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

feel stronger than ever. The only reason I don’t give you a thinking cap is that I’m so sick of you.” She turned and walked to the door, slightly limping. “Just for old times’ sake, I won’t call Emperor Staghorn till tomorrow afternoon. If I were you, I’d leave town before then. The dacoits, don’t you know.” The door slammed behind her.

Randy walked gingerly across the room and nudged the piece of imipolex that Parvati had left.

“I am superleech type 4, series 1, ID #6,” uvvied the hoarse little voice. “I am currently coupled to 723 grams of imipolex with traces of a moldie program. This imipolex was part of the left buttock of a moldie named Parvati.”

“Can you wipe out the moldie traces and run the imipolex yourself?”

“Yes. Shall I proceed?”

“Do it. And then keep watch. Grow some feet and walk around. If anyone or anything comes in here, squawk and wake me up. I gotta crash.”

Randy tottered to his bed, took off his uvvy, and fell into a whirling kind of nightmare sleep. At some point in the middle of the night, something hopped into bed with him and snuggled up by his chest. He cradled it against himself and slept a little better.

At dawn, the uvvy rang for him: “Randy Randy Randy Randy… ”

A creature shaped like a young hen hopped off Randy’s bed onto the floor and began making a ruckus. What? Randy reached out and slapped the uvvy that sat on his bedside table, setting it to projection mode. Jenny’s face appeared. She had a big zit on the side of her forehead.

“Rise and shine, Randy! We have a lot to do today.”

“I’m not ready.” He rubbed his face, trying to put together his memory of what had happened the night before. The little chicken strutted this way and that, staring at Randy for approval. The nappy purple shape of the superleech ran down the center of its back.

“I saw it all,” said Jenny, looking eager and gossipy. “I never told you, but I keep a tap on your uvvy? So when I heard you going off about your father, I did some quick research and found out who he is.”

“Now, hold on,” said Randy. “Just slow down here. Parvati is gettin’ me fired anyway. I’m through working for you skungy Heritagists.”

“I’m not a Heritagist, Randy Karl,” said Jenny. “I’m a soft ware simmie created by a certain loonie moldie who’s also called Jenny. For fast Earth contact, I need to live down here on a serious machine. So I’m working for the Heritagists just to like pay the rent for my space on their machine. I’m living on the Heritagists’ big underground asimov computer in Salt Lake City—but, um, Randy, I could move? With a client like you, I could be a freelance agent for both you and moldie Jenny from the Moon. I could buy myself a proprietary hardware node in Studio City.”

“Forget it!” said Randy. “Good-bye!”

“Wait! Don’t you want to know who your father is?”

“Okay, who is he?”

“I’ll never tell,” giggled Jenny, every bit the snippy teenage Heritagist girl with a secret. “Just kidding! But you have to listen to my new plan too.”

“Yeah yeah.” Randy kept being distracted by the antics of the superleech-animated chicken; it was prancing around like a miniature moldie, pretending to scratch for worms in the wooden floor. Wormwood. Randy was still seeing colorful trails every time he moved his eyes. “Let me get it together for a minute, Jenny. I feel mighty rough.”

He went and looked in the kitchen. The floor was bare. There were flies on the vomit in the sink. He ran the water for a minute, taking a drink and rinsing off his face. What was that last thing Parvati had said about dacoits? He checked that the apartment door was locked, then took a pee. The hen trailed after Randy like a chick following its mother.

“I’m gone call you Willa Jean,” Randy told it. “That fine by you?” The chicken clucked and bobbed its head. Randy leaned over and petted it. “You my little friend, ain’t you, Willa Jean? I’ve always wanted a pet chicken. Good girl. Good Willa Jean.”

Whey-faced Jenny was waiting above the uvvy by Randy’s bed. “Oh, excuuuuuse me,” she said. “Finally ready?”

“Yep.”

“Well!” said Jenny. “About your dad. Of course the Heritage Council has a sample of your DNA on file—from when you applied to live in the Shively Heritage House, remember?—so I ran a similarity search across some DNA databases, starting with Louisville. And right away I found your match in the records of the Louisville jail! Willy Taze, born 2004 to Isle Anderson and Colin Taze. You must have heard of him. Cobb Anderson’s grandson? The inventor of the DIM and the uvvy? In his twenties Willy was employed by the city of Louisville to maintain the Belle asimov computer, and then in 2031 he helped Manchile and his nine-day meatbop boys. Willy was arrested for treason and sentenced to death, but he broke out of prison in the Louisville asimov revolt that happened the day before Spore Day. Willy made it down to Florida and started inventing things. The Gimmie liked his DIMs so much that they pardoned him. And then Willy moved to the Moon. He built himself a place and roomed there for many years with a man named Corey Rhizome. End of info dump.”

“Willy Taze is my dad? Where is he now?”

“Well, I shouldn’t really talk about this, but, um, Willy moved out of Einstein and into the moldies’ Nest. I wouldn’t know how you could reach him. I suppose you could uvvy Rhizome for info, but he’s a big old grouch. Corey’s an artist, and he doesn’t like strangers one bit!”

“But I thought I heard my dad talkin’ to me yesterday after I chopped up Parvati,” wailed Randy. “I thought I heard a man’s voice.”

“Yes yes, I arranged that for you,” smirked Jenny. “It was pretty obvious that you needed it—slashing up your mommy and crying like a baby. What a sight! But that wasn’t Willy talking to you. It was a simulation of Cobb Anderson—your great-grandfather. You know how the Vatican used to have the world’s biggest library of porno? Well, the Heritagists have the Earth’s biggest archive of bopper memorabilia. And it just so happens that their Salt Lake City Archives own the only existing copy of Cobb’s S-cube. I snuck in and booted it up so Cobb could talk to you and make you happy. Now, listen, Randy, you need to get out of Bangalore before Parvati turns you in. I’m going to buy you a plane ticket. Get your suitcase packed, and I’ll call right back.”

Randy’s thoughts were in a whirl. “You’re doing fine, son. I’m proud of you. You’re doing just fine.” So that had been Cobb Anderson. The man who invented the boppers; the first man to have his personality coded up as software. Randy’s great-grandfather! It would be nice to have some long talks with him. And Randy’s dad—Randy’s dad was Willy Taze, the glamorous rebel and genius inventor! Maybe Randy could find Willy in the Nest. Maybe Randy would turn out to be a big somebody like Willy and Cobb!

He moved quickly around his apartment, tossing clothes and mementos into his bag. Willa Jean raced around with him. When the uvvy sounded again, Randy ran to the bedroom and slapped the uvvy onto his neck.

“Yes,” said Jenny. “The ticket’s all set. You’re on a direct flight to San Francisco, leaving at 1 P.M.”

“You think that’s early enough, Jenny? Parvati said she’s gonna uvvy Emperor Staghorn in the afternoon. Did you catch what she said to me about dacoits? When Emperor Staghorn gets the word, they gonna send a gang of thugs after me, girl. Get me an earlier ticket!”

“Randy, before you leave, you have to go in to Emperor Staghorn and make me a complete viddy of how Ramanujan makes a superleech. We’ve found you a smart micro-cam that’ll perch on a hair in your eyebrows. It’s no bigger than a dust mite. You make the viddy and at noon you tell Ramanujan you’re eating lunch in town and go right to Gate 13 at the airport. They’ll have a first-class ticket for you. No sweat!”

“I don’t wanna go to no Emperor Staghorn today, Jenny. It’s too risky.”

“Randy, unless you can get the complete recipe for the superleech, you’re not going to be of all that much use to us.”

“This is still for the Heritagists?”

“Yes, it’s for the Heritagists, but believe it or not, it’s for the loonie moldies too.”

“Bull shit.”

“Is too!” giggled Jenny, crinkling her nose and nodding vigorously. “Mmm-hmmm! You’ll see, Randy Karl Tucker. It’ll be fun in California. You’ll work in Santa Cruz. It’s this funky little beach town an hour south of San Francisco. And you can talk to Cobb Anderson as much as you like. Come on, Randy, don’t be a party pooper. At least let us get you to San Francisco.”

“Oh man. I dunno.”

“I’ve already called a moldie rickshaw for you. He’ll be there in a minute; he’s picking up the micro-cam right now. Let him take you to Emperor Staghorn. He’ll wait there with your suitcase, and you’ll be able to leave the instant you’re ready. Come on, Randy. Pretty please.”

“What all you got lined up for me in Santa Cruz?”

“Well, I really wasn’t supposed to tell you yet, but since we’re such good pals and everything—oh, why not. You’ll be kidnapping moldies and sending them to the Nest. Liberating them, the way the loonie moldies look at it. Moldie repatriation is something the Nest works on with the Heritagists. You’ll be working with a man named Aarbie Kidd.”

“Kidnappin’ moldies’d be easy with superleeches,” mused Randy Karl. “For the Nest? I wouldn’t mind checkin’ out some o’ them moldie California girls. And get in tight with the loonie moldies? I wouldn’t mind that a bit. Hell, oncet I get to know ‘em, I could go to the Nest and see my dad, couldn’t I!”

“All of that, Randy Karl, and more. Is it a deal? The rickshaw’s downstairs.”

“Wait. First I wanna talk to Cobb again.”

“Can do! I’ll patch him right in.”

The uvvy image wavered, and then there was Cobb Anderson. He had a strong wide face with high cheekbones. His hair was sandy and he had a short-cropped white beard. He was imaged in much better resolution than Jenny; he looked almost real, floating there in Randy’s visual cortex. The rich Cobb simulation even included scents and air currents. Cobb smelled comfortable—he smelled like freckles.

“So you’re Willy’s son,” said Cobb. “I’m a little out of sync. I just came back from heaven. All is One in the SUN. I don’t like being run on this asimov machine; I need my own personal hardware.” Cobb paused to channel Randy’s vibe. “So you’re my great-grandson. Yes. I can tell you’ve been hurt. Poor Randy. We can help each other.”

“Cobb, what’s my dad like?”

“Willy’s smart as a whip. A wizard with the cephscope. He saved me and a woman from some racial puritans one time, and he freed a bunch of machines from their asimovs. And I hear that then he—” The old man’s face clouded over. “Stop talking in my head, Jenny, and don’t rush me. Randy, let’s see if you can’t get me off this pathetically inadequate pig machine. Take me to the moldies