He thought of a better thing to do, reckless enough to slake his death-wish without being sheer suicide. He found the alla-catalog image of his motorcycle, located an image of a full-size glider plane, and mentally attached the titanium-braced imipolex wings of the glider to the bike. He studied the image, adjusted the bends of the wing, and said “Actualize.” The alla projected a bright-line wire mesh near the edge of the bluff , then filled it in with Randy’s newly designed fly-bike.
The ocean wind beat at the twenty-foot wings, threatening to push the motorcycle-glider over on one side. Randy bulked up some dirt mound supports for the wings and added a rocket-pod to the rear of the bike. And then he took another look at the ocean. The restless waves were gray and cold, utterly heedless of human comfort. It would xoxx to fall in. Fuck death! He didn’t have to die; he could change! It wasn’t too late yet. There had to be a way. Randy decided to launch the fly-bike in an unmanned test-run. Whether or not it worked, it would be easy enough to alla up another, and while he was doing all this he could think about how to make himself more lovable.
So as to properly weight the trial vehicle, Randy alla-made a mannequin of—why not polished madrone wood? That was one of the nicest materials he had seen so far, a fine-grained reddish wood nearly as dense and heavy as flesh. The lustrous madrone figure looked very floatin’ sitting on the motorcycle-rocket-glider. Yaaar. Give it green glass eyes and a shit-eating grin. Randy fired up the rocket to launch the combine off the cliff. One of the wings twisted; the bike spun into the cliff and tumbled out of control. Meanwhile the rocket was blasting and—splash—the bike punched into the water at easily forty miles per. The crouched wooden rider floated facedown, the waves beating the figure against the rocks.
“That’s the old me,” laughed Randy, relieved not to be down there. “This boy’s startin’ up a new leaf.” He still had a chance with Babs. He’d stay away from camote, stop fucking moldies, and quit doing deals with sleazebags like Aarbie Kidd. Yaaar. Better straight than dead.
The wrecked motorcycle-glider looked bad down in the ocean, so Randy sent his alla control-mesh down there to surround it. It was stuzzy how you could just wish the mesh out to wherever you wanted it to be.
Once Randy had the mesh around the smashed motorcycle, he had to tweak the mesh, as the smashed-up machine wasn’t shaped the same anymore. The alla hookup was intense enough that Randy had a direct sensory feeling for the contents of the mesh; there were some rocks in there, a couple of little fish, lot of mussels—would have been a shame to wipe out all those things. He tightened the mesh in on the busted fly-bike and turned the machinery into water. But he left his wooden man to keep bumbling about in the rocks and surf. The bad Randy. “One more taahm,” muttered Randy, and made a new motorcycle with wings. This time, though, he gave it some wing-flexing controls hooked into the handlebars, plus a better rider, one more likely to steer the test vehicle in a helpful way. He actualized an imipolex figure and equipped it with camera-eyes, an uvvy, a rudimentary niobium wire nervous system, and a control patch like he’d given Willa Jean. Like a ventriloquist throwing his voice, Randy put his awareness out into the imipolex rider, looking through its eyes and twitching its limbs and fingers. The more of this he did, the less he felt like dying.
Vooden-vooden, screeched the fly-bike’s electric engine, and kkkroooooow went the rocket. Out into the air the jury-rigged machine flew. Fully into the virtual personality of his stand-in, Randy felt himself to be riding it. He twitched the wings, adjusted the rocket, gained some altitude, but then—damn!—a gust of wind crimped down a wing and he was flying straight back at the cliff. Frantically he manipulated the wings and—yes!—he was turning, he was going to make it, but—double damn— there was one jutting rock that was just going to catch the tip of his right wing—quick, alla-blast it out of the way!
Randy got the uvvy on the plastic rider to send his alla a direct signal that—boom—turned a protruding knee of rock into thin air but—uh-oh!—turning so much rock into air made a shock wave that threw the fly-bike further off balance. The bike rocketed downward. So as to make the cleanup simpler this time, Randy snapped an alla mesh out there and turned the machine and its plastic rider into air just before they crashed into the rocky shore. He was seeing out through the eyes of the rider right up to the instant when it dissolved, which was a very strange feeling. Somehow the experience made him think of that poor moldie Monique whom he’d kidnapped and sent off to her death last fall. “I’m sorry,” said Randy out loud.
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.