“You want the full terawatt, Cobb?”
“You know it,” said Cobb, growing a funnel up out of his chest. Randy poured the glittering dust of the quantum dots into the old man moldie. “Thanks,” said Cobb. “That helps; but I’ve just about had it with this planet. People are so—did my stink-eater bug catch on at least?”
“It did,” said Randy. “Big-time. People and moldies are gettin’ along better all the taahm. It’s just the men fighting each other that’s ruining things. As for me personally—I got such a good thing goin’ with Babs I can’t hardly remember what I used to see in bein’ a cheeseball. Leave Cobb alone, Willa Jean, run on inside.” Randy pushed Willa Jean away from Cobb and toward the warehouse door. “Everyone’s grateful to you, Cobb. But what’s this about you bein’ tired? We was expectin’ you to run for mayor.”
“No,” said Cobb. “I’m ready to move further on. Politics should die. Politics used to be about dividing up scarce resources—and nothing’s scarce anymore. With the allas here, politics is just about hatred and war. Want to know why I’m so bummed all of a sudden? Guess what I heard on my uvvy just as I touched down? People have started throwing kiloton bombs.”
“Nukes?” asked Randy. “I thought—”
“Conventional explosives,” said Cobb. “If you ask it to, an alla can make you a thousand ton cube of TNT. Some people just realized. Most of downtown Jerusalem’s gone. And now I’m hearing”—Cobb sighed. “Baghdad too.”
“We should block the allas from making weapons,” said Randy.
“But what’s a weapon?” said Cobb. “Gasoline is a weapon. Oxygen and hydrogen. Acid. Even a rock is a weapon if you drop it from high in the sky. I think we should tell the Metamartians to tell Om to take away the allas.”
“I saw their saucer in the sky over Oakland earlier today,” said Randy. “And then they darted away. I bet they were going to the Mideast. Jerusalem and Baghdad got flattened?”
“Yes,” said Cobb.
“What should I do?”
“Live your life, however much of it’s left for you. Marry Babs.”
“Hold still,” said Joke, leaning forward to touch up Yoke’s eye makeup. The twin sisters had always preferred using each other to using mirrors.
“There,” said Joke. “Perfect.” She leaned back and smiled. The two of them were in a bridal dressing room off the Fairmont Hotel’s top-floor ballroom. It was almost time for the wedding. Yoke could hear music; Saint and some of his friends were brain-playing ancient flute motets on sheets of imipolex-with hints of heavy metal. “I’m glad we’re doing this on Earth,” said Joke. “It’s so pretty down here. If only things don’t keep getting worse. The heavy gravity is good for a ceremony. It makes everything seem solemn.” Joke moved her arms in slow, marching motions. “Are you stoked?”
“You like Phil, don’t you, Joke?”
“He’s great. That blond hair and dark chin—yummy. And he looks at you like he’s so in love. Emul and Berenice approve too.” Thanks to some unfortunate wetware meddling, Joke had been born with two pushy robots’ minds coded into the right hemisphere of her brain. It made her very knowledgeable, but her spatial perception was lousy. “They, um, did some research on him.”
“Do I want to know?” asked Yoke.
“It’s all good,” said Joke. “Emul says Phil has a clean criminal record and he’s exactly who he says he is. And Berenice says Phil’s genome is not only mutation-free, but a very good fit for ours. I mean yours. So I wanted to tell you. Sorry.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” said Yoke. “I’ve abandoned any hope of privacy—at least for today. What a circus.”
“And here comes the clown!” said Yoke. A hard-looking man was peeking in the dressing room door. Their father, Whitey Mydol. He had a Mohawk strip of hair that went down the back of his head and continued on into his shirt collar. And over the shirt he was wearing a tuxedo. “I’ll go check on Ma,” said Joke, and moved out of the way; the tiny dressing room was only big enough for two people.
“Clown is right,” said Whitey, his rough face splitting in a surprisingly pleasant smile. “I’m walking funny. How many days did it take you to get used to this gravity, Yoke?”
“Three, four weeks. Hi, Pop. How do I look?”
“You look—oh, Yoke, you look like an angel. You remind me of Darla—back when. She says our twenty-fifth anniversary is coming up this month.”
“Are you being nice to her, Pop?”
“What a question!” Whitey shifted uneasily, looking too big for the tiny, white-upholstered bride’s room. “Don’t worry about us, Yoke, things are better. I was bad, but I’m being good again. Anyway, it’s me who should be asking you things. Like are you totally sure you want to marry Phil? I can get you out of it if you want.” He cracked his scarred knuckles as if thinking about a fight.
“I’m doing this,” said Yoke firmly. “Are you with me or not?”
“For sure.” Whitey ran his hand back and forth over his head, fluffing his Mohawk. This was the first time Yoke had ever seen him wearing a shirt and suit coat, let alone a tuxedo. “I just thought it’s the kind of thing a father’s supposed to ask. Phil’s a good man. And we’ve already paid for the room.” He gave a grim chuckle. ‘Might as well do it, then, before some dook sets off a bomb. How do we know when to march up the aisle?”
“When the music changes.” And then it did.
“Here Comes the Bride,” said Whitey, holding out his arm.
In the little hallway, they found Babs and Stahn, coming out of their own dressing room. While Yoke’s dress was a sleek sheath of silk with a tulle veil, Babs had gone “smart art”; her dress and hair were alive with slowly moving pearl DIM heads.
The Fairmont owners had alla-remodeled the top-floor hall-room with a gorgeous parquet wood floor and white silk-covered walls winking with little diamonds. There were dozens of floor-to-ceiling windows, all flung wide-open to let in the gentle June breeze. The sweetness of it caught in Yoke’s throat. If only the world could stop its downward spiral. Five more cities had been blown up in the past four weeks.
The chairs were arranged so that the ballroom’s aisle was double wide; that way Yoke, Whitey, Babs, and Stahn could walk up side by side, with nobody first and nobody second. Waiting up in front by the windows were Randy and Phil, standing on either side of—Cobb Anderson.
It had developed that none of the four betrothed had a close enough church affiliation to know of a particular minister to use. So Cobb had quickly picked up a Gimmie justice-of-the-peace license and offered to perform the ceremony himself. The old man moldie claimed he was tired, but he still loved to put himself at the center of things. Randy was thrilled to be getting married by his great-grandfather, and Babs didn’t mind. As for Yoke and Phil, they too were glad to have Cobb supervise this religious ceremony-for had not each of the three seen the same Divine SUN?
Though it was a beautiful service, the time seemed to pass in funny spurts. Everything was crawling while they were walking up the aisle. This was the part Yoke had always visualized as a little girl thinking about weddings. Walking up the aisle in your bridal gown. It was almost as if she could feel her own eyes watching her. The man at the end of the aisle had always been vague, but now, today, he was clear. Dear Phil. Then things speeded up, and suddenly Yoke and Phil were saying “I will” and “I do.” Time all but stopped for the ring part and the kiss. Phil had a brand-new ring for Yoke, which was good. Babs and Randy’s vows happened in fast-forward; Yoke didn’t hear a word of them. And then they were walking out in slow motion and it felt to Yoke like something she had done a hundred times before.
The waiters cleared the chairs away and set out big tables that they filled with alla-made food; Phil and Babs had made up the designs for the wedding feast. Darla was one of the first to hug Yoke, and then Whitey and Joke. And then Yoke hugged Randy and Babs.