The Ware Tetralogy

by Rudy Rucker

  Once he was dead the alla could either—what had it said?—”actualize a new Randy Karl Tucker” or “execute a fresh registration.” Had the first option, so quickly withdrawn, meant that the alla could make a duplicate of him, a second Randy identical in mind and body? That would be floatin’.

  “Go ahead and make that copy of me,” Randy told the alla, not really thinking through the consequences. His pulse was pounding with excitement. “Make a Randy Karl Tucker Two.”

  Again there came a series of tingles in Randy’s body. “Ninety-nine point nine eight seven confirmation that you are Randy Karl Tucker. Request to actualize multiple instances of yourself is denied.”

  Oh well. Come to think of it, if there were a Randy II, he’d be competing with Randy for Babs. Theodore was already trouble enough. Still, it would have been nice. Randy had grown up an only child; he’d always wished he had a sibling who understood him.

  Just about then another thing about the alla’s behavior struck Randy. If he really had been dead and some other guy had picked up the alla, then maybe the alla would have actualized a fresh Randy, but more likely the new guy would have chosen to register the alla to himself.

  Randy looked around, suddenly anxious that someone might be watching him. But he was alone at the edge of the bluff. There were a couple of liveboard surfers out in the ocean, but they were quite far away. But what if someone saw him use his alla and became maddened with the lust to own it—what if someone saw this wonderful tool and killed him to take it away?

  The alla would offer the murderer a choice like, “Do you want to bring back the sap you just killed, or do you want to enjoy the endless power of this magic wand?” And of course the killer would choose the second option.

  The alla would go ahead and register a new “user for life,” probably forgetting the old Randy Tucker body and mind pattern entirely.

  This meant that once the news of allas and their transferability got out, owning an alla would become seriously hazardous to your health. To his health, and that of Yoke and Babs. There was a slight chance the “new you” option might still save your ass—but someone would have to like you enough to ask for it and, truth be told, it was hard to believe it would really work.

  While he was thinking all this, Randy sent out a control mesh to alla-make a plug of sandy yellow rock to fill in the smooth square hole he’d punched out of the cliff. It was starting to get dark. He got onto a new copy of that same motorcycle and rode across the field toward the narrow track of Route 1, his electric motor loudly purring.

  When he’d started out this morning he had a vague idea of visiting Aarbie Kidd down in Santa Cruz to look up some fresh hell to raise. But that would have been the vicious, self-destructive old Randy, the same guy who’d been using superleeches to kidnap moldies. And from now on, that Randy was history. He was going to make amends and do right by moldies and people alike. There was no reason to see Aarbie at all. Hell, if Aarbie saw his alla, he might kill him for it—and be able to start using it as his own. No point in him getting killed just when it was time to start a new life! The only place the new Randy wanted to go was back to San Francisco.

  Randy tooled along northward, with the winter sun setting off on his left. The thing to do was to go right back to the warehouse and make a serious play for Babs. Tell her that she was the nicest woman he’d ever met. Tell her he was sick of being a heartless crouched-over piece of wood. What would Babs say? It did seem like the girl was kind of sweet on him, at least it had at first. He just had to undo the damage of his camote trip and the realware snail. And, hey, yesterday had been pretty mellow, what with him, Babs, and Yoke making those plastic jellyfish. Maybe if he flat out spilled his heart, Babs would kick out Theodore and let him into her canopy bed.

  Which led to a new problem. If it got down to the dirty, would he be able to have sex with a normal girl his age? Fella wouldn’t want to come up limp for a dynamo like Babs. That would be a real strike three for Bozo the country clown. Now, if Babs could see her way clear to her and him layin’ on a moldie rubber sheet, there’d be much less chance of a problem. And, you know, Babs had said something about not minding the smell of moldies. Her mother Wendy was supposed to be part moldie in some way.

  Randy got kind of excited thinking about him and Babs on a Sammie-Jo. Yaaar. Just put some moldie-flesh in the picture and there’d be no doubt about what would occur. Not that he wanted to fall back into his old ways.

  He was motoring in through the city now and it was dark. He had an intense desire to get laid. As he rolled into Babs’s neighborhood, he saw the lights of the Anubis by the side of the road. The great beached ship was alive with glowing moldies and capering revelers. Maybe he should pull on in there and rent some time with a moldie? He’d had quite a session with Isis the other day—but, no, that wasn’t the way he wanted to act anymore. With Babs he had, for the very first time, a real chance at a real woman. “Don’t lose it, Randy Karl,” he said aloud, motoring past the Anubis and toward Babs’s warehouse.

  Just as he pulled into her street, he saw a funny-looking cartoon car go driving by. Babs in her new electric dune buggy. And next to her was that goddamn Theodore. Babs smiled and waved—and kept on driving.

  “Babs!” said Randy, reaching out to her with an urgent uvvy call. Not wanting to lose sight of her, he swung his bike through a tight U-turn and began following her.

  “Hey, Randy,” came Babs’s cozy voice on the uvvy. “Where’ve you been all day?” She turned a corner and drove in toward the city down Third Street. She didn’t realize yet that he was right behind her.

  “I was cruising the coast. I was gonna see Aarbie Kidd, but I decided not to. I’m gonna change. I feel like I got off on the wrong foot with you, Babs. Are you coming back to the warehouse soon?”

  “I’m just giving Theodore a ride to work. He has the evening shift at the Asiz Gallery. What’s on your tortured mind?”

  “I figured out two things today, Babs. The first thing is about the—the ‘toy’ I got. I found out that if I die, the ‘toy’ will either make a copy of me or work just as well for the next person that picks it up.”

  “Bizarre.” A long pause while Babs thought it over. “Good news and bad news, isn’t it? But I don’t think we should be discussing this on the uvvy.” Randy saw her glance into her rearview mirror. “Hey, is that you following me?”

  “Right on your sweet tailfeather, baby. Look, I gotta tell you the second thing in person. Pull over, would you?”

  “Okay.” Babs pulled her funny car over to the curb and hopped out. Theodore stayed in the car, looking anxious and annoyed. Randy parked his motorcycle and held out his arms to Babs. Babs took a few uncertain steps closer and spoke to him without benefit of the uvvy.

  “What is it? I hope you’re not lifted again, Randy.”

  “You’re—you’re not like any gal I ever met, Babs. I didn’t realize it at first, but I could really go for you.”

  Babs blushed, glanced back at Theodore, took another step closer. “Are you serious?” A little smile played across her lips.

  “I know I been acting screwed up. But you’re the only woman I could care about, Babs. I had me kind of a peculiar childhood. The cheeseball thing—well, I was thinking that your ma’s part moldie so maybe it’s okay. I mean if you and I was to—I’m just worried I might need some—well, if you wouldn’t mind layin’ on a moldie rubber sheet is—”

  Babs’s voice was loud and hurt. “What do you think you’re talking about?”

  “I’m gettin’ ahead of myself, sorry,” said Randy. “Just a-thinkin’ out loud. Don’t sweat the details, right? You and me, Babs, we got a future, huh? It’ll work. You’re the best gal I ever met. I’m just a-scared I’ll blow it.”

  “Are you all right, Babs?” called Theodore, getting out of the car.

  “Yes, yes,” said Babs. “Just a second.”

  “Don’t go off with Theodore now, Babs,” begged Randy. “We gotta talk some more.”
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  “How did you find out about what your alla does if you die?” whispered Babs. “Is what you said really true?”

  “You’re going to make me late,” said Theodore, walking over. “Hi, Tucker. Seen any giant snails today?”

  “Oh, leave Randy alone,” said Babs. “Look, Theodore, you just take my car for now. In fact, keep it overnight and show it to Kundry Asiz tomorrow and see if she’ll take it for the gallery. I talked to Kundry on the uvvy about it already, and I think she’s interested.”

  “But—”

  “Something’s come up,” said Babs, and gave Theodore a peck on the cheek. “Bye. I’ll uvvy you tomorrow.”

  So Babs got on the back of Randy’s motorcycle and rode back to her warehouse with him.

  “One thing,” she said as they got off the bike. “I am not going to fuck you on any gross moldie sheet. Not that I’m saying I’d fuck you at all. Hi, Cobb.”

  “Back so soon?” Cobb was slouched in the warehouse doorway, sort of guarding the place. “Yoke was just saying maybe she should go back to the Moon. Talking to her sister made her homesick. Hi, Randy, good to see you. You don’t want to go to the Moon yet, do you? There’s too much happening down here, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I feel like things are just starting,” said Randy. “Hey, come on inside, Cobb, we four oughtta have a little talk. If Yoke can lay off raggin’ me.”

  “Help,” hollered Yoke, seeing Randy in the doorway. “The attack of the giant snail!”

  “I’m gonna whomp your butt!” shouted Randy, charging after her. He was tired of drag-assing around and being humble. Yoke shrieked and ran, firing off a few hydrogen-oxygen air-bombs in her wake. Randy alla-made a big cushion right in front of Yoke, and she stumbled over it. He stood over her, with Willa Jean loyally at his side. “You’ve teased me enough, Yoke. I know I done acted like a clown, but I’m gonna be different now. You hear that, Cobb and Babs? I’m gonna be a new man. Worthy of my great-grandpa, and worthy of the woman I love.”

  “Huh?” said Yoke.

  Babs walked over and put her arm around Randy’s waist. “I think Randy’s cute. So be nice to him.”

  Randy smiled and kissed Babs’s cheek, then went ahead and threw both arms around her to give her a full-body hug. As he hugged her and inhaled her warm fragrance, he realized that, if he ever got her into bed, he wasn’t going to be needing any sex-aids.

  “Okay,” said Babs, worming away. “But now we better talk about the alla thing you mentioned before.”

  So Randy told the other three about how he’d learned that an alla would freshly re-register itself to whoever next picked it up after its last owner died—although there was supposedly a possibility that it could instead actualize a fresh copy of you.

  “So in this fairy tale, the greedy peasant who kills the golden goose gets the goose’s powers,” said Yoke. “Xoxx it.”

  “Unless he chooses to actualize a fresh, live instance of the goose,” pointed out Babs.

  “Me, I’ve known my share of peasants,” said Randy. “Ain’t no peasant in the world would ever wish that goose back.”

  “So either we keep the allas secret forever,” said Babs. “Or we get murdered. Or we throw our allas away. Or we figure out how to give one to everyone in the world. Four possibilities. And the first one’s impossible. Secrets get out. Especially with the aliens hanging with random cheeseballs and lifters all day long.”

  “They’re on the Anubis?” said Randy. “That’s where, isn’t it? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He was sitting next to Babs; Willa Jean had nestled in between them.

  “We assumed that if you knew, you’d instantly run over there to try and fuck Shimmer again,” said Cobb. “I, for one, wanted to see my great-grandson’s poor bod get a few days rest.”

  “I—” Randy’s voice cracked. “I ain’t doin’ that no more. Not while I got a chance with Babs.”

  “How touching,” said Yoke in a voice that struggled to stay level. She paused to clear her throat. “Let’s think. What Babs said boils down to this. If we don’t want to get killed, we either get rid of our allas or we figure out how to give an alla to everyone. I’m for everyone getting an alla. We just have to find out how to tell an alla to make an alla.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” said Babs, absently petting Willa Jean. “People are too stupid. If everyone gets an alla, every square inch of the world will be full of—crap. It’s been fun making art with the alla, but I was an artist before I got my alla, and I’ll be an artist when it’s gone. Maybe I’d rather just throw it away than have idiots use it.”

  “Well, that’s great for you, Miss High and Mighty,” said Yoke. “But I’m an artist too. Only there was never an art-form I felt really good at till the alla came along. Does that make me a clumsy peon? I’m not giving up my alla, Babs.”

  “You’re great with your alla, Yoke,” said Babs soothingly. “And I didn’t mean to sound like I don’t think you’re an artist. But actually you could do art even without the alla, you know. I was just saying that most people aren’t artists at all.”

  “Most people are dumb shits,” said Yoke, still feeling feisty. “But if everyone has an alla, then what a fool does is fixable. If one person does something stupid, someone else can undo it.”

  “Are you sure?” said Babs. She projected a mesh over a potted African violet and turned it into an ugly plastic flower jabbed into a chunk of Styrofoam the shape of a cat. “This is what people will do. Can you fix it?”

  “Yeah,” said Yoke slowly. “The alla can make plants. Here you go.” And a new African violet appeared. “I had the alla give it standard potting soil complete with bacteria, bugs, and worms, though I admit I don’t have any way of knowing exactly what was there before.”

  Babs leaned over the plant examining it. “I’m impressed,” she admitted. “I like it. This gives me hope. And you know, come to think of it, I can’t bear the thought of losing my alla. I was just scared to admit it before. This could really work.” Babs laughed happily. “Yes. I have this image of some dook turning a beautiful woodsy hilltop into a gross puffball McMansion with three stories and forty thousand square feet. And then his greenie neighbor turns the house back into a woodsy hilltop. Back and forth all day long. Maybe the dook would only put up his house at night.”

  “There’d still be zoning laws in any case,” mused Yoke. “That would put some limits on the houses. If the Gimmie could enforce them. And there’s a limit to how big a volume the alla can transform at one go. A cube something like forty feet on a side.”

  “But even so, everyone would build out to the legal max,” said Babs. “They’d alla up their giant houses one section at a time. And homeless people would pitch houses for themselves just anywhere, even though they don’t own any land. But that’s actually good, isn’t it? No more homeless.”

  “Squatters deluxe,” mused Randy. “They wouldn’t need no plumbing hookups. Use the alla to fill your bathtub, and use it again to make the dirty water go away. Wouldn’t be so bad. You could put up a house anywhere. Use the alla to make batteries for any electricity you needed.”

  “But what kind of kinky kilp would psychos make?” said Babs. “A thousand ton turd in the middle of Union Square! A statement turd, you wave? And of course there’d be giant crucifixes everyplace. And just imagine solid, three-dimensional graffiti. You try to open your front door and there’s a fifteen-foot solid chrome freestyle ‘Yuki 37’ in the way.” Babs laughed again. “Actually I can’t wait to see it.”

  “People could alla that kilp back into air,” said Yoke. “If everyone did it as a matter of course, then cleaning up wouldn’t have to be anyone’s full-time job. It wouldn’t be as hard as picking up litter, you wave. You’d only have to look at something and wish it away. You said turds, crosses, and graffiti? You forgot porno and political ads. Uh-oh, I’m seeing another problem. What if someone allas something that you like into air? Like your new car, Babs—someone could vaporize it because the
y don’t like the way it looks. Just like you’d get rid of a giant turd.”

  “If she saved a software map of her buggy, she can alla it back whenever she needs it,” suggested Randy. “Parkin’ is hell in this city anyhow. Just turn your car back into air instead of parkin’ it. Long as you got the alla and the software map, you only need to bring back your realware when you actually wanna use it. In the end, the allas should be good for Nature. We won’t have to manufacture nothin’. You want paper or lumber, you alla it up, ’stead of cuttin’ down a live tree. Alla up oil instead of drilling for it. No more factories!”

  “This is making me dizzy,” sighed Babs, putting her hands to her head. “It’s like a beautiful dream. If only people can—oh, wait, what about nuclear explosions?”

  “That could be the biggest problem of all,” said Cobb. “It would be easy to alla up a twenty-five-pound ball of plutonium. A supercritical mass. Instant atomic bomb.”

  “Shit,” said Babs. “There’s got to be a way out. Will the alla actually make plutonium? Let’s check.”

  Randy, Babs, and Yoke uvvied inward, examining their alla catalogs, and sure enough, plutonium was listed.

  “Don’t try making any of it,” cautioned Cobb. “It’s highly poisonous, even in small amounts.”

  “We have to get the aliens to talk to Om,” said Yoke. “To tell Om not to let the allas make nuclear fuel. Uranium, plutonium—no evil heavy metal. Om ought to be able to control what the allas can do. They’re all connected to her, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Babs. “And then everyone gets an alla.”

  “Here we are gettin’ all worked up,” said Randy. “And we don’t know how to copy no alla in the first place.

  “The Metamartians do,” said Cobb. “Remember, Yoke? Josef said they know how to use the alla to make an alla. We should ask them how to copy the allas and at the same time get them to tell Om to not let allas make uranium or plutonium. Let’s go to the Anubis now!”

  “Have you ever been on the Anubis before, Babs?” said Yoke.