by Rudy Rucker
The sole person to offer to purchase one of Babs’s works was a sleek banker named Chock Fresser. Fresser wanted to acquire the show’s centerpiece: a twelve-foot transparent pretzel filled with imipolex worms in a thousand different shades of blue and green; it was called “Wowo Worms.”
But Fresser didn’t want to take delivery on the physical item; he wanted Babs to uvvy him a copy of the software design so he could alla-make the work in situ at his house. “Too much trouble to ship it home,” said Fresser. “Packing, unpacking—who needs it anymore? Give me the code and that way I can bring ‘Wowo Worms’ in and out of storage as needed.”
The gallery owner, Kundry Asiz, was a good friend of Babs’s from high school. When Babs suggested to her that they shouldn’t sell the code to Fresser since money didn’t matter anymore, Kundry pointed out that, yes, there was a sense in which money didn’t matter anymore, but there were still several senses in which it did—first of all, it was crass human nature for people to give more attention and respect to art they had to pay for, and secondly, the rent on a space like the Asiz Gallery was something the alla couldn’t finagle them out of.
So Babs agreed, and Fresser walked off with the complete code for the “Wowo Worms.” And a week later, tacky little desktop copies of it were for sale in every gift shop on Fisherman’s Wharf—with nary an attribution to Babs. Kundry put some heavy pressure on Fresser and got him to triple the original purchase price, but it wasn’t a fully satisfying resolution.
“We gotta figure out a way to sell a design for onetime use only,” said Randy. He and Babs were sitting on the ant-decorated couch in Babs’s warehouse. Babs’s brother Saint was there too. It was the first of May.
“Use a one-time encryption zip,” said Saint. “I learned about that stuff when I was working for Meta West. You can zip your design and send the zipped version to the user with an unzipper that trashes itself after its first use. Like cheap pants. The first time you open the fly, the zipper sticks for good. You can publish the image of your work in the alla catalog, and when somebody orders it, they get a single zip of the design with its own unzipper. And of course the unzipper is tailored only to feed the information into an alla and not into any kind of a storage device.”
“I get it,” said Babs. “I could make an art catalog that’s like a catalog used to be. There’s just images of things, and you have to uvvy in some funds to take delivery on an item. And if you want another one, you have to pay again. That’s a brilliant idea, Saint. I wish I’d known about that before.”
“Live and learn, sis,” said Saint. “Just think about the poor companies that had every one of their products put into the Metamartian alla catalog.”
“Like Modern Rocks,” said Randy. He liked his Spider-Man gloves and anemone boots so much that he’d looked into the fate of their manufacturer. “I found out they really did go down the tubes. The Metamartians didn’t leave no holes. Whatever the aliens put in that catalog is there one hundred percent, the whole design coded up in nanotech blueprints. Those Metamartians did their homework. Now, this trick of yours, Saint, is everyone gonna know about it? It would be good to spread it around, so’s artists and inventors can get some kind of reward.”
“Maybe I should sell my trick,” said Saint. “Call it the One-Zip. If I can actually figure out the details. I’m not really that much of a programmer. But you two sure went for it. Yeah, I need someone to help me productize.”
“Why is everyone always talking about buying and selling these days?” said Yoke impatiently. She’d just walked in. “You sound like a bunch of businessman numberskulls. Guys with calculator DIMs in their heads. Phil’s the worst of all. Going on and on about selling his blimps. Money lags! What does anyone need xoxxin’ money for anyway? And meanwhile people are killing each other for fun.” Without waiting for a response, Yoke stalked across the room to study the pair of huge aquariums she’d installed. One contained a realware South Pacific reef with hard and soft corals. The biologicals were all alla-made realware: primarily coral polyps and the diatoms they fed upon. The other tank held Yoke’s work-in-progress, a colony of miniaturized limpware polyps that were supposed to build an artificial reef. Yoke’s polyps weren’t doing so well today. When he’d gotten up this morning. Randy had noticed that Yoke’s artificial reef had petered out into ugly little crumbly excrescences, not at all like the smooth, branching staghorn shapes she was shooting for.
“Xoxx it,” said Yoke, staring into her tanks. “This is the only thing I’m able to try and control—and it’s too hard. You have to help me tweak them some more, Randy.”
“How’s Phil’s blimp doin’?” Randy asked Yoke.
“Oh, he’s got it spread out on the roof,” said Yoke, wandering over and alla-making herself a cup of coffee. “It’s slowly getting better. The Phlyte Blimp. Can you hear the trademark? What is it about Phil and money all of a sudden, Randy?”
“Phil wants to make a mark on the world,” said Randy. Looking into himself, Randy realized that he didn’t share that ambition. He saw his role as a background guy, not a foreground guy. A consultant. Someone who helped people make connections and do things. He was happy to help Babs with her worms, Phil with his flying machines, Yoke with her reefs, and maybe Saint with his One-Zip realware alla code encryption. But he wasn’t into power-driving. Hell, he was just happy to have a shot at a normal life. If only the world would let him. “For some people money’s a way to keep score,” he said mildly. “Practically all it’s good for anymore.”
“Don’t forget real estate,” said Babs. “Yoke and Phil need money if they ever want a place of their own. Not that I mind having you guys squatting on my wall and my roof. But you know, eventually—”
“We can leave anytime you want us to,” said Yoke, getting prickly. “There’s plenty of free land on the Moon. Or Mars. Or the asteroids. We’d be safer from the fighting anyway.”
“I don’t see you wantin’ to go back into space,” said Randy. “No more than I want to go in the first place. Earth’s where it’s at. And, look, with the allas we don’t need to waste land on farms no more. That frees up a lot of cheap acreage. Or, hell, you can get an acre up on the side of some mountain any old where. With an alla you don’t need power or plumbing or a place to shop. Everyone can be happy, everyone can have a nice place to live.”
“So why do people keep killing each other?” wondered Babs. “Just for the rush? Thank God things are still calm in San Francisco.”
“I hear things are getting really tense in Oakland,” said Saint. “I’m starting to wonder if giving out the allas was such a good idea.”
“If we ever get to talk to the Metamartians again, maybe we should ask them to get rid of the allas?” said Randy. “Hard to decide. Hey, did I tell you that my father’s flying back down inside of Cobb? Comin’ early for the wedding. He should get here today.”
“I wish Darla had stayed,” said Yoke, looking sad. “As soon as she talked to Whitey, she got all homesick and made Cobb fly her right up to the Moon. I think she wanted to make double sure that they didn’t finish growing that new Darla clone to replace her. So, fine, now they’re all together up there, but what good does that do me? I want my parents and my sister! They should be the ones coming back with Cobb, not Willy. Whitey says I should come get married on the Moon. He thinks it’s getting too dangerous down here. But Phil’s totally into having the wedding with his family and you guys. Xoxx it. A wedding’s hard enough, so why in God’s name are we doing two at once?”
“Don’t look at me,” said Randy. “It was you and Babs decided to make it a double. It was like you gals thought gettin’ married to Phil and me was such a crazy stunt, why not push it right out to the edge. Like a viddy soap finale or somethin’.”
“I know,” sighed Yoke. “I can remember the mood, but I can’t get myself back into it. Babs and I were so giggly that night. We’d released the allas to the public and it was going to be paradise. And now there’s war everywhere. Ev
en Phil and I had a big fight just a minute ago. Not that there’s any comparison.”
“Poor Yoke,” said Babs. “Fight about what?”
“It’s Phil’s mother, Eve,” said Yoke, frowning. “Maybe you already know about this, Babs. Eve got this idea that we shouldn’t have the ceremonies out here in front of your warehouse like we’d been saying we’d do.”
“Oh yeah,” said Babs. “I know about this. I kind of agree with her.”
“Well, thanks a lot for letting me know,” snapped Yoke, her eyes flashing. “Five minutes ago Phil tells me that Eve and Wendy reserved us a ballroom at the Fairmont Hotel. Like we’re sixth-graders in a school pageant. Or no, it’s worse than that. It’s like we’re nobles celebrating while all over the world people are suffering. Especially women. I—I really unloaded on Phil. I told him I don’t want to get married at all.” Yoke’s chin quivered and she began crying. “This is turning into a nightmare.”
Babs gave Randy a look, and he got to his feet. “Hey, Saint, let’s go upstairs and look at Phil’s blimp. You too, Willa Jean.”
“Yaaar,” said Saint. Willa Jean strutted rapidly across the floor and jumped into Randy’s arms.
Phil had cantilevered a kind of staircase of mini-trampolines out from the side of Babs’s warehouse. You could climb to the roof by hopping from one elastic sheet to the next. And there was a fireman’s pole for coming back down. Phil and Yoke had added three more rooms to their original alley-nest; each room was level with one of the layers of the trampolines.
“Feel like one o’ them fish,” Randy observed to Saint as they bounced upward.
“A salmon,” agreed Saint. “Heading upstream to spawn. Hey, Phil, watcha doing? We’re here to spawn all over everything.”
“Hi, guys,” said Phil, looking up from a big flat air bag lying on the roof. “I’m working on the Phlyte Blimp. Trying to. I can’t think. They’re fighting in Oakland. Look over across the bay, you can see the fires.”
Sure enough, across the water smoke was streaming up from the city of Oakland. Yet high above the smoke it was a pleasant spring day with fluffy white clouds against the pale blue.
“I just checked the news,” said Phil. “It started as a gang thing. And now it’s turned racial. Everyone getting even for getting even for getting even. How long is it we’ve had the allas now?”
“Two months,” said Randy. “You’d think people would have it together by now.” Two months ago had been when he’d realized that he loved Babs. And in another month they’d be married. If only things would calm down. If only people would remember to be kind.
“Oh, shit,” said Saint. “Look at Oakland now.”
Someone had just done something to make one of Oakland’s office buildings collapse. Maybe they’d alla-converted part of its foundation into air. The wind shifted toward them and Randy could smell a whiff of smoke, could hear a faint crackle of gunfire.
“Make them stop,” prayed Randy, and just about then a flashing bright saucer appeared in the sky over Oakland. The Metamartians to the rescue, once again. There was a distant rumble; the saucer was talking to the men fighting. And now a series of rays darted down from it; it was said that when a saucer appeared at a battle scene, it would destroy everyone’s alla-made weapons.
“The allas have to go,” said Randy, really believing this for the first time. “It’s not going to be worth it. Especially after the aliens leave.”
“Let’s fly to Oakland and help,” said Phil. “We can use my blimp.”
“Good idea,” said Randy. “And while we’re at it, maybe we can get close enough to the saucer to talk to the Metamartians.”
Phil used the alla to instantly fill his Phlyte Blimp up with helium. The great balloon was covered with something like imipolex linguini that Phil called “Smart Hair.” The blimp bobbed above the rooftop and a sudden breeze threatened to sweep it away. But then the plastic linguini began intensely beating, holding the unwieldy shape in place.
“It has passenger slings for us to sit on,” said Phil, indicating a trio of loops that dangled from the blimp’s underside.
“Have you actually tested it?” asked Saint.
“Sure,” said Phil. “Well, not with three people. But if something goes wrong, we can always alla ourselves some hang-glider wings. Come on. Let’s dart over to Oakland and make sure all the injured people have healer machines. We can be there in three or four minutes.”
“I’m for it,” said Randy. “Be nice to do something good for a change.”
Once they were settled into the slings, the blimp’s Smart Hair began rippling in steady waves. They slid through the air as smoothly as a pumpkin seed. Phil steered them toward the saucer, but before they got close to it, the bright disk darted away, moving too fast for the eye to follow. And then they were above the bloody streets of Oakland.
“Careful,” said Saint. “Someone might shoot at us.” But the saucer had temporarily disarmed everyone. The weaponless fighters were slinking away, leaving dozens of injured people on the streets and sidewalks. Phil landed the blimp, and the three boys moved among the injured, using their allas to make healer machines. Soon more rescue workers began to appear. And then some builders arrived, using allas to clear away the rubble and repair the shattered buildings.
“Looks like things are under control now,” said Saint after a while.
“Let’s go back,” said Phil. “I have to tell Yoke I’m sorry.”
“Shitfire,” said Randy, checking the time. “My dad’s about to come.”
The ride back was a little slower, as a strong wind had started blowing from the ocean. But the blimp’s Smart Hair kept them on a steady course. The boys were quiet, thinking of what they’d seen. Some people had been too far gone for the healer machines.
Back on the warehouse roof, Phil deflated his blimp and examined its skin, using his fuzzy pocketknife to tweak its little flaps. “I’m glad this worked,” he said. “Those poor people.”
“Your blimp is good, Phil,” said Saint.
“I’ve been thinking,” said Phil. “I don’t actually need moldie-quality imipolex to make these things. Which is important, because I want to keep making them even if we get rid of the allas and imipolex is expensive again. I think regular production-quality piezoplastic would work if I used a simple enough algorithm. Your dad could help me with the code, Randy. How soon is he coming, anyway?”
“Could be any taaahm now.” Randy peered up at the sky.
“Good,” said Phil, patting his flattened blimp. “Okay, I’m going down to talk with Yoke.” He jumped off the edge of the building and slid down the fire pole.
“After seeing Oaktown like that, I’m against the allas too,” Saint told Randy. “I need to think of a career that doesn’t depend on them.”
“What about your water bicycles?”
“Good idea. Maybe your dad could help me with their DIM chips.”
“He knows a lot,” said Randy with a proud smile. “Shitfire, my father invented limpware engineering and the uvvy too. When I was growing up, I never realized I had such important relatives. I thought I was just a nobody from nowhere.”
“Not anymore,” said Saint, looking upward. “And, yaaar! Here he comes!”
A shiny moldie form was descending, riding on the sparkling column of an ion jet. It was Cobb with someone inside him. Randy tucked Willa Jean under his arm, and he and Saint slid down off the roof to stand by the patch of gravel Cobb was heading toward. Hearing the hollering, Babs, Phil, and Yoke came out of the warehouse. Randy noticed that Phil and Yoke were smiling and holding hands again.
Cobb plopped gently to the ground and split open, disgorging a gray-haired fifty-year-old man. The man looked happy to be out in the air. He made a little bow. “Hi, everyone, I’m Willy Taze.” He sized up the five of them, then stepped forward and shook Randy’s hand.
“My son,” said the gray-haired man, looking Randy over. “We finally meet face-to-face. Sorry it wasn’t sooner. This
feels good. I was a fool to put it off. I was sorry to hear about your mother, she was gone before I got a chance to talk this over with her. Quite a woman. So you’re getting married, eh? Marriage is the part I never did. I’m such a geek that I only managed one single squirt inside a woman my whole entire life. And you seized that unique opportunity to get born, Randy. My very best sperm cell. Good boy!”
“Thanks,” said Randy, quite overwhelmed. “So you really my pa?”
“He’s my grandson and you’re my great-grandson,” exulted Cobb. “High time you two met! For God’s sake give him a hug, Willy. You won’t catch anything.”
So Randy and his father hugged. It felt good. Willy beamed at him, then turned to the others, talking a mile a minute, like a man who’s been alone too long. Randy knew the feeling.
“Hello, Yoke, it’s great to see you again,” said Willy. “That’s so wonderful that you got us the allas! What a change those things are making on the Moon! So far we loonies have been too smart to get into any wars with each other. Not like the stupid mudders.”
“We were just over in Oakland givin’ people healer machines,” put in Randy. “Things was mighty screwed up.”
“Up on the Moon, everyone’s been busy making sublunar parks and ponds,” said Willy. “You wouldn’t recognize the place anymore. And the moldies are happily stockpiling megatons of imipolex. Your parents send their best, Yoke, and believe it or not, they’re getting along fine. I think almost losing Darla shocked some sense into Whitey. Joke’s flying down in a few days, and Corey Rhizome is coming with her. And this must be Phil Gottner?” Willy smiled and shook Phil’s hand. “Randy told me a little about you on the uvvy.” Willy turned his attention to the two others. “And these other two must be Sta-Hi’s kids—I think it’s Babs and Saint? I mean ‘Stahn,’ not ‘Sta-Hi.’ He’s still clean and sober, right? Wavy. You wouldn’t want to be at a wedding with the old Sta-Hi. Isn’t this something? You’re such beautiful young people, all of you. Especially Randy! And Babs! Imagine having Babs for my daughter-in-law! I have to admit that I’m thrilled.”
