by Rudy Rucker
“Yeah man, we’re both like saintly hermits, if only people knew,” said Ganzer, wobbling his head in sympathy. “Those snot-fop critics say that dream-fabbing is a cheap fad! Well, dreams get fabbed in the Bible, man! Dreams get fabbed in Shakespeare’s Macbeth! Dream-fabbing has very deep cultural and philosophical roots. the deepest of any art form ever! Those critics just don’t get us because we’re too profound.”
Morse nodded and glanced at his watch. “Yeah. You bet.”
Carried away by his own eloquence, Ganzer was bouncing eagerly on the red leather of his café seat. “Let’s really ramp this fabule, okay? Like the old days when we were giving dreams away. Forget Presburg’s mainstream soda-pop audience! I want our fabule users to feel their every cell coming into visionary synch! This new fabule can bust our users totally loose from consensus reality!”
“How do you plan to pull that stunt off?”
“It’s cellular. It’s quantum dots. It’s quantum and cellular and bosonic. It’s bosonic cellular quantum dottiness. With ribbons on.”
Morse gazed down at Ganzer’s gnarly fabule, which sat innocently on the table like a wadded piece of bread. “Yeah, those quantum dots. I loved those in your hot demo here. The quantum dots were that floating pepper I saw all around the paramecium, right? That cool, crackly, visual effect, like Marvel comics from a hundred years ago.”
Ganzer was pleased. “I like having chaos and dirt in my dreams. I’m like a bluesman with a distorted amp.”
A pink tentacle touched the tabletop. “Hi guys,” said the tentacle’s owner. The newbie was a handsome, bright-looking kid with olive skin and spiky hair. “Aren’t you Carlo Morse and Jimmy Ganzer?”
“That’s James Ganzer, to you,” Ganzer said.
“I’m Rollo,” said the kid. “And this is Tigra,” who was his girlfriend with the third eye. Ganzer couldn’t stop staring at that eye.
“I’m a ribbonware hacker,” said Tigra, blinking flirtatiously. “Rollo and I are viral.”
“We couldn’t help but overhear you discussing your work with quantum dots,” said Rollo. “Back in Kentucky, I did a lot of work with quantum dots. In film school.”
“You went to film school?” said Morse, wrinkling his nose.
“Of course I didn’t study film,” said the kid, wide-eyed. “More like ribbon theory and subdimensional bosonics.”
“Look, Kentucky, you’re talking to guys who cut their teeth on piezotrodes,” challenged Morse. “I got a closet full of fabules older than you.”
“Tigra and I have been around in Hollywood for a while,” said Rollo. “We’re underground artists.” He used his writhing hot-pink tentacles to set a doll-like figurine on the table. His tentacle brushed against Morse’s hand. Morse jerked his hand away.
“You made a naked statue of your girlfriend?” said Ganzer, nudging the figurine. “Yeah, that’s, uh, real avant-garde.”
“It’s made of pumice,” snickered Rollo. “Green cheese.”
“He means it’s refabulated ribbons from Moon rocks,” put in Tigra. “The new plug-in is coded into me. I mean, into my little statue there. You guys plug that in, drop out, take off, and you’ll join us.”
“What’s up with the Moon, anyway?” asked Morse.
“Psychogeographic revolution,” said Tigra. “No more second-hand reality. We’re taking control with our dreams.”
Ganzer stared hopefully at the attractive three-eyed woman. “My dreams can get pretty wild.”
“I’d be glad to help you guys realize some wild dreams,” said Tigra, batting her three eyes in rotation. “I mean, the famous dream-drama-comedy team of Morse and Ganzer? I’d do you two just for the experience!”
“We don’t do any tutoring sessions,” Morse said. “Do you mind? Our producer will be here any minute.”
“Can we talk to him?” said Rollo.
“No way.”
Wounded, Rollo looked defiant. “Well, producers aren’t gonna matter anymore. Not when reality hacking is finally here.”
Maya the waitress reappeared, both her arms laden with plates. She was used to defending celebrity guests, and she chased the noobs back to their booth.
Maya deftly served them fresh cutlery on kosher burdock leaves.
“Look, how could the Moon transform overnight?” said Morse. “I’m a veteran of this business, but I don’t see how that’s remotely possible. I mean, I know that the fabule biz is completely unregulated. But—
“The Moon waxes and wanes all the time,” said Ganzer, busy dipping his spring rolls in fish sauce. “Sometimes it’s up there, sometimes it isn’t, and the vast majority of the user base has no idea where it is. And I don’t know why anyone should bother. I mean, the Moon can take care of itself. The Moon is the very archetype of mankind’s nocturnal dream life.”
“I always hated archetypes,” nodded Morse, munching his unicorn bacon. “Strip-mining other people’s work, that’s what I call that. Archetypes are pure theft of our collective-unconscious pre-intellectual property.”
“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 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 irrati
onal 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 sack-like 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, and 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, which showed off his gym-toned torso.
“So,” he said. “Are we gonna to 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 does 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 is 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 low-lifes, 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 compliments 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 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 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 towards the room’s low ceiling.
As if guided by fate, Maya came racing across the deli, carrying a big carving knife from the countermen. 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 ribb
ons 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.”
============
Note on “Good Night, Moon” (Written with Bruce Sterling)
Written June, 2010.
Tor.com, 2010.
Bruce Sterling happened to be in San Jose, California, for a conference on a new graphics trick called “augmented reality.” The idea is to overlay computer generated images on real-world views. You might see these images via the screen of a cellphone, a desktop monitor, or possibly with special goggles. I went to hear Bruce’s keynote speech at the conference, and brought him home to spend a day at our house in Los Gatos, near San Jose. We decided to do another story and, as it happened, this time the collaboration went very smoothly. No fits of apoplexy.
As usual in our collaborations, the characters are basically Bruce and me. We mixed in some augmented reality, but the real core of the story is to dramatize what it’s like to be a pair of aging science-fiction writers.
Fjaerland
(Written with Paul DiFilippo)
The ferry slid away, trailing thick, luscious ripples across the waters of the fjord. A not-unpleasant scent compounded of brine, pine and gutted fish filled the air. Most of the new arrivals were jostling into a sanitary, hermetic tour bus. But one man and woman set off on foot along a tiny paved road, pulling their wheeled suitcases behind them.
