by Rudy Rucker
He looked like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. His pithy fatness was diseased and unnatural. And as the smell of Della’s microwaved dinner floated out past her and through the door’s crack, he licked his lips in a wet, hungry way that was utterly revolting.
“Go away,” said Della, showing him the needler attached to her belt. The man took two steps backwards. On top of it all, he had a nasty limp. Della slammed the door closed and secured the bolts. Why the hell was Aunt Ilse giving out her new address to unny creeps? Hadn’t Della told all her goddamn family members that she needed very much to be alone? What would Aunt Ilse have to gain by giving out Della’s address—MONEY, for God’s sake? Couldn’t old Jason and Amy and Colin and Ilse EVER stop thinking about themselves?
One of the main reasons Della had taken that shady job with Yukawa on the Moon had been to get away from them all: her relatives, her friends, her acquaintances. Of course, in Einstein, it had all started up again, people bothering her, one way or another, boss and cops and leeches and so-called friends, not that Buddy Yeskin had been a bother, no, he’d been gentle as a lamb, and even less talkative. With all the merge, Buddy and Della had never needed to talk, which had been fine, not that merge was an experience that Della wanted to repeat anytime soon. As far as she was concerned, Einstein was a drag now, what with all the old merge crowd running around giving vizzy interviews—if Della went back, they’d scoop her up like money in the street, no thanks. And of course Yukawa was still throbbing his half-pervo torch for “poor Della Taze,” yes, even though Della wouldn’t ever answer, Max Yukawa still kept writing and calling her at her parents’, which had been yet another good reason to get her own private apartment. Della still had nightmares about the private Dr. Y. With all the merge nothing had mattered.
She got her chicken dinner out of the microwave and sat down at her dinette table facing the vizzy. One result of this kilp was that she’d gotten in the habit of watching the evening news. She could see all the people she wanted on the screen. There’d probably be something about Willy’s case—the verdict was expected any day.
The news had already started. Right now it was a live broadcast from the Einstein ISDN building: yet another interview with Stahn Mooney and Whitey Mydol, who sat grinning on two couches with their women, Wendy and Darla. Della knew Whitey and Darla from the merge scene: he was a ridgeback, and she was his rocker wife. Della had never run into Stahn Mooney, but she knew him from the family stories and from the old newsreels. Wendy was an exceptionally clear-skinned blonde woman. She was supposed to have amnesia.
Every sentient being on Moon or Earth knew the story by now. ISDN’s Dr. Max Yukawa, incensed by the boppers’ meatbop rape of Della Taze, had designed the chipmold that could fry their circuits. Whitey Mydol, outraged by the boppers’ abduction of his wife Darla Starr, had coerced Stahn Mooney into carrying some spores of Yukawa’s chipmold into the Nest. Mooney had accomplished his mission and had escaped the dead Nest with Darla and with the mysterious Wendy.
The moderator was handsome, personable Tobb Zununu. Della listened with interest, eating her food in large bachelor-gal mouthfuls.
Tobb:
How HARD did Whitey and ISDN pressure you to go, Stahn?
Stahn:
How low is up? A little. But, hey, I’m glad I got to save D and W. We had a heck of a climb out. We were lucky about the bubbletoppers, they were ultragood cladding pals. I still wear mine, it helps my bad brain.
(Close shot of the thick splotchy scarf around his neck.)
Stahn:
(Serious and open.) I call it a moldie. It’s a symbiote.
Tobb:
(Grinning.) Could be the start of a new fad. I notice this lovely young lady next to you is wearing one as well. (Sympathetically.) Wendy, we’re all still wondering where you’re from and what you were doing down in the Nest. Can you tell us a bit about your background?
Wendy:
(Radiant.) My body’s a tank-grown clone of Stahn’s dead wife Wendy, Tobb. He’s thrilled to bits to be living with the same wetware. Of course, growing up in an organ farm pink-tank doesn’t give a girl much of a preparation for city life, but I’ve got my moldie to help me out. (Slow, knowing laugh.) As soon as I get a chance to visit Earth, I’m planning to find my biological parents. And—can I tell him, Stahn?
Stahn:
(Beaming and fingering his scarf.) You sure can!
Wendy:
Yesterday we went ahead and got married!
Tobb:
That’s wonderful, Wendy. All of us wish you and Stahn a lot of luck. Any plans for the immediate future, Stahn? I understand you’ve become quite a wealthy man. Are you planning to settle down and relax?
Stahn:
(Sly smile.) Far from it, Tobb. Just wait and see.
Tobb:
(Guffawing to the camera.) Isn’t he something? A modern hero with the right stuff. Now let’s hear from Darla Starr. Darla, you’re pregnant, are you not?
Darla:
(Rapidly chewing gum.) Yeah. I’m expectin twins. (Chewing faster.) That’s why the boppers kidnapped me. (Starts to say something and stops.)
Tobb:
The twins would be Whitey’s children?
(General laughter.)
Darla:
Ask Whitey.
Whitey:
The kids are both normal. We ran some lab tests. The aminotypes check and, what’s more important, Darla’s gibberlin-free. This won’t be another Manchile, it’ll be two nice little girls. Darla and I are mongo psyched.
Tobb:
Well, there’s good news all around tonight, isn’t there? Congratulations! (Growing serious.) In a related Moon story, this afternoon I talked to Dr. Max Gibson-Yukawa about a question we’ve all been asking ourselves. Does the chipmold pose any danger to the humans or to the asimov computers of Einstein? Here is Dr. Yukawa’s reassuring response.
(Shot of Yukawa’s thin, thoughtful head, talking.)
Yukawa:
There is some slight risk in weakened individuals, Tobb. But most people who’ve had chipmold fever report that it’s no worse than a case of the flu. We are trying to develop a vaccine, but it is unfortunately true that the mold has an exceptionally rapid rate of genetic drift, making the discovery of any “silver bullet” more or less out of the question. (Glint of pride at his work.) The most serious problem is, I suppose, the fact that the mold is indeed affecting the functioning of our own asimov computers. (Big burst of static.) But there are many alternative computational technologies; indeed we at ISDN are now developing a chipless parallel computer based on cellular automata simulations within mold-infested flickercladding tissues.
Tobb:
(Talking fast.) Thank you, Dr. Yukawa. Other Moon stories tonight: Gimmie troops fail again in their attempt to enter the Nest, the ban on Moon-Earth travel has been extended, and there is panic on the stock exchange. But first, today’s report from Louisville with Suesue Piggot. Suesue?
Suesue:
Thank you, Tobb. I’m Suesue Piggot, live in Louisville. The controversial treason trial of Willy Taze and Luther and Geegee Johnson continued today. Pro-Thang demonstrators staged another protest outside the courthouse. It ended in violence.
(Shot of a few dozen people carrying signs reading, “Remember Manchile’s THANG!!” “NO MORE GENOCIDE” “Free WILLY” “LUTHER & GEEGEE are GOOD Folks” “We’re ALL THE SAME!” Gimmie officers wade in with clubs.)
Suesue:
Late this afternoon, the jury reached a unanimous verdict of guilty in each of the three cases, and Judge Lewis Carter has scheduled sentencing for next Monday.
(Mug shots of Luther and Geegee Johnson, followed by a slo-mo shot of Willy, worried and downcast, being led to a paddywagon, with his hands chained behind—
Willy guilty! The food stuck in Della’s throat. She hadn’t realized the meatbop conspiracy trial had progressed this far. She and the rest of the Tazes had been acquitted early on. Their lawyer had successfully arg
ued that the Tazes had had no possible way of knowing what Manchile was. Those tacky Doans were still trying to sue the Tazes for “contributing to the wrongful death” of Jimmy Doan—the xoxy bum that Bubba ate—but the Tazes’ lawyer Don Stuart assured Dad that the Doans didn’t have a chance, only Willy was liable, and you can’t sue a condemned man. Yes, all the Tazes were in the clear except for Cousin Will.
Willy had been seen driving Cobb and Cisco away from the Fairgrounds after Manchile was shot. He’d been arrested at home later that night. He’d refused to talk, but it came out that he’d taken Cobb and Cisco to Churchill Downs, where the Johnsons had helped them bring up Bubba. And now he’d been found guilty of treason, conspiracy, and abetting the murder of Jimmy Doan. Sweet, spacy Willy—what would the Gimmie do to him now? Treason was a death rap, wasn’t it? Oh Willy, poor Willy.
Della found herself wondering how Aunt Ilse must feel. Maybe the man whom Ilse had sent had something to do with Willy? Could he have been a lawyer? She put the vizzy in phone mode and called up Ilse to ask. It took a while to get through. Ilse was extremely upset.
“I can’t say who that puffy man is, Della, but he . . . he might be able to help. We’re desperate. Willy’ll get the death penalty; they’ll kill him like they killed my father! You have to stop being so selfish and aloof, Della, you have to take part! This is ALL YOUR FAULT, you thrill-seeking little twit!”
Della disengaged herself and clicked off the vizzy. Ilse’s words hurt, but what could she do? She paced back and forth and then went to look out her window at the street four stories below. There was a man sitting on a bench down there, dark and huddled. After a while he glanced up, and the streetlight caught the side of his face. It was the man from before. Della realized she’d known he would be waiting.
She stepped back from the window and weighed her needler in her hand. What was it about that guy? She thought of Willy’s face and Ilse’s voice. “You have to take part.”
“Xoxxox,” said Della and put on a windbreaker. She shoved the hand with the needler in her coat pocket and went downstairs.
The man saw her coming. As she approached, he got up from his bench and started limping slowly down the tree-lined sidewalk. Della fell in step with him.
“Who are you?”
“Guess.”
The answer hit Della. Of course. They’d never found Bubba’s body.
“You’re . . . ”
“That’s right, Grandma. I’m Bubba.”
“Oh my. Bubba. You told Ilse?”
“She guessed. It’s not hard. I called her on the vizzy after I heard about Willy. I have a way to get him out, but I need a little help.”
A bus chugged past. A raw, wet early March wind was blowing.
“Can’t Ilse help you?”
“She’s too closely watched. I just need for you to get me the original of that last cephscope tape that Willy made. Right before they arrested him. I saw part of it at La Mirage, and I need to see it again.”
“What’s on it?”
“Are you going to help?” Bubba’s voice was tight and strained, and he kept looking around. “I don’t like being with you, Della, I don’t like talking to humans. They killed everyone I loved, and they shot off my balls, and they’re hunting me like an—”
“They . . . they shot off—”
“Yeah, Grandma, so don’t worry about getting raped. They got me in the junkyard, right when I was thirteen. I’m forty now. I know it was wrong to eat the bum, but—” They were well out of the streetlight now. Bubba stopped and stared into Della’s face. In the faint city glow, his puffy cheeks and jowls disappeared. His thin mouth and sharp little nose looked scared and boyish. “Will you help?”
“Yes,” said Della, unable to refuse. “I will. Where should I leave the tape?”
“Give it to one of the bartenders on the Belle of Louisville. I’ve been hiding there. Belle’s a hundred-gigaflop bopper, as you must know from Willy. I’ve gotten almost all her asimov circuits down, and I think Willy’s tape codes up the last step I need. I saw it once, but I didn’t have time.” A car turned onto their street a block away. Bubba was itching to go. “OK?”
“AO,” said Della, giving Bubba’s hand a secretive pat. He flinched and stepped away. The car drove past and then it was dark again, with the only sound the gusting of the raw spring air in the skeletal trees.
Della gave Bubba a reassuring smile, remembering her nice walks with the five-day-old Manchile. Poor little thing. “And, Bubba, don’t feel so bad about eating that Doan man. From what I’ve seen of his family, he was a zero and a jerk. Hell, your father ate my dog Bowser when HE turned twelve.” Della laughed ruefully. “That’s when I told him to leave.”
A flicker of a smile. “That’s rich, Granny Dell. So thanks a lot. You get that tape and give it to Ben: he’s a bartender on the Belle. We’ll spring Willy if we can.” Another car in the distance. Bubba tapped his mouth and ear in the same privacy gesture he’d used before, and cut off down the street. Half a block and he turned onto a sidestreet, shooting a last glance at Della, who stood there watching him go.
She had her keys in her pocket, so it was easy to go into her building’s garage and get her car, a Pascal Turbo. She drove out on Eastern Parkway and turned onto the street where Colin and Ilse lived.
There were two cops or reporters staked out in a car, but Della jumped out of her Turbo and ran up the front walk before they could talk to her. Ilse opened as soon as she rang.
“Della!”
Thin old Ilse looked strong as ever, though her face was lined with worry. She ushered Della into the living room and served tea, fingering the heavy beads of her necklace as she talked. Her hands were trembling.
“I imagine it’s bugged here, Della, so we should be careful what we say, not that I really give a good goddamn. I guess you know that Judge Lewis Carter is a notorious antibopper pig? Willy’s going to get the death penalty.”
“That’s . . . that’s awful. I’m so sorry. But—”
“I shouldn’t have called you a thrill-seeking little twit, Della. It’s true, of course, or it used to be true, but I shouldn’t have said it. You were a sweet girl when you were younger, and Willy was always very fond of you. Perhaps you’ll change.”
“I know I had a bad period recently, Aunt Ilse. But—”
“Have you seen any of our relatives today?” asked Ilse with odd emphasis. Della realized that she meant Bubba. One glimpse of Bubba on her vizzy, and Ilse had known who he was. She’d always been like that: nosy, sharp-eyed and quick on the uptake.
Della gave a slight nod and stood up. “Do you think I can borrow some of Willy’s cephscope tapes? They might help me feel . . . closer to him.”
“Whatever you need, dear.”
Della went downstairs and looked around Willy’s room, crowded with his toys—though Willy had always called them scientific instruments—his lasers and viewers and sculpture supplies and his cephscope. Twenty or thirty tapes were lined up by the cephscope. Della took four of them, making sure to include the one labelled “January 21, 2031.”
She went back upstairs and chatted with Ilse a bit more. Somehow they got onto old times, and onto Ilse’s memories of Cobb. For the first time it struck Della how really central her whole family was to the bopper/human nexus. For the first time she viewed herself as a part of something larger than herself. Filled with calm and a renewed determination, Della went outside. A man and a woman were waiting. Reporters. Or cops.
“Miz Taze,” shouted the woman, a pushy yup. “What will you do if they execute your cousin?” The man kept a camera pointed at Della’s face. “Do you feel it’s all your fault?” yelled the yup.
“I’m sorry,” said Della, automatically reverting to her old bland passivity before she could catch herself. “I have to go.” Damn, Della, she found herself thinking right away. You can do better than that.
The two reporters followed her out to her car, still looking for a big reaction. “Why do the
Tazes like robots better than people?” asked the woman.
Della stared at the woman’s smug bland entitled face. YOU’RE the robot, Della wanted to say, not Berenice, not Cobb, not Manchile, and not Bubba. YOU’RE the robot, bitch. But that kind of talk wouldn’t do just now. She needed to help Willy.
Filled with her newfound sense of family solidarity, Della gathered her wits and spoke right into the camera. “Let me answer that with another question. Why is it so important for some people to think of boppers as mindless machines? Why do zerks laugh at monkeys in a zoo? Why do rich people say that poor people are getting what they deserve? Why don’t you show compassion for your fellow creatures? If you drop your selfishness, you can lose your guilt. And, wave it, once your guilt is gone, you won’t need to hate. Good-bye.”
The cameraman said something nasty about Thangies, but then Della was in her car and on her way downtown to the Belle. She felt better than she’d felt in a long time. She got to the Belle about nine o’clock. The closed-in lower deck was lit and crowded. There was music and dancing and a long dark bar. One brown-skinned bopper stood behind the bar, while his two fellows moved around the room, cleaning up and bringing people fresh drinks. Della sat down at the bar and gave the bartender a significant glance.
He picked up on it and came right over.
“Yazzum?”
“A Drambuie, please. Is your name Ben?”
“Sho is. Ah knows yo name, too.”
“That’s good.” Della had her purse up on the bar, and now she jolted it forward so that the four tapes spilled out onto the bar’s other side. “Oh, how clumsy of me.”
“Ah’ll git ’em, mam.” Ben bent down behind the bar, and then stood up, handing Della back three tapes.
