Kalifornia

by Marc Laidlaw

  As if somebody were looking out of her eyes just as she was looking out of everybody else’s!

  What was going on in her?

  Was she being monitored from within? Was there some part of her disloyal to herself, some innate watcher planted before her birth? Whoever planted it, had they also sent the order to the mercenaries who rescued her from the Holy City? Only one thing was she sure of: if such a person existed, they weren’t wired. She would have sensed them otherwise. They’d be her subject now. She’d have come across some trace of them.

  Unless they knew the way to jam her signal. And were using it, expecting her.

  With growing fear she realized that the mercenary dispatch had been sent in such a way that when she went to trace it, she would invariably work her way up through the branching paths to exactly this point. She had set off little alarms all along the way, no doubt. By her actions, she had inescapably woken the watcher.

  She paused, frightened for the first time in her brief life, a coldness suddenly running through every polynerve on earth and the moon.

  The moon . . .

  She saw it in the night skies of earth. Setting, rising, and at the zenith.

  The moon was underfoot as well. Some of her subjects stood in moondust, in the earth’s reflected light.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, talking to herself, to the thing in her.

  All over the planet and in the malls of its satellite, these words were whispered. People touched their mouths, not realizing where the phrase had come from; none understood why they heard it everywhere at once. Something was happening . . . a quickening . . . something fearful. They said it in chorus, a timid universal whisper:

  “Who . . . ?”

  ***

  “Kali?” Her grandfather’s voice. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  She opened the eyes of her tiny source body, the one in the armored grown-up suit, the one sitting in a dark room in the Figueroa house. Her search for clues had yielded nothing; the sense of a watcher’s presence within her continued to grow like an alien cancer.

  “Kali?”

  “Yes, grandfather. Come in.”

  The door opened a few inches; the light it admitted was broken by the entrance of two men. First came Alfredo, smiling, proud. The other was dressed in white and orange, covered with glinting bits of jewelry and crystal. She knew him instantly, although she had never met him.

  “Kali, I’d like you to meet the Reverend Governor of California, Thaxter Halfjest.”

  Halfjest fell to his knees before her, seizing one of the robot’s crystalline hands in his fingers and kissing it. She couldn’t feel his lips.

  “Kali, this is the greatest of honors. I’ve looked forward to this day since Alfredo and your grandmother Marjorie, bless her soul, first announced their plans. I’m so glad to see you’re well. And the things you’re doing—marvelous, just marvelous!”

  Kali was at a loss for words. It took her longer than usual to rise from the depths of herself. She resented every instant not spent pursuing the watcher with every bit of her being. She wanted to root it out, to purge herself of the thing. She hated feeling it lurking inside her. She hated the thought that something else could use her.

  Halfjest babbled on, gazing into her eyes, saying something about Hollywood now, how Kali would be its greatest star, a natural. . . .

  “The networks approached me, Alfredo, and asked me, as a friend of the family, to talk you and Kali into doing a program. As her guardian—”

  “A program? What are you talking about, Thax? Why couldn’t they come to me directly?”

  “Well, they said they’d be honored if I made the offer. Everyone is dying to meet Kali—to see her live, if you know what I mean. They’ve offered her a program of her very own. Since she’s already wired, the connections are ready for her.”

  “A . . . a show? Her own show?”

  “People want to get inside her; they want to feel what she feels. You know what they’re saying about you, Kali, since you brought your mother back from the dead? They think you’re divine. They want you inside them. A wire-show sacrament.”

  “Divine,” Kali whispered.

  The Daughters had said as much, and for a time she had believed it.

  But a goddess, a true goddess, tolerated no parasites. No watchers inside. No . . . no baby-sitters! A goddess could not be manipulated.

  She stared at Thaxter. Instinctively, because it was what she did best, she reached out to trace his wires, to slip inside them. His smile widened as if to make room for her; as if he felt her coming. The RevGov was live all the time, of course, constantly broadcasting to his fans. Which meant they were all there inside him, watching Kali.

  Then why couldn’t she find herself? Why no pain of imminent feedback when she looked at herself through his eyes?

  Just to be safe, she tuned completely into Thaxter Halfjest’s program.

  How strange.

  On his wire show, the RevGov was alone, walking in a park, looking at trees, smelling flowers.

  His smile, out here in Figueroa manor, grew wider.

  She didn’t understand—

  She was inside him now, but she didn’t see what Thaxter really saw. She tried to play the wires of the Halfjest walking in the park, but nothing happened. It was an illusion, unreal, he wasn’t in any park at all. He was here, right in front of her, but she couldn’t touch him, couldn’t get inside.

  Then a voice from deep within her, the voice of the watcher, said, “Peekaboo, Kali. I see you. Can’t you see me?”

  Halfjest’s voice.

  She rose from the chair, needing all the power she could summon. Thaxter Halfjest was both here and not-here.

  She raised her sheeny metal arms. “You!” she said.

  “That’s right, dear,” said the Reverend Governor. “I am the fortunate bearer of these good tidings.”

  “It’s Kali’s show, then,” Alfredo said, unaware of what Kali knew. “Not a family show? Only Kali’s?”

  She tried to speak but her mouth wouldn’t work. Her wires were being pulled for the first time, as she had pulled so many others. She lashed out at Halfjest, trying to injure his wires in self-defense—

  And found herself in the illusory park. Sniffing illusory flowers.

  She heard him chuckling. Here she was in Halfjest’s body. It had a thin, unreal quality about it.

  “Well, well,” she heard him saying. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Kali. I was afraid High Priestess Marjorie would find a way to keep you all to herself. But your talent—like mine—deserves to be shared with the world.”

  “What . . . what are you doing?” she asked. She could work this mouth, this body—but the ability was no more useful than the ability to control a dream.

  “I’m taking your place, dear. You have far too much responsibility for a mere baby. I’m putting you in a lovely place much more suited to someone your age.”

  Ahead, through green trees, around the curve of a flagstone path, she spied a meadow. Swings, slides, a sandbox, and a wading pool. Thaxter walked her straight toward it; then his body, now her body, began to deflate. She sank toward the ground. The trees expanded, stretching out to the artificial sky. She glanced down and saw his hands shrinking, turning small and chubby; the hair receded from his arms, leaving them little pink columns. His steps covered a shorter distance with each successive stride; then they hardly carried her at all. She stumbled and landed on all fours.

  Help, she thought.

  She tried to reach back into her real body, groping for the protection of her grown-up suit, but she couldn’t find them—or anything else familiar.

  The RevGov said, “If it’s any consolation, you’re about to be a lot more popular than the Magyk 7.”

  She sat down on the path and wailed. “Why?”

  Halfjest spoke out of her nerves, her blood, her nails: “California is the world leader in science, in technology, in fashion, art, and culture. It rules the worl
d in so many things, I fail to see why it shouldn’t simply rule the world!” And then he was gone.

  She was a baby again, or for the first time, really. Helpless, trapped in a snare that Halfjest had created to capture her. She howled and scraped the path till her soft fingertips bled. The pain was thin, but real enough.

  No one came in answer to her cries. No one ever would. There was no one else here. From a world of billions—all company for her, all potential playmates—to this. . . .

  After a while, when her eyes were finally dry, she started toward the playground in the meadow. It was a long way to go, for a baby.

  S01E12. Zing! Went the Strings

  Poppy woke inside a dream.

  She knew she was dreaming, but it was the closest she had been to consciousness for . . . for how long?

  How long since she had run along a roadside that exploded into a river of stars and sounds which turned slowly to a Styx of stillness and silence?

  How long?

  In the dream she was looking for something, searching everywhere, feeling as empty as the hollow places that held her. And when she had found it, she almost woke—but not quite. The dream was too peaceful; she didn’t want to leave it.

  She was in a green place, singing quietly as though to a child. She sang to herself, really, because she was weak and needed healing. She cradled herself in her own arms, singing quietly, rocking and rocking herself. Holding her daughter, herself held, in a green place.

  The child was very small, very frail, very frightened. Her mother’s voice calmed her a little, though. She looked up at Poppy with golden eyes, and Poppy could see herself through the child’s eyes. As they had been at birth, but without pain: there was no feedback, only a current of warmth. This was her daughter, this little one.

  In the dream, her daughter began to speak, voicing both of their fears.

  “Help me,” she said. “Help me, Mommy.”

  “I will, dear. I will.”

  “Mommy . . .”

  “Poppy.”

  That was another voice. An insistent voice, trying to take her away from her daughter. She had searched too long to lose the baby now, she thought. She could fight the voice—had to, in fact. But then the voice sent hands. Hands all over her, touching her, trying to be cautious but still ripping her out of the dream, tearing Poppy away from her child.

  Not now. Not after all this. How could she lose her again?

  Please, Mommy!

  Not again!

  “Poppy, it’s me, Sandy. Come on, wake up. It’s just a dream, you’re having a dream.”

  Sandy?

  She opened her eyes and saw him standing over her. She was—where? In a bed, of course. She’d been sleeping. Dreaming. Dreaming of a green place where someone sang and called for her. She felt a sense of great loss but couldn’t place it. What had she lost? She was so confused.

  “Sandy? Where am I?”

  He looked relieved. “You remember me? They said you were amnesic. You’re at home, doll. How are you feeling? Healing up, I see.”

  She tried to sit. Her muscles were sore; her whole body ached. Why was that?

  “Sandy?” she said. “Was . . . was I in an accident?”

  He stared at her as if wondering how to tell her. “You can’t remember? Oh, Poppy, I hadn’t realized. I don’t mean to push you too hard.”

  “My . . . my baby. I was dreaming about my baby, I think.”

  His face changed, darkened. “Kali?”

  “Calafia,” she said.

  “Kali now. That’s what she calls herself.”

  Poppy’s heart leaped. She started to swing her legs out of bed. “She’s here?”

  “She’s here, all right. They say she started you healing. I’m not sure how much to believe, but there’s no doubt she’s got amazing powers. She’d be here right now, except she’s about to do a wire show.”

  Poppy felt a moment’s desolation, wondering why they hadn’t brought her daughter to her when she woke. Perhaps she did have amnesia. Maybe she woke like this every single day, forgetting all the days that had gone before, repeating this act each morning. Maybe they were tired of telling her the same things over and over again. To her, each day was a revelation; while to them, each awakening was an ever drearier chore.

  “A wire show,” she said. “Already? Sandy, how long has it been since the . . . accident?”

  She hesitated when she named the event. Details were starting to return. She had fled; had been chased. Suddenly she remembered Clarry—

  “It’s been a few months, Poppy. What—what’s wrong?”

  “Clarry Starko,” she said, looking quickly around the room as though he might be hiding somewhere.

  “Dead,” Sandy said. “He was murdered.”

  She lay back, asking nothing. It was enough to know he wouldn’t be coming after her. No more midnight chases. Why ask questions? The answers would only confuse her. For now there was something more important to keep hold of, though she wasn’t yet sure why it mattered.

  A fleeting image. A glimpse of green, lingering from the dream.

  Golden eyes.

  Her baby!

  She remembered holding the child. The memory of holding Calafia—Kali—in the dream was as real as any memory of sensation; it was as real as the memory of Sandy’s hands on her arms when she woke. Perhaps this was the dream, and that green place was real. She wished she could be there again with her daughter.

  “I want to see her, Sandy,” she said.

  “Well, you’ve got your wires. You can tune into her easily enough. This is a big event. She’s a cult figure, a born star. The networks have her on virtually every channel. There’s no way you can miss her. She’s live. You’ll be able to feel her completely.”

  Poppy closed her eyes and tried tuning in to her daughter’s signal. She knew it intimately; she remembered the strong link coursing between them in the moment of delivery, like an intimate closed circuit. If only she could find that channel again. The memory alone should have been enough to tune her to the broadcast.

  But something was wrong with her wires. Maybe the accident had fouled her reception.

  She just kept remembering that dream. The green place was getting clearer, her focus sharpening.

  The dream-memory kept changing, as though she were dreaming with her eyes open. The vision had moved on, so that she reentered at a later point.

  She felt sand sifting through her fingers. Little fingers. She heard someone weeping. Lifting her eyes she saw trees against a blue sky. She seized another handful of sand and let it pour away. Then she sank down weeping.

  “Mommy . . .” she said.

  Poppy opened her eyes and looked at Sandy. “She misses me, Sandy.”

  He looked a little puzzled. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s such a sad program. Why would they make her do something so sad? It seems too private, too subtle. Not a popular sort of thing.”

  “What’re you seeing?”

  “You can’t feel her?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure I can. I just wondered how it seemed to you. Why sad?”

  “Well . . . because she’s in that park all by herself. She’s playing in sand and crying and calling for . . . for me, I guess. All alone.”

  Now he looked very confused. “Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like the program they—uh, I’m getting.”

  “What do you feel?”

  He stood up suddenly. “Poppy, are you up for a walk? I mean, are you strong enough to come with me? Just to the car?”

  “I think so,” she said tentatively. Her legs felt strong; she wanted to stretch them. “Why? Can we go see her?”

  “Yeah, I’d be really curious. She’s in Studio City.”

  “A studio?” she said. “It looks so much like a park.”

  “Well, you know what they can do with special effects these days,” he said. Even as he said it, his face changed. His eyes got wide; he looked frightened.

 
; “What’s wrong, Sandy?”

  “I’m not sure. Come on, let’s see if we can get you on your feet.”

  ***

  From the air, there seemed to be a riot going on down in Studio City. People were crawling over each other to get closer to the huge building where Kali was holding her live broadcast. Sandy carried VIP credentials so that the vehicle wouldn’t be deflected as he dropped to a landing on the roof. He ushered Poppy toward the guest entrance. As they passed near the edge he looked down on the mob.

  A tremor passed through the crowd. All at once the people turned calm, peaceful. They began to form orderly lines, concentric rings surrounding the building and trailing off into the glittering streets. A hush fell over the city, the state, perhaps the world. Sandy didn’t want to think about the extent of the broadcast.

  The public had followed her story as if it were the Second Coming, though free of sectarian bias: no one with polynerves would willingly miss the broadcast. With unfortunate timing, Thaxter Halfjest had successfully passed Proposition 5,997, the measure prohibiting signal-scramblers in office buildings, so that even more people were being exposed throughout the state.

  They had all tuned into Kali, their media goddess, and she held their wires. They were hers now. Like the thousands of neurons in a single brain, but linking up for the first time, switching on all at once, innumerable combinations creating a new personality, a thing different and greater than any of them. A new form of consciousness was coming into being right there below him in the streets of SanFrangeles, some kind of monster or god waking up. He feared it might see him and instantly know his deception.

  He had dreaded this day, dreaded his return to California, putting it off until General Navarro-Valdez informed him that it could be postponed no longer. Arriving home this morning, he had found the house in an uproar, Kali already gone to the studio. Alfredo was amazed to see him but too busy to ask for explanations. Sandy, by delaying his arrival until the last moment, had been excluded from their plans. It was just as well; he had to act alone, knowing what only he truly knew.

  Well, plenty of others knew it by now. They had surrendered to Kali. They arranged themselves in the streets with military precision and awaited her commands. They must have sensed, with some dim, inexperienced vestige of critical reasoning, that all this discipline and harmony did not come naturally. Surely somewhere inside the net of wires, some of them must be wondering what the hell was going on. When their rapture passed, they would find themselves trapped and helpless. Tremors of indecision might be passing through that vast, quickening brain, where pockets of synergistic psychosis waited to be discovered.