Ribofunk

by Paul Di Filippo

  But instead of hittin’ the sand, Diaz converted his motion into an aus, or cartwheel, finishin’ up on his feet across the ring.

  I closed with him, figurin’ to soften him up with a few punches. We traded blows to the torso and head for a few dizzy seconds, and I won’t say who took the worse punishment. We clinched, then pushed apart.

  Somehow Diaz had ended up with his back to me. This was it, I thought, your first and last mistake, you little bastard. I got lined up to slice him open when he turned.

  But he didn’t turn. Instead, arching his back, he flew into a macao, or monkey, shootin’ halfway across the ring.

  Now I had my back to him.

  I spun around.

  Too late.

  Before I knew it, I felt two slices across my upper thighs.

  The fucker had opened up both my femoral arteries.

  I wavered, then collapsed onto my stomach, feelin’ strength drain out with my blood.

  “Now,” said Diaz, “I will keep my promise.”

  His voice told me where he stood. With the last of my energy, I pulled a mule.

  Goin’ into what amounted to a handstand, I hooked both my spurs into his gut. And ripped down, draggin’ Diaz to the sand and spillin’ his innards onto the bloody sand.

  “Any farmboy knows not to fuck with a mule, asshole,” I managed to say, then blacked out, wonderin’ as I did what kind of medical attention two losers would get.

  I musta been out only thirty seconds or so when the dirty-harrys showed up.

  (I later learned that Diaz had diplomatic immunity, and the authorities were worried about him comin’ up zero-sign and causin’ a scandal. That was the only reason they’d crashed the usual Saturday night frolics, admittedly a little late.)

  Well, they blew down the doors and dispersed a cover of Fear-o-Moan and Whammer Jammer to handle any resistance. The folks in the crowd who wasn’t pukin’ were shriekin’ and clamorin’ like a buncha Girl Scouts who had wandered into a nudist camp, while me ’n’ Diaz lay bleedin’ to death. (Flat on the floor, I escaped most of the aerosols.)

  Then I blacked out again.

  Next time I came to, my head was in Geraldine’s lap.

  Geraldine was cryin’. Musta been the cop-gas, I guess. Through her tears, she said, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry, Lew, I had a medikit, I brought it with me just for you, I patched you up.”

  I tried to lift my hand up to feel my thighs, but couldn’t. Geraldine grabbed my paw and brought it up to her face. Then, unconsciously or not, she started rubbin’ my scented wrist up and down the side of her neck.

  “You’ll be all right, Lew, I’ll post your bail and visit you in the hospital. You’ll see.”

  I found my voice deep down in some lonesome cavern of myself. “I—I ain’t listenin’ to you, Geraldine,” I croaked like a bullfrog flattened by a semi.

  “Yes you are, Lew. Oh yes you are.”

  BIG EATER

  This is the story of how I saved Chicago from a Second Flood, stopped my sister from going totally Buggy, and earned a promotion right out of the lite-servo class to alpha-symbland, all in the same day.

  With a little help from Big Eater, of course.

  That fateful morning started like any other.

  The wordbird woke me at seven out of my heaven. Not at all synthetic, just the old deltawave-syncretic. Rem-memories hazed my gaze. Just like a screamcurse, I seemed stuck in my dreamverse. Though it wasn’t so bad, maybe even triple-gonad. Something about drifting forever down a river of feathers. On my back, I was catching up on my slack. Coasting along just humming a song. Mighty nice change from my strife-life brain-drain. Which the nerdbird was still harp-harp-hopping on.

  “Time to get up, time to get up! Now seven-oh-one-oh- three! You’ll be late for work, Corby! Time to get up!”

  The sweet dream had fled, so shaking my head, I climbed out of bed. It reverted to a couch almost before I could uncrouch.

  “Okay, okay! Shut your trap, I’m done with my nap.”

  The wordbird closed its beak right in midsqueak.

  I could tell from the rhymes that ran through my skull that it was way past time for me to get well. So the first bore-chore I attended to was to rip-strip my old KabiPharm latch-patch off and slap a fresh one on behind my ear. The sensitive sensor, so as not to offend, changed to rich cocoa brown, my own skin-blend.

  As the tropes perfused, I asked for the news.

  The TogaiMagic endoplants in the wordbird reacted to my voice-choice. The big bright parrot on its perch, interrupted in midpreen, began to recite the CNN audio feed coming through the multiplex tether that also fixed it to its perch.

  “Yesterday Mayor Jordan launched a week-long celebration of his eightieth birthday by officially opening the new Joliet station on the extension of the Chi-Mon DASA magnatrain line. Attending the ceremonies were the North American prime minister, the director of the Great Lakes Bioregion, several World Bank officials, and many of the mayor’s old teammates. All were present at an exclusive party later that night, featuring entertainment by a host of the most uptaking stars from Bollywood to Taikong, including the Newsy Floozy, Jonny Kwesti, and Wubbo the Whale.

  “A spokesdemon for the Transgenic Oversight Committee has issued a warning that the notorious rogue splice known as Krazy Kat is suspected to have infiltrated the GLB. All franches are asked to report any suspicious sightings to their commensal buzzworms or to patrolling TAC-TOCs.

  “An Anti-Em demonstration in front of the Board of Trade erupted in violence late in the afternoon. The familiar chant of ‘No mods, no mixes!’ soon changed to shouts of ‘Burn the miscegenators!’ Authorities declared an emergency risk-bubble of ninety naders intensity covering three square blocks for a duration of thirty minutes plus-minus and dispersed clouds of Riotnip and Incontibarf.

  “On financial fronts, the Hang Seng Index registered a day of heavy trading, reflecting the turmoil on the Prague exchange. Dalai Street responded by …”

  “Softer,” I ordered the bird, and the parrot voice of the Central Nerve Net dipped in audibility to a low reassuring murmur.

  A wordbird is a primitive, limited way to interface with CNN, I know, but it was all I was permitted by my altered bioparms. The same incident that had left my neurocircuits a bit scrambled and prone to rhyme-times made it impossible for me to experience virtuality or even plain three-dee anymore.

  You see, I was one of the Hiphop Heads.

  Not many people remembered the incident. I mean, so much happened nowadays, and things changed so fast. What with the Temp-Trop War and the Grey Goo Booboo intervening—Well, it’s not surprising lots of lesser scandals and yocto-minute-wonders were forgotten. After all, the whole affair happened over ten years ago. Though it did affect three million plus-minus people. But scattered across the whole North American Union, the victims were only about 4 percent of the population. Anyway, what happened was this.

  Some three million percipients were tuned into Virtual Music Transmission’s half-hour show known as “Rap Klassix” when VMT experienced an act of sabotage. (As I recall, the individual or group responsible was never positively identified; suspects ranged from the Sons of Dixie to the Limbo Cannons.) In an instant, before any of the perks knew what was happening or could disengage, VMT’s baud rate was tripled, safety overrides were disabled, and new templates were laid over the standard transmission.

  The add-on routines consisted of an illegal copy of Microprose’s Hardcore Reform, which was normally licensed only to government and gembaitch penal institutions.

  The intruder master software did its job. Locking out the volition centers of the perks, taking as its text the innocent raps, Hardcore Reform reamed new neural pathways in three million brains, establishing the fifty-year-old raps as dominant behavior paradigms.

  By the time the authorities shut VMT down, three million people had had their brains rewired.

  At age thirteen, innocent cheb still living with his mom and s
is in the gecekondu projex, I was one of them.

  Well, to make a hairy narry less scary, the trope dosers and mccoys eventually fixed most of the neural damage the terrorists had wrought. Except for one minor tic.

  All us perks who got our brains skew-fried

  Would carry inside till the day we true-died

  A distributed web of spurting nerve gaps

  That made us want to rhyme out our urb raps.

  The best that the big labs like Novo Nordisk and Cantab and NeosePharm could do was batch up a trope that alleviated the symptoms. A daily dose of poemasomes kept the Tourette-like syndrome mostly in check. Except during times of stress, or often just upon waking, or if I ingested any other really radical tropes, I was pretty much normal in my speech and thought patterns.

  Naturally there were lawsuits and, eventually, damages awarded. Each victim got ten thousand NU-dollars.

  I gave half to my mom. I’m sorry to say that she nulled the whole balance on a single trip to the tribal casinos at Second Mesa, without even enough left for the side excursion to the Grand Canyon by LED-zep that she had always wanted to take. I gave a thousand to my sister, Charmaine, and we all know how she spent hers. As for me, I was determined not to waste my share.

  Although before the incident I hadn’t really devoted much thought to getting out of the projex, afterwards I was really determined to make a life for myself, having seen the trouble that could come from lying around all day on the prole-dole just inhabiting virtuality. So I daleyed a minor city official and got my name illegally posted to the list of lottery-chosen prospects for CivServ jobs. With the remainder of the eft, I latched the black meds that allowed me to pass the aptitude test with a low grade. (I would have scored higher, but under the stress my essay came out rhymed, and they took off points.) Combined with my official disability status, the score got me my first-ever and still current job: humble Eater Feeder under the boss of our corps, Cengiz Ozturk.

  Who was going to be mighty pissed this morning if I was late again.

  So I poured Pioneer plantmilk over a bowl of Stressgen Supercereal and slurped it down. I slipped into my blue and gold CivServ Windskin uniform and was almost out the door of my fission-cee when a personal message with a high-priority code got past my filters and loudly interrupted the barely audible CNN feed.

  “Corby,” squawked the parrot, “this is your mother! I’m calling from home! Get over here right away, it’s your sister!”

  Before I could argue back that I’d be late for work if I did what she wanted and couldn’t she handle things herself, Mom had cut the connection, leaving me with no choice except to jump my rump to her bawl-call.

  I kicked a chair and started to swear, then I bolted down the stairs.

  On the intrametro train I cudgled my brain. What could have gone amiss with Sis?

  Before you could count from two to six, there I was at the gecekondu projex.

  The projex had been old when I was a tad; now they looked ancienter than Adam’s NAD. Unsmart buildings lined dingy streets; hustling nonfranches littered the plazas of grocrete. Each had a scam or a story to tell; a tale of woe or something to sell. Mutawins and hojats were on stroll-patrol, encountering vexy derision from babydolls with sexy sincisions. The scene was total jhuggi jopri, and all my troubled past flooded back on me. But I held my head high and walked on by. In blue and gold, now adult-old, I strode past the various hawkers proud and tall, showing them I didn’t belong here at all.

  Hoping I could control my rhymes if only I thought about neutral times, I remembered the history of the projex.

  Way back in the teens, during the Last Jihad, just after the Fall of Istanbul, the IMF began allotting refugees to various countries, cities, and bioregions. Chicago had gotten mostly Turks and a smattering of Crobanians, who had all been forcibly funnelled into the hastily constructed projex.

  One of these flee-gees had been my dad.

  Dad had fallen in love with a local girl named Chita Garvey—my mom, of course—who happened then to be a very xinggan Cubaitian some sixteen years old. Dad’s relatives weren’t too uptaking about the eventual multicult marriage, which was soon followed by the birth of a son, then a daughter.

  One day when I was eight and Sis was just born, Dad and a hardline cousin named Zeki got into a serious argument about how Dad had betrayed his heritage. Zeki claimed Dad had been verraten und verkauft. Words escalated into blows, and that’s when cruel cuz put the boot in.

  Out of his pocket, Zeki whipped a military model neural shunt (Snowy surplus from Operation Rock the Casbah) and slapped it on Dad’s neck. Quickly burrowing spineward, the boot grabbed control of Dad’s motor impulses and literally forced Dad to choke himself to true-death.

  Ever since I had kind of been the man of the house.

  Which was why Mom was turning to me now, even though I no longer lived with her and Sis.

  As I climbed the worn steps of familiar old Building Nine (referred to croak-jokingly by its residents as the Golden Horn), the slow shadow of a laser-entrained dirigible passed over me, and I sadly recalled Mom’s long-unsatisfied moonbeam-dream of visiting the Grand Canyon in person. It seemed like everyday strife-life just had a way of mind-grinding a person right down. Look how much eft and trouble I had gone through just to land this cysting lite-servo job, and how events like today’s kept conspiring to put me in danger of losing it.

  If only, I thought as I rode the smelly elevator upwards (the car was liberally bespotted with the glandular signatures of rival tribes and zokus), if only I could do something really uptaking to show everyone what I was capable of. Maybe then I could get some real security in my life.…

  Little did I know then the fate-date the near future had in store for me.

  On the forty-fourth floor I came to the family door. I could hear Mom and Charmaine yelling right through the macromolecule walls, so I didn’t bother knocking but just palmed the sweat-vetter gene-screener and stepped right in.

  A burst of overdue deja vu hit me. Nothing had changed in the year since I had moved on, and that meant nothing had changed since time began. My childhood Build-a-Cell kit still sat on a shelf. The aging Philips virtuality rig still sported spots of dumbpaint from an attempt at redecoration three years ago. The forever-dying orchidenia plant still clung to life.

  Mom had her back to me, blocking sight of Charmaine. When Mom turned and stepped aside, I could see what had made her roughride and chide so snide.

  Charmaine had added feelers to go along with her old familiar antennae. And a row of itchy, twitchy buglegs running down each side of her torso. Her clothing had been grommetted to accomodate the new members.

  “Oh, no, Charm,” I said. “I thought you had given up on the Roaches? …”

  My sister had a perez-pretty face, despite the wispy, feathery, living proteoglycan antenna-rods projecting out a good meter from her forehead, iridescent black. But now, messed up with grief, anger, fear, and tears, her face looked really bug-ugly.

  “I’ll never give up on the Roaches! I was just waiting to add more mods until I got enough eft!”

  Mom burst in. “Tell your brother how you got two thousand NU-dollars! Go ahead, tell him!”

  Charmaine straightened up defiantly. “Just like you, Ma. I won it at the cats.”

  Mom glared at me for support. “You heard her. She stole her own mother’s stake for the track—my one little luxury—and bet it all on one race. She, jeune fille estupida, who couldn’t tell a cheetah from an ocelot!”

  “I won, didn’t I? And I paid you back double.”

  “But look how you spent the rest! Mutilating your beautiful body like that!”

  “It’s my thorax, and I’ll do what I want with it! Besides, you’re one to talk! You ain’t hardly no Miss Baseline Betty yourself!”

  I realized that there was something different about Mom that hadn’t registered in the confusion till now. She had had her chocolate complexion spotted-dotted like one of the racing cats she lov
ed. And translucent feline whiskers bristled around her kisser.

  “Pah! My little vanity is like my memere’s old-fashioned eyeshadow compared to your craziness. And besides, the belle gato is a mammal like us. But roaches—”

  That was the match to Charmaine’s fuse.

  “Go ahead!” she exploded. “Say it! Roaches are bugs! Well, you’re not insulting me by saying that. Bugs are glorious! They’re not our inferiors, they’re our superiors! Bugs were here long before mammals, and they’ll be here long after we kill ourselves off! I’m proud to be a Roach! And as soon as I get some more money, I’m gonna get a full carapace! Neurocrine and Berlex are in a price war, and shells’re getting cheap as prostaglandins! Weevil has one, and it’s beautiful!”

  Mom wailed. “Ai-yi-yi! Damballah, Erzulie, and Jesus save me from this disrespectful girl!”

  All of a sudden, my legs felt like puddin’. I had heard this whole argument a hundred times before. Their life was on replay, mine was on delay. How long was I going to be trapped while these two yapped? Didn’t they see I had my own probs that made my head throb? I was trying to make something of myself after a bad start, but these two fighting were ripping out my heart.

  I sat down all dreary-weary in a chair, and my eyes fell on a fishbowl tabletopped near there. In it swam four flaking trilobites. The sight of the watery wigglers reminded me of my job, and I shot to my feet.

  “Listen, you’re not going to solve anything by yelling at each other. That’s no way to act for a daughter and mother. Ma, you and Charmaine both need to get your fingers off the hot buttons. What’s done is done and should be forgotten.” I had a sudden inspiration. “I’m going to take Charmaine to work with me. We can talk about things and see what we see. I’ll bring her back tonight, and we’ll all have a meal together.”