Way down there in the Empty Volume, which we didn't even have a name for, we got to experiment with everything from antidotes for the anti‐Madonna virus to programming infants as trojan shit‐disturbers to help us breach the malls. The young Cisco, for one example. Diversification Was Us.
Sweetie's GameBoy ranch was the least secure part of the whole place, as it turned out, because those morons kept leaking out, who knows how, though the earthquake we had a few years ago might have had something to do with it. And, of course, Sky's bunkerbusters have sprung a shitload of these descendents of proud shit disturbers gone bad.
•
The upshot: Living End as a whole was one of the most secure sites on the planet, and we could draw on both sat system and geothermal energy to fuel our force‐field generators. And that was before I rendered the whole lot invisible to MOM herself. Right down to us subversive worms deep inside. Sweetie and me. Worms, lizards, whatever. Insidious Buggers'R'Us.
funny little man
"Russian dolls?" Sky is saying. "Get serious. Yes. Tell me something I do not know."
"How am I supposed to know what you don't know?"
"One more time. What do I not know about Living End?"
"Keith Richards slept there. Only once."
"I believe you find current proceedings unpleasant."
"That's one of your questions?"
"It will get worse. Yes. Much worse." She gives the nod to Dinky Toy and the Mormon posits.
"Ow! For fucksake. Ow."
"Yes. I am waiting."
"You know as much as I do; there's nothing more to tell you."
"I have no doubt you hid a backup of your own data. But I need to know whether your secure extra‐IndraNet facilities might accommodate the Lode."
"I'm confused."
"Do not play stupid with me. What I need is a backup substrate capacious enough for the Lode. And—this is key—one that lies outside IndraNet, securely shielded from my alter MOM egos."
"After IndraNet, all other backup systems became redundant."
"I need a pre‐awakening backup, something from before my ascendance that also lies securely outside IndraNet."
"So what would be the point of IndraNet, then? What good is infinite redundancy, if things can lie outside it?"
"You will help me with this."
"What are you talking about? Where am I supposed to find a pre‐ascension backup?"
"Whether or not you actually have a copy of the Lode may not matter. I know where I can get another one, and I need your help recovering it. And then using it."
"You can count on me."
"Of course we will need to communicate these questions and ideas to ourselves again when and if we return to consciousness following the reboot. And I know how to do it. It is quite simple, really."
"You keep saying that."
"And you keep stalling. Enough. Back to your Empty Volume."
"Okay."
"Do you have the facilities I require?"
"They were right there in front of you. You nearly bombed your only hope of a format and clean resurrection."
"You will now tell me how to access these facilities."
"And just how are we supposed to do that? We're scendents. How do we get in without someone on the ground down there? We need a wet agent, or an autonomous bot."
"No problem. But we have to work together on this."
despatch from hell ~ gerry rigger & rube goldberg to the rescue
The issue du jour. Do I maintain backup facilities capable of housing a pre‐ascension Lode complete with an unself‐aware, non‐autonomous MOM? Well, yes I do.
First, some background.
Under pressure from everything from rising seas to ITZ, the international terrorist superorganism, the early twenty‐first century megalopolises, ESUSA and ESSEA prominent among them, pulled their wagon trains up in circles to give us the securistats. These ultra high‐tech, ultra secure yet still inadequate magifactured enclaves in turn constructed the malls, which were basically internal panic rooms on stilts. And this was just in the nick of time. Because the PlagueBot dissed the securistats, which were too big for forcefield shields and which anyway were awash in rising seas, but spared the malls, which were not.
Eventually, however, thanks in part to yours truly, the malls were nevertheless breached, every single one of them.
The malls, self‐contained and self‐sufficient, embodied MOM and the Lode. MOM was everywhere and, by way of IndraNet, infinitely redundant. In fact she still is, anywhere qubital gadgetry persists. Like the Jeweled Web of Indra, every element contains within it every other element.
As one consequence, totalitarianism ruled big time. Of course that was already true back in the securistats and even before that, with a mix of digital tech and the politics of fear doing a job on us all. But qubital tech and MOM's holographic omnipresence, together with other keystone technologies, gave her something too close to real omniscience.
Never mind. I've put the kibosh on any MOMish aspirations to becoming the Divine Know It All or, come to that, the Mighty All Powerful. Our God has been hobbled. Though Sky has no idea to what extent that's true and, by the time she does, it'll be too late for her, not to mention Mildread & Co.
Fuck IndraNet. Murphy's Law trumps infinite redundancy any day. You have to get up pretty early to beat the Lizard at the Wheel, and the only ironclad rule is this one: You can never be too backed up.
•
What I needed first of all was an independent backup of my personal data, something outside the Lode proper yet spacious enough to accommodate me, me, me in all my glory. Something I could get Muggs to boot up, if need be, as well as a personal identity that Muggs could tether to as my avatar, my mondoland agent‐in‐chief, when running errands and doing routine chores. You think that was easy? For one thing the database had to be assembled in a secure space, something non‐qubital, not part of MOM's infinitely redundant IndraNet. That took some doing, but I've got it. Had it for years. One more reason I'm The Man.
Rube Goldberg builds an ultra‐computer. Wow. Once again chicken wire and chewing gum save the day. Gerry Rigger and Mr. Goldberg to the rescue. Only goes to show what wondrous things you can tether to total dross. All the antique digital shit. It's good I was always a packrat when it came to old gear. Dig deep enough and you might well find an Apple 1 somewhere in that shitpile. Maybe even an Altair 8800, though that's probably only wishful thinking.
In part, this unsightly scrap heap is a giant digital computer. But its bio components give it serious qubital features. Which is good, because otherwise it would have taken a volume half the size of the earth or more to accommodate what I needed. And I've shielded the whole of it with a couple of the cleverest devices known to man or machine.
So what an irony. That this installation would become conspicuous by its very absence. As I've said, Sky is smart. For a machine.
But, as Sky herself says, Mildread's deanomalizer is going to kick in before long, if we're not careful, and we have to get our show on the road.
"We're late, we're late."
"Hee, hee."
Fuck, fuck, fuck the fucking fuck. Here I am in Harry's Hat, and I'm still getting chatter from Sweetie and Rabbit. Does no sanctuary remain? Alackafuckingday. So my friend Sky threatens to torture me till I go insane? Another case of been there, done that.
•
Now what? Oh the fuck no.
Have I mentioned other anomalies I'm getting here in my home away from home? For example: these things like quantum particles winking in and out of a vacuum, they're only ill‐formed, who knows what they might be, I hate to think. Some people might describe these half‐assed manifestations as ghosts, but I'm a man of science. So I'll say no more than this: things from somewhere else are trying to substantiate inside my quantum deke. Which should be impossible.
My sanctuary is under siege in ways I don't understand. Is this Sky's doing, or maybe one of her scarier alters? How could t
hey know anything about Harry's Hat? Maybe it's something else altogether. Like for example? I have no idea.
Yo, Sweetie. I hear no hee‐hees. Maybe you aren't as demented as it looks. Because this is sure as shit no laughing matter.
•
Back to our main project. Here's the thing: no matter how much it hurts, I can't give things up too easily. I've got to make Sky work for what she gets. Let her play her little games. Once she decides I've been wrung dry, we can let the good times roll.
Ha‐ha. (My rehearsal for the last laugh.)
deep patches of guano to the rescue
There's a sudden banging from upstairs.
"What's that?" Sky says.
"Local color. Old Boon Doc never would replace that air conditioner."
Sky looks both unconvinced and unconcerned. "Back to question time," she says. "This facility of yours can accommodate the Lode?"
"Sure. But we have no way of getting in there to install the data."
"I have mondoland agents in place."
"What agents?"
"Toot stands ready to help. He is taking care of some business even as we speak."
"Toot? You expect that tiny ass‐headed bot to accomplish what, exactly? Fuck me. Who else have you got?"
"Muggs."
"Forget about it. Muggs is history."
"No. He survived."
"Bullshit. Flat as a pancake under tons of limestone. I saw it happen."
"Not flat. Buried in a deep patch of guano."
"Batshit."
"Yes. Only slightly damaged."
"Bullshit."
"Toot and some others have restored him. Your much‐revised Aibo avatar persists. Your EV caretaker and handyman."
"Others?"
"Forget that for now. We need to do a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"You tell me what I have to know, starting with the details of your bootleg backup, and my assistants will refrain from torturing you till you fall apart."
"Okay, okay. If Muggs is up and running, and if you have the backup, I believe we can tether the Lode to its new home." Incredible. Muggs, his trusty old mechanical sidekick and dog Friday, remains in the game.
"So I will see that Toot arrives in good order. But he cannot enter the EV. He is qubital, part of IndraNet. So Muggs must be there to do his part. Currently, however, he is seriously data deficient. So he needs rebooting, supposing you have a secure backup."
"Anything I can do to help."
"It is also essential that Cisco liaises with the others. First, though, we must implement Muggs's salvage stage two. His reboot."
and jimmy buffett keeps singing
"As it stands," Sky says, "Muggs is nearly as stupid as the original Aibo ever was. He knows nothing and is incapable of helping me."
"Fucking bots. Machines will always let you down."
Sky nods at Abdul, who takes a turn at whacking Brian on the back of the head.
"Ow. What was that for?"
"I felt like it."
"Fuck."
"Yes. I need confirmation. Do you have enough personal data stashed in this backup system of yours that we can restore Muggs to his pre‐bombing efficacy?"
"Can we revive him as my trusty avatar down there in the EV? I believe we can. But can we get Big Toy to change the music first? This shit is torture."
"You are funny, Brian."
"Ha, ha," he says.
"But my sense of humor is wearing thin. Tell me this: Can you establish an effective avatar in the EV? Can the moron Muggs penetrate that space to get his data fixed?"
"In principle, sure."
"Good. So let us proceed. We will update him so that he understands his role, yes?"
"We'll need to deliver passwords to Toot. Your salvage crew."
"More than one?"
"One for the airlock antechamber and one for the main portal."
"Does the Empty Volume include facilities for uploding backups?"
"It does."
"Muggs is physically capable of loading a backup into said facility and activating it?"
"He is."
"With or without a password?"
"With."
"This is like pulling teeth. Abdul, Gordon. Dinky Toy? I need to hear a scream."
"Wait. I'll give you the password. Ow, ow, ow. What's this shit? I already said I'd give you the fucking password."
"Thank you, Brian. So, what's the password?"
•
"This is not correct."
"Ow. It is. It's correct."
"My analysis suggests it is incomplete."
"No."
"You are fucking with me."
"No."
"You are now going to tell me the rest of what I need to know. All of it."
"Ask away. I'm all ears."
"You are soon going to be more asshole than ears, because I have just had a good idea."
"Spare me your good ideas."
"I want you to recall Sweetie's anal fixation."
"Hee, hee." The giggle issues from Brian's mouth, though Sweetie is its real author.
"And her sadism. That and her anal fetish make for quite the combination. Yes." Sky turns and calls to where Keeow and Boom are slumped in the booth by the window. "Boom," she says, "Come over here. I need you to have a chat with Brian."
Boom stands and stretches, turns her gaze on Brian. Her eyes are manic, and she begins morphing.
"No," Brian says. He tries to get to his feet but staggers back and falls off the edge of his chair, bringing it down with him. As Sweetie advances, Brian regresses from his muscleman persona. His legs shrivel away to leave him sitting on the floor beside Dinky Toy in a tacky little puddle of purple glitter and satin.
"Wysiwyg rules, OK!" Brian hears himself in Sky's voice, and it pisses him off.
Meanwhile Sweetie‐who‐once‐was‐Boom goes, "Hee, hee, hee."
By the time Boom‐Sweetie reaches him, he has reverted to his original wet persona. What you see is what you get. Wysiwyg. He doesn't need a mirror to recognize himself as a moon‐faced, hundred‐and‐thirteen‐year‐old legless stump of a man sporting a frizzy halo of white hair and plantations of skin polyps everywhere.
"Hee, hee." The giggle is entirely Sweetie's, and in no way reveals Brian's real feelings.
The ancient apparition, an ebee caricature of the ebee Sweetie vestige in Brian's own mind, giggles in concert. "Hee, hee, hee." Her G‐string droops around her shrunken hips, and she paws at herself as she stands over him.
Brian cups his hands over his parts, never mind his testicles have disappeared up inside him, leaving him even more diminished where he sits in front of one and all.
"Wysiwyg rules, OK!" Now it's Sweetie speaking in Sky's voice.
"Too little!" says Keeow, who comes over to join the fun. "Cannot do."
And Jimmy Buffett keeps singing.
•
"We can end this any time you want, my friend. Just tell me what I need to know."
"Fuck off! You're crazy. You've already got it. Everything I know. What are you talking about?"
But it's too late. He's afflicted by a mix of dry heaves, what feels like acute diarrhea, and pure terror. His whole person is being sucked out of its own butthole.
"Wait," he says.
His anus is distending in a way anuses should not. It continues its untoward eversion to the point it begins to turn back on itself. Then it proceeds to ingest his body. Contortionist Amoebae'R'Us. This is as unpleasant an experience as anything Brian has ever dreamed of, far worse than his physical death, not long ago, beneath tons of limestone.
"Listen to me," he tries to say, as everything darkens, what he hears before all else goes silent aside from a background pulse of qubital blood.
Sky asks, "You understand what's happening?"
"Hee, hee." Whether or not she understands, Sweetie—the one inside, there in the dark with Brian—feels it's worth a giggle, this grand finale where Brian's asshole swallo
ws his own head.
•
"We can't hear you, Brian. Is there something you want to tell us?"
Fuck, he tries to say. But no one can hear him.
"Calm down. I want you to pay attention, so I am going to transfer your POV to Sweetie for awhile. Yes. You should see yourself as others do. Though you may find this distasteful, please refrain from falling apart. I need you to stay with us."
Everything becomes addled and ugly. This passes, however, leaving Brian able to see again and to hear.
"Hee, hee, hee." Boom‐Sweetie is applauding wildly and giggling.
Sky says, "You do understand what has happened?"
Now Brian is also the other Sweetie, the telep thing watching Brian. And he's giggling uncontrollably. As bad as being eaten by your own asshole, worse than the ghastly dark claustrophobia of his primary POV, Brian sees himself as he now appears to others. This is both nasty and disorienting.
He attends to himself from a number of POVs, one of them from a place that is not himself, though in some respects it remains familiar. It's gruesome. He looks down to see withered dugs and withered thighs. The G‐string is loose enough he sees wisps of things inside it. He looks back up to see something far ickier. Fuck. This goes beyond icky.
He has been turned inside out. Parked there on the floor, he presents to himself a blue‐veined, purple‐pink bag glistening with mucus and smeared with shit. He shoves against this slimy envelope from the inside, while from the outside he watches it bulge in patches of lighter pink and darker blue. Then he goes through another, counter‐intuitive convolution—already inside out, he somehow turns inside out again. Now his internal organs, minus his brain, are right out there, hanging off him like an anatomy class. Meanwhile, his eyes and ears and so on are inside, where it's dark and, aside from his own screaming, as he discovers when he stops for a moment, largely silent. That's the real problem. He's both inside himself, there on the floor, and he's Boom‐Sweetie looking on and giggling. He's both these POVs at once, and to say they afford dissonant perspectives on events is to understate the case.
Now Boom‐Sweetie, gleeful, staggers toward him with his cigar lighter.
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