by Rudy Rucker
For the next six weeks, the two of them worked like fury, testing out different combinations of imipolex-4, etch patterns, metal doping, and chipmold. Randy was completely in the dark about how well they were doing, but Ramanujan grew more and more optimistic. Finally, on August 13, they’d put together a half-dozen exemplars of an imipolex-4 leech-DIM design that, according to Ramanujan, should work. He called his new creations superleeches.
“Take this and try it on your girlfriend,” urged Ramanujan, handing a superleech to Randy.
It was like a springy, leathery bit of nearly dry elephant’s-ear seaweed, colored a rich natural purple with highlights of pale beige. It was about three inches long and one inch across. The untrimmed edges of the superleech were irregular and curly, and its wavy surface was covered with tiny bumps that gave it a sandpapery feel. Randy found his fingers unable to stop caressing it.
“How does it work?”
“A superleech relays orders from people to moldies. The owner is the master, the superleech is the viceroy, the moldie is the slave. The first individual to place the superleech on his or her uvvy—this is the individual whom the superleech is adopting as its owner.”
“So what all am I supposed I do?” said Randy. In his hand the superleech shifted to his touch.
“You put your uvvy on your neck, you put the superleech on your uvvy, and you think about what you want Parvati to do. In this way the superleech is adopting you, and you are giving it a program. You think about what you want and then you peel the superleech off your uvvy and put it in your pocket. When you get a chance, you put the superleech on Parvati, and she starts doing what you were thinking about.”
“What if I want to change what Parvati’s doin’ once the superleech gets started?” asked Randy after a moment’s thought. “Instead of her doin’ the same thing over and over and over.”
“Ah yes,” said Ramanujan. “That could be disastrous. The unstoppable broom of the Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The magic porridge pot that buries the village. The genie that spanks your children to death. Never fear, Randy, the owner can fresh uvvy instructions to the superleech once it is in operation.”
“Copacetic!”
As chance would have it, today was Randy’s twenty-first birthday. He’d told Parvati about it, but she was in one of her moods again and had displayed little interest. It was still two weeks till the next payday. Of course she wasn’t waiting for him outside the fab. He began trudging the half mile to the commuter train station.
In his standard outfit of white pants, white shirt, and wide-brimmed straw hat, Randy stuck out from the crowd, especially with his pale face and beaky nose. He walked with a smooth, nerdly glide, his arms pumping while his head stayed at a constant level. The superleech twitched in his pants pocket.
It was a shame the way Parvati had been treating him lately. It was starting to remind him of the way Honey Weaver had been toward the end. So obviously and totally taking advantage of him. Why did he have to be such a weakling, such a patsy for every bossy woman that came along?
It probably went back to his childhood. To Sue. Sue wasn’t the stablest of women, and it was common for her to flip-flop from cozy mothering to crazed bitchy ranting and back. It was hard always being at the mercy of just one parent. Whenever Randy asked Sue about who his father might be, she would put him off. Maybe if he’d had a father, he wouldn’t have turned out to be so submissive to women.
Thinking about being submissive to women gave Randy a pleasant hard-on, and he passed most of the train ride in idle sex fantasies, helped along by the intimate pulsing of the superleech. Yes, it was high time for Parvati to fuck him again. Suddenly remembering Ramanujan’s instructions, Randy took out the superleech and set it against his uvvy.
“I am superleech type 4, series 1, ID #6,” said a grainy little voice in Randy’s head. The voice gargled raspingly and then announced, “Registration is complete, Randy Karl Tucker. You are my owner, and I am ready to accept your programs.”
Randy waited a bit, but the superleech said nothing more. So Randy went back to thinking about sex. When the train stopped, he took the superleech off his uvvy and put it in his pocket.
As Randy was getting out of the train, a small urgent man elbowed him sharply in the ribs and grabbed his wallet. Randy got hold of the wallet and pulled it free of the pickpocket, only to drop it on the street next to the train car steps. As Randy bent over to pick it up, a fat woman’s wobbly ass farted horribly in his face, and a dacoit’s dirty bare foot stepped on his wrist. The train conductor rang his bell and screamed for Randy to stand clear of the train steps, insultingly calling him a honkie-wallah. The humid air was unbelievably foul; the tropical summer sun felt heavy as a sheet of hot metal; and several rupee notes were missing from Randy’s wallet.
But the superleech was still in his pocket. He wiped the sweat off his brow and threaded his way through the crowded streets, calming himself with the sight of his favorite sadhus. The stone stairwell of the Tipu Bharat was cool and shady. As he walked up the steps, Randy’s heart rose again. He was about to see his sexy Parvati. And she would act just like he wanted!
In his boyish heart of hearts, Randy had been hoping for a surprise birthday party, but Parvati was doing nothing more than tensely sitting on a kitchen chair.
“Hey there, li’l stinker,” said Randy affectionately. “Here’s your birthday boy! How ’bout a hug?”
Parvati grudgingly allowed herself to be gathered into Randy’s arms. As he squeezed her tight, she finally spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for you to get home, Randy. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“And I got something to tell you,” said Randy. “Ramanujan and me finally got those new leech-DIMs working. Lookee here, I brought one home.” He drew the writhing superleech out of his pocket and set it down on the kitchen table. “Let’s give her a try! Lord knows I wouldn’t mind eatin’ me a couple-three nuggets of camote and fuckin’ you all night. It’s time to get wiggly, baby! Randy Karl Tucker is twenty-one.”
“No, Randy,” said Parvati, undulating away to the far side of the kitchen. “That’s what I have to talk to you about. It’s all over between you and me. I’ve only been waiting here to say a last good-bye. You’ve been good to me, but I’m leaving.”
“Where would you go? You won’t find a more reliable source of imipolex. Do you want more than ten kilograms a month, Parvati? Is that it?”
“As a matter of fact, Randy, soon you’re going to be out of a job and in no position to provide any imipolex. But no matter. The point is that I’ve found a fine new husband among the Coorg Castle nabobs. His name is Krishna. He’s all blue. Very beautiful.”
“You done bought your way into high society with my imipolex, huh? And what the hell do you mean I’ll be out of a job? Ramanujan and me just made a big discovery. More’n likely, I’ll get a fat raise. Now stop talkin’ crazy, Parvati. I don’t mind if you visit with your Krishna now and then, just so’s you keep comin’ home and takin’ care of me.”
“You’re going to be out of a job because I’m going to uvvy the security director of Emperor Staghorn Beetle Larvae, Ltd., and tell her that you’ve been giving Ramanujan’s secrets to that Heritagist Jenny-thing. I’ve got several of your calls recorded inside my body for evidence. I’m sorry, Randy, but Krishna says I have to report you. He has very high morals.”
Randy reeled back against the kitchen table and fell into a chair. “Your snotty moldie boyfriend wants you to tell Emperor Staghorn I’ve been spying for Jenny? Oh, you bitch. You goddamn, slimy, bossy, bullying—” Just then the superleech on the table brushed against Randy’s hand. In one swift, savage movement, Randy leaped across the room and plastered the leech against Parvati’s bottom.
Parvati struck out at him, but the superleech dug in and took effect. Parvati’s struggles turned to warm embraces. Where the old leech-DIMs had turned Parvati into a kind of glowing egg, the new superleech left her body shape much the same. The d
ifference was that Parvati’s usual personality was gone—or submerged. Having sex with her felt perhaps more like masturbating than like making love. But Randy did it anyway; he did it hard, right there on the kitchen floor, thrusting himself deep into her as if somehow he could teach her a lesson.
When he’d finished, Randy put his uvvy on and told the superleech to tell Parvati to cook dinner. While she busied herself with the pots and pans, Randy kept up his uvvy contact with her and the superleech. The real Parvati was definitely still there, down under the superleech. She was confused, disoriented, and above all angry at being trapped in the superleech-run cage of her body. It was sad to see her this way—but for now Randy had no intention of setting her free. She wanted to squeal on him to Emperor Staghorn!
Soon Parvati served some rice with a delicious mushroom curry. It wasn’t until he’d eaten two big helpings that Randy realized the curry was full of poached camote. He’d eaten perhaps twenty nuggets. Parvati’s shackled spirit had found a way to trick the superleech. She’d cooked dinner, but she’d poisoned him.
The angles of the room twisted and loomed. Randy staggered to the sink and began vomiting onto the dishes, seeing thousands of slow-motion faces in the beige textures of his puke. Parvati stood quietly to one side, watching him. Through the uvvy, Randy could sense her sly glee. What else might she do to him?
Randy drank as much water as he could hold and forced himself to vomit again. His brain’s vision processor was crashed; he was getting his eyes’ unfiltered input; it was like seeing through twitching, splotchy fish-eye lenses. His hearing was equally xoxxed, all fades and echoes—he became convinced Parvati was whispering something that the superleech wouldn’t let him hear.
“Talk to me, Parvati,” cried Randy. “Talk to me out loud. Let her talk, superleech, let her say whatever she wants to, but don’t let her come at me.”
“I dare you to kill me,” said Parvati. “Kill me and get some fun out of it. Look at this.” Her flesh flowed and twisted and she took on the likeness of Honey Weaver. “You’re a freak, Randy Karl,” she drawled, hefting her tits. “You’re nothing more than a kid I liked to piss on. If you was a man, you’d take that knife outten the sink and kill me. But you’re a candy-ass chickenshit.”
The big long kitchen knife in the sink winked at Randy. He rinsed the vomit off it and hefted it in his hand. It was sharp, so sharp. He was careful to hold the point away from himself. He could see networks of veins and arteries beneath his flawed, ugly skin.
When Randy looked back at Parvati, she’d changed shape again. She looked exactly like Randy’s mother. “Who’s my father, Sue?” croaked Randy. “Why won’t you ever tell me? Tell me who’s my father!”
“Never mind about your father,” screamed Parvati/Sue. “I wish I’d aborted you! Don’t you have the guts to kill me? You stupid little jerk. If you let me walk out of here, I’ll get you fired from Emperor Staghorn Beetle!”
“I want my daddy,” said Randy, suddenly breaking into sobs.
Parvati’s skin grew dark and her teeth got sharp and long. She was turning into Kali. “Kill me!” she screamed. “Chop me up before I give you a thinking cap! It’s coming soon, you flesher freak! Kiiiiiiill!”
“Help me, Daddy!” screamed Randy Karl and lunged forward with the long knife. He stabbed and chopped and hacked for the longest time, and the immobile Parvati did nothing to stop him. Finally he was too tired to slice anymore. He dropped the knife to the floor and washed himself off in the sink. There were lots of crumbs of imipolex and chipmold on him; he kept thinking they were gobbets of coagulated blood. When he turned off the water, the room was very quiet. What had he done?
The weirdly bulging kitchen floor was covered with chunks of imipolex, none of them larger than a loaf of bread. They were Parvati. He’d killed Parvati. The pieces of imipolex were slowly dragging themselves around like big slugs. Randy sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter to be up high away from the slugs, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see them.
Time passed and colors played behind Randy’s eyelids. He seemed to hear a man’s voice talking to him. His father? “You’re doing fine, son. I’m proud of you. You’re doing just fine.” Randy felt happy and calm. A gentle breeze wafted through the apartment and caressed him. Someone tapped him on the knee. He let his eyes flutter open.
“Bye, Randy.” It was Parvati, fully formed, though with a network of pale orange scars.
“What!?”
“I crawled back together. Except for that piece.” She pointed to a glob of imipolex lying off to one side of the floor with the purple welt of the superleech knotted into it. “That piece is yours. I tricked you into cutting it out of me.”
Randy fumbled for the knife.
“Don’t start again or I really will kill you. I feel stronger than ever. The only reason I don’t give you a thinking cap is that I’m so sick of you.” She turned and walked to the door, slightly limping. “Just for old times’ sake, I won’t call Emperor Staghorn till tomorrow afternoon. If I were you, I’d leave town before then. The dacoits, don’t you know.” The door slammed behind her.
Randy walked gingerly across the room and nudged the piece of imipolex that Parvati had left.
“I am superleech type 4, series 1, ID #6,” uvvied the hoarse little voice. “I am currently coupled to 723 grams of imipolex with traces of a moldie program. This imipolex was part of the left buttock of a moldie named Parvati.”
“Can you wipe out the moldie traces and run the imipolex yourself?”
“Yes. Shall I proceed?”
“Do it. And then keep watch. Grow some feet and walk around. If anyone or anything comes in here, squawk and wake me up. I gotta crash.”
Randy tottered to his bed, took off his uvvy, and fell into a whirling kind of nightmare sleep. At some point in the middle of the night, something hopped into bed with him and snuggled up by his chest. He cradled it against himself and slept a little better.
At dawn, the uvvy rang for him: “Randy Randy Randy Randy . . . ”
A creature shaped like a young hen hopped off Randy’s bed onto the floor and began making a ruckus. What? Randy reached out and slapped the uvvy that sat on his bedside table, setting it to projection mode. Jenny’s face appeared. She had a big zit on the side of her forehead.
“Rise and shine, Randy! We have a lot to do today.”
“I’m not ready.” He rubbed his face, trying to put together his memory of what had happened the night before. The little chicken strutted this way and that, staring at Randy for approval. The nappy purple shape of the superleech ran down the center of its back.
“I saw it all,” said Jenny, looking eager and gossipy. “I never told you, but I keep a tap on your uvvy? So when I heard you going off about your father, I did some quick research and found out who he is.”
“Now, hold on,” said Randy. “Just slow down here. Parvati is gettin’ me fired anyway. I’m through working for you skungy Heritagists.”
“I’m not a Heritagist, Randy Karl,” said Jenny. “I’m a software simmie created by a certain loonie moldie who’s also called Jenny. For fast Earth contact, I need to live down here on a serious machine. So I’m working for the Heritagists just to like pay the rent for my space on their machine. I’m living on the Heritagists’ big underground asimov computer in Salt Lake City—but, um, Randy, I could move? With a client like you, I could be a freelance agent for both you and moldie Jenny from the Moon. I could buy myself a proprietary hardware node in Studio City.”
“Forget it!” said Randy. “Good-bye!”
“Wait! Don’t you want to know who your father is?”
“Okay, who is he?”
“I’ll never tell,” giggled Jenny, every bit the snippy teenage Heritagist girl with a secret. “Just kidding! But you have to listen to my new plan too.”
“Yeah yeah.” Randy kept being distracted by the antics of the superleech-animated chicken; it was prancing around like a miniature moldie, pr
etending to scratch for worms in the wooden floor. Wormwood. Randy was still seeing colorful trails every time he moved his eyes. “Let me get it together for a minute, Jenny. I feel mighty rough.”
He went and looked in the kitchen. The floor was bare. There were flies on the vomit in the sink. He ran the water for a minute, taking a drink and rinsing off his face. What was that last thing Parvati had said about dacoits? He checked that the apartment door was locked, then took a pee. The hen trailed after Randy like a chick following its mother.
“I’m gone call you Willa Jean,” Randy told it. “That fine by you?” The chicken clucked and bobbed its head. Randy leaned over and petted it. “You my little friend, ain’t you, Willa Jean? I’ve always wanted a pet chicken. Good girl. Good Willa Jean.”
Whey-faced Jenny was waiting above the uvvy by Randy’s bed. “Oh, excuuuuuse me,” she said. “Finally ready?”
“Yep.”
“Well!” said Jenny. “About your dad. Of course the Heritage Council has a sample of your DNA on file—from when you applied to live in the Shively Heritage House, remember?—so I ran a similarity search across some DNA databases, starting with Louisville. And right away I found your match in the records of the Louisville jail! Willy Taze, born 2004 to Isle Anderson and Colin Taze. You must have heard of him. Cobb Anderson’s grandson? The inventor of the DIM and the uvvy? In his twenties Willy was employed by the city of Louisville to maintain the Belle asimov computer, and then in 2031 he helped Manchile and his nine-day meatbop boys. Willy was arrested for treason and sentenced to death, but he broke out of prison in the Louisville asimov revolt that happened the day before Spore Day. Willy made it down to Florida and started inventing things. The Gimmie liked his DIMs so much that they pardoned him. And then Willy moved to the Moon. He built himself a place and roomed there for many years with a man named Corey Rhizome. End of info dump.”
“Willy Taze is my dad? Where is he now?”
