Asimov's SF, January 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  “Slower,” said Kaya in a gentle tone. “Don't rush it, Zep."

  “I want transparency,” says Zep through his handkerchief. “So the sky shows through. I'll build up the base of the wave one layer at a time.” He jitters back and forth till the can is empty, selects a fresh can, begins shaking it, and hunkers down by Kaya's side.

  Kaya shows her notebook to him. “Look, I figured out how to position Cheezemore Ratt on a board. You're lucky you met me yesterday, huh?"

  Surprise: the pages of Kaya's notebook are completely covered with astounding da Vinci-like drawings: a flow diagram of the air currents inside a cloud, a schematic for a small motor of novel design, a sketch of a twin-peaked quantum wave function, an image of Zep as a skeleton, and a fetching sketch of Kaya riding down the face of an enormous wave.

  “Whoa,” says Zep. “I'm flabbergasted."

  “You still don't remember me?"

  “What."

  “We were in the same physics class freshman year, before you dropped out."

  “That makes you what, a junior now?"

  “I never forgot you, Zep. Summer's here, and you're my summer project. Why do you think I pitched my tent by yours on the beach?” Kaya turns her face up at Zep, expecting a kiss, but he backs off, spooked, frantically shaking the spray-can.

  “To be inside the radius of my awesome electronic sand flea disintegrator?” he says, not looking at her. “Maybe someday I can use the profits to buy a house."

  “You're scared now? After last night?” says Kaya.

  “You're stalking me?” says Zep.

  “Chasing happiness,” says Kaya, looking sweet in the fading light. “And I love talking physics with you. I'm writing a term paper about how the planetary wave function can change modalities and cohere into a fresh solution. About how the entire Earth can change."

  “All these threads at once,” says Zep, picking up a second spray-can and shaking the two cans at the same time. “What if I just put pieces of pizza on the wave. Hella easier to draw than Cheezemore Ratt and his Slicers."

  “Triangles!” says Kaya. “The elemental form. Good idea, Zep."

  Zep looks at her for a minute and comes to a decision. “Paint this with me, Kaya. You're a better artist than me. Frankly, I'm worried about that wave I just started. It's not epic. It needs—oh, of course!"

  Zep sets down his paint cans to fiddle with his surfboard Chaos Attractor. The surface lights up with pale green scrolls that form a realtime graphical model of a wavy water surface as seen from above, with the water-heights coded as shades of green. The tints of green flow like sun and shadows on a wind-tossed harbor, but there's something odd about the flow, something nonlinear, and now odd square-spiral waves begin rotating within the stew, sending out shockwaves of altered behavior.

  It's Kaya's turn to be surprised. “Your surfboard's a computer? I heard rumors but—how does it work?"

  “That dark shape in the core, where it looks like a shark skeleton? That's a vintage CAM8 cellular automaton machine. My good stick Chaos Attractor can not only simulate the state of the nearby sea, it can also propagate realtime tweaks into the surfspace at large, which means that, when I'm jamming the tubes, my moods can influence them. And when we're dry-docked like this, I can use my board to simulate imaginary oceans. That's what we're seeing now. A boiling cubic wave equation. See how it wobbles out those bulges that gobble up the square corners?"

  “That's your mood?” says Kaya, tapping the surface of the board. “Oh, look, you feel me!” Oblong scrolls percolate out from her touches, blending with the jerky molten motions of the cubic waves. “I like you a lot, Zep."

  Zep freezes the simulation and walks to the wall with his cans of paint. “Grab a pair of cans and jam with me, Kaya. As soon as we're done copying this image we can go into the Surf Shack to stuff our guts."

  “And talk about our future,” adds Kaya.

  * * * *

  Despite what one might expect for a kiddie pizza parlor, Cheezemore Ratt's Surf Shack is a place of peace. It's the audio ambience that makes the difference. The great room is wired to play the natural sounds of breaking waves, sprinkled with seabird skirls. Also woven into the mix are faint, sweet strands of surf music, and not hackneyed old crap—no, it's offbeat procedural surf music that no one's ever heard, the music mixed down low enough so that it fades in and out like a party you're hearing from a quarter mile down the beach. The room's air is fresh, with high windows open to the breeze off the bay. Children race in circles around a central clump of booths where their parents enjoy pitchers of imported beer.

  Yes, the floor is sticky with spilled sodas, shiny from discarded pizza scraps, and gritty with cast-off kernels from the bowls of free pretzels and popcorn. And every so often a child falls heavily and breaks into screams—but never for long. The Surf Shack is an oasis of calm, the vibe-equivalent of an actual beach.

  Cheap, free-access videogames line the wall on the room's right side, their speakers turned way down so as not to clash with the pulse of the surf and the chiming of the surf music. Along the left side of the room are the pizza and drink counters. And at the far end of the room is the entrance door to The Perfect Wave, a high-end networked virtual reality cave with a few hydraulically jacked surfboards. Riding The Perfect Wave costs seventeen bucks for a five-minute pop, ten minutes for thirty bucks. It's popular enough that sometimes there's a line to get in. There's another Perfect Wave cave down on the Boardwalk, but that one's too heavily frequented, it's like a worn-out public restroom.

  Del works behind the pizza counter; he's a short young fellow with a plain, honest face. He serves a man a slice of Cheezemore's Hawaiian pizza: roasted fresh pineapple, Serrano ham, and locally made mozzarella topped with roasted Kona coffee beans—then turns to smile at the girl beside him filling a pitcher with dark beer. Both of them are wearing top hats like Cheezemore Ratt, with little pins saying Slicer.

  “Almost closing time, Jen,” says Del. “You want to stick around? Mr. Prospero said I could play The Perfect Wave free all night if I'd mop the place. That's hundreds of dollars worth of play-time. I'm really moving up the tournament ladder. You could watch me play."

  “How do you surf on a ladder?” says Jen absently. “Anyway, sorry, I need to get out of this box.” She's cute with high blonde pigtails, though her face is drawn. Her bloom of youth is fading, with only work in sight.

  “I think it's fun here,” says Del. “Working next to you every day. When are you off this week?"

  “Monday."

  “Damn, I'm only free on Tuesday. Maybe I can change to Monday and we can take a picnic out to Bitchin Kitchen beach where Zep's camped out. Surf the day away."

  “I'm malling on Monday,” says Jen. “I have to find a dress for Zep and Kaya's wedding."

  “Wedding!” said Del. “Zep only met her yesterday."

  “Oh, she's known him a long time,” says Jen. “He has such a bad memory. She's been, like, tracking him, and now she's finally hooked up with him, and she's using astrological birth control, and you know what that means.” Jen arches her back, grins and pats her stomach. “Wedding in July!"

  “Good thing Zep got Mr. Prospero to hire him for the mural,” says Del, shaking his head. “He's gonna need an apartment, or at least a room. Poor guy. He has this impossible dream of buying a beach cottage."

  “Kaya's really rich,” says Jen. “Doesn't he know that? She plans for Zep to finish college. Do you think Zep will thrash his mural? How did he even convince Mr. Prospero that he could paint?"

  “Day before yesterday Zep showed Prospero some mural pictures in a book from the library and claimed he'd done them under a pseudonym,” says Del with a snicker. “You know Zep. He can fake anything. And it's not like Prospero's paying him very much. Prospero's always so broke—for a guy who runs a business."

  There's a sudden squawk outside on the sidewalk, the sound of voices raised. Kaya is cursing at someone, and that someone, a guy whose voice raises the hairs on
Del's neck, is cursing her bask. Abruptly the man's voice rises to a frantic bellow. Zep comes tear-assing in through the door with its tiny tinkling bell. Close on his heels is a big guy with an ill-favored, somewhat triangular form. Del knows the silhouette from high school corridors and adolescent nightmares.

  “Lex Loach,” he mumbles, casting a sidelong glance at Jen. He's shocked to see her straighten, pull back her pixie pigtails, and smooth down her Cheezemore Ratt-faced apron.

  “Hi, Lex!” she chirps perkily.

  Zep tosses Del the can of red spray-paint he's carrying, then vaults the bar and reaches under the counter, pulling out the lead-filled billy club that Mr. Prospero keeps by the cash register. Zep taps the club against his palm, glaring at Loach, who's holding a can of black spray-paint.

  “Yo, Jen,” says Loach, dropping his pursuit of Zep and giving his spray-can a maraca shake. “You about ready?"

  Kaya comes in the door now too. “Hey, crackwipe! What the quap did you just do? You think you can get away with that?” She's carrying her paisley pashmina scarf by one corner; it's all smeared with red paint.

  A mother at a nearby table grabs her highly interested toddler and leaves. In any case, the place is nearly empty by now.

  Loach slips into a stool at the bar, ignoring both Zep and Kaya. He sets his spray-can down and flashes Jen a sunny grin. “Maybe I'll have a beer before we go."

  “I'm talking to you, butt-face,” says Kaya, right at his side.

  “Chill, Kaya,” snaps Jen. “Lex is my friend."

  “Friend?” squeaks Del.

  “Jen!” says Kaya. “This turd sprayed black paint all over Zep's mural!"

  Loach shrugs. “Just wanted to save myself having to clean an even bigger mess off that parking lot wall in a week or two when the sale of this place goes through. No point putting any more work into it, Zeppo."

  Zep smacks the billy club evenly into his palm.

  “No point flipping out either,” continues Loach. “You see me gettin’ mad? I could get mad. You sprayed a friggin’ pig face on the hood of my SPC. But thanks to a little turpentine and your stoner girlfriend's do-rag, I'm willing to let it go. Just don't come out from behind that counter, batboy."

  “I've heard enough,” says Kaya and stalks outside.

  The smell of burning pizza crust registers upon Del. He reaches for the big wooden paddle. “What sale?” he quickly gets in.

  “Prospero didn't tell you, huh?” gloats Lex. “He's in denial. Fact is, he's selling this place to my Dad, yo. Gonna install a Snack-Fac right here. Give the Boardwalk tourists something they can relate to. Not like this space-case Cheezemore Rattshit scene you got here now.” He glances over at the Perfect Wave cave and snickers. “You play that big bad surf game, Del? You a heavy dude in the virtual world?"

  “Don't make fun of Cheezemore Ratt,” says Del with simple dignity. “He's vibby. Just like Mr. Prospero. And, yes, I have the number two Perfect Wave ranking in Surf City. My Perfect Wave handle is El Surfiao."

  “You just tell that to everyone?” says Loach, shaking his head as if pitying Del's naiveté. And then he reverts to his usual warty demeanor. “It's not fair you get all that free time on the Perfect Wave machine here. Maybe I'll have my Dad move that rig to our house while we're steam-cleaning the stink outta this hole."

  “Let's have our beer at the Boardwalk,” says Jen to Loach, hanging up her apron. She flashes Del a smile that lifts him for a second. “Del, since you're staying late, will you close out for me?"

  Stiff-faced, he says, “Uh—sure.” And turns to slide out the darkened extra pizzas with the paddle. The special after-hours snack he'd planned to share with Jen. The Surf Shack's lights flicker twice. Closing time.

  Still holding that billy club, Zep follows Loach and Jen outside. Knowing that Zep is weaponized, Loach chooses to ignore him. Kaya is standing in the lot looking happy again. It's night now, with a low full moon's light dancing on the ocean waves. A few blocks away, the Boardwalk amusement park roars.

  Kaya watches Lex let himself into his dad's Suburban Personnel Carrier, leaving Jen to haul on the massive slab of passenger door as if she's opening a bank vault. The behemoth rolls away.

  “I can work that slash-mark into my composition,” remarks Zep, calmly studying his defaced mural. “I can have the picture be showing a quantum transition where one version of reality shifts into another. On the left side I'll have pizza slices on a normal-type wave, and on the right side I'll have, um, Easter Island moai gods on a boiling cubic wave. Like that tiki god you wear on your neck. Tikis are easy to draw. No arms and legs."

  “She's a goddess, not a god,” says Kaya, fingering her amulet. “But—if Loach says his father is buying this place, why bother finishing the mural?"

  “I'll get paid just the same,” says Zep. “No effort's ever in vain. And who knows, maybe my mural can juju the deal into falling through. Anyway, half the time Loach is talking out of his ass."

  A muffled thud sounds a couple of blocks away, followed by a crowd's burst of applause and laughter.

  “Could be the Loach family is in for a run of bad luck,” says Kaya, dimpling. “Could be they're losing their wave."

  “You spiked that pig's gas tank?” says Zep.

  “His carb and spark-plug,” says Kaya. “I set it up to explode like a bomb. I've forgotten more about motors than most men will ever know. What do you say we move all our stuff inside the Surf Shack and lie low?"

  “I'm down with that,” says Zep.

  * * * *

  Delbert's desultory mopping is done, along with the counting out. Zep, Del, and Kaya have the whole Shack to themselves, the lights dim, the doors and windows shuttered and locked, infinite beer on tap and the two burned eggplant-and-anchovy pizzas that Del made.

  They're sitting at a table, smoking Kaya's bong, with plangent surf music playing on low. Kaya extends her tongue; it's smarting from molten mozzarella.

  “You actually blew up Loach's dad's car's engine, Kaya?” says Del, finishing his beer. “You're too cool. Maybe you really should marry Zep."

  “Dude!” exclaims Zep, shocked. “Where's that at? Next topic, man. Tell us about that Perfect Wave game you've been talking about."

  “I'm farming waves,” says Del. “What it is, all the Perfect Wave game installations are networked. There's five standard courses, and once you've mastered them, you get to design new breaks of your own. The way to really improve your ranking is to build a break that you can totally slyve, but which sends all the other guys over the falls."

  “Guys?” puts in Kaya, exhaling a plume of smoke. “No women?"

  “He was using ‘guys’ in the gender-neutral sense, Kaya,” puts in Zep.

  “Were you, Del?” probes Kaya, her eyes bright under her blonde wig and weirdly curved hand-drawn eyebrows.

  “Oh what-frikkin-ever,” says Zep. “You are so—"

  “Guys and women,” says Kaya. To lighten this she passes Del the bong.

  “I'd love to see you marry Zep,” Del tells Kaya, gratefully accepting the pipe. “Whip his skanky ass into line. Anyway, I was talking about my progress up the Perfect Wave tournament ladder. I've got this awesome new point break I designed, Zep, and the only one who can handle it without wiping out is Lova Moore. She's in slot numero uno on the Surf City Perfect Wave rankings."

  “Lova Moore?” says Zep, liking the stripper-type name. “Do I know her?"

  “I've never seen her face to face,” says Del. “But her personal profile says she's a twenty-year-old woman, just moved to Surf City from Minnesota. Her body icon is hot, but she's really rude. She claims she's a farmer's daughter and that she learned to play Perfect Wave in the cave installed in, like, the Mall of America. You know—way inland.” They all shudder simultaneously at the thought of being a thousand miles from the nearest ocean shore.

  “Amerikkka with three K's,” says Kaya, refilling the bong. “I hate consumerism. That's why I sleep on the beach."

  “My g
oal is to get off the beach,” says Zep. “Some of us don't have a choice."

  “I thought you were on the beach because you're stalking Zep,” Del says to Kaya. He's getting a little sick of her interruptions. “That's what Jen told me."

  “Can we please just talk about surf algorithms,” says Zep unhappily. “No more social dynamics. The Perfect Wave, Del. How many fake boards are in that little room?"

  “Three,” says Del, standing up. “You ready?"

  “Me too,” says Kaya, snugging down her wig.

  The Perfect Wave cave is a dome-like enclosure with a cushioned floor and three surfboards mounted upon swiveling hydraulic jacks augmented by squiddy sprawls of secondary and tertiary pistons fastened lamprey-like to their undersides and skegs. Wave sounds fill the dome, whose inner surface is seamlessly covered with projected images of a surfy sea. The boards are parallel just now, with Del in the middle, Zep on the left, and Kaya on the right. Del leans rhythmically back and forth, leading the others through a series of low waves and out to a rocky point with barking seals. Thanks to the exquisite aquahaptics of the boards, Del feels the currents, chop and eddies within the computations.

  “I built this break,” he says. “I call it Monster Mash. Look out!"

  An improbably big wave spins off the tip of the point, growing larger at an accelerating rate. Working on instinct, Zep hunches and leans, spinning his board to the left to slide off down the long part of the onrushing breaker.

  “Don't go that way!” yells Delbert. “It's a trap!"

  But Zep ignores him and drags the virtual reality his way. Seemingly the display is slaved to follow the moves of whichever surfer manages to get out in front of the others. Working hard to catch up, Del slides down the virtual wave in Zep's wake. As for Kaya—her board bucks and dumps her laughing onto the floor.

  And now the reason for Del's warning becomes clear. They're racing down the tube toward, oh god, a gnarly barnacle-encrusted pier with barbed wire strung between the pilings. Moving with surprising grace, Del gets ahead of Zep and snaps his board around to lead them back toward the initial rocky point.