Elvissey (6 page)

"Dryden attempted the like sans E figure," Judy said, and
again, added commentary. "This'll result sadder, sure."

"Friends, Seamus." His sister thumbedged smiling, circular faces in the dust atop Mister O'Malley's desk. Mentally
challenged, mayhap; she knew her logo so well as any.
"Happy."

"Yes, Enid. Happy." His sister slapped her knees with her
hands as if joyful with her noise, staining her palms crimson
as they touched her newmade scars. "Then fly breaknecked," he told me, his eyes at last seeking mine, "over
there and back again. Guise yourself in stealth's cloak, and
cross. Seek. Find. Return. Afterward, lucked, their new shall
regood what's left of our old."

"If successed," Judy transposed, "we be messiasized."

With his hand Mister O'Malley traced his face's knobs and
valleys, as if sanding his fingertips upon his stubble, to make
his grasp more delicate, therefore undetectable; as if assuring himself that he was still there. Examining me twiceover
before reaverting his eyes, he momentarily incarnated my
husband's face upon his own, expressing sans word that he'd
closer neared what each-all-sought.

"All good," he concluded. "Till time's lovely end."

Windowways, beads of blue fire flared; dropped from an
ever-restrung strand. "Sooner," I heard Judy mutter, as we
backed away from his desk.

Between elevator and exit I vizzed the thousand faces of
Dryco; its glories manifested throughout the new red lobby,
upon its stone floor, beneath its vaults and arches and
groins. So chambered, I knew entrapment's feel: jailed
within a whale's heart, or in the bloodied womb of Godness.
Blasphemy, mayhap, to so meld spiritual metaphor with
secular truth; but mine is a faithful blasphemy. Mother
Church thralled John and me: we took the Visions of Joanna, Revised, as truthed; when desperate, found-could
find no longer-comfort in Her grace; believed as any believed in God and Godness, the Two in One, who preserve
Their world that, when Day comes, They might destroy all
and enact a cosmic regooding.

Their competition was present in guise, if not spirit. E's
gilded statue revolved atop a pedestal, amid all else which
Dryco had gifted unto its world; his icon was shipped from
the Dryden estate after Mister O'Malley's redevelopment of
the property and, prepping for what was to come, reinstalled
here. E's dead eyes stared blind upon his potential worshipers; his vast sculpted belly held a world's weight. His congregants outnumbered, and outshouted, those who followed
Godness; my fellow heathen and I knew no escape from the
King.

Elvii were as locusts: harmless, even funful, when singled,
and suffocating, massed. They swarmed into their services
and into the mass gatherings they termed ElCons, praying
for, talking about, listening to and posing as the King for
days on end, segregating themselves from the world to celebrate their increasing strength; then, recharged, they'd appear amid the unafflicted populace, proselytizing sans
cease, berating their co-workers, distributing illiterate tracts
and zines, deadheading computer lines, vandalizing walls
and screens with their deconstruction of the word. Dialogu-
ing with Elvii became, inevitably, monologuing: they under stood no referents but E, and all else existed but to be
measured against his greatness and found lacking. That they
believed didn't satisfy; to their eyes all should want him as
desperately, and to the exclusion of everything else.

Millions wanted the King now, wanted without cease, fullfaithed and overt; but which King? The C of E was one
church become many; its mitosis ensued at conception, and
seemed primed to split, divide and resplit unto perpetuity.
Each new denomination contained from its birth fresh infidels, keen to look askance and thereafter contrary: take, as
exampled, the Prearmyites. Within their ranks were souls
believing the rhythms of E's songs to have been irredeemably tainted, once accompanied by drums; others certained
that in recording's act an impenetrable firewall came down
between singer and hearer; the sect's fundamentals affirmed
sans admittance and argument that between song headheard and throatsung, the shadow showed: that not even the
King himself comprehended his deepest glories.

And the Prearmyite denomination was but one: amongst
the Elvii were the Hosts of Memphis, the Shaken, Rattled
and Rolled, the River Jordanaires; the Gracelandians, the
Vegassenes, the Gladyseans; the C of E Now or Never, the
Redeemed Believers in Our Master's Voice, the Church of
the True Assumption of His Burning Love, and a hundred
dozen more. Each schismatrix knew their King true, and saw
their road as sole and only; their only given was that, for
whatever reason, and-they supposed-at no one's command, the King would return.

There were no longer overt Elvii in the tenth and ultimate
circle of Dryco as there had been in the Drydens' time; Judy,
for one, I suspect, would have preferred that all Elvii be
neutralized in oldstyle manner. But regooding forbade elimination, necessitated appeasement. By suggestion of Leverett, by command of Mister O'Malley, against Judy's every
wish, it was Dryco's given that if E returned, John and I
would bring him, in the guise of his other world's counter part, that he might be tossed into his crowd and so docile
them, if not in rejoining quotidian life, at least into departing fully from it. That was the theory as we'd thus far heard
it. His exact material form in that other world im-
materialled: his new overseers would reengrave the image
stolen into desired shape, pleasing his followers in whatever
way they wished; but pleasing Dryco, first of all.

"Denude," I heard my doctor's voice demand; I did. "Table
yourself."

Her image fluttered as a windblown flag, revealing only
multihue blur free of formal line. Even when my medicis
onscreened true it remained uncertifiable that the women
seen were the women speaking; Dryco invariably hired posers if their look better suited perceived prejudice.

"Arms over and above," my nurse's monitor voiced.
"Spread."

As per the employee plan, females were treated by females
in Dryco's health clinics, dissecting and probing and poking
with neither less sympathy, nor greater kindness, than would
have males. Their names were nonessentialled info; I never
knew what to call them that might lull forth an unwittingany-response. Once unshelled, I reclined upon cold metal,
wincing at its heel-to-head burn, suspecting that when I
departed the clinic this time-as I suspected, every timemy toes would be tagged, my eyelids sewn shut and my sheet
wrapped tight around me.

"Inhale."

Their machines's songs ascended Eastern scales, warming
into vibrant modality; once revved, they wailed as banshees.
A host of utensils emerged from tabletop, prepping to examine and prod. Metal baffles lifted, encompassing me, that
during treatment I could not meet their surrounding stare.
Steel bands unribboned, cuffing my wrists; clamps took hold
of my ankles and extended upward, angling my legs forty degrees upward. "Physical underway," my doctor noted her
record, and then spoke to me. "Relax."

Our does never neared living patients; needless exposure
to such vectors of transmission inevitabled otherwise-avoidable infection.

"Circulatories, normal," my nurse said, descending the
list. "Gene stimulations, uninterrupted. Transmissions,
steady. Respiration, acceptable. Lymphonic conversion, responsive. T-cell progressions, negative. Neural response, appropriate. Cell regrowth, positive-"

"Perspiration, hypertropic," my doctor noted. "Adrenaline output elevating. Blood pressure rising. Relax, Bonney."

Both nurse and doctor seemed to speak from Mars. Ceiling reflections of machine-light shimmered as if watercast.

"Rectal readings," my doctor said, "suitabled. Throttle
up „

"Boosters ready." A dozen needles speared me, piercing
my arms, my legs, my bottom, neck and spine. Immobilized
as I was, all I could do was scream.

"Administering vaccinations and reboosts as per program: measles A and B, hepatitis varietals, gamma-g, typhoid, Sabin, DS, DPT, malaria, HIV one through six,
coryza series, TB, influenza, smallpox, RecomStrain, yellow
fever, Carcinomile, RNA screens, pneumonics. Contraindications noted, no unpredicted danger foreseen."

"Catscans?" asked my nurse.

"Demonstrate patient's continued viability. Prepare for
pelvic insertion."

My legs, assisted, reached greater altitude as their separation increased, and then the table intruded itself into me; its
rod felt to have been chilled for weeks. My fingers grasped
at air as I felt myself split. A year-long minute passed before
either nurse or doctor spoke.

"Examination proceeding," said the nurse. I saw a yellow
light blinking.

"Celibate state not contractually demanded," said my
doctor, after perfunctory observations. "Cycles abnormalling?"

"No."

"Louder, please. Detail reasons."

"Husband," I said. "His mood lacks. I'm hurting-"

"Pain responses within boundaries. Discharge evident.
Ovulation patterns suitable. Dermal reactions-"

"Relax," the table's loudspeaker voiced, sounding with a
man's ingratiating rumble.

"Pacify yourself to lessen discomfort. Silence, please. Sedative application proceeding," said my nurse.

"Don't dope me. Don't-" But their additives already
coursed through the needles; momentslong, my head lightened, and as perception altered I watched the overheads
waving as if they'd taken on a semblance of life. Shortly, the
pain was almost describable, if not bearable.

"Melanin production abeying as predicted in British studies of Melaway," my doctor noted. "Caucasian similitude
attainable on schedule as desired. Continue avoiding noonday sunlight."

"This drug," I tried to say, "Affecting more than-"

"Corrective agent," she reworded. "Drugs heal. Corrective agents correct."

"Term it as suited," I said. "All's incorrective. Headaches,
daily. Nausea unavoidable, every mom. Vomiting and
cramps. I jointache as if bonebroken. Melaway's causing all,
I know-"

"Expected. Silence, please. Health dissemination proceeding."

"Relax," the table said.

"Expected?" I replayed, hearing my words slur as I enabled them to crawl over my lips. "Every effect?"

"Not unexpected," my doctor said. "Further questions?"

"AO. At treatment termination I'll darken anew?"

"As detailed earlier," she said. "Original skin pigmenta tion redevelops within three weeks following cessation of
treatment with Melaway. Exhale."

"Certify harmlessness," I said. "These effects-"

"Total harmlessness uncertifiable with any experimental
corrective agents. Silence, please. Further elaboration ines-
sentialled within program guidlines and can only result in
patiental intensified confusion induction. Inhale."

Their thing slid deeper into me. "Get it out," I shouted,
not wanting to cry.

"Tear salinity, acceptable," my doctor said. "Calm yourself, please, preparatory to withdrawal. Greater pain may
result otherwise."

"Ready automatic release," said my nurse.

"Ready," said the table.

My wrists, fresh-accessoried with blue-black bracelets,
slipped loose of their bonds. My intruder slipped out as I
rose. Glimpsing a red jewel newly adorning its chromed tip,
I felt my throat bile over. As I dragged myself off the table
I nearly collapsed, feeling physical agony as intense as my
emotional pain, and would have tumbled groundward had
I not caught myself. The room spun round me, as if to
launch itself skyward with I, its fuse.

"Smile," my nurse's voice said. "Your day awaits."

"Madam still thinks mass movements undocilable, eh?"
Leverett said; aiming a finger toward his temple he twirled
it, and smiled. "Unreason's sleep breeds madness, poor
thing. We'll calm the Elvii too, whatever she imagines. Regooding works in all areas of human endeavor, depending
upon approach."

Leverett, sixty-six, appeared fifty; he'd overseen Dryco's
New Projects division since soon after century's turn. His suit
looked as if he'd bought it the summer after graduation, and
had slept in it every night since, though all knew he had
them made to so impress; his hair was tousled artfully by one of many assistants who were appointed to come by and
tousle it. Leverett's suit and hair were of like hue, though I
couldn't immediately distinguish which had been dyed to
match.

"Marvelous weather," he said. Eyeing windowways I
watched a waterspout kilometers distant take root in the
harbor's gray field. Leverett's office was splendidly plain: its
bleakness was enhanced by one desk, mismatched chairs, a
stack of printout, a Harvard banner and portraits of his
position's two predecessors. "Hairs the chest."

"Undesirable," said John, leaning forward in his chair; as
he shifted closer to Leverett's desk a flock of paper clips flew
from their nest and rested on his shirtfront.