Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

“That’s Planet and Humpty-Dumpty,” said Tempest. “Planet’s my good boy. Come here, Planet, come to Auntie Tempest.” Clumsily the dog clawed his way through the branches of the oak tree, finally losing his footing and flying through the air to bump into Phil, tongue and tail wagging. Phil and the dog drifted around the whole hypersphere, coming to rest back at the splintered base of the oak tree with the others.

“What were you and Yoke doing in Tonga?” asked Darla as soon as Phil caught his breath.

“We’ve only just met,” said Phil. “We were getting to know each other, and snorkeling, but then I ran into Shimmer and some other Metamartians.”

“Metamartians?” spat Darla. “Is that what they call themselves?”

“Shouldn’t there be one of them in here with us?” asked Phil, continually avoiding looking at Darla. “A Metamartian named Ptah?”

“Darla and me done chased his ass outta here!” cackled Tempest. “I got the magic wisher to make us some grain alcohol to set him on fire.” She patted the uvvy on the back of her neck. Phil noticed that Da and Darla didn’t have uvvies. They’d both been abducted at night. “Couldn’t catch him nohow,” continued Tempest, “but he got so sick of it that he done took off out the hole. Ptah said pfuck it!”

“There’s a hole up there where you can stick your head out,” explained Da, pointing toward the other end of the tree. “Into raw hyperspace. Very creepy.”

“You said you dreamed this hypersphere talks to you,” said Phil. “Does she call herself—”

“Om,” said Kurt, just as Phil said it too. “Yes, she calls herself Om.”

“The Metamartians call her that,” said Phil. “She’s their god. Wherever they go, Om comes too. She scooped you up because she was curious about the wowo.”

“So it’s true?” said Kurt. “I hadn’t been sure. Om only talks to me when I’m dreaming. But it’s slow going because I’m always drunk. Hard to think logically. The shock. I keep thinking we’re all dead.”

“Pass around the wine, Tempest,” said Darla.

“I’m half in a bag already, Phil,” said Kurt apologetically. “I should explain that we’ve been partying hard. Tempest figured out how to make wine. Well, it’s similar to wine, anyway. We’ve been drinking enough of it.”

“Could you make me some food?” asked Phil. His stomach was rumbling. “I haven’t figured out how to find it.”

“These things are tolerable good,” said old Tempest. She made a gesture and a bright alla mesh pattern formed to whoosh out a big crisp golden shape, fat in the middle and pointed at both ends. Phil nibbled at it. It seemed to be something like a deep fried sweet potato. Fibrous, oily, not too bad. He took a big bite, and then another and— crunch— hit something like a vein of wiggly cartilage.

“Like a rubber bone in there, huh?” said Tempest. “Reminds me of a hog snout.”

Phil peered at the greasy object he’d been eating. “What is it?”

“Hell if I know,” said Tempest. “I call it a yam-snoot. You should of seen some of the other vittles we tried. Alien food, I guess.” She took a pull from her sack of liquid and tried passing it to Phil. “Hope you ain’t a tight-ass, Phil,” she said as he refused the sack.

“No, no,” said Phil, though his heart sank at the thought of being in here with three drunk pheezers. “Da, tell me more about that hole?”

“It’s a kind a flaw, a place where the space of this sphere has an edge. According to my reasoning, when you stick your head out there, your head is in four-dimensional hyperspace. I’ve only tried it for a few seconds. It’s cold and you have to keep coming back for breath. And there’s this freaky light. I wouldn’t try it, Phil. But if, God forbid, you do stick your head through the hole, be very sure to hang onto the tree so the rest of you doesn’t slide out.” Da squirted a stream of wine into his mouth, and then some into Darla’s. A rivulet dribbled down her chin and onto her big breasts. “Don’t stare at us like that, Phil. I know I shouldn’t be getting fucked up, but I’m far enough into this run that I’ve got to finish. After I sleep it off, I’ll get myself together and we’ll talk about our chances of getting you back to Earth.”

“Hey, Da!” said Phil. “This is xoxxed. Can I at least make you and Darla some clothes?”

“Oh bless his heart,” cackled Tempest. “Hear that, Darla?” Darla responded by striking a coy pose with one hand over her crotch and one over her boobs.

Phil quickly found the clothing area of Om’s Metamartian catalog and actualized two of the colorful loose caftans. He made Darla one with a pattern of unearthly biological shapes that might have been purple flowers; Da got one with flickering red shapes like flames. The fabric was some unknown material that was slippery but not sticky. A bit like silk, but with no sign of threads.

“Give me one too,” said Tempest. “A blue one.”

“All right,” said Phil, and made Tempest a Metamartian robe that resembled a waterfall. “I’m outta here for now, losers.”

He pulled himself toward the other end of the oak tree, pausing to study the glowing holographic knot of the oversize wowo. It was a roughly doughnut-shaped pattern of steadily changing mathematical curves and surfaces. Tre Dietz may have turned off all the wowos he’d sold, but he hadn’t been able to reach this one. It was going strong. Phil liked to think a wowo looked a little like a glass pelican continually crawling farther and farther up its own butt, while at the same time emerging from its own beak, somehow changing into its own mirror image in the process. Mind-boggling and gnarly.

Phil proceeded onward to the other end of the tree. The toy Humpty-Dumpty was sitting there, clamped onto a branch like an owl. Phil gave him a gentle poke, and the egg smiled ingratiatingly. A low husky laugh floated up from Darla at the other end of the tree. Fortunately there were enough dead leaves between them that Phil didn’t have to see what the old folks were doing.

Just as Kurt had said, right beyond the end of the tree was a flawed spot like Phil had seen in his own little hypersphere. He took a deep breath and stuck his head through it.

After dropping Phil at the dock in Neiafu, the navy motorboat ferried Yoke, Cobb, Onar, and Kennit to a big aluminum ship anchored in the harbor. The flagship of the Tongan Navy. Its rounded lines made Yoke think of a beer keg. Amidships was a tower of cabins surmounted by the bridge; aft was a flexible whip-cannon poised like a cobra head.

The King was waiting for them on board. He was wearing a white coat and peaked cap for this nautical occasion. His green moldie girlfriend Vaana was at his side.

“Good morning, Yoke,” said the King. “And it’s an honor indeed to meet the famous Cobb Anderson. Welcome aboard.” He glanced around the deck. “We can speak quite freely. The sailors barely know English, while Kennit and the bodyguards are completely to be trusted. Greetings, Onar! Anyone need a coffee? Champagne? No?” He led them aft to stand by a big open hatch in the deck. Above the hatch was a crane mounted on a high triangular brace. “You’ve brought the alla, Yoke? Ah, it’s that little tube thing. Excellent. I look forward to seeing it in action. Slugs of gold and imipolex all morning long. Yum yum!” He smiled and rubbed his hands. A dozen Tongan sailors were sitting around, ready to start work. Kennit joined two of the King’s bodyguards, who were ensconced up on the bridge, playing a game of cards with a Tongan man in a captain’s hat.

“Won’t the ship sink if it gets too full?” Yoke asked the King.