The Ware Tetralogy by Rudy Rucker (most important books of all time .txt) 📖

smashed and falling apart, oh no this was the end—but, wait, what about her alla? Randy had said her alla could remember her, which meant—what? Yoke couldn’t seem to think logically, there was dark slush all around her and something was coming for her, something making a sound that wasn’t a sound.

Krunk krunk krunk.

It was prying at her—_ow_—scraping at her like she was a stain on a piece of cloth—_krunk krink krunky—_oh this felt bad. And then she was drifting out into some other level, she was out of normal space entirely and—yes!—she could see something bright.

It was a light, a White Light. Yoke was flying gladly toward it. God. There were others flying with her. Yoke flashed a vision of someone driving a car in a snowstorm with the snow-flakes flying into the headlights, not that Yoke had ever seen snow in real life, but now she did see it, she was the driver, tasting coffee in her mouth, and then she was one of the snowflakes, rushing through the cold black toward the car, yet never reaching it, as if the path to the Light were being stretched.

Yoke was a flat little thing endlessly tumbling after the Light. It felt good to do this, she was happy, getting good vibes off that Light but—_zow!—_now something shot past in front of her, a thing like a Bardo demon, gulping down a bunch of the snow-flakes, danger, danger—_zow!—_another one going by with something like a beak, but, oh well, nothing to be done, once you’re dead the worst has already happened, right, and once you’re born you’re in for it too—_zow_!—“Hi, there!”

Yoke kept flying on toward the Light and kind of laughing at the Bardo demons, they made it interesting was all, the demons were woof shuttles for this tapestry, with Yoke and the other souls the world-line warp threads on the White Light loom, it was good and—_zow!!_—why worry, the Light would take care of all things.

And then all of a sudden it was like in a flying dream when your dream self remembers you can’t really fly—and you fall, pulled down from the heavens by reality’s anchor-rope—

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh!”

“It’s okay, Yoke!”

“She’s back!”

“Oh, Yoke! Dear little Yoke!”

“It’s me, darling!”

“Hold her, she’s going to fall!”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaauuugh! Huh?”

Yoke could see! She was back in good old three-dimensional space, her mother and her friends all around her, yes, Ma and Phil, Randy and Babs, Cobb squeezing in too, even Planet and stupid Willa Jean, all of them touching her, oh dear life. Yoke slumped to the floor sobbing. There was something hard and rubbery in the back of her throat; she coughed it out; it was the nose blocker.

Half an hour later she felt like her old self again, sitting on Babs’s ant-patterned silk couch talking with the others. Phil and Darla sat on either side of her, and Babs and Randy were on another couch. Cobb was flopped down on the floor, his head sticking out of a formless puddle. A huge green brocade fabricant tapestry covered the nearest wall.

“What happened to your foot, Ma?” asked Yoke. “Your little toe is gone.”

“It happened when Om’s powerball swallowed me on Christmas Eve,” said Darla. “I tried kicking my way out.”

“Poor Ma. You were in there for a long time. Thank God you’re back.”

“I don’t matter that much, Yoke. I’m old. Thank God _you’re _back.”

Yoke kept testing her thoughts and looking down at her body, her precious flesh, touching herself, her leg, her stomach, her face, yes, all of her was back, even the same clothes that she’d been wearing—her new stretch leather pants and plush green shirt—and even the gem necklace Phil had given her, as well as his father’s gold ring, loose on her finger. She was going to have to think about that one.

“Did you see the SUN?” asked Cobb.

“The White Light,” said Yoke. “I saw it.” If she looked within herself, she could still see feel the Light. A savor of serenity, a sense that everything was okay.

“I saw it too,” said Phil. “When I was peeking out of Om. Da flew into it.”

“It had good vibes,” added Darla. She was wearing a shapeless dress with purple patterns on it. Not like something she’d normally wear.

“The best vibes ever,” said Yoke. “It’s wonderful to know that God is real. And then you guys brought me back?”

“Slick as snot on a doorknob,” said Randy. “All I did was hold your alla, and it goes, ‘Shall I actualize a new Yoke Starr-Mydol or shall I execute a fresh registration?’ And I go, ‘Yaaar, make me one o’ them Yokes.’ And then here you come, screamin’ your head off.”

“It was quite a shock,” said Yoke. “I was already in heaven, I guess.” The impossibly bright memories were fading. “And now I’m back to—this.” Though life was wonderful, it was hard. There were so many things to see and feel and think about. Phil kept putting his hands on her, for one thing, and it was a little bit annoying. Was he serious about that marriage thing?

Babs leaned forward, staring at Phil. “What was that you said before about knowing how to make more allas? Is it really true?”

“It’s about time I got an alla!” interjected Cobb. “Fuck this ‘humans only’ bullshit. Anyway, I _am _human. I’m the same damned information I always was.”

“I’m starting to see your point,” said Yoke. “Now that I’m made of realware. Stop touching me every second, Phil.”

“I want an alla too,” said Darla on Yoke’s other side. “Just think what I could do to our cubby, Yoke. We could have a swimming pool. Can you really make me one, Phil?”

“Yes, I think I know how to get us as many allas as we want,” said Phil. “As long as one of you guys with allas will help.”

“Tell me what to do!” said Babs. “It’s important that we start handing out allas before people start wanting to take ours away from us.”

“Om told me you can split up an alla,” said Phil. “You have to understand that an alla is part of a vortex thread. Like the central line down the throat of a whirlpool? Both ends of the alla’s thread are connected to Om. The thread is a loop, and the alla is where the loop dips into our space. Just barely skims in. Now, it’s hard to create a brand-new vortex thread, but it’s easy to split one lengthwise. That’s how you make more allas.”

“I can split this in two?” said Babs, holding her silvery alla in her palm. “How?”

“You only have to ask,” said Phil. “You can’t ask an alla to make an alla, but you can ask it to split. A subtle distinction.” He sounded oddly professorial.

“I ask it, and it splits in two, and both allas will work?”

“That’s what Om told me. The alla-thread divides itself up like strands of yarn coming untwined—and then the split moves ana along the loop back to Om. You end up with two loops of vortex thread and two allas. Or three, or four, or anything up to seven. The most you can split an alla into at once is seven. Om and the Metamartians are big on sevens. One of the allas will still be yours, the same as before, and the others will be blank slates, ready for someone’s registration.”

“So you understand all about Om now?” asked Randy.

“I’ve been inside Om for the last four days,” said Phil. “Om’s the god of the Metamartians. She’s a huge, higher-dimensional intelligence.”

“Is she like that light Yoke saw?” asked Randy.

“No,” said Phil. “Much more concrete. Om reminds me of a giant, pink woman. A woman the size of the solar system. You’d probably try to hump her leg, Randy. Except that she’s four-dimensional or, come to think of it, maybe five. That would explain how she could have disjoint hyperspherical fingertips.”

“You a math-freak all of a sudden?” snapped Randy, hurt by Phil’s dig. “I thought that was just your dad.”

“Phil made peace with his father,” said Darla. “It was beautiful. I helped them, Yoke.”

Yoke glanced sideways at Darla. There was something in her mother’s face that made Yoke suspicious. “You met Phil’s father, Ma? Was he nice?”

“They got along very well,” said Phil quickly. “Try and split your alla now, Babs. I want one too.”

“Okay,” said Babs. “I’ll make one and you three decide who gets it.” She clenched her alla in her hand and focused inward on her uvvy. “Split in two,” she said.

Though Yoke was staring at Babs’s hand, the transformation was hard to follow. There was a moment of fuzziness, a kind of double vision around Babs’s alla, and then there was a second silver tube that passed through Babs’s fingers and clattered to the floor.

Phil shot out of the couch and managed to pick it up before Cobb or Darla could, and now he was into his alla registration process. “A face,” said Phil, naming the first three images the alla showed him. “A path. Yoke’s skin.” And then the images were coming too fast for him to talk.

Once again it sounded to Yoke like the alla’s series of images were the same ones she’d seen: a disk of colors, a crooked line, and a patch of texture. It was sweet that Phil automatically thought of her skin.

“Show me your alla, Phil,” said Babs when Phil’s registration was complete. “My alla’s paler than it was before, don’t you think, guys? And Phil’s is the same pale color as mine. Almost platinum. Let’s see if mine still works. Here we go.” Babs popped a little imipolex DIM dinosaur onto the floor. It capered around in circles like a windup toy, now and then pausing to let out a tiny roar. _”Skronk!” _said Babs, encouraging it. _”Gah-rooont!” _She made three more dinos, each one a different shape. They started fighting with each other. “Collect the whole set!” crowed Babs. “You want my catalog, Phil? It’s the one the Metamartians made, but with additions by Randy, Yoke, and me. We’ve been pooling our designs. Randy’s good with DIMs.”

“What about an alla for _me?” _said Darla. “Split yours, Yoke.”

“I want one for me too,” clamored Cobb. Yoke eyed him critically. He didn’t seem lifted anymore.

So she uvvied into her alla and said, “Split in three.” Simple. There was a momentary vibration in her hand, then a kind of breeze passing through her fingers, and then two pale gold-colored tubes dropped to the floor, ringing like chimes. One rolled over to Cobb. Darla leaned forward and picked up the other one, which was next to her injured foot. Yoke’s alla was the same pale gold color as the two new allas.

“Earth,” said Darla, doing her registration. “A vein. Cereal.”

“The SUN,” said Cobb. “A wrinkle. Television.”

“Zap me that catalog?” Darla asked Yoke. “I want to get some bitchin’ threads like you.”

“Here you go, Ma,” said Yoke. “Now think about clothes, and the catalog will show them to you. You can customize things too. Where did you get that purple muumuu, anyway? You look guh-roovy.”

“Too true,” said Darla. “Phil made it for me, poor thing. When he showed up in the powerball I was—um, so yeah, I think I’ll make some black leather moon-boots and sparkly gold leggings, and a kicky black skirt and—”

“He saw you naked, Ma? Were you drunk?”

“I was cooped up in there for eight fucking weeks,