Realware

He'd been a fool too long. It was time to go back and talk to Babs. He'd abandoned any thought of riding a fly-bike. They'd served their purpose now, they'd kept him from killing himself.

He was thirsty again, but when he uvvied into his alla to make another soft drink, a strange thing happened. Instead of producing a control mesh, the alla began talking to him.

"Greetings," said the alla. "Shall I actualize a new Randy Karl Tucker or shall I execute a fresh registration?" As it spoke he felt a series of tingles in his body, as if the alla were checking him out.

"Hey," said Randy, confused. "We already done this before. I am Randy Karl Tucker."

"Original user identity is ninety-eight percent confirmed," said the alla, as if not even listening to him. "The Randy Karl Tucker actualization option is withdrawn. For full confirmation and reactivation, we must now execute a fresh registration. Please give a name and thought association for each image." And then it showed Randy the same series of images it had used before to learn his mental software. The first three flicked past: a symmetric circular pattern of colored lights, a crooked forked line, and a uniform patch of rough texture. Just like the first time, Randy said they were like a mandala he'd seen the first time he got high on camote in Bangalore with Parvati, like a dried up creek-bed out at the London Earl Estates trailer park south of Louisville, and like the skin of a dead moldie he'd seen in a jar at a Heritagist church fair. After the dizzyingly rapid and thorough quizzing came a series of tingles throughout Randy's body, and then the alla said, "You are registered as my sole user for life. Feel free to select something from my catalog." And at this point Randy realized what had happened. The complicated hookup through the imipolex dummy had temporarily tricked the alla into the belief that it was the real Randy who'd been alla-converted into air. The alla thought it had killed him.

Once he was dead the alla could either--what had it said? --"actualize a new Randy Karl Tucker" or "execute a fresh registration." Had the first option, so quickly withdrawn, meant that the alla could make a duplicate of him, a second Randy identical in mind and body? That would be floatin'.

"Go ahead and make that copy of me," Randy told the alla, not really thinking through the consequences. His pulse was pounding with excitement. "Make a Randy Karl Tucker Two."

Again there came a series of tingles in Randy's body. "Ninety-nine point nine eight seven confirmation that you are Randy Karl Tucker. Request to actualize multiple instances of yourself is denied."

Oh well. Come to think of it, if there were a Randy II, he'd be competing with Randy for Babs. Theodore was already trouble enough. Still, it would have been nice. Randy had grown up an only child; he'd always wished he had a sibling who understood him.

Just about then another thing about the alla's behavior struck Randy. If he really had been dead and some other guy had picked up the alla, then maybe the alla would have actualized a fresh Randy, but more likely the new guy would have chosen to register the alla to himself.

Randy looked around, suddenly anxious that someone might be watching him. But he was alone at the edge of the bluff. There were a couple of liveboard surfers out in the ocean, but they were quite far away. Nobody was watching him. But what if someone saw him use his alla and became maddened with the lust to own it --what if someone saw this wonderful tool and killed him to take it away? The alla would offer the murderer a choice like, "Do you want to bring back the sap you just killed, or do you want to enjoy the endless power of this magic wand?" And of course the killer would choose the second option. The alla would go ahead and register a new "user for life," probably forgetting the old Randy Tucker body and mind pattern entirely.

This meant that once the news of allas and their transfer-ability got out, owning an alla would become seriously hazardous to your health. To his health, and that of Yoke and Babs. There was a slight chance the "new you" option might still save your ass --but someone would have to like you enough to ask for it and, truth be told, it was hard to believe it would really work. While he was thinking all this, Randy sent out a control mesh to alla-make a plug of sandy yellow rock to fill in the smooth square hole he'd punched out of the cliff. It was starting to get dark. He got back onto his original motorcycle and rode across the field toward the narrow track of Route 1, his electric motor loudly purring.

When he'd started out this morning he had a vague idea of visiting Aarbie Kidd down in Santa Cruz to look up some fresh hell to raise. But that would have been the vicious, self-destructive old Randy, the same guy who'd been using leech-DIMs to kidnap moldies. And from now on, that Randy was history. He was going to make amends and do right by moldies and people alike. There was no reason to see Aarbie at all. Hell, if Aarbie saw his alla, he might kill him for it--and be able to start using it as his own. No point in him getting killed just when it was time to start a new life! The only place the new Randy wanted to go was back to San Francisco.

Randy tooled along northward, with the winter sun setting off on his left. The thing to do was to go right back to the warehouse and make a serious play for Babs. Tell her that she was the nicest woman he'd ever met. Tell her he was sick of being a heartless crouched-over piece of wood. What would Babs say? It did seem like the girl was kind of sweet on him, at least it had at first. He just had to undo the damage of his camote trip and the realware snail. And, hey, yesterday had been pretty mellow, what with him, Babs, and Yoke making those plastic jellyfish. Maybe if he flat out spilled his heart, Babs would kick out Theodore and let him into her canopy bed.

Which led to a new problem. If it got down to the dirty, would he be able to have sex with a normal girl his age? Fella wouldn't want to come up limp for a dynamo like Babs. That would be a real strike three for Bozo the country clown. Now, if Babs could see her way clear to her and him layin' on a moldie rubber sheet, there'd be much less chance of a problem. And, you know, Babs had said something about not minding the smell of moldies. Her mother Wendy was supposed to be part moldie in some way.

Randy got kind of excited thinking about him and Babs on a Sammie-Jo. Yaaar. Just put some moldie-flesh in the picture and there'd be no doubt about what would occur. Not that he wanted to fall back into his old ways. He was motoring in through the city now and it was dark. He had an intense desire to get laid. As he rolled into Babs's neighborhood, he saw the lights of the Anubis by the side of the road. The great beached ship was alive with glowing moldies and capering revelers. Maybe he should pull on in there and rent some time with a moldie? He'd had quite a session with Isis the other day--but, no, that wasn't the way he wanted to act anymore. With Babs he had, for the very first time, a real chance at a real woman. "Don't lose it, Randy Karl," he said aloud, motoring past the Anubis and toward Babs's warehouse.

Just as he pulled into her street, he saw a fu

"Babs!" said Randy, reaching out to her with an urgent uvvy call. Not wanting to lose sight of her, he swung his bike through a tight U-turn and began following her.

"Hey, Randy," came Babs's cozy voice on the uvvy. "Where've you been all day?" She turned a corner and drove in toward the city down Third Street. She didn't realize yet that he was right behind her.