for instance, there was a skritchy-skritch sound, and when she moved it up and down there was a loop of black rapper saying, “Yubiw
aza!” She played with that for a minute. “Yu-Yu-Yu-Yu-Yubiwaza!” When Babs got her second beer, she kept the first bottle. The second bottle’s DIM could trigger a guitar riff—whang—and a woman’s deep voice saying, “Space cowgirl?” With a bottle in either hand, Babs began tweaking the web of sound. “Skritch sk-sk-skritch-itch yu-yu-yubi space cow-ow-ow-itchy-itch-owgirl? girl? Wha-whang girl? girl? girl? Whang-a-whang yubiwaza cowgirl?” Once you were part of it, the music sounded good.
Randy noticed what Babs was doing, and was smilingly-dancing along. And there were three lifters dancing too, doing the flat-footed sporehead newt-dance. One of them was a musician, he had about a hundred sound DIMs stuck all over himself. Each of his gestures made audible trails of tasty media-sampled noise. There were a couple of Egyptian-looking Snooks moldies dancing too, with gracefully undulating arms grown impossibly long.
The people in the booths nearby weren’t really into the music, at least not in any obvious way—they were mostly just sitting there sucking on soft bags of juice and wearing that inward look of “When does my lift come on?” or “When do I come down?” A few of them were peaking, and their expressions were more like a cartoon image of something missing: a white void with alternating long and short surprise-lines radiating out from a central mystery. Like, “Huh?”
Babs saw one of the dancing Snooks moldies snake her arm down behind a really zoned man. A lump moved up the moldie’s arm like a rabbit inside a python. Probably the guy’s wallet.
One of the other Snooks moldies had split himself or herself into an archipelago of body segments, shaped like egg-sized two-legged eyeballs carrying swords and shields. There were maybe two dozen of them, a few with wings as well, the eyeballs running all over the room chasing each other, having little sword fights, jumping off of things, and all the while piping their high voices into the sound mix.