by Rudy Rucker
The West West lawyer—a tall, soft curly-haired guy called Stu Koblenz—gave me a ride back to Los Perros in his car. Vans and cars with reporters followed us down the freeway. When we got to my house, there were so many newspeople standing there that I was scared to get out. I had my keys, and my car was still there in the driveway, but I didn’t see any way to get out without being totally mobbed.
“Just drive on past and drop me down in Los Perros, Stu. I’ll come back here on foot later.”
“Okay.”
As we motored past my home, I noticed a piece of paper tacked to the front door. An eviction notice? A sheriff’s sequestration? “Tat tvam asi,” as the mantra goes. “And this too.” Back in my thirties, before I filled my heart with computer code, I had a few periods of total spiritual enlightenment, or so I’d imagined. All is One, and each event is a gem facet of the One, even a Pig scrawl on your front door. Enlightenment is a big help in crisis times, though the rest of the time there’s still the unyielding question of what to do with the rest of your life.
Down in Los Perros, I directed Stu to drive briskly around the block and whip into an alley, leaving our tail momentarily out of sight. I hopped out, ran into the back door of Mountain Pizza, and stepped out of the front.
There on the sidewalk was a rack of evening newspapers. My picture was on the front page with the headlines:HACKER ARRESTED
Television Blackout To Continue
GOMOTION DENIES RESPONSIBILITY
I bought a copy and folded it in half. Down the block was a clothes store. I went in and bought a 49ers sweatshirt. To complete my disguise I bought one of those moronic billed caps with a plastic strap in back—the kind of hat that people who watch television wear.
I went around the corner to an Irish bar called D.T. Finnegan’s, a publike space with green carpets, dark wood wainscoting, and antique stained glass windows. The bartender there knew me, but I sat at a table with my back to him and with my billed cap pulled down so he wouldn’t notice me. His name was Tommy. At this very moment he was, in fact, discussing my case with the men at the bar.
“A nice guy,” he was telling them. The three TV screens over the bar were blank. I found the silence wonderful, but the men did not. They were sullen and bewildered. There was some kind of sports event they wanted to be watching. “He comes in here afternoons when he gets tired of programming,” Tommy was saying. “He’s kind of an old hippie.”
“They ought to castrate him,” someone opined.
“People will go nuts with no TV,” another one put in. “I can’t face going home tonight. What the hell am I going to do all evening?”
The waitress came to me and I ordered a beer and a barbecued pork sandwich. I was very hungry. While I waited for the food, I studied the newspaper. There was no TV working anywhere on the planet save for the few remaining analog backwaters—Borneo, Peru, New Guinea, Zaire, Micronesia. The “GoMotion ant virus” was believed to have been released by Jerzy Rugby, a disaffected programmer recently fired by GoMotion. Nancy Day, the president of GoMotion, promised that a “GoMotion ant lion” would soon be available to set things right. I guessed that Nancy Day, whom I’d never met, was fronting for Roger. There was a big sidebar article with some Q&A on the situation.
Q: What is GoMotion Inc.?
A: GoMotion Inc. of Santa Clara is a manufac turer of custom software kits for assembling
intelligent machinery. They are best-known for the Iron Camel dune buggy, which has sold 1.5 million units worldwide. Their next product is to be a line of build-it-yourself home robot kits called the GoMotion Veep.
Q: Why were the GoMotion ants developed?
A: The GoMotion ants are an example of artifi cial life, which refers to computer programs that change and evolve on their own. GoMotion says the ant programs were designed for research use only. For practical and cost-cutting reasons, the ants were evolved to live on the inexpensive, readily available chips that are found in DTV equipment.
Q: How did the ants spread?
A: A rogue prototype Veep robot used a laser scanner to feed the programs into Fibernet San Jose. The entry point for the infection was a cut Fibernet cable on White Road in San Jose.
Q: Who is to blame?
A: The robot, who is called Studly, was in the possession of Jerzy Rugby, a programmer, who was recently fired by GoMotion Inc. Rugby has now been indicted by a California state grand jury on charges of criminal tres- pass, computer intrusion, and extreme cruelty to animals. In addition, a federal grand jury is preparing to indict him on charges of sabotage of a public utility, contamination of cable services, destruction of national defense utilities,
and treason. Rugby is currently free on $3 million bail. The bail was posted by attor ney Stuart Koblenz, representing Seven Lucky Overseas.
Q: What is Seven Lucky Overseas?
A: Seven Lucky Overseas is a Taiwanese-based company that has a history of competing for the same markets as GoMotion Inc. Their first U.S. daughter company, GoWheels Inc., was successfully sued by GoMotion Inc. for copy right infringement. Their most infamous sub sidiary company was Meta Meta, which produced a robot called the Choreboy. In a grotesque holiday mishap, a Choreboy killed a baby by sticking a meat thermometer into the child’s heart and roasting it in place of a Thanksgiving turkey. Meta Meta went into Chapter 11 and reorganized as West West, which is slated to release a robot called the Adze. The Adze robot will be comparable to the GoMotion Veep.
Q: How soon will TV broadcasts resume?
A: GoMotion officials have promised that a free “GoMotion ant lion” program will be avail able from them within 48 hours. Like the ants, the ant lion program will be a self-replicating computer virus. According to GoMotion, however, the ant lion will be a benevolent virus that takes up residence on DTV chips and devotes its energy solely to finding and eradicating all GoMotion ants which may arrive. If the FCC agrees to the release of the GoMotion ant lions, and if the ant lions are
indeed successful, then normal digital broad casting could resume in a matter of days.
Q: What can I do in the meantime?
A: The ant virus affects all digital TV, whether transmitted by broadcast, cable, or satellite. If you have an older TV set—the kind with rabbit ears and a manual channel selector knob—then you may be able to receive analog TV signals from a variety of local ATV, or amateur TV, channels that transmit in this form. See the TV & Entertainment section for information about the best of ATV and about how to retrofit your set.
Q: What about rental movies?
A: CDs, S-cubes, and downloadable video all use the same digital compression technolo gies as broadcast DTV and are thus subject to the same interference from the GoMotion ants.
Q: Are other communications media in danger?
A: There have been no reports of interference with radio or with voice telephone, whether in analog or digital form. There have been numerous sightings of GoMotion ants on the digital cyberspace Net, although as yet no data damages have been reported. Expunging the GoMotion ant virus from cyberspace could prove more difficult than removing it from TV. The reason is that there is a much greater diversity of “ecological niches” for artificial life-forms to inhabit in cyberspace.
Q: Is this just the first wave of a new generation of computer viruses?
A: If the GoMotion ants are able to permanently establish themselves in cyberspace, they could undergo a process like evolution and become ever more destructive and harder to kill. This would be analogous to the way in which each winter’s flu viruses are immune to the vaccines of the year before. Conceivably the cyberspace-based ants could periodically reinfect television. The most pessimistic pre diction is that DTV-busting viruses are here to stay, and that digital television is a thing of the past.
While I was reading, the food and beer had come, and I’d been consuming them. Now I was done eating, and I’d paid the waitress off. I wasn’t sure what to do next.
“Jerzy!”
I looked
up. It was Gretchen Bell, standing over me and smiling. She was wearing a short pleated plaid skirt with a pale yellow sweater. She looked languidly lively. “I was just talking about you! Everyone in my office has been asking me what you’re like!”
Tommy the bartender heard Gretchen saying my name, and now he hailed me, too. “Jerzy Rugby! The man who killed television!” A hubbub of voices ensued.
“Can I come over to your house, Gretchen?” I asked quickly.
“My apartment? I thought you said you were going to take me to the Mark Hopkins in San Francisco.” She laughed softly, keeping me hanging. “Well, let’s see. I have to go to Safeway, and I have to pick up some dry-cleaning. But after that, okay.” She gave me a good smile. She had the hots for me as much as I did for her. And now I was famous. “Do you know where I live?”
Someone tapped my shoulder, the same man who’d said I should be castrated. I kept my back to him and leaned toward Gretchen.
“I’m going to need a ride out of here. Like right now?”
“All right.”
“Are you some kind of goddamn terrorist?” demanded the castration advocate.
“I’m a software engineer,” I said as I turned. “What happened was an industrial accident.” I stepped around him and called a good-bye to the bartender. “Gotta go, Tommy! Sorry I can’t discuss the case!” There were plenty of other people who wanted to talk to me, but a minute later we were driving off in Gretchen’s car, a sputtering ten-year-old yellow Porsche.
“I bought this from an old boyfriend for two thousand dollars,” Gretchen told me. “Not bad, hey?”
“You must have a lot of boyfriends,” I essayed. I still knew almost nothing about Gretchen. “What kind of office do you work in?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’m a mortgage insurance broker and I work part-time at Welsh & Tayke. With Susan Poker?”
“Susan Poker! She’s my worst enemy! She’s the one who turned me in! Did you talk to her about me?”
“Sure, Jerzy. I tell all my friends the exact intimate sensual details about every relationship I ever have.” Gretchen tossed her bell of long straight hair and glanced over to smile at me. “Not. Well, okay, yesterday I may have told Susan that you and I were intimate. She was fascinated. I think she has a thing for you.”
“Did you tell her about the ants in my computer?”
“What is this, a quiz show?” Gretchen swung into the Safeway parking lot. “Do you have any money yet?”
“Here.” I handed her a twenty. “I’ll wait in the car.”
“Do you like anything special for breakfast?” The assumption behind the question made my heart beat faster.
“Low-fat milk. English muffins. Maybe get some wine or beer for tonight.”
“Can I have two more twenties?” Her blue eyes gazed at me calmly.
“Jesus, Gretchen.” I handed her the bills.
She started across the lot, tall and willowy, with her skirt swaying beautifully, and then she turned and walked partway back to me. “What about condoms?” she called.
The boldness of the question made my throat contract with lust, and my voice came out thin and reedy. “I don’t have any with me.”
“Well you better get some at the Walgreen’s over there.”
“Yes.” It was hard to imagine that this was the same Safeway parking lot where I had so often shopped with Carol. Walking across the lot, I half-expected Carol to pop up and ask me what I was doing.
As soon as Gretchen and I were done with our shopping, we went to her apartment and fucked. It was just as good as it had been on Monday; it was so good it made me change the way I think.
During my twenty-three years with Carol, I’d always thought—in some deep, unreasoning way—that there was something unique about Carol herself that made sex possible. I’d always acted on the assumption that Carol was the one physiologically compatible organism with whom the being Jerzy Rugby could successfully mate.
Yet now, with Gretchen, I realized—way down in my soul—that it was indeed possible to have sex with people besides Carol. Monday I’d been too surprised for it to sink in. But, yes, sex with Gretchen was just as great as with Carol. For the first time since Carol had left me, I realized that perhaps I could continue life without her. I still missed Carol’s personality—the tender music of her voice (when she was in a good mood), and the rich play of her conversation (when she was speaking to me)—but now I realized that I did not need to miss Carol’s body. How liberating; how sad.
Gretchen and I fell asleep in each other’s arms. Sometime in the middle of the night the phone rang. Gretchen picked it up.
“Hi. Umm-hmmm. Scrumptious. No, no. For sure! Bye.”
Gretchen set down the phone and embraced me. We kissed and went back to sleep.
In the morning I got up and took a piss. Regally nude, I wandered into the kitchen for some food. I hadn’t even thought yet to start worrying about my legal troubles. Just then someone tapped softly on the door. I harkened, and the tap came again, tinny on the hollow metal of the apartment door.
“Jerzy, can you get it?” croaked sleepy Gretchen from the bedroom.
“Who is it?” I asked, hurrying back in there to pull on my khaki shorts.
“Oh, it’s one of my friends. A woman.” Gretchen snuggled her head deep into her pillow and closed her eyes. “You talk to her. I’ll get up in a second.”
The soft tap-tapping had a bland implacability that set my nerves on edge. I found my glasses right away, but it was taking me forever to find my watch and wallet. Tappity-tap. The tapping was rushing me, the tapping was telling me what to do, the tapping was making me feel like a stupid doomed animal that tries to flee an oncoming locomotive by running straight down the track.
“I don’t want to answer the door,” I hissed to Gretchen as I pulled on my argyles and buckled my sandals. “And how can you be sure it’s your friend? Who knows I’m here? Who called you on the phone last night?”
“Go answer the door.”
So like an idiot I did. And guess what? It was Susan Poker.
“Mr. Rugby,” said she, smiling in a new, more personal, though still not very friendly, way. Her sharp curious eyes roved rapidly over me. “We meet again!”
“Oh God. I don’t believe this. Susan Poker.” I looked past her to see who she’d brought in tow—but for now nobody was visible. She made as if to walk into the apartment but I held the door half-closed so as to block her way.
Rage was flaring up in me; I had to struggle to stay calm. Don’t use curse words, I told myself. Don’t be violent. One wrong move and Susan Poker would have the cops on me like stink on shit. I put my head through some major changes and choked out a civil sentence.
“What is your business here?”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Rugby, I was hoping to discuss real estate with you.” She was wearing a green silk suit with a yellow scoopneck blouse. Her shoes matched her suit. I was shirtless. “Gretchen,” called Susan Poker, using her voice to reach past me. “Tell your gentleman friend it’s safe to let me in!”
I sighed and stepped aside. Susan Poker closed the door behind her and Gretchen appeared from the bedroom, sexy and soft-eyed, dressed in a pale blue bed jacket over a silky, creamy button-up nightie.
“Well, Gretchen,” said Susan Poker. “Is Jerzy any good?”
By way of answer, Gretchen gave a whoop of laughter.
“That’s a yes,” I claimed, and Gretchen didn’t contradict me.
“Shall I make coffee?” suggested Susan Poker. “I know where everything is.”
“Thanks,” said Gretchen. “I want to take my shower.” She waggled her fingers and closed her bedroom door with a last injunction that we “Be nice to each other!”
“Was it you who called Gretchen last night?” I asked Susan Poker.
“I wanted to be sure she was safe. We single gals have to look out for each other. But I’m here this morning because I want to talk to you.”
“About
real estate? Why don’t we talk about how you turned me in?”
“Oh, you think I called the police? No, no. I just heard them on my scanner. Since I have an interest in your dwelling—and in you—I got there as fast as I could.”
“Why would a Realtor have a police scanner?”
“All the agencies have one. We need to know right away when a property is about to go on the market.”
“Like when the owner dies?”
“It’s dog eat dog, Jerzy. But, no, I didn’t turn you in. Until I heard the call it hadn’t occurred to me that it was you who launched the GoMotion ants. That was over on the east side. Terrible property values there.” She gazed at me pleasantly, her face as blank and smooth as a cyberspace mannequin’s. There was no way to tell if she was lying. This branch of the conversation had reached a dead end.
“So what was the real estate deal you wanted to talk to me about? You’re getting me evicted, right?”
“You’re so suspicious, Mr. Rugby! No, the deal is that I think you should acquire the Nutt property.”
“I don’t have a million dollars.”
“You posted three million in bail, didn’t you?”
“My new employer posted it for me.”
“Just tell them to buy you the house.” She leaned forward and laid her hand on my forearm. “Did you know that property is as good as cash for a bond? I double-checked the legalities yesterday afternoon. Your employer could convert part of the bond money into a deed on the house and simply post the deed. Your trial and appeals could drag on for a year or more, and in that time, the Nutt property would probably appreciate by twenty percent. As long as that million dollars just sits there as bond, it isn’t drawing any interest whatsoever. If I work like mad, I can put the whole deal through in thirty days!”
“Well . . .”
“Just give me the name of the person you called to get your bail.”
“I . . .” Again I felt like a rabbit running from a locomotive. “I’ll think about it. But I’m not sure I want that house, and I don’t want to turn around and ask my new boss for another big favor right off the bat.”
