The Ware Tetralogy

by Rudy Rucker

  He rolled over on his side, taking a mental inventory of himself. He felt pretty good. He was all through with school. He sat up on the edge of his bed and looked around the garage—at his dresser and desk sitting among the drums of raw pipe plastic and the cabinets of plumbing machine parts. His clothes hangers dangled from a wire slung up under the ceiling. Sue’s truck and Lewis’s hydrogen cycle were gone. Randy had a stubborn erection; the sensory amplification of his hangover/stoneover made him riggish. He decided to go on over to Honey’s; today was her day off.

  Randy put on a sleeveless T-shirt, baggy shorts, and plastic sandals. He ate some milk and bread out of his mother’s fridge and ambled down the street toward Honey’s.

  It was a hot Kentucky day, the air so thick with humidity that your skin got slick with sweat if you moved fast. The cracks in the old concrete streets and sidewalks were lush with weeds. Gnats whined everywhere. The weeds and the bushes and grasses exuded a steamy warmth. Each of the Shively houses was like the one next to it, each the same ceramic-coated box, each with a slightly different trim pattern around the front door.

  Honey was home all right, but when Randy walked in, she turned red-faced and tearful. “Don’t come near me!” cried Honey. “No more! All them things you and me did was wrong, Randy Karl!”

  “Now what are you talkin’ about, Honey? Are you mad Sue wouldn’t let me ask you to the graduation?”

  “Everything we done was wrong!” repeated Honey. “Especially the things with Angelika and . . . and with Sammie-Jo. Dr. Dicky Pride at the Shively Heritage House told me so. Yes, when you and your mamma didn’t ask me to your graduation last night, I went to the service at the Heritage House. And now I’ve done been born again. I was up past midnight with Dr. Pride a-prayin’ over me.”

  At first Randy thought Honey was playing with him, and he began to beseech her and to abase himself like she’d taught him to do. “Forgive me, Mistress Honey. Your will is my will. Do anything you like to me,” said Randy, groveling at her feet and unzipping his fly. “But, um, please do something. I’m horny as hell from all that beer and snap I had last night.”

  “Only thing you and me might ever do together again, Randy Karl Tucker, is goin’ to meetings over to the Shively Heritage House,” said Honey, flouncing to the other side of the room and sitting down in a straight-backed chair with her arms crossed. “I’m through bein’ the goddamn Whore of Babylon. I’ve cleansed my body’s temple.”

  “Um—what about Angelika and Sammie-Jo? Can I have ’em?”

  “Dr. Pride said I should bring them to the Heritage House, but—yeah, you take ’em. I’d be ashamed to bring them in. What if Dr. Pride asked me to hold them up and like go, ‘This is my dildo that my boy toy and his mommy and me fucked each other with so many taahms, and this is the sheet I used to piss on him with, and—’ ” Honey’s voice broke into shrill brittle laughter—or was it tears?

  Sitting in the chair across the room, she stretched out her trembling arm to point at the closet where she kept her imipolex sex toys. “Take em the hell out of here right now, Randy Karl! Take ’em and git!” She began crying hard, and Randy tried to pet her, but there was no way.

  He took Sammie-Jo and Angelika home and masturbated with them. It was okay, though nowhere near as hot as it had always been with Honey at the controls. Angelika and Sammie-Jo weren’t smart enough to be really fun. For the first time Randy started wondering what it would be like to have sex with fully intelligent and autonomous moldies instead of with these imipolex DIM-equipped toys. After he’d come, he washed Angelika and Sammie-Jo, let them lay out in the sun for a while, and then put them in the back of one of the cabinet drawers near his bed in the garage.

  Randy kept on mooning around Honey’s the rest of that summer—mowing her lawn, doing her dishes, anything at all—but to no avail. The only thing Honey liked to do anymore was to go to meetings at the Shively Heritage House. So in August Randy started going with her.

  Randy was certainly no Mr. Sophisticated, but he’d never seen such a bunch of losers, geeks, and feebs as he found at the Heritage House meetings—all the people raving about Jesus and the Heritage of Man and about how much they hated the moldies. The Heritagists were highly exercised over the Moldie Citizenship Act that Senator Stahn Mooney of California had managed to railroad through Congress back in 2038. Even though Mooney had been out of office for years now, Congress still hadn’t mustered the will to repeal that hellacious moldie-lovin’ Act. What an outrage! Another big area of interest was, of course, all the perverse permutations of sex made possible by moldies, uvvies, and imipolex.

  Randy would try and catch Honey’s eye sometimes when Dicky Pride would go off about moldies and imipolex—Randy fondly remembering the steamy sessions with Honey and her toys—but Honey would just look away. Her small mind had shifted gears and there was nothing to do about it.

  Meanwhile Randy was doing more and more plumbing. The customers Sue had given him were passing his name on to their friends; he was known for doing fast, solid work for the best price around. He was a whiz with the pipe-gun. But it was getting really hard to live at home. Lewis was in his face all the time, acting like he was Randy’s father or something—what a joke. Lewis had picked up some kind of drug habit, a cocaine analog called pepp. Like coke, pepp had the effect of making stupid people think they were smart. And the smarter Lewis felt, the more insufferable he became. It was time for Randy to move out, but now it turned out that Sue didn’t want him to, and she was stalling on the master plumber’s certificate to keep Randy at home.

  At Christmas, Honey’s mother in Indianapolis died of cancer, and Honey, the sole child, moved there with her new Heritagist girlfriend Nita to take over her mother’s comfortable estate: a paid-up retrofitted tract home near the Speedway and a well-deployed range of cash credits on the $Web. Dr. Dicky Pride alerted the Indianapolis branch of the Human Heritage Council, and they were prepared to welcome the grieving Honey and Honey’s companion with open arms.

  When Randy heard Honey was moving, he went over to her house and asked her if he could leave town with her and Nita. But Honey chose to be a real bitch about it.

  “Face it, Randy, you was nothing more than my boy toy. A kid I liked to piss on. Get over it. It was only because of Sue that you was important to me. And by the way, you can tell Sue she’s a cold-hearted xoxxin’ bitch.”

  This was way too frank. Randy felt small and used, used and abused. His poor young heart broke clean through that day, and felt like it would never heal again.

  What with his nonexistent social life and the bad situation at home, Randy kept going to the Shively Heritage House meetings that winter. No matter what he thought about the Heritagists’ beliefs, he had the ability to blend in with them real well. He’d seen an uvvy show once about some beetles that live in anthills because they can trick the ants into feeding them. The Heritage House was an anthill Randy could live in.

  Dr. Dicky Pride liked asking Randy to repair little things, and soon—it wasn’t clear which of them originally proposed it—Dr. Pride arranged for Randy to move into the Heritage House as a “seminarian.” The Heritage House—really just an oversized Shively home—had a big garage with a second floor, and Dr. Pride turned the garage over to Randy rent-free.

  Sue gave Randy some of her older plumbing equipment, and Randy used his savings to buy his own pipe-gun and his own whipped-to-shit panel truck. The day Randy moved out, Sue finally pulled the right strings to get Randy his master plumber’s certificate.

  Randy lived alone up in the room over the Heritage House garage, and for sex he still had Angelika and Sammie-Jo. Whenever Randy asked them to, which was just about every night, Angelika would turn into a vaginal sheath with an extra flap that would ruck up tight and caressing around Randy’s balls, while at the same time Sammie-Jo would smother Randy’s face with a divinely smelly moldie hood pursed into folded, female shapes. When he was finished, Randy always made sure to open the window wide to air ou
t the toy moldies’ cheesy reek. And in the mornings he let the algae-veined limpware goodies “feed” by sitting out in the daylight while he dressed and had breakfast.

  One rainy night in March, there were footsteps up the stairs to Randy’s room just as Randy was in the midst of an onanistic sex party. A passkey slid into his lock and the door swung open. A trapezoid of light came in from the stairwell to lie across Randy Karl’s engorged nudity.

  “Hi, Randy.” Dr. Dicky Pride stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and turned on the light. “Don’t be embarrassed, son. I expected to find you this way. I’ve been able to smell what you do up here nights. And of course Honey told me all about you.” Dr. Pride was carrying a pink imipolex dildo, slender and not so long as Angelika. He waggled it rakishly, then ran his nose along the length of the moldie imipolex penis—sniffing it full savourily. Though it was a cold night, Dr. Pride’s face was damp with perspiration.

  “Isn’t he a beauty, Randy Karl? I call him Dr. Jerry Falwell.”

  “What do you want?” said Randy, pulling his bedsheet up to his chin to cover him and Angelika and Sammie-Jo. “You shouldn’t of barged in here, Dr. Pride.”

  “Struggle though we might, we’re both miserable cheeseballs, son. We’ve got to stick together. Do me like you did Honey. Or I can do you. You’re a very attractive and virile young man.”

  “I ain’t gonna do nothing with you, Dr. Pride. You’ve been good to me, I know. But I just ain’t interested in sex with people no more, and if I was a-goin’ to do anything, it would be with a woman. I’ll move out of here as soon as you like. But no way am I a-stickin’ Dr. Jerry Falwell up your butt for you. Now, please git on out of here and leave me alone.”

  Randy and Dr. Pride didn’t explicitly mention the incident to each other during the following days, but they both agreed that it was time for Randy to graduate from being a seminarian and to leave the Shively Heritage House.

  “You ought to go on a mission, Randy Karl,” suggested Dr. Pride. “The Human Heritage Council is very well connected—and I’m talking worldwide. We’ve got Heritage Houses and missionaries everywhere. The Council can act as a very effective placement service. I’ve already sent in my very top recommendation for you, by the way. Uvvy in to the Council’s central server and see what they can find for you. A spirited young man like you needs to get out and see the world!”

  Dr. Pride left Randy alone with the Heritage House uvvy, and Randy logged into the Council’s central machine, a huge asimov slave computer located under a mountain in Salt Lake City, Utah, just like the Mormons’ genealogy computer. The uvvy fed Randy an image showing an a-life clerk in a sterile virtual reality office. The clerk was meant to look like a wholesome young daughter of the Great Plains, but the illusion was unconvincing. The computation was crude enough that Randy could see the facets of her body’s polygonal meshes, and several of the facets were incorrectly colored in. For a few moments the figure sat stiff and blank, but then some signal from Randy’s uvvy animated her.

  “Hello there,” she said. Her voice was shrill and perky. “You’re Randy Karl Tucker from the Shively, Kentucky, Heritage House, I believe? Yes? Terrif. You can call me Jenny. How can I help you?”

  “Um, I’m a-thinkin’ about gettin’ out of town,” said Randy. “Like a mission or a job somewheres else? I’ve got me a master plumber’s certificate.”

  “Yes, we already have that information, Randy.” Jenny woodenly pretended to look through some papers on her desk. “Master plumber is very good. And your minister Dr. Pride speaks very highly of you. I wonder—could you tell me frankly what you think of him?”

  “Well, he’s a good preacher. He packs ’em in.”

  “We’ve heard some rumors that he’s a . . . cheeseball?”

  “I ain’t never had sex with him, and I don’t plan to. So don’t ask me. Just help me get to heck outta here.”

  “What kind of sex do you like, Randy?” Jenny morphed her faces’ polygons into a conspiratorial smile. A few of her cheeks’ smaller triangles flickered to dark, making it look as if Jenny had blackheads. Or stubble. “You can tell Jenny. Jenny knows lots of secrets. Do you like toy moldies?”

  “Looky here, I thought this was supposed to be a job-search session. And what if I am interested in moldies? That’s a good enough reason to be a Heritagist, ain’t it? Just like it’s all drunks that goes to AA.”

  Jenny emitted a laugh. “I won’t pry any further, Randy. I just wanted to make sure you don’t mind being around moldies and imipolex. Because the job I’ve found for you—have you ever heard of Bangalore, India? Look.”

  A world globe appeared in front of Jenny and rotated to bring India into view, hanging like a fat udder from the Asian landmass. A little red dot pulsed down in the center of the teat’s tip.

  “It’s on a plateau and has a pleasant climate,” said Jenny. “It’s quite modern and Western, very high-tech. It’s one of the only cities in India that sells beer on tap. Hindustan Aeronautics is there, also Indian Telephone Industries, Bharat Electronics, and Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd. The world’s largest manufacturer of imipolex. Emperor Staghorn needs a pipe fitter; a master plumber.”

  “The folks who make moldie plastic are gonna take the Heritagists’ advice on who to hire?” said Randy. “That don’t make sense.”

  “Oh, they’ll take our advice,” said Jenny. “Indirectly. Like I said, we’ve got a lot of contacts, and a lot of people owe us favors. We can get you hired, Randy, I guarantee it. And you’ll be surprised how big the salary is. All we want is that you uvvy me every month or two and tell me about anything interesting you see. And remember, you’ll be working around moldies and imipolex every day.” Jenny smiled again and put on a Kentucky accent. “Hell, Randy Karl, you’ll be happy as a pig in a potato patch.”

  “Shitfire!” Randy finally allowed himself to get excited. “India? Do they speak English there?”

  “You bet! Just say the word, Randy, and you’ve got the job. We’ll even find you a place to live and buy your plane tickets.”

  “I’ll do it!”

  “Be at the Louisville airport tomorrow at 9 a.m. They’ll be holding your passport and your tickets for you at the Humana Airlines counter.”

  Randy packed his few possessions into his panel truck, told Dr. Pride good-bye, and drove over to Sue’s house to tell her. It was six o’clock on a dark Friday evening.

  Lewis answered the door. “Sue’s not here,” he said shortly.

  “I’ll come in and wait,” said Randy.

  “She’s not coming back till Sunday night,” said Lewis, fingering his mustache. He was twitchy from pepp. “She’s gone up to Indianapolis to visit that goddamn dyke whore Honey Weaver. Your old girlfriend. And as long as Sue’s not home, you’re not welcome.” Lewis made as if to close the door, but Randy stuck his foot in it.

  “Don’t slam my own door on me, you poncey son of a bitch.”

  “You mess with me, son, and you’re in for a world of hurt,” snapped Lewis. “I’ve got a gun. What the hell are you doing here anyway?” He peered out at Randy’s laden truck. “Don’t tell me you want to move back in! Xoxx-ass loser.”

  “I’ll be spending tonight in the garage like I used to,” said Randy shortly. “And you’d best not disturb me.”

  He cruised out for some burgers and brought a six-pack of grape soda back to the garage. The back of the garage was still set up more or less like Randy’s room; he’d only taken a few of his things with him when he moved over to the Heritage House. Randy took out the suitcase he’d gotten for his high school graduation and carefully began going through his life’s accumulation of stuff, trying to figure out which things he’d need in India. What the hell would it be like there?

  Finally Randy’s bag was ready, and he spent another hour unpacking the plumbing supplies from his truck and storing them back in with Sue’s stuff. He was fooling around with his beloved pipe-gun when Lewis appeared in the garage, pepped to the pi
ts. He had an old-fashioned Wild West gunpowder pistol in his right hand. What an asshole.

  “I said you’re not welcome here, Randy,” said Lewis, pointing out the garage door like some kind of plantation overseer. “Out.”

  Randy felt himself looking down submissively. He always got scared when people yelled at him; he always gave in and looked away. But tonight he caught himself doing it, and he realized he didn’t want to give in anymore. He touched the pipe-gun’s controls, which set a growing white snake of two-inch plastic pipe creeping across the garage floor, hidden from Lewis’s view by the truck.

  “I mean it,” said Lewis, stepping closer and waving his gun. “Get your trashy ass out of here, Randy Karl Tucker.” He actually twirled his mustache after he said this.

  Randy had the pipe form a right angle and flow out from under the truck just in time to tangle with Lewis’s feet. Lewis stumbled, looked down, and suddenly the pipe grew a tee at its end and accelerated straight up, punching Lewis in the crotch. The man doubled in pain, dropping his pistol.

  Randy’s fingers danced across the pipe-gun controls, and in seconds Lewis was imprisoned in a tight cage of pipes. When Lewis opened his mouth to yell, Randy grew a skillful circle of pipe tight around his head, gagging him so that he could do no more than grunt and moan.

  “How would you like it I send a pipe right up your butt and out the top of your head?” asked Randy rhetorically. “But I don’t need the hassle of the cleanup. After tomorrow I’m gone. Goin’ to India, Lewis. Not Indiana, my man, but India. It’ll be real different there, for true.” Randy opened up the back of his emptied panel truck and threw in a couple of canvas tarps. “Stay nice and quiet, Lewis, if you don’t want that there plastic pipe enema.” Randy found a dolly and used it to lever the caged Lewis into the back of the truck, loosely wrapping the cage in the tarps in case Lewis did try to make noise. “You can breathe, can’t you? Maybe I should trim off that mustache for you? To hell with it. You’ll be okay. Tell Sue good-bye for me when you see her Sunday.” Randy shut the truck door, took his suitcase, closed up the garage, and spent the night on the couch watching porno on the uvvy, just like old times, with tattered Angelika and Sammie-Jo for company.