Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

It was a light, a White Light. Yoke was flying gladly toward it. God. There were others flying with her. Yoke flashed a vision of someone driving a car in a snowstorm with the snow-flakes flying into the headlights, not that Yoke had ever seen snow in real life, but now she did see it, she was the driver, tasting coffee in her mouth, and then she was one of the snowflakes, rushing through the cold black toward the car, yet never reaching it, as if the path to the Light were being stretched.

Yoke was a flat little thing endlessly tumbling after the Light. It felt good to do this, she was happy, getting good vibes off that Light but— zow!— now something shot past in front of her, a thing like a Bardo demon, gulping down a bunch of the snow-flakes, danger, danger— zow!— another one going by with something like a beak, but, oh well, nothing to be done, once you’re dead the worst has already happened, right, and once you’re born you’re in for it too— zow !—”Hi, there!”

Yoke kept flying on toward the Light and kind of laughing at the Bardo demons, they made it interesting was all, the demons were woof shuttles for this tapestry, with Yoke and the other souls the world-line warp threads on the White Light loom, it was good and— zow!! —why worry, the Light would take care of all things.

And then all of a sudden it was like in a flying dream when your dream self remembers you can’t really fly—and you fall, pulled down from the heavens by reality’s anchor-rope—

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaa­auuugh!”

“It’s okay, Yoke!”

“She’s back!”

“Oh, Yoke! Dear little Yoke!”

“It’s me, darling!”

“Hold her, she’s going to fall!”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Huh?”

Yoke could see! She was back in good old three-dimensional space, her mother and her friends all around her, yes, Ma and Phil, Randy and Babs, Cobb squeezing in too, even Planet and stupid Willa Jean, all of them touching her, oh dear life. Yoke slumped to the floor sobbing. There was something hard and rubbery in the back of her throat; she coughed it out; it was the nose blocker.

Half an hour later she felt like her old self again, sitting on Babs’s ant-patterned silk couch talking with the others. Phil and Darla sat on either side of her, and Babs and Randy were on another couch. Cobb was flopped down on the floor, his head sticking out of a formless puddle. A huge green brocade fabricant tapestry covered the nearest wall.

“What happened to your foot, Ma?” asked Yoke. “Your little toe is gone.”

“It happened when Om’s powerball swallowed me on Christmas Eve,” said Darla. “I tried kicking my way out.”

“Poor Ma. You were in there for a long time. Thank God you’re back.”

“I don’t matter that much, Yoke. I’m old. Thank God you’re back.”

Yoke kept testing her thoughts and looking down at her body, her precious flesh, touching herself, her leg, her stomach, her face, yes, all of her was back, even the same clothes that she’d been wearing—her new stretch leather pants and plush green shirt—and even the gem necklace Phil had given her, as well as his father’s gold ring, loose on her finger. She was going to have to think about that one.

“Did you see the SUN?” asked Cobb.

“The White Light,” said Yoke. “I saw it.” If she looked within herself, she could still see feel the Light. A savor of serenity, a sense that everything was okay.

“I saw it too,” said Phil. “When I was peeking out of Om. Da flew into it.”

“It had good vibes,” added Darla. She was wearing a shapeless dress with purple patterns on it. Not like something she’d normally wear.

“The best vibes ever,” said Yoke. “It’s wonderful to know that God is real. And then you guys brought me back?”

“Slick as snot on a doorknob,” said Randy. “All I did was hold your alla, and it goes, ‘Shall I actualize a new Yoke Starr-Mydol or shall I execute a fresh registration?’ And I go, ‘Yaaar, make me one o’ them Yokes.’ And then here you come, screamin’ your head off .”

“It was quite a shock,” said Yoke. “I was already in heaven, I guess.” The impossibly bright memories were fading. “And now I’m back to—this.” Though life was wonderful, it was hard. There were so many things to see and feel and think about. Phil kept putting his hands on her, for one thing, and it was a little bit annoying. Was he serious about that marriage thing?

Babs leaned forward, staring at Phil. “What was that you said before about knowing how to make more allas? Is it really true?”

“It’s about time I got an alla!” interjected Cobb. “Fuck this ‘humans only’ bullshit. Anyway, I am human. I’m the same damned information I always was.”

“I’m starting to see your point,” said Yoke. “Now that I’m made of realware. Stop touching me every second, Phil.”

“I want an alla too,” said Darla on Yoke’s other side. “Just think what I could do to our cubby, Yoke. We could have a swimming pool. Can you really make me one, Phil?”

“Yes, I think I know how to get us as many allas as we want,” said Phil. “As long as one of you guys with allas will help.”

“Tell me what to do!” said Babs. “It’s important that we start handing out allas before people start wanting to take ours away from us.”

“Om told me you can split up an alla,” said Phil. “You have to understand that an alla is part of a vortex thread. Like the central line down the throat of a whirlpool? Both ends of the alla’s thread are connected to Om. The thread is a loop, and the alla is where the loop dips into our space. Just barely skims in. Now, it’s hard to create a brand-new vortex thread, but it’s easy to split one lengthwise. That’s how you make more allas.”

“I can split this in two?” said Babs, holding her silvery alla in her palm. “How?”

“You only have to ask,” said Phil. “You can’t ask an alla to make an alla, but you can ask it to split. A subtle distinction.” He sounded oddly professorial.

“I ask it, and it splits in two, and both allas will work?”

“That’s what Om told me. The alla-thread divides itself up like strands of yarn coming untwined—and then the split moves ana along the loop back to Om. You end up with two loops of vortex thread and two allas. Or three, or four, or anything up to seven. The most you can split an alla into at once is seven. Om and the Metamartians are big on sevens. One of the allas will still be yours, the same as before, and the others will be blank slates, ready for someone’s registration.”

“So you understand all about Om now?” asked Randy.

“I’ve been inside Om for the last four days,” said Phil. “Om’s the god of the Metamartians. She’s a huge, higher-dimensional intelligence.”

“Is she like that light Yoke saw?” asked Randy.

“No,” said Phil. “Much more concrete. Om reminds me of a giant, pink woman. A woman the size of the solar system. You’d probably try to hump her leg, Randy. Except that she’s four-dimensional or, come to think of it, maybe five. That would explain how she could have disjoint hyperspherical fingertips.”

“You a math-freak all of a sudden?” snapped Randy, hurt by Phil’s dig. “I thought that was just your dad.”

“Phil made peace with his father,” said Darla. “It was beautiful. I helped them, Yoke.”

Yoke glanced sideways at Darla. There was something in her mother’s face that made Yoke suspicious. “You met Phil’s father, Ma? Was he nice?”

“They got along very well,” said Phil quickly. “Try and split your alla now, Babs. I want one too.”