The Ware Tetralogy by Rudy Rucker (ebook reader 8 inch .txt) 📕

“That’s too—” Phil began, but broke off with a vague gesture. In his mind the full sentence was, “That’s too stupid and cold of you to deserve an answer,” but he didn’t have the heart to start a fight. Kevvie’s inability to visualize other people’s feelings was so extreme that Phil had come to think of it as a clinical psychiatric condition. Indeed, Kevvie habitually chewed a popular empathy-enhancement gum in a perhaps unconscious effort to try and correct her deficit. “E-gum makes you part-of,” as the chanted commercials had it. But it seemed like the only person that e-gum made Kevvie more sensitive to was Kevvie. All these angry thoughts went racing through Phil’s head as he made the little gesture. He reminded himself that he liked Kevvie. His father’s death was filling him with irrational rage.

Da dead. Phil groaned and got out of bed, sliding the groan down into a keening moan. This hurt so much that he needed to keep making noise.

He wore only a plain white T-shirt. His butt was small, his legs were short and nimble. Phil’s mother Eve was Greek, while his father Kurt had been German. Phil’s body hair and chin-stubble were dark, but the hair on his head was a floppy shock of blond. His sly, hooded eyes and sardonic lips made him look dissipated, which was misleading. Phil had been clean and sober his whole life. When the mandatory grade-school screening had revealed that Phil carried the genes for alcoholism and drug addiction, Phil had taken it to heart and decided to spend his life Straight Edge. A singularly mature decision for one so young—with the bonus of providing a way to be superior to Da, who’d been quite fond of booze and pot.

Phil’s room was bright and messy, an odd-shaped room with a peaked ceiling and walls that slanted out on two sides. There was a lot of empty space near the ceiling, and Phil had some home-built robot blimps cruising around up there like sluggish tropical fish. Flying machines of all kinds were Phil’s hobby. The blimps were like pets, and Phil had names for them: one was Led Zep of course, the others were the Graf Z, the Macon, the Penile Implant, and the largest and most colorful was the Uffin’ Wowo. The last name was a riff on Da’s brilliant uvvy graphic that had somehow ended in disaster less than an hour ago. Da dead. Life ends in tears.

Distractedly humming, Phil put on some thick red tights he’d gotten from the thrift store. There was gray morning light from the room’s skylight. Kevvie sat on a rolling desk chair, chewing e-gum and watching him.

Phil swung open his room’s arched mouse-hole door to reveal the interior of what looked like a factory. His room was located inside a bigger room, that is, Phil’s room was a wooden box on stilts inside a subdivided warehouse down near the bay-side Port of San Francisco. Some developer had sliced the giant warehouse up into five or six strips, and Phil rented one of the strips along with two other people: a guy called Derek and a woman named Calla. Derek was a chaos artist and Calla a genetic counselor, while Phil was a cook in an expensive restaurant. Each of the three lived in their own cobbled-together wooden box.

Phil’s and Calla’s boxes were on stilts, and Derek’s hung by cables from the ceiling. The huge open warehouse floor was left free and clear for other purposes. The three boxes were a bit like birdhouses in an aviary—quite literally so in the case of Phil’s, as he’d designed his dwelling from the specs for a traditional pentagonal wren-house like a kid might bring home from shop class. He’d tried giving his room a round door, but after tripping over the curved threshold a few times, he’d compromised and made the door’s bottom square and flush with his box’s floor.

Phil started down his thin little chicken-walk of a staircase. He could see out the windows that lined the tops of the warehouse’s walls: a view of the San Francisco Bay, of a floating gray ship and a docked red ship, of great four-legged cranes like giraffes or elephants, of concrete dockside elevators, of more warehouses beneath low clouds. Everything chilled and dismal. A Thursday in February.

High overhead hung a giant twisting model of DNA; this was Calla’s. It was made of linked spheres that were hollow cocoons spun by a fabricant, a little DIM ant that could turn sunlight and wet leaves into filaments of rayon. The DNA model was a useful thing for Calla to show to her clients, who came here in person when the genetic information that Calla gave them was so harsh or so strange that uvvy contact wasn’t enough. Phil well remembered when his genetic counselor had laid out his options: abstinence or addiction.

Down on the factory floor, two of Derek’s “attractors” were active. One looked like a big wobbly green doughnut, the other like a purple cow-udder with twisting teats. They were patterns of air currents, flowing volumes of air made visible by color-lit fogs of vapor, fractally rich with eddies and schlieren. A dozen other attractor-devices sat idle: cryptic, mute technoclutter. Only when the attractors were powered up did they clothe themselves in beautiful, orderly chaos. Da’s wowo had been a similar kind of thing.

Phil took a shortcut through the doughnut volume, careful not to bang into the machinery at its core. But he stepped on something anyway, something that yipped. Derek’s mutt Umberto. The dog sometimes liked to sleep hidden inside the doughnut, warmed by the central generator.

“Hush, Umberto,” said Phil. “It’s okay.” If only that were true.

In the bathroom, Phil drank some water. The water on his teeth like a mountain stream. Da dead? It was way too soon. There was still too much to say to the old man, too much to learn. Now the tears were beginning to come. A rough sob. He buried his face in a towel.

After a bit, Phil washed off his face with cold water, then cried some more and washed some more. The beautiful complexity of water, of its sounds and motions. Da wouldn’t see water anymore. Phil’s dream just before waking—he’d been climbing the teeth-mountains and—hadn’t there been a ball of light in the dream? Phil leaned on the sink, resting his forehead against the mirror with his eyes closed, trying to look back into his dream. Wouldn’t it make sense to have had a special dream just as his father died? Especially when Da had died so strangely.

“Here’s some coffee,” said Kevvie, who’d followed him as far as the kitchen—the little area of the factory floor that passed for a kitchen, a sink and a stove and a table with chairs on the concrete floor beneath the seventy-foot-high truss-supported corrugated steel ceiling. She’d brought the uvvy as well. “Get away, Umberto,” she said, and aimed a sharp kick at the dog, who’d come over to see if he might get some breakfast. Kevvie couldn’t stand Umberto.

“Don’t hurt him, Kevvie.” Phil took the coffee. “Thanks. I can’t believe this. I feel so—it’s like my head’s exploding. Life’s not a rehearsal. It’s real.” He took the coffee Kevvie handed him, but set it down without drinking.

“You better call Willow,” said Kevvie. She glared at Umberto so hard that the dog went slinking away.

“I know.” Phil told the uvvy to dial his stepmother Willow. Phil’s father Kurt had left Phil and Jane’s mother Eve for Willow when Phil was thirteen and Jane was eleven. Eve had successfully remarried, and the families had stayed reasonably close over the years, with Phil and Jane freely moving between the households of their two biological parents.

Willow answered on the second ring. “Willow Chen Gottner,” her voice was loud and harsh, just short of a scream. Willow’s image floated above the uvvy—she was a thoroughly Californian Chinese woman with a symmetric face, full lips, and blonde hair so shiny and processed that it looked like metal. She moved with abrupt, birdlike gestures. There were smears of blood on her hands and on her cheeks. Her normally tidy features were blurred and twisted with anguish.

“Hi, Willow, it’s Phil. I just talked to Jane.”

“Kurt’s really dead, yes, this is his blood all over me. I’m so scared, Phil. The wowo ate him like garbage.”

“I’m coming right down. Where are you?”

“I’m at the popos’ station. They don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. They think I murdered Kurt or some shit.” Willow was notoriously foul-mouthed. This was something that Phil and Jane’s mother always tut-tutted over, but it made Phil and Jane like Willow more than they might have otherwise.

“You see!” interjected Kevvie. “Tell her to get a top criminal attorney!”

Phil glared at Kevvie, but felt he had to pass the idea on. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“Right! As if I need a lawyer to deal with some stupid popo pigs who I’m paying in the first place. As if a lawyer’s going to protect me from a fucking hole to the fourth dimension that ground up my brilliant handsome husband like garbage!” She glared angrily at someone out of view. “Stay away from me, you sow!” The uvvy-view jerked wildly. “Stop it!” Then the uvvy went dead. Phil immediately called again; a popo answered.

“Officer Grady, Wackerhut Police Services, Palo Alto Station.”

“I was just talking to Willow Gottner?” Phil said. “We were cut off?” He could hear Willow screaming curses in the background.

“She’s out of control, sir,” said the popo officer. “We’re concerned she could injure herself. I’m afraid we’re going to have to restrain her and administer a sedative.”

“Take it easy! I’ll be right there. I’m Kurt Gottner’s son Phil. Where’s your station located? I’m driving down from the city.”

The popo gave Kurt directions and added, “I’m very sorry about this, Mr. Gottner.”

“My father’s really dead?” Kurt asked.

“We’ve got a response team up there. We’re still not entirely sure what the situation is. The material evidence indicates a fatality, but there’s no body. And, yes, your father’s missing.” There was a shriek from Willow. “She wants to tell you one more thing. I’ll hold the uvvy out to her.”

The little image showed Willow, sitting on a plastic couch squeezed between two Wackerhut policewomen. They had their arms twined with hers in some special cop way and one of them was in the process of pulsing a drug-mist squeezie in front of Willow’s tiny triangular nose.

“Phil, be sure to call Tre Dietz,” said Willow, her features already slackening. “I forgot to tell Jane.”

“Don’t worry, Willow. I’ll be right there.”

“Call him!” insisted Willow. “Tell Tre the wowos are real! The bastard.” The uvvy clicked off.

“Who’s Tre?” Kevvie wanted to know.

“Oh, you’ve heard of him. He’s the uvvy graphics hacker in Santa Cruz who runs that new company Philosophical Toys? He got interested in Da’s work on this weird shape called a Klein bottle—and they did the wowo together. Just for a goof. Tre’s only about thirty. He and Da used to hang together and tweak the wowos.” The unreality of it all came crashing over Phil then and he was crying. “I don’t understand, Kevvie. Da can’t be dead.”

“But who actually owns the rights to the wowo?” asked Kevvie.

“Kevvie, that’s too—” Phil broke off and slumped in his chair. This had really taken the wind out of his sails. “Can you drive, Kevvie? I don’t think I can drive. I’m all torn up.”

“I’ll go dress.”

When Kevvie left, Umberto came skulking back out of the doughnut.