Spaceland (27 page)

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Authors: Rudy Rucker

BOOK: Spaceland
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The lump on my shoulder gave a sharp twitch. What the hell? I reached under my linen shirt and peeled off the band-aid. I felt a round bump with two sharp, wiggly little projections on it. It moved when I touched it, and, oh gross, was it making a sound?
But now there was a siren behind me, a cop car with its flasher on. Either I was speeding or Clement had sicced him on me. Whatever. I wasn't stopping. Looking in the mirror at the cop, I realized that a bunch of the red Wackle balls were following me, swarming all around the outside of my Explorer. Protecting me from the Kluppers. I felt a deep wave of affection for the Wackles. Truly our smeel was one. I'd worry about my shoulder later.
I got a parking space right in front of the Coffee Roasting. I
peered in past the rain, looking over the customers, my mind running at unbelievable speed.
In the window were a couple in identical blue and yellow biking jerseys, blue and yellow shoes, black spandex shorts, like they were on a team. Behind them was a blonde woman handing an accordion file organizer filled with separate small folders to a nerd who held his lips pooched out in moronic concentration. Beside them was a man with a long straight nose, fine teeth, curly hair, and a strong chin, holding forth to a trio of older CEO-type guys, his girlfriend silently gazing at him like a flower enjoying the sun. Just now he'd said something to make the older guys laugh, and the girlfriend had ducked her head and was looking openmouthed over at them, milking the moment. The CEOs were dignified silver-haired guys in turtlenecks and jeans. I noticed all of this in the split second I was scanning the room for Jena. I was amped like you wouldn't believe.
And then I saw her, sitting at a table in a corner near the rear. She was just setting down her phone; thank God she was off the line. We were almost home free!
The cop had double parked next to me. He was a fit, craggy guy my age. Intense-looking, short dark hair, mustache, acne-scarred skin. The kind of guy I might have played beach volleyball with on a different kind of day. “Sir,” he called, peering past the Wackle globs between us. “Sir!” In California, whenever someone called you “Sir” it meant they were going to hassle you. Back in Matthewsboro it had been a term of respect.
Though the window I saw Jena picking up her Mophone again, pushing the buttons to make another call. Wanting to say one more thing to Spazz.
“Don't!” I shouted, jumping out of my car. “Don't use the Mophone!”
“Sir!”
The flock of Wackle balls smashed the Coffee Roasting's plate
glass window, sending the customers scattering. In the aftermath of the tinkling glass came a moment of silence, broken only by the quiet pooting of jazz from the coffee shop's sound system. And then I heard a tiny little voice from my shoulder: a high voice, a Wackle voice.
“It's gonna pop, Joe!” it cried.
I believed what it said. I flung myself into the shop, ran to the corner of the room, and dove across Jena's table, knocking her Mophone from her hands. Jena gave an angry exclamation, jumped to her feet and stepped back. She thought I'd gone nuts.
Pop!
It was a small sound, clear and distinct. The Mophone had been replaced by a sinister black sphere. The sphere was matte black, so utterly nonreflecting that it looked like a flat disk, or even like a flaw on my cornea. It was a hole in space, slowly and implacably increasing its size. Soundlessly the sphere dug through the tabletop and ate away the side of Jena's coffee mug. At the ball's touch, matter disappeared like a burst bubble's rainbows, objects evaporated like the pictures in a burning reel of film.
The ball gave off a vibe of pure Nothingness, a vibe that I recognized as Death. I knew Death a bit from seeing my mother's brother Vick die of a stroke at Thanksgiving dinner one year. This was after my parents had divorced, when drunk Uncle Vick had taken to spending the holidays with us. One minute old Vick had been bragging and bullying, inflating himself with our attention; the next minute he'd been dead on the floor with his tongue sticking out and his little eyes gone milky blank. I'd seen Death convert Vick into Nothing. And now Death was here again.
The ball's rate of expansion was picking up. The whole table was gone and the ball was nearly as tall as me. It was starting to dig into the floor. Jena was hemmed into the corner of the room. There was an instant when she still could have darted out, but she'd hesitated
and missed it. There wasn't any possible way for her to get out past the ball now. She could smell the Death in it, too.
“Help me, Joe!” she cried.
There was no question in my mind that I had to save my Jena. Nobody else was going to do it. The mustached cop who'd been so interested in me was standing outside on the sidewalk, busy calling for backup on his cell phone. It was all up to me. But I found it hard to step forward and reach for the ball of Nothing. Logically, I knew I was augmented, hyperthick, and probably impervious to the dissolution of Spaceland—but the deathly sphere terrified me.
Jena screamed again. I stopped thinking and leapt into the ball. My outstretched arms went in first, and then my head. It was fine for my body, but as I left the fabric of Spaceland, my watch and my clothes disappeared.
Yes, despite my fears, it was fine for me inside the ball, just plain old hyperspace. I could see Klupdom and Dronia to either side. I was breathing the air of the All.
“Grab the edges,” piped the voice from my shoulder.
Right. I groped around at the edge of the ball, turning my hands vinn and vout. There was a kind of hyperthickness I could catch hold of. It felt like slippery latex. The stuff of Spaceland. I clamped onto either side of the ball, turning my hands around and around, knotting them into the fabric of space. The ball tried to grow further; I was barely able to hold it back. Without releasing the grip of my hands, I kicked out and found the ball's edges with my feet. I jiggled my feet in a four-dimensional way and got swatches of our space wrapped around them. And that was enough.
I was holding the ball in four different spots. My arms were stretched out to the left and right, and my legs were doing the splits from front to back. The ball of Nothing had stopped growing. Joe Superhero.
“A pyramid of forces,” said the voice on my shoulder. “Perfect, Joe.”
I glanced over and finally allowed myself to see the little Wackle head growing out of my flesh. The head was the size of a thumb, four-dimensional, with its shape changing as it moved. It had soft little devil horns. At its neck, its crimson hide blended into my pale skin. Gnarly gnarly gnarly. I looked away from it.
I used my third eye to see into Spaceland. There was pandemonium in the Coffee Roasting. Jena was sobbing and shouting my name. She couldn't see me here inside the hall; she thought I'd sacrificed myself for her. Good! Like being at my own funeral. But—not so good—she was still trapped in the corner by the curve of the ball.
I turned my head back and forth, looking vinn towards Dronia and vout towards Klupdom. There was lot to see. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of Wackle strands were teaching out towards me from the Dronian cliffs. Many of the strands passed through Space land into the Klupper part of the All. Vout there I saw four silver saucers with gray-suited grolly guards. Momo's husband Voule was among them: dark, powerful, loud. At his commands, the purplish-skinned grolly guards were attempting to wipe out the Wackles with hyperbazookas, but the Wackles were frustrating them bv the sheer force of their numbers. For the moment it was a stand-off.
I wondered why the Empress's crimson-clad troops hadn't come. I must be that the attack upon Spaceland had been carried out without her knowledge. If our only enemies were Momo's family and the grolly guards, the Wackles could surely hold them off until—until what? How long was I supposed to float here holding my world together?
“Yoo-hoo,” said the Wackle head on my shoulder, trying to get me to talk to it.
I still didn't want to; I didn't want the head to be real. Meanwhile the steady straining of the Nothing-ball was starting to wear on me. I noticed that if I flexed my knees and elbows, I could make the ball a little smaller. But my muscles could only hold so long, and each time I'd let up, my limbs would snap back to their maximum extension, with the sphere of Nothing patiently pulling at my joints. At some point I was going to come apart
“Help,” I said softly.
“Me?” said the Wackle head on my shoulder.
“I guess so,” I sighed, finally acknowledging it. “Can you call the others?”
The little head let out a piercing whistle, and one of the Wackle strands drifted into the ball. It flowed and thickened until a fat,
devilish Wackle section was squeezed in there with me, the rest of him sticking vinn and vout on either side.
We were mashed together like lovers in a sleeping bag. “Our smeel is one, Joe,” said the Wackle, his face pressed against mine.
“Arc you the one who bit me?” I asked. The Wackle shrugged, as if to indicate this was a pointless question. I was beginning to understand that individuality meant nothing for the Wackles. They were all part of one great SuperWackle, including the extra head on my shoulder, and speaking of the head, how in hell was I going to get rid of it?
“A handy head for wander wonder,” said the Wackle, as if he were reading my mind. And perhaps he was. Certainly I was understanding the Wackles a lot better than I'd been able to a few hours ago.
The Wackle petted my extra head with a tendril from the tip of a folded-up arm. “Atop High Dronia you soonest fetch a patch,” he said. His motions were jiggling the ball of Nothing, pulling that much harder on my joints. I couldn't stand it much longer.
“Stop jouncing,” I snapped. Now that we were practically brothers, there was no need to stand on ceremony. “Fat slob. Why don't
you
hold the ball for a while? Or can we sew it up?”
“Fetch a peachy patch, flatty,” said the Wackle. “Drabk the Sharak of Okbra can do. If. You bark to doggy Drabk beyond beyond the Dronia.” He made a vinnward gesture and the ball jounced again. Hard.
“Grab the ball and let me out of here, idiot.”
“Negatory,” said the Wackle. “Boneless stretch taffy pull me whoops it would.”
“Then do this,” I hissed. “Bring the rope we used to tie up Momo's saucer. And be careful when you slide out. Do it smooth, pig.”
The big Wackle eased himself out of the hole and swooped off
through the clear air of Dronia. Thanks to my garage having been crushed, my saucer had drifted quite some distance off, but it didn't take the Wackle long to return with the rope. He grew half a dozen arms and nimbly pulled out a series of mounds from the edges of the Nothing-ball, knotting the rope around each one of them. Soon the pressure was off my arms and legs and I could let go; I eased myself into the space of Dronia.
The Wackle tied off a few more spots on the ball—by now he'd made at least twenty links. The sections of rope stretched back and forth between the knots, making a kind of three-dimensional star, five or six feet across. Around the ball was Spaceland, that is, the Los Perros Coffee Roasting with its broken front window and its customers on the sidewalk. The rough-skinned cop was in the shop, uncertainly looking at the tip of his nightstick where the ball of Nothing had melted it away. He wasn't going to do much till reinforcements arrived. Jena had stopped crying for me and was trying to figure out how to get out without touching the ball.

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