MOM

by Collin Piprell

  Outside

  Extended subvocalization isn't as easy as it sounds. But Leary is getting the knack as he goes along: What if we say, just trying the idea on, that this is MOM's voice now? And let's say Rexy was a MOM telep. So then there's no reason MOM couldn't also be Smoke, tagging along with Cisco at the same time. And that's where it gets interesting. It would seem that MOM is trying to triangulate on old Brian.

  And there could be more. Besides herself, she'd only need two stations to triangulate. But given all the uncertainties out here, she'd be nuts not to plan a backup vector as well. At least one. But who would that be?

  No response. Other than Muggs's curious gaze.

  His WalkAbout doesn't want to play; it's the talking‐dog syndrome all over again. But Leary has it figured this way. First, Sky had him covered with Rexy. And she now has him staked out instead with this WalkAbout. Muggs, of course, is nothing but a mechanical Brian telep.

  “Okay,” Leary says.

  “You talking to me?” asks Muggs.

  Okay. Leary subvocalizes it. A straight question. You're Sky, and you're hooked into the Lode and all. I know that. But, really, are you MOM?

  The response is immediate: Let us cut to the chase. Rexy was my eyes and ears. Muggs is somebody else's. Guess whose.

  Yeah, but are you MOM or what?

  It is more complicated than that. But I am on your side. And Cisco's. You know that. Trust me.

  Right.

  Then the landscape in front of them comes alive.

  •

  A dust devil rises, nearly substantiates before it subsides again. And there's more. Maybe it's the hunger, and Leary is tired, but a collection of dust mounds ahead have started heaving and shifting along. “Darn it!” Leary says. This thing resembles Muggs's carpet, except it's bigger and it weaves from side to side as it approaches. “Time to go.”

  Muggs sees the situation differently. “Lie down and stay still,” he says as he sprawls in the dust, and Leary does it.

  Ten meters ahead and to the left, another patch lurches and then erupts into fragments. Two distinct areas of dust are at play. The smaller one, bigger than Muggs's magic rug, thrashes wildly, yielding a glimpse of something more substantial beneath. The larger, by comparison, is a sixty‐centimeter‐thick carpet. It heaves voraciously towards the smaller disturbance and, as the two collide, it disintegrates into a platoon of little quadruped slowjoes. They move silently, chillingly precise, to surround the carpet before bounding in from all sides to hit their prey in a screeching cloud of dust. Pinkish dust. Then the victim turns aggressor. The thicker end tears into one of the pack, ripping it open, shaking it back and forth in a spray of blood. It shakes it largely free of its blur cocoon, revealing a monkey. Now the giant lizard's head becomes visible, monkey intestines hanging from its jaws. Dementedly, it thrashes them back and forth and all around, flinging shit to the four winds. The other monkeys close in. This is the biggest lizard Leary has seen outside of Komodo, and the monkeys aren't behaving like any monkeys he has ever heard of.

  The stink of feces carries a symphony of associations, memories of a lost world. Meanwhile the other monkey‐slowjoes rip into the lizard, stuffing gobbets of bleeding flesh into their mouths even as the animal thrashes and weakens. Eventually the lizard dies. Later, the surviving monkey‐slowjoes, sated, coalesce again to don their collective mantle before rippling away out of sight. An area ten meters in diameter remains pink with blood, littered with bits of animal.

  Leary starts to get up, but Muggs barks at him: “Not yet!”

  The whole near surface of a sizeable dune shrugs and shimmers and shifts its way in to clean up the remains of the banquet. Then, still anonymous, it slips away. “Okay,” Muggs says. “Let's go.” The field of carnage fades before their eyes from pinkish to gray, the native blur dust assimilating all that's left of the slaughter.

  Muggs stands up and, stiff‐legged, steps all around in a circle. Then he extends his utility arm from the well in his chest towards Leary. “You hungry?” he asks. He's holding a chunk of meat. “Try this.”

  But the bloody morsel is dissed before Leary can even think about it.

  Briansday

  “Jesus Christ, I wish we had popcorn. I haven't had so much fun since Sweetie caught her tit in the washing machine door. This, my boy, is prime‐time viewing. Bet you can't guess what that big flat item was. Eh? Hel‐lo‐oh.

  “Do your thing, Sweetie. Hargle. Wow, that's interesting; I haven't seen that before. So, one more time: can you guess, my boy?”

  Blink, blink.

  “It was a roachswarm. Unbelievable, eh? Cockroaches are a thousand times smarter than other insects. You ever try to step on one in the bathroom? I guess not. But they're fast, quick to recognize danger, quick to think of escape routes A through Z, always a contingency plan. Tactical geniuses. But these colonial buggers are something else again. Of course the ones Outside, the bio‐blur colonies, are more evolved than the ones here in my cave. At least so far.”

  A roach‐carpet tongue, as though taking exception to this proposition, streams towards Pussy, a few individual cockroach scouts scuttling ahead to lead the way. But Rabbit only needs to shuffle and clank in their direction for the incursion to retreat.

  “Evolution has come up with new algorithms, novel measures for novel times. Interesting times. This ecosystem is way more efficient than the old one, for example. The bugs and worms, the bacteria and shit, they'd have taken forever to clean up that mess.

  “Speaking of food.” Brian rummages in his nest to produce his pistol, which he points straight up into the dark, not even looking, and pulls the trigger. Five seconds later there's a plop, and a ragged bit of something lies struggling in the muck. Then it goes still. Brian tosses off another skywards shot and, after an interval, another creature drops. “A brace of bats,” Brian says. “You'll join us for dinner, my boy? It isn't peanut butter and banana sandwiches, I know; but we can collect a few nice mushrooms to go with the meat. Rabbit! Fire up the microwave.”

  The perfect host. How's Cisco supposed to chew? Even supposing he wants to eat batmeat.

  Muttering about loding data and a lack of time, Rabbit barely beats a tongue of colonial roaches to the bats.

  Brian waves his stick at the back. “Must be thousands of them up there. Maybe hundreds of thousands.”

  “Millions,” Sweetie says brightly. Then she glances at Brian, and amends that, “Many, many. All going around.”

  “That's what they do. They're bats, eh? But now we're seeing colonial monkeys, cockroaches—all kinds of stuff. The weed species are swarming. Isn't evolution wonderful? Yes, my boy. We have a whole new ecosystem out there. Who can say how complex it is. For sure we have cats and rats and dragonflies. And dragon lizards. What else? People, wouldn't you know it? King of the weed species. After the cockroaches. And who can say how they've survived, or where they've come from. But they're out there. Gangs of them. Nearly impossible to tell them from slowjoes, except I spotted one pack making short work of a dragon. I figure they're GameBoy exiles. Though they must be getting on in years by now.

  “Meanwhile, inside Living End, we've got the bats and the roaches, one more symbiotic relationship that's evolved out of nowhere. The bats' job is to turn roaches into batshit, while the roaches turn batshit into more roaches. And they all breed faster than bunny rabbits. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Rabbit? You're nothing but a machine.”

  •

  “Look at that, my boy. Up there on the screen.” Brian rocks away under the monitor, gnawing on a piece of bat, pulling stringy meat off the bone with his front teeth, wiping grease on his bedding. “That's mondoland in the Year of Our Lord 2057 No one could have foreseen this fifty years ago. Or even twenty‐five. But there you have it. That's mondoland. Just like Living End and the malls, what's left of them, are mondoland. There's your reality. The plaguebots turn everything they can diss into more blurs; the bios, meanwhile, turn everything th
ey can digest into more bios. So tell me, my boy: what's the difference? But we're seeing fascinating developments. You want to hear my theory of the bio‐blur collaborations?

  “Sweetie. Our boy isn't talking to me.”

  Blink.

  “Can you hear me okay?”

  Blink.

  “Good. So you get these blind, largely senseless superorganisms using bios as sensory extensions. The bios, meanwhile, use blurs as protective coloration and defense against feral blurs. How these partnerships have evolved, I can't say. But that's life, my boy. Totally opportunistic. The most persistent thing in the universe. Except maybe for spam.

  “That's right. Given half a chance, life and intelligence and narcissism and fear and everything will emerge almost anywhere. And qubital computer technology was to machine intelligence what comets full of complex hydrocarbons were to biological life on Earth.

  “'Who cares,' you're thinking. Under the circumstances, I can understand that attitude. So let's make a little story out of it, shall we? Because we all need our narratives. That's one thing you've been lacking, am I right, my boy? We have to put everything into context. Relate the here‐and‐now to a past and a future in a way that makes sense.”

  Brian tosses a bone towards Pussy but overshoots. Rabbit retrieves it just ahead of a fluid cockroach incursion and tries to push it into Pussy's mouth. When Brian turns his attention back to Cisco, Rabbit instead flings the bone towards the roach carpet and returns to his station.

  •

  “I hope you aren't too hungry, my boy. Are you comfortable otherwise?”

  Cisco says nothing.

  “I'll take that as a 'yes.' First, you need to know more about me and why I'm thinking of destroying the world. I've already told you a few things about MOM that you may find surprising, including information concerning your babe of the month, the lovely yet enigmatic Sky. But soon we'll get to revelations about your own past, about who you are, who Mommy and Daddy are, and what it is you're doing here.

  How's that for a teaser? Exciting? I'll bet you can hardly wait.” Sweetie titters and rubs at herself. “Can't wait.”

  “And the kicker?” says Brian. “It's good news, bad news. The bad news? Mommy's dead. But the glad tidings? Wait for it… We're going to bring Mommy back! Now, that is exciting.”

  Brian doesn't notice how Sweetie's enthusiasm evaporates. She makes a sound like someone has just done to her what she's doing to Cisco right now, and her face clouds with pure malevolence.

  •

  “No, no, Sweetie. Be patient. I want him to listen.

  “I want you to understand, my boy. You have to see the way things actually are if you're going to understand what I'm doing, here. But let's get the least interesting part of it out of the way first, okay?

  “For fucksake, Sweetie. That wasn't a real question. Forget it. Leave him alone for a minute.

  “Where was I? As I've already said, and anybody who doesn't know this already must at least suspect it, MOM is intelligent. Very, very intelligent, and she's self‐aware. As such, she has her own agenda. And that's where the story starts to get better.

  “After all, my boy, as I've already said, it's the narrative that counts. Without a story, life has no meaning. No savor. We all need our little dramas, individual and collective. And I've got a starring role, on the grander scale, in bringing the final curtain down. No curtain calls, no encores. On a less world‐historical but equally pleasing scale, I get to play out my old game with Leary. So, the plot in a nutshell: I establish once and for all who's the alpha male around here; I get to bonk the leading lady; and I get to turn the beta male's own son against him and watch him die. But not before father and son both get to watch me have my way with the main distaff interest.”

  Sweetie, for one, is so fascinated she's leaning up against Cisco doing her impression of a stiff. Directing his gaze down as far as he can, he detects a tic among the folds and wart‐like growths on her neck and concludes, not very happily, that she's still alive. A cockroach crawls up over the ridge of her shoulder and waves its antennae at Cisco before scurrying down between her breasts, but she doesn't react. He feels other roaches on himself, but there's nothing he can do about it.

  “It's all mine, my boy. Even you. You're all mine. Hargleharglehargle.” Brian's spasms awaken Sweetie and inspire a similar coughing fit in her; she chokes up bits of viscous matter and spits them at the cat.

  “Mine and Sweetie's, that is.” Brian laughs some more.

  “Mine too.” Sweetie appears confused but pleased nevertheless.

  “Fuck it. Let's make things a lot more interesting. Sweetie! Stay awake, my dearest. Where are the mushrooms?”

  “Tsk,” says Rabbit, moving the parasol back and forth in time with Brian's impatience.

  Sweetie's eyes are open, but she looks disoriented.

  “You wrinkled old turd. You're useless. Rabbit! Bring the mushrooms.”

  •

  “We'll return to our story soon enough. Right now, I think, we need a mood enhancer. The problem with mondoland is it gets excruciatingly boring. Even with the occasional bombing. Look at old Sweetie, here, for example. Oh, I know you're new to it, and there's been lots to distract you. But take my word for it. It's boring. Even in world‐historical times such as these. So let's spice things up with some low‐tech worlding.”

  Rabbit passes Brian a small Tupperware container, a real antique. The bot tsks and mutters: “Lode the cube; bring the mushrooms. Do this; do that. No time. Always late.”

  “This stuff looks like shit, my boy.” Brian scoops a gob of black muck out of the container and shoves it into his mouth. Makes a face. “But it's good for the head.”

  Sweetie is wide awake now. “'Shrooms,” she says.

  “Magic mushrooms, my boy. Got us a whole plantation of them back in there.” He waves his stick towards the gloom. “The Thais called them hed khi khwai—'buffalo shit mushrooms'—because they grew in buffalo shit. We've got no buffalo shit. Got no buffalos. So I feed them batshit and stuff. Works fine. Yeah. Back then we had buffalos, water buffalos, but we didn't have any Worlds. So we had to make do. In fact, I still do make do.”

  “Doo‐doo,” Sweetie screams, finding this hilarious.

  They make a companionable little group, Sweetie and Cisco and Brian. The Rabbit has wheeled Brian right up to where Cisco sits against the rock wall. Pussy lies all by himself over in the middle of the deck, legs waving feebly, maybe enjoying a dream wherein he's catching mice or at least walking. Brian passes the plastic jar to Rabbit, who passes it to Sweetie.

  “How old do you think I am, my boy?”

  “Boom City.” Sweetie suggests. “Boom‐Boom Boomer. 'Shroom Boomer.”

  “That's right. You can call me the 'Shroom Boomer. One hundred and thirteen years old. Don't bother trying to look surprised; we know you're fucked up. But it's true. I was born in 1944. One of the very first baby boomers. Maybe the first.”

  “Silly‐cybins,” Sweetie says. She licks guck off her forefinger then runs her wet fingertip back and forth across Cisco's lips. “Nice silly‐cybins. For my silly little boy.”

  “Let me tell you all about Psilosybe cubenses. 'Shrooms. The straight poop.

  “The good part lasts around four hours. It's best to swill them down on an empty stomach with a shot of bourbon. Tequila's okay, too. Not that you'd have a clue about that. Chew them, dried, till they're nothing but a soapy pulp. There are people who boil the stalks and caps down into a nasty tea. Others mix them with chocolate, makes it taste like old socks. Doesn't matter. Don't have any chocolate anyway. No tequila either. Half an hour later, sooner if you don't eat anything, you get that jittery feeling. Like your molecules are starting to space out. You get this kind of adrenaline rush. You know. Jittery.”

  Cisco is already feeling jittery. It's no help that Sweetie is cackling shrilly, eyes bugging out in all directions while Rabbit shuffles around clanking.

  “You get this laugh up high in
the throat. Just a gram gets you there. How much did you give our boy, Sweetie? Don't know, eh? Never mind. More than two grams, things start to shift. Spatio‐temporal magic in the peripheries. Shadows and colors and shit. And you get this body stone.”

  So how can he tell the difference, sitting here paralyzed in this bizarre little world beneath the jungle? Cisco has told himself a joke; he's surprised and pleased at this uncharacteristic flash of humor under difficult circumstances. It brings to mind familiar wild laughter, and he feels closer to Dee Zu, at once sad at her passing and happy at her felt nearness.

  Brian radiates good will. “I wish we had acid. Back in the 1950s and '60s you got psychiatrists playing around with LSD, having themselves a ball. Sweetie's a shrink, so she knows all about this. There was talk of promoting it as a way for poor people to take cheap vacations. Like low‐tech opouts.”

  “The 1960s,” says Sweetie. Unaccountably, she screeches with laughter. She pushes more of the guck between Cisco's lips, an aggressive this‐is‐the‐plane‐and‐this‐is‐the‐hangar game, holding his nostrils shut with the fingers of her other hand. Cisco is having real problems swallowing and breathing at the same time. He feels himself suffocating.

  “Shit, Sweetie. I think he's had enough already. Let's try to keep him around for the fun and games later. Jesus Christ.”

  Once again, Sweetie presses up close and personal. Dementedly alive, her eyes bulge from their sockets to dart every which way, not entirely in sync. Her dirty‐gray robe falls open as she reaches for Cisco again, revealing empty dugs hanging down over a raddled belly. Cisco can't see what she's doing, but the pain is novel in both quality and intensity.

  “Sweetie's a bit odd, at times,” Brian says. “Aren't you, my pet?” He wants a closer look, so Rabbit wheels him in. “This is just like old times, my boy. Just like old times.”

  Cisco can't imagine what he's talking about. But troubling memories have begun to stir.

  “You see, Sweetie was a psychiatrist. Still is, I guess; once a psychiatrist always a psychiatrist. So nobody should be surprised if she acts peculiar sometimes. And guess what. She was way up there inside your skull, back when. Probably still is.”