Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

“Don’t you get Babs in trouble, Randy,” snapped Phil. “Take some time and figure out our scene before you start acting like a complete criminal. If you do anything to hurt Babs, Senator Stahn will take you down for true. Depend on it.”

“ Tat tvam asi,’ ” said Randy equably. “Means ‘And that too’ in Sanskrit. Did you know I lived in India for two years? I respect your concern for your friend, big gaaah. You think you’ll be movin’ in?”

“Well, no, my plan is to go to Tonga.”

“You too? What all’s in Tonga?”

“It’s Yoke,” said Phil. “I have to see her. For once I know exactly what I want to do.”

So Phil ditched most of his stuff at Babs Mooney’s warehouse and set off for Tonga with a few travel supplies in a knapsack. He took a conventional rocket-plane, with a change in Hawaii.

He arrived at Nuku’alofa early Sunday morning, Tonga time. The airport was old-fashioned and casual. He hadn’t uvvied Yoke yet because he’d been scared she might tell him not to come. But now it was time.

The uvvy signal quickly found her, and Yoke picked up. She looked even better than Phil had remembered. Her calm eyes, her fine jaw, her wise mouth, her ivory-olive skin. She was wearing a purple bikini. She seemed to be sitting on a tropical patio eating breakfast. Alone?

“Hi, Yoke, it’s Phil. I missed you so much that I flew to Tonga! I broke up with Kevvie.”

Yoke took the news with aplomb. “Josef told me you were about to call,” she said, tapping an imipolex beetle that was perched on her shoulder-strap like a tiny parrot. “He can see about five minutes into the future.”

“Oh right,” said Phil. “Did Babs blab? Where’s Onar?”

“He and I are through. I think he’s staying with the King. I’ll tell you everything when you get here. I already asked Cobb to pick you up. You should wait somewhere obvious, like out in front of the airport? Cobb says he can get there in like fifteen minutes. It’ll be wavy to see you, Phil. I’m glad you came.”

A short while later Cobb plummeted down out of the sky and opened himself up like a mummy case. He looked considerably bulkier than before. Phil took the palladium nose-filters Cobb offered him and got inside the moldie-man, along with his pack. Huge acceleration and then they were arcing north across the Tongan archipelago.

“How’s Yoke?” Phil asked Cobb.

“She’s doing well.”

“And what’s with the beetle?” asked Phil.

“You mean Josef,” said Cobb. “He’s an alien from Metamars. A place where they have two-dimensional time. Apparently the Metamartians live a whole lot of parallel lives at once. They think our part of the cosmos is very odd!”

“Aliens! Are these the same aliens who were on the Moon back in November? There was one that got away?”

“Exactly. Shimmer’s still here, and she’s been decrypting other alien personality waves into imipolex bodies. Not just any aliens though, she only unpacks Metamartians. There’s six of them now. This is like a bus-tour for them—or maybe an anthropological expedition. Shimmer, Ptah, Peg, Wubwub, Siss, Josef. Josef’s taken a shine to our Yoke. He’s a very useful individual to have around. Even though we only have one-dimensional time here, there’s always a cloud of ghost futures around the next moment. And Josef’s able to see the virtual futures and to actualize the best one. That’s been making it easy to avoid hassles with Onar and the King.”

“Tell me about Onar.”

“Onar sucks,” chuckled Cobb. “Just ask Yoke. She can’t stand him anymore.” Cobb did an imitation of Yoke’s voice. “ ‘Onar’s dishonest and a bad lover and he acts British and all British things suck. Except for Lewis Carroll.’ “

“Who’s Lewis Carroll?”

“Tsk, Phil. Alice in Wonderland? And your father a math teacher. Never mind. Onar and the King are so bummed about Yoke getting the alla.

They want one of their own, but for now they have to be satisfied with Yoke making stuff for them. Mostly imipolex. She gave me some too.” They’d reached their apogee, and now they were hurtling down toward the great blue sea with its tiny white-edged dots of green islands. “The alla makes realware; it uses direct matter control.”

“Oh man, this is too much,” complained Phil. “You’ve only been down here two days and I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about anymore.”

“I haven’t even mentioned the powerball yet,” said Cobb. “The hand of Om. Om is the god of the Metamartians. She ate your father.”

“You mean the wowo thing?”

“The wowo was what attracted Om. Like a flower for a hummingbird. Or a candle for a moth. Or a book for a scientist. And Om is—well, the Metamartians say she’s God. Whenever the Metamartians go somewhere, Om shows up too. The powerballs are like fingers of Om.”

“Cobb!” shouted Phil. The islands were rushing up insanely fast. “Stop the bullshit and pay attention! Slow down!”

“Aw, I’m getting really good at this,” said Cobb, unfurling a bunch of wildly flapping imipolex ribbons. The ribbons flexed themselves, tearing at the air. Cobb continued to drop like a stone, but at least he’d stopped accelerating. They were fluttering toward a large, hook-shaped island with subsidiary islands scattered around it like appendages. It reminded Phil of a flea seen through a microscope, a big flea riddled with watery lagoons and intricate inlets, the island’s harbor like a stomach. There were yachts floating in the harbor, and a small cluster of buildings beside it.

“The island of Vava’u,” said Cobb. “The little town is Neiafu.”

Cobb’s ribbons fused into great wings, and he sailed serenely over Neiafu and across the harbor to home in on one of the tiny islands that peppered the harbor straits. Cobb’s target island stuck out of the sparkling water like a verdant muffin; it had a high, round crown leading down to vertical, undercut sides. The summit of the island had been cleared down to the bare stone, and perched there was a single house, a sturdy yellow concrete building with a tin roof, much weathered. Beside the house was the aquamarine gem of a small swimming pool, seemingly carved right into the rock. Steps ran down the steep side of the island to a dock floating in the blue sea. Cobb touched down beside the pool, right next to a young woman sitting at a wicker table. Yoke.

“You’re welcome,” said Cobb, disgorging a shaken Phil onto the concrete pool apron.

“Thanks Cobb. Hi, Yoke!”

“Phil.” Yoke was smiling so hard that her cheeks were bunched and her eyes were slitty. Phil sprang forward and hugged her; she hugged back. Now, finally, they kissed. But only briefly.

“You smell like moldie,” said Yoke. “Let’s take a dip.”

Phil had a bathing suit in his backpack, and in a minute they were in the pool, swimming back and forth, laughing and splashing. Cobb wandered over to the house, which had a veranda shaded by woven mats of palm-leaves. There were two other moldies lying slack in the sun, and a few Tongans were sitting in the shade, some of them playing cards. Phil counted four big men and two women. All of them were staring, but Phil did his best to ignore them.

“It’s beautiful here,” said Phil, taking in the house, the palms, the ocean, the blue sky. “Whose is it?”

“It’s the King’s,” said Yoke. “He’s turned it over to me. I’m really important all of a sudden. Thanks to the aliens. You showed up just in time. I was starting to get lonely.”

The jewel-like beetle that had been sitting on Yoke was buzzing around overhead. “That’s an alien?” said Phil, pointing at it.