by Rudy Rucker
“Bobbing and weaving,” said Loulou in a flat tone. “Very cute. And the crowd is cheering. You don’t think your work is a little—corny?” Strained, fixed smile, slightly pitying.
“I’ve sold a lot,” I said, feeling hurt. “That’s more than your Joey Moon can say. He got some buzz from his art grenades and his painter slugs, but hardly anyone ever actually paid him for—”
“Joey says you wouldn’t help him get started. You wouldn’t show his new paintings in your gallery. He was really upset about that.”
“He never even let me see those pictures, Loulou. I had no way of knowing what he was talking about!”
“I’ve seen them,” said Loulou softly. “Incredibly stark. But until he gets a show, they have to be secret.”
“Oh, god. The mysterioso routine. Beloved by fake artists since the dawn of time.” I pulled on my jeans and a red ultra-checked shirt. “Never mind. You want to help me move that vat, or not?”
“I’m guessing it’s insanely heavy?”
“I’ll rent a couple of mover nurbs from Gurky Movers down the street. Craig Gurky calls them his golems. We’ll herd the golems and they’ll do our bidding. Come along and you’ll get your peek inside my old apartment.”
“The lair of sweet Jane. My rival for the Prince’s hand.” She’d pulled on her striped tights from last night, and now she picked out a dark multi-polka-dot shirt from the nurb clothing I had on display. “I’m up for some looting, yeah.”
I looked at Loulou, once again wondering about where her mood was at. “I woke up thinking I’d seen your soul. But now—”
“I’m elusive,” said Loulou, wriggling one hand like a fish. “A sneak.” And then she leaned forward and kissed me. We had another minute of teep. Glorious.
I could see the cosmic thought mode becoming addictive. It was like a pure and unforgettable first high that you might spend the rest of your life chasing. It was here for the taking now, anytime I liked, thanks to quantum wetware. And being cosmic made me feel smart.
“Keep an eye on the store,” I told Skungy. “We might get some customers. Be polite. And use your squidskin link to call me if someone wants to buy something.”
“I could just use teep,” said Skungy, giving me a touch of his jagged little mind.
“If you teep me I won’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “You’ll want to tell me, like, someone’s buying a fancy nurb floor licker, and I’ll hear you saying your daughter Sissa is having sex with a plague-infested fully organic river rat and you want me to watch.”
“Don’t go talking that way about Sissa or I’ll rip your damn throat out,” said Skungy, rising up to his full height of five inches and baring his yellow fangs.
“Ooooh,” I said, mocking him. “The cuddly pet rattie-wat. He’s a hard guy like Joey Moon. Like Joey Moon who’s in a psych ward zonked on nod.”
Despite all my teep pleasure, I was in an edgy mood. I guess I was jealous of Joey. And uptight about Gaven and Jane.
“Stop right there,” said Loulou. “You don’t have to mock Joey when he’s down. And you don’t have to pick on your qwet rat. You’ve won. You’ve got me.” Loulou held up one arm and yanked the air, as if sounding a triumphant train-whistle.
“Uh—yeah!” I dug the way this woman moved.
We went outside. It was eleven o’clock of a Saturday morning, a cider-crisp summer-fall day. Qrudes riding roadspiders and straight citizens piloting the pig-based nurb vans we called roadhogs. People strolling, shopping, socializing. Some of the women had nurb servants tailing them, shaped like pygmy lawn-jockeys—some white and some black—carrying stuff their owners had bought. One of the little nurbs had balanced a chair on his head. I thought of an ant bearing a dead beetle.
“Jane’s apartment is over there, right?” said Loulou, pointing at one of the tall trees by the Ohio River. The housetree was like a giant stalk of bamboo, pale green and gracefully curved, with joints separating it into apartment floors. A pair of lifter tubes twined along one side.
“How do you know?” I asked, feeling a twinge of suspicion.
“Duh! From teeping with you all night long? A few actual facts do stick—if you learn how to mine them. It doesn’t have to be all cuttlefish in UFOs.”
“I’ve always had a thing for space aliens,” I said as we crossed Main Street, sidestepping a roadhog van driven by a chauffeur perched on the pig’s head. Instead of being set up for freight, the giant pig was a personal limo, with the window-membranes so dark you couldn’t see inside.
Loulou was still thinking about my remark. “If there’s aliens at all, the likeliest time to contact them would be when you’re in cosmic mind mode,” she said as we reached the sidewalk on the other side.
“How do you mean?”
“Sometimes I hear squeals when I’m teeping,” said Loulou. “Like there’s things outside our space. N-dimensional pigs, maybe.”
“I’m still getting used to the idea that we’re lovers,” I said, not in a mood to get all abstract this early in the day.
“That’s my boy,” said Loulou, patting my head. “Oh, hi, Whit!”
And there he was, my old nemesis, wearing a white shirt and a herringbone nurb cloth suit. He’d risen in status at United Mutations. As Loulou had already alluded to, Whit was the business manager of UM’s local research lab. Not that Whit knew jack-shit about science.
“Loulou!” exclaimed Whit. “It’s slow at UM with you working off-site. I got your message about—what was it? Quantum telepathy?” He gave me a calculating nod. Even now, years later, he was still miffed about having lost Jane to me. Very rare for Whit to lose a girl. His usual pattern was to ensnare them, abuse them, and reject them himself. But wait—Loulou was still reporting to him?
“This is Zad Plant,” said Loulou, pretending that she didn’t know we two had a history. “The guy who runs the Live Art gallery down the street? He’s the one selling the qwet rats for Slygro. And they’re a test-bed for the quantum telepathy service, yeah.”
“Zad,” said Whit Heyburn, taking my hand and squeezing it much, much harder than necessary. He had the sleepy low-lidded eyes of a squidskin show idol—and a mouth as mirthless as a mailbox slot. “The former artist.”
“Whit here is a screwball,” I told Loulou, my words falling over each other. “When he was drunk in high school, he’d lie on the floor of his car and run the pedals with his feet. Carlo would do the steering from the back seat with his belt tied to the wheel.”
“Why bring up a thing like that?” said Whit. “Nothing’s happened to you since high school? I was sorry to hear about your breakup with Jane.” He cocked his head, cruelly vigilant.
“It’s true, Jane and I are temporarily on the outs. But—”
“But now you’ve got Loulou!” said Whit. “Art boys always score. Anyhow, the thing is, my United Mutations engineers are begging for a qwet rat. This qwet stuff will explode. First I thought it was just a new high and a means of telepathy, but now Loulou’s talking about cosmic logic and a new biomod installation technique? Qwet will be huge. I was on my way to your store, matter of fact.”
“Fine,” I said in a noncommittal tone. “But I’m confused. Loulou told me she used to work for United Mutations. But you’re making it sound like she’s still on your payroll?”
“Not a weekly paycheck,” said Loulou with a shrug. “It’s more like a finder’s fee. Whenever I give their research group some good information.”
“You’re an industrial spy? A mole in the Slygro lab?”
“Zaddy’s heating up,” said Whit. “Poor impulse control. I can come back later, if you lovebirds need to squawk and peck. But I’ve got spot cash for a qwet rat right now. My boys at UM want it bad.”
“I, uh, don’t actually have any of the qwet rats for sale yet,” I said, calming myself with a touch of cosmic mode. “There’s two beta-model qwet rats minding my store for me, but—”
“Oh, let him take Sissa,” interrupted Loulou. “
How much, Whit?”
“Pitch me a number, Zad.” Whit opened his eyes a little further and gave me a level stare. “See if you can play big league ball.” His eyes were blank and dark.
I tripled the highest figure I could think of—and Whit handed me the money right away. With a dismissive gesture, he tendered Loulou half the same amount. “Off the books,” he said. “You’re my people.”
“Never,” I said, feeling like I’d been had.
“I’ll wait here while you boys finish the deal,” said Loulou.
I led Whit back to my store and sprang the news on my qwet rats.
“Whit here is buying Sissa.”
Skungy was immediately on the offense, shrilling defiant insults. But Sissa calmed him down.
“I’d like to get away from you,” she told Skungy. “Get it? I want to see new things on my own. Gaven’s gonna send Zad more qwet rats anyhow. So clamp your snout, Skungy.”
“But you’re my family,” said Skungy, sounding plaintive. “On account of—”
“I’m your owner,” I told Skungy, an edge in my voice. “So start being of some use to me.”
“Big slob. Bully.”
“Incredibly shoddy nurb design,” said Whit, studying Skungy. “You have no control over that rat all. Vintage Gaven Graber. He’s been talking to me direct, you know.”
News to me. And never mind Gaven’s bombast about non-disclosure agreements. But I played it cool. “And you guys want to be marketing qwet yourselves, am I right?”
“Not sure anyone will be selling qwet,” said Whit in a matter-of-fact tone. He seemed to know as much as me—or more. “Qwet for free is more likely. Good will gesture. Then Slygro and/or United Mutations cashes in with add-ons and product support. We might even buy Slygro out. If the numbers work. Wholly owned subsidiary.”
“Fat cats,” I said, reverting to childish insults. “Greedy pigs.”
“UM would handle qwet better, Zad. Admit it. Gaven is a goob. Remember that fire-breathing dragon nurb he paid Craig Gurky to build in high school, and the fire department had to come? Kind of a shame to see you throwing in your lot with an idiot like that. If you’re open to offers, Zad, maybe I could—”
“I have an errand I need to do,” I told Whit, wanting to forestall one of his pseudofriendly control routines. “So—”
Whit shrugged, then laid his hand on the counter near Sissa, palm up. “Just look at her,” he crooned to the rat. “Little Sissa with her pretty fur. I’ll take good care of you. Hop aboard, and I’ll set you in my coat pocket. You can peek out from there. We’ll take a ride, and I’ll find you a nook in our lab. Check back with you on Monday, Zad?”
“You’re not gonna dissect Sissa, are you?” piped Skungy. I could feel Skungy’s anxiety as clearly as if were my own. Knowing Whit, Skungy’s worry was fully justified. But Sissa was simply annoyed by Skungy’s concern.
“Chill!” she sharply chirped. She was already ensconced in Whit’s coat pocket. Her little pink paws held the edge, with her bead-bright eyes and whiskered snout peering over. Cute as a button. “I can take care of myself,” she told Skungy. “This is my big opportunity…asshole.” A qwet rat’s idea of a fond farewell.
“Seems like we’re done for now,” said Whit. “Fire off a signal rocket when you’re ready for help, Zad. And say hi to sweet Jane.” He paused and gave me a hard look, continually toying with me. “Or, what the hey, I’ll call her myself. I expect she’s still a decent lay. Maybe a bit overeager. Living alone and all.”
Before I could properly react, a feather-light stingray nurb had wriggled out from beneath the collar of Whit’s coat. It rippled in the air like a leaf, flexing its long thorn of a tail, hovering between Whit and me.
“Loser,” said Whit, enjoying himself.
And then he was out in the street hopping into the comfortable chauffeur-driven roadhog I’d noticed before. Whit’s private vehicle, with a fully enclosed passenger compartment. Strictly speaking, Whit didn’t even need to work. His job was like a hobby for him. An opportunity to power-trip people’s minds.
So there I was, choking on revenge fantasies. I could have used my genemodder wand on Whit’s stingray, but no no, surely that thing had its genes locked. I could have gotten my firepig sausage and flamed the stingray, and then have strangled Whit, or punched him in the face.
Or maybe I could burst into tears. Or I go inside my shop and hang myself. Instead I stared off into the sky and dialed up my cosmic mode. All is one. I was a soliton in Hilbert space, a flick of paint on the canvas, a turd on a limb. In cosmic mode, things were in equal measure comic and pathetic. My life. The greatest spectacle I’d ever see.
After a few minutes, my heart rate had damped back down. And now I thought to hunt down Loulou. My teep connection made it easy to sniff her out. Leaving the disgruntled Skungy in charge of my shop again, I found Loulou in a jewelry shop two blocks down Main Street, spending some of the money she’d gotten from Whit.
“What do you think?” she asked me, palming back her hair to display a pair of shiny nurb earrings. “I’m wearing these for you.” Little bunches of golden tentacles waved from cute silvery disks with domes on the top. Toy cuttlefish in tiny UFOs, one in each ear. The two cuttles had watchful, tawny eyes.
“Now that I’m qwet, I can genemod a programmable nurb just by looking at it,” bragged Loulou. “Most pieces of jewelry are programmable, and it’s actually pretty easy to make them qwet. I used spit. And then I fondled the earrings with the fingers of my mind.” Playfully she ran her hand across my crotch.
“I’m feelin’ this,” said the jeweler behind the counter. Ned White. We knew each other well. He was a smooth-skinned man with a handsome face. “Loulou here is a nurb modder supreme. She buys these earrings, stares at them, and—whomp—they ripple and they change shape. Help me out, Zad. Clue me on the qwet scene. You’re running with Gaven Graber, right?”
“In a way. I’m distributing qwet rats for his company. Slygro. I’ll have some rats in stock in a few days; stop by and buy one. Wholesale rate for you. Get in ahead of the herd.”
“Never mind the rats,” said Loulou. “Junko Shimano is going to be distributing qwet for people really soon. A freelance giveaway.” She studied Ned White thoughtfully. “Qwet means quantum wetware, you wave? It makes you high, it gives you telepathy, it helps you use cosmic logic to find biomod designs without a computer, and it lets you install your mods onto programmable nurbs just by thinking at them. Those last two bits are thanks to me. Advanced qwetology.”
“I want qwet,” said Ned.
“Try calling Slygro on your wristphone right after we leave,” said Loulou in a confidential tone. “Ask for Reba. She can put you on a list. Or make a house call.” Loulou flashed her smile. “If that doesn’t work for you, I might could turn you on myself. I did Zad last night.”
“I can hire you?” said Ned, lowering his voice. “Seriously?” He gestured along his counter of nurb jewelry. “Bring me online and we’ll make all of this stuff qwet and mod it like a mofo. You can make up the new designs. I’ll give you a consult fee, Loulou, or a salary, or commissions—whatever you want.” Ned seized her hands like a passionate suitor. “It’d be a delight to have you in my shop.”
I interrupted. “Don’t you think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Loulou? We’ll catch up with you later, Ned. We’ve gotta run.”
“This man is strait-laced,” said Ned, pointing at me.
“Stop stirring up trouble,” I hissed to Loulou outside. “You seduce me in front of my wife, you infect me with qwet, you spy on us for United Mutations, you spill the Slygro trade secrets, and you want to give away qwet before Gaven’s ready. And why’d you tell Ned to ask for Reba? You’re driving me crazy.”
“I’m chaos,” said Loulou cheerfully. “You’re riding a whirlwind.” She bobbled her head, flashing the qwet earrings. The cuttles waved hello with their tiny tentacles, right in synch with Loulou’s mood.
“Let’s go get my d
amned vat,” I snapped, fully as fuddydud as my dad. “Gurky Movers is across the street.”
Craig Gurky was another boyhood friend of mine, although we’d gone to different high schools—me private and him public. Craig’s father had run a gas station and motor repair place down on River Road, living with his family in a riverside cottage on piers. Mr. Gurky was an adaptable man, and when the nurb craze hit, he sold off his River Road properties, bought a warehouse downtown, and got hold of some sturdy nurbs that served as the work force of Gurky Movers. Craig’s so-called golems.
Craig had the flaky, unworldly attitude of an artist. As boys, Craig and I had enjoyed making prank assemblages together—I remember a set-up that ignited a tethered balloon of questionable gas when Craig’s father opened his bedroom door. A ball of flame, a crispy fart-stench, and Craig’s choking hiccups of joy.
Now Mr. Gurky was dead and Craig, anything but a go-getter, was running the family business. Craig had always professed to have a slavering interest in women, but his fantasies were baroque and theoretical, as if he were thinking about imaginary science-fictional beings. He was single, and he shared the family apartment over the warehouse with his Mom, a kindly moon-faced woman with a wart.
“Zad,” said Craig, greeting us as we entered his cavernous shop. Nobody was in here but Craig and his idle, heavy-set nurb golems. Craig’s plain face always seemed wider than it was high, especially when he smiled. “With a lady friend! Introduce us, dolt. I crave social intimacy.”
“This is Craig Gurky,” I told Loulou. “He’s good guy. Craig, this is Loulou Sass. She’s been living on Gaven Graber’s farm with her husband.”
“That rotten Graber,” said Craig, his face darkening. “Like he’s going to be the one to smarten up our nurbs? My nurbs are plenty smart already. I mod them right. Did I tell you I taught my golem Gustav to bounce down Third Street like a rubber ball? I adjusted his muscles so they don’t bruise. Hundred-foot hops. And for the finale, he flies up past the housetrees, bounces off a girder on the old Clark bridge, bonks into that big black sphere on top of the bridge tower—the place with that sex club called Kegel Kugel? Plenty of she-males there. Anyway, my nurb bounces of the Kegel Kugel and—sploosh! Gustav lands in the drink!”
