MOM

by Collin Piprell

  He almost yields to it. Teeters on the verge of the pit, on the wrong side of a door, and it feels good. Then he's back. Scared, in pain. But he's still Cisco. He's back with himself, guarded, watching.

  “Testing, testing. Hello, hello, hello. Randy? Are you with us?”

  Cisco is beginning to understand.

  “Come on, Randy, you know the drill. Yes or no?”

  Blink.

  “Okay. So who am I talking to now? Randy, old son. That's you, isn't it? Always‐ready Randy, my favorite, red in tooth and nail.”

  He almost had it, there. A name for the Other. The Other, who even now waits there. Just behind the escape hatch. But he reports. What else can he do but subvocalize what he sees and what he believes?

  •

  “So, my boy. You're back.

  “I've already told you what MOM wants you to do. Now I'll tell you what you're going to do for me—what Randy's going to do—and why he's going to do it no matter what you or MOM might want. Hargleharglehargle.”

  Brian doesn't die laughing, but not for lack of Cisco's willing it.

  “Like I say, I was buried down deep inside MOM, doing my reptilian thing. This was good, but I wanted more. We needed agents inside the malls. And in the Worlds. So we took a few nursery babies, the best of them, including Lars King and Dee Zu. And you as well, my boy. My sleepers. We turned you into Trojans—agents in place in the malls and in the Worlds. Human time bombs. And I held the triggers.

  All the malls were finished anyway, but you helped speed the last of them on their way. Prying them open to this and that. To the PlagueBot. To me.

  “Long ago, US military intelligence, so called, was already conducting experiments with self‐hypnosis as an escape from intolerable circumstances. And that's what we did with you, my boy. So it was nothing new, really. But we did it better. We put you in intolerable circumstances. Right down there in the deep shit. Sweetie, here, was an expert at it, compliments of both the US military and her native talents.

  “But nobody back then, not even psychiatrists, understood much about personality, much less consciousness, and they still don't today. So we had to resort to brute force in programming you, my boy. Sweetie tended to get carried away, of course, like when she gave you those scars. One time I had to shoot her before she'd cease and desist.” He pulls the pistol from beneath the rags and waves it around for a second or two. “Sweetie has always loved her work. Sorry, but that's just the way it was.”

  Sweetie titters. “So sorry.”

  “We programmed you as a wet trojan. We did the same with most of the pilots. But you're the last trojan standing. So to speak. Natural attrition looked after most of them, while natural selection, our little Darwinian game, killed everybody else except you. Cool, eh?”

  •

  “We put you in intolerable circumstances, and you found ways out. Ways to distance yourself. The most radical of these was a mental escape hatch to your own little hideaway world.”

  More of the pieces fall together.

  “We also held your mother down here in my lab. And we abused her too. What she hated most, we made her watch your conditioning. All the while, I was recording her. I collected every iota of Ellie's torments. Every twitch and tear. Every bubble and squeak. And I convinced her that I would kill you as punishment if she failed to comply with my every whim, one of which was that she should kill our friend Leary—your father, incidentally—at an early opportunity I would be happy to engineer.”

  It's probably the mushrooms. Cisco is experiencing spells of crystalline clarity, but now he hears Brian talking about a “father,” and he wonders who it is he means. He had thought he was talking about Leary.

  “I figured my scheme was ironclad. But she only pretended to kill Leary and, when I discovered that unfortunate fact, I pretended to kill you. This did in fact piss my Ellie right off, because next thing I found her dead all over my lab. This left me with nothing left to live for except our program, here, and my plan to destroy the world.

  “That's right. She killed herself. Needless to say this didn't make me happy, but I saw an opportunity in the situation. The scene of the crime, including what was left of her and what she was wearing at the time, made an excellent cue for our friend Randy, as it turned out, in preparing him for later roles in life.

  “For fucksake, Sweetie! Put that down. I want the boy to hear me out.”

  Sweetie, in a sulk, drops the rag and squeezes Cisco hard.

  “Before your Mommy did the dirty deed, I'd backed her up. Always a good practice, is insurance. So I was still going to have my ebee Ellie, and I figured everything was okay.

  “But guess what? Someone managed to access the Lode and delete Mommy's data. And that's the part I still don't understand. What about you, Sweetie? Do you understand it?”

  “Nothing left,” Sweetie says.

  “That's right. For days afterward I encouraged our Sweetie to enlighten me, didn't I, honeybuns? But she stuck to her story. It was merely one of those things. Like Africa. Gone without a trace.”

  “All gone?” Sweetie titters. “No. One more.”

  “But it wasn't till very recently that I discovered that Ellie was in fact downloded onto a pair of memocubes. And here we all are today.

  “Rabbit! Are you listening? Here we all are today. Wondering if you might see fit to lode those fucking data before I'm too old to give a shit.

  “And bring me more mushroom.”

  •

  “See?” says Sweetie.

  Brian is waving the rag again. “So, my boy. Are we well primed?”

  Cisco remembers the cloth, and he's beginning to recall associated things too terrible to remember. Then Cisco leaves. Before he can think about it. Then he's back; and he's angry. Though not as angry as he might be. Cisco is half here and half gone someplace else. Cisco and anti‐Cisco, superpositioned, awaiting determination.

  Things have changed. The trigger appears less vivid, at the same time Cisco feels more alive.

  For his part, Brian is having the time of his life. “Bet you'd like to kill someone right now. Isn't that right, Randy? Oh, yes. All that fine anger bottled up and nowhere to go, nothing to do with it. But patience, my boy. Have patience.

  “Now it's time for a systems check. Listen carefully. Fuck!” Brian swats at the fleye, which has returned, a quiet kibitzer. “Okay, Randy. Whatever you call yourself. I know you're in there. At the wheel and ready to rock. Ready to roll. You know the drill, don't you? Blink once for 'yes,' twice for 'no.'

  “We're going to get a visitor. Understand?

  “Sweetie?”

  Cisco blinks once before Sweetie can do her thing. But it is Cisco who's doing this blinking. And he draws real strength from that knowledge. Never mind the paralysis, forget he's trapped in a cave on the far side of the world, he's discovering a new sense of control. New hope.

  “Our visitor's name. Can you guess? Are you listening to me, Randy?”

  Yes.

  Randy wants control—rather, Cisco, on some level, still wants to relinquish control—but he doesn't. He's busy. He's starting to see. Remembering bits of scenes. Lars King. And Dee Zu. Other times too. Rages he has known. And he assumes even more control over things.

  “You know our old friend Leary.”

  Blink.

  “No you don't. You only think you do. Did you know this, for example? Leary's your father.”

  Cisco isn't ready for this. The quick swarm of emotion shuts him down. Then he's back.

  “Do you understand?”

  He blinks once.

  “Good boy. Now, you see this woman?” He holds the little portrait from the gutted locket between thumb and forefinger and thrusts it right up in Cisco's face.

  Blink.

  “That's your ever‐lovin' momma. Your own dear mother. Brian gives the portrait a slobbery kiss. “And do you know where she is?”

  Blink.

  “Full marks for the boy. That's right. She's dead.�
�

  Two blinks. Not “no,” he just has to blink.

  “Oh, yes, she is. And do you know why?”

  This time Cisco blinks twice only because he doesn't want any more pain. At the same time tumblers are falling into place. Missing elements of his past are surfacing. Like monsters from the deep, memories threaten to erupt full‐blown.

  “Because dear old Daddy killed her.”

  Blink, blink.

  “Yes, jolly old Leary is an asshole. A nasty man. Why do you think he's never told you he's your father, eh?”

  Cisco remembers his mother's death. The lady in the locket. If he dies here, with these perverts, he can handle it. Not that he has much choice. On the other hand, he senses in himself a drawing together, an adamant resolve to set things right that slams shut the habitual escape hatch. He is who he is, and he must live with that. And act upon it.

  “So now you know why we had to bring you here. Justice must be done, Randy, my boy. And it's payback time. Are you ready?”

  Cisco merely stares, assessing and assimilating the latest information. Despite everything, he feels a surge of happiness; he feels himself stronger for the knowledge that Leary is his father.

  “Don't be obtuse. Are you ready to kill dear old Daddy?”

  Cisco thinks it over and blinks once. “Yes.”

  “And so there's no mistake, we're referring to that bandy‐legged old fart up there on the monitor.

  “See this?” Brian holds up a hypodermic cylinder. “I have your antidote ready for when the time comes. That should make you pretty happy. I'll bet you've never even heard of the Oedipus complex. That's one of the things that went extinct along with marriage and parenthood and all that bullshit. Still, maybe you can get off on it anyway: you're going to kill the guy who was fucking your own mother. One of the guys who was fucking your mother. I'll still be here. And I'll still be fucking her, thanks to you and your lockets. That's supposing everything works the way it should, and I see no reason it shouldn't. Do you, Sweetie?”

  Sweetie looks less sure of this than he does.

  “Okay, Sweetie. Enough fun for now. It's back to basics. Use the bag.”

  The mere sight of the plastic bag threatens his newly won composure. He closes his good eye against her claws as she tugs the bag down and yanks the drawstring.

  “Just like old times, eh, my boy?”

  Buried alive. Suffocating. Meanwhile Sweetie's jerking at him with her other hand.

  He sees the way out. He'd discovered this escape route when he was a boy, when Sweetie would put the bag over his head, murmuring sweet nothings all the while, tweaking his nose, gauging his reactions through the transparent plastic.

  “I believe our Randy is ready, Sweetie. Yo, Sweetie! You can leave off now.”

  But this isn't Randy. Or maybe it is, partly, but Randy isn't in control. Each time Sweetie nearly suffocates Cisco, he senses new power in himself.

  Sweetie removes the bag and he sucks air with utter greed. There isn't enough air in the world; he gets what he can before he's denied again. At the same time Cisco is listening to voices. Inside his head. He doesn't hear them so much as he is them. A one‐man tank of mallster natter. There's the scared one, more a moan than a voice. And the oh‐boy, oh‐boy voice, although the youngster is also worried. And the Other, angry. Raging from a black‐red pit. Here's Sissie. Focused. Not whining. “Listen to me!” she says. Cisco is her voice, briefly, then he is his own again. Then he hears the Other's. He feels his fury. He's also afraid. “Help me.” At the same time he's strong. “No problem. Just hold on.” Reassuring. “They can't touch us.” Now the one with the brait is here. Like an older brother. And then Sissie's back, insistent. She wants all the voices to listen together. “Listen!” she says. “Listen to me.”

  Cisco holds onto himself for a moment. Then for moments. “Listen!” says Sissie. And he is listening to himself—he is Sissie, and she sees the same connection. He understands now that there is no Sissie—there is, and only ever has been, Cisco. And he is also the Other.

  The voices threaten to gibber away into anarchy, but now one persists, rises above the others. “Okay? Steady.” Like steel. Stronger. Harder. A patient voice suppressing the chaos. “Seize the brait,” says the Other. “Don't let it go.”

  They listen. Together. The Other, Sissie, the nine‐year‐old who's all of them at another time, even Randy. And Cisco Smith comes to himself. He's more than he ever knew.

  “Hey,” Brian says. “Does anybody know how much mushroom I've done? Wow, wow, wow.”

  •

  “What do you think of the 'shrooms, my boy? You sure don't say much.”

  The physical pain helps ground him. Cisco can still feel the wound in his shoulder, a mess of blood and mud, from where Sweetie removed the HIID. His medibots should have had it fixed it by now.

  “You know, my boy, I do have a real affection for you, whatever it may look like from time to time. And you won't be inhabiting this vale of sorrows much longer. So I'm thinking: maybe I should pop you in the cradle and let you have a go with Keeow. You remember the babe from Boon Doc's—the one with the bazongas out to here and hair down to her ass? A walkin', talkin', stiff‐cockin' advertisement for ebee love. She's learned it all, thanks in no small part to yours truly.” Brian coughs modestly, which triggers a phlegmy hacking. Tears streaming, he continues. “Boon Doc's. There'll be none of the old hands there, mind you. Leary's the last of them, in fact, and he's busy right now. Harglehargle.” His gargle escalates till he chokes. “But what the hell. The girls are as good as ever. In fact a few get better all the time.”

  Sweetie giggles fetchingly and squeezes at her dugs.

  “But what do you need with Keeow? I mean, here you are, having your first wet sex and all. Now admit it; it is your first time, isn't it? Come on. Yes or no? Answer me. Yo, Sweetie.”

  Yes, he blinks. Yes.

  “Two blinks. Is that 'no'?”

  Blink, blink.

  “Eh? Is that 'No, not no' or is it 'Yes, I meant no'?”

  Cisco just sits there. Sweetie looks at Brian brightly, awaiting the word.

  “Shit, I don't blame you. Even I'm confused by that one. But go ahead and give him a shot anyway, Sweetie.”

  He distances himself from the pain even as he takes stock. His resources are these, in no special order, since he doesn't know yet how he can deploy them. Brian believes he's able to trigger Randy at will, and he can't. And never mind it's bad news that Cisco will never meet the wet Sky, who doesn't exist; it's good news that, machine though she may be, she's still up and running, with access to the Lode, he assumes, and everything that Cisco reports. Finally, it's comforting to know he isn't completely on his own. Leary is still alive, a wild card.

  •

  “Your mother was a fox, my boy. But she had more than a killer smile and a great ass. She was smart. Still, it's beyond me, the way she pulled this off. Engineering her own downlode and partition, copying it onto memocubes and then erasing the original data from the Lode. All on her own. Eh, Sweetie?”

  Sweetie doesn't answer.

  To Cisco's mind, she looks evasive. Sweetie knows more than she's told Brian. One more forlorn report to the Lode. To Sky, he hopes.

  “And how did she get the cubes to Leary and you? Oh my, yes. She was smart, and she had guts. Real guts. At least till she left them draped all around my playroom. Isn't that right, Sweetie?”

  Sweetie smiles now, tentatively, but with what looks like genuine pleasure.

  “Talk about a fragging. Whew! That was one messy way of opping out. But I did have her backed up and everything, so it should have been no problem. Then somebody went and deleted her. Who knows who, eh?”

  “Who, who!” Sweetie says. “The owl knows who.”

  “Never mind. Now, my friends, we're going to put my Ellie back together again. Rabbit! Progress report.”

  “Testing.”

  “Testing, my ass. Testing my patience.” Nevertheless, Brian
looks happy. Then he changes his mind and scowls.

  “Go figure,” he says. “Why would a fine talented woman—brilliant, even, and beautiful—want to hang around with the likes of Leary? An ex‐oil platform manager, for fucksake, who figures beefsteak and bourbon is as good as it gets.” Clearly exasperated, Brian rocks back and forth. “A bandy‐legged fount of homespun platitudes. The author of the boringest book I've ever tried to read. I don't get it.”

  He whacks Pussy again, and the cat squalls. “I was the best god‐damned programmer there ever was. They made me spinmeister‐in‐chief. I was MOM. The Man. But never mind. There she was, running around with this rube who couldn't operate an adding machine. Your father, the fuckwit.

  “Do you know, he was ninety years old when he put Ellie up the stump with you. Ninety. She was only fifty‐four, and still a total knockout.”

  “It's loded,” Rabbit says.

  “What?”

  “The cube.”

  “Wow!” Brian says.

  Rabbit bustles officiously at the console. “It's up there. We're late; we're late. But we'll get something any minute now.”

  “Wow, wow, wow. Whoo‐eee. Get me to my cradle. Move!”

  •

  Sweetie looks after the huffing and puffing part of it as she and Rabbit rock Brian out of his ruts. Then Rabbit wheels him towards the cradle, where it should be a simple matter of transferring him from chair to suspension field. But nobody thinks to set the brake, and the wheelchair scoots back a couple of meters to dump Brian in the batshit.

  “Oh, fuck,” Sweetie says.

  “Oh, my,” says Rabbit. “Yes. Oh, fuck, indeed.”

  Brian lies on his side cursing and trying to get upright. The roach carpet sends out a couple of tentative tongues before retreating in face of Rabbit's spraycan to remain shimmeringly restive, disturbingly so for Cisco, who is having perceptual problems maybe related to the mushrooms.

  “Not good,” Rabbit says. “Not good at all.”

  Sweetie snickers.

  “Funny? You think this is funny?” Brian tries to shove himself upright with one spindly arm, heaving from side to side, a skinnier parallel to Pussy's frantic essays at rocking himself to his feet. Rabbit, in the meantime, is caught in a loop that has him stepping towards Brian and back again, towards Brian and back. Sweetie lifts Brian's stick and whacks Rabbit hard enough to straighten him out. Then she drops the stick and begins to reel around clutching at her chest. Sensing her distress, Rabbit grabs her and, embraced in a mad waltz, they reel around together, incidentally stepping on Pussy and eliciting a screech. Brian, meanwhile, is taken by a coughing fit that leaves him unable to draw breath.