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

“Was that you talking to me last night?”

“Yes, Randy. Do you want to hear it again?”

“I surely do.”

“You’re doing fine, son. I’m proud of you. You’re doing just fine. I love you.” Cobb’s pale eyes were kind and wise.

“Thanks, Cobb. Thanks a lot.”

Cobb and Jenny signed off and Randy switched his uvvy attention to Willa Jean. He looked through her eyes and suddenly realized she was usable as a telerobot. He drove her quickly around the nooks and crannies of the kitchen/dining area, pecking up stray crumbs of imipolex and loose nuggets of camote.

“Now, you be ready to hatch that camote back out for me when I ask for it,” Randy told Willa Jean. “Don’t mash it.” Not that he wanted any camote right now, but you never knew.

Randy got Willa Jean to hop into his suitcase and then he closed it up. So now Bangalore was over. Randy gave a heavy sigh. He wandered around the apartment for another minute, taking a last look at the familiar view of the bazaar and the distant hills. How happy he’d been here. If only Parvati had loved him. He walked down the stone steps of the Tipu Bharat, his eyes wet with tears. The waiting rickshaw was shaped like an orange oxcart.

At Emperor Staghorn, Randy found Ramanujan animatedly drinking a large mug of saffron-spiced chai. He’d been working in his office all night.

“How did the superleech work on your girlfriend, Mr. Tucker? Feeling a bit wrung-out today, are we?” Ramanujan rubbed his dirty shiny hands and beamed, not waiting for an answer. “Good, good, good. As it happens, I’ve found a devilishly clever algorithm which rather radically simplifies the superleech manufacturing process. Yes, a rather radical simplification indeed. Look at this beautiful equation!”

Ramanujan indicated some scribbles on a piece of paper on his desk, and Randy leaned over to make sure that his micro-cam got a good view.

“Is that Sanskrit, Sri?”

“I assume it pleases you to jest. The symbols on the left are, of course, integral signs and infinite series, representing a four-dimensional quasicrystal geometry. And the right side of the equation is seventeen divided by the cube root of pi. There’s glory for you. I call it the Tessellation Equation. Beautiful mathematics makes beautiful technology. Let’s go into the clean room so I can show you the tech. But—ah ah!” Ramanujan shook his finger. “First, as always, we scan your reckless head.”

Randy was ready for this. He touched his brow and the micro-cam hopped onto his finger until the brainscan was over. Easy as pie. They suited up and entered the clean room.

“So do we make up some more superleeches today?” asked Randy, sitting down at the nanomanipulator. “I’m rarin’ to go. I’d kind of like you to go through the whole process once again to make sure I got it straight.”

“Do tell,” said Ramanujan, suddenly suspicious. “So how did you pass the night, Mr. Tucker? I find your matitudinal diligence rather conspicuously atypical.”

“Huh? All right, Sri, I’ll tell you the sorry-ass truth. I put the superleech on Parvati and fucked her and asked her to make dinner. She poisoned me with camote, and then she got me to chop her up. The pieces that weren’t attached to the superleech crawled back together, and there was Parvati again. She ran away to Coorg Castle. She don’t love me no more. I just want to work hard and forget about her.” A thought occurred to Randy. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Parvati didn’t try and make me lose my job, she hates me so much.”

“Where’s the superleech, Randy?”

“It’s stuck to a leftover piece of Parvati that’s shaped itself into a cute little hen. I call her Willa Jean. She’s a telerobot for me now. Like those flyin’ dragonfly cameras? I left Willa Jean to home.”

“Telerobotics!” exclaimed Ramanujan, his coppery face splitting in a grin. “That’s a wonderful app for superleech technology!” He leaned over and warmly patted Randy’s shoulder. “You’re invaluable, my boy. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”

“You’re happy because a slice off Parvati’s ass turned into a chicken?”

“I am happy to realize that there is an immediate peaceful use for superleeches. Rather than being solely a bellicose means of moldie enslavement, the superleech can be an interface patch which cheaply turns a sausage of imipolex into a telerobot. Jolly good. But I haven’t fully explained my big news yet, Mr. Tucker. That equation I showed you? When interpreted as a method of phase modulation, my equation provides an effective way to convert ordinary leech-DIMs into superleeches simply by sending them a certain signal. It’s easy as seventeen divided by the cube root of pi.”

“Show me how,” said Randy Karl.

Ramanujan picked up a small parabolic piece of silvered plastic and walked over to the aquarium where the old leech-DIMs swam. “Observe, Mr. Tucker! This is a pocket radio transmitter that I programmed last night.” He aimed the silvered plastic dish at one of the leech-DIMs. “Now I chirp this leech with a signal based on my equation.” He pushed a button on the transmitter and suddenly the targeted leech-DIM began shaking all over. “You see? The program sets off a piezoplastic jittering which forces the quasicrystals into the imipolex-4 state.” The leech’s vibrating skin puckered up into the rough surface of a superleech; it turned tan and purple all over. Ramanujan plucked it out and held it up for Randy’s inspection. “Behold!”

Ramanujan set the damp superleech onto an uvvy, and the uvvy speaker announced, “I am superleech type 4, series 2, ID #4. Do you wish to register as my owner?”

“No,” said Ramanujan. “Please crawl off the uvvy and go to sleep now.” The superleech obliged.

“That’s really somethin’, Sri,” said Randy, fingering the dormant superleech’s rough surface. “Can you show me how you programmed that little radio antenna?”

“You’d never understand the program.”

“Try me. How am I gonna learn if you don’t let me try?”

“You won’t understand it, but I wouldn’t mind going over it in detail just for myself.” Ramanujan called up a mathematics screen above the lab uvvy and delivered a forty-minute lecture on the Tessellation Equation which, as predicted, Randy completely failed to understand. But his micro-cam was making a viddy of it and, even better, Ramanujan was so into his batshit math rap that he didn’t notice when Randy slid the silvery little antenna into the top of his fab bootie. When an incoming uvvy call interrupted Ramanujan, Randy quickly excused himself.

“I gotta run to the bathroom, Sri. I’m not feelin’ too peak. Reckon I’ve got the squirts.”

“Spare me the details,” said Ramanujan, looking away in distaste. “I wonder who can be calling me at this number?”

As Randy hastened through the air shower, he glanced back to see just who was talking to Ramanujan—and of course it was Parvati. Randy darted out of Ramanujan’s office and ran off down the Emperor Staghorn hallway, ripping off the bunny suit and pocketing the radio antenna. He had just exited Emperor Staghorn’s outer gates when the fab’s alarms went off. Randy’s moldie rickshaw was waiting there, big and stolid. Randy jumped in.

“Go to the airport! Fast!”

The moldie began springing along like a giant rabbit, covering twenty or thirty feet at a bound. Randy held on for dear life. He fumbled his uvvy out of his bag and put it on. Jenny was waiting.

“Things are happening fast, Randy,” she said, brushing a lank strand of loose hair back from her eyes. “Congratulations for bagging that radio transmitter! Emperor Staghorn already has a group of four dacoits looking for you at the airport. I’ll tap into the airport’s cameras so we can locate them.”

When Randy got to the airport, Jenny showed him an image siphoned off one of the airport’s security cams. It showed four stocky men, impeccably dressed in Western business suits. Two wore sunglasses, one wore a turban, one was picking his teeth. All had hard unforgiving faces. They were studying some recent photographs of Randy Karl Tucker.

“Where are they standing?” asked Randy. “I better not get near them.”

“Well, ummm, they’re waiting right next to the gate for your plane to San Francisco. Gate 13. You can see it with your bare eyes from here.”

Sure enough, Gate 13 was fifty yards down the hallway, surrounded by milling passengers and with the figures of the four dacoits dark and clear to one side. Through the hall windows Randy could see the airliner: a giant moldie-enhanced machine in the shape of a flying wing.

“Isn’t there some other gate I can use?” asked Randy. “Like for first-class or for the handicapped?”

“Yes, Gate 14 is the VIP gate,” said Jenny. “But it’s only twenty yards past Gate 13 and the dacoits can see it too. We have to distract them. I notice they’re all wearing uvvies. I can blast them with noise, but that’s only good for a few seconds before they think of removing their uvvies. We need something more. Any ideas?”

“I’ll use Willa Jean!” Randy switched his attention to Willa Jean and got her to hop out of the bag and trot along ahead of him. Randy watched through Willa Jean’s eyes until she was near the dacoits, and then he launched her toward them like a flying boxing glove. At the same moment, Jenny sent a mind-numbing current of noise into the dacoits’ uvvies. Willa Jean bounced among the stunned dacoits, knocking them over like bowling pins. Moving just short of a run, Randy breezed past the dacoits and in through the first-class Gate 14. As he headed down the tunnel to the aircraft, Willa Jean ran to join him. The turbanned dacoit tried to follow her, but Jenny sent some message to the airline personnel that caused them to drag the dacoit out of the boarding area. The plane left on time.

Randy had a comfortable window seat. He stared down at India for a while, thinking about all the things he’d seen here. California would be good too and maybe then the Moon. It would be a long time before he returned to Kentucky. He smiled, leaned back in his seat, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER FIVE

TERRI

June 2043 – October 30, 2035

Although Dom and Alice Percesepe were loyal to their children, they were only fitfully attentive. Terri and Ike had to do most of the housework while they were growing up. Often as not, big sister Terri made supper for Ike, with Dom off at the restaurant and Alice somewhere with her friends. A typical supper would be tuna or peanut butter sandwiches. Ike would always ask for dessert, and Terri would tell him, “There’s lemonade for dessert.”

“Why doesn’t Mother shop?” complained Ike one day in June 2043. It was the last day of school. “We can afford food. Dad owns a restaurant and a motel.”

“When Mother shops, it’s just for clothes,” said Terri. “The only time she buys food is to put on a special dinner for Dom.” She said her father’s name with vicious emphasis.

“Did you get your final grades today?” asked Ike.

“Yeah. I got all A’s. How about you?”

“C’s and—finally—a B. In History. I’m stoked.”

“Dad is gonna be excited about that,” said Terri sourly. “Not that he’d ever notice my A’s. I’d like to do something to really shake him up.”

“Well, he’s not too happy about the boys you’ve been going out with,” said Ike. “Kurtis Goole and those other stoner surf rats.”