by Rudy Rucker
“I should love you. You have an admirable forthrightness and vim. But—”
“Look,” I said with a weary sigh. “I’m going to bed. Is it safe to sleep next to you?”
“Indeed.”
“You won’t implant jiva eggs?”
“Have no fears in this regard,” said Weena cheerfully. “I’m quite finished with that task for now.”
7: Yuel
That night I dreamed about sea lions barking. “Ork ork ork!” Weena woke me at dawn, bending over me, whispering my name. Her brown hair was tousled, her face calm. My dream of sea lions was real. Outside every window I could see whiskered snouts. The house shook as the beasts rubbed against the walls, the air rang with their hoarse cries. The sky was gray, filled with morning fog.
“The yuel’s harem has accompanied him,” chattered Weena. “He knows your fear of sea lions. He’d like to drive you away from me before I’ve prepared you for your mission. That unfaithful Graf took advantage of me, I told him about the secret tunnel. And then that stupid farmwife who’s supposed to be guarding the tunnel took a bribe from the Graf. And somehow he smuggled through a yuel. It must have been hidden within his kessence body.”
All of this was sheer gibberish to me. Droog was on the front porch, frantically scratching at the door. I opened the door to let him in. The blue sea lion was out there too, raised up on his flippers, glaring at me. An overexcited sea lion cow came wallowing around the corner of the house, her dark eyes fixed on the blue sea lion, whimpering her adoration, her body rippling with the effort of motion, her teeth prickly in her little mouth. God, sea lions were stupid. I slammed and locked the door. Outside, the creatures barked more furiously than before. An approaching siren wailed.
“Hurry and clothe yourself,” said Weena. She was dancing around, pulling on layers of clothes, and cramming her extra shoes into a shopping bag. “We’ll go to that green house and await further events,” she said.“I can’t readily kill a yuel with but one jiva.We have to wait for the others to hatch. You do recall our conversation of last night, no? Dress warmly. I believe you’ll be sleeping in that basement for some days.”
“I don’t know if I can find the house,” I said, pulling on jeans, a red T-shirt, and a checked flannel shirt. “I went looking for it a few days ago, and—”
“In one manner or another you will find it, Jim. You’re the one who made the tunnel between the worlds.”
“All I did was open that door in the basement for you,” I said. “I didn’t make the tunnel.”
“Oh yes you did. With that strange tool of yours. You weakened an electrical particle so that my border snail could push through. The snail is the tunnel. And those filthy surf punks live in the rickety house that’s the snail’s shell.”
Before I had any time to ponder this, the front door splintered and the blue bull sea lion came flopping in. Weena yelled sharply—and the creature’s flesh flickered and folded, reknotting itself. And now the yuel was a muscular beast on all fours—a hairless baboon with sharp, red snaggle teeth and his skin that same shade of Krishna blue. He had a knob near the end of his tail. He made a noise at me—a snarl? Or was he trying to talk?
I rushed out the back door and Weena was with me, running down the block. Glancing back, I saw a cop car and an animal rescue van pulling up at my house. The yuel followed us, easily loping along.
“The baboon shape is the one preferred by the yuels,” said Weena. “Although sometimes a number of them fuse together to make a shape like an elephant. I don’t fully understand yuels.”
“That baboon has sharp teeth.”
“Remember that I have my jiva. I will assuredly inflict damage if the yuel engages us.”
We cut down a side street, turned left, turned right, doubled back, and raced down an alley, Droog at our side. But now, just like on the other days when I’d tried to find the green Vic, I didn’t know what came next. I leaned against the trunk of a palm tree, catching my breath. Tenuous strands of fog drifted past.
“I wasn’t really paying attention when I found the way to the green Vic that day,” I confessed.“I was just playing around. The path kind of popped into my head. And now it’s hard to concentrate with that thing—”I craned to see down the street to see if the yuel was still following.
“Never fear,” said Weena. She was bulky from all the clothes she’d pulled on—a pair of orange pencil-leg jeans protruded from beneath a pair of skirts. “I well know that the path struck you as a sudden inspiration. That’s because I put it into your head. I reached out to you from the other side.” She pulled a glassine envelope of sparkling powder from the pocket of a little red jeans jacket she was wearing, and dipped into it with the moistened tip of her finger. “Allow me to inspire you again.”
“Are those things moving?” I asked, peering closer. “The sprinkles are alive?”
“Oh yes,” said Weena.“Life is the essence of their virtue. I’m eating some to engage my higher powers. I have a robust supply. Ordinarily, a sprinkle hops straight over to Flimsy. But these sprinkles are well-fattened. They have enough psychic inertia to linger here on Earth for a time. Prime yourself with some of them, Jim.”
“No way. You nearly killed me with sprinkles last week.”
“I still maintain that they saved your life,” said Weena. She licked the twitching little gems off her finger and let out a sigh of pleasure. “I enjoy how the sprinkles talk in my head. Do try some! We’ll wander the streets, babbling at random. It’s no longer possible for me to see the clear path, now that I’m reincarnated in your mundane world. I’ve lost my teep contact with the border snail—the creature in the basement of what those punks call the Whipped Vic. She’s the one who generates the spacewarp camouflage, you know. They like to hide, the border snails, so that the flims and the living humans don’t take advantage, using the snails as tunnels between the worlds.”
I had trouble making sense of this. “The Whipped Vic is hiding from us?”
“You could say that. But I’ll surely notice if we’re getting near. Perhaps the route still lurks in your deeper mind. Perhaps Snaily hasn’t changed it all that much.”
“There’s millions of routes through these blocks,” I complained. “More. Do the math.”
“Ah yes, he fancies himself a scientist, too.” Weena let out a peal of mocking laughter. “Small man, big dreams, tiny job.”
The glowing baboon appeared at the end of the block, trotting towards us on all fours, his bulb-tipped tail waving high in the air. I started running again, leading Weena in intricate loops, and eventually we arrived at Yucca Street.
But, shit, it wasn’t the special Yucca Street. That stupid old vacant lot gaped where the green Vic should have been. Just an empty lot with ratty eucalyptus trees. I stood there, stymied. Droog sat by our feet, waiting to see what came next. The yuel kept his distance, still watching us. And, for the moment, Weena was too stoned from her sprinkles to be much help at all.
As the mist thinned, the sun was gaining in force. I unbuttoned my flannel shirt, thinking. If we couldn’t rush off to Flimsy, we needed another plan.
“Do you know much about those surfers who live in the house?” I asked Weena.
“I know what you’ve told me,” she said. “And what I see in your memories. And what I’ve garnered via surreptitious teep. And I know a bit more regarding the fourth one who lurks within that house. He and Header killed the Graf.”
“You’re talking about Skeeves!” I exclaimed. Light dawned in my muddled mind. “You’re the mummy woman that he’s been fucking all these years! He’s been hearing your voice in his head. You’ve been telling him what to do. And—and you’re the one who made sure that I got that special tip for the scanning-tunneling microscope. The tip that killed my wife.”
“Calm yourself, Jim. Things are not as you may imagine. Look at me, dear. I’m no mummy. Yes, I’ve had some unwholesome interactions with Skeeves. The man is unspeakably vile. I’m only trying to help you people.
And that’s why I stopped the Graf.”
“Maybe I’m saying that you killed my wife.” I didn’t totally believe the accusation. It was more that I wanted to hear Weena deny it. I wanted to be reassured.
“I didn’t, Jim,” said Weena right away. “Not at all. Poor Val had cancer. It had nothing to do with me.” She took my face in both her hands and stared into my eyes as if hypnotizing me. “Help me. And if you play along—well, maybe I shouldn’t promise this...”
“What?” I said, a crazy burst of hope blossoming in my chest. “Maybe there could be a way to bring back Val. I had nothing to do with her death, no, but I might know of a way to resurrect her.”
“Oh, Weena. Don’t play with me.”
“Trust me, Jim. But first of all we have to find that house. And Header. The Graf may be back in Flimsy by now, but I think that before he left, he somehow took control of Header.”
So now we were back to gibberish. “So who is the Graf?” I dutifully asked. I wasn’t quite ready to ponder what it might be like to bring back Val.
“The Graf is a flim who lives in Flimsy,” answered Weena. “Like me. He’s a friend of the yuels. And—I may not have mentioned this before—he was my lover. Besotted as I was, I shared the secret of my tunnel, and he pushed through before me, bribing the keeper as well. He planned to invade your world with yuels. More fool he.”
“I have an idea about finding that trashed Victorian house,” I said, thinking things over. “Probably Header and Ira and the girl go surfing every day. Maybe we could follow them home if we could find them around town. Or I guess we could check all the surf breaks. Or—how about this—can you do a telepathic search?”
“I can’t promiscuously teep the whole county,” protested Weena. “The lower my profile, the better I can ambush my foes.”
“I’ve got it!” I exclaimed. “I’ll just ask Chang. I’ve known him since high school. He knows everything about the surf scene. He was riding the pro circuit for awhile—but this summer he’s giving lessons down at Cowell Beach near the pier.”
“Capital!” said Weena, smiling at me. Her first rush from her sprinkles was wearing off, and she was more like her usual self. “We’ll interview your friend, pass the day in idleness, and tonight, after my new jivas hatch—we act!” Weena shaded her eyes, glaring down the street at the enemy yuel.
The yuel squatted on the pavement, watching us with his shiny golden eyes. His gray tongue lolled over his thin lips. He almost looked friendly.
“Sea-lion-fucker!” yelled Weena. She’d been learning the modern style of speech.
“Does he understand what you’re saying?” I asked. “Can I talk to him?”
“Don’t squander the energy for this,” said Weena dismissively. “Yuels are scum. They can talk, in a low, grunting fashion. All verbs. And they use a kind of teep as well, via a low, gross channel that I can barely perceive. They exchange images, washes of emotion, and the like.”
“I’m really getting curious about Flimsy,” I admitted. “And you’re saying that Val is over there?”
“Yes, yes. Let’s hurry and find Chang!”
The sky had turned a bright cerulean shade. I tied my over-shirt around my waist and Weena threw her red coat over her shoulder. We walked to the pier. It wasn’t all that far. We took side streets so there wouldn’t be a lot of people getting excited about the yuel—who continued following us.
By the time we reached the ocean, the morning fog bank had retreated a few hundred yards off shore. The sky was luminous, like a stretched membrane. The surf muttered, endlessly chewing the shore. Shrieks and music drifted from the Boardwalk amusement park on the south side of the pier. I noticed an animal rescue van nearby—some rangers were herding sea lion cows into the sea, probably bringing them back from my house. The yuel, attracted by the cows’ sexy barking, reconfigured himself as a bull, and slithered into the water for fresh conquests.
With Droog on his leash, Weena and I took the stairs down to Cowell Beach, a sandy crescent nestled at the base of the cliffs on the north side of the pier. The waves here marched to shore in regular lines, each of them straight and well-formed, none of them very big. It was a perfect spot to learn surfing. And there, at the far end of the beach was a shed surrounded by surfboards sticking up from the sand, the shed bearing a red-on-yellow sign declaiming, “SURF HERE NOW.”
I found Chang talking to a pale young couple who looked to be honeymooners from the heartland. Raptly they listened to him. Chang had grown into a handsome man: tall, with bleached hair, prominent cheekbones, Genghis Khan eyes, and a laid-back way of talking. While I was starting to look maybe a little middle-aged, Chang still resembled a twenty-year-old. It was like he’d been preserved by the sea and sun.
He was telling his clients to start by catching some waves while lying flat on their stomachs on the boards, and then to try it kneeling. He said he’d paddle out and help them when it was time for them to stand.
“We’re all waves,” he concluded, gesturing at the sea. “And these humpers are your friends.”
The honeymooners lugged their long, soft beginner-boards into the water. Chang glanced over at me. “Hey, Jim.”
“Hi, Chang. This is my friend Weena. It’s nice to see the master teach.”
Chang shrugged. “Tubes for goobs. Seems like I’ve gotten too freestyle to win any contests these days. So here I am, grubbin’ it. You’re still a mailman?”
“A little bit. I was in the hospital this week.”
Chang shook his head. “On top of losing Val last year? Too harsh, man.”
The sympathy put a lump in my throat. Weena took the opportunity to pipe up. “We’re on a quest for three surfers.”
Chang considered her as if noticing her for the first time. “Why?”
“Header, Ira and this new girl,” I said, regaining my voice. “I want to talk to them. They live in a crumbling old Victorian house somewhere downtown. I think it’s on Yucca Street. But—”
“The Whipped Vic crew!” said Chang. “Sure I know them. Header, Ira, Ginnie—and don’t forget Skeeves. I hear they’re having a party today.” He chuckled. “Their house is curiously difficult to find.”
“Please lead us there,” said Weena.
“I don’t see the Whipped Vic as your kind of scene,” said Chang, not liking Weena’s looks.
“I, uh, lost something at that house,” I said. “I need to get it back.”
“What’s with you, Jim?” asked Chang. “Is your woman friend a cop?”
“I’m a fallen woman,” said Weena in a low, throaty tone. “A vamp. Just ask Jim.”
Chang gave me a worried look. “You’re this hard up, man?”
“It’s all very freaky,” I told him, unable to keep holding everything back. “Weena here—she’s the mummy that Skeeves is always fucking.”
“No doubt!” said Chang, breaking into wild laughter. He totally didn’t believe me. “Same old Jim. What the hell, I’ll bring you guys to the Whipped Vic party, sure. It might piss off Header. But that’ll make me glad.”
“I appreciate this,” I said.
“Bro!” said Chang. “Remember the time you took me to that Wiggler Labs picnic and you fed them all that gnarly eel?”
“Well, I already knew they were going to fire me,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“You were so frikkin’ ripped,” mused Chang. “It was beautiful. And then you started hassling me for more pot in front of everyone.”
“I’ve matured,” I said.
“Me too,” said Chang. “It sucks.”
A wail from the water distracted him. His woman student had lost control of her board, which was bobbing to shore.
“I gotta do my thing,” continued Chang. “Meet me at the Perg coffee shop around seven-thirty, and we’ll catch the Whipped Vic crew there. They always hit the Perg after they ride. Ginnie’s a serious coffee hound.”
“Should I bring a salmon for the party?”
“Nah, don’t bothe
r, of course not. Bring a bottle of tequila. That’ll help with Header. He’ll be trippin’ about me hooking him up with Jim and—the mummy!”
8: The Boardwalk
So that left Weena and me with a long afternoon to kill. Going back to my house didn’t seem like a good idea, what with the excitement about the sea lions, and with Diane Simly wanting to evict us.
“What are those immense machines?” asked Weena, pointing at the bright structures of Boardwalk. “Is it a, a fish-cannery?”
“Oh, come on, Weena,” I said. “It’s an amusement park.” She looked doubtful. “I’ll tell you what,” I continued. “I’ll take you on some rides.”
“Amusement park,” echoed Weena, thinking this through. “Of course. I rode on a Ferris wheel as a girl. And I’ve frequented Funger Gardens in Flimsy. But this one—so very many machines.” Another pause. “How clanking and inhumane our Earth has become.”
“You say there’s an amusement park in Flimsy too?” I asked, wanting to lighten things up. We were headed along the oceanfront, Droog still on his leash. I still didn’t really understand what or where Flimsy was—or why Weena seemed so unfamiliar with the modern world.
“But in Flimsy there’s no machines at all,” she said. “No bustling assemblages of clamps and screws and wires and paint and rust. We use zickzack and kessence instead. Have I told you this?”
“You’ve hardly told me anything, Weena. What are kessence and zickzack?”
“Kessence is like aether. A subtle substance, a higher energy. Zickzack is more complicated. The jivas construct things from it. Zickzack is akin to—to hyperdimensional origami. Zickzack is a piece of space that’s been folded or stretched or glued.” Her hands moved rapidly, molding a shape in the air. “For example—take a slab of space and attach the inside to the outside in a certain way. And then anything that tries to pass through the slab bumps into itself coming back out—and it has to stop. In this fashion one makes a zickzack wall.”
