Ribofunk (24 page)

Both were naked save for clinging pubic clamshells, their bodies laced with streetlife scars.

“Nice supper, huh, Art?” said the wasp one. “Nice supper!”

The scorpion studied Coney with less avidity than his partner. “Not so fast, Ick. This is a neo fresh from outside. There could be some other use for him. We could trade him or something.”

“But I’m hungry, Art!”

“Listen, let’s get the roast home and decide then.”

“Okay, Art. You’re the boss.”

The scorpion hoisted Coney over his shoulder and they set off down the crumbling remnants of a paved path.

Coney knew he was doomed. Lacking the spirit even to curse the cupidity of Peej Hopcroft for sending him here to die so ignominiously, he began to drift off into a protective mental predeath fugue.

The smell of a large body of water came vaguely to Coney’s sensitive nostrils.

“Quiet now,” urged the scorpion in an undertone. “We don’t want to wake Namor.”

“Yeah, that fucking Namor —”

Water sprayed the trio. The next second, a newcomer stood beside them: scaled skin over slabbed muscles, winged heels, pinniped ears.

“That’s ‘Prince fucking Namor’ to you,” said the Submariner insouciantly.

Tossed to the ground, Coney landed with a thud on his back.

Dropping into a crouch, the scorpion lashed his tail menacingly. “Get him, Ick!” he called, but the diminutive waspman was already airborne.

Prince Namor seemed untroubled by the aggressive dual attack. Weaving, darting, avoiding the poison barb, he quickly latched on to the scorpion’s wrist. There was a crackle of onboard capacitors discharging and the smell of burning flesh; the big man collapsed. Without even looking backward, the Submariner flung an arm up and grabbed the wasp’s ankle as he made ready to plunge his stinger. Scorched meat, and the wasp fell.

The merman now came to Coney. Bending over the splice, he laid his hands on either side of his head.

Expecting death, Coney felt only a gentle thrill along his nerve endings.

“You’re carrying something you think is important,” said the Submariner after half a minute. “The Pangolin should know about this. Let’s go.”

Hoisting Coney up under one arm, Prince Namor raced deeper into the Soft Sector with a fleetness only winged heels could bring.

Within minutes, the Submariner and his burden stood in a coldtorch-lit clearing before a throne crudely assembled from junked cars. Surrounding the throne was a host of malformed creatures, beaker-born and bioreactor-spawned.

Atop the sham throne was the Pangolin.

A huge polymod with cascades of living armor plates down his back and limbs and a chromed skull, the Pangolin brandished three thick claws—one opposable—on each hand in place of fingers.

“What do you have there, Namor?” resonantly boomed out the imperious ruler of the Soft Sector.

“An outsider, a messenger bearing something of value.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. He’s paralyzed, and my SQUIDS only picked up the general drift of his thoughts.”

“Well, let’s wake him.”

Out from the crowd stepped a Medusa. Namor transferred Coney to her. Licking some of the splice’s sweat with a burred tongue, she pronounced, “Scorpion toxin. I’ve got just the trick.”

Hissing, one of her headsnakes quickly fastened its fangs into Coney’s rump.

As fast as he had frozen, he melted back into freedom.

Set on his trembling legs, Coney tried to chant his mantra, but not a word of it remained.

“Can you speak now, splice?” roared the Pangolin.

Coney wanted to faint, but couldn’t. “Y-y-yes.”

“What are you carrying?”

“It’s a new trope, Peej Pangolin. It’s called O-max-O. It’s to be used during virtual sex. It’s not for sale yet. I don’t know more than that. I swear on my manufacturer’s warranty!”

“Hand it over!”

“But, Peej Pangolin, my errand—”

The Pangolin ripped a polycarbon strut off a chassis and began to climb down from his throne.

Coney hastily dug the crawlypatch out. Prince Namor took it and passed it to the Pangolin.

“We’ll match and batch this by dawn. By tomorrow night, it’ll be on sale throughout the whole civicorp. I owe you one, Namor.”

“That’s a lock. Well, I’ve got to wet my gills. Stay sharp!”

The Submariner placed the tips of his ten Fingers approximately two centimeters apart: a burst of sparks arced and crackled in the air between them. Grunts and exclamations issued from the more impressionable members of the audience.

After the merman had gone, the Pangolin turned to Coney.

“Now, little splice, I wish you no harm. Shall I relieve you of your collar, so that you may join my court and live free?”

Coney considered the proposal. Never to be forced to run another errand for Peej Hopcroft, nevermore to truckle or scrape—

On the fringes of the crowd, a leering frogface caught Coney’s eye. A mouth wide as a manhole opened in a hideous toothless smile. Coney shuddered.

“No, thank you, please, Peej Pangolin. I only want to go home!”

“Very well. I understand that our style of freedom is not for all. You will be escorted to the border—”

“But without the trope I was supposed to deliver, I’ll be whipped!”

The Pangolin smiled. “I’ll provide a substitute. Medusa! Fab me a dose of N-fear in a crawlypatch.”

Within minutes, the court crick had the trope ready. The Pangolin motioned to Coney, who approached timorously.

“Several hours of demon-stuffed hell. Your master will never know what hit him.”

Reluctantly, Coney took the substitute. “But it’s not for—”

“Enough! Begone!”

Two lynxmen hustled Coney away.

Shortly, they stood on the edge of the Soft Sector. Coney could smell the Macrophages nearing, hear their slurping advance.

“Please, please, friend cats, don’t let these monsters strip my bones!”

The lynxmen laughed. “The shuggoths? We’ve got them trained not to hurt anyone we don’t want hurt. Watch!”

Letting loose a piercing whistle, the lynxmen called out, “la, ia, tekeli-li!”

The guardians ground to a sudden quivering halt.

One lynxman slapped Coney’s back. “Run now, before we think twice!”

Coney ran.

Once he was far, far from the Soft Sector, he stopped to consider what to do. A clock told him the hour granted for his errand was twice gone. But he could think of nothing to do except try to complete it.

Without any further trouble, he found Peej Foxx’s apartment. Building security allowed him in upon seeing her card. Her smart door likewise opened for him.

Inside stood Peej Foxx, coyly grooming her bushy tail.

And beside her was Peej Hopcroft!

Coney’s master looked at his servant with ultimate disdain. “So, you finally made it, you filthy worm, after forcing me to come out on my own, into filthy unmodulated atmospherics! If I didn’t value Peej Foxx’s favors so highly, I don’t think I could have nerved myself up to such a trying excursion! I was a fool ever to entrust such a vital errand to a furball such as you. Why, just look at you! You’re a disgrace to my household!”

Coney turned toward a mirror.

He was covered with gravedirt. There was a bare raw ulceration on his arm where the shuggoth had brushed him. Dried blood crusted his midriff from the beetle’s embrace. His back ached from being tossed to the ground by the scorpion. His swollen ass stung from the snakebite.

“Yes, Peej Hopcroft is right. I am a mess. But it was only—”

“Silence! Where is the trope I gave you?”

Coney dug out the crawlypatch. “Here it is. But I do not think—”

“You are not meant to think! Just give it to me!”

Coney handed the dose of N-fear over.

“Luckily, I had a second patch which I brought with me. The lovely Peej Foxx has already applied it to her charming skin. I, therefore, will use this one.”

Coney’s master pressed out the activation pattern on the patch and applied it to his arm. It crawled until it found a vein, then settled down.

“Ninety-second delay, my dear. Just long enough for us to slide into our Sacks, whereupon we shall meet in virtual heaven.”

Two wrinkled circuit-skinned and SQUID-studded bags lay on the soft floor, one end of each agape. Coney’s master and Peej Foxx each wormed into his and her own semi-organic Sack, which sealed up behind them and tautened into shape, flowing into orifices, and molding around organs.

Coney watched his master’s Sack.

When the violent, highly nonerotic twitchings began, he headed home.

The long way round.

AFTERSCHOOL SPECIAL

My poohs are so
slouch
!”

The phemes just spilled out like someone had tripped my gates. At first, I was shocked. But then I felt good.

Before today, I would’ve rather gone wiggly with a var than admit the truth in front of anyone except Jinx. But somehow—right here and now—everything looked different. I was sick and tired of sticking up for my simplex parental units, especially when they wouldn’t let me have what I wanted.

The class was taking a break from invirting with CADaver, the human-anatomy virtuality used mainly to train feldshers. We were all lounging around in the spleen, wearing our secondary identities. The school had a contract with MicroDisney, so we were forced to wear their patented images. Eveiyone hated it, but the trope dosers claimed it was for our own good. The theory was that no mega-eft spoilboy or churlgirl would be able to run better grafix than someone else, so we could concentrate on studying instead of showing off. Also, some of the ids
²
that kids liked to use outside of school were so ciccone or freddie that you’d spend all your classtime creamin’ or screamin’.

So I was in my usual Daisy Duck, and Jinx was wearing Goofy, and the rest of the class was all cutesy bluebirds and dwarves, mice and fish, Pinocchios and ballerina hippos, all clogging the virtual lymphoid tissue of this “important component of the reticuloendothelial system” (or so lectured the tutor-turtle, whom everyone was ignoring).

Every once in a while, someone would reach out and snag a passing red bloodcell and pop it under his or her nose. We had found out the rusty smell could really bend your ladders like the best samogon or kompot.

We had been dissing our respective poohs, as kids will, when I had found myself spitting out my comment. I guess I didn’t fully realize till then just how much my poohs had been quenching me.

Right on cue my best proxy, Jinx, spoke up.

Now, I mentioned that Jinx was wearing Goofy, but I should add that, having found out how to tweak the petafits that constituted his suit, he had retrofitted onto it an enormous set of black-skinned balls and dong. It was kinda sad, seeing as how they were the only ones he would ever have until he became an adult, but I supposed virtual sex organs were better than none.

So Jinx said, “Just how slouch are they, Arnie?”

“They’re so slouch,” I shot back, “that they make the Bogd Gegeen look like Siouxie Sexcrime!”

Everyone got a laugh out of that, imagining the eternal godboy of Greater Free Mongolia tricked out like our favorite teledildonics star.

When the hoots and hollers died down, Honeysuckle spoke up.

I’ve always hated Honeysuckle. Her poohs let her have these really glamslam Xoma tits two years ago, whereas my chest has yet to even bud naturally, which is the only way with poohs like mine that I’ll ever get any boobs, short of turning twelve and becoming franchised. More than anything else, this was why I guess I had exploded and called my dumb old poohs slouch.

In keeping with her primary id, Honeysuckle always wore the Little Mermaid. Only she too had twiddled with her image, so that the doe-eyed cartoon transfection sported impossible macro-tits on which the seashell cups had dwindled to nipple-caps.

Now, I watched all the why chromes—including my very own Jinx—hang on her every word.

“That’s because your poohs are Tee-Ems!” jeered Honeysuckle.

I winced at the dig. It was not something I could deny. Everyone knew my dads belonged to the Transcentennial Moderationists. They even had their own hour on the metamedium:
Keep It Simple, Stupid, with Alvin and Calvin Arneson
.

In the face of all the laughter Honeysuckle’s comment caused, I found myself having to stick up for my dads, and it was awfully difficult, since I didn’t really want to and felt like a total hypocrite.

“My poohs may be retro-jethro KISS-asses,” I said, “but at least they’re not black science boiyokudans like yours!”

Everyone got silent as cell-death. My reference to the illegal underworld origin of the wealth of Honeysuckle’s surface-respectable poohs was ultra loosh and faroosh. But I couldn’t just sit there batting off phagocytes and let her run my dads down. I mean, it was all right for me to do it, but not her!