Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

“Think your target to me,” said the alla voice.

Phil could think of nothing better than that he’d forgotten his toothbrush. The gray glob elongated itself and grew bristles at one end. Its color and dimensions remained—indeterminate. At the slightest push of Phil’s velleity, the specific features of the toothbrush warped this way and that.

“Really sensitive, huh?” said Yoke.

“It’s like I’m exploring toothbrush space,” said Phil, finding more and more qualities to vary. Tuft stiffness, handle bend, transparency, bristle density—it wasn’t like he was fully imagining the toothbrushes himself, it was more like surfing through an incredibly vast multidimensional online mother of all catalogs.

“Try and actualize one,” said Yoke. “It might work.”

“I want that one,” said Phil to the alla, and a mental image of an excellent green toothbrush froze in place. “No wait, let me personalize it.” With a special effort of will, Phil stamped his name on the image’s handle and filliped its tip with a nonstandard kink. “Now make that sucker for me, little alla. Actualize.”

But nothing happened. Wish as he might, Phil couldn’t force the magical lines of bright mesh to appear.

“I guess I have to say it,” said Yoke.

“That is correct,” squeaked the alla. “I allow only one registered user.”

“So actualize the toothbrush already,” said Yoke, and Phil’s toothbrush dropped into his lap.

Phil handed the alla back to Yoke, who quickly returned to revising her two sculptures. Popping out the old mesh, dissolving the existing version, adjusting the mesh, and making a new one. “The alla remembers the exact format of each of the things I’ve actualized,” said Yoke. “So it’s easy to keep changing them.” She adjusted the bends of the metal loop, and shaved bits off the curved sides of the big glass prism.

Phil set his lofa bean down next to Yoke’s sculptures and tried to get her to admire it some more. He didn’t like for the alla to be getting all the attention. The bean was something remarkable that he himself had found. “What a beautiful green color our lofa bean is, Yoke.” Yoke was tired of talking about the bean, but Phil kept on trying to riff on it, trying to get Yoke to look at him. “Could it be the larva of an alien centipede? The bean’s vine was hanging right down out of the sky. Jack and the Beanstalk! What if it splits open and eats my brain tonight, Yoke?”

“It would get a small meal!” laughed Yoke. “Just kidding. I like your brain, Phil.” She set down the alla, slipped into her bed and turned out the light.

“Good night, Yoke,” said Phil, getting into his own bed. “It was a great day.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Phil. And, um, what I said when we closed the door—I didn’t mean that you can’t kiss me good night.”

Phil dreamed about his father again, but when he woke Monday morning, the details faded out of his memory. Outside there were voices on the veranda, one particularly annoying voice the loudest: Onar Anders, saying something about tea, about the best way to make it.

Phil looked over at Yoke’s bed; it was empty, the flipped-back sheets a gentle outline of her slender frame. And the lofa bean? It was sitting quietly on the night table, green and vegetal.

Phil put on the shorts Yoke had made him and a clean dark blue silk sport shirt that he found in the closet. It was quite a large shirt, patterned with suns and stars; perhaps it belonged to the King. Outside it was already mid-morning. Clear sky and a gentle breeze. Yoke, Onar, and the four Tongan bodyguards were at the long table on the veranda drinking tea and coffee. Cobb was also present, but Tashtego and Daggoo weren’t around.

“ Ecce homo,” said Onar. He was wearing a white yachting cap with gold braid and a stiff bill. “Behold the man. Welcome to Tonga, Phil. Glad to see you could get some time off from your menial job.”

“Xoxx you, Onar. Hi, Yoke. Man, I slept well. You’ve got a great room, Yoke. I found this nice shirt in the closet. What’s happening?”

“The Tongan Navy ship finally got here,” said Yoke. “I’m supposed to fill it up with goodies for the King. I like that shirt on you, Phil. It’s—heavenly.”

“Royal duds,” said Phil, flapping the great garment. “Is filling up the ship going to take us long?”

“Well, I’ll be making the gold and imipolex in slugs small enough for people to carry. So I’ll have to make a lot of them. It might be a couple of hours. Do you want to watch?”

“I’m sorry, but Phil can’t come aboard the navy ship,” interrupted Onar. “Security, don’t you know.”

“Bullshit,” said Yoke.

“HRH insists,” said Onar. “And he promises not to lecture you about what you did in Neiafu yesterday. Some of the locals even took pictures of you, but thanks to the ID virus, all the images show Sue Miller. You can still be anonymous and keep your alla, Yoke. We’ve done all this for you. Be a sport, and help us. It’s thanks to the King that you met the aliens and got the alla in the first place.”

“What do you think?” Yoke asked Phil.

“Whatever you say,” Phil answered, feeling himself slide into his old passivity. “I’ll miss you, but I can keep myself entertained. I could do some snorkeling maybe. Or go to Neiafu and see what’s down the road in the other direction. If you think you’ll be safe.”

“I’ll bring Cobb along for protection,” said Yoke. “And that’s final, Onar.”

“Let me check,” said Onar, and silently consulted the uvvy he was wearing on the back of his neck. “Jolly good,” he said a minute later. “Ms. Yoke Starr-Mydol and her moldie Cobb are cordially invited aboard His Royal Highness’s flagship. Shall we go down to the launch? If you like, Phil, we can drop you off at Neiafu.”

To avoid the danger of the locals coming after Yoke again, the launch dropped Phil at a deserted private dock rather than at the main Neiafu dock. Phil waved as the launch sped out to the big Tongan Navy ship floating in the harbor. Little Yoke. Maybe he should have insisted on sticking with her. But Phil knew he wasn’t good at arguing. Oh well.

Phil strolled up to the main road and turned right. He passed a few locals. They all smiled and nodded, recognizing him, but there was nothing like the excitement of yesterday. Evidently everyone knew that although Yoke was the Queen of the Alla, he was only her Prince Consort. Nothing special.

Phil was intrigued by the thin black pigs he saw everywhere. All of the Tongans’ houses were dirty on the outside from the pigs rubbing themselves on the walls. He tried to pet one or two of the pigs, but they were extremely wary. And some had tusks.

As he continued to walk, the houses gave way to trees and fields. In one field he noticed a hut as primitive as any he’d ever imagined—what the Tongans called a “ fale .” It had palm-trunk posts holding up a roof of palm fronds. The walls were woven matting, with a big gap in place of a door. Sitting on the ground in front of the house were the loveliest people Phil had ever seen, a man and a woman, the woman with a baby at her breast, the three of them looking supremely content. They noticed Phil, but didn’t bother to wave. The Edenic family made Phil think of Adam and Eve. Would it really be a step forward for them to have an alla?

He walked on and came to a field with a low wall around it. Within the enclosure were long mounds of gravel decorated with colorful patterns of pebbles and shells. The dimensions of the mounds and the faint odor of corruption told Phil this was a graveyard. A thin young woman with a pack of children was working on one of the graves; she was sweeping it with a stick broom and burning the rubbish in a small fire. Seeing Phil look at her, the woman made a gesture he hadn’t seen before. She held her hand palm up, slightly cupped, with the fingers stiff and outspread, and then flipped the hand down toward him, a bit as if sowing seed. The gesture definitely meant “go away” rather than “come here.” Could an alla have saved the life of the person whose grave she was tending? But why bother? thought Phil. There’s always more people, and everyone has to die.