by Marc Laidlaw
On the wet western horizon, Sandy saw a string of lights, perhaps a parade of nuclear yachts moored offshore to observe the continent’s festivities.
Approaching the lights, the Jaguaero lost altitude until it skimmed the water. Sandy watched Cornelius to see if he gave the sea a wistful look, but apparently the sealman harbored no tender sentiments for the cradle of his ribosomes.
One sea-flung form loomed directly ahead of them. In a moment, Sandy saw the lights for what they were: windows in a massive offshore office building. The forward beam of the aircar showed wind-whipped wavelets lashing at the sea-level panes. Sandy gripped the edges of his seat, expecting to crash at any moment.
Cornelius brought up the Jaguaero in a smooth motion; they soared five stories in the time it took Sandy to gasp, then poised motionless over the roof while an aircar below them taxied into the indoor garage, freeing the landing pad for Cornelius. A minute later they were humming down fluorescent corridors. Cornelius parked in his reserved space near the elevators.
“This way, Master Santiago.”
As they stepped into an elevator car, Sandy caught a whiff of powerful female pherofumes. His head filled unavoidably with the sights and sounds of sex, all called up by the smell. He shoved his hands into his swim trunks to hide a sudden woodie from Cornelius, who probably wouldn’t have cared.
As the doors closed, he tried distracting himself with equations and mnemonics. Sandy knew he had a closet full of sexual anxieties from his years in the wires, when he couldn’t so much as scratch his crotch without exciting legions of horny teenage wire-hoppers. Even now, as an RO, privacy was something he couldn’t believe in.
The scent maddened him. He wanted to tear off his shirt and trunks. Even Cornelius was starting to look good in the stuffy compartment.
The doors opened. Laughter and music washed into the car and swept them out. Cornelius took hold of his arm, leading him firmly around the edge of the crowd, though Sandy would rather have dived in and followed that smell to its source. He knew intellectually that the pherofume was completely superficial, but the knowledge did him little good in the face of olfactory lust. He wanted to find that woman, whoever she was, pull her into a dark office and bury his face between her—
But Corny kept tugging him along, toward the smell of food and fainter perfumes. Many guests wore osmodelic pomanders around their necks; as he passed among them, the air filled with trails of light and his nose began to vibrate with desire. The multitude merged into a boundless blur of colored cloth and jewelry, a single, buzzing, hive-mind party insect.
They passed a row of tall windows at sea level. Waves broke against the panes, throwing phosphorescent foam and spray like wide, lacy fans above the heads of the guests. Kelp clusters rose and fell on the water, barnacled root systems trailing away beneath. Periwinkles left gleaming trails on the glass.
“Suddenly I want sushi,” Sandy said.
“Haven’t you eaten?”
Sandy shook his head, and Cornelius pointed out a long serving table.
“If you care to serve yourself, I’ll find your father.”
As the sealman disappeared into the crowd, Sandy grabbed a handful of honey-glazed prawns from an icy tray and hurried to lose himself. It was difficult being a Figueroa. Guests broke off chattering and smiled at him, some bowing slightly, some greeting him with hearty halloos that meant nothing to him, coming from total strangers.
“Sandy! Hey! How’s life?”
“Very lifelike, thanks.”
He was halfway across the vast room when a syrupy voice said, “Sandy, my boy!”
The voice was unmistakable. Turning, he put on his phoniest smile. “Reverend . . .”
The Reverend Governor of California, Thaxter H. J. Halfjest, waited with his arms spread wide to embrace Sandy. His crown of gold wire glittered with huge precious and semiprecious stones. His thick, red-gold hair stuck out through the crown, giving him an unkempt look. His clothes were gold, to match his shoes, and a golden mantle descended from his shoulders. Diamonds pricked his earlobes, more clustered at his nostrils, and bands of stones at his wrists and throat clicked together when he moved. “I’m so glad you could make it!”
He slipped his arm through Sandy’s and patted his wrist. Sandy feigned a coughing fit, freeing himself before the Rev-Gov could smother him.
Halfjest was impossible to offend; nothing bothered him. His life was perfect. Not only was he governor, but he was perpetually live as well. His wire show had been second in popularity only to the Figueroas’, and since Marjorie’s death he’d been number one in the California ratings. No other politician was so open to global eavesdroppers. Living inside Halfjest, receivers conned themselves into believing they were gaining a political education, seeing the workings of government firsthand. But this was a well-orchestrated illusion. Actually, they rode in the tanned and scented skin of the most flamboyant entertainer since Liberace. It was showmanship, and not politics, that gave Halfjest his appeal. He treated his audience to a rich diet of caviar and champagne that few of them could have afforded (although, as taxpayers, they managed to somehow), leading them through the spectacle of his ever-changing Sacramento palace with its rich carpeting, scented lawns, and indoor waterways, inviting them to glamorous parties like this one, marked by meetings with the world’s rich and famous. Halfjest had opened the corridors of power to his constituents—and taken them roller-skating down the slick marble halls.
He pretended to be continually open to the opinions of his audience, occasionally reversing the flow to look in on their lives and listen to their opinions. This was the perpetual promise of the wires: the simultaneous involvement of all citizens in the state, their opinions and desires constantly tallied and monitored and taken into account, then enacted personally by their most popular representatives, the elected embodiments of their will. However, Halfjest—like other politicians—opined that he was one lone man, without the superhuman ability to field and synthesize all their desires at once, and lacked the discrimination to separate momentary urges from deep conscientious longings. The task of processing, making sense of, and acting on so much input was beyond the ability of any computer of the day, let alone any one person.
And so the wires, with all their potential, were put to the endless task of distraction.
Had he cared to, Sandy could have flipped into his wires right now and picked up the governor’s broadcast. Could have stood here talking to himself through Thaxter’s POV.
But that was sick. It was bad enough to do it singly, let alone in duplicate. Besides, feedback was an ever present danger. Had their eyes met . . .
“Have you been keeping well, Sandy?”
“Tan, Thax. Totally tan. You?”
“I’ve been frantic preparing this birthday bash. Listen, we’re having a contest. We need a new name for California. Something splendid to mark the bicentennial.”
“A new name? Are you kidding, Thax? What’s wrong with ‘California’?”
Halfjest, disdainful, pressed an oiled hand to his breast. “You mean you don’t know? I’ve been telling everyone what a horrid name it is. I mean, the associations, the imagery! Ghastly!”
“I guess I missed it.”
The RevGov tried to reclaim Sandy’s hand, but he got it into his pocket just in time.
“The California myths are all so terrible. Why, Calafia was a dreadful Amazon queen—not even a libby-lezzy! She only tolerated men as food for her giant buzzards! It’s an awful story, and I hate our lovely realm to bear such associations. Imagine, they came looking for gold and ended up on the bottom of a birdcage! What were those Spaniards thinking when they came up with the name?”
Sandy shrugged. “They must have been pretty disappointed when they came looking for El Dorado and found Los Angeles instead.”
Sandy searched desperately for another familiar face, any excuse to get away from the Reverend Governor. This was like one of his childhood birthday parties: hundreds of strangers
smiling and calling him by name.
He was about to baldly excuse himself when someone came up behind Halfjest and slipped her arm around his crystal-clad waist.
“Ah, there you are, my darling,” said Halfjest, turning to kiss the young woman. “I’m sure you remember Santiago Figueroa.”
For a moment, as their eyes met, Sandy thought she was the one wearing the sex pherofume. But she didn’t need to wear anything to arouse him; in fact, when she wore nothing it was best of all. He grew warmer, pulse quickening. The sight of her, and the memories that came along, made him blush.
She had her father’s red-gold hair, but hers was long and thick, flowing down in waves to break on the backs of her thighs. Bare thighs. Her short skirt and blouse were striped gold and black. Like her father, she was decked from head to toe in crystals and diamonds, a delicate tiara woven through her hair, jeweled ankle bracelets tinkling, and little stones of ten colors gleaming on her toenails.
“Dyad,” he murmured, his throat dry.
“Hi, Sandy. Where you been?”
“Up . . . up in Humbo,” he said. “On my ranch.”
Dyad took Sandy’s hands in hers. She lifted them to her mouth and kissed each palm. It was like plugging his arms into a wall socket.
“Three years,” she whispered. “Seems like forever.”
“I was just telling Sandy about the contest, darling.”
“Yeah, Dad.” She moved closer to Sandy, putting one arm around his waist; her fingers ran down to grip his ass. “Come up with anything?”
“No, but something’s coming up.”
She brought one of his hands to her mouth again and began to suck on the back of his thumb, nipping at the skin of the first joint. Sandy’s legs turned to water, but he was torn with indecision. The last (and first) time he’d gotten involved with Dyad—the night he’d lost his virginity—had started as the best experience of his life and ended up the most humiliating. Like her father, Dyad was live. When she had fucked Sandy, so had legions of horny teens (he tried not to think about his large audience of elderly adorers) who’d been waiting for the moment. OUR NIGHT WITH SANDY! For months afterward, their fanzines had been full of lush, overblown, almost worshipful descriptions of the act. SUPER SEX WITH THE SANDMAN! It was recorded and duplicated and traded among the teenie fans while Sandy went crazy with embarrassment. TASTE HIM YOURSELF—TONIGHT AND EVERY NIGHT! He had avoided Dyad ever since. And although he was no longer wired, she most certainly was. Some of his old fans, no longer quite so teeny, might still be waiting for a second chance to get it on with him vicariously. That thought was enough to shrivel his orchids quicker than a plunge into a penguin’s swimming hole.
“What do you think, Sandy?” Thaxter asked. “I haven’t heard anything very imaginative yet, but I’m sure we can outdo those old Spaniards. Goldia, Orangette, New Atlantis.”
“Libidopolis,” Dyad mumbled around his thumb.
He had not taken his eyes from hers for nearly a minute.
“See you later, Dad,” Dyad said, breaking off her ministrations. “Sandy and I have some catching up to do.”
“I need his opinion, Dyad. Maybe he’d like to be one of the contest judges.”
“You can talk later.” With that, she pushed Sandy into the crowd.
“I thought we’d never get away,” Sandy said with a laugh when they were free. “But look, Dyad, I don’t know if this is such a tan idea.”
“Oh, it’s coppertone, baby. I’m not S/R anymore. Haven’t been live for months. I’m RO like you. We’ll have some real privacy this time.”
“Tortious,” he said. And then: “Oh, no.”
Cornelius had appeared at Dyad’s shoulder.
“Your father is ready to see you, Sandy.”
Sandy swore under his breath, cursing the time he’d wasted on Halfjest’s filibuster. He and Dyad should have been downstairs, in a dark office beneath the waves, making up for lost time.
“Can’t you put him off a while?”
Cornelius looked uncomfortable. “I’m already bringing him enough bad news. I would greatly appreciate your support.”
Sandy sighed.
“That’s tan,” Dyad said. “I’ll find you later.”
He nodded. “I’ll look for you.” Turning to Cornelius he said, “You owe me one.”
Dyad ducked away without so much as a kiss. Perhaps she thought it would make their parting simpler, but it only added to his frustration.
This floor at sea level, and a few more in the bright waters just below, belonged to the CEO, board chairman, and seascraper owner—in short, to Alfredo Figueroa. Executive windows looked out upon green glimmering vistas of fish and dangling seaweed, while lesser employees spent their days staring out at a cold perpetual darkness, where not so much as a flashlight fish relieved their unrewarding vigil. At the bottom of the building, mail-room and cafeteria staff labored under extremes of pressure. A course of psychic decompression was a necessary part of employee orientation.
The hall to Alfredo’s office was lined with ferns and potted palms, with here and there a humanimal—mainly seals, teegee bodyguards and butlers—standing motionless among the plants.
Cornelius opened the door. “After you, Santiago.”
Sandy hesitated, sniffing. He had tracked the lusty pherofume to its source. It belonged to someone in his family. And he thought he knew who.
Inside, as on a vast flatscreen, the hated moon shone over the restless sea. Foam slapped the full-wall window and fell away, seeming to drip from the baleful, bone-colored ball. Anger and grief rose up in him as always at the sight of the satellite.
A semicircular desk was pulled up nearly to the glass so that the old man seated there seemed trapped between sea and sky and seascraper. Alfredo Figueroa’s face seemed to glow with an inner light, like a carved pumpkin, every wrinkle etched deep by a knife of fine Swiss steel. But this pumpkin was rotten, pouchy and soft on the outside if not within. The gold eyes flickered like candle flames, still youthful, though the hair was so sparse that at first Alfredo looked completely bald. When his head moved, a few strands glinted against the pate like fine cactus needles.
“Shut the door, Santiago. Have a seat.”
Sandy looked for a perch. His younger brother Ferdinand, engulfed in a huge orange Jell-O-chair, waggled a finger at him. Miranda, nine years old now, lay stretched out across a loveseat. He couldn’t help staring at her. Somehow, surgically, she had acquired a hypervoluptuous body in the last year. Her breasts were enormous, her waist wasp-thin, her hips wide. Facial augmentation had given her a sultry, sexy expression: thick lips perpetually gleaming, eyes like coals in a barbecue. The smell that wafted from her, a distillation of pure sex, was totally terrifying in this context. The room reeked of incest. Not to mention pedophilia.
Mir gave Sandy a satiated smile and stretched luxuriously, then pulled her legs up to make room for him. Patting the cushion, she said, “Come sit here, bro-bro.”
Sandy choked on the pherofumes and backed away sweating, his chain mail clinking. “I’m all right.”
“What’s the matter, Sandy?” said Ferdinand sarcastically. “Don’t you love your sister?”
“Ferdinand,” said their father warningly.
“Never mind then,” Ferdi said. “I’ll sit with you, Miranda. Sandy can have my chair.”
“All right, I’ll accept that. Even though you’re not much of a man yet, Ferdi.”
“How do you know I haven’t been to the body shop?” He dropped down in the loveseat and they began to explore each other with their hands. Ferdi nibbled Mir’s throat till she began to purr.
“God,” Sandy muttered. “You two are worse than ever.”
Miranda gave him an icy look. “And what are you? A born-again Puritan? Don’t tell me what to do. Just because pleasure frightens you . . .”
“That’s enough,” Alfredo said. “I didn’t bring you here to argue.”
“Then why are we here, Father?” asked Miranda.
“It’s what we do best.”
“I wanted to be with my family. I wanted to feel some of the old magic.” He rubbed his knobby fingers roughly, as though trying to work the knuckles out of them.
“You’re pathetic,” said Miranda. “If you want old magic, you should’ve summoned demons. Speaking of which, where’s that gypsy slut of yours?”
“Maybe you’re my demons.” Alfredo looked sharply at Cornelius. “Where’s the baby?”
“I’m afraid there was some trouble, sir. Poppy wouldn’t come with me. I don’t know exactly what happened, but—”
“Were you in a fight, Cornelius?”
“Couldn’t be helped, sir.”
“Poppy wasn’t violent, was she?”
“Good grief, sir, no! There was trouble on the set of her spin-off. It seems the baby—”
A sudden pounding on the door startled them. A sealman poked his head into the room and said breathlessly, “Sir, the news! Channel Ninety!”
“What are you on about?”
“Poppy’s child, sir. Your granddaughter.”
“What the . . . wait a minute.” Alfredo pressed a button on his desk. The seascape faded from the window, to be replaced by a live projection of a wild Franchise street. Revelers raised their glasses to the wall as if toasting the Figueroas, hamming it up for the cameras. Sandy was grateful for the flatscreen image because he didn’t feel like riding the wires at the moment. Most news programs were broadcast both flat and by wire, so that viewers could either watch a sometimes violent reality at a comfortable remove, or enter a wired journalist’s body to participate in fast-breaking stories. He certainly didn’t want to rush into a mob scene like the one on the wall. It looked a bit too real.
A newscaster stepped into view. The body was female, but, like all Channel 90 ‘casters, she wore the trademarked androgynous Channel 90 plastex mask. The News You Need From the Face You Heed! Only the voice and choice of attire betrayed any slight individuality, but they weren’t enough to make any one ‘caster less indistinguishable or trustworthy than any other.
