Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

“All I’ve got is water guns,” said Corey apologetically. “I’m a Dadaist artist. The whoopee cushion is mightier than the sword.”

“I can spit things out really hard from any part of my body,” said Ormolu, stretching out his hand and ejecting something that struck against the room’s far wall with a resounding splat, “What was that?” asked Darla.

“Camote truffle.”

“That’s not going to kill anyone.”

“We could point our ion jets at them,” said Jenny. “Except the jets aren’t hot.”

“What about the equipment in this studio, Corey?” said Whitey. “Tell us what it all is and maybe we’ll think of something.”

“Okay,” said Corey. “That old-timey machine in the corner is an injection molder. I use it to cast my Silly Putters into certain shapes. The workbench on the right is where I carve the models I use to make the molds. That tool that looks like an electric drill is a piezomorpher, it’s very good for carving imipolex. It uses ultrasound. Not much of a weapon, though, because you have to be right on top of the material to piezomorph it. It’s more like a dentist’s drill than like a bazooka. Now this bench over here is where I paint my Silly Putters. To some extent they can control their colors, but they need a basis to start from. You have to get the right pigments and metal oxides into their flesh for them to work with. This particular tool is something like an old-fashioned airbrush. Slightly higher-tech than an airbrush, because it shoots the color particles right into the plastic up to a depth of four centimeters. A volume-filling brush, in other words. It’s a good tool but, again, not particularly lethal.”

While Corey talked, the three moldies grazed their way across the floor, quietly absorbing the pieces of imipolex that had been Gurdle-7. The rath and the Jubjub bird came creeping out of hiding to snuffle up the smaller crumbs.

“I hope none of you moldies is ending up with the intact Stairway To Heaven information?” said Darla, fingering her needler.

“Not to worry,” said Frangipane, now about 30 percent larger than before. “I have already reprogram all the imipolex I just ate.” She sprouted two new petals, hiccupped, and spit out some triangular flat ugly-stick darts as if they were watermelon seeds. “ Excusez moi .”

“No problem here either, Darla,” said Ormolu, who was staring down at his body with evident satisfaction. “I turned all of my Gurdle-7 share into muscle.” He flexed his legs and made taut ridges spring out along them.

“I didn’t save any of Gurdle-7’s science information,” said Jenny. “But I’m keeping some of his feelings, no matter what you say. He was a bold explorer. And we loved each other.” For a giant carrot, she looked quite humanly miserable.

“How about those cans and bottles on the shelves?” Whitey asked Corey. “What’s in them?”

“Chemicals. Like resins and polymers for doctoring the imipolex. And paints and solvents for coloring the Putters.”

“Solvents!” exclaimed Whitey. “We could make firebombs!”

“Oh right !” said Darla. “Like we’ll walk back into the conservatory lugging buckets of gasoline. If the aliens see what’s coming, they’ll attack us first. Or take hostages. I don’t want anything to happen to Yoke or Joke. No, we have to think of a way to hit those freeware slugs giga fast and yotta vicious.”

“I have an idea!” said Frangipane after a minute’s thought. “We can spit out little balls of imipolex and have them move like the smart kinetic-energy bombs.” She flicked one of her petals and sent a little lump of shiny gold imipolex bouncing across the room. “It is a waste of imipolex, but now after eating poor Gurdle-7, we can spare a little.”

“So how’s a bouncing glob going to hurt an alien?” asked Corey. The little gold ball bounced past the rath, and the rath sprang forward in an effort to gulp it down. As if in reaction, the ball took a sudden backward bounce, hit the rath in the nose, then bounced several more times with increasing amplitude, finally caroming off the wall and ceiling to return to Frangipane.

“ Voila ,” said Frangipane. “The bouncing glob is clever.”

“We can control pieces of ourselves, even after we split them off ,” explained Jenny. “Though, of course, if you get totally minced like poor Gurdle-7, there’s nothing left to do any controlling.” She whipped the thin tip of her carrot body to one side and sent another ball a-bouncing, and this time the Jubjub bird tried to catch it. Just as Frangipane had done, Jenny used her uvvy signals to guide the ball safely back to herself.

“Big xoxxin’ deal,” said Darla. “A smart plastic ball.”

“ Attendez! ” said Frangipane. “It is the next part that is the really new idea. If I put a sufficient amount of my quantum dots into a smart little ball, then I can make it commit the suicide.” She spat another nugget of imipolex off into the air, but this time, just as the little ball neared the ceiling, it made a popping sound and fiercely caught ablaze. Flapping its flames like a burning mothball, it fell to the stone floor and consumed itself. “ La poof! ,” exclaimed Frangipane.

“Yaar,” said Whitey admiringly. “Flamin’ poofballs!”

“Uvvy us how to do that, Frangipane!” said Ormolu. A few seconds later, Ormolu and Jenny had learned the trick. Ormolu splatted a fat poofball against the stone wall, where it burst into flame like a sticky glob of napalm. Jenny shot a barrage of four tiny flaming poofballs toward the rath, sending it out again for cover.

“You moldies can act like machine-gun flamethrowers!” exclaimed Darla. “The aliens won’t have a chance!”

“But—whoah—that one poofball used up a lot of quantum dots,” said Ormolu, feeling down into himself.

“Yes, I am afraid if I shoot very many poofballs, I won’t have enough energy left to use my jets,” said Frangipane. “I would not like that.”

“But I have a huge stash of quantum dots!” exclaimed Corey. “I use them to charge up my Silly Putters before I sell them. Look here.” He opened a cabinet and took out a shiny flask with little tubes and wires all over it. “It’s a magnetic bottle. Ten grams in there! Stoke yourselves up to the max, guys.”

“Save some for me to put into the needler and the ugly stick as well,” said Whitey. “We want them at full charge.”

Frangipane decanted a hefty splash of the quantum dot superfluid onto herself. It was odd silvery-gray stuff that didn’t move like an ordinary liquid. Then she passed the bottle on to the other two moldies. They practiced firing off a few more flaming poofballs while Whitey charged up the needler and the ugly stick.

“The poofballs are perfect,” exclaimed Corey. “I love them. I want to make a fire-breathing Silly Putter dragon when we get through with this. And maybe a mad fire-farter. Hey! Not so near the supply shelves, Jenny! We don’t want to explode those cans of solvents, do we? Speaking of safe fire practices, has anyone thought about what happens after we light the aliens? We’re talking about nearly a ton of flaming imipolex. What’s that going to do to my isopod? And how are we going to breathe with all the smoke?”

“This place is compartmentalized against blowouts,” said Whitey. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you or Willy bragging about it, Corey. We just leave the conservatory and seal it off . The floor and walls are stone, and if the flames melt a hole in the titaniplast ceiling, so much the better. The vacuum will put the fire out. According to what you’ve always said about the isopod’s design, the blowout won’t spread past the conservatory.”