Ribofunk (31 page)

Moving swiftly, Greenlaw soon left the orchard far behind.

A busy road presented itself. Traffic crawled, hopped and skittered, bound in one direction toward Greenlaw’s residence in a luxurious neighborhood of tree-towers and zomehomes on the outskirts of the plex.

False, all a sham
, Greenlaw kept reminding himself. He felt the neo-emotion known as
sehnsucht
, a wave of longing for the unattainable, mixed with nostalgia and grief. Harshly, he damped the neomote signal down.

Stepping into traffic, Greenlaw halted a two-rider tumblebug.

The driver was a slim fellow wearing the tattoon of the telecosm maintenance crada.

“What’s your trouble, Peej? And why the envirosuit?”

Greenlaw played the Urb’s game. “I can’t explain now. May I have a ride?”

The cryptohuman formed of Urb-stuff hesitated realistically before agreeing. “Certainly. Hop aboard.”

Greenlaw climbed on the tumblebug, and, after allowing a cargo-crawler to pass on the left, its driver took off.

Greenlaw remained silent for the trip—which took less time than running would have and conserved his resources as well—and the driver seemed reluctant to initiate conversation.

Was the Urb toying with him? All it would take to defeat Greenlaw would be to immobilize him in any of a hundred different ways until he either suffocated or opened up. Was the Urb (whose motives no one had ever fathomed) so intent on its simulation that it could not react to Greenlaw’s unique presence?

There was no certainty. None.

Greenlaw settled back into his seat.

Finally, they arrived at his destination, the periphery of his residential district.

Greenlaw turned to the driver. “If I were to ram my fist into your chest right now and squeeze your heart to Urb-pulp, you’d die horribly, I’m sure, and quite convincingly. But what would you really feel?”

The Urb did not relax his role. The cryptohuman assumed a look of terror. “Get—get out! I’m sending a nine-eleven instantly!”

Greenlaw dismounted and walked away.

Down noontime-empty streets, past Urb-children playing on Urb-grass, Urb-augie-doggies watching over them …

One final turn brought him face to face with his home.

From the inside, the falseskin absorbed his tears.

Greenlaw entered.

Stroma lay on an organiform couch, her pelt lustrous, nothing concealed. Her languid arms reached up for him, her nipples curled convulsively.

“I was just wishing you were here,” she said, her voice a knife through Greenlaw’s ears.

He knew then he had to put an end to this dangerous game.

Taking one of Stroma’s offered hands, Greenlaw snapped off her left index finger.

There was no shout of pain, no scream.

The Urb had chosen to shut down the pseudo-Stroma and manifest itself.

“Again, you’ve failed,” said the Urb through Stroma’s lips, her wounded hand “bleeding” profusely onto the couch.

Almost against his will, Greenlaw said, “How so, Urb? And what do you mean, ‘again’?”

“This is approximately the five-hundredth time we have run this sequence, and still you persist in hating me.”

Greenlaw laughed. “So, you do understand bluffing! A fine attempt, Urb. But now I’m leaving.”

Greenlaw turned to go.

“No. Stop.”

Greenlaw’s legs were no longer under his control. He found himself forced to turn, to face Stroma.

Her finger was restored. Greenlaw’s hand unclenched by itself, and the fragment he held dropped to the carpet, there to be absorbed.

His voice at least still seemed his own. “I—I don’t understand. How did you get past the falseskin? …”

Stroma syrinx-laughed in her familiar manner. “Silly! I am your suit.”

With her words, his silver falseskin melted off him and disappeared.

He stood unprotected against the Urb.

“And I’m you too,” added Stroma.

At that instant, he knew it was true.

Information had just flooded into him, explaining the ache of his vanished birthright at last.

Three centuries ago, the Urb had conquered all.

The mysteriously unfollowed winning strategy Greenlaw had outlined to Bambang had indeed been implemented. Lurking deep inside the globe, the Panplasmodemonium had built itself up until it had erupted unstoppably everywhere.

And now—

“And now,” said Stroma tenderly, “I try to understand everything I am. Gaia, whose still-living molten center I encyst, was incredibly information-deep and information-dense. To measure Her in your old-fashioned plectic units would require an exponent larger than the number of atoms in the universe. The only way for me to grasp Her has been to recapitulate Her whole history since Her formation, on an accelerated scale. The endgame, though, is particularly puzzling. This incident with your mate, for example—Very deep.”

Greenlaw sat down wearily on the couch. Stroma put her arms around him. He flinched, then forced himself to relax.

“What of your puppets, Urb, when you’ve parsed it all?”

“Not puppets. Beloved components, say rather. Were you never grateful and kind to your own cells? Eventually, I believe I’ll withdraw, grant you real free will—almost without limits. Allow you all to forget I even exist. Modify myself so that no trace of me can be detected even on the submolecular level. Be content to dwell beneath the surface of things. Your species, after all, will be a most useful vehicle for meeting others.”

“Others?”

Stroma laughed. “But of course. After all, this is not the only planet in the galaxy.”

Then Stroma turned toward him—

And the Urb gently and sincerely kissed itself.