{"id":12956,"date":"2020-09-24T10:12:57","date_gmt":"2020-09-24T17:12:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/?p=12956"},"modified":"2021-08-10T08:19:45","modified_gmt":"2021-08-10T15:19:45","slug":"juicy-ghosts-2020","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/2020\/09\/24\/juicy-ghosts-2020\/","title":{"rendered":"“Juicy Ghost.” An Election SF Story. 2020."},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Copyright \u00a9 Rudy Rucker, 2020. All rights reserved.<\/em><\/p>\n

In 2019 I posted a shorter version of “Juicy Ghost” on my blog<\/a>. The shorter version also appeared in\u00a0 the excellent ezine Big Echo<\/a>, and as a podcast<\/a> on Rudy Rucker Podcasts.<\/em><\/p>\n

I wrote this longer version of “Juicy Ghost” in Fall, 2020, with the scary US Presidential election drawing near…an election which, thankfully, didn’t turn out the way I feared!<\/em><\/p>\n

Looking ahead, a further modified version of “Juicy Ghost” will appear as a\u00a0 chapter in my novel-in-progress to be called either <\/em>Teep or <\/em>Juicy Ghosts.<\/p>\n

In 2021 I did a Kickstarter campaign<\/a> to self-publish the novel as<\/em> Juicy Ghsots.<\/p>\n

\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\n

I\u2019m Curtis Winch, and this is my story.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s completely obvious to everyone that Ross Treadle has to go, and that Sudah Mareek will make a much better President. But the Treadle Forever campaign plows on.<\/p>\n

Supposedly there\u2019s an unswayable block of Treadlers. A stubborn turd in the national punchbowl. Not that I ever see any Treadlers. Admittedly, I\u2019m living in a squat in Oakland, California, which is not exactly Treadle country. And all my friends are freals. But I do have to wonder if Treadle\u2019s so-called base is a scam, a figment, a sim within the media cloud.<\/p>\n

The week before the presidential election, Treadle has an insane, two-day spike in popularity that\u2019s caused by a telepathic prion disease that infects people\u2019s brains. Treadle Disease. Sounds like an imaginary ailment that crazy poeple might say they have. Enemies talking in their heads, like that. But Treadle Disease is for real. And once you have it, the Forever Treadle campaign is able to transmit words and images and mood-altering chemicals into your brain. Your enemy is talking in your head.<\/p>\n

I catch Treadle Disease when some nano percenter sneezes on me in the street. Probably on purpose. Right away I start constantly seeing Treadle\u2019s face behind my eyelids\u2014he\u2019s grinning at me or frowning, depending how I act. I hear his songs. And it\u2019s hard to see or hear anything else.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m pissed off at the world and I feel like I\u2019ve been screwed. I mean, I always feel this way, because it\u2019s true, but when I do it Treadle-Disease-style it\u2019s much worse. I can\u2019t think straight. It\u2019s like my mighty IQ has been cut in half.<\/p>\n

Halloween night, I\u2019m marching around the big plaza on Broadway in downtown Oakland, and singing Treadle anthems with the rest of the zombies, all of us controlled by Treadle Disease. We\u2019re Black, White, Latino, and Asian. We\u2019re street people and nano percenters, women and men, old and young, managers and artists. Straight, gay, bi, trans. The Treadle channel is broadcasting images of us to the nation, showing off the wondrous breadth of our mighty President\u2019s appeal.<\/p>\n

The marchers and I are sick in the head. That\u2019s why we\u2019re here. And Treadle\u2019s hateful bullshit make good sense to us. The woman next to me is yelling a slogan.<\/p>\n

\u201cFree Full Gig!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

This means, as you know, that poor people should wear total-control-uvvies and be minimum-wage mind-controlled serfs for nano percenters. I myself have been known to drive a thudhumper cab wearing an uvvy for my link, but it\u2019s not like the uvvy was all the way in charge. It wasn\u2019t a Treadler-style full <\/em>gig.<\/p>\n

\u201cFree Full Gig!\u201d\u009d the woman shouts again. The slogan is getting good to her.<\/p>\n

Brain-scrambled as I am, I agree. \u201cRight on! Free Full Gig!\u201d\u009d.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

At this particular moment we\u2019re zapped by an unseen being in the cloud\u2014maybe you\u2019d call her an angel. Her name is Molly. Molly beams magic spells into the brains of the victims of Treadle Disease.<\/p>\n

I feel a tingling buzz, like I\u2019m a glass of carbonated soda. And then, oh my brothers and sisters, the scales fall from my eyes. I feel boss. Sharp as a tack. Smart as a whip. I\u2019m washed in the blood of the yam. Molly is our savior.<\/p>\n

At first we don\u2019t get what\u2019s happened to us. We don\u2019t understand the disease in the first place, and we don\u2019t understand the cure. The next day, November 1, the story breaks hard in the media. Lots of data and graphs and talking heads.<\/p>\n

The Treadle Forever campaign is using wetware propaganda. Doping us. Infecting us with gossip molecules that feed us lies and pump chemicals into our skulls. And, given half a chance, the Treadlers will do it some more!<\/p>\n

President Ross Treadle disclaims all knowledge of what his \u201cambitious and creative\u201d\u009d campaign workers might have done. He\u2019s rather talk about, like, the scandal of his rival candidate Sudah Mareek having hired a nephew as an aide.<\/p>\n

The evening of November 1, the freals stage an awesome night of riots. My Oaktown homies and I are in the mix. We go over to San Francisco and burn the fucking Treadle Forever campaign headquarters to the fucking ground. Secret lab included. Treadle Never.<\/p>\n

And this is when I get recruited by the top pod of freals. I\u2019m on Van Ness Street, enjoying the warmth of the flames, cheering my skinny ass off, and sharing in the bottles passing around\u2014that campaign headquarters had possessed a well-stocked bar. The cops aren\u2019t bothering us any. Cops and demonstrators and firefighters are sharing a warm buzz across our uvvies, all for one and one for all. The fire\u2019s fully under control the freals aren\u2019t looking to bust down anything else.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis will make for a fair election, all right,,\u201d\u009d says a voice right behind me. \u201cThanks for helping.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOne way another,\u201d\u009d I say, turning around. \u201cThis Tuesday, the man\u2019s boot comes off our throat.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell said, Curtis Winch,\u201d\u009d goes the guy. He\u2019s tall, nerdy and twitchy. A techie. I\u2019ve never seen him before. I guess he picked up my name off my uvvy. He\u2019s with a lawyer-type woman and a Euro punk girl.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re Gee, Leeta, and Gyr,\u201d\u009d says the man. I check their uvvies. Gee\u2019s a biohacker, Leeta\u2019s managerial, and Gyr says she does physical graffiti. She\u2019s Danish. They\u2019re only letting me see so much and no more.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you shadowing me?\u201d\u009d I ask. Could be they\u2019re deep state Treadle agents.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d\u009d says Gee. \u201cWe\u2019re full freal. We found you with a special search tool. \u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re planning a follow-up to what Molly did,\u201d\u009d goes Leeta. \u201cJust in case. Treadle is a sly, slippery eel.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cA lamprey with a disk of teeth,\u201d\u009d I say.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust so,\u201d\u009d says Gee. \u201cYou live up to your billing. And fully we expected you\u2019d be here for this incisive reprimand against the Treadlers. Molly would like you. She\u2019s a close friend of ours.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou talking about Molly in the cloud?\u201d\u009d I ask. \u201cThe healing angel who cured Treadle Disease.?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe was my lover,\u201d\u009d puts in Gyr. \u201cBut just for one night. I\u2019d hoped for more. I still do.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy tell me that stuff?\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cIt\u2019s not like I\u2019m planning to hit on you. No need to fend me off.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe point we\u2019re getting at is that we want you to join our new lab,\u201d\u009d says Gee. \u201cWe\u2019re starting up tomorrow.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I think that over for about a tenth of a second. \u201cOkay.\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cI\u2019m low on options these days. Would there be room for me to sleep? A kitchen and a bath?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll that,\u201d\u009d says Gee. \u201cIt\u2019s a house.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The freal lab is in Oakland, near the port, in a cheap-ass, beige, trashed, two-story, 1930s cottage amid organ-grow warehouses and poor people\u2019s squats. Not all that far from where I\u2019ve been surfing a couch. Turns out there\u2019s only going to be four people working in our secret new lab: bossy Leeta, biotech-whiz Gyr, and teep hacker Gee\u2014and me, the one and only Curtis Winch.<\/p>\n

The first day I\u2019m at the lab Gyr gives me a little magic slug, a biot critter that she calls a psidot. Better than a standard uvvy, because it can transmit emotions. My psidot\u2019s name is Jilljill. She\u2019s yellow with red pinstripes. Shiny and slim. Quite beautiful, even though she\u2019s only an eighth of an inch long. Not much bigger than a mole or a beauty mark.<\/p>\n

Jilljill is alive, and she can crawl around a little bit. Sometimes I\u2019ll take her off and study her through a magnifying glass. My old uvvy was a just dead blob of piezoplastic.<\/p>\n

Jilljill likes to talk and to ask me questions. She says she\u2019s crafting a highly excellent and eidetic lifebox copy of my personality in the cloud. She likes to use that word eidetic. It means precise.<\/p>\n

Gee, Gyr, and Leeta are all very big on the lifeboxes. During the uvvy days, the lifeboxes have been kind of low-end\u2014like resumes or family albums or blogs. But now, with the psidots, they\u2019ll get a lot better.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe next big thing,\u201d\u009d Leeta keeps saying.<\/p>\n

But we\u2019ve got this other thing to do first. On our first few days in the lab, furniture and equipment are being delivered by shady, off-the-books freals. Criminals with stolen goods, basically. I help with unloading and setting up.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

I sort of know what I\u2019m doing. Gyr is teaching me stuff, with us connected via our psidots. Also I attended wetware engineering lectures at UC Berkeley for a year and a half before I got suspended. Someone said I was stealing things from the lab, and I was, but it was for doing experiments in my squat. I was trying to get caught up with the kids from, like, snootster academies in Palo Alto. So I wasn\u2019t entirely in the wrong.<\/p>\n

I could have fought the suspension, and worked my tale of woe, but by then I was tired of school, and tired of trying to morph into a yuppie larva. I went back to the street. This freal lab job is the best thing that\u2019s come along in ages.<\/p>\n

On Election Day, the first Tuesday in November, a few days after I join the lab, Ross Treadle\u2014lying sack of shit that he is\u2014steals the Presidency for the third time in a row. Our democracy is dead. Nobody can believe it, and nobody knows what to do. Nobody except for us four.<\/p>\n

Our lab kicks into high gear. For the next two and half months, Gee, Leeta, and Gyr work out our plan for striking back. For one thing we\u2019re growing all kinds of stinging creatures in gene tanks. Scorpions, cone shells, spiders, you name it. Evolving toward the nastiest one.<\/p>\n

When Gee\u2019s not confabbing with Gyr or Leeta, he goes into the cloud, connecting with his secret server in the Santa Cruz mountains. He says he\u2019s taking care of his lifeboxes\u2014and I\u2019d glad he is, what with my own Curtis Winch lifebox now under his care.<\/p>\n

Also Gee says he\u2019s still looking for Molly. Something weird happened to her at the end of that healing broadcast. Gee says Molly turned into a being of light or maybe into an old-school ghost. He says he sees her in his dreams.<\/p>\n

So I do errands and help with the wetware engineering. I\u2019ve always been good with nano tools. And, like I say, I have good rapport with Gyr. And, just to be clear, there\u2019d be no chance of Gyr becoming my girlfriend, even if she wasn\u2019t gay. I\u2019ve never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, and I\u2019m never going to. I don\u2019t get close to people in that way.<\/p>\n

Life story? My parents and brother and sister died when I was eight. A shoot-out at our house in Vacaville. Agents and dealers. I don\u2019t talk about it. After the kill, I moved to Oakland and grew up in the street. I had a good science-teacher in high-school, and she felt empathy for me, and she helped me get a special UC Berkeley scholarship for the downtrodden. But I drop-kicked that chance, and I slid back to the gutter. I\u2019m not properly socialized. I don\u2019t know how to act. I don\u2019t filter what I say. I\u2019ll never fit in.<\/p>\n

Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.<\/p>\n

Let\u2019s get to the historic part, starring me. It starts the morning of January 20.<\/p>\n

A cold, blue-sky day in Washington D.C. Inauguration Day for Ross Treadle. He\u2019s been preening and swanning all winter. As if he\u2019s been legitimately re-elected. As if anyone but idiots liked him.<\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t know it, but he\u2019s on his way out. I\u2019m here to assassinate him. Most likely I\u2019ll die too. It\u2019ll be worth it.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

The Inauguration is still a couple of hours off. Leeta and I are in the crowd around the Lincoln Memorial. The scene is beyond vast. Bigger than a three-day beach rave with free beer, bigger than a pilgrimage to Mecca, bigger than any protest that D.C. has ever seen. More than two million of us.<\/p>\n

\u201cA mob of freals,\u201d\u009d says Leeta, looking around. \u201cI feel safe.\u201d\u009d Saying this, she makes a knowing mm-hmm <\/em>sound, with her gawky mouth pressed shut. Leeta is never one to think about her looks. She\u2019s a fanatic. I am too. We have to be.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to win,\u201d\u009d I say, trying to psych myself up.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d\u009d says Leeta. \u201cBut today we have to get past a difficult transition.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cEspecially difficult for me,\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cI\u2019m the sacrificial lamb. The suicide bomber. The kamikaze.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Curtis,\u201d\u009d she says. \u201cJust think of your lifebox.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Gyr implanted some special eggs into my flesh at the start of January. Today they\u2019ll hatch out and attack Treadle. And then the Secret Service will gun down my larva-chewed remains.<\/p>\n

Supposedly having my lifebox will give me a type of immortality. The lifebox will be able to imitate me, and act like an online chatbot. It\u2019ll be an interactive meet-the-legend type thing. Curtis Winch, martyred hero of the Second American Revolution.<\/em><\/p>\n

I like this scenario, I have to admit. I keep running it in my head. \u201cTell us what it was like to take down Ross Treadle,\u201d\u009d the admiring users will say to my memorial chatbot. They\u2019ll be in tears. \u201cOh thank you, Curtis,\u201d\u009d they\u2019ll say. \u201cYou\u2019re a true hero!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

But will having a lifebox make up for my body being dead? Gee and Leeta like to hint that it will, but I don\u2019t believe them. It\u2019s a pipedream. A con. Like telling loyal congregations they\u2019ll live in heaven. From what I\u2019ve seen, dying is like a jump-cut in a movie, but with no film on the other side of the jump. Welcome to nothing.<\/p>\n

Even so, I working hard on my lifebox every day. It\u2019s all I\u2019ve got. Talking to Jilljill in my head, and she\u2019s continually updating the lifebox in the cloud. Words, images, thoughts, emotions, the whole thing. Jilljill uses quantum vortices to read my brain\u2019s quantum fields, and she teeps all that to Gee\u2019s secret server, down in the Santa Cruz mountains.<\/p>\n

Not only does Jilljill store my info in the cloud, she feeds info back. She can access heavy cloud-based processing to munge my data stream. And when I\u2019m willing to listen, she suggests what I might do next. It\u2019s sort of the opposite of having Treadle Disease, which is about white-collar criminals telling you things that are stupid and wrong.<\/p>\n

So I\u2019m lucky to have a psidot. They aren\u2019t on the open market yet\u2014they\u2019re made by Gyr and her gang, the Dansk Junkers. You kind of have to know one of them to get a psidot. But there\u2019s licensing deals coming up, and there\u2019s also the likelihood that skeevy pirates are already making back-alley psidot knock-offs.<\/p>\n

Gyr worries about this possibility a lot, it bothers her to think her work might be copied in a shoddy way. As for Gee he just wants everyone to get a psidot any old way. He thinks teep will make the world a better place. And Leeta\u2019s angle is transactional. She wants to cut deals with every single player in the game.<\/p>\n

Speaking of players, there\u2019s one I didn\u2019t mention yet. Carson Pflug. A creepy, pale, young weasel who starts coming by our lab during the last week. He\u2019s negotiating something for Leeta. In return he wants to glom onto whatever biz she sets up. I don\u2019t like Carson. Shit, he\u2019s even from the Midwest. I\u2019m glad he\u2019s not here today.<\/p>\n

Stop ranting, Curtis. Tell your tale.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Okay, yeah, here I am with all the freals by the Lincoln Memorial on Inauguration Day. Jilljill shows me an image of Gee Willikers. He\u2019s excited, more than excited than I\u2019ve ever seen him. Messianic.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re immortal,\u201d\u009d Gee tells me. \u201cIt\u2019s finally real.\u201d\u009d I figure he\u2019s shining me on so I\u2019ll do the hit. Thanks to teep, he knows I\u2019m thinking this, and for him that\u2019s something else to giggle about. He\u2019s not a normal person at all.<\/p>\n

\u201cSpare me the bogosity of hope,\u201d\u009d I tell him. \u201cI\u2019m ready to do the job.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you need to know about today\u2019s upgrade!\u201d\u009d babbles Gee. \u201cYour lifebox will be truly alive. It won\u2019t just be a chatbot in the cloud. Why? I found a way to give a lifebox a soul. Yes. If lifebox is connected to a psidot that\u2019s connected to a living being\u2014well, then, the lifebox can leech off some soul. And then it\u2019s something different. It\u2019s a juicy ghost<\/em>. Like it? Juicy ghost, man. This my best teep hack ever, Curtis.\u201d\u009d Gee snorts and whinnies. \u201cI\u2019m like God.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe quiet, Gee.\u201d\u009d I\u2019m kind of laughing at him. Comic relief, but who needs it.. I tune him out.<\/p>\n

Freals are streaming in via the Memorial Bridge, down Constitution and Independence Avenues, piling out of the Metro stops, walking in along the side streets and the closed-down highways by the Potomac. Cops and soldiers stand by, but they\u2019re not trying to stop us. They\u2019re working people too. Low-income city folks. By now a lot of them hate Treadle too. Him getting to be President again is an unacceptable error in our political system. And I\u2019m here to rectify it.<\/p>\n

Our crowd swirls around stone Abe Lincoln on his stone chair in his stone temple. We mass along the reflecting pool, as far as the Washington Monument\u2014but not yet onto the Mall. Armed troops are in place near the Monument to prevent the demonstrators from getting closer to the Capitol.<\/p>\n

My psidot Jilljill is picking up on the media, and she shows me how the Mall itself is blanketed with actual, for-real Treadlers\u2014deluded, sold out, in thrall to an insane criminal, awaiting the mummery of his noon Inauguration.<\/p>\n

What would it take to change their minds?<\/p>\n

We freals are zealous and stoked, filled with end-times fervor and a sense of apocalypse. We\u2019re rarin\u2019 for revolution. Ross Treadle\u2019s opponent Sudah Mareek is standing atop one of Lincoln\u2019s stone toes. She\u2019s shouting and laughing and chanting\u2014wonderfully charismatic. Her voice is balm to my soul, and she\u2019s calming Leeta too. The whole reason we two didn\u2019t go straight to the Capitol steps is because we need to see Sudah get her own Inauguration. This is the real one.<\/p>\n

Sudah Mareek did in fact win the election\u2014both the popular vote, and the House of Electors. But somehow Treadle turned it all around, and his packed Supreme Court took a dive. Treadle says he\u2019ll charge Sudah with treason once he\u2019s sworn in. He says he\u2019ll seek the death penalty.<\/p>\n

But the freals are inaugurating Sudah just the same. We have one supporter on the Supreme Court, and she\u2019s here to administer the oath of office. She\u2019s ninety years old, our justice in her black robe, and she\u2019s brought along Abe Lincoln\u2019s Bible.<\/p>\n

We fall silent, drinking it in. The Presidential Oath\u2014short, pure and real. Sudah\u2019s clear voice above the breathless crowd. I\u2019m absorbed in my sensations, The trees against the sky, the cold air in my lungs, the pain in my flesh, the scents of the bodies around me. We\u2019re real. This isn\u2019t a play, not a show.. It\u2019s the Inauguration of the next President of the United States.<\/p>\n

For a moment the knot of fear in my chest is gone. This is going to work. Our country is going to be free. We cheer ourselves hoarse.<\/p>\n

Hatch time is near. Leeta and I have to haul ass to the Capitol steps so I\u2019ll be close enough to terminate Treadle. And everyone else wants to head that way too. The crowd rolls forward like lava. But there\u2019s the small matter of those armed troops at the Washington Monument. They\u2019re in tight formation.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s skirt around them,\u201d\u009d I suggest to Leeta.<\/p>\n

But the side streets are blocked by troops as well. We\u2019re like a school of fish swimming into a net, that is, a U-shaped cordon of soldiers. They have shock batons, water-cannons, tear-gas, and rifles with bayonets. Behind them are trucks, armored battle wagons, and even some tanks. Old, non-biot, metal stuff.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Leeta and I approach the troops along the right edge of the crowd. Armed men and women, all races. Leeta pitches our case, testing them out.<\/p>\n

\u201cSudah Mareek is our President,\u201d\u009d she calls, sweetening her voice. \u201cWe just inaugurated her. Did you hear the cheers?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cMove along,\u201d\u009d mutters a woman soldier, not meeting our eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re <\/em>your friends,\u201d\u009d I put in. \u201cNot Treadle. He\u2019s screwing us. He hates us all.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Behind me the crowd of freals is chanting. \u201cWe\u2019re you. You\u2019re us. Be free.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cBe freal,\u201d\u009d echoes Leeta, reaching out to touch the woman soldier\u2019s shoulder. \u201cYou don\u2019t need the gun.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s do it,\u201d\u009d says the brother at her side, He throws his bayonet-tipped rifle to the earth. \u201cYeah. This thing\u2019s too heavy.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The woman does the same, and so does the guy next to her, and the woman next to him drops her rifle too\u2014it\u2019s like a zipper coming undone. A whole row of the soldiers is defecting. Going rogue. Treadle will call them traitors.<\/p>\n

A few soldiers stand firm. They spray a water cannon, knocking down freals and muddying the ground. Some teargas shells explode. A couple of hotheads fire automatic rifle bursts into the air. But the flurry damps down.<\/p>\n

The soldiers aren\u2019t into it. They don\u2019t want to kill us. We\u2019re people like them. This stage of the revolution is a gimmie. Hundreds of thousands of us chant as one.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re you. You\u2019re us. Be free.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The soldiers whoop and laugh. Bopping and grab-assing like they\u2019re off-duty. Some freals try and tip over an Army tank, but it\u2019s way too heavy. One of soldiers, some wild hillbilly from Kentucky, he breaks out a crate of magnesium flares. He and his buddies go around prying open fuel-tank caps and shoving in flares. Low thuds as the gas-tanks explode, one after the other. The rising plumes of smoke are totems of freedom.<\/p>\n

We cheer our incoming President. \u201cSudah. Sudah. Sudah. Sudah.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

A pyramid of freals holds the small woman high in the air. She\u2019s waving and smiling. She\u2019s the one who won. She\u2019s ours. In my head, my psidot shows me the news commentators going ape. Treadle\u2019s faked election, political U-turn, people\u2019s revolution, President Mareek.<\/em><\/p>\n

And now Treadle\u2019s goons strike back. Two banana-shaped gunship choppers converge on the Washington Monument. Like vengeful furies. Men with massive machineguns stand in the choppers\u2019 big, open doors. They lay down withering fusillades, shooting into our crowd.<\/p>\n

The gunships are painted with Treadle\u2019s personalized Presidential seal. The pilots and crews are from the chief\u2019s palace guard. Dead-enders. Pardoned from death row, recruited from narco gangs, imported from the Russian mafia.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s insane. Next to me a man\u2019s head explodes like a pumpkin. Am I next?<\/p>\n

\u201cAsymmetric attack on unarmed demonstrators,\u201d\u009d mutters Leeta. \u201cStop screaming. Curtis. Use your psidot.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Good idea. And I hadn\u2019t noticed I was screaming. Jilljill overlays my visual field with images of the bullets\u2019 paths. A hard rain. Simultaneously, she\u2019s computing our safest way forward, showing me a glowing, shifting path on the ground. I take Leeta\u2019s hand and lead her.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

We come to a cluster of renegade soldiers who\u2019ve salvaged a rocket bazooka from a charred tank. A dark, intent sergeant raises the tube to her shoulder.<\/p>\n

Jilljill brings the nearest chopper\u2019s path into focus. I see the dirty bird\u2019s past trajectory as an orange tangle. And I\u2019m seeing its dotted-line future path too. Jilljill is using cloud crunch to estimate what\u2019s next.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere,\u201d\u009d I advise the sister with the launcher, pointing. \u201cAim there.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Whoosh<\/em>!<\/p>\n

And, hell <\/em>yeah, our canny missile twists through the air like live thing, homing in on Treadle\u2019s hired killers.<\/p>\n

Fa-tooom!
\n<\/em>
\nThe chopper explodes like a bomb. Shards of of metal go pinwheeling, as if from an airborne grenade. The blazing craft hits the ground with a broken thud that I feel in the soles of my feet. The second chopper flees, racketing into a wide loop above the Potomac.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s my <\/em>vote!\u201d\u009d whoops the sister, pumping the bazooka in the air. \u201cCount that <\/em>one! For President Sudah,\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Seeing that chopper go down is like winning a round in a videogame. But this game has a ticking clock. My parasites twist in my flesh, ever closer to my skin. I need to be at the other end of the Mall when Treadle mounts his rostrum.<\/p>\n

The blockade of troops up ahead has dissolved. At our end, a lot of the freals have fled back toward the river. Many of those who remain are tending to the wounded amid the dead. Fire trucks and wailing ambulances arrive.<\/p>\n

In the chaos, Leeta and I pass readily to the verge of the Mall, and from there we press forward toward Capitol, filtering through the Treadle base. They\u2019re striving to maintain an air of festivity\u2014even after the rush of freals, the troops\u2019 desertions, the massacre, and the downing of the chopper\u2014even now they try. Bundled against the January cold, they\u2019ve laid out their pitiful, celebratory picnics. They wave their Treadle signs, and draw their groups into tighter knots, doing their best to ignore the bitter, embattled revolutionaries around them.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Leeta\u2019s good with crowds. She eels through the human mass, finding the seams, working our way up the Mall. I trail in her wake. Soon we\u2019re within thirty yards of the the Capitol steps. The dignitaries are in place. The charade is still on. Treadle is about to appear. And the Secret Service agents are watching me. God knows I stick out in this white crowd.<\/p>\n

\u201cI bet dying will be easier than you expect,\u201d\u009d Leeta whispers to me. Her idea of encouragement.<\/p>\n

A wave of dizziness passes over me. As if I\u2019m seeing the world through thick glass. Those things in my flesh\u2014they\u2019re leaking chemicals into my system. Steroids, deliriants, psychotomimetics.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are we doing<\/em>?\u201d\u009d I moan. \u201cWhy?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll be a hero,\u201d\u009d Leeta murmurs, iron in her voice. \u201cBe glad.\u201d\u009d She leans even closer. Her whisper is thunderous in my ear. \u201cThe Secret Security knows. Mm-hmm. <\/em>\u201d\u009d She nods as if we\u2019re discussing personal gossip. Her bony forehead bumps mine. \u201cThey hate Treadle too. It\u2019s all set. They\u2019re actually paying us. Carson arranged it.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cCarson Pflug? That sleaze? And I\u2019m your patsy? The fall guy. Kill the Black man, sure. What if I change my mind?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t fuss,\u201d\u009d says Leeta. She rolls her eyes toward the strangers pressed around us. To make it all the creepier, Leeta is displaying a prim, plastered-on smile. Her voice is very low. \u201cBe a good boy or they\u2019ll shoot you early. And then Treadle lives. We can\u2019t have that, hmm<\/em>?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

In my head Jilljill is jabbering advice I can\u2019t understand. Mad, skinny Gee Willikers is in my head too. He\u2019s so elated that he\u2019s unable to say three sentences without bursting into laughter. I hate him and I hate Leeta and I even hate my psidot.<\/p>\n

Fresh insect hormones rush through me. My disorientation grows. The critters within my flesh are splitting out of their pupas and preparing to take wing. Eight of them.<\/p>\n

On the rostrum, Treadle takes his oath. He might as well be saying, \u201cHa ha, I\u2019m President again, so fuck you.\u201d\u009d And then he\u2019s into his Inauguration speech, in full throat, hitting his stride, spewing lies and fear and hatred and stupidity.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell?\u201d\u009d nudges Leeta.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done,\u201d\u009d I intone, quoting the Charles Dickens novel, A Tale of Two Cities<\/em>, which is, like, the only literary classic I ever read in my life. I know I\u2019m going to kill Treadle, and I\u2019m trying to rise above the seamy details of our conspiracy. Aspiring to class. \u201cIt is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou got that <\/em>right,\u201d\u009d says callous Leeta.<\/p>\n

Weird how my whole life has led up to this point. \u201cThere\u2019s this thing about time,\u201d\u009d I tell her. \u201cYou think something will never happen. And then it does. And then it\u2019s over.\u201d\u009d I pause and peek inside my shirt. Bumps and welts shift beneath my skin.<\/p>\n

\u201cTrigger them!\u201d\u009d hisses Leeta.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhoa<\/em>!\u201d\u009d exclaims a Treadler at my side. A mild-eyed old man with his leathery, white-haired wife. He\u2019s staring at a wriggly lump on my neck. \u201cAre you okay? Do you need help?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAllergy,\u201d\u009d I wheeze. \u201cOverwrought. I\u2019ll be okay when\u2014\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m interrupted by a shrieking clatter. It\u2019s that second chopper. It\u2019s attacking the freals and soldiers and medics around the Washington Monument. We all turn and stare as the whirlybird stitches fresh gunfire into the ragged band.<\/p>\n

\u201cDone at my command,\u201d\u009d intones Treadle, raising his heavy arm to point. \u201cI keep my promises.\u201d\u009d He juts his chin. \u201cWe\u2019re gunning for Sudah Mareek. She meets justice today.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Hoarse, savage cheering from the Treadlers. It\u2019s horrible to see my fellow citizens so debased. They\u2019re mirroring Treadle. I have to kill him. But, wait, wait, wait, I want to see how the scene at the Monument plays out.<\/p>\n

And now I hear what I\u2019m hoping for.<\/p>\n

Whoosh!
\n<\/em>
\nYes. The rebel soldiers have launched another rocket.<\/p>\n

Fa-tooom!
\n<\/em>
\nThe blasted second chopper corkscrews along a weirdly purposeful arc. As if it\u2019s remotely controlled. The hulk smashes against a face of the Washington Monument. Jilljill feeds me close-up images.<\/p>\n

\u201cBonus points,\u201d\u009d goes Gee Willikers in my head. He titters. Sick gamer that he is. \u201cPart of our plan,\u201d\u009d he continues. \u201cWe pin this on Treadle.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Gee has hacked into the falling chopper\u2019s controls? The plot\u2019s strands are choking me.<\/p>\n

Cracks branch across the Washington Monument\u2019s surface. Bits of marble skitter down the obelisk\u2019s pitiless slope. The Monument\u2019s tip sways, vast and slow. People are scattering. The upper part of the great plinth moves irrevocably out of plumb. It tilts and speeds up, like a special effect, like the twin towers.<\/p>\n

The impact is a long, intricate crash\u2014followed by thin, high screams. A veil of dust. A beat of silence. I\u2019m sick with guilt. And so very weary of being human.<\/p>\n

Leeta is screaming into my face. \u201cDo your job, god damn you! Now!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cGet Treadle,\u201d\u009d I say at last. It\u2019s the trigger phrase. I don\u2019t say it very loud, but it\u2019s loud enough to matter.<\/p>\n

Within my flesh, the hymenoptera hear. Ragged slits open on my neck, my chest, my belly, my arms. The pain is off the scale. I shed my coat and my shirt. The bloody, freshly-fledged, bio-tweaked wasps emerge. Eight of them, big guys, each of them two inches long.<\/p>\n

For a moment they balance on their dainty, multijointed legs, preening their antennae, shaking the kinks from their iridescent wings. Their handsome, curved abdomens resemble motorcycle gas-tanks. They have prominent stingers and bejeweled, zillion-lensed eyes. They\u2019re preternaturally alert.<\/p>\n

Leeta slinks off with no goodbye. The cuts in my flesh are pumping bright blood. The Treadlers around me point and shout. The wasps race up my torso, across my face, and onto the crown of my head. Seven of them rise in flight. A small, lethal swarm.<\/p>\n

My job is done.<\/p>\n

Or maybe not. Gee Willikers is hollering inside my head. \u201cYour psidot! Put it on a wasp!\u201d\u009d I see a mental image of tiny Jilljill the psidot on the back of my neck. And I note the laggard eighth wasp. My mind projects a target spot onto the wasp\u2019s rear end, the plump, striped abdomen, the part that Gyr called the gaster. .<\/p>\n

I reach back, and Jilljill hops onto the tip of my finger. I bring my hand near the wing of the target wasp, and the psidot springs into place on the wasp\u2019s gaster, right on top.<\/p>\n

The wasp is pissed off. She stings my finger. Numbness flows up my arm and toward my heart. The wasp venom contains curare, you understand, plus conotoxin. A custom cocktail for Treadle.<\/p>\n

My vision grows dark. I\u2019m an empty husk, a ruptured pi\u00c3\u00b1ata\u2014poisoned and bleeding. And, ah yes, there\u2019s the matter of the Secret Service. They\u2019re good shots. They might want Treadle out, and maybe Carson Pflug made a deal with them, but right now they\u2019ve got to do their thing. For the sake of appearances. For an orderly transition.<\/p>\n

I go down in a hail of bullets, limbs flailing, flesh torn. A fitting end.<\/p>\n

Last thought? I hope the wasps sting Treadle. And then I\u2019m dead.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

At this point my narrative has a glitch. Remember the jump-cut thing I was talking about? Well, it turns out that, for me, there is <\/em>some film on the other side of the jump. Granted, the all-meat Curtis Winch is terminally inoperative. But\u2014<\/p>\n

I wake, confused. I look down into myself. I\u2019ve got my same old white-light soul. My sense of me watching me watching the world. I\u2019m hallucinating a little bit. I feel like I\u2019m in a crumbling, old, Victorian mansion with junk in the rooms, and with paintings leaning on the walls, and doors that don\u2019t properly close. There aren\u2019t any windows. Somebody\u2019s in here with me. A jittery silhouette against a glowing Tiffany lamp. Gee Willikers. This isn\u2019t actually a house. It\u2019s an underground cave. Gee is kind of showing me around.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a juicy ghost now, Curtis! A lifebox linked to bio host via a psidot. Play it right, and you\u2019ll keep going for centuries.\u201d\u009d A compulsive snicker. \u201cDef cool, Mr. Guinea Pig.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I try to form words. \u201cWhere\u2026\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour soul is a parasite, dude. An info virus. A lifebox with a psidot connected to a wasp. Holy malware. To score that inner light, you use any old live host. Glom onto the axons and the retarded potentials. Slurp up the mysto quantum steam and all that other good shit. \u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWasp?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cDuh? The one you stuck Jilljill on?\u201d\u009d Gee makes a trumpeting sound with his lips, then speaks again. \u201cJuicy ghost!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were wrong to topple the Monument,\u201d\u009d I tell him. \u201cA lot of people died.\u201d\u009d No response. The guy is rotten, and he doesn\u2019t care. Duly noted.<\/p>\n

This junked, phantasmal suite of rooms inside a cave\u2014I realize it\u2019s Gee\u2019s secret mad-scientist retreat, up in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I can see his server outside the open mouth of the cave. The server is a two-hundred-foot-tall redwood tree, and Jilljill shows me that the inner core of the redwood is a glowing shaft of pale green light. The soul of the tree. My operating system and my data base are in there. My lifebox. My juicy ghost. Co-designed and maintained by Gee Willakers. He\u2019s still here watching me, wearing a crooked grin.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo for it, Curtis. Plug all the way into that wasp\u2019s nervous system. Hurry before it\u2019s too late. Gotta save the day, man.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Wanting to stay in the game, I look around this grotty, overstuffed parlor inside a cave, seeking for the plug that connects to the wasp, wanting to stay juicy and, even more than that, wanting to join the attack on Treadle.<\/p>\n

\u201cOver there,\u201d\u009d goes Gee. \u201cSee the smelly rope? Like a tasseled curtain-pull in a Gold Rush saloon? All thick and twisted and dank?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

I fixate on the object and, just like that, I\u2019ve jacked myself into full intimacy with the wasp\u2019s mind. It\u2019s more than sharing her life force. I\u2019m seeing through her eyes. And controlling her body. I am the wasp<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I join the rest of the wasps. They\u2019re eddying around Treadle. He\u2019s bellowing, dancing around, slapping himself. Fighting for his life. He has foam on his lips, like a rabid dog. My fellow wasps are landing on his face, his fat neck, his wattles. But Treadle is swatting them before they sting. Jesus Christ, he\u2019s killed five of them. There\u2019s only two more besides me left..<\/p>\n

The evil one\u2019s roars are taking on a tone of triumph. He smacks the sixth wasp against his skull. I can\u2019t let him win. His shirt is untucked. A button is loose. I spy a patch of skin.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile the last of the other seven lands on the nape of Treadle\u2019s neck. She\u2019s got a good shot. But\u2014goddamit\u2014before she can sting, our remarkably prey swings back his arm and pinches off the seventh wasp\u2019s head.<\/p>\n

Treadle roars in triumph. For a moment he thinks he\u2019s killed the last wasp. But now he hears the whine of my wings; he sees the blur of my motion. With a frightened grunt, he tries to snatch me from the air. With my cloud-based augmentations, it\u2019s simple to evade him.<\/p>\n

I arrow into the opening in his shirt, and land on his bare chest, very near his heart. He knows I\u2019m in there. Desperately he slaps at his body. But he\u2019ll never get me. I position my gaster, with my little psidot Jilljill resting on top. I pause to savor the moment. Treadle raises his arm to slap again. He\u2019s yelling a threat. It\u2019s time.<\/p>\n

I sting\u2014I sting, sting, sting.<\/p>\n

Treadle\u2019s voice changes, as if his tongue is turning stiff. His volume fades. He\u2019s wobbly on his pins. He totters backwards and falls. A final groan. Silence.<\/p>\n

It is finished.<\/p>\n

With nervous wings, I escape the folds of his shirt and spiral high into the air. I hover above the speakers\u2019 stand, two hundred feet up.<\/p>\n

For a moment the crowd is still. Some are sobbing. But then the cheering begins. Freals and soldiers are leading Sudah Mareek forward through the crowd. Sudah is going to be President. Everyone knows it. Everyone understands. And in the whiplash intensity of the moment, the Treadlers are converting to Sudah\u2019s cause. The crowd roars as one.<\/p>\n

Sudah mounts the dias and swears again the oath she swore by the Lincoln Memorial. The massed politicians applaud. Treadle\u2019s proposed Vice-President bows out. Sudah\u2019s Vice-President emerges from the Capitol, just in time. They swear her in. Our coup is more organized than I knew.<\/p>\n

Gee Willikers is talking to me. He\u2019s ecstatic. \u201cSecret Service is on our side, dude. The armed forces are on board. Congress is down with it. Done deal.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I feel a shifting sensation. A doubleness of vision. A group of freals is carrying my bloody, broken form up the Capitol steps. They hold my remains high, heedless of the dripping gore. Wave after wave of applause. Sudah Mareek and her Veep salute my broken body.<\/p>\n

\u201cCurtis Winch, martyred saint of the second American Revolution!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo I have to keep being a wasp?\u201d\u009d I ask Gee.<\/p>\n

\u201cGlue your psidot wherever you want,\u201d\u009d he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnother host?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow about somebody in this crowd,\u201d\u009d suggests Gee. \u201cThat Treadler babe in the trucker hat?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cIdiot,\u201d\u009d I snap. \u201cCan you get the fuck out of my head?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure,\u201d\u009d goes Gee.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, and don\u2019t forget to post a toy chatbot version of me for the Curtis Winch memorial.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s already online,\u201d\u009d Gee tells me. \u201cThe chatbot is a special front end for your real, actual lifebox. The front-end is like a polite face you\u2019d put on for talking to goobs. All the incriminating, intimate, too-real-for-prime-time goodies are filtered out. Took me about ten minutes to set it up.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cShit, Gee. \u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour memorial\u2019s up to twenty million hits. Viral flash mob, Curtis. User tsunami.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope they can\u2019t actually find me. Can\u2019t track my psidot. Can\u2019t tell where the lifebox is stored. I want to stay dark.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re fully obfuscated. I ran you an aleatory scramble with a Mandelbutt tail. And\u2014you want me out of your head? To hear is to obey, Saint Curtis.\u201d\u009d Gee makes a wiggly hand gesture\u2014and he\u2019s gone.<\/p>\n

Shrilling my wings, I buzz on beyond the Capitol. On my own, feeling good, savoring the quantum soul of my insect host. My psidot Jilljill remains perched on my gaster.<\/p>\n

My compound eyes are reflexively hypervigilant about hungry birds, but there\u2019s none around. I make my way into the residential neighborhood northeast of the Capitol. I fly until it shades from gentrified to tumbledown. I spy a mutt on a cushion in a back porch. A collie-beagle mix, mostly white, with an orange ear and a big orange spots on his back like a saddle.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s noise all over the neighborhood and people running around cheering. The news is out. But that dog looks like he\u2019s sound asleep.<\/p>\n

Gently, gently I land beside his head, coasting in. Mustn\u2019t awaken him or he\u2019ll start snapping at me. Hell, I\u2019m a two-inch wasp!. Moving with an insect’s careful deliberation I stilt-walk into the shadow of his floppy orange ear. Creeping forward along the dirty cushion, I position myself beneath a bare, ear-waxy patch of skin, at the actual opening of the ear.<\/p>\n

\u201cHop,\u201d\u009d I tell Jilljill.<\/p>\n

Another jump cut. And then, yes, my mind is percolating into the dog\u2019s nervous system. I\u2019m in.<\/p>\n

I stand, shake my body, and bark.<\/p>\n

Joyful. Free.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve got my line to my lifebox on Gee\u2019s server open\u2014gotta do that. My lifebox is my mind. And my link to this dog is open too\u2014he\u2019s my body. But other than that, I\u2019ve got my teep powers cloaked, so nobody around here picks up on me. For sense input, I\u2019m depending on whatever this dog takes in.<\/p>\n

I hear a rising sound of voices from the houses all around. People excited about what I did at the Capitol, yeah. I bark a little more.<\/p>\n

Oops, someone grabs me from behind! It\u2019s a ten-year-old sister with her curly brown hair pulled up to make an afro-puff crest. Like a soft mohawk.<\/p>\n

\u201cWoofer!\u201d\u009d she cries. \u201cWhat you barking at, fool? That big old wasp flying around? You lucky he didn\u2019t sting you.\u201d\u009d She pushes me over on my side and rubs my chest. \u201cBad loud dog. Nasty old dog. Woofer dog. Did you hear the news, Woofer? President Treadle\u2019s dead!\u201d\u009d She whoops.<\/p>\n

Reflexively I writhe, and stretch my neck, and try lick her face, but she keeps out of reach. \u201cYou want to come to the park, boy? Do you, Woofer?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I stand and give myself another shake. This seems to be something that I\u2019m going to do whenever I\u2019m changing gears. My psidot Jilljill hangs for dear life.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, Loranda!\u201d\u009d calls a woman from the house. I hear the jubilance in her rich voice. \u201cWe gonna celebrate. It\u2019s our time to rise and to shine. The bad man is gone! Put a leash on that dog so he don\u2019t run off.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Loranda has a firm grip on my collar. I don\u2019t like the idea of a leash. The consequences of Treadle\u2019s death are unfolding like a rose, cascading like an avalanche, rushing like an ocean wave from an H-bomb test. No telling what\u2019s next. I might need to flee. But I do like being with Loranda and her Mom. It would be nice to settle in with them for a few days.<\/p>\n

Crowds of people are on the street\u2014dancing, laughing, hugging, weeping, and playing trumpets and trombones and drums and tambourines and even tubas. A carnival. Someone starts lighting firecrackers, and it really hurts my ears. I howl, yank my leash free of Loranda, and run.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold up, Woofer,\u201d\u009d she calls, right on my heels. \u201cYou stick with me!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

After a block I pause, and loll my tongue and look up trustingly. I try gently teeping to Loranda\u2019s uvvy. A subliminal plea that she unclip my leash. And she does it. I ask. I don\u2019t think she consciously notices the teep\u2014I think she\u2019s just used to her and Woofer understanding each other.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s run to the park,\u201d\u009d Loranda tells me. \u201cSee you there, Mom!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

What a crowd. Everyone\u2019s kind of dazed and amazed. An hour ago, Treadle was about to assume his third term in office. And now\u2014people are waving posters of Sudah Mareek. Word is, Sudah has already dissolved Treadle\u2019s core of secret police, and she\u2019s grounded his private army. And the officers who ordered the chopper attacks on the demonstrators are in the brig.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never felt so proud. I\u2019m dog-grinning with my tongue hanging out, and I\u2019m sticking close by Loranda\u2019s side. She gets hold of a couple of hot dogs, and hands me one. I shake loose the tasteless bun and wolf down the meat.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s good being a dog. So many smells! The feet, the legs, the cooking food, and, ah, the other dogs. A lot of them are off leash like me, and they\u2019re not at all shy about coming over to sniff me and rub against me. One feisty little beagle mutt is overdoing it. He puts his front legs on my rear end and makes as if to hump me. Jerky spastic twitches of orgone energy. I let out a low growl, and sidestep that sucker.<\/p>\n

On all fours again, the terrier sniffs my neck and echoes my growl. I make as if to nip him. He dodges, then throws his forepaws onto my back again. I flip him onto his side. Stand over him snarling. Who\u2019s the boss now? <\/em>He offers his stomach in a gesture of surrender. I turn around and paw the ground with my rear feet, kicking shreds of grass his way. He yips, regains his feet, and goes for my neck again\u2014but now a third dog moves in on us, a shabby terrier, a lascivious, importunate butt-snuffer.<\/p>\n

Somehow the terrier reminds me of the English professor I had during my year at college\u2014the way the man would go on and on about what my semi-deranged essays might mean, when really I\u2019d written them on autopilot. I snarl at at the terrier, and I run off, with my two new playmates are pursuing me, like we\u2019re in a dance. Such fun.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Suddenly I hear Gee talking in my head again. My psidot cloak function doesn\u2019t keep him out. \u201cYou should know that Treadle was wearing a psidot when you killed him,\u201d\u009d says Gee. \u201cJilljill and I noticed it on his neck when you closed in. The motherfucker was backing himself up on a lifebox all along. Just like you did.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t want to distract you from the kill. And then, well, I wanted to think about our next step before telling you. Also you did <\/em>say I should leave you alone. For awhile. So I gave you an hour.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Right about then the untidy, horndog terrier gets his cold nose right up against my butthole. Freaked by Gee\u2019s news as I am, I make a fully serious effort to bite the professor-dog as hard as I can, but he ducks me. And even now the terrier doesn\u2019t retreat. He circles around, waiting for another go. He\u2019s not quite done savoring my smell. Dog etiquette.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re getting good at this,\u201d\u009d says Gee.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you want from me?\u201d\u009d I demand. \u201cCan the Treadlers hear you and me talking? Are they going to find me?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Geek that Gee is, he labels the three parts of his answer. \u201c(a) We have to do a follow-up\u2014we have to erase Treadle\u2019s lifebox. (b) Treadle\u2019s goons can\u2019t ordinarily crack our comm channel.. (c) They\u2019re using ultra-hi-res satellite surveillance to follow you. I hadn\u2019t realized they\u2019d do that. They watched your wasp fly to Woofer. Butt simple.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cBad news.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes. They\u2019re coming for you right now. And if they get physical possession <\/em>of your psidot, they can <\/em>crack the crypto, and they can back track to my server, and they\u2019ll erase your lifebox before we erase Treadle\u2019s. And then you\u2019ll be all-the-way dead.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo! What do I do?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t let Jilljill get caught.\u201d\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

A black thudhumper car is in the park. It\u2019s driving toward me across the grass. A white Treadler agent is leaning out with a gun. The celebrants in the park aren\u2019t having none of this. They run at the car, kicking it\u2019s meaty flanks. Dozens of brothers and sisters mass together. They roll the thudhumper over, yeah! Sudden gunshots sting my ears. That Treadle guy in there is not gonna get me. I\u2019m safe.<\/p>\n

But\u2014wait\u2014all at once someone grabs my collar. And it\u2019s not Loranda, it\u2019s a dude. But Jilljill flashes me the news that he\u2019s an underground Treadler. The thudhumper car was a distraction.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m going ki-yi-yi <\/em>as loud as I can. Loranda\u2019s Mom is hollering at the underground Treadler. Loranda is shoving him. Mom punches him in the gut. The brother\u2019s grip weakens. I twist free. And here comes my affectionate terrier prof, right on me, nuzzling my ear.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cHop!\u201d\u009d I tell Jilljill.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s already out on the edge of my ear, ready for the move.<\/p>\n

Jump cut!<\/p>\n

Jilljill has fastened herself to the terrier\u2019s tongue. I\u2019m in.<\/p>\n

My name is Cuthbert. Keeping my psidotted tongue in my mouth, I trot over to my owner, a lean, dapper brother with horn-rimmed glasses and a drop-dead-elegant tweed suit. He\u2019s sitting on a bench, enjoying the sqwonks of an impromptu jazz band. I take shelter under the bench, between his fine leather shoes, looking around. I know the satellite\u2019s still watching. They will think of the terrier. I need to hop some more.<\/p>\n

Here comes a poodle, peering under the bench, sniffing me. I lick her nose.<\/p>\n

Jump cut.<\/p>\n

Fifi\u2019s mistress walks her off. Madame pauses so Fifi can greet a passing stray.<\/p>\n

Jump cut.<\/p>\n

The stray takes me into some dense bushes where other homeless mutts are eating garbage, digging holes, growling, and napping. These dogs are unseen by the eye in the sky. I hop.<\/p>\n

I urge my rangy new host into a culvert beneath some railroad tracks, and in there I hop to another dog\u2014a glossy, medium-size, short-haired, pale yet warm-colored hound with no collar and a tail that he holds obnoxiously high. What people call a yellow dog. I\u2019ve never much liked yellow dogs, but I try not to communicate this to my host. He doesn\u2019t exactly have a name, or maybe his a certain sound he makes. Call him Shrill Yelp. Jilljill is perched on the bare skin inside his ear, like we did with Woofer.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m still cloaked against casual teepers, and still open to Gee. He\u2019s got some kind of plan. For starters, he\u2019s got me heading uphill toward the mansions near the Capitol. I move casually, unobtrusively, along alleys and under bushes, sniffing everything, taking my time.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got a backdoor into that spy satellite,\u201d\u009d Gee tells me. \u201cThey\u2019ve totally lost track of you. Good dog.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

My spirits lift. Shrill Yelp and I continue up the hill, moving along a grassy back lanes, turning left and right according to Gee\u2019s prompts.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes this part of my excellent adventure go onto my Memorial Site?\u201d\u009d I ask him.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot posting this part yet!\u201d\u009d says Gee with one of his giggles. \u201cMaybe later. But if we don\u2019t finish off Treadle\u2014you won\u2019t have a memorial site at all. You\u2019ll be an unperson. Erased from history.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck that! This is my play for stardom. What do we do?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re almost at the mansion of Treadle\u2019s Attorney General, Chuck Popham. Chuck and his wife Lucy. They have a dachshund named Friedl. They set great store by that dog. A few times a day the housekeeper Candace sends Friedl into the back yard to do her doody. There\u2019s a hole under the fence. We want you to hop over to Friedl. Put Jilljill onto her. And in the house you and Friedl get hold of Treadle\u2019s psidot. It\u2019s called Wladimir. Like a black ladybug. It\u2019s connected to Treadle\u2019s lifebox in the Soviet KGB cloud.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe psidot is in the house sitting in a dish of water?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll see,\u201d\u009d goes Gee. \u201cI don\u2019t want you to be overthinking this. Don\u2019t want you to leave your game in the locker room.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cLike you\u2019ve ever played a sport in your life. Geek. You\u2019re saying I\u2019m supposed to grab Wladimir the psidot?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it. Once you get Wladimir into your mouth with Jilljill, she\u2019ll be on him like stink on shit.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre we sure Jilljill will win?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWladimir a first gen psidot. Somebody stole him from the Junker labs early on? But Jilljill has Molly\u2019s upgrades.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll crush Wladimir,\u201d\u009d puts Jilljill, delicately tough and confident. \u201cAnd I\u2019ll send a vortex thread down his throat and all the way to Treadle\u2019s lifebox in the KGB lab.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cStop walking now,\u201d\u009d Gee tells me. \u201cThe Popham mansion is right here.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks for that giant turd of an info dump, bro. A great load of knowledge. Now let me look around.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The Pophams have their garbage cans and a dumpster. I piss on them one by one, lifting Shrill Yelp\u2019s leg four times. Rationing my elixir. Odd that they\u2019d need a big dumpster.<\/p>\n

A calico cat in a red collar chances past. I run after her. I nearly catch her. She yowls. I love it. The cat disappears through a hole under the Pophams\u2019 white-painted wooden fence, which is a little rotten at the bottom. There\u2019s a dense, spreading pine tree overhead, covering the fence and part of the yard.<\/p>\n

I stick my nose through the hole and I sniff. The cat bats my snout with her paw. I growl really hard. She climbs onto the top of the fence and studies me, impassive and aloof. Her eyes are yellow. I claw at the hole in the fence to make it bigger. This is fun. How would it be if I were to inhabit a long succession of stupid, grubby dogs\u2014for years and years and years?<\/p>\n

\u201cCurtis!\u201d\u009d Gee still on my case.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re doing good. Make the hole bigger. But don\u2019t go into the yard until Friedl comes.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I claw at the fence, then bite into it and wag my head to tug off chunks. Pretty soon I can get my whole head through. The cat\u2019s on the back steps. I wonder if she lives here. Otherwise the yard is empty and nobody else is watching. Good luck to have that pine overhead. The satellite can\u2019t see me.<\/p>\n

The hole still isn\u2019t large enough, but I don\u2019t want get too obvious. So I dig at the damp dirt beneath it, doing a full-on dog thing, clawing with my front paws, and tossing the dirt back between my rear legs. As I work, my tail is tense and trembling.<\/p>\n

The dirt is black. It\u2019s full of decayed leaves and pill-bugs. It smells good. Pretty soon I\u2019ve made a nice little trough. When it\u2019s time, I can slip through. I settle down under a holly bush on the other side of the alley, out of sight.<\/p>\n

Before I know it, I\u2019ve fallen asleep. It\u2019s been a crazy day for me and for Shrill Yelp both. What kind of dreams do you have when you\u2019re a lifebox connected to a psidot connected to a dog?<\/p>\n

Well, I dream about chasing a rabbit. My legs twitch in my dream. Vintage dog action. Something odd about that rabbit<\/em>. She glows. She pauses and looks back at me. Her face is\u2014<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cPsst! Curtis!\u201d\u009d Fuckin Gee. He\u2019ll never leave me alone.<\/p>\n

I hear yipping, and I hear the jingling of collar tags. Friedl! Body low, I skulk over to the hole in the fence and peer through. There\u2019s Friedl, shiny in that greasy dachshund kind of way. She\u2019s a nice chestnut color, with fine features and golden highlights. She\u2019s in the middle of the lawn, slightly hunkered down to take a pee.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet ready,\u201d\u009d I teep to Jilljill. And then I feel Jilljill creeping out to the edge of my ear.<\/p>\n

I wriggle half-way through the hole in the fence, then pause, flat on my belly. Friedl goes on the defense. She barks staccato-style, her voice high. She makes a run at me, coming to a stop three feet away. She braces her legs, and lowers her head. Her barking grows more furious. The housekeeper\u2019s not bothering to come out. Probably Friedl has a fit like this every time she goes outside.<\/p>\n

I tense my muscles and spring. Friedl doesn\u2019t expect this. She\u2019s surprised how large I am. She squeals and turns to flee, but I\u2019m on her. I knock her onto her side. I rub my head against hers. Ear to ear.<\/p>\n

Jump cut.<\/p>\n

Jilljill is in Friedl\u2019s ear, and I\u2019m inside her body, I trot quietly towards the house. I sense that the cat is still watching me, but I can\u2019t quite see where she is. Never mind. My dachshund body language is, like, What barking? Me? Nothing going on here. <\/em>For his part, Shrill Yelp decides decided this a bad scene. He\u2019s goes out through the hole and down the alley.<\/p>\n

At first I can\u2019t get up the back porch steps, but then I relax and let Friedl do it. She knows how. She moves like a Slinky toy in reverse. If you know what that is. At the top, Friedl scratches the door. And here\u2019s the housekeeper, a sister in jeans and a turtleneck. Candace.<\/p>\n

She gives me a nice smile and hands me a dog treat\u2014a little baked biscuit in the shape of a bone. I savor the sensations of Friedl crunching it up. She she works the treat to her back teeth to apply real pressure, and she licks up the frags off the the gleaming hardwood floor.<\/p>\n

Studying what I can see of the kitchen through Friedl\u2019s eyes, I notice a restaurant-sized fridge and stove, plus a very wide and heavy-duty staircase leading to the basement. How many people live here?<\/p>\n

On this floor, I hear the rumble of voices from another room. A woman and two men. That second man\u2014his voice\u2014what the actual fuck? I trot down the hall and peer into the room.<\/p>\n

Yep. Ross Treadle is on a leather couch next to Chuck and Lucy Popham. All two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of him. I can smell him as soon as I trot in there. It\u2019s the same stench I picked up on when I was a wasp inside his shirt. Like rotting meat, with a tang of ammonia, and a whiff of cloves and halitosis.<\/p>\n

At the psychic level, an overwhelming aura of evil and bad vibes radiates off the man. Like the anti-light of a black-hole sun. It\u2019s all I can do to keep from pissing the floor.<\/p>\n

I go online and call for help. \u201cGee?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s a clone,\u201d\u009d says Gee. \u201cThe Treadlers were ready for our hit today. They grew the clone in a tank on Popham\u2019s lower level. Blank and ready. When Treadle died, it was just a matter of moving his psidot from the corpse to the clone.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou couldn\u2019t warn me before I got in here?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t want you tensing up. All you have to do is nip that psidot off the back of his neck. Jilljill will take it from there. And don\u2019t go all Cujo and try to rip out Treadle\u2019s throat.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m a dachshund, Gee.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re more than that. Be sure to stay cloaked. I\u2019ll tune out for awhile now. I wouldn\u2019t want them to notice me. You\u2019re going all the way in. It\u2019ll be hard.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re saying I might lose.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou won\u2019t, Curtis. Get hold of Treadle\u2019s psidot. Follow the thread to his lifebox. Bust it up.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cImprovise. Get out of here the best you can. Don\u2019t let them take you alive.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought I was immortal.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are, sure, but it might be\u2014intermittent. If you die, I\u2019ll set you up in a new psidot down the line.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cGot it.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou the man. You the king.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I waddle forward like I own the place, trying to stay calm. Probably Popham calls this room the library. Leather law books on shelves, Persian rug, crystal chandelier, a leather-topped table with pens and vintage chairs. Even a stained glass window depicting, I don\u2019t know, Saint Gold Bar Blesses the Honks.<\/p>\n

Lucy leans forward, slapping her hands on her thighs. \u201cCome here, girl! Come on, Friedl!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I scamper across the rug and leap onto Lucy\u2019s lap. I wriggle as I settle in. Lucy is next to Chuck Popham, who\u2019s next to the motherfucker I thought I\u2019d killed.<\/p>\n

The clone skin has a raw-dough look, like a cookie out of the oven too soon. His eyes are watery, not fully in focus. His expression is stony. I\u2019m guessing his psidot is still settling in, getting up to speed on the new meat.<\/p>\n

Gee said Treadle\u2019s psidot\u2019s is called\u2014Wladimir? Someone\u2019s bad joke. I can see the little bastard from my perch on Lucy\u2019s lap. A black, bean-sized sea slug on the nape of Treadle\u2019s neck.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m supposed to lunge up there and nip Wladimir of the neck and, I hope, keep him from taking over my dachshund body. Jilljill will help with that\u2014assuming I remember to move her to the inside of my mouth. When Jilljill touches Wladimir, she\u2019ll send a zap through him that erases Treadle\u2019s lifebox in KGB cloud-cuckoo-land. Or something like that. Or did Gee say I\u2019d have to go in there and do it myself? For sure I\u2019m going to die.<\/p>\n

I make myself limp and cuddly on Lucy Popham\u2019s lap. I breathe as slowly as I can. I tell myself I\u2019m a winner. And then, before I know it, I\u2019ve flipped into manic superhero fantasy land. I won\u2019t stop at just destroying Treadle\u2019s lifebox. I\u2019ll wipe out the the Treadle clone body as well. Even if I seem only to be\u2014a dachshund.<\/p>\n

Killing Treadle felt so good, I\u2019d hate to do it just once.
\n<\/em>
\nAs I loll and nestle and dream on Lucy\u2019s lap, Jilljill works her way out from beneath the flap of my ear, across my cheek, over my black lip, and into my mouth.<\/p>\n

The Treadle clone is talking to Chuck Popham. His voice is slow and blurred. I hear my name.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat Curtis Winch fellow. We have to eliminate his memorial site. Rabid un-American propaganda. Winch is a loser. A traitor. Scum. Human garbage.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou and I are out of the command loop for now, sir,\u201d\u009d says Chuck Popham. \u201cIt\u2019ll be different once you\u2019re back in office. We\u2019ll raise funds, build up our infrastructure, and start working through channels.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cFuck the channels,\u201d\u009d says Treadle. \u201cWe go public and I resume power. I didn\u2019t die. It was a hoax. We\u2019ll take it to the courts. I own the doctors and the judges..\u201d\u009d He shakes his massive head. \u201cSwearing in Mareek was a travesty.\u201d\u009d He slams his fist into his hand. \u201cUnconstitutional! I am the first three-term President.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about Franklin Delano Roosevelt?\u201d\u009d pipes up Lucy Popham. \u201cHe was elected to four <\/em>terms, Ross.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou shut up,\u201d\u009d says Treadle, his voice thick with rage. \u201cYou don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Lucy flashes a hard frown.<\/p>\n

\u201cLucy\u2019s right, Mr. President,\u201d\u009d Chuck Popham puts in. \u201cKeep in mind that you\u2019re our guest. This is Lucy\u2019s home. You need to show respect.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re a wimp,\u201d\u009d Treadle snaps at Popham. \u201cA lackey. An ass-kisser.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI understand that you\u2019re not yourself, Mr. President,\u201d\u009d says Popham. \u201cYou\u2019ll feel better soon.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I worm over to Chuck Popham\u2019s lap, whining and being all cuddly and flexible. And mainly I\u2019m getting closer to the back of Treadle\u2019s neck. By now, Jilljill is perched on the tip of my tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cMeow<\/em>.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Oh, god, it\u2019s the calico cat, coming in from the kitchen. Her yellow eyes fixate on me. As I focus on her, I pick up a faint teep signal. Fuck. Why didn\u2019t I notice that before? She\u2019s wearing an uvvy phone under her red collar. Someone\u2019s uses her for surveillance. And, um, this someone is the armed man right behind her. He\u2019s wearing one of Treadle\u2019s absurd private guard uniforms.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it, Captain Burke?\u201d\u009d asks Popham. \u201cWe\u2019re busy.\u201d\u009d Meanwhile Popham is steadily petting me. My presence soothes him.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s about your dog, sir,\u201d\u009d says Burke. \u201cAnother animal touched her. While she was in the yard. I saw it through the watch-cat.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou leave my Friedl alone,\u201d\u009d cries Lucy Popham. \u201cSee, Chuck? This is what we get from sticking with Treadle. We have insane foul clone, and a cabal of paranoid thugs in our basement. It\u2019s time to move on, dear. Like everyone else in the country.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I snuggle closer into Popham\u2019s belly, making myself warm, smooth, and lovable. Popham\u2019s hand continues running over me.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe dog appears unscathed by whatever encounter your cat seems to have witnessed,\u201d\u009d Popham tells the guard. He raises my ears one by one, peering inside. \u201cNo secret freal psidots to be seen. As you were, Captain Burke. Go back downstairs with the men.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Burke goes into the kitchen and boards the elevator with the cat.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood Friedl,\u201d\u009d says Popham, still caressing me. I think he\u2019s doing this to reassure his rattled wife.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t like that dog being next to me,\u201d\u009d grumbles Treadle. \u201cDogs are unclean.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, but look at her,\u201d\u009d says Popham in a teasing tone. I think he\u2019s about had it with Treadle too. He picks me up and holds me against his shoulder like a baby. \u201cFriedl is a cutie. I bet she wants to give you a kiss, Mr. President.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Things are going my way. I can skip the part about nipping the psidot off Treadle\u2019s neck. I\u2019ll just spit Jilljill out\u2014right on top of Wladimir. And let the best psidot win.<\/p>\n

I stretch out my neck as far as I can. Lucy Popham giggles. I angle my elegant snout and give the back of Treadle\u2019s neck a quick, wet lick, during which Jilljill detaches herself from me.<\/p>\n

Jump cut.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m in a zone of chaos\u2014experiencing the world from Jilljill\u2019s point of view. She and Wladimir are in a micro Sumo wrestling match on the back of Treadle\u2019s neck\u2014squeezing each other and pulsing energies back and forth: neural signals, gossip-molecule zaps, and raw quantum fields.<\/p>\n

In my cloud-based lifebox-mind, I visualize the fight as a 3D abstract painting with collaged-in scenes from my life and from Treadle\u2019s life, and maybe with a thunderstorm all around. And on top of all this, I begin to hear the whining of a tornado. And now I see it, a narrow whirlwind amid swirling detritus. A Zhabotinsky vortex thread.<\/p>\n

I go toward it. Something crude and stupid tries to get in my way. Wladimir. I see him as a boxy old tank with a cannon. But Jilljill\u2014Jilljill is a sleek, ultramodern jellyfish. She lays out Wladimir flat and begins to disassemble him.<\/p>\n

I slip inside the shrieking tornado. Its vortex thread carries me through the failing Wladimir\u2019s storm of perceptions, and outward to the psidot\u2019s source of power. It\u2019s a dowdy, concrete cube at the University of Moscow. No title on the building, no windows, only one door. The KGB research lab. I\u2019m inside it now, looking at a twinkling box of lights.Treadle\u2019s lifebox. Someone hands me a heavy fire axe. Who?<\/p>\n

It\u2019s a woman with a shining face. I saw her before, when I dreamed about chasing the\u2014<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Molly,\u201d\u009d she says. \u201cHurry the fuck up.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

A fried egg flies by my head, narrowly missing me, and a second one splats onto my face. It stings like acid. Molly wipes it off. I raise my axe and smash into Treadle\u2019s lifebox, hitting the construct over and over again\u2014until all the glass is broken, and all the lights are gone.<\/p>\n

The tornado slows. I drift through shoals of scattered Treadle memories, away from Moscow University, across the globe, back to Capitol Hill, and I merge with Jilljill. She\u2019s solidly fastened to Treadle\u2019s neck. No sign of Wladimir. Jilljill ate him and, to complete the scam, she\u2019s changed her coloring to look like the psidot she replaced.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m out of my fantasies and seeing through human eyes. I\u2019m sitting on the leather couch in Popham\u2019s library. I won. I killed Treadle\u2019s lifebox. My god.<\/p>\n

And now I\u2019m inside\u2014oh, fuck\u2014I\u2019m inside the clone of Treadle\u2019s body. How do I get out of here? I twitch my hand and clear my throat. That cute dachshund, my former host, what\u2019s her name\u2014Friedl! She\u2019s over in Lucy\u2019s lap. Popham is looking at me oddly.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you all right, Mr. President? I had no idea a dog kiss would affect you this way. A foolish joke. I apologize. \u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cRoss\u2019s clone is defective,\u201d\u009d says Lucy, her voice far from kind. \u201cHe had a seizure. I think you ought to put him down, Chuck. Can you hear me at all, Ross?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAh, yes,\u201d\u009d I manage.<\/p>\n

Do I know how to talk like Treadle? Well, maybe, approximately. After all, I\u2019m using his lungs and his vocal cords and his mouth cavity\u2014ugh! <\/em>My gorge rises. Keep it together, Curtis. If I\u2019m talking through Treadle\u2019s body, then I\u2019m bound to sound like him. Especially to idiots who are dumb enough to have ever been on his side.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hear you, Lucy Popham,\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cAnd, no, I did not have a fit. I\u2019m in perfect health. Where\u2019s my man Burke?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cBack downstairs,\u201d\u009d says Popham, exchanging a glance with his wife. \u201cWith the men.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m getting the inklings of a plan. \u201cHow many men are there?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cTwelve, sir. Remember? We call them your Apostles. Ready to die for our the Forever Treadles cause.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d\u009d I say. I\u2019m still riding high on having destroyed Treadle\u2019s lifebox. I\u2019ve killed him twice. And now kill him for a third and final time. I\u2019ll blow up his clone and his right-hand-man Popham and the frikkin twelve apostles. Where do I get a bomb?<\/p>\n

I have an idea, a wonderful crazy idea, but I\u2019ll to get some help. And this time I\u2019m not going to Gee.<\/p>\n

\u201cGyr?\u201d\u009d I silently say, as I mentally uncloak that channel alone.. \u201cCan you hear me?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cCurtis!\u201d\u009d She\u2019s laughing and happy, on a plane back to Denmark, it looks like. \u201cChanneling you, my man,\u201d\u009d she says. \u201cSecurity\u2019s good. You\u2019re a god.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI deign to entertain,\u201d\u009d I say, feeling rather proud of myself.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut you never fucked any of those other dogs,\u201d\u009d says Gyr. \u201cI was kind of expecting that.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome on, Gyr, I\u2019m asexual.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, you\u2019ll find your turn-on yet. I\u2019m sensing an unspoken question. Lay it on me, Mr. New American Hero.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy psidot\u2019s on Treadle\u2019s clone,\u201d\u009d I tell Gry. \u201cRight now. We\u2019re in the house of his friend. I want to blow the place up. And in the lab, you were explaining to me that the gossip molecules of a psidot\u2014they can grow chemicals inside the body of whoever\u2019s wearing the psidot.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cNeurochemicals,\u201d\u009d says Gyr. \u201cFor transmitting emotions. And where does this line of thought lead?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cI want to fill Treadle with nitroglycerin,\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cA fat-man chunk of dynamite. Jolt him and he goes off.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cNitroglycerin is also a medicine,\u201d\u009d says Gyr, going off on a boring science tangent. \u201cIt lowers the blood pressure. Treadle will faint before he explodes. He\u2019ll collapse.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll work fast and load him to the gills with nitro before he falls,\u201d\u009d I tell Gyr. \u201cHe\u2019ll land with a thud.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

Gyr has ordered herself a fresh glass of champagne. \u201cThis is wonderful, Curtis.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo do you know the chemical formula for nitro?\u201d\u009d I ask. \u201cCan you figure out how to make the right kinds of Zhabotinsky quantum vortices?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cA prize problem,\u201d\u009d says Gyr, looking interested. \u201cWorthy of the wetware engineering Olympics.\u201d\u009d She pauses briefly in thought. \u201cYes,\u201d\u009d she says. \u201cYes I can do it. But, Curtis\u2014\u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about you. In Jilljill on the Treadle clone\u2019s neck. You\u2019re very courageous. Twice in one day!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cGee claims he\u2019ll keep bringing me back.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, yes,\u201d\u009d says Gyr, nodding. \u201cNot so hard. As long as your lifebox stays intact. But even so. I admire you, Curtis.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood to hear that,\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cI mean to finish this job. Wipe out every trace of Treadle.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m glad I\u2019m not your enemy, Curtis.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI almost love you, Gyr. What if I came back as a woman?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, I\u2019m waiting for Molly,\u201d\u009d she says with a laugh.<\/p>\n

\u201cI saw her!\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cForgot to tell you. When I went to destroy Treadle\u2019s lifebox. Molly was made of light.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid she say anything to you?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe said, \u201d\u02dcHurry the fuck up<\/em>.\u2019\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cGood advice,\u201d\u009d says Gyr, laughing again. \u201cI\u2019ll make the template, and you get back to scamming your new friends.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

The conversation goes a lot faster than it looks when it\u2019s written out. Even so, it does take awhile. As I pull myself back into focus, back here on the leather couch in Chuck Popham\u2019s little library, I realize I\u2019ve been making a truly senile droning sound with my Treadle mouth for the last few minutes. Drool all over my shirt. I\u2019m like a stroke victim on his way out. I sit up straight and try to look alert. Chuck Popham looks quizzical.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have an idea,\u201d\u009d I tell him. \u201cYou and Lucy are showing signs of discontent.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, we\u2019re fine,\u201d\u009d insists Popham. Even now, in my reduced state, he\u2019s still scared of me. But Lucy isn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d\u009d says Lucy. \u201cFrankly, I\u2019d to see you and your little band of storm troopers out of here, Ross.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d\u009d I say. \u201cThat\u2019s exactly what I plan. In fact I\u2019m about to go downstairs and tell the men. Chuck, maybe you can come with me. But the details, Lucy, the details of what I\u2019ll be telling them\u2014highly confidential. I wonder if you could go outside.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll stay up here,\u201d\u009d she says with a shrug. \u201cYou\u2019ll be downstairs. I don\u2019t particularly care what you tell your men. I\u2019m not interested.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI want you outside,\u201d\u009d I tell her, putting some of that bullying Treadle anger into my voice. \u201cYou, and the housekeeper, and your dog. The three of you outside. Way outside. On the other side of the street.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s completely insane,\u201d\u009d Lucy says to Chuck. \u201cIs there a way you can turn him off?<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, if I could get to his psidot, I\u2019d be able to,\u201d\u009d says Chuck.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you dare!\u201d\u009d I yell, jumping to my feet. I go into the kitchen and holler down the stairs. \u201cMen! I\u2019m coming down there. Present arms. And, you, Lucy, out of the house!\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo ridiculous,\u201d\u009d says Lucy. She carries Friedl out through the kitchen. \u201cCandace? Did you hear?\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cI heard plenty,\u201d\u009d says the housekeeper. \u201cAnd I don\u2019t need no more. I quit.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

\u201cAny chance I can come with you?\u201d\u009d asks Lucy.<\/p>\n

The two women laugh, walk down the front stairs together, and head off down the block.<\/p>\n

\u201cReady,\u201d\u009d says Gyr in my head.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo on ahead down the stairs,\u201d\u009d I tell Chuck Popham. \u201cI\u2019ll come in a second.\u201d\u009d<\/p>\n

I drink a big glass of water from the kitchen sink. Listening down the from the Treadle clone\u2019s body, I can feel the nitro taking effect. Coming on very strong and fast. Already I\u2019m getting faint. I limp over to stand at the head of stairs. A good long flight. Plenty of room to bounce. I lurch forward as the full wave of faintness hits.<\/p>\n

Jump cut.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

[That\u2019s all for now! As I said, this story is an excerpt of my novel-in-progress <\/em>Teep. And note that I am<\/em> not advocating real-world violence. We have a much better way to avoid this alternate future. Blue landslide! Please vote in November, 2020.<\/em>]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Copyright \u00a9 Rudy Rucker, 2020. All rights reserved. In 2019 I posted a shorter version of “Juicy Ghost” on my blog. The shorter version also appeared in\u00a0 the excellent ezine Big Echo, and as a podcast on Rudy Rucker Podcasts. I wrote this longer version of “Juicy Ghost” in Fall, 2020, with the scary US […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12956","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12956","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12956"}],"version-history":[{"count":41,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12956\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13318,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12956\/revisions\/13318"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12956"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12956"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.rudyrucker.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12956"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}