Kalifornia

by Marc Laidlaw

  She stared straight at him. “Uncle?” she said.

  “Yes, Kali. I’ve come to take you home.”

  “Stop him!” came cries from the hallway. A few Daughters came timidly into the room, but no one moved until the High Priestess forced them aside.

  She stood in front of Sandy, blocking the door. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled the baby to his chest. “I’m taking her home, where she can grow up in a human place, like a normal child.”

  The Daughters gasped.

  “That’s right!” he shouted. “A normal child! That’s all she is—or should be. She’s no goddess, she’s just a little baby.”

  “Kali,” said Marjorie, coming no closer, “reach into him. Take control. You hear his blasphemy. He is a heretic. You must cast him out—disconnect him. You know how to do it, Kali. Those who disobey must be shut down.”

  Sandy laughed, although her words frightened him. No doubt Kali could shut him off, if her control of him were as complete as he feared. He laughed only because his mother had forgotten that he still wore the device that jammed Kali’s signal.

  Or did, until a tiny hand reached up behind his ear and snatched the thing away.

  ***

  Packed away in her grown-up suit again, Kali stood in the center of the room, staring down at her uncle Sandy. He lay crumpled on the floor as though sleeping. When she reached out through the wires to live through him, she felt nothing at all. He was blank. She had edited him right out of reality.

  “Good,” said the High Priestess. “He’s insane, you realize. He was sent by enemies to defy you.”

  Kali knelt and gently stroked his cheek. “Uncle,” she whispered. She had loved the look of his orange eyes, the way he talked to her so kindly.

  “You can still make him move, can’t you, Kali?”

  In reply, Sandy’s limbs twitched and he jerked upright, getting clumsily to his feet. He banged around the room unsteadily, walking into walls, stumbling over the Daughters’ long robes. They backed away, shrieking squeamishly, but secretly delighted. Kali found she could tweak his vision enough to keep him from walking into things. She let him wander aimlessly around the room, mouth slack, eyes staring, until she grew bored with him.

  Something else caught her attention.

  “What are those sounds?” she asked.

  “Sounds?” said the High Priestess.

  From somewhere nearby came a muffled boom and the sound of screaming, then a clatter of feet. Most of it was on the street, but some had begun to echo inside the temple. Kali heard breaking plastic that must have been the doors in the lobby.

  The Daughters and the High Priestess rushed out of the room. Kali followed them down the hall toward the lobby, where they met a flood of frightened Daughters coming the other way.

  “Men!” they cried. “Dogs and men!”

  Kali smelled acrid smoke. The High Priestess turned, trying to push her back. “You must run and hide yourself, Kali. Come—the back way.”

  Kali was tired of being pushed around by grown-ups. She held her ground. “I want to see,” she said.

  “This isn’t a game! Come along quick or you’ll get hurt. They’re looking for that man—your uncle.”

  “What do they want with him? Are they his friends? Are they my family?”

  “You have no family apart from us, Kali. Now do as I say.”

  Kali laughed. “No. You must obey me.”

  She pushed the High Priestess out of her way. Over the heads of the daughters she saw a crowd of strangers filling the lobby, men in black suits and helmets, dogmen armed with weapons more lethal than fangs.

  “He’s back there!” the High Priestess shouted.

  “Don’t tell them,” Kali said.

  “I’ll take you to him!”

  “No!” Kali howled.

  She sent her will across the lobby, reaching into the wires of the strangers. The dogs were not wired, but it was enough to control the men. She peered through two dozen eyes at once. They were fixed on her and on the High Priestess, who now screamed, “Come with me!”

  Kali caused their weapons to rise. She knew how to make the men do what she wished while allowing them to use their own instincts for such details as aiming and firing. Every bolt found its target.

  Kali was only inches from the High Priestess, but not a single shot marred her shiny new grown-up suit’s surface.

  The High Priestess fell at Kali’s feet, fell in tatters of red and black; smoke rose from her charred and glistening torso. She writhed, staring up at Kali, her veils displaced.

  Kali bent over to see if the High Priestess’s eyes were orange. She had thought they might be, but they weren’t. She lost interest.

  Her mind returned to the soldiers or whatever they were. Everywhere she sent the men, the dogs were sure to follow. She kept a good grip on their wires.

  The Daughters cowered in the lobby and the hall, their minds torn between Kali, the dead High Priestess, and the soldiers. She no longer trusted these women; they lacked wires, and faith was a flimsy thing by comparison.

  It was time to leave the nest.

  She sent out one last signal to her uncle Sandy, but she couldn’t feel him anymore. He was shut down, probably for good, wrecked somehow. Edited out, the High Priestess had said.

  Kali shrugged. She had more family out there somewhere.

  “We go now,” she told the soldiers, her escort.

  They turned and went back the way they had come. Kali walked with them and within them, heading for a home she’d never seen.

  S01E10. Ba-Ha-Ha

  Oblivious to his changing surroundings, Cornelius stared at the tiny map-screen in his hands, and particularly at the symbolic speck of light that represented Sandy. The Holy City ignored him as thoroughly as he ignored it. The question of whether teegees had souls was a sticky one; no one seemed interested in resolving it long enough to convert him. There were limits, even here. Besides, he already resembled some of the other wandering mystics, engaged in one-pointed contemplation of what could easily have been a prayer calculator.

  Finally, in the murky dawn, he circled the same building twice. Sandy’s blip was situated somewhere inside. He found an entryway of shattered plastic, stepped over and through the shards into a darkened foyer, and became the object of a myriad of frightened gazes. Black shapes huddled in the corners of the room like grounded bats, silent except for an infrequent whimper. None moved at his entrance.

  Since they posed no apparent threat, he stepped gingerly through the congregation and into a long hall. He saw nothing but the light blinking in his palms.

  Suddenly he bumped into someone.

  “Excuse me,” he said, brushing past.

  Whoever it was made no reply, stumbling on toward the lobby. He glanced back at the figure silhouetted against the outer doors. When he looked down at the screen again, he saw the Sandy-blip getting away.

  “Wait!” he cried, running back.

  He caught Sandy in the lobby and pulled him outside, away from the pressure of woeful eyes.

  “I’m glad to see you,” said Cornelius. “I know you told me not to follow, but Clarence Starko was killed last night. I thought you also might be in danger. I hope I haven’t interfered with anything critical.”

  Sandy smiled but made no reply. Cornelius thought perhaps the daylight dazzled him, though the rays were still so faint and gray that outdoors was little brighter than the dim lobby. It was just barely bright enough to show the drab, stained ocher of Sandy’s outlandish overalls, on which his name was stitched as if for Corny’s reassurance.

  “I see you’re well,” Cornelius said, trying to convince them both. “You are well, aren’t you?”

  Still no answer.

  Sandy swayed slightly, that faint smile fixed to his face, then turned a few degrees and brushed past Cornelius.

  “Sandy? Santiago!”

  Cornelius could no longer convince himself that Sandy was well, or in his right
mind.

  The search for Kali was a matter of secondary importance to Cornelius. If she was in the Holy City at all, she wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. She wasn’t even old enough to crawl. The main thing, as ever, was to care for his friend.

  The sealman slipped his arm through Sandy’s elbow and guided him gently back the way he had come. After walking all night, he felt quite weary, but concern for Sandy gave him strength. He was to need every last erg of it on the way out.

  Though Cornelius had traveled inconspicuously while on his own, something about the sight of a man and a seal together attracted the attention of the Holy City’s residents. Evangelists pestered them all day, slowing their progress. It was not until nightfall that they made swifter progress. Sandy’s expression never changed throughout the harassment. He tagged along without complaining, although he could scarcely negotiate the cluttered streets. He stumbled constantly and would have fallen many times if Cornelius hadn’t been there to catch him.

  At last the streetlights began to flicker, and he knew they were reentering the world of electricity. He saw people strolling about in common clothes, no sign of self-inflicted torment on them, no extreme religious symbols visible.

  Ahead, a blaze of lights announced the grand opening of a habimall. A brass band played salszydeko polkas. Balloons floated from concessions and apartment windows. Civilization.

  Leading his stupefied charge by the wrist, Cornelius bought a paella platter and left Sandy guarding it at a round plastic table. Then he went to find out exactly where they were. His Jaguaero was in a terminal somewhere on the outskirts of the Holy City, and they were going to need it.

  ***

  Hold tight. Hold tight. Hold tight, holdtight, holdtightholdtight, ooodlyhelp me Corny I got seafood, Mama!

  Shrimps and rice.

  (Cut-cut-cut the wires. Disconnectee, Mama.)

  Very nice. At twice the price.

  Hold tight. Think. Hold tight. Where am you? Why? Who are I?

  Welcome back to another episode of Riquard Wiglore, Media Surgeon?

  Me? Wiglore?

  Hold tight—

  —For another episode of “There You Are!” The livewire show that takes you to exotic locales and proves that wherever you go, “There You Are!”

  Shrimps and rice.

  Who are you? Hot new star of “The Magyk 7”—not since Sandy Figueroa has a young man had such yearnings—hold tight.

  Welcome back for another orgasmic hour in the nubile young body of Fawni Pornish.

  Very nice. Oooh . . .

  Hold tight.

  Where?

  Hollywood, California.

  “Call a doctor! Somebody call a doctor!”

  I don’t need a doctor. I’m Doctor Wiglore.

  I am—

  “Sandy? Santiago, can you hear me?”

  “This guy’s out of his mind!”

  California is a state of mind.

  Regina Quatermaine, Ambisex Cop!

  Kalifornia is a police state. She’s my jailer.

  Disconnect.

  The wires.

  Cut.

  The wires.

  (Hold tight.)

  The wires.

  Mexico . . .

  “I’ve seen it before—he’s a wire addict. This man needs a doctor—”

  But I am a doctor.

  And There You Are.

  ***

  Cornelius returned to find Sandy at the center of a commotion, the star of a small-scale but energetic performance. He lay sprawled on the floor, staring at the ceiling, twitching and shaking. The sealman pushed through the crowd and knelt down beside him.

  “Wire epilepsy,” someone said.

  “I heard about that. It could happen to any of us.”

  “Really? What channel is he on?”

  “It’s contagious?”

  “Sandy,” Cornelius said. “Sandy, can you hear me? What’s happening?”

  For a moment Sandy did seem to see him. His eyes widened, his shoulders hunched as though he were trying to vomit something out.

  “What is it?” asked Cornelius.

  “Wurrs . . .” Sandy gasped.

  “Wires?”

  “Kulli . . .”

  “Calafia? Did you see her?”

  Sandy’s face turned red with the strain. Wherever he spoke from, it cost him tremendous energy to get his words this far. “Cut . . . wires . . . meh . . . Messico . . .”

  “I’ll get you home soon, Sandy.”

  “Messico . . . Messi . . .”

  “Mexico?”

  He remembered the conversation in Thaxter Halfjest’s home. Dyad’s wires had been disconnected; she was in Mexico now. Did Sandy want Cornelius to take him to Mexico to be disconnected?

  Why?

  “All right,” Cornelius said. He slipped his arms under Sandy and lifted him up. “I’ll take care of him,” he told the crowd.

  “Hey, aren’t you—yeah, you are! You’re uh . . . what’s his name and . . . uh . . . remember those guys before the Magyk 7?”

  “That’s right! It is them! The Figaronis!”

  Corny bowed. “We’re here for the grand opening, he said. “Now please excuse us—we’re expected at a head shop.” He moved off quickly.

  He had never liked or trusted the wires, though they had made possible the Figueroa show—the happiest time of his life.

  And if the wires were responsible for Sandy’s condition?

  Obviously they should be disconnected. Removed.

  Cornelius hadn’t known such a thing was possible. Switched off, yes. But removed? They were an intricate tangle, spread everywhere. It must be very dangerous.

  Could he trust Raimundo? There was no love between him and Sandy. Still, Raimundo must have had a trusted doctor perform the operation on Dyad. Cornelius would see to it that the same person treated Sandy. Dyad would help.

  Mexico, then. It was settled. Settled, but far from finished.

  Teegees were not permitted to cross the border either way without high-level permission or a six-month quarantine. The laws were strict. Mexico valued its humanimal labor—mostly Chihuahuas employed in offshore American plants—too highly to risk teegee epidemics. There was no way to get Sandy across by himself.

  As he carried his friend through the crowd, the band thumped and blared. Suddenly a familiar face appeared out of the melee—a face he’d know anywhere. A face everyone knew. Soft plastex cheeks, shiny eyes, neutral hairstyle, a human with ridiculously regular androgynous features.

  It was Newsbody 90, reporting on another grand opening.

  Cornelius watched the ‘caster drift through the crowd, shoving a toasted seadog through the mask’s clammy lips, comfortable everywhere, known and loved by all, basking in the recognition.

  Corny had never been so glad to find himself at a habimall grand opening. And he’d been stuck in more than one or two.

  ***

  (Cut-cut-cut. Cut the wires—cut the wires.)

  Dark night, midnight, lightning, thunder. Candles leap in a drafty old stone-walled cell. A chill wind breathes on her bare, heavy breasts, whistles through the gaps in her long sharp teeth.

  A baby wails. She snatches it up, clutching tiny feet in one fat hand, dangling it head downward over a silver tureen. Black figures dance and mutter around her; their song forms a smoky wreath of evil runes. The infant shrieks. Someone slips a knife into her hand.

  (Cut-cut-cut-cut—)

  “Hail, Satan!” she croaks. “Pour your dark power into the elixir of this child’s lifeblood. When I bathe in the fresh blood, let the power come into me. Let it wash away the foul scars of age. . . .”

  She raises the knife and lays it against the child’s soft, white throat.

  (Cut-cut-cut! Cut the throat—cut the throat—)

  “Just a minute, madam!”

  She hesitates. Her dark accomplices begin to blur and fade, their chants broken by this stranger’s deep voice. Is it her lord and master, the Dark One
, arriving early?

  No. She sees a tall, silver-haired mortal wearing a white frock. He bears a bottle of bright red liquid, the exact shade of baby’s blood.

  “Who are you?” she cries.

  “A visitor from another age, another channel of time. I’ve come in answer to your prayers. Why all this muss and fuss, this bloody spattering for the sake of a soft complexion? Can it be that you’ve never heard of Dr. Batori’s Miracle Youth Formula?”

  “What?” she says.

  “This is truly a Dark Age. Madam, there’s no further need to slaughter innocent babes to extract the essence time-honored for its wrinkle-removing properties. Now you can procure the same potion merely by opening a bottle. No gore, no chore.”

  “Are you mad?” she wails. “Baby’s blood from a bottle?”

  “It’s the same substance you’d get by slitting that baby’s throat, but whipped up in quantity in our patented marrow vats.”

  “But . . . does it work?”

  “Does it work? Why, madam, you will see and feel the difference on the first application. Why not try it?”

  She snatches the bottle from his rubber-gloved fingers, unscrews the cap, and fills her palm with warm, bottled blood. It smells real, it looks real, it even—she splashes her cheeks delightedly—tastes real!

  “Why, madam, just look at yourself!”

  The doctor holds up a mirror, and in its surface she sees her withered hag’s face changing, the wrinkles and fat sloughing away beneath the slick red mask. Within moments she is young and maidenly again. Her belly feels tighter, her legs are slender and firm.

  She wipes her face and, with an imperious gesture, dismisses her outmoded minions forever: “Begone! But not you, Doctor.”

  The silver-haired fellow bows becomingly. “Why, madam, don’t you look delectable?”

  He holds up the bottle, addressing her and the eyes, the nerves, the wires, the Santiago deep within:

  “Dr. Batori’s Magical Youth Formula. When you’re ready to come in out of the Dark Ages! (By agreement with McNguyen Industries.)”

  (Cut-please-cut-please-cut-please-cut.)