by Marc Laidlaw
If they were looking at all.
“All right,” Sandy said, “isolate the wagon from the original image.” He spoke to the computer rather than Clarry. “I want to know where those things come from. Where are they used? That’s an old gas burner. They’re not even legal anymore except . . . oh, shit. Except in the Holy City.”
He stammered this out just as the computer completed its analysis: “Gas wagons are currently illegal in California. The only area exempt from emission restrictions, for constitutional reasons, is district CL-37, the so-called Holy City.”
In place of the kidnapping scene, Clarry now found himself hovering above a map of California. The Holy City was marked out by red tints in the middle of the Frange, just south of Snozay, where the bicentennial sequence had been taped. “The Holy City,” Clarry murmured.
“It fits,” said Sandy. “Most of the sects in there are pretty primitive. I’ll bet that’s where the wagon came from—and where it went with my niece.”
“Jay Cee,” Clarry said. “But who’s crazy enough to go in there after it? Where do we start?”
“I know just where to start,” Sandy said. “And maybe you can help me.”
Sandy’s enthusiasm was contagious. And he did want to catch up that bitch in her own net. He could do this—he could help undo his errors.
“Yeah, Sandy, sure. What’s your idea?”
“I used to be a sender. I’ve still got the wires for it. I’ll flip the switch and do it again, but on a closed circuit this time. I’ll pay you whatever you ask to stay at the receiver and monitor my progress. One guy alone in there shouldn’t attract too much attention.”
Clarry let out a low whistle. “You’re going into the Holy City?”
Sandy nodded. “Going in live.”
S01E08. Kalifornia, Here I Come
As Sandy huddled down behind a pile of metal scrap, his nose an inch from wet cement that reeked of oil and garbage, he had the sense, illusory, that he could feel his polynerves. Unless there were another cause for all the chills that racked him.
Fear, maybe?
Nah.
He raised himself on his elbows and looked over the scrap heap, but he couldn’t see a thing. Too dark. The absence of noise worried him more than that of light. The Holy City was suddenly quieter than a librarian’s tomb.
A minute ago, he’d been sure he was being followed, and now there was nothing to suggest that the forbidden zone was even occupied. Two obvious explanations occurred to him: either he’d shaken his pursuers and they’d gone off somewhere else entirely, or else they were waiting out there, waiting with all the patience of skilled trackers, until he betrayed himself with some stupid action.
Some stupid little thing like snagging his cuff on a bit of burred metal, which pulled the whole tortious scrap heap down on him.
Sandy managed not to cry out, but the wreckage had a voice of its own. The parts clanked and clamored down on him. In seconds, he was half buried in the stuff; he lay pinned with only his arms slightly free.
The pile settled into a new, more stable position. Sandy gave up on silence. With a groan he stretched forward, grabbed hold of a handy post, and started to haul himself out from under the scrap.
“Leggo my leg.”
The post shook off his hand. Sandy looked up but still couldn’t see anything, not so much as a silhouette. He had to admit it was all pretty dramatic. Clarry might make good use of it someday, despite the dark picture. Part of his deal with the wireman was that when all this was over, Starko could mix it into a package and sell broadcast rights for whatever he could get.
In that final cut, this voice would sound great booming out of the darkness. It suggested a big, somewhat oafish character. He waited for it to say something else.
“Who are you?” it said.
Sandy groaned, shifting his weight to pull out of the slag. He freed his legs and started to rise, but something shoved him back again.
“Don’t move. I said, who are you?”
“Slack off, I’m not bothering you.”
“You’re messing up my stoop. You got five seconds to tell me who you are, then I throw you to the Holy Rollers. It’s time for the midnight patrol.”
The Holy Rollers. Sandy didn’t know them, but he knew he never wanted to.
“My name’s Sandy,” he said. “I’m looking for a church.”
The voice laughed.
“You came to the right place,” said the voice. “Any church in particular?”
“Is . . . is there any difference?”
Now the voice crowed. “You must be new around here.”
In the distance Sandy heard what sounded like wolves howling, along with a continuous clatter he couldn’t identify. Firecrackers, maybe. Or dull thunder.
“Okay, newboy. I’ll let you come inside until they pass, then you gotta keep moving. My lama is in heavy meditation; I’m supposed to keep up the banishing rites nonstop. He wouldn’t like it if he caught me bringing strangers in. Evil influences, you know. So keep quiet, okay?”
“Sure,” Sandy said. Anything to avoid the Holy Rollers.
A hand took hold of him and helped him to his feet; he was pulled stumbling through debris he couldn’t see and up a short flight of steps.
“Quiet, now. Not a word.”
Sandy nodded, pointless though the gesture seemed. He had the feeling this guy could see him in the dark. It made Sandy wish he’d brought along night-spex. His original logic was that by seeming defenseless he would attract the pity of some compassionate religious group, which would have the pleasure of adopting him as one of their own.
The wolf howls were closer now. He heard yip-yip-yip-ing, eerie cries echoing between the invisible buildings, and a softer sound nearby that might have been someone sobbing or mumbling or tunelessly speaking the words to a song.
Suddenly a gong clanged in his ear. Sandy dropped to the ground. A horn began to wail a ghostly reveille, then broke off abruptly as the deep voice of his unseen benefactor started declaiming mystic threats against a background of eerie humming:
“Ho, demons! You’re treading on thin ice around here. Whoa now, I’ll tell you, some fuzzy-faced evil guy with three eyes came around last night and he didn’t live to regret it!”
Sandy sat up, hugging his knees. The horn wailed again, cymbals crashed. Out in the street, the clatter was incredible. The Holy Rollers were right on top of them. He made out words in their wailing:
“Hallelujah! Awoo-oo-oo!”
“Glory be! Glory Hallelujah!”
“We’re comin’, Lord! We’re countin’ on your radiant mercy, Lord! You just show us the way to the trespassin’ unbeliever—we’ll make him sorry he was ever born to your glorious light!”
“Mercy! Oh, have mercy! I feel you, Lord!”
Meanwhile, Sandy’s companion let up on the trumpet and continued with his own impassioned cries:
“Now hear this! All demons must evacuate this area immediately or suffer eternal punishments. Any demon remaining within the proximity of my voice in five seconds is going to have his eyes boiled in his head, his own tongue eaten for dessert, and his genitals lopped off and stuck on a stake as an example to others. That’s five seconds and counting! One . . . two . . . three . . .”
“Lord, you’s beautiful as they come!”
“Hallelujah!”
“Awoo-woo-woo!”
“. . . three and a half . . .”
“Guide us, Lord! Show us the way!”
“I smell a sinner!”
“I smell dinner!”
“Show yourself, sinner-dinner! Let yourself be purged from the sight of God!”
“Four . . . four and a half . . .”
The cries went fading down the avenue, along with the unholy clamor of their passing. It sounded like they were dragging something that scraped on the street and made a terrible din. If only the light had been better. He wondered what Clarry made of all this, way out there somewhere in the profane Franchis
e, living out of his van, plugged into monitors. Cornelius was with him, too. The sealman had begged Sandy not to go, then finally had sworn to stay at Starko’s side until Sandy was safe at home again with little Calafia in his arms.
“Four and three-quarters . . . ”
“Awoo-oo-oo!”
“Five! That’s it. All you demons who hung around are dead meat now. Come on, show yourselves.”
Sandy cleared his throat, making the least possible sound.
“I see nobody challenged me. That was pretty smart of them.”
Sandy felt his hand being taken. Fie stood up and was guided carefully back outside, down the steps, and into the street.
“I wish one of those demons would stick around someday. I could do with a little excitement.”
“Good act,” Sandy said. “I’m not surprised they took off. You’re a scary dude.”
“Dude? Well, I never—get out of here! Go on! Get moving or you’ll get the demon treatment yourself!”
“Sorry, uh, ma’am,” he said, hurrying off through the scrap that had buried him a few minutes before.
“Ma’am?” the voice cried after him. “You are the most insulting—I should have thrown you to the Rollers!”
He moved down the street, dragging his hands along the faces of buildings. It was hard going, but he got better at sensing obstacles without actually running into them. Even so, he finally decided to wait for daylight before going on. He slipped inside the next open doorway and huddled in a corner with his insulated jacket pulled tight around him. It offered minimal protection against the chill of the night, but he was exhausted. Within minutes he jerked back from a hypnagogic demon, and then sank instantly the rest of the way into sleep.
He didn’t remember his dreams, and wires couldn’t record them.
***
“Wake up and show your mark.”
“Maybe he’s a deaf-’n’-dumb, Reb. Poke him.”
Sandy’s eyes opened on a gray and dismal scene. He was too groggy to avoid the boot toe that jabbed him in the ribs.
Three figures in cowled cloaks fenced him into the doorway. Steady drizzle had dampened the cloaks, making them look limp and heavy. The trio didn’t seem to be in very good moods.
“G’morning,” Sandy said. “You don’t have to kick me, you know. I was waking up anyway.”
“I said show your mark,” said the middle boy, the one called Reb. All three were teenage boys, but this one, the tallest, looked like the leader. He turned to his right-hand man and said, “You do it, Zev.”
Zev grabbed Sandy’s left hand and pulled it closer, palm up. They stared at the skin as if measuring his lifeline. Then Reb looked into Sandy’s eyes and laughed.
“He ain’t got one,” said Zev.
“One what?” Sandy asked.
“A mark that says what sect you’re with,” said Reb.
“Hey, Reb, maybe he’s with the No-Mark Sect!”
The boys all laughed.
“Is that a crime?” Sandy asked.
They looked at each other. “Might be,” said Reb. “But it’s good luck for us. We get a commission on any hunk of fresh god-bait we pick up.”
“God-bait?” Sandy said.
“Grab him,” Reb said, standing back.
The other two stooped and grabbed Sandy by either arm. He was bigger than either of them, but he didn’t think resistance was a good idea. This was more or less what he wanted, right?
Rain hit his face as they dragged him into the street.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, guys. Don’t go so rough.”
They didn’t seem to hear him. Reb walked ahead, sloshing through puddles, every now and then turning to make sure the rest were following.
“What’s this about a mark?” Sandy called to him. “If I need one I’ll be happy to get it. I don’t want to break any rules. I’m new around here.”
“Obviously,” Reb called over his shoulder. “Don’t worry—as soon as we figure out where to sell you, you’ll get one. The Wandering Jews run the best placement service in Holy City. Course, you might not get out much after that. Depends on where you end up.”
As they walked on, Sandy saw the Holy City revealed by daylight. He saw people in the buildings, people on the sidewalks, people staring down from old freeway overpasses as the Jews led their captive through the streets. Some had shaved heads with red rings painted on their pates like targets; some apparently never cut their hair and wore it like veils across their faces. Some went naked, others were wrapped in lengths of rusty wire or coaxial cable. One old man with a six-foot beard leaned from a shattered window and harangued the Jews as they passed. Reb stopped to lob a brick at the guy. He hit his mark.
“Don’t proselytize, Rapunzel!” he shouted.
The old man looked humbled . . . or simply stunned.
“Oy vey,” Reb said as they walked on. “You can’t tell this was ever America. Religious freedom went right out the window when no one was looking.”
“What about my freedom?” Sandy asked boldly.
Reb shrugged. “You should have held on to it tighter. Don’t worry, you’ll do all right. We have some good regular customers. Like the Church of Christ, Nuclear Scientist. They’re pretty interesting. Claim they can split the Holy Trinity to produce safe, clean energy efficiently. They need research subjects. You want to donate your immortal soul to a power company?”
“I’d rather keep it in one piece.”
“Maybe you’d make a good Ignostic. That’s the Siblings of the Otiose Order. They study all the things God can’t be bothered with. You could have a rewarding spiritual career counting balls of lint.”
“Do you by any chance know of a church that drives cars? I mean, those old gas wagons?”
Reb looked at him with apparent disbelief. “Drives ‘em? No. Fixes ‘em? Yeah. You want to join the Celestial Mechanics?” He tipped back his head and laughed at the concrete underbelly of an overpass. His laughter woke a flock of bats. “No one ever asked to join the Mechs. They pay pretty good, though, and you look like the sort of guy they’d like to convert.”
“What kind is that?” Sandy asked.
Reb looked at his Wandering Jews, and the other two joined him in laughing. They all spoke at once:
“Nosy.”
“Curious.”
“A fool.”
Sandy grinned despite himself. “That’s me.”
***
The Celestial Mechanics, having agreed on a price that Sandy thought slightly embarrassing (free upgrades and a year’s service on the Jews’ solar skateboards), gave him a pair of ochre temple overalls and an empty toolbox. They conducted him to one of three deep rectangular pits in the floor of their outer shrine.
“Acolytes sleep here,” he was told.
Apparently he was the temple’s only acolyte. He climbed down into the pit and found a wad of old oily rags.
“What’s this?” he asked the priest who stood smoking a pipe at the edge of the pit.
“That’s your bed,” said the priest.
Reb had introduced the little black man as the Grand High Grease Monkey, but a name tag sewn in cursive on the pocket of his monastic overalls referred to him more cozily as “Bob.”
Sandy considered the rags. At least he wouldn’t have to share them.
“What about my mark?” he asked, holding up his hand. “Do I get one of those?”
“After you’ve been here a while, your fingernails will identify you.”
Sandy sighed and kicked the lid of the toolbox. “It’s empty.”
“Patience, acolyte. With every initiation you will receive a handy new tool. This evening your education begins with the Rite of the Wrench. Now I’ll leave you to settle yourself and prepare for the undertaking ahead of you. Change into your overalls.”
When “Bob” was gone, Sandy clambered out of the pit and went to the open door of the outer sanctum. It overlooked a fenced parking lot; the street lay beyond. He’d been aware for some time
of the growing sound of wolf howls that signaled the approach of the Holy Rollers. He heard their hallelujahs as he reached the gate; they thundered into sight.
The rattling roar that accompanied their passage was in fact the sound of roller skates. The Holy Rollers were unremarkable in appearance except for their manner of transportation; they were far more fearsome, more impressive, by night. Nothing but a bunch of little old ladies on skates. Hardly the sort to raise one’s hackles.
Or so he thought until he noticed that their blackened, leathery purses were handbags made from human heads, which they clutched and swung by the hair. And their bibles were bound in a soft-looking, whitish leather. . . .
Then they were gone, leaving him breathless. He fought the urge to scurry back to the pit for cover. A sturdy cyclone fence protected the temple. He was safe. He could consider himself fortunate for having evaded them last night.
“Starko,” he whispered, “you following this? I think I got lucky. The Celestial Mechanics should know where to find any old gas wagons. I’m gonna play along with them, go through these initiations, make some friends—and then start snooping.”
A toolbox rattled behind him. He turned to see smiling “Bob” returning with several other mechanics, both men and women.
“Acolyte, are you ready to receive instruction in the use of the Wrench?”
Sandy bowed his head. “I am ready, O Master. Consider my mind an empty toolbox, waiting to be filled.”
***
Clarry’s van was a rat’s nest of sushi packs, empty soy squirts, and coffee bulbs. The cuspidor was constantly brimming. After a while, he had stopped noticing Cornelius’s unusual body odor—a sort of musty, wet-dog smell—and found it easy to treat him simply as another assistant, explaining the operations of the deck, teaching him the rudiments of editing. Cornelius did all the tasks manually, by visual controls, since he wasn’t wired. Even so, he was the fastest learner Clarry had ever met.
“You’re a natural at this, Cornelius. You sure you never ran a deck before? Because you could be good. I mean really good.”
