Unfortunately, Maritza’s job had her globe-hopping as much as Ruy’s did, and they seldom had time to be together.
But that only made occasions like tonight’s all the more piquant and stimulating.
With the same wide smile that had graced a billion iPads, Maritza cantered on her stilty legs to embrace Ruy.
“Oh, my brave frontier cowboy! How good to enfold you in my lissome arms once more!”
Ruy responded with enthusiasm. Maritza ran her hands up and down his back. Ruy sensed some slight hesitancy or confusion in her stirring feminine touch. But whatever it might have been, she quickly recovered.
After drinks at home, they went out on the town for dinner and clubbing. The freezepop band at the MOD Club was positively glacial. One AM found them back at Ruy’s.
Snogging on the couch, Ruy put his hand up Maritza’s dress, and she did likewise through his shirt front.
“Oh, my dear,” she whispered, “where is your precious darling skin?”
“You’re touching it.”
“Silly boy! You know full well what I mean.”
“The Nuvaderm? It’s out at the cleaner’s.”
Maritza drew back. “You are teasing me now.”
Ruy experienced his lubricity battling with confusion, and losing. “No, I’m not. But why’s it matter?”
“You must recall our last delicious lovemaking. It was epochal!”
Ruy blushed. Despite certain trepidations he had been convinced by Maritza to have sex while wearing the synthetic skin. He had not unseamed the responsive material at the crotch either. The results had indeed been mindblowing, but scary, and Ruy had swiftly put the incident from his memory after resolving never to indulge in such an off-label practice again.
“I’m sorry, Maritza. That was a one-time event.”
“A one-time event! That cannot be so. It is all I have thought about since it happened. At least when I was not working. The catwalk takes everything from me, as you well know. My orgasms were so powerful! We must do it again! Now!”
Ruy began to feel offended. “We can’t. It’s just not possible. We’ll have to interact like normal human beings.”
Maritza stood haughtily, and smoothed her designer clothing. “Normal human beings! Look at me! Chanel harvests my urine as the base for a best-selling perfume! I have not been normal since conception! And you are not either. That is, you cannot be if you want me!”
The door failed to bang behind Maritza only due to its intelligent hardware.
Ruy took a long cold shower, then lay abed for a contemplative interval.
Yes, shedding one’s skin was essential. But not without consequences.
2.
Trouble at the Carbon Spires
A few days after his unsatisfying and terminal reunion with Maritza, Ruy sat in the Ottawa office of his boss, Bagger Wanganeen. He wore the restored Nuvaderm, patterned like a cloth business suit, fake seams and buttons, and his thinking cap. His feet were shod with non-living but ultrasmart Vibram++ FiveFingers shoes.
Bagger Wanganeen was a portly, dour-faced, pock-skinned Aboriginal chap from Australia. Although a competent bureaucrat, he would never ordinarily have ascended to the lofty position of Chairperson of UNESCO’s World Heritage Committee except for the sympathy factor. His native Australia had lost more of its World Heritage sites—thanks to climate change—than any other nation. Fifty percent. Out of twenty designated landmarks, only ten remained. The Great Barrier Reef had died. The coastal sites had drowned. Several rainforests had shrunken to raincopses. And UltraKiwi terrorists had blown up the Sydney Opera House.
But despite a certain mediocrity of talent, Bagger had risen to the demands of the job, becoming in office a dedicated servant to the world’s remaining cultural and natural treasures. His sterling service had secured his reelection time and again.
Now he actually essayed a small smile as he regarded Ruy. “You look rocketing, Lambeth! Like some kind of superhero. Captain Axolotl! How I admire you field blokes. If only I had the physique and temperament, I’d be out from behind this desk in a bloody minute!”
“Yes, sir, I’m certain of it.”
“Tell me, how do you like the upgrades on your skin?”
Ruy sent a mental command to activate the eyes in his skin’s shoulderblades. Not fully formed mammalian eyes of course, but squelchy charge-coupled detectors with gigapixel resolution. His thinking cap fed the telemetry directly to his brain, where it was translated as a popup window in his forward field of vision. When he focused his gaze properly, Ruy could plainly see the door and wall behind him, including the old school institutionally sponsored artwork by Jim Woodring.
“It takes a little getting used to…”
“I’m sure it will be immensely handy! And what of the nematocyst defense system?”
“I saw it demonstrated, but I’ve hardly dared activate it myself!”
“But always good to know it’s there, right? You might find you need it soon.”
“And why is that precisely?”
“There are some trespassers at your site, Ruy. Possible badmen. We just learned of their presence, although we can’t say for certain how long they might have been in the territory. They’ve lofted a covey of Kilobot micro-aerostats that cloak them from satellite imaging.”
“So we’re not talking about some tourists straying off the marked trails then?”
“No, definitely not. In fact, our best guess is that your new cobbers are skinned outlaws who seem to have taken up residence at your park. They’re dwelling among the Spires. And, more to the point, we believe they are damaging them! I think they’re taggers!”
Ruy Lambeth currently served as warden of the Dinosaur Provincial Park in Alberta, part of the extensive Canadian Badlands. Home to large concentrations of fossils, myriad flourishing biotopes, and vast stretches of surreal rock formations, the whole area was jointly managed by the Canadians and UNESCO. Ruy had been head warden and docent for two years now, and loved the land of mixed starkness and abundance with fierce devotion.
Ruy’s remit extended to the territory surrounding the park proper. The Badlands had become a carbon depository, one of many such emplaced around the sweltering planet, as humanity sought to deplete the atmosphere of the very carbon dioxide it had so disastrously pumped into it.
A species of synthicrobe had been tailored to metabolically pull CO2 from the air and sequester it as calcium carbonate—essentially, limestone. These synthicrobes had a tropism for sunlight, meaning that they always migrated to the top of their stony excretions. Thus, the active face of their deposits, where new calcium carbonate continued to accumulate was always atop the pile. This simple task constituted almost the sole behavior of the synthicrobes. But they manifested one other engineered behavior. They reacted spatially to the presence of their neighboring peers in emergent ways. Clustering along strange fractal gradients like cellular automata, the bugs deposited their mineral poop in intricate branching traceries and buttresses, towers and excresences. The resulting land reefs resembled fairyland castles and cathedrals, surrealist skyscrapers and mesas.
And in fact, after twenty-some years of activity, the busy and productive synthicrobes had succeeded in amassing skyscraper-sized agglomerations, many weighing at least as much as the legendary World Trade Center towers: roughly 500,000 tonnes apiece.
Initially seen as the best of a bad bargain, a necessary desecration of the natural Badlands landscape, the ghostly, lacey Carbon Spires had come to be admired and venerated for their utility and alien beauty. Although not officially a World Heritage site, they hovered on the tipping point of becoming one, and so received UNESCO’s collateral attentions.
And now, it seemed, a pack of rogue humans were intent on molesting them.
“We can’t have this,” Ruy said vehemently. “I’ve got to round these intruders up and get them out of the park.”
“Precisely why we equipped your skin with those handy barbs. If they don’t come peac
efully, they’ll come unconsciously. But we intend to give you one more tool before you go. Have you heard of the new Proty drones?”
“No, not at all.”
“Well, there’s one waiting for you in Calgary, at the University labs. We esteem you so highly that we’re having you be among the first wardens to fieldtest it. The stop’s right on your way to Dinosaur Park. You can pick up your trundlebug at the University Zipcar lot.”
Ruy thanked Wanganeen, received a handshake and wishes of “Half your luck!”, and soon found himself on an Air Canada flight headed west.
Dr. Wally Grigori headed the Synthetic Biology Department at UCalgary. With shaven head and an almost alarmingly robust physique, in the manner of many technophilic self-improvement buffs these days, he had plainly benefited from developments in his own field, since he sported a flesh-tinted slug affixed at the nape of his neck. Dubbed “puppetmasters” by comedians and cynics, the slug served as an auxiliary cerebral lobe, an outboard neuronal mass synced with the wearer’s baseline brain. Adopted mainly by Type A business elites, scientists, criminals and gamers.
Ruy had colored his Nuvaderm to a staid park service green. But for all of Dr. Grigori’s abstracted indifference, he might have been wearing a patchwork of plaid and checks. Conducting Ruy through the bustling, grad-student-filled facilities, Dr. Grigori maintained a fragmentary sotto voce conversation with himself—or perhaps with that portion of his augmented mentation resident in the slug—interrupting himself at odd intervals to address Ruy.
“(…mitochondrial processing enhancements could do thr trick….run the sim from the fifth iteration… Done!) And there, Mr. Lambeth, you see our splicing room. (Can’t forget Laura’s birthday again…)”
Eventually they arrived at a room that resembled a canine kennel. Strewn across the floor were several beanbag cushions. Each had a water bowl beside it, but only one cushion held an occupant. At least Ruy thought the mass in the depressed center of the cushion was alive. At the moment, it looked like nothing so much as about a kilogram or three of fatty scourings from the wastebins at an antique liposuction procedure.
Dr. Grigor was beaming. “Meet Proty, Ruy, our latest model drone. (Grant application due Friday!)”
The featureless lump of synthetic cells must have been able to hear somehow, for it stirred at its name. With remarkable rapidity it morphed, assuming the perfect semblance of a chubby starfish, and maneuvered itself off its nest. As it crossed the tile floor, it assumed the protective coloration of the tiles, effectively going invisible. It reached Dr. Grigori, climbed atop his shoe, and began mildly humping the Dr.’s foot in snake-swallowing-its-prey fashion with what could only be interpreted as sincere affection.
Ruy felt a certain clinical interest in the drone, but also a marked amount of disinclination to become overly familiar with such a thing. Dr. Grigori plainly sensed this reluctance.
“You needn’t worry that it’s going to molest you. This is just a bit of imprinting I established. (Number of journal cites down this month—must ramp up!) Aside from a kernel of core behaviors, Proty is completely programmable. What operating system is your thinking cap running?”
“TigerBright six-point-one.”
“Fine, fine, let me change Proty over to your standard. He’s running Linux now.”
Dr. Grigor squinched his eyes, muttered something incomprehensible, then reached up and detached his slug. He slapped the slug against the drone and downloaded new instructions, then rejoined the organic augment to his neck.
A window popped up in Ruy’s gaze, just as when he was using his suit’s eyes. It showed himself and the Dr. from a floor-level perspective: the visual feed from Proty.
“Just think. You send Proty far afield and get useful audio-video telemetry. But it does so much more. Proty is practically a pocket lab—able to synthesize almost any protein string. He exhibits pseudo-flight—gliding really, after launching from a height. Swimming. Defensive and offensive capabilities. It’s a first-aid resource too. It will pinch off a piece of itself to act as a smart bandage. (Can I possibly get to the ESF-EMBO Symposium this year?) Though of course with that sophisticated Nuvaderm you’re wearing, you probably won’t ever really need such a crude fix. And it’s wonderful company for a lone field agent such as yourself. Proty, show how you can whistle.”
Proty formed a blowhole with complicated labial fluting and an antipodal air-intake port, and began to whistle “You Are My Sunshine.”
Ruy laughed hard. He bent over and picked up the dry, smooth starfish, which quickly assumed a caterpillar shape that fit perfectly in the crook of his arm, simultaneously matching his skin’s green color.
Just like father and child.
3.
On the Trail
Peugeot had designed the first trundlebugs over half a century ago, the Ozone model. Picture a large rolling drum fashioned of electrochromic biopoly, featuring slight catenaries in the lines of its body from end to end. A barrel-shaped compartment suspended between two enormous wheels large as the cabin itself. Solid-state battery packs channeled power to separate electric motors. A curving door spanned the entire width of the vehicle, sliding upward.
Inside, three seats in a row, the center one commanding the failsafe manual controls. Storage behind the seats. Ruy now occupied the center station of the rapidly moving vehicle, while Proty sat beside him, on his left, shaped for the nonce rather like a less-well-defined version of the iconic Pillsbury Doughboy Although the drone occasionally emitted a silent yeasty fart, Ruy felt glad of its company. In just the past 24 hours, he had grown fond of the responsive a-life critter.
After passing through the tiny town of Patricia, while the trundlebug raced down the weather-tortured surface of lonely Route 130 toward the park, Ruy contemplated how he was to go about accomplishing his mission to rid the park of taggers. The task seemed straightforward enough: diplomacy, followed if necessary by threats, followed if called-for by some degree of non-lethal force. Maybe he could enlist provincial backup—maybe not. It all depended on the Mounties’ workload. But Ruy was experienced enough to know that nothing ever went easy or to plan.
By noon Ruy was pulling into the parking lot near the Visitor’s Center. He checked in with the staff, who offered him warm welcomes, but could tender no additional information on the trespassers. Unlike Ruy, the part-time spit-and-polish rangers never ventured far into the vast interior of the Badlands, and remote surveillance was still interdicted by the intruders’ swarm of Kilobots. No tourists had brought reports back either.
Returning to the trundlebug, Ruy retrieved Proty and pulled out packs of supplies from the storage area of the vehicle. Last to emerge was an item that resembled a suitcase composed of complexly interlocking hinged metal struts surrounding some central engine. Ruy unlatched a catch and tossed the suitcase into the air. It unfolded in mid-arc and when it landed, fully activated, revealed itself to be a Boston Dynamics Big Dog VII packbot.
Ruy secured his supplies to the packbot—just water and MRE’s really—set Proty atop the mule, and off they marched to the northeast, Big Dog’s slick piston action a symphony of muted syncopated chuffings. Ruy’s Nuvaderm automatically adopted a flecktarn camouflage pattern closest to the environment. The refresh rate on mottling was every five seconds, though Ruy could alter that parameter.
The Carbon Spires were half a day’s hike distant, meaning Ruy would not reach them before sunset. Not optimal, but what could he do? Rather than fret, he relished the chance to stretch his limbs and reintegrate his mind with the natural beauty of Dinosaur Park.
When Ruy and company reached the closest natural rock formations, impossibly balanced and ornate masses of striated stone, tawny, umber and slate, Proty began to whistle the “On the Trail” portion of Ferde Grofé’s Grand Canyon Suite, causing Ruy to laugh heartily. Had Dr. Grigori programmed this behavior to spring up at a certain visual cue, or was Proty performing some kind of more intelligent pattern-matching and response? Whatever the cause,
the companionship was a nice feature.
Stopping for a mid-afternoon meal, Ruy felt fully at ease. How different from harried and burdensome life in the city! His second skin kept him comfortable and full of energy, subtly massaging his muscles with waves of microtwitches. No unnatural noises disturbed. The temperate breezes registered like gentle caresses. Rich smells were a symphony.
He did not derive any direct solar-generated sustenance from the Nuvaderm—that option was one token of the dingos—and so an MRE and lots of water went down heartily. Proty took some water through an extruded a-flesh siphon, but seemed otherwise content with sunlight. Big Dog ran on a CNSA-derived radioisotope thermoelectric generator.
After just twenty minutes of meditative inactivity, Ruy got underway again, trekking expertly across the challenging terrain.
The sun was nigh to setting when he came within sight of the first Carbon Spires. Initially, Ruy thought the lofty structures were being tinted by the slanting solar rays. But then he realized the truth. Vast portions of the Spires had been painted, in a mad swirl of abstract shapes and color fields, the purity of their untinted calcium carbonate ruined.
Ruy experienced anger, and picked up his pace. But soon caution prevailed. No sense in bulling ahead uninformed. He decided to deploy Proty as his scout. He sent his commands to the drone through his thinking cap. Within seconds, the mass of synthetic protoplasm had reshaped itself to a close approximation of a road runner. Proty took off in a flash.
Ruy put the Big Dog to sleep, aware that its chuffing would alert the intruders. He set off after Proty, keeping the drone’s telemetry in one corner of his eye.
As darkness descended, Ruy’s Nuvaderm allowed him to see in the infrared. Sensors derived from viperine facial pits banded his chest. Their spectrum-shifted feed came to him through the thinking cap and replaced his baseline vision. Proty’s telemetry reflected the same capabilities.
The Paul Di Filippo Megapack Page 27