Ribofunk

by Paul Di Filippo

  One of the terrorists flicked on the lights, which seemed unnaturally bright at this forlorn hour. The men removed their goggles and shut off their suits, which had begun to hurt Little Worker’s eyes. She was grateful.

  The two human captives and their morphs stood shivering in the center of the room, the morphs naked and Mister Michael and his wife in robes. Three of the terrorists seemed calm, but one swiveled his gun nervously from side to side.

  Little Worker curled unconcernedly at Mister Michael’s feet. She knew that Mister Michael was trying to catch her eye, but she ignored him.

  “Who—who are you from?” at last demanded Mister Michael.

  “Sons of Dixie, folks. We felt our point of view wasn’t reaching the proper ears. So we’re aimin’ to change things. Ain’t that right, boys?”

  “You’re—you’re all wired on something.”

  “Mebbe so, boss. But that don’t prevent us from shooting straight. ’Zact opposite, in fact. So let’s just follow orders, if you don’t want to get hurt.”

  “What do you intend?” asked Mister Michael’s wife.

  “We’re taking you ’n’ the Pee Em on a little vacation. You’ll go free when the gummint listens to us and does somethin’.”

  A second terrorist spoke. “What about these friggin’ vars?”

  “Slag those sex toys,” said the boss. “Make it quiet though. But save the one that helped us—it might come in handy again.”

  One of the men unholstered a pistol. Before anyone could react, it spat twice.

  Gelatin capsules hit the morphs and burst, releasing lysis catalysts. In under a minute, the two morphs were a single mingled puddle of thick slime, atop which for a minute floated the Moon Moth’s tougher gemmed wings.

  “Okay, folks—” began the leader.

  Unnoticed, Little Worker had slyly extended an arm toward the bare ankle of Mister Michael’s wife. Now, she pricked it deeply with a newly unsheathed razored claw.

  Mister Michael’s wife screamed.

  The terrorist with unsteady nerves shot her through the eye.

  Before the man’s trigger-finger could relax, or any of the others could tighten theirs, Little Worker moved.

  The part of her inheritance that was 30 percent wolverine took over.

  The four intruders soon lay dead with their throats torn out, soaking the carpet with their blood where once the Bull and Lyrical had coupled.

  Little Worker calmly licked the blood from her lips. She really preferred the taste of jelly. Wetting her palms repeatedly with her tongue, she meticulously cleaned the fur on her face. When she was done, she turned toward Mister Michael.

  He had collapsed across the body of his wife and lay sobbing.

  Little Worker gently approached. She touched him tenderly. He jumped.

  “Mister Michael,” said Little Worker, “everything is all right now.

  “You and I are alone.”

  COCKFIGHT

  I will allow as how bein’ a waste gipsy is not the most settled way of life, nor the easiest on the nerves. And it’s surely no career for a married man—as Geraldine never tires of remindin’ me.

  But I ain’t married. And I never listen to Geraldine.

  Anyway, what’s so rough about the life? First off, there’s the constant travel. You got to learn to keep as little in your kit as a blind Bhopal beggar and generally stay as loose as a Bull’s balls. Your in-demand ass is always bein’ faxed around the globe, from one hotspot to another, whenever some muni or fabrik or werke or abe gets to feelin’ a tad guilty and decides they’re gonna clean up a little piece of the big, big mess they’ve all made durin’ the last filthy century.

  Some of these places ain’t so bad, in terms of relaxin’ when the job’s over for the day. When we were in Milan, Italy, for instance, reamin’ out their toxic sewers where some asshole way back in ’86 dumped twenty tons of assorted pollutants and contaminated the whole city’s water supply, I was able to do all kinds of cultural things, like visitin’ churches, and seein’ The Last Supper (considerably improved, in my opinion, since they sprayed the restorative bugs on it, despite all the juicer critics sayin’ it looked digitally enhanced), and checkin’ out the architecture of the Eye-tie chickenhouses. (One was in a real palace, and some of the girls was supposed to be real princesses. It was just possible, too, cuz I remember that when Monaco was forbsed-over and trumped-up, there was a whole generation that had to latch onto jobs real quick.)

  Other times, you’re gonna find yourself in the ass-end of nowhere, some god-forsaken place that makes Robert Lee, Texas (my birthplace), look like New Orleans at Mardi Gras. I have shivered at fifty below with no audience but dumb greasy penguins, cleanin’ up an Antarctic oil spill, and baked my sandy britches at one hundred plus, decommissioning a Mideast CBW plant. And both times there was nothin’ to do after your shift except play flashcards, get wiped on needlestrength-one tropes, and spill atmosphere with your fellow gipsies. (Maybe summa the talk might lead to bumpin’ uglies with one of your fellow gips, if that’s what fills your receptors, but I try to stay away from the gals that work in the same line as me, they all bein’ as familiar and excitin’ as your elderly mustache-wearin’ aunt or some old-maid grade-school trope doser.)

  It’s times like these that you tell spine-tinglin’ kings and barkers about all the shit you have seen. Times when the rems was sleetin’ around you thicker than fleas on a junkyard dog, knockin’ your chromos loopier than those of a two-headed snake, and you were wrasslin’ a hot core. Times when you were standin’ waist-deep in some stinkin’ swamp full of PCB’s and dirty antique motor-oil and industrial solvents and God knows what-all, and you seen the snout of a mutant Amazonian ’gator barrelin’ toward you faster’n the Orient Express, and you barely had time to raise up your force-multiplier for a single blow before the ’gator was on you.

  But surprisin’ly enough, the net effect of all these after-hours horror stories is not to discourage us gips, but rather to make us feel special and important. After all, who else has such a vital job as us? Cleanin’ up this poor abused planet is—or should be—society’s number-one priority, after all, and they ain’t invented a robot yet that’s smart enough or tough enough to do what we do, or take the shit we endure. Imagine some hunk of heuristics pokin’ its sensors into the hells we gotta enter, without fryin’ its CCD’s and Crispin’ its boards. As for the splices, the union keeps them out. And as long as we get our regular search-and-repair silicrobe shots, we ain’t gonna suffer any more weird diseases or terry-tomas than your average New Yorker or Nevadan.

  Not that I do it mainly for glory or outa some sense of duty to humanity. Shit, no. I don’t think you’ll find one greenpeacer out of every thousand gipsies you talk to. I do it cuz the eft’s damn good, and so are the bennies, and you can retire after fifteen years. (My company, Dallas Detox, Inc., was one of the first to pioneer that particular policy, and that’s one of the reasons I’m purely proud to work for them. Another’s that they are one hunnerd percent American, and there’s not many companies left that can make such a claim, ’specially since they fully phased the Union in ten years ago. Now, I don’t hold with them Sons of Dixie, or any of the other constitutionalist groups, legal or underground, but there is something about being ruled by Canucks that just goes up my craw a mile. And if I got to be ruled by them, leastwise I don’t have to work for them. Yet.)

  Anyway, it’s a decent life, and sometimes an excitin’ one, even if, as I said, it’s no career for a married man—as Geraldine never tires of remindin’ me.

  But I ain’t married. And I never listen to Geraldine.

  * * *

  When Stack came into the dorm, wavin’ the metamedium printout that bore the DDI logo in its upper corner (a pair of tweezers nippin’ a double helix) and smilin’, we all knew we had gotten a good postin’. But we couldn’ta guessed how good till the crewboss spoke.

  “Parliament has voted, boys and girls. The Slikslak is deadmeat, and DDI’s go
nna pick the corpse.”

  Well, the roar of excitement that greeted this announcement rattled the biopolymer panels of the big Komfykwik Kottage we were livin’ in, there on the shores of Lake Baikal in Greater Free Mongolia, which stagnant pisshole we had finally finished de-acidifyin’ and ecobalancin’ and revivifyin’ and suchlike. We were goin’ home, stateside, back to the good old U. S. of A. (and I’ll continue to call it that till my dyin’ day, despite all laws to the contrary). To actually get an assignment back in civilization—it was too good to be true. No more funny food or dark-skinned women or comic jabber which you couldn’t understand without takin’ a pill. It was hog heaven for a poor gipsy.

  I was emptyin’ my locker and packin’ my kit on my bunk when Geraldine sidled up to me all innocent-like. I pretended not to notice her.

  “Lew,” she said, in a voice as sweet as corn syrup on candied yams, “Stack is making up the room-roster for Waxahachie. We are going to put up at a local motel, and all the rooms’re doubles. I don’t suppose …”

  I looked up at Geraldine then. She was wearin’ earrings shaped like biohazard signs, her brown hair was cropped shorter’n mine, with a lopsided swatch across her brow, her face was naked of makeup, save for silicrobe tattoon butterflies at the corners of her lips, and she barely filled out her size small DDI-issue coverall. She reminded me of the kid sister I’d never had.

  “Geraldine, I do appreciate the offer or suggestion or proposition or whatever you wanna call it. But if I have told you once, I’ve told you a million times. The chemistry is just not there. My probe don’t match your target. Look, I like my women big, busty, and dumb, and you are neither.”

  The tattoons a milli beneath Geraldine’s skin fluttered their wings in agitation as the tears leaked like Israeli root-drips from her eyes.

  “I—I could be dumb for you, Lew, if that was what you really wanted. There’s new tropes for that, I heard. Dumbdown, More On … As for the other stuff, well, it’d cost me plenty, but I’d do it for you. Honest, I would—”

  I slapped my own forehead. “Holy shit, Geraldine, I ain’t askin’ you to change, get that into your head right now. I was only outlinin’, like, the kind of woman that jumps my gaps. Listen.” I put an arm real uncle-like around her shoulder. “You’re a helluva gipsy. I never seen anyone better at dredgin’ a bay or sprayin’ a forest full of pear-thrips than you. I am proud to be your partner on any job Stack gives us. But that’s where it ends, you latch? Strictly a professional relationship.”

  Geraldine had turned the taps off by the time I finished my speechifyin’. She knuckled her eyes, then extended one hand. We shook.

  “Okay,” she said, sadder’n a preacher who’s seen the collection come up empty, “if that’s the way you want it. It’s better than nothing, I guess.”

  We loosed our shake. “See you on the plane, Lew.”

  I went back to my packin’. What a mixed-up gal. I wondered why people had to lose it when it came to their emotions. Thank the Lord we at least had tropes and strobers nowadays to help. It was hard to imagine how it had been just a few decades ago, before the bioboys understood all there was to know about the brain. Not that you should come to rely too much on such aids, I believed. There was something to be said for a natural life. Why, look at me, for instance. Once I had taken all the mnemotropins prescribed in school and learned what I had to, did I keep on takin’ ’em? Nope, not me. As my daddy always said, “Son, if we was meant to get our experience outa a pill, the Good Lord woulda made ’em easier to swallow.”

  Before that day was over, we were boardin’ a DDI suborb, all laughin’ and jokin’ at the thought of hittin’ the streets of Dallas once again. We had barely settled into the flight, however, when we were told to buckle up once more for the landin’ and take our circadian-adjusters. That’s the problem with these hour-long jumps: they don’t give you no time to feel like you really been travelin’. One minute your ass is in Mongolia, the next minute you’re home. It does require some mental gymnastics.

  We got hung up in Customs for a couple of hours—longer’n the flight itself. Turned out a couple of our gips had tried to make a little extracurricular eft for themselves by attemptin’ to smuggle back Mongolian bugs in their blood. Probably some kind of ethnic-specific high that they figured would sell well among the Dallas community of ex-pat Hong Kongers. The Customs probes had unzipped the nongenotype codes faster’n spit dryin’ on a griddle, and Stack had some fancy dancin’ to do to get off with just a bloodwash, by claimin’ our innocent liddle boys was infected without their knowledge.

  In the terminal we were crossin’ the atrium when a squad of IMF crick-cops bulled through, carryin’ their chromo-cookers and packin’ splat-pistols, lookin’ mean as eighty-year-old virgins with libido-locks, headin’ doubtlessly for some Fourth-World infection or infestation of some sort. We gave ’em a wide berth outa respect, as they are about the only ones with a dirtier job than us gips. We got it relatively easy, dealin’ with old well-known hazards, while they get all the new and superdangerous shit.

  Outside DDI had a couple of Energenetix cowbellies with drivers waitin’ for us. Most of the folks clambered right into the minivans (I made a point of gettin’ in a different one from Geraldine), but Tino and Drifter—the boys who had gotten pinched by Customs—had to take a piss real bad. Side effect of the bloodwash. They’d be leakier’n a sharecropper’s cabin in a hurricane for the next day.

  Stack called out, “Don’t waste the biomass, boys.”

  Tino and Drifter grumbled, but they each opened up a fuel intake cap, unvelcroed their flies, butted their groins up to the vans, and did their best to top off the tanks.

  Refastenin’ their coveralls, the two climbed in rather sheepishly. Tamarind, a bantam-weight black gal sittin’ next to me, who always managed to get off a great zinger with perfect timin’, said, “A lot different than the last sockets I seen you boys plugging.”

  Everyone cut loose with all the laughter we’d been holdin’ in, roarin’, and howlin’ fit to burst. Even Drifter and Tino eventually joined in the gipsy camaraderie. Hell, we knew it could’ve been any of us that’d got caught, and we couldn’t hold the wasted time against them. Come what may, us gips hang tighter’n the plies of steelwood laminated with barnacle-grip.

  Thus enjoyin’ ourselves in our loose gipsy way, we motored south out of the mass of gleamin’, glassy Dallas towers, headin’ toward our latest assignment.

  Waxahachie was about twenty-five miles south of the city, so we had roughly a forty-minute drive. (You can’t push a cowbelly much faster’n sixty kph, especially when fully loaded.) Some gips settled in for a nap, which helps the circadian-adjusters kick in, but I was too excited to be back home to sleep, so I levered open a window and let the familiar dusty scents of a Texas summer waft in while I watched the scenery laze by.

  We passed a small orchard of peachtrees at one point. The trees were full of splices harvesting the force-grown fruit. The human overseer lay in the shade, collar-box by his side, within easy reach. To me the splices looked about 50 percent chimp, 40 percent lemur, and 10 percent human. But I coulda been off by a few percent either way.

  “I sure do dislike those splices,” said Tamarind. “Thank heavens we got laws keeping them down.”

  “Not to mention the collars and diet-leashes,” I added. Then I got a funny notion which I had to share. “Hey, Tam, you ever feel weird about the splices and your heritage and all? I mean, like maybe they hold the same position now that your folks did, a couple of centuries ago?”

  “Shit no. They aren’t human, after all, are they? And that makes all the difference.”

  I could see her point. “Well, I guess in a way the splices make it possible for an old redneck like me to be buddies with a gal of color like yourself and mostways not think twice about it.”

  Tam punched me in the shoulder. “You got it, Lew.”

  Shortly after that, we pulled into the parking lot of the motel Geraldine had mentioned
to me back at Lake Baikal. There were a lot of other DDI vehicles there, all with the tweezered helix on their sides, and, as I later found out, some other gipsies were even bunkin’ in the quarters that used to house the Slikslak staff. I figured this for one of the biggest deconstruction jobs I had ever taken part in. With any luck, it’d last a good long time, so I could continue to enjoy the comforts of a real bed, good American food, and sweet Texas poontang, a juicy sample of which I was gonna make haste to lay my hands and stiff probe on as soon as possible.

  In the motel lobby, Stack called our names off a roster. “Shooter, you’re bunking with Benzene Bill in three-sixteen.”

  I swore. Benzene Bill—so called for the tattoon of a spinning snake-in-mouth Kekule ring he sported on his massive right bicep—was a mean-natured sumbitch I had never gotten along with. Maybe I woulda been better off with Geraldine, even if I had hadda fend off her constant feminine advances.

  I found Bill in the crowd, and we headed for our room together in tense silence.

  Inside, Bill said, “Lissen, Sludgehead, if I want to bring some nookie back here, you’d better clear out on my say-so, whether it’s for the whole night or not.”

  I put my kit down and calmly faced him. “Bill, the facts is, you are as ugly as an ape ’n’ hornytoad splice, and no sleeve is gonna look twice at you, lessen she’s paid some big eft, or she’s maybe been dosed with a combo of uglybuster and lubricine.”

  Bill grabbed the front of my coverall. “Why, you cocksucker—”

  “Bill,” I said all calm and gentle-like, “do you remember Marseilles?”

  He snorted then, but he let me go right fast. Retreating to his bed, he began unpacking his kit, and there was no more said about me clearin’ out for his improbable ruttin’.

  It’s good to get the terms straight in any relationship right from the start.