Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

They landed in a sandy shell-strewn parking lot next to the city dock. Cobb split open to disgorge his two passengers and the two carry-on bags they’d brought. And then he formed himself back into his original old man shape, grown a bit beefy from the sheet of imipolex he’d gotten from Babs. Judging from the stature of the golden-skinned Tongans whom Yoke could see nearby, Cobb’s new size would fit right in. For the moment the locals were just staring at them, too startled to approach.

“Here we are,” said Onar. “This is the Queen Salote Wharf.”

“It’s quiet here,” said Cobb. “I like it.”

Besides the Bay Area, this was the only place on Earth that Yoke had visited so far. She was surprised at how primitive things were. Like in a travel viddy. A rusty Tongan Navy ship floated in the harbor; in addition there were a ramshackle ferryboat, a few motorboats and one or two yachts. That was it for the capital city’s port. The rutted and potholed road along the waterfront carried a light traffic of battered electric trucks and cars, old models from the 2030s. A low shack across the road offered drinks and food; next to it was a “Guest House” that looked barely big enough to house the owner’s family. Farther down the waterfront was a weathered white building like a Victorian mansion, and inland from it was what looked to be the town center, a dingy cluster of patched-up buildings.

“Welcome to da neighborhood,” said a huge man with a horizontal wrinkle in his forehead. “Malo e lelei.” He was wearing a torn white shirt and a brick-red polyester skirt. “My name is Tiko.”

“Greetings, Tiko,” said Onar. “We’ve met before, no? I was down here six months ago visiting with HRH.”

Yoke knew by now that Onar used “HRH” to stand for “His Royal Highness,” meaning the King. Ugh . For whatever reason, Yoke hated all things British—with the single exception of Lewis Carroll.

“That’s right,” said Tiko. “Onar Anders. My wife Waloo is working at the New Beach Guest House. You gonna stay wid us again?”

“Yes indeed,” said Onar. “We’ll walk there from here. As you see, we traveled light.” He nudged the two little bags at his feet.

“All the way inside dis moldie,” mused Tiko, gingerly patting Cobb’s shoulder. He leaned close to Cobb, sniffed him, and burst out laughing. “Low tide at da lagoon.”

“I’m actually a human in a moldie body,” said Cobb, drawing back. “Cobb Anderson. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“No sir,” said Tiko. “What are you known for?”

“I built the first robots for the Moon, sixty years ago,” said Cobb. “The boppers? And then the boppers chewed up my brain and extracted my software. I’ve had a series of robot bodies since then. This one is the best. Look.” Cobb flipped his wrist and his right arm split up into five thin arms, with a tiny hand at the end of each of them. He picked a different seashell up with each of the five minihands and waved them about.

“Most kinky,” said Tiko. “And you can fly. Yes, I saw you three come shootin’ down like a diving bird. Did you come in one jump all da way from America?”

“Never mind where we came from,” said Onar.

A big handsome woman had joined Tiko. She wore a ground-length skirt and a yellow T-shirt with a picture of some kind of sea creature that Yoke couldn’t make out. “Did Onar pay you?” the woman asked Yoke. Odd question.

“No,” said Yoke. “We’re friends. My name’s Yoke. I’m from the Moon.”

“I’m Oofa,” said the woman. “That’s my boat over there.” She pointed to an insectlike hydrofoil boat with a quantum-dot-powered water-jet motor. “When you’re ready to go diving, I’m the one to take you.”

“I’m very interested in diving,” said Yoke.

“I’ve got the equipment and the helpers,” said Oofa. “I work with Sea Cuke Divers, right over there behind the guest house.” She pointed across the street.

“I’m planning to use him for my dive-suit,” said Yoke, nodding toward Cobb.

“Moldies are the only way,” said Oofa. “But I think you better use a local. We’ve got moldies working out of Sea Cuke. I dive in them all the time. I’ll engage two moldies and show you some very special things.”

“Just get one for yourself, Oofa. I trust Cobb. Maybe we could go diving tomorrow. Is that okay with you, Cobb?”

“What?” The old man moldie’s attention tended to wander.

“Okay if you and I go diving with Oofa tomorrow?”

“We’d better check our schedule with HRH first,” said Onar. “It’s possible that he’ll have plans for us tomorrow. Or perhaps Cobb will have something he’d rather do.”

“What’s with you, Onar?” said Cobb. “Of course I’m taking her diving. I didn’t get a new body and fly all the way down to Earth just to start kissing large Polynesian butt.”

“No problem, no problem,” interrupted Oofa. “We’ll go diving in the morning. I’ll line up two moldies just in case Cobb changes his mind. Tashtego and Daggoo.”

Tiko walked down to the New Beach Guest House with them; he insisted on carrying their bags. It was early afternoon and plenty hot in the sun. Down here, February was high summer. Onar pointed along the heat-shimmering road to the white Victorian building in the distance.

“That’s the Royal Palace, Yoke. It burned down in 2010, but the Tongans faithfully rebuilt it. I think we may be having dinner there with the King tonight.”

“Da King don’t live in it no more,” corrected Tiko. “He started livin’ down by da lagoon.”

“I can imagine why,” murmured Onar, but Yoke didn’t push him to explain. The sun made talking too difficult.

The New Beach Guest House dated back to the twentieth century; it was a quaint cinder-block structure with a wide concrete porch and many open doors. There were swaying palms. The shade was a palpable relief. Yoke flopped down on an ancient metal porch chair and caught her breath.

“Mrs. Yoshida?” called Onar, but no answer came.

“She not gonna answer,” said Tiko. “Everyone resting till suppertime. Just pick an empty room.” He waved a good-bye and disappeared off behind the house.

“Two rooms,” said Yoke.

Onar looked at her with mild disappointment. “We won’t be sleeping together? It would be less expensive to share. Not that I want to presume on our brief acquaintance.”

“I don’t think so,” said Yoke. It had been pleasant enough when they’d smooched a little last night—even if she’d only been kissing Onar to somehow spite Phil for Kevvie. But flying all the way here squeezed into Cobb with Onar had been a definite turn-off. And now Onar kept acting so—British.

“Quite,” said Onar, with a little bow. “I’ll wage a courtship for your favors, milady Starr-Mydol.” Double ugh.

Yoke and Onar found two empty rooms on the ocean side. The New Beach Guest House was an incredibly casual place, with no locks on any of the doors. Some of the other guests were in their rooms napping or reading. While Onar made some uvvy calls, Yoke took a shower and put on her silvery summer dress.

“HRH is sending ‘round a limo for us in half an hour,” announced Onar when Yoke reappeared on the porch. “He’ll be entertaining us at his country estate. It’s on a little spit in the Fanga Kakau Lagoon.” Onar sat calmly on a rusty chair, looking pleasant and relaxed. He really was very handsome. The breeze plucked at his long reddish-blond hair and rattled the leaves of the palms. “I suppose I should bathe.”

“Where’s Cobb?” asked Yoke.

Onar pointed, and Yoke noticed a shiny puddle of plastic on the ground near the guest house. Cobb was relaxing moldie-style, lying there in a patch of sun and letting his algae soak up the light.