Transreal Cyberpunk (32 page)

After the last week of the collaboration I went to the hospital with a cerebral hemorrhage—what used to be called a fit of apoplexy. I nearly died, but then I rebounded and went back to being my old self, essentially unscathed.

Later I told Bruce that the attack was his fault. It told him he’d pushed me over the edge. I didn’t literally think this was true, but it seemed like a good thing to tell him. I was, like, testing to see if I could evoke any hint of human empathy from the man.

Bruce imperturbably replied that I wouldn’t have any further problems if I would just accept that he’s always right.

Bruce on “Colliding Branes”

Since every Rucker-Sterling story has dual characters—sometimes men, sometimes women—it seemed inevitable that the dual leads would eventually have a romantic interest. “Colliding Branes” is a love story, although it’s entirely about death. Mere everyday death couldn’t possibly be enough for a Rucker-Sterling composition, so it’s visionary, grandiose, universal death, death that outdoes the Lovecraftian scale of cosmic horror.

Writers are mortal. But bloggers, who are pitifully dependent on their Rube Goldberg tangle of obsolescent software and hardware, are even more mortal than other writers. So if “love against death” is a grand, time-honored literary theme, then “blogging against cosmic annihilation” must surely be even more touching and pitiful.

There are scenes in “Colliding Branes” that are a down-market sci-fi version of the Dantean vision of Paolo and Francesca, as those doomed, posthumous lovers waft through the fierce winds of Hell. These two star-crossed lovers get much more humane sympathy than most protagonists of Rucker-Sterling stories; they’re comic figures, but they’re more emotionally open, better-rounded people, and they fully share the story’s dualized point-of-view, which switches from boyfriend to girlfriend at the drop of a proton.

Death tends to be a major advance in a writer’s career. I’ve learned a lot of useful things from long-dead writers. I don’t care much for the work of Dante, but Boccaccio’s
Decameron
opens with the horrific, totalizing slaughter of the Black Death, and then proceeds to shuck, jive and wisecrack through dozens of weird anecdotes and comic set-ups. Boccaccio left us a great legacy; he swept up a bunch of raunchy Renaissance bar-stories, and then even Shakespeare ripped him off.

They say that Geoffrey Chaucer may have met Petrarch. I quite like the idea of these two old-school maestros getting together, swapping a few opinions over the mead, then writing an inventive travel-tale together. Maybe they did that, and maybe they decided that, although collaboration is a pretty intense experience, it would be more discreet not to publish it.

Good Night, Moon

“They say the Moon’s gone missing,” said Carlo Morse. He set another fabule on the checkered tablecloth at Schwarz’s Deli.

Jimmy Ganzer examined the growing collection of dream nuggets. The fabules were tightly patterned little pastel spheres, pockmarked and seamed, scattered across the tabletop like wads of gum. “Nobody goes for space travel dreams anymore,” said Ganzer. “I don’t want to work on that.”

“I don’t mean the Moon’s supposed to be in our new fabule for
Skaken Recurrent Nightmare
,” said Morse. “I’m telling you that the Moon has really gone missing. Reports from Shanghai say the Moon faded from the sky a few hours ago. Like a burnt-out firework. Everyone’s waiting to see what happens when night hits Europe and the US.”

Ganzer grunted.

Morse adjusted his augmented-reality necktie, whose dots were in a steady state of undulation. “That’s gotta mean something, don’t ya think?”

“It’s not even sunset yet in LA,” said Ganzer carelessly. “So what if there’s no Moon?”

Schwarz’s Deli had fed generations of Hollywood creative talent. The gold-framed celebrity photos on the walls were clustered thick as goldfish scales. The joint’s historic clientele included vaudeville hams, silent film divas, radio crooners, movie studio titans, TV soap-stars, computer-game moguls, and social networkers. The augmented-reality mavens were memorialized by holographic busts on the ceiling. Business was in the air, but it was bypassing Morse and Ganzer. Especially Ganzer.

“We’ve got our own problems,” admitted Morse.

With a practiced gesture, Ganzer formed a vortex in the deli’s all-pervasive bosonic fluxon entertainment field. Then he plucked a lint-covered fabule from the pocket of his baggy sports pants. “Check out my brand-new giant paramecium here.”

Ganzer’s creation oozed from the everting seahorse-valleys that gnarled the fabule’s surface.

Morse rotated the floating dream with his manicured fingertips, admiring it. “I can see every wiggly cilia! This dream is, like, realer than you, man.”

Ganzer nodded, in a superior, craftsmanlike fashion. “Yeah, the blank for this fabule uses high-end Chinese nanogoo. It’s got more sensory affect than the human brain can parse.”

Morse smiled at his collaborator. “Jimmy, you’ve brought in the awesome, once again. I knew that you could pull it off. I can’t wait till Presburg shows up to sample this.”

Ganzer’s plain face wrinkled with a sheepish grin of triumph. With a sweep of both his arms, he corralled the dozen other fabules on the tabletop. “Lemme admit something to you,” he said, stuffing the wrinkly spheres into a logo-bearing plastic storage tube. “I haven’t viewed all these episodes of
Skaken Recurrent Nightmare
. I did pick up on the basic gimmick, though. Bugs.”

“Yeah,
Skaken Recurrent Nightmare
conveys a different stark raving insect terror every night. The haunting dream you can’t escape.”

“A little corny, though, huh?” said Ganzer.

“I scraped my skull down the rind for those insects,” said Morse, looking haggard and worn. “They’re festering in my unconscious right now. I can see bugs in the daylight sometimes. They’re in my food. They’re in my shower.”

“Your praying-mantis riff in the first episode was pretty classy,” said Ganzer, using his finger to scrape the last glob of cream-cheese off his plate. “Having the woman you love devouring your face, bite by bite, while you’re mating? A primal riff like that one hits home. Kind of a turn-on, too.”

“Can I level with you?” said Morse. “We haven’t had another megahit since that first episode of
Skaken
. Every night, half the human race falls asleep and boots up a total mental inferno. If this new episode doesn’t strike big and—”

“You were right to call on me,” Ganzer assured him.

“Jimmy, are you sure you’re up for this job? I mean—
Skaken
isn’t like our old indie scene. I’m working with sponsors. We’re government licensed. We’ve got global distribution.”

“Speaking of global—should I try that Chinese oneirine?” said Ganzer. “You gotta respect the rate at which those Chinese fabbers churn out the dream product.”

“I use that stuff when I’m working,” said Morse with a shrug. “On oneirine, I can start work the instant I close my eyes. I lucid-dream while I sleepwalk around my home office. But you do that anyway, Jimmy. You don’t need oneirine. You can hardly tell dreaming from waking.”

“People make too much of that distinction,” shrugged Ganzer. “Reality is socially constructed.”

“The Moon isn’t socially constructed,” said Morse.

“Then why’s it gone?”

“The Moon’s still up there, Jimmy. The Moon has gotta exist in one form or another. The Moon is a huge physical object. The Moon is like half the size of a planet, even. The Moon has gravity and tides.”

Ganzer smiled indulgently and leaned back in his seat. “I bet you think the dark side of the Moon really existed before we took pictures of the dark side of the Moon.”

“Don’t start on me with the dreamer head games, Jimmy. Presburg is gonna be here any minute. Bitch about the biz, talk about the pastrami, act normal, listen to his rap. Bobby Presburg is easy if you let him talk.”

Under this scolding, Ganzer shifted restlessly in his seat. “The pro dream biz is all about relentless mental focus,” he declared. He wiped his greasy hands on his stained football jersey. “You know what our real problem is? Presburg doesn’t respect our craft! Presburg thinks that us fabbers just idly slumber around, waiting for inspiration! He doesn’t get it about us creatives! We plunge to the red-hot core of the psyche and we seize the deeper reality! That’s how I deliver unique material like my giant, flying paramecium.”

“You’re a good guy,” said Morse, with a short laugh.

“These days, any punk eight-year-old kid can dream up zombies and vampires! No wonder a pimp like Presburg likes to peddle insect paranoia.”

“Look, Presburg is smarter than you know. The insect theme has been good for
Skaken Recurrent Nightmare
. We’re getting ads from insecticide manufacturers and exterminator services.”

Ganzer pounded at the checkered café table with his pudgy fist. “Carlo, the truth is that guys like Presburg have polluted dreamland—made it dull! You know why I’m dreaming about single-celled monsters now? Because Presburg hasn’t been there. Germs are special. They’re real, but you can’t see them.”

“You’ve always been the go-to guy for lurking invisible menaces,” Morse admitted.

“Deconstructing reality’s physical subtext is the core of my art! Seeing the unseen, naming the unnamable, and dreaming the undreamable—that’s what Mr. Jimmy Ganzer is all about!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Morse, fondling Ganzer’s new fabule. The dream-recording had a knobby surface, with clefts between the knobs, and the knobs themselves were tight clusters of smaller knobs. “I’ve been around the dance floor with you a few times. You’re the ultimate old-school indy dreamer, Jimmy. You’re the session man. You’re the fixer.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” Ganzer admitted, mopping his plate with a last scrap of whole wheat bagel. “I’m a cynical outsider artist, curiously endowed with an ability to slip reality’s surly bonds.”

Morse looked up as the deli’s door jangled aloud. The sun was low in the sky outside, gilding the dusty streets. A strikingly handsome pair of youngsters had slipped into the cafe, bribing their way past the gateman—a mocking, weatherbeaten, Ukrainian named Yokl.

“Look at those wannabes,” said Morse. “The kid with the pink tentacles growing out of his neck? And his girl’s got a third eye in the middle of her forehead. They’re here to flash their demos and beg for a deal.”

Ganzer tugged at the elastic waist of his velour track pants. Ganzer always wore sports gear, despite the fact that he never exercised, and spent his creative working life soundly asleep. “She’s hot. Costume-play sure has changed, hasn’t it? We’ve gone from dorky hats to riding the bosonic flux.”

The aspiring fabbers slipped into a nearby empty booth. The boy shoved the dirty plates and cups aside with a busy flurry of his pink tentacles.

“Whoa,” Morse remarked.

“That’s a pretty good augment,” said Ganzer. “For a punk wannabe. Moving real objects with his dreams.”

“A ribbonware plug-in for the bosonic flux medium,” said Morse. “From China.”

Ganzer glanced over his shoulder. “Nice projected glow from the girlfriend’s third eye. It’s sweet to see two noobs yearning to get discovered around Schwartz’s.”

“Presburg would eat those kids like pink-elephant cotton candy,” said Morse.

“That reminds me,” said Ganzer. “If your bossman’s picking up our supper tab, we should order something pricey.”

“We just had supper, man. You went through that lox and bagel like a horde of locusts.”

“On come on, that bagel wasn’t supper! That was just a nutritional restorative to sharpen my oneiric brain chemistry.”

Morse lifted his elegant hand and signaled for Maya, their favorite Schwarz’s waitress. The deli was slowly filling up with the early evening crowd.

“They put dreams on cereal boxes now,” Morse muttered, straightening his tailored sleeves. “Dreams are on bubble-gum cards. Remember when our users had to load dreams off a server the size of a beer keg? And the low fidelity—hell, I look back at my old works now, way back in the 2040s, and they’re like crazy-bum finger paintings made with coffee and ketchup.”

“I don’t like to hear you dismiss your best work,” said Ganzer. “Those low-fi dreams that you used to bash out—they had a bright, childlike gusto! I mean, sure, they bombed in the marketplace. But in those days, there was nothing like a dream marketplace.”

“It’s all the work of Hollywood hustlers,” Morse griped. “The lamestream media for the mundane sheeple... Sure, we always knew we were selling our souls, but how come we couldn’t get better residuals?”

“Because we were artists once,” Ganzer pointed out. “But we’ve matured into hard-ass bosonic pros. We’re like full-tackle rugby players by now, Carlo. We gotta scrum. Scrum, scrum, scrum. That’s such a great mantra,
scrum
, my unconscious creative mind finds that word really evocative. Oh, hi, Maya. What’ve you got for us in the way of appetizers? I’m starving.”

Maya the waitress struck a pose at the table and twitched her fingers. Gleaming images of diner chow sprang into life, bright as neon in midair. “We gotcha some nice kosher spring rolls, Mr. Ganzer. Filled with tilapia liver.”