Kalifornia (24 page)

“They should be finished soon,” she said.

Almost as she spoke, Dr. Vargas appeared between the open french
doors. Raimundo queried him in Spanish. The doctor nodded, spoke a few words,
then bowed slightly and walked away.

“We can see him,” Dyad said. “But he won’t be awake for a while.”

“That’s it?” Cornelius said. “Did he pull out the wires so
quickly?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t pull them out. He injects a
chemical into the lymph nodes. It gradually works through the body, attacking
the polynerve, breaking it down, letting the body absorb and then excrete it.
Once it’s injected, it stops the signals immediately. He’s cut off from the
network already, though it’ll be a week or so before the wires have totally
dissolved. Would you like to see him, Cornelius?”

Raimundo rose quickly. “Wait. I want to be there when he wakes. He’ll
answer a few of my questions.”

“Of course, Raimundo, you can do what you wish with your
guest.
But he
won’t be awake before tomorrow. Remember how long it took me to recover? I
just thought Cornelius might like to see that his friend is all right.”

Raimundo sighed. “Very well,” he said, retrieving his guitar.
“But I’m calling my father tonight. He’ll have many questions, if Santiago has seen all the sealman claims. If he came close to the child and received such
damage, then there can be no doubt that she’s the one we fear.”

***

The nightmares and advertisements went away eventually. After them
came peaceful sleep, dreams from which he could have wakened if he wished. But
sleep was a balm that never lost its novelty, and he wasn’t anxious to end it.

Finally, hearing whispers, he opened his eyes. A few people stood
around him in a room bathed with sunlight. He lay in a huge soft bed, under
fresh white sheets. It was so warm that he started to throw the sheets aside,
then he realized that the people were strangers.

One was an old man, tall and dagger-nosed, dressed in a
much-decorated military uniform. Sandy thought he knew him vaguely—had seen him
years ago. Behind him stood Raimundo Navarro-Valdez. Ah, yes. The old man was
his father. General Joaquim Navarro-Valdez.

“How do you feel?” the general asked, his voice surprisingly
gentle.

Sandy
listened to his body, searching for aches,
finding none. Had he been sick?

And then he remembered.

Kali. The Holy City. The disconnection . . .

An unfamiliar silence permeated him; peace lay upon and within his
nerves. Try as he might, he could find no commercials, no game shows, no
programs of any kind, neither ludicrous nor educational. Nothing but his
heartbeat, the twitch of his muscles, the soft background murmur of natural,
original thought.

“You’re in Baja,” the general said.

“Cornelius brought you,” said Raimundo. “You wanted your wires
removed.”

Sandy
shuddered, gripping the sheets. “I don’t think
I’ll ever wear them again, not while she’s out there. Now that I know what can
be done with them.”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “Then you felt it? The wires are
puppet-strings, isn’t that so?”

Sandy
nodded. “They are now. She can use them that
way.”

The general looked at Raimundo, then at a dark-complected woman
who stood at the far side of the bed. “I told you. It’s exactly as we thought.”
His eyes returned to Sandy. “You were lucky to reach us. We got your wires out
just in time.”

“What’s going to happen?”

And then he remembered. His mother, masquerading as High
Priestess, hinting at things she couldn’t tell him. The networks, conspiring to
raise Kali as a goddess. He told them what Marjorie had said, as well as all he
had seen.

“You think it’s only the networks?” Joaquim Navarro-Valdez shook
his head. “McBeth is behind it. The networks merely do his work. Who better to
grab hold of so many people at once? Who better than Hollywood, with their vast
propaganda machine? Only they can turn a weapon into a star, and tune everyone
in for their own destruction.”

“But why?” Sandy asked.

“To take control, why else? To have all the wired masses working
together, with one mind.”

“But it wouldn’t be the president’s mind—it would be Kali’s.”

“Easier for him to control one child than billions of adults. She’s
the natural focus for such power: a baby already believes itself to be the
center of the universe.”

The woman spoke: “Should we speak in front of him, Father?”

“He knows more than I do, Sebastiana,” said the general. “I’m sure
he will want to assist us in stopping this. Isn’t that so, Santiago?”

“It was horrible,” he said. “You can’t imagine being so out of
control.”

The general nodded. “I’ve imagined many things. An entire nation,
moving as one, could be turned against any enemy. They would be irresistible.
Internal strife weakens and destroys armies and nations; but in such a group
there would be no dissent, no resistance. A frightening challenge lies before
us. You are free of the wires now, Santiago, but you are not yet free of what
the other slaves may do.”

The dark young woman, Sebastiana, leaned toward him.

“How did it feel when she took control of you? Did she inhabit
your thoughts or merely your body?”

Sandy
shook his head. “No, not my thoughts, though
she could change my expression. I must have looked like I was thinking whatever
she wanted me to think.”

“Did she seem friendly? Did she frighten you? Or did she seem like
a normal child?”

He stared at Sebastiana in something like awe, realizing that for
the first time he was truly free of the self-consciousness that had come with
the wires; for even when he hadn’t been sending, those wires had reminded him
of his invaded privacy. Even as an RO, he’d never known when his mood might
cause the wires to kick in without warning. Many times his idle thoughts had
triggered broadcasts, tuning him to channels that seemed to match his mood.
During sex it was even worse.

Now he was free of that chatter, the constant interference.

He stared at Sebastiana as if she were the first woman he had ever
seen. Dark hair, clear blue eyes, an olive complexion. There were no voices in
his head, nothing but the sight of her. He thought he could learn to like it
here in Mexico.

Leave California behind, forget about the wire slaves, live a
quiet life . . .

She smiled and reached out to stroke his forehead. “I’m sorry, you
must be tired. Forgive my questions.”

“No, it’s not that. I—well, maybe I am tired. But I feel better
than ever. It’s really incredible. There’s a deep feeling of peace and quiet. I
could lie here for hours, just soaking in it.”

The general cleared his throat. “Get your rest, then. You will
need your strength when you go back.”

“Back?” Sandy said, his newfound peace suddenly threatened.

“To California. To find your sister. You know her better than
anyone; and now she has no power over you.”

“Find her?” he said. “And then what?”

“Then you’ll do what must be done,” the general said. “Whatever
that may be.”

S01E11.
 
Who
 
Will
 
Babysit
 
the
 
Babysitter?

Alfredo stood on the balcony, gazing down into the fissure of Beverly Canyon, hazy as the brown smoke that rose from his tofu cigarette. Filthy habit,
but he couldn’t help it. He had stopped worrying about his health, his image,
everything; and still he felt constantly worried. Worried and numb.

Door chimes warbled and bleeped in the distance. He didn’t move.
Let the ilk answer it.

Hollywood
again. Back into the ‘Woods.
How could he have been so stupid? The networks were closed off to him. He
should have known! No one cared about a has-been, a refugee from a family
show. The Figueroas were stale news, deep in the trough of that peculiar
fifteen-year sine-wave between popularity and nostalgia. He might be dead by
the time a full-fledged rerun cult began. Poppy lay in a coma. His wife was
long dead, and his mistress freshly so. His oldest son had vanished without a
word, as mysteriously as his granddaughter had. It was strange how numb he
felt, as if pain and shock were gathering in a reservoir inside him, stored up
for some future time when he was ready to drink of them. He’d suggested a
series—“Orphan Dad.” “Love the idea, Alf, it’s just great, but without the
whole family we don’t have a chance of competing against the Magyks.” Who were
skyrocketing to unguessed-of heights even as he puffed and chewed the soya
filter ragged. “Find yourself a new wife—get an interracial thing going, that
would be best—adopt yourself some kids, then maybe we’ll talk. But it’ll have
to be your money till then.”

Meanwhile, out of pity, they offered him a pawnship on “Hollywood
Chess.”

Take
that town by storm.

A far-off clatter on the ceramic tiles. Miranda started screaming.

He peered down the hall. His daughter backed into the living room
followed by something like a robot, but baroque and crystal-gleaming rather
than functional matte black. Miranda turned and ran, shrieking, her huge
breasts heaving on her dinky frame, overcome by this terrific spectacle. Even
Alfredo doubted his senses until he saw the small human head of the robot, and
its orange eyes.

Miranda leaped over a sofa and crouched behind it. The robot
filled the doorway, keeping eye contact.

“Grandpa?” it said.

His mouth moved uselessly. He knew who this was—had to be—wearing
a robot like a pair of pajamas, talking like an adult. He didn’t have the words
to greet her.

“Cal—Calafia?”

“Kalifornia,” she said, coming down hard on the name though she
sounded relieved at the same time. A smile flashed over her little face,
spontaneous, lighting up her features. “I left my escort outside, is that
okay?”

“Escort?” asked Alfredo, still numb.

“They’ll behave. At least while I’m holding them.”

“Escort from where?”

“Originally? I didn’t ask. But they knew
you.
”

He started across the room, beckoning toward the sofa. “Say hello
to your niece, Miranda.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” Miranda said, coming out of
hiding. “Hey, where’d you get that outfit? It’s tortious. Sort of an Iron
Toddler look.”

Alfredo put out his arms and embraced the hard carapace of his
granddaughter, though he knew she couldn’t feel him. Her cheek was soft, her
eyes were alive. She returned the embrace gently, careful of her four powerful
arms. “Where’s my mommy? Uncle said she was hurt.”

“Your uncle? Do you mean Sandy? Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He got left behind. I want to see my mommy.”

“Yes, of course, right away. She’s here; she’s below. Come, come,
Calafia.”

“Kalifornia,” she repeated. “My name is Kalifornia. But since we’re
related, you can call me Kali.”

***

Elevator doors parted, revealing a quiet room sealed behind glass.
A man in a white uniform sat outside, watching a board of monitors. Kali walked
past him, leaned her head against the glass, and looked in at the figure
hanging in the harness.

Mommy, she thought.

She remembered what her uncle Sandy had said: Her mommy was a
normal person, not a goddess. How could a goddess have a mortal mommy? A
wounded
mommy?

Her fingertips clicked on the heavy pane; it wasn’t glass exactly,
but some material similar to that from which her armor was made. Some part of
her got busy analyzing it reflexively, for no reason. She shut off the babble.
Not everything was important, she was learning. Information overwhelmed her
from every direction, within and without. It wasn’t all of equal value, but
there was no algorithm for deciding what mattered.

She thought this did, though. Her mommy . . .

“You can go in,” her grandfather said. “I’ll be right here.”

She went through the lock, into the clean-room, and stood over the
woman in the wires.

She didn’t even know her mommy’s name. Seeing her mommy so quiet,
still as a doll, made her very curious to know more. Mommy had wires inside
her, that much Kali sensed. Everybody around here seemed to have wires—not like
the Daughters. That was good; it meant that she could get into them. She could
be in everyone all the time.

Back in the temple, Kali hadn’t realized how much power was in her
reach. Some sort of electrical barrier in the temple walls had cut her off from
the cosmos of information that swarmed all over the rest of the globe. No
wonder she had felt so tiny and helpless back there; they had deliberately held
her down, convincing her she was no more than a baby. Now she knew she really
was
a
goddess. If she reached out with her mind, every sort of knowledge was hers.

Now, for instance, when she wished to know more about her mommy,
all she had to do was wonder—

And knowledge came rushing in.

Poppy Figueroa was her name.

Kali was inside her, in a dingy room, giving way to spasms of
belly pain, watching a spill of wires and blood, the birth of a tiny girl with
orange eyes.

Herself.

Strange. The replay triggered memories; they floated up from Kali’s
mind. She had seen all this once before. Yes, she had been there, in her mommy
and in herself, watching herself being born as she felt herself coming out
into air and light; looking up at Poppy as Poppy looked down at her, enduring a
moment’s pain of feedback before her mommy, protectively, looked away.

In that moment, they had been one entity. One mind. One life
looking at itself through two sets of eyes. Her mommy’s eyes were orange.

She decided to see if she could open them.

Orange eyes, under white lids.

She tried to put herself behind those lids. In a luminous silence.
Floating, lost, going nowhere. No sensation. She had been there once before;
she had been her mommy. No barriers existed now; no one could disconnect them.
All she had to do was reach out and—

Lift, she told the lids.

The lids received mixed signals from Poppy’s brain. They weren’t
sure what to do. Kali concentrated on making them pay attention to her alone.

Lift!

Her mommy’s eyelids fluttered. Parted. Sprang wide open.

Orange eyes.

She saw her mommy and herself. She was here in the clean-room but
also cramp-legged on a dirty hotel bed; past and present merged in the network
of polynerves.

Outside the room, Kali heard the monitor bleeping. The man in
white was shouting. Alfredo rushed to the glass.

“What’s happening?” he said. “Did you see that? Did you see?”

Kali took a step backward, maintaining the link. She worked her
mommy’s fingers, elbows, arms; flexed them in the cat’s cradle. She turned the
head from side to side and made the eyes blink normally.

Mommy’s vision, from Kali’s POV, was cloudy, the view eroded by
ragged areas, spots of gray, signs of neurological damage.

“She’s healing her,” Alfredo said in awe.

Mommy, Kali thought. Sadness overcame her. She had come from this
womb. What’s wrong with you, mommy? Why won’t you come to me?

Poppy’s body thrashed in the cradle, gently at first but with
increasing agitation. Poppy’s arms went out longingly toward Kali. Animal
noises spilled from her throat. She struggled to regain her feet, but the
cradle and sheer muscle loss, after so much time in the harness, held her back.

Kali didn’t want to be hugged by a puppet, but she couldn’t bear
to be separated from Poppy’s flesh now that she was inside it. Poppy fought
free of the harness, tottering on the floor, reaching out for her armor-plated
daughter. At last, an embrace. Kali lost track of whose head she was in. Part
of her spilled out of control, buoyed by excitement and despair, and she found
herself watching this scene through her grandfather Alfredo’s eyes, touching
briefly on the doctor’s perceptions, too. She didn’t want to be in them—it
diffused her sense of reality—but she couldn’t quite control it. Her mind felt
cobbled together out of many different people. The sensation only added to her
loneliness.

How could she, a goddess, feel like an orphaned child?

Suddenly the doctor pushed her aside, rushing to examine Poppy.
Kali backed out of the chamber, but at the same time she stayed there, living
through the doctor’s hands, feeling them take hold of her mommy’s arms.

Alfredo hugged Kali’s crystal torso, kissed her cheeks of flesh.

“You healed her,” he said, with joyous tears streaming down his
cheeks. “You healed her! You are a marvel! This is the best day of my life. The
day you came home to us. Oh, Calafia—
Kali,
I’m
sorry. Of course you can change your name, if that’s the one you like.”

Poppy nodded as the doctor worked her back into the harness.

“She’ll soon be her old self, won’t she?” asked Alfredo, sounding
sure of it. “We’ll all be reunited. We’ll all . . . what is
it, Kali? Where are you going?”

“I don’t feel well,” she answered, heading toward the elevator.
The doctor’s flesh and her grandfather’s hung heavy on her. Outside the house,
the soldiers in her escort were beginning to fidget. She felt herself coming
apart, into too many fragments. She needed to consolidate somehow. “Is there
somewhere I can rest?”

“Oh, of course. You’re still just a baby, aren’t you? You need
your rest. A nice nap. You can use a guest room while we fix up something
special for you. I’m so glad you’ve come, Kali. Wait until I tell—oh, tell the
world!”

The world, she thought.

It sounded so small.

***

While the “world” clamored to see her, Kali spent her first days
at home in seclusion, reliving endless replays of “Poppy on the Run.” She
wanted to know her mommy as she’d been when she lived. If she got Poppy’s body
to reenact enough of its old behavior tropes, it might eventually reactivate
the nascent will that hid there somewhere, sleeping in damaged tissue. Or so
she hoped.

She played the kidnapping tape over and over again so often that
giving birth to herself began to seem a commonplace occurrence. She gave birth
to herself repeatedly. She leaned into the wires, inhabiting her mommy’s body,
feeling the corroded iron of the fire escape beneath her fingers, hearing the
voices of the dogs, watching the little parcel of blanketed flesh as it fell
into the station wagon stalled conveniently below. Back and forth, back and
forth a hundred times she fell; a thousand; more.

Meanwhile, Poppy’s body was in therapy. Kali couldn’t bring
herself to admit that she alone inhabited the form. Everyone believed it was
Poppy herself, returning from the dead. Muscle rebuilt slowly. New joints slid
smoothly beneath a webwork of fine scars. Poppy’s face fell into accustomed
expressions, though they were not always suited to the situation: Kali could
use only what she had gleaned from the wire show.