Good Night, Moon
Page 2
“Yadda yadda,” said Ganzer. “Play your tiny, sobbing violin.”
They ate silently for a few minutes.
Eventually Morse shoved his plate of unicorn bacon aside. “My wife used to worship my dreams. I can’t even get her to look at a fabule, nowadays. My wife’s gotten way into musicals. All singing, all dancing, lot of bright color—there’s no plausibility, and no plots either. But much better set design. So she says. I think she’s having an affair with one of her clients. Over at the stroke center. I think our marriage is—”
Ganzer held up a greasy finger for attention. “Franz Kafka awoke from uneasy dreams to find himself transformed into a giant paramecium.”
“Okay. Go for it. Then what?”
“Then a big burst of violent action. Resolution of the inner conflict. Franz Kafka’s maid walks in on him while he’s single-celled. She screams. She attacks him.”
“Who has a maid, these days?”
“Kafka’s in a hotel. She’s the hotel maid. She knocks, and she doesn’t hear any answer because all that Franz the giant paramecium can do is rock back and forth in midair above the bed, wallowing and slobbering.”
“I’ve been there,” said Morse. “Coming off oneirine.”
“The maid sees the giant flying paramecium and she freaks,” continued Ganzer. “An explosive return of repression. She thwacks him with a mop, whack-whack-whack. She’s an attractive woman, somewhat coarse, a motherly, sympathetic person with a sense of humor—but this paramecium beast, she blindly wants to kill it. It’s befouling the room that she cleans every day. Whack-whack-whack. Franz is trying to excuse himself with his floppy paramecium slipper-mouth. He’s like, ‘Bluh glub groo.’ The maid finds his voice menacing and incomprehensible. He’s a slimy man-sized attack-zeppelin. ‘Grumma fleep smee.’”
“That’s the grand finale of a million monster movies,” said Morse. “The monster must be killed. Before it, like, multiplies, finds a job, and gets motor-voter registration.”
“Do you want to hear my pitch, or don’t you?”
“Want a piece of my unicorn bacon?” asked Morse.
Ganzer took a sample. “It’s good,” he observed, then chewed in silence for a moment. “I think the hotel maid should have sex with Franz Kafka the flying paramecium.”
“Oh, sure, why not?” said Morse expansively. “Let the giant paramecium grow suitable protuberances, and manage, against all odds, to win his lady’s favor. After all, we’re talking about a fabule from Jimmy Ganzer, so people’s expectations are way down in the gutter. Jimmy Ganzer’s dreams are the sewer that the gutter drains into.”
“I’ll dream it in, and you can handle the parental-guidance rating,” said Ganzer, raiding Morse’s plate for more bacon. “I’m lonely, so it’ll be hot. Are we done yet?”
“Give me more plot,” said Morse.
“Sex scenes never have plots,” protested Ganzer. “Dreams, musicals, and porn—three utopias of irrational gratification. But you—you want a little logic, right? Do it yourself.”
“Fine,” said Morse. “I’ll fab some pillow talk afterwards between the maid and the paramecium. They’re lying on the bathroom floor. He’s cozily blubbering to her, maybe praising the limpid beauty of her female mitochondria. I’m thinking she sees him as a friendly talking toy. But then—”
“But then!” interrupted Ganzer, getting excited again. “In a spasm of remorse and disgust, the maid slashes Franz open with—with a scythe. And his jelly-flesh pours into the bathtub. No, the toilet—better. More noir.”
“The gelatinous contents of his saclike body pours into the whirling stony vortex,” mused Morse. “I like it. But it shouldn’t be a scythe. They’re five feet long.”
“I love the sound of the word scythe,” said Ganzer loftily. “That primal, agricultural quality. That grim reaping.”
“Make it a sickle,” said Morse. “A little curved sickle, corroded, but with a pink plastic handle. Something vengeful, but girly.”
“Now we’ve got it nailed,” said Ganzer, breaking into a grin. “The maid flushes the toilet and she washes Franz into the sewer. He pollutes the city’s water supply, and everyone catches a bad case of being him.”
“Perfect ending,” said Morse, leaning back in triumph. “That’s a vintage move. Dreams infiltrating real life. Every fabber’s dream. We do the fadeout. We play the Skaken Recurrent Nightmare theme song, and we leave the user with a burning urge to browse into our store and buy some antibacterial lotion. The business model is happy; Presburg’s happy; I’m happy; you’re happy. We’re gonna pull this off.”
“Fine,” said Ganzer. “We're still on top of the game, bro. At least until this ribbonware stuff brings it to a whole new level.” He fondled the figurine of Tigra and glanced around. “Looks like our underground pair got evicted. That's great. That means that the ribbonware plug-in from this—”
“Here comes the man,” said Morse, straightening.
Presburg had entered the deli. Yokl the floor manager greeted him personally, then effusively led the big wheel the ten steps across the red-and-black linoleum tiling to the booth where Morse and Ganzer sat.
Morse stood up and shook hands. Ganzer contented himself with a casual “How’s it going, Bobby?”
“Scoot over,” Presburg told Ganzer, seating himself beside him. Presburg was young and whippet-thin. He wore a sprayed-on layer of cotton that showed off his gym-toned torso.
“So,” he said. “Are we gonna save this freakin’ wreck of a series? What’s your game plan?”
“I can get you guys through the next episode,” said Ganzer, knocking the little statue against the table. “If you don’t mind some, uh, stylistic innovations.”
“Innovations aren’t gonna cut it,” said Presburg, shaking his head. “I need something more ontological. More hermeneutic.”
Morse groaned. “Why do you always say that, Bobby? What do those words even mean?”
“It means get off the mattress! Guy buys a dream about a car—he sees it in his driveway when he wakes! Girl buys a dream about a diamond necklace—she’s wearing it in the morning!”
“For all intents and purposes,” said Morse. “In her mind.”
Presburg shook his head. “Not when the studio gets that Chinese ribbonware. You get a billion dreamers all focused on one thing, the sky's the limit. Like the moon, baby.”
Maya the waitress simpered up and set down a cup of tea. “The usual, Mr. Presburg?”
“Surprise me,” said Presburg with irritation. “I mean, if you can surprise me. Try real hard.”
Maya crossed her eyes and dramatically stuck out her tongue. Presburg ignored her. Maya flounced off.
Presburg reached for the sexy little Tigra figurine. “Whatcha got there?” Ganzer kept it in his hand.
“It’s a tie-in toy,” Morse lied. “Can we talk about my contract, Bobby? And, like I was telling you, I want to bring in Jimmy here as a consultant.”
“No more contracts for Skaken,” said Presburg flatly. “We’re in a paradigm shift. Best I can offer you boys is a consulting fee. No residuals. And it’s up to you how you split it.”
“I’ll walk,” said Morse.
Presburg rolled his eyes.
“I’ll float out the goddamn keyhole!” ranted Morse. “Working on Skaken makes me feel like a grubworm paralyzed by parasitic wasps. That frikkin’ bug metropolis has been filling my brain like maggots in a rotten piece of meat!”
Presburg stopped with his cup of tea halfway to his lips. “Look, I’m about to eat a meal here. You screwballs want a better deal? Bring some serious action to the table! You know a lot of lowlifes, Ganzer. Get me a hot ribbonware plug-in.”
“You’re sure that stuff works?” said Ganzer, giving Morse a look.
Maya the waitress slapped down a plate of twitching live shrimp. Their bodies were shelled, but their heads were still in place. “You can drip Tabasco on them if they slow down kicking, Mr. Presburg.”
“My com
pliments to the chef,” said Presburg, examining the writhing mass of tortured arthropods. “I was wrong to ever doubt the crew at Schwartz’s. You guys are pros.”
Maya dimpled. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Presburg. You’re a charmer.”
“Maya, you work the noon-to-nine shift, right? Did you happen to notice the moon last night?”
“I don’t care about the moon,” said Maya. “Here in L.A., the sky’s a solid dreamy dome of urban glare. The moon’s way out of style.”
“Thank you,” said Presburg. “You may go. Next witness? Carlo Morse?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” said Morse. “The moon’s goddamn gone.” Presburg sampled a live, vigorously kicking shrimp. “Not exactly gone,” he said, his mouth full. “Real different. The Chinese ribbonhackers have been dreamfabbing on it. You tell me what that means for our business.”
“No more tides?” said Morse.
“Oh, we’d get decent tides from the sun’s gravity anyway,” said Presburg dismissively. “Think harder.” He bit the body off another shrimp. “Meanwhile, you should try some of these. With that hot sauce, they’re fantastic.”
“Pretty soon food will be totally free,” said Ganzer, intently studying his figurine of Tigra. "We'll be dreaming garbage into food."
“The new market,” said Presburg with a quick nod. “Reality is the ultimate medium to productize.”
“If dreams become real…,” put in Ganzer, still fiddling with the figurine. “Well, I'd like to be an amorphous blob. I wanna fly, too. Remember flying dreams, Carlo? Nobody buys those these days.”
“I always really wanted to fly,” mused Morse. “In my flying dreams, I’ll be hovering over people, and talking down to them, and they just answer back in a normal, everyday fashion. There’s no panic, no corny sense of wonder about it—”
“Hey!” exclaimed Ganzer. He’d managed to twist the little Tigra figure’s head loose. He pulled it off the little body. Attached to the head was a gleaming ribbon, like a tiny sword.
“That’s a ribbonware plug-in!” exclaimed Presburg.
With a smooth, nimble motion, Ganzer stabbed the ribbon into the side of his own head.
His gut bulged out; his neck shrank; his head merged into his body. His stained sportswear burst and dropped to the floor in scraps. Ganzer slumped across the table—jiggly, shiny, ciliated, magnificent. A huge paramecium with his slipper-mouth agape.
Presburg jumped to his feet and screamed—a rich scream, filled with vibrato and with a ragged crackle in the upper registers.
“I can fly,” blubbered Ganzer. He floated off the tabletop and drifted toward the room’s low ceiling.
As if guided by fate, Maya came racing across the deli, carrying a big carving knife from the counter men. With a quick gesture, she slit Ganzer open like a hog.
Flying ribbonware shards tumbled out like viruses from an infected cell. Nimble as dragonflies, some of the ribbons plunged themselves into the heads of the people in the deli. And the rest of them surged out the deli door and into the early evening streets.
Yokl the doorman politely ushered them outside, where the populace was gently floating over their abandoned cars.
“Can we fly up there and get a decent dessert on the moon?” said Presburg, his voice sounding odd. He was turning into Jimmy Ganzer. “I mean, this all stands to reason, right? We’ll find Tigra up there, too.”
Morse patted his old friend on the back and gazed into the lambent sky. Something was rising over the dark horizon. A cosmic jewel, with its facets etched in light, slowly turning and unfolding.
“Dream on," said Morse. "Dream on.”
Books by Rudy Rucker
NOVELS
Hylozoic
Postsingular
Mathematicians in Love
Frek and the Elixir
Saucer Wisdom
As Above, So Below: A Novel of Peter Bruegel
Spaceland
Realware
Freeware
The Hacker and the Ants
The Hollow Earth
Wetware
The Sex Sphere
Software
White Light
Spacetime Donuts
The Secret of Life
Master of Space and Time
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Mad Professor
Gnarl!
The Fifty-Seventh Franz Kafka
NON-FICTION
The Lifebox, the Seashell, and the Soul: What Gnarly Computation Taught Me About
Ultimate Reality, the Meaning Of Life, and How To Be Happy
Seek!
All the Visions
Mind Tools
The Fourth Dimension
Infinity and the Mind
Books by Bruce Sterling
NOVELS
Involution Ocean
The Artificial Kid
Schismatrix
Islands in the Net
The Difference Engine (with William Gibson)
Heavy Weather
Holy Fire
Distraction
Zeitgeist
The Zenith Angle
Kiosk
The Caryatids
SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS
Crystal Express
Globalhead
A Good Old-fashioned Future
Visionary in Residence
NON-FICTION
The Hacker Crackdown: Law and Disorder on the Electronic Frontier
Tomorrow Now: Envisioning the next fifty years
Shaping Things
ANTHOLOGY
Mirrorshades: A Cyberpunk Anthology (ed.)