Rudy Rucker - The Ware Tetralogy

Yukawa: There is some slight risk in weakened individuals, Tobb. But most people who’ve had chipmold fever report that it’s no worse than a case of the flu. We are trying to develop a vac­cine, but it is unfortunately true that the mold has an excep­tionally rapid rate of genetic drift, making the discovery of any “silver bullet” more or less out of the question. (Glint of pride at his work.) The most serious problem is, I suppose, the fact that the mold is indeed affecting the functioning of our own asimov computers. (Big burst of static.) But there are many alternative computational technologies; indeed we at ISDN are now developing a chipless parallel computer based on cellular automata simulations within mold-infest­ed flickercladding tissues.

Tobb: (Talking fast.) Thank you, Dr. Yukawa. Other Moon stories tonight: Gimmie troops fail again in their attempt to enter the Nest, the ban on Moon-Earth travel has been extended, and there is panic on the stock exchange. But first, today’s report from Louisville with Suesue Piggot. Suesue?

Suesue: Thank you, Tobb. I’m Suesue Piggot, live in Louisville. The controversial treason trial of Willy Taze and Luther and Geegee Johnson continued today. Pro-Thang demonstrators staged another protest outside the courthouse. It ended in violence. (Shot of a few dozen people carrying signs reading, “Remember Manchile’s THANG!!” “NO MORE GENOCIDE” “Free WILLY” “LUTHER & GEEGEE are GOOD Folks” “We’re ALL THE SAME!” Gimmie officers wade in with clubs.)

Suesue: Late this afternoon, the jury reached a unanimous verdict of guilty in each of the three cases, and Judge Lewis Carter has scheduled sentencing for next Monday. (Mug shots of Luther and Geegee Johnson, followed by a slo-mo shot of Willy, worried and downcast, being led to a paddywagon, with his hands chained behind—

Willy guilty! The food stuck in Della’s throat. She hadn’t realized the meatbop conspiracy trial had progressed this far. She and the rest of the Tazes had been acquitted early on. Their lawyer had successfully argued that the Tazes had had no possible way of knowing what Manchile was. Those tacky Doans were still trying to sue the Tazes for “contributing to the wrongful death” of Jimmy Doan—the xoxy bum that Bubba ate—but the Tazes’ lawyer Don Stuart assured Dad that the Doans didn’t have a chance, only Willy was liable, and you can’t sue a condemned man. Yes, all the Tazes were in the clear except for Cousin Will.

Willy had been seen driving Cobb and Cisco away from the Fairgrounds after Manchile was shot. He’d been arrested at home later that night. He’d refused to talk, but it came out that he’d taken Cobb and Cisco to Churchill Downs, where the Johnsons had helped them bring up Bubba. And now he’d been found guilty of treason, conspiracy, and abetting the murder of Jimmy Doan. Sweet, spacy Willy—what would the Gimmie do to him now? Treason was a death rap, wasn’t it? Oh Willy, poor Willy.

Della found herself wondering how Aunt Ilse must feel. Maybe the man whom Ilse had sent had something to do with Willy? Could he have been a lawyer? She put the vizzy in phone mode and called up Ilse to ask. It took a while to get through. Ilse was extremely upset.

“I can’t say who that puffy man is, Della, but he . . . he might be able to help. We’re desperate. Willy’ll get the death penalty; they’ll kill him like they killed my father! You have to stop being so selfish and aloof, Della, you have to take part! This is ALL YOUR FAULT, you thrill-seeking little twit!”

Della disengaged herself and clicked off the vizzy. Ilse’s words hurt, but what could she do? She paced back and forth and then went to look out her window at the street four stories below. There was a man sitting on a bench down there, dark and huddled. After a while he glanced up, and the streetlight caught the side of his face. It was the man from before. Della realized she’d known he would be waiting.

She stepped back from the window and weighed her needler in her hand. What was it about that guy? She thought of Willy’s face and Ilse’s voice. “You have to take part.”

“Xoxxox,” said Della and put on a windbreaker. She shoved the hand with the needler in her coat pocket and went downstairs.

The man saw her coming. As she approached, he got up from his bench and started limping slowly down the tree-lined sidewalk. Della fell in step with him.

“Who are you?”

“Guess.”

The answer hit Della. Of course. They’d never found Bubba’s body.

“You’re . . . “

“That’s right, Grandma. I’m Bubba.”

“Oh my. Bubba. You told Ilse?”

“She guessed. It’s not hard. I called her on the vizzy after I heard about Willy. I have a way to get him out, but I need a little help.”

A bus chugged past. A raw, wet early March wind was blowing.

“Can’t Ilse help you?”

“She’s too closely watched. I just need for you to get me the original of that last cephscope tape that Willy made. Right before they arrested him. I saw part of it at La Mirage, and I need to see it again.”

“What’s on it?”

“Are you going to help?” Bubba’s voice was tight and strained, and he kept looking around. “I don’t like being with you, Della, I don’t like talking to humans. They killed everyone I loved, and they shot off my balls, and they’re hunting me like an—”

“They . . . they shot off —”

“Yeah, Grandma, so don’t worry about getting raped. They got me in the junkyard, right when I was thirteen. I’m forty now. I know it was wrong to eat the bum, but—” They were well out of the streetlight now. Bubba stopped and stared into Della’s face. In the faint city glow, his puffy cheeks and jowls disappeared. His thin mouth and sharp little nose looked scared and boyish. “Will you help?”

“Yes,” said Della, unable to refuse. “I will. Where should I leave the tape?”

“Give it to one of the bartenders on the Belle of Louisville . I’ve been hiding there. Belle’s a hundred-gigaflop bopper, as you must know from Willy. I’ve gotten almost all her asimov circuits down, and I think Willy’s tape codes up the last step I need. I saw it once, but I didn’t have time.” A car turned onto their street a block away. Bubba was itching to go. “OK?”

“AO,” said Della, giving Bubba’s hand a secretive pat. He flinched and stepped away. The car drove past and then it was dark again, with the only sound the gusting of the raw spring air in the skeletal trees.

Della gave Bubba a reassuring smile, remembering her nice walks with the five-day-old Manchile. Poor little thing. “And, Bubba, don’t feel so bad about eating that Doan man. From what I’ve seen of his family, he was a zero and a jerk. Hell, your father ate my dog Bowser when HE turned twelve.” Della laughed ruefully. “That’s when I told him to leave.”

A flicker of a smile. “That’s rich, Granny Dell. So thanks a lot. You get that tape and give it to Ben: he’s a bartender on the Belle . We’ll spring Willy if we can.” Another car in the distance. Bubba tapped his mouth and ear in the same privacy gesture he’d used before, and cut off down the street. Half a block and he turned onto a sidestreet, shooting a last glance at Della, who stood there watching him go.

She had her keys in her pocket, so it was easy to go into her building’s garage and get her car, a Pascal Turbo. She drove out on Eastern Parkway and turned onto the street where Colin and Ilse lived.

There were two cops or reporters staked out in a car, but Della jumped out of her Turbo and ran up the front walk before they could talk to her. Ilse opened as soon as she rang.

“Della!”

Thin old Ilse looked strong as ever, though her face was lined with worry. She ushered Della into the living room and served tea, fingering the heavy beads of her necklace as she talked. Her hands were trembling.