by Ernest Hogan
"Building Security, we have some unwanted visitors in the hall on the third floor. Please get rid of them."
"Are they ambulatory or incapacitated?"
"Incapacitated."
"Would you like to press the usual charges?"
"Yes."
"A unit is being dispatched."
"Thank you."
The elevator door opened.
A huge robot shaped like an antique Volkswagen Beetle rolled out on soft tractor treads. Lights flashed and hardware clicked as its sensors registered the sleeping Earth Angels. Three articulated tentacles unreeled, took hold of the Earth Angels with soft claws, and pulled them onto the robot's shell.
It then rolled back into the elevator.
*
Ralph couldn't believe what he was seeing on the proactive security system monitor. "El Lay, it's so paranoid."
"I prefer to think of it as street smart," said Caldonia. "So, what are we gonna do about the real problem?"
"What problem?" Phoebe was dreamily staring at images of Smokey on four screens.
"You know what problem, Phoebe-babe." Caldonia's patience was failing, she wasn't even going to give Phoebe any slack. "Smokey."
"He's more like the solution." Phoebe didn't take her eyes off the screens.
Caldonia ignored that. ". . . and those xau-xau Earth Angels."
"How'd I ever let myself get mixed up in this?" Ralph said, eyes turned to the ceiling, where he noticed for the first time a mural of an elaborate recombocultural pantheon.
"Humans often have no control of their fate," said Tan Tien.
"But we can do our damnedest to try to take control," said Caldonia.
"That's one way of putting it," said Zobop.
Xochitl strained for the English words. "What can we do?"
Tan Tien smiled softly and stood up. Even though she was barely five feet, she seemed to tower over the others. "First, I will contact my friend Director Ho to see if we can access more power and memory from the police computer system."
*
Just hearing the name 'Earth Angels' got Director Ho mad. "Yes, I've heard of them. They give us decent monotheists a bad name. And trying to make a computer simulation of God Almighty is blasphemy! I'll see you get what you need."
*
"Now." Tan Tien sat down at a workstation. "While the rest of you keep track of our friend Tezcatlipoca/Smokey Espejo . . ."
"My pleasure," said Phoebe, now watching Smokey on seven screens.
". . . I'll see if there's any way to break into the Earth Angels' communication net and see if they have started making the AI version of their god."
*
The chip with the god-simulating program has been delivered to one of our computer laboratories. We are installing it into one of our most powerful computers. The cybernetic manifestation of the One True God has begun. May God have mercy on our souls.
19. THE BIG COUNTDOWN
So, how about that Smokey Espejo? Ain't he just the sumatoest being on this hazy, crazy planet? The way he cut the crap and just gave us net jocks copies of his new, now, novaing number, "Smoking Mirror Blues" Whooooooo! He's not all caught up with yupster/corporate concerns like profit margins and keeping track of who he's letting in what door, like that xau-xau Mr. President Jones who's stonewalling big time about the latest scandal. Smokey has opened all the doors! All over the mediasphere! All over the world! Whooooooo! And the way that song makes you feel! Whoooooo! We're really onto something, recombozos and recombozoettes. Something that we've all been yearning for ever since day one of the year 2000 when we woke up with the aftertaste of the twentieth century burning our nervous systems, wondering – well, what now? What next? Where do we go from here? Well, take it from Eegah, Smokey knows, and he's showing us all the way, and he's giving it the personal high-touch. He actually called me, Eegah, when he gave Aud Viz Fiz "Smoking Mirror Blues" and had some personal advice for me – are we ready to replay that? Okay:
" . . . and another thing Eegah, I like that scarification thing you've got on your shoulders, but I don't think you've taken it quite far enough. After all it's a recombozoid, trimili thing we're all trying to do here, and the whole body modification movement has bogged down in recent years since just about everybody has parents with tattoos and pierced noses these days. I think you should provide an example for your fans and mine, Eegah, and go for facial scarification, like some of the gangsters and more daring arty types are starting to do. A high-class net jock like you could make this sort of thing high fashion!"
Well, you could imagine how I felt about that, this here face being my fortune, but then this is Smokey – the man himself who set off this Dead Daze right by sacrificing a live gangster right before the eyes of the world! So, you know what, recombozos and recombozoettes? I'm a-gonna do it. I've made an appointment with the marvelous Madam Styrsky – Hollywood's most talented scarification artist – to come and made some fabulous additions to this pretty face, live and on-line here on Aud Viz Fiz, within the hour! So stay tuned in!
Meanwhile, let's have another listen to that "Smoking Mirror Blues" again. Whooooooo! Just can't get enough!
*
Though not doing as well as Quetzalcóatl would have, Tezcatlipoca managed to keep the business end of things under control: The publicity machineries were cranking away throughout the mediasphere and spilling out onto the streets all over the planet; the logistics and legalities for the satellite concert were being worked, and even the Novacorp executives understood that the giveaway of "Smoking Mirror Blues" was just a way to insure bigger profits later on.
And it was to his advantage that they didn't realize just what kind of profits he was talking about.
"You mean profit or prophet?" one Novacorp vice-president, a euro with a spectacular crop of moss green dredlocks, said, then laughed.
Smokey's experiences with groupies had taught Tezcatlipoca how to deal with business executives. The behavior of the two types were essentially the same – checking both types for transmittable diseases was always a must. And it didn't matter if a human was climbing a corporate ladder or trying to suck a famous cock – it was all desire, and a trickster can play with desire like no human can imagine.
*
"No luck in trying to crack the Earth Angel Net," said Tan Tien. "The entire mediasphere denies the existence of such a thing. Most curious."
"Yes," said Zobop with wicked smile. "Maybe God is on their side."
Nobody laughed.
*
The sight of the SoCal hills floating in a sea of smog, tinted with the beginnings of a technicolor sunset, enthralled Smokey through the window of the United Hemisphere Goliath Superload helicopter. The aliens had made the Aztlán into such a strange world, like the other planets that he kept hearing about through the mediasphere. How could they have changed things so much? What had happened to all the thirteen heavens and the nine hells? Where did the souls of these alien/humans go when they died?
"We are making our final approach to the Anaheim Hills," the pilot's voice blasted over the intercom.
It could barely be heard over music spilling out of several blastboxes: "Smoking Mirror Blues," plus some found street music that Lobo had caught with his pocket sampler around town, that were becoming the mutating fetus of a new, expanded dance version of the song that was changing the world. Under that noise buzzed the sound of several conversations between Tricksters, Olvidadoids, groupies and/or executives. Laughter mixed with the slurpy clatter of the Okamoto cybercocktail unit spitting out drinks, and the pop-suck-lick of Fun being sucked. This was a flying party.
But back in the mediasphere, and Smokey's head, business was being taken care of. All the deals were being cleared. Orders for the pay-per-view of the concert were coming in like a ravenous horde of marbunta ants. The hardware at Beto's conapt was secure. Mario Li, the limo driver, reported that the action at Hollywood and Vine had dissolved along with the Peace Foam, and he was taking the limo to the old B
ank of America Building. Three guards and three enforcers had been killed, but then nothing was ever accomplished without a little human sacrifice. He didn't care about the Earth Angels trying to make a monotheistic god – the very idea of a One True God was absurd.
Besides, being a god without other gods around was terribly lonely.
His brother Quetzalcóatl would certainly agree.
Smokey was feeling proud, though. He was handling it all without any help from Quetzalcóatl. Still, it would be nice to have his brother around, to tease, to help Tezcatlipoca test his trickster ideas by seeing if they properly outraged Mr. Culture, Law, and Reason. Tezcatlipoca hated to admit it, but there was a place for that kind of anal-retentive thinking. Without a civilization to disrupt, how can you be a proper savage?
Soon he could see the Anaheim Hills rising up, growing larger as huge ravens, hawks, and restored California condors adjusted their flight paths to avoid the Goliath's turbulent wake, yet still take advantage of evening thermals. He had gleaned from his mediaspheric negotiations that the Anaheim Hills were an area that had been intended to be a place for yuppizoids who couldn't afford luxury homes in Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Bel Air and other wealthy sectors in the heart of L.A. Unfortunately, yupdom had crashed as the turn-of-the-millennium had come around; the Anaheim Hills were susceptible to fire, and the yuppoids wanted pretentious mansions that reflected what they thought was a more civilized life in a colder climate that included wood-shingle roofs that go off like molotov cocktails in a firestorm. Combine that with the fact that the mansions were all cheap, slapped-together monstrosities, and the twenty-first century had seen quite a different scene in this neighborhood.
Smokey smiled as he saw Olvidadoid lookouts stopping cars at the roadblocks he had ordered. The lookouts then waved the cars through – they must have been customers going to the Funhouse down the hill from the mansion that was to become Smokey's new headquarters.
Since these overpriced firetraps weren't wanted as homes, the Anaheim Hills had become SoCal's center for large scale illegal drug manufacturing, illegal software and implant factories, illegal night clubs, gang hangouts, houses of prostitution, unlicensed body modification clinics, "behavioral art galleries" and/or do-it-yourself porno studios, and other such establishments. Nobody complained at the lack of fire safety or police protection. Every now and then the trite term "temporary autonomous zone" was used, then someone else would laugh.
As the Goliath touched down on the helipad that was tacked onto the hillside, Smokey looked beyond the swimming pool to the dirty, white structure that had been freshly rebuilt to be rented out to an unnamed corporate entity for a month-long party, and felt at home.
*
The ad for the concert was on several of the Ti-Yong/Hoodoo infosystem screens.
Caldonia said, "Looks like that Smokey/Beto/Texawhatis is trying to hypnotize the world."
"Do something," said Xochitl, "we must."
"Yeah," said Caldonia, "but what, short of killing Beto? Which wouldn't be a bad idea!"
Xochitl looked sad.
"I was just kidding about that." Caldonia winked.
Tan Tien looked serious. "We must be careful and clever. These things are complex."
"Yes," said Zobop. "An AI of this kind, like a spirit, can be in several places at once."
"Kind of makes them hard to sneak up on," said Ralph.
"Precisely," said Tan Tien. "That was very perceptive of you, Ralph. We have some options, but the Tezcatlipoca entity will not be cooperative."
"It will defend itself," said Zobop.
"More like fight for its life," said Caldonia.
"We can hope he has much on his mind," said Xochitl.
"I wonder if he's thinking about me," said Phoebe, looking at Smokey's image on all those screens.
*
Mario Li didn't like going into buildings to pick up a rider. Especially during Dead Daze. He could get killed taking unnecessary risks, and if he survived and his wife found out about it, she'd kill him. There had just been an officially recognized riot-situation at Hollywood and Vine, and the old Bank of America Building had been re-rebuilt for Hollywood street life; who knew what would be waiting for him there?
He reached over to the keyboard next to the wheel and punched in the code that was supposed to be a secret line to Smokey. He braced himself to being put on hold. A busy, big-shot like Mr. Smokey Espejo wouldn't be sitting around in an office waiting for people to call him like some clueless bureaucrat – he was probably making videos or practicing on that funny drum of his.
With a crackle of static, Smokey's face appeared on the tiny screen. "What do you want, Mario?" he said. "Are you having more trouble picking up Phoebe?"
Mario was caught off guard. He was impressed at being called by his first name. "I'll say. The cops just came to the old Bank of America Building and dragged out a bunch of bodies. I ain't going in there without armed back-up."
Smokey laughed. "I like your attitude Mario, but armed back-up would be lacking in subtlety."
"So what am I supposed to do, wait here until she walks out?"
Smokey grinned. "I'll arrange that!"
The screen went blank.
Mario leaned back. He had finally been put on hold after all. He didn't care. The money was still flowing his way.
*
Phoebe wasn't following what the others were talking about like it was so xau-xau important. All she could do was think about Smokey. Chingow, he was so sumato! It looked like he was going to be the biggest star of the new era – and he liked her! His picture kept popping up on all the infosystem screens, and she couldn't keep her eyes away.
Suddenly one of the screens got all static-y. That little image of Smokey looked directly at her and winked.
She almost died.
"Phoebe," he said.
"Oh, how utterly sumato! Are you really talking to me?"
"Yes Phoebe, I am."
"How can you do this?"
"I told you I am a god."
"That's so sumato."
"I want you, Phoebe."
She didn't say anything. She just froze with her big, blue eyes as wide as they could be.
"Come to me."
Phoebe gasped, then after a deep breath, said, "How? Where?"
"There's a limo waiting in front of the building. The driver will bring you to me."
She was out the door before anyone noticed.
*
"The key may lie in the entity's personality," said Tan Tien. "If we can just come up with something that will distract it."
"Tezcatlipoca is a trickster," said Xochitl. "Distraction is possible. But maybe not easy."
"Beto was easily distracted," said Ralph.
"Wait," said Caldonia. "Is this thing Beto or Texycattle?"
"The part inside the mediasphere is Tezcatlipoca, or at least, as some material-oriented people may insist, a simulation of him," said Zobop. "But not the portion inside Beto's body. The new person known as Smokey Espejo is Beto's mind, under the control of the artificial intelligence."
"Maybe we can try to reach Beto?" said Xochitl.
"Another possibility," said Tan Tien. "But how do we do this?"
"Hm." Caldonia cracked an evil-gal grin. "Heh-heh. I may not know nothing about Aztec gods, but I do know something about Beto. I think I know of a way to distract him. Let's get on it! You'll be able to help with this Phoebe. . ." Caldonia got up and looked around. "Phoebe? Where is she?"
*
Smokey was feeling great. A stick of Fun helped, but then things were running smoothly. He was riding a wave of chaos to his destiny.
He entered the mansion as if he was returning after a short trip. Everything was the way he had ordered it to be – inflated blob-chairs everywhere for when anybody had time to sit down, the bar and refrigerator were stocked to keep everybody's bodies running, workers were making mechanical grinding, whirring, and banging noises and raising clouds of dust as they put the fin
ishing touches on the stage where the concert was going to be performed.
The stage space was massive; the walls, ceilings and floors of several rooms had been knocked out to make room for Smokey, Los Tricksters, a backdrop that looked like the façade of an Aztec pyramid, and their instruments, plus state-of-the art three-d recording and broadcasting equipment that would be wired to several uplink trucks that were pulling up at that instant.
"Yes, yes," Smokey found himself saying. "Very good."
Everyone took this positive utterance personally.
*
Emergency intersystem mass message for the entire Earth Angel network:
Note: This in an emergency, but not the last judgement. The rapture has not started. We repeat: This is not the last judgement. The rapture has not started.
However, your assistance is required for not only the salvation of your personal soul, but the planet as well.
The running of the god-simulating program to manifest the One True God in the mediasphere is going well, but more input is needed. Please feed us all data you may have, not only about religion and the One True God, but on the complexities of modern communications. The One True God will need all this in order to function properly.
Please comply as soon as possible.
May God have mercy on our souls.
*
There was suddenly a power surge causing Beto's infosystem to have a large electronic hiccup.
Lila, Chucho, and Zen looked toward the screen, expecting Smokey to appear.
Smokey didn't appear. Just a bit of static, then business as usual in the form of a weatherperson giving estimated overnight temperatures.
"What is this?" asked Lila.
"I dunno," said Chucho.
"Chingow," said Zen.
*
Phoebe was frustrated that her serious grilling of Mario Li hadn't given her any new information on Smokey. This funny little man was in no way impressed by having the privilege of actually working for Smokey, what was wrong with him? Phoebe gave up and leaned back to look out the porthole and enjoy the glittering, glowing, color-uncoordinated tableau of the Golden State environs. She always loved that.
