The Ware Tetralogy, Rudy Rucker [inspirational books TXT] 📗

“Fuck you!” hollered the man.

“Where do you want it?” screeched Monique, phallically thrusting her arm. “In your nose or up your ass?” She bounced menacingly toward the man. He sat down and gestured weakly for Monique to go away.

In a few minutes Monique drew even with the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, a classic seaside amusement park. All day long, the Santa Cruz locals streamed through the Boardwalk, diluting the valleys and Heritagists enough so that the place was never whitebread dull. The Boardwalk was six blocks long and half a block thin. Despite the name, the grounds were paved with concrete.

Monique went up from the beach onto the Boardwalk near the main snack bar, which had Tre’s huge new ad for wendy meat on display overhead. The ad was a vast translucent hollow made up of seven kinds of funny-shaped creatures pecking each other’s butts and heads and adding up to an image of an impossibly beautified man and woman whose expressions kept cycling through an ever-escalating but never repeating spiral of joy. The man was modeled on ex-Senator Stahn Mooney and the woman on his wife Wendy Mooney, sexily wearing nothing but her Happy Cloak. It was a fascinating thing to look at, like an immense three-dimensional mosaic of pastel chunks. The shapes of the chunks were based on a four-dimensional Perplexing Poultry philtre which Tre had discovered in July. Monique had helped Tre a bit with the final computations for the ad, and it made her proud to see it.

As Monique crossed the Boardwalk, somebody mistook her for a worker and asked her where to get ride tickets. Monique pointed to the ticket kiosk and motorvated on past it, smoothly rolling the ripples of her base.

On the sidewalk outside the Boardwalk was Monique’s mother Andrea, spread softly out on the pavement like a Colorado River toad, but a toad in the shape of a giant book lying open on the ground. The Good Book. Big gothic letters scrolled across the two exposed pages. Just now the letters read THOU SHALT NOT HATE MOLDIES.

“Moldies are sentient beings with genuine religious impulses,” intoned Andrea. “I’m interested in pursuing a dialogue on this issue. Especially with single men!”

“Mom,” said Monique in an encrypted chirp. “One of these days a Heritagist tourist is going to pour alcohol on you and light you. A lot of Heritagists are Christians. Do you really think they dig seeing you like imitate their sacred book?”

“Greetings, Monique,” squawked Andrea cheerfully. “I am in an ecstatic state of consciousness today. A potent yttrium-ytterbium-twist compound was provided to me this morning by Cousin Emuline. It’s made right here in California, they call it betty, I don’t know why, maybe because betty is almost ytterbium spelled backward, well that would be muibretty. Monique, your mother is lifted on fine, fine muibretty betty. But what is your request, my dear daughter?”

“I wanted to fab about this cheeseball who’s after me? I’m trying to get like stoked to give him a thinking cap?”

“You can do it, Monique, you can!”

“I’m scared. And it seems wrong.”

“Accept your sensations of fear, Monique, but don’t let them dominate your behavior. Remember that your attack must be abrupt and decisive, otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?” asked Monique nervously.

“Cousin Emuline told me a rumor that someone is abducting moldies and shipping them to the Moon. My hypothesis is that it’s the Heritagists working with the loonie moldies. Yes yes, those greedy loonie moldies are capable of anything. Emuline and I think they’re getting their hired goon Heritagist friends to enslave moldies with a new kind of leech-DIM called superleeches.”

“What’re they?”

“I’ve told you about the old leech-DIMs. They jam a moldie’s normal thinking process. It’s a bit like being asleep and on the whole a rather pleasantly stony ride, I’m told—unless some flesher slits you open and sells your camote to the spore-heads and your imipolex to the Moon. Your boss Terri’s father used to be into that, by the way, which is why we executed him—not that you should ever ever mention this to Terri. The new superleeches are much worse than the old leech-DIMs. Emuline says a superleech is like a reverse thinking cap, like a psychic cage that—”

Three well-dressed California tourists had stopped to stare at Andrea. They were a yuppie mother, father, and daughter.

“What’s that thing supposed to be?” asked the mother.

“I am the Bible,” said Andrea in a sweet, reasonable voice. “The Good Book of your Savior. I’m interested in pursuing a dialogue on religious issues.”

“Look, it has writing on it,” said the little girl. “It says, ‘Love thy moldie as thyself.’ ”

“Don’t get close to it,” cautioned the father. “It might try and get something from you. Everything that has anything to do with religion sucks, Susie. You might as well know that right now. Let’s go look at the rides.” They wandered off.

“Why do you do this anyway, Andrea?” asked Monique.

“To foster an enhanced peace and understanding between the species, my child. And to meet a cheeseball Christian man I can rob and kill.”

“Well, I think you’re crazy.”

“The Bible says, ‘Honor thy father and mother,’ ” said Andrea. “Quite reasonable. Now you go and do what you’re supposed to do. And use extreme caution. Did I tell you I’m way lifted on betty? Yes. I can almost see creatures in the sky, even now as I speak. Creatures from other worlds.”

Andrea flipped a few pages of her Bible body and called out a greeting to another group of tourists. They ignored her and walked on.

“Has it ever occurred to you that everything is alive, my child?” mused Andrea. “Information is everywhere. Information rains down upon us from the heavens in the form of cosmic rays. In my exalted mental state, I can feel them._ Oooh. Ummm. Ooooh. Aaaaaaah_.”

“Mom, are you sure that rare-earth stuff isn’t bad for you?”

“All known life processes end in death, Monique. In an information-theoretical sense, becoming repetitious is like dying even before your body goes. You have to trade off some risk to your body in order to enhance the action of the mind. And in your case, you have a very dangerous and very specific mission for today. Don’t avoid it.”

“Wavy, floatin’, I’ll go for it. Bye.”

Back up on the lower walkway of the Clearlight Terrace Court Motel, there was no visible action in Room 3D. But Monique had a feeling that her cheeseball was still in there.

She stretched her neck out backward over the balcony like a comic book Plastic Man, looking to make sure that Tre or Terri weren’t in sight. Thanks to the contractible polymers in her piezoplastic imipolex body, Monique could stretch and bend her body at will—although it took a lot of energy to stay in any position other than one of her stable attractor modes, such as the chessman or the pelican.

There was no sign of Tre or Terri. Terri had probably gone out surfing, leaving Tre in the office playing with his uvvy. Just to make sure about Tre, Monique made an uvvy call to him. She found Tre’s icon in the midst of a weird four-dimensional collage of warped animal shapes: his new uvvy philtre.

“Yaar, Monique,” said the Tre icon, noticing her. “Is everything wavy?”

“Just fine,” said Monique. “I’m back from break and I’ll be done cleaning the rooms in a half hour or so. I wanted to tell you that we need to order more soap today. You’ll have to authorize a payment.”

“Floatin’,” said Tre. “And come on up to the office later if you could. Terri wants us to start fabulating about painting the buildings. And there’s some other stuff we gotta fab about. Some of it’s gogo, some of it’s kilpy.”

“I surf all, Tre,” said Monique pleasantly. “Delish!”

After signing off with Tre, Monique used part of her computational space to follow the data threads that led out of the registration information she had on Randy Karl Tucker in Room 3D. He was a native of Shively, Kentucky, twenty-one years old, unmarried, and with a good bank balance. Apparently he’d been overseas recently, but Monique wasn’t able to access any information about the trip; this part of Tucker’s data trail had been covered with a security lock. The most salient point was that Tucker had more than enough money to pay for the plastic for a child. Randy the redneck seemed like just the kind of victim Andrea had told her to look for.

Monique glided over to Randy Karl Tucker’s door and knocked. He opened it, and Monique mamboed on in. The room smelled like Tucker’s breath. Tucker’s uvvy was sitting on his desk, projecting a hollow of a pornographic soap opera.

“Yaar there,” said Monique, synthesizing the sounds on a fluttering membrane near the back of her mouth cavity. “I saw you, um, gesturing to me before? Is there something I can like do for you?”

Tucker’s thin mouth lengthened in a sly, lustful smile. “I knowed you’d come back. That’s why I been settin’ here a-waitin’. Just close the door to begin with, you little stinker. And pull the drapes. Before we start a-carryin’ on.” He was clean-shaven, and his eyes were flat and pale. Two women on the porno soap were arguing over a boyfriend.

“I’m not sure I can help you, sir,” said knowing Monique, sliding the door closed and pulling the curtain across it. “Terri Percesepe, she’s the manager here, she was just telling me this morning that it’s not proper for me to have any kind of intimacy with the guests. ‘The Clearlight Terrace Court Motel is a place for wholesome family fun.’ Those were Terri’s exact words.” Monique set her arms akimbo, flexed the erectile tissues of her breast mounds, and waggled the hiplike swelling below her waist. “So, um, like what is it that you want from me, country boy?” She pouted out her lips and giggled.

“I… ” Moving as stagily as one of the actors on the soap, Tucker paused to take a slurp from a cardboard cup of coffee printed with the logo of the Daffo Deli down on Beach Street. He looked solemnly up from his cup, only to lose his composure and break into a cackle at Monique’s beckoning gyrations, for now Monique was milling her arms and flinging them out like a pom-pom cheerleader.

“You’re a peppy hunk o’ cheese, ain’t you,” said Tucker. “To hell with what your boss says, Monique. You show me a good time, and I’ll pay you plenty.”

Monique undulated forward across the motel room’s carpeted floor, standing right up against the man, opening her skin fissures to release an even headier mixture of her bouquet. “Can you authorize a charge to your account now, Randy?”

“How?”

“I’m the bookkeeper as well as the maid, Mr. Tucker. Will you authorize the charge?” Monique reached out and undid one of the buttons of his long-sleeved white plastic shirt. His gray pants and black plastic belt were as cheap-looking as the shirt. His hair was short and unclean. His thin skin was spotty from acne and a faded tan, and Monique could see his faintly pulsing blue veins beneath the skin’s surface. His nose was a bit crooked, and he had a large Adam’s apple.

“Um, all right,” the man mumbled reluctantly. “But put it down as, as… ”

“I’ll just average it into your like room rate?” said Monique. “It won’t show. But you have to come out and say just what it is that you want me to do.” Monique smiled hugely and released a