The Big Aha

by Rudy Rucker

  My art-career dreams were weirdly disconnected from the very real possibility that demonic wormholes might soon be devouring us. I mean, who goes shopping for art when the Apocalypse is in town? But, no, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about making some really great nurbs. Jericho had been bland and dull. I’d work at a deeper level now; I’d make nurbs that personified core emotions and psychic archetypes.

  Eager to get rolling, I qwetted the whole mound of nurb-gel, and gave it a personality based on my barest animal functions. I wanted the flubby nurb to be like a one-ton amoeba. So I modded it to have a matrix of internal protein-chain springs. The wobbling of the springs would let the amoeba move around.

  I biomodded the mound’s color-producing functions as well. The gel had been sparkly to begin with, but I gave it some of the properties of nurb-paint, and I added in a phosphorescent glow. The mound now had branching bright threads visible within. Its colors were sour and tasty in the barn’s rainy-day gloom.

  “Hi, Blob,” I said.

  Blob made burbling noises by swallowing and forcing out big gulps of air. At my wristphone-transmitted behest, Blob bulged out some pseudopods and started poking Skungy until the rat stopped making his inroads on the big nurb’s flesh. Skungy squealed an insult and scampered off through the rain to check the action inside the Funhouse.

  I stayed with my art. I was intrigued by the way Joey Moon had mapped a full copy of his personality into Skungy. Although the idea of duplicating myself made me uneasy, it would certainly be a strong move. After all, that’s what a lot of art is about—immortalizing the artist.

  I didn’t want my double to be something lowly like a rat. I’d have him look exactly like me—some of the time. But to give the act another dimension, I’d have my nurb double’s appearance fluctuate. He’d be qwet, you understand, and he’d be cycling between cosmic mode and robotic mode. And I’d let his appearance change with his mode. It would make a nice objective correlative for my own ever-shifting psychic state.

  Also I’d have my double be more outspoken then me. Ruder. He’d have no filters; he’d say just about anything. That was another motivation for making art—you could indirectly tell people what you really thought, without having to say it straight out and get your ass kicked.

  Using a rusty metal pitchfork, I pried a chunk off the glowing Blob, a piece the same size as me. I did some preliminary biomodding to mold the thing into a humanoid blank, a doughboy lying on the barn’s dirt floor. And then I gave it a nice set of muscles.

  And then, gathering my courage, I made the big move. I got into a teep resonance with the nurb and vibed in my full personality, memories and all. Like making a backup. To complete the process, I did a tweak to remove most of the nurb’s inhibitions—blanking out what they used to call the superego.

  “Hi, Zad,” croaked my copy, sitting up. “What’s my name?”

  “SubZad,” I said. “Sub for subliminal, subconscious, and subordinate.”

  “Subordinate to who?”

  “Me?”

  “That’ll be a cold day in hell,” said SubZad, just like I would have said to Dad. He looked down at himself in the watery late afternoon light. “What about that fluctuating appearance you planned?” he demanded irritably. “Do that too. I want to be more than a clone.”

  “Here we go. Fine. Stay blank for a minute.” The changes that I now made were, I suppose, the truly artistic touch in my process.

  I thought of the cosmic mode as water, versus the robotic mode as ice. I thought of the cosmic personality as smooth and mellow, versus a robotic personality that’s quirky and tight. Using my cosmic-logic-designed biomods, I found a way to actualize these distinctions within SubZad’s metabolism.

  And, for a really original touch, I gave SubZad some abilities to biomod his body in real time. He’d be a bit of a shapeshifter. Shapeshifting wasn’t something that people ordinarily did, as biomodding your genes on the fly was a good way to kill yourself. But thanks to cosmic logic, I was able to find a way to give SubZad access to a safe and limited set of internal controls.

  I watched my adjustments take hold. SubZad had been alternating slowly between cosmic and robotic, perhaps once every five or ten seconds. And now you could see it happening. Yes!

  Just now SubZad was in robotic mode, and his face looked like whittled wood—a brittle, many-faceted pattern that moved in abrupt twitches. But he was melting towards the cosmic. His features softened, and he reached a middle zone in which his face looked completely human—like skin and flesh, a mirror image of me. The softness ripened, and SubZad’s face seemed to rot. He developed patches and streaks of color, like a loosely expressionist painting. Quite lovely, in a way, although certainly it was unsettling to see my face deliquesce.

  Growing still more cosmic, SubZad smoothed into a generic cartoony form, like a doll or a balloon-animal. And then, for a brief time, he became a mildly glowing angel of light. And the angel amped back down into a cartoon, an expressionist painting, a photorealistic copy, a tensely chiseled model, and—at the bottom range of the robotic mode—a flaking polyhedral mesh.

  “Wavy,” said SubZad. “I’ll enlighten people. Teach them the deep rhythm of life. But, Zad, am I the best you can do? Make another nurb too. Get loofy, qrude. Go all the way out! Build a nurb that makes no sense. Not just another me. Another you. Another me.”

  “You want to help?” I asked him.

  “Two heads are better than one,” said SubZad, a trapezoidal streak of green running down one side of his face, and a burst of orange on the bridge of his nose. “Especially if you’re confabbing with a Dynaflow personality like mine.”

  “Love it,” I responded. “I wouldn’t have said exactly that. You’re already diverging from me. So, yeah, let’s make another nurb.”

  “I’ll pitchfork a fresh hundred and fifty pounds of gel off of Blob,” said SubZad.

  Blob heaved and blubbered and flashed an angry shade of magenta. I didn’t like losing any flesh. But SubZad got a chunk loose and we set to work on it. For the first time since Jane had left me, I didn’t feel one tiny bit lonely.

  SubZad’s mirroring of me had turned my thoughts to Joey’s raps about vanishing points and artistic perspective.

  “Let’s make a man who’s an endless regress,” I said. “But he has the default normal-nurb personality.”

  “Yaar,” said SubZad, in a cosmic mode state where his face resembled a yellow smiley cartoon. “And call him Mr. Normal. If you have a regress on display—it hints that there’s no final answers. It hints that reality is a house built on sand.”

  To sharpen the jape, I let Mr. Normal’s infinite regress take the place of his head. That is, Mr. Normal looked like a man, but instead of a head, he had a little man standing on his shoulders. And the little man had a smaller man on his shoulders and so on, with a dwindling centipede of arm-waving figurines converging to central zone where I conjured up an extremely small and bright nurb lightbulb, held in place by unbreakable nucleonic threads. Designing the genetic code for all this would have been quite unfeasible—but I had the benefit of qwet cosmic logic.

  “Mr. Normal burns with a hard and gem-like flame,” I said, gesturing at his tiny, savagely brilliant bulb.

  SubZad studied my new nurb in silence for a moment, his expression robotic and strict. And then shook his head. “We’re outsmarting ourselves with the regress, qrude. Nobody but you and me and maybe Joey will ever understand what the fuck they’re looking at. All those little legs and arms—they’re disgusting. Get rid of that crap and have Mr. Normal be a man with a head that’s a lightbulb. Nice and simple. A big bulb, and not too bright, so it doesn’t kill your eyes to look at it, and to show that Mr. Normal isn’t all that smart. You could actually sell some copies of a Mr. Normal nurb like that.”

  “Commercial gold,” I said, not quite seriously. But I didn’t mind taking suggestions from SubZad. He was almost me. I remodeled Mr. Normal’s genes, taking out the recursive regress com
plication, and setting a foot-high nurb lightbulb on his shoulders, pointy on top, and with the sketchy glow of a filament within.

  A remembered image rose in my mind, and I matched the image by making Mr. Normal’s body more robotic-looking, with horizontal bars for his shoulders and pelvis, and with visible hinges for his elbows and knees. Fitting in with the same theme, I reshaped Mr. Normal’s hands to look like lobster claws—a tweak that could also be useful if we had to face an invasion of wormholes,

  “Little Bulb,” said SubZad, fully cognizant of my art-historical memory associations. “Gyro Gearloose’s helper in the twentieth-century Duckburg universe of the transcendent master Carl Barks. Little Bulb doesn’t talk, no. He blinks and he makes gestures with his eager arms.”

  “Yeah, baby,” I said, enjoying Mr. Normal’s flicker flow. He was strobing his light in subtle rhythms like visual music, and clacking the pincers of his powerful hands.

  “Fuckin’ A,” concurred SubZad. His appearance was jittering around in the cartoony/expressionist transitional zone. “I’m keying on the wave too,” he said. “Mr. Normal thinks he knows where we’re at. He’s normal, so he gets most of it completely wrong, but it’s fun to riff off his misapprehensions. Like skateboarding down stone steps.”

  Spooky to be hanging with these two bizarre nurbs in the dim barn. Was Mr. Normal dangerous? As planned, I’d given him the default normal-nurb mind—had that been a mistake? Worst case: Mr. Normal might physically drag me to the cops’ lair downtown. But, nah, he wasn’t like that. He was a quirky construct, a work of art, my Little Helper.

  As for SubZad, he felt like a brother, which seemed good. But—my worries wouldn’t stop— nurbs were subject to code errors and to malware attack. And SubZad was much stronger than me. What if he went rogue and killed me so he could take my place?

  “I won’t kill you,” said SubZad, fully in synch with my emotions. “Don’t be pissing your pants, qrude. But maybe I’ll kill Whit Heyburn.”

  “You the man.”

  Blob, still piqued about the loss of mass, showed some signs of wanting to slime over here and to reassimilate SubZad and Mr. Normal. But Mr. Normal had found a flicker rhythm that kept Blob away. Mr. Normal was showing emergent capabilities of his own—which was what I’d hoped. Good art makes you surprised.

  I was tired. I found a mound of dry straw and fell asleep with my arms around SubZad, holding him close, comfortable with his oscillations, like the brother or sister that I’d never had. Mr. Normal sat beside us, keeping guard, his mind a tangle of social trends and wiggly nonlinear waves.

  When I awoke it was night. Still raining, with a steady rhythm of drops on the barn’s metal roof. Music as well, squonk music from the mansion—Weezie had hired a good band.

  Guests’ voices were lifted in revelry. A fuck-ton of them here already. I could teep their vibes in the ballroom, with more of them slogging up the rain-soaked drive.

  Peering out the barn door I studied the arriving qwetties. Most were in sodden fancy dress, and they wore nurb accessories. Qrudes from all over town. Everyone was high on cosmic mode. Reaching for the big aha. It was like a Mardi Gras parade, or a dream, or a psychedelic festival.

  “A zoo,” said SubZad, who was squeezed right up against me, also watching the crowd. His face was cosmic, degenerate, slack. “I wish this qwet wasn’t making me empathize with everyone. It’s much easier to mock them or to hate them. I wonder if any of these human women would ever fuck me. I’m so much more than a toy.”

  Mr. Normal amped his strobe light up to a twitchy flicker that drew a pair of the arriving revelers our way. Like moths. They were happy to catch their breath in the shelter of the barn’s overhang. The guy was wearing a giant dick molded from nurb-gel—it was three or four feet long.

  “Dig the native bearer,” said SubZad, pointing to a tiny figure beneath the penis.

  Yes, the man had a little nurb assistant whose job was to hold up the tip of the penis with both hands lest it dig into the ground. The penis owner was coarse-looking, with thinning hair, and his partner was a florid, plain-faced woman with six breasts tiered into three lacy black brassieres.

  “We’re Sam and Suze,” said the woman.

  “Party’s in the big house,” I said. “In the ballroom in back. I like how you two dressed up.”

  “Does that dick work?” asked SubZad, all polyhedral and doctor-like.

  “Try me,” said Sam, who came across as a low-rent redneck. “Bend over.”

  “Trundle that thing in to Weezie Roller,” replied SubZad. “The hostess. She’ll want a taste. Tell her Zad Plant sent you, and that Zad says she needs a better lay than his father.”

  “Take it easy,” I cautioned SubZad. “You don’t have to say every single thing that pops into your head.”

  “Oh, you’re afraid you’ll look bad and lose your free crash-pad?” said SubZad. “Worried that Weezie will tell Jane you’re a crass horndog?” Maybe, from his perspective, SubZad thought he was joking. Or maybe not. He was still in robotic mode, with the facets of his skin glinting in the light. He seemed more like a psycho than a jester. It was unpleasant to see that side of myself.

  “That’s a loofy lightbulb man you have,” said Suze, kindly changing the subject. Her face was electrically alive in the flickering glow.

  “I made him just now,” I bragged. “Mr. Normal. I made my loudmouth subliminal twin here too.”

  “Your twin’s a nurb?” said Suze, turning away from the strobe light and jiggling her breasts at me. “All six of these are me. I had my genes modded.” She glanced around at the looming walls of the Funhouse, the festively lit jellies adrift on the back lawn, and the twinkling Blob in the recesses of the barn.

  “I’ve never been to no party in Glenview before,” added Suze. Thanks to teep, I could taste her and Sam’s emotions—a mixture of pride, longing, shyness, and resentment. “I heard this is supposed to be an orgy?” Suze asked.

  “Let’s get inside before—” began Sam, but then he let out a yell. “Oh no! There goes my smart dick!”

  The giant penis had pulled free. It was speeding into the barn’s gloom like a hyperactive inch-worm, with its tiny nurb porter running in its wake. The porter’s voice grew shrill as the penis slithered into a slit that Blob had opened for it. And then the penis was gone.

  “Sorry to bust your chops,” I told Sam.

  “Shit fire,” he said. “Fella likes to walk into an orgy with some heft, you know what I mean?” He gazed down at his now-bared privates. “It’s not like I’m no Needledick the Bugfucker, but all the same—”

  “You’ll do fine, Sam,” said Suze, putting her arm around her man’s waist. “We’ve got my fancy boobs for bait. Meanwhile, let’s just zip you up, so’s your meat and potatoes can pop out later when there’s some eyes.”

  Their little helper nurb ran out of the barn, shinnied up Suze’s leg and found a perch in her second-highest decolletage. Like someone settling into the balcony at a show.

  SubZad and I left Mr. Normal in the barn and walked around to the back of the Funhouse. We entered the ballroom via the terrace door. I recognized many of the guests from around town, including the usual Louisville society crowd that Dad catered too, plus the new generation that had gone to school with me.

  Given that we were in the Rollers’ ballroom, this might have seemed like one of Jane’s prom parties, or like a Todd Trask Derby bash—but, no, it was different. A bunch of random outsiders were in the mix. Also, everyone was totally loaded on cosmic mode. Plus I had the odd SubZad at my side, acting out the antics of my inner self.

  The squonk band on stage was called Bag Stagger. I’d vaguely heard of them around town—two men and a woman named Skeezix, along with menagerie of tuneful nurbs. One of the guys, his name was Dharma, was blowing into a mockingbird nurb, whose samples formed a filigreed wall of sound. And he was rocking polyrhythms from a belly-beater as well. The other guy, Kink, was man-handling a nurb bagpipe nearly half his size; it was a hi
deous beast with eyestalks, drone pipes, and mouths like floppy saxophones. The spiky-haired dark-skinned Skeezix stood in front, flickering like a flame, wielding her gitmo nurb like a crunchy electric guitar. All three of the musicians were performing vocals—syncopated jive, harmonized choruses, and the occasional psychotic rant.

  Weezie and Dad danced up front near the band. No doubt it had been Weezie’s idea that the two of them dress as a cancan dancer and a top-hatted toff. They were having big fun, and smiling into each others’ eyes—which I found intensely irritating. I was still bugged about my Mom.

  “Fuddyduds,” said SubZad, staring at them. “Deeply lame.” I fully agreed, but I wouldn’t have said it that flatly.

  “Hey there, Zad,” said Reba, slinking up to us. She was wearing a tight maroon nurb gown whose long skirt flowed to the floor. “Did I talk to you yet?”

  “I just got here,” I said.

  “I’ve been resetting myself over and over?” said Reba, raising her voice to be heard over the Bag Stagger sound. “I made a backup while I was floating in that jellyfish in our bedroom with Carlo. It was so romantic, Zad. I keep wanting to revisit that moment again.” She noticed SubZad. “Since when do you have a twin brother? Ooh, his face is changing. Is he sick?”

  “You look hot and jiggly,” said SubZad. “Ever done it with a nurb?”

  “Not lately,” said Reba dismissively. “Not soon.” Her eyes roamed. She tended to notice a lot more details than me. “Look at poor Junko trailing after Loulou. I hate Loulou. Of course she had to go and seduce Junko this afternoon. Junko’s supposed to be in love with me.”

  “Loulou’s fun,” I said, unable to resist defending her. “She’s smart and full of life. And if she’s a little selfish, it’s because she’s seen hard times.”

  “Oh please,” said Reba. “Don’t let her reel you back in. Dig it—there’s Kenny and Kristo trying to pick up on two guys from the west side.” Her voice rose to a raucous caw. “Teach them German, Kristo!” Her eyes kept moving, taking stock. “There’s poor Craig Gurky dancing with his mover nurbs. Gustav and Bonk? I can’t believe Weezie invited Craig. And all these other goobs. Who are they? Oh wow, look at Joey Moon slobbering over the tacky woman with six tits. She’s got to be fifty years old. I guess Joey needs a mom. And can we talk about Weezie’s outfit? Those ruffles on her legs? Like a clown suit. This is some flop of an orgy, Zad. Isn’t anyone gonna get down?”