They fell together.
Sparky had leapt from the stolen Faceworld ship—which rolled over like a sick whale and then exploded into a screeching ball of fire—and landed on a GoogolSoft spaceboat before hopping to another spaceboat further down and then atop the heads of confused Virus-Killers. From there, with his powerful churning robo-legs, the Wonder Weasel ran from Virus-Killer to Virus-Killer, bounding across them the way a flat stone skips across smooth water.
He saw the geyser up ahead. He smelled the stink of information. Grebok mumbled. Chuckles screamed. Gunther said something sexist.
He leapt into the open hole.
Heat. Stench. Data.
Yes, they fell together.
But they landed alone.
•••
Godwin gazed at the epic Lucite cube in front of him. This was the housing for the search engine, the one so highly-prized by the now extinct (if his protective echelon did their job) Cenobium of Stuffist Precept. The sensitive crystalline filaments picked up information—Truth, so it was said—from all the molecules of the Infi-Net and outside it, drawing them here, into this repository of infinite wisdom.
From his pocket he removed a pair of white leather gloves, and slid them on.
He had to find a way in.
He had to find the search engine.
Then – well, he was going to eat it. Provided it was small enough, of course. If it wasn’t, then he’d strap it to his back. Or cut open his head and cram it into his brain. Or ride it like a jet ski. Whatever it took. Brin wouldn’t like it, obviously. This wasn’t the plan. The plan was, get the search engine, bring it to Brin. Then Brin said he had “other designs” for it. Something about the captive Astromobile.
But, Brin wasn’t here. Doctor Godwin was. End of story.
Godwin’s value would increase a thousandfold if he made the search engine part of his body.
Now, to find a way in.
Except, just then—
A clatter. A clamor. The tinkling of broken filaments, the krish and crash of noise above.
Godwin took some steps back to try to see what was happening.
His binary blue eyes blinked, and he was just in time to see a plummeting bundle of morons come crashing through the cavern ceiling, hurtling toward the Lucite cube. Screaming all the while, like ninnies. One of them appeared quite hairy. Another pale. He saw a flash of blonde hair, and a tangle of dark locks. They fell ten feet, a hundred feet, then thrice that –
Until they crashed through the very top of the Lucite cube.
•••
WELCOME TO STUFFOPEDIA, a computer-generated voice said, THE FREE INFI-NET ENCYCLOPEDIA WITH ACCESS TO ALL THE STUFF YOU NEED.
Grebok leapt to his feet. Everything was black, deeper than the darkness of space.
Just in case he was being attacked by shadow monkeys or ghost mimes, he punched and kicked a number of times. His fists and feet found no purchase.
YOU ARE GREBOK, SON OF DROGMAR, KEEPER OF THE SEVEN KEYS OF VENTOOZLAR.
“True,” Grebok said, panting. “Score one for you, mysterious voice.”
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW YOUR BIOGRAPHY?
“No, I think I know that part. I have other questions.”
HOLD ON, I’M NOT DONE. WOULD YOU LIKE YOUR BIORHYTHM?
“My bio-who-now?”
BIORHYTHM. FROM THE GREEK, BIORHUTHMOS. PLOTTED ON A GRAPH, A BIORHYTHM ENDEAVORS TO OFFER PREDICTIVE INFORMATION REGARDING YOUR PHYSICAL, EMOTIONAL AND INTELLECTUAL SPHERES. IT IS CONSIDERED PSEUDOSCIENCE BY MANY.
Grebok narrowed his eyes. “I sure like science, so I expect pseudo-science is even cooler. Also, spheres, I’ve always really liked spheres. So much better than dumb ol’ circles.”
NOW, YOUR BIORHYTHM! PHYSICALLY, YOU RATE HIGH. YOU ARE A ROPY LAD WITH FISTS OF STEEL.
“Thank you! Though, really, Chuckles is the one with the steel fist, now—“
INTELLECTUALLY, YOU ARE VERY STUPID. YOU ARE THE MENTAL EQUIVALENT OF A VIOLENT WOMBAT. YOUR INTELLIGENCE IS NEARING DANGEROUS, SUBHUMAN LEVELS.
Grebok blinked. “Ouch. I guess I kinda knew it, but when you say it aloud like that it sounds worse than it probably really is. That’s okay.”
EMOTIONALLY, YOU’RE APPROACHING THE LEVEL OF A MULE-KICKED FOUR-YEAR-OLD WITH ATTENTION-DEFICIT-DISORDER. YOUR IDEA OF LOVE IS PUERILE AND BUILT OFF OF IMPOSSIBLE NOTIONS. YOU FIND THAT OTHER PEOPLE HAVE A HARD TIME CONNECTING WITH YOU. WHEN THINGS DON’T GO YOUR WAY, YOU PREFER TO HIT THEM WITH YOUR HEAD, OR IGNORE THEM ENTIRELY!
All those things were true.
Grebok never had them laid out for him like that.
He pictured R.T. at that asshole rest-stop. He pictured the crumpled up piece of paper with the bloody heart on it. He pictured that little blip on the radar before it zipped away. That really was her. And she probably saw their radar blip, and fled for the far corners of this crazy new universe. Just to get away from his violent, idiot, love-dumb sensibilities.
He was struck by all of it. His stomach felt sour. His bowels, tight.
THAT WAS YOUR BIORHYTHM, the voice continued. NOW, WOULD YOU LIKE TO BECOME SMARTER?
He thought about it.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Yes, I really would.”
•••
“Biorhythm,” Chuckles said, stewing the word around his mouth. “From the Latin. Bio, meaning, to have to urinate. Rhythm, meaning music. Interesting that this is what you’d offer me, faceless voice. I’ll admit, I have a little rhythm. I can play ‘Hot Cross Buns’ on the lute. I can trumpet a lusty tune on my skin flute that makes all the ladies want to dance. Know what I mean? Skin flute? Huh? How’s about it?”
He elbowed the darkness and winked.
SKIN FLUTE, the voice said. A TIRED EUPHEMISM FOR THE PENIS.
The Avatar scowled. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Just gimme the goddamn biorhythm already.”
NOW, YOUR BIORHYTHM! PHYSICALLY, YOU ARE A STRAPPING MAN WITH A POWERFUL BEARD.
That sounded right to him. Chuckles nodded, and stroked his beard as a reward. “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm.”
INTELLECTUALLY, YOU ARE AT THE LEVEL OF A ONE-EYED RACCOON FUMBLING THROUGH DEADLY GARBAGE.
He thought it over, then finally nodded. “I see where you’re going with that. Sounds good. Raccoons are pretty smart creatures, what with those little grabby hands and all. Plus, if he’s got one eye, he’s probably double-smart – it’s like how blind people can smell super-good. You get one eye, you have to compensate, and so you get smarter.” He tapped his temple, as if to emphasize the location of one’s excess smartness. “Finally, deadly garbage. Well, sure. Duh. The smart raccoon knows that the best treats lurk in the deadliest garbage. This is all right in line with what I expected you’d say.”
EMOTIONALLY, the voice continued, YOU ARE A CEASELESS BLOWHARD WHO REFUSES TO ACCEPT THE REALITIES AROUND HIM, THOSE REALITIES BEING: ONE, YOU ARE LARGELY FRIENDLESS, POSSESSING ONLY ONE FRIEND, A FRIEND NAMED GREBOK WHO IS THE MENTAL EQUIVALENT OF A VIOLENT WOMBAT. TWO, YOU’RE NOT GOOD WITH WOMEN, HAVING TO PAY THEM TO SPEND MORE THAN TEN MINUTES WITH YOU. THREE, WHEN YOU ENCOUNTER ANYTHING THAT CHALLENGES YOUR WORLDVIEW, YOU DISMISS IT OUT OF HAND OR TRY TO STAB IT!
“I have friends,” Chuckles said.
LORD CHUCKLES HAS ONLY GREBOK AS A FRIEND!
“No! No. What about Sparky?”
SPARKY ENJOYS THE COMPANY OF NO ONE EXCEPT GUNTHER P. WASHINGTON.
“Right! Gunther. What about Gunther?”
GUNTHER THINKS YOU’RE MEAN TO HIM. HE STILL CONSIDERS YOU A COLLEAGUE, THOUGH, WHICH IS BETTER THAN YOU DESERVE.
“I oughta fuckin’ stab you,” the Avatar spat, and whisked out his hand-blade and started slicey-slicing the black nothing in front of him. “C’mere! I’ll cut you!”
SEE? DISMISS, THEN STAB.
Finally, the Avatar tired himself, and sat down in the darkness.
“I have only one friend,” he said. “Even Gunther doesn’t like me, and Gunther likes everybody. I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life, aren’t I?”
PREDICTIVE ELEMENTS SUGGEST YES, THOUGH I WILL REMIND YOU THAT THIS IS CASUALLY DISMISSED AS PSEUDOSCIENCE BY ANYBODY OF SOME INTELLIGENCE.
“That means it’s all true,” Chuckles said. “I… I don’t know what to do now.”
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BECOME SMARTER?
He shrugged. What else did he have? “I guess so. Whatever.”
•••
WELCOME TO STUFFOP—
“Can it,” Sparky hollered.
YOU ARE SPARKY, THE WON—
“No duh, jerkoff.”
WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW YOUR BIOG—
“Nope.”
SERIOUSLY? WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR YOUR BIORHYTH—
“Not a chance.”
Silence.
ARE YOU SU—
“I will shit weasel pellets into your non-existent mouth if you ask me one more stupid question. I’m here for information. I need to know what the Sweet Molly Bejeezus is going on around here, and you’re going to tell me, because if you don’t, I will use my big-ass robot legs to—“
WOULD YOU LIKE TO BECOME SMARTER?
Sparky was taken aback. “Yeah, that actually sounds about right. Let’s do it, darkness.”
•••
Godwin still hadn’t found a way in.
He had considered climbing up the pegs and strings to get to the top, but just as he was about to start his ascent, the cube started to thrum.
And glow with purple, bruise-colored light.
SEARCH ENGINE ACTIVE, boomed a computer voice that reverberated across the wide cavern.
“What is going on?” Godwin asked, seething.
SMARTNESS PROTOCOL, ENGAGED.
All the strings erupted with white light and a cracking hiss of static.
