by Marc Laidlaw
“Sandy,” his father croaked, breaking him out of his trance. Alfredo sounded sick. “We have to go deeper. We have to . . . to witness this. They’re doing it for us—as well as to us.”
The elevator carried them much, much deeper this time. Work in the depths went on as usual; no one had yet received word from above, though phones were starting to buzz. With the arrival of the Figueroas, hands froze in midmotion, conversations broke off. The floor manager left her platform and approached with a broad smile. Father and son ignored her, going straight to a window. Sandy peered into the dark water.
“Good afternoon,” the manager said. “Is this a surprise inspection?”
Alfredo silenced her with a gesture. There were shapes out there, Sandy thought, but it was too dark to be certain.
Suddenly a lantern ignited beyond the glass, lighting the drowned features of a dark-skinned woman. No life remained in her eyes. Sparkles glinted on the chains that dragged her down. The spotlight was her own, and it lit a long plastic banner that slowly unfurled in the water above her, pulled taut by the weight of her descent. The banner read: VOTE YES ON PROP. 5,997!
Other lamps began to flicker on here and there, above and below, and other banners sprouted and streamed like kelp throughout the surrounding sea. The whole floor crowded to the glass. Sandy backed away, irrationally fearing that the windows would shatter and sweep them out to join the dead . . . or sweep the dead right in.
Alfredo’s fingers closed on Sandy’s arm. “I can’t take any more. They’re all . . . all like children to me.”
They are your children, Sandy thought. You were a father to most of them. Which makes them my brothers and sisters. Some of them might even be me. Right now, as they die, as the brain blacks out, while wires carry a last little spark of life . . . they could be dreaming that they’re good old Sandy Figueroa—dying. Poor Sandy. Poor everyone.
Minutes later, when they joined Cornelius on the roof, they found the security sealmen gathering the protestors’ boats before they could drift.
“Let’s get out of here, Corny,” Sandy said. “You want a ride, Dad?”
Alfredo shook his head. “I think I’ll be heading for home. Hollywood. I want to straighten out . . . a few things. Sandy, I . . . I don’t want you taking over here. It’s not our line of work. You know, I’m not even sure what this company does; but I do know it’s not worth . . . this.” He made a futile, cramped gesture at the waves. “I’m going to sell—no—give it away. To the families of these people, if they have any.”
Finally, he bowed his head and wept.
Sandy turned away. He didn’t know what to think or feel. No models existed for this scenario. Probably not even Danny Bonaduce, as bad as things got, had ever seen anything like it.
***
Cornelius steered landward, unspeaking, in the mint green Jaguaero, leaving Sandy the peace he needed to sort through his thoughts. At first he couldn’t find any at all. His soul felt like a lidless eye. Shock had laid him open to a barrage of marrowbursting wire shows—explosive sounds, morbid colors, and what was worse, the cloying NutraSweetness of public therapy channels, which tormented him with inappropriately mild advice and tranquil images. “Love yourself. Love your neighbor. Let Dr. McNguyen show you how. . . .”
News shows clamored about the sudden rash of suicide squads offing themselves all over the state. He shut them out and tuned to a peace station, whose signal was a mellow brass gong that hummed unvaryingly but achieved intense harmonics behind his eyes. Every cell began to vibrate. Maybe he needed a nap.
Cornelius cleared his throat. “Would it be appropriate to ask where we’re going?”
“Mm.” Sandy opened his eyes, saw rooftops, swimming pools, stunted nut trees. They had come farther than he’d realized. “SacraDelta?” he said.
“The Reverend Governor?”
“Just an aimless drive, okay?”
Corny gained altitude, avoiding the low local air traffic, banking southeast.
The SacraDelta complex occupied the heart of the Franchise. Once a distinct entity, the amorphous capital was still one of the seediest districts in the state. The glittering dome of the Capitol Mall crowned a transparent mountain, a meshwork matrix of transport tubes, metalworks, and lock-to-fit office quondos where civil servants could be seen in the process of shredding paper and hair, or engaging in coffee-break quickies in windowed vending lounges. At the golden pinnacle, a tapering spire marked the headquarters of Thaxter Halfjest. Cornelius looked at Sandy questioningly, but he shook his head.
They swerved away from the bureaucratic fantasia, skimming over crowded alleys. He could lose himself down there in the dives and skids, but what he really needed now was someone to talk to. He needed a friend, someone who understood the ambivalence he felt toward wires.
“Look there,” Cornelius said. “I believe that’s Rancho Navarro-Valdez coming up below.”
“So it is,” he said, not wanting to rebuke Cornelius for this blatant ploy to cheer him. “What a coincidence. I was just thinking of Dyad.”
This bald, weed-colored spot in the midst of the dense-packed Franchise was occupied by a few old Spanish-style houses. Sandy had visited the hacienda a number of times when Raimundo’s family held parties for California’s notables. Today, no other air traffic crossed over the region; in fact, most cars seemed to be going out of their way to avoid it.
“Why don’t we, uh, drop in on Raimundo and Dyad?”
Cornelius headed straight in. Sandy waited for someone to come on the radio and question their identity.
He was still waiting when two silver needles lofted from the ground below. Twin plumes of cloud grew behind them, leaning in the direction of the Jaguaero, like tentacles feeling for them.
“Look out!”
Cornelius pulled the car straight up, spinning away from the ranch, and just in time. Rockets exploded where they had been. Shock waves cuffed the car like an irate parent’s hand.
Sandy laughed nervously, leaning toward the radio. “Yo! Rancho Navarro-Valdez, you almost hit us! I’m an old friend of the family.”
“ ‘Tate your name and biddinet,” said a voice with a slight speech impediment.
This was no time to hedge. “Santiago Figueroa. I’ve come to pay my respects to, uh, Mrs. Navarro-Valdez.”
“You hab no appoinmin.” It was not a question.
“This was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
“All vititor mut be clear by Raimundo Navarro-Valdez. He it away on biddinet.”
“Look, would you please just tell Dyad that Sandy wants to see her?”
“Only de matter of de howt may grant permitton for entry. Crott our airtpate again and your vehicew wiw be detroyed.”
“Tufferin’ tuccatat,” Sandy whispered.
He signaled Corny to keep circling Rancho Navarro-Valdez just outside the proscribed area. The hacienda buildings looked white as teeth in the center of the dry, dusty land. He thought of Dyad, a hostage in her husband’s house.
“My only friend in the world,” he said, “and I can’t even drop in to say hi.”
He studied the far-off towers of SacraDelta with new interest. “All right. Thaxter it is. But let’s catch him at home. I can’t handle the mall right now.”
They pulled away from the ranch. Behind them, another explosion filled the sky—a parting shot. The radio had transmitted Sandy’s lisping imitation.
East of the government’s magic mountain, north of Rancho Navarro-Valdez, was an estate that looked like a green and leafy carnival in contrast to the dirty gridwork of suburbs surrounding it. Aircars darted up and down at this spot, like bees that had found a bottomless throat of nectar. Sandy didn’t fear getting shot at here. Thaxter welcomed all comers.
Cornelius dropped the car into a crowded parking tower and took one of two spaces reserved for Figueroas. That’s what fame and fortune bring, Sandy thought wryly. Parking spaces across the land. And a mass of fanatics willing to die so they can squ
irt in your shorts on company time.
Sandy and the sealman strolled across a lawn of spongy hybrid dichondra that gave off unpredictable odors when crushed underfoot. One step smelled like roses, the next reeked of garlic; they padded through an olfactory jungle of lilac and roast beef, rosemary, lemon verbena, and rum. Mercifully, fresh air kept the scents from growing too thick and confused, otherwise he would surely have grown ill from the nauseous mix. They climbed a flight of broad, golden steps through clouds of hot cocoa and fried onions.
The customary crowd milled throughout the lower stories of the house. Some hovered in dim lobbies, murmuring more softly than the music, others danced in bright ballrooms. Children chased up and down the stairs. A haughty Spaniel bitch hung on the arm of a Lab in black leather. (Thax was genetically liberal—-had to be in a state whose teegee population grew by 5 percent every year.) The very same party had gone on without relief for as long as Sandy could remember. Many of the guests hoped to be glimpsed by Thaxter Halfjest, to interact with him, however briefly, and thus become part of his perpetual broadcast.
Naturally, Thaxter couldn’t play host all the time. He was rarely seen in his own home. Most guests knew their roles and performed them smoothly; in this self-contained society, they intersected with the outer world mainly through gossip and the catering crew. Conversations recirculated endlessly, like the indoor waterways that flowed up the walls and down the stairs—a delicate, entirely artificial cycle that could never have survived in the real world.
Sandy asked after the RevGov and was referred to a transgenic butler. The tuxedoed figure stood stiffly in a corner of the ballroom, bearing a covered hors d’oeuvre tray. His face was a purplish mass of wrinkles and soft pouches, perpetually dribbling on the silver dome that provided essential protection for the canapes. The teegee watched Sandy through clusters of bright blue and red carbuncles, something like a scallop’s eyes. Thaxter had been toying with aquatic designs, but not wanting to impinge on patent rights, he had settled on something less mammalian than the sealman. Sandy wasn’t sure where the original genes could have come from. Cornelius seemed peculiarly disturbed.
“Excuse us,” Sandy said. “Is Thaxter at home?”
The butler’s mouth proved an unwelcome sight. Instead of teeth, it featured a fused beak and a parrot’s livid tongue. And instead of English, what it emitted was a series of cackles and sputters, accompanied by some distinctly rancid brine.
“I’d like to see him if he is.”
“Krrrawww,” the butler said, inclining his head with the air of someone being as helpful as he could be under the circumstances.
“Could you maybe point out someone who might know?”
“Krrrawww.”
“Tan, dude. Thanks.”
They wandered the upper halls, listening at doors until Sandy heard the distinct singsong of Halfjest’s voice, forever proposing solutions to problems no one else had noticed. Sandy knocked softly and leaned in.
A teegee guard with a face worse than the butler’s tried to slam the door on Sandy, but the commotion caught the attention of Thaxter Halfjest, embroiled in argument with a small group at the far end of an opulent chamber. Halfjest beckoned to Sandy and the purple guard opened the door the rest of the way. He was part seacow, Sandy realized. A slug with a spine.
“Sandy, my boy!” cried Thaxter with his arms spread wide, ever the showman. Cornelius folded his arms and remained near the door, just within earshot. “I’m sure you remember Mario Vespucci.”
Sandy nearly tripped on the end of an impossibly long trailing robe of red velvet edged with sable. Its source was an enormous man with a beaked nose nearly as bright as his vestments. The Pope of Las Vegas.
“Santiago, great to see you,” said the pope. “How long’s it been, eh? Five years? Ten?”
Sandy remembered to bow and kiss the proffered diamond ring. As he did, he was able to read the inscription around the band: CLASS OF ’00.
“Your Holiness,” he said. “I believe it was the ‘Figueroa Family Christmas Spectacular.’ ”
“Ah, yes. I floated in to bestow a special gift-tax dispensation.” He nudged Sandy discreetly, lowering his voice as if to keep secrets from his entourage. “Now I’m traveling incognito. That tightwad Scot in the White House wants to tax all electronic memos that pass between the states. Can you believe that? Taxing the business of politics! Bloody McBeth!”
“Mario,” Halfjest pleaded, “calm yourself down. Find your alpha! It’s not good for the cardiovascular system to get so excited.”
“Mine’s solid plastic,” the pope said, thumping his chest.
Sandy wondered how anyone could hide the Pope of Las Vegas, especially in Halfjest’s society hothouse. “It’s not much of a disguise, Your Holiness,” he pointed out.
“I suppose not, but it doesn’t have to be.” Vespucci pointed at the ceiling. “Like a god, I drop from the sky. Like Superman, I leap home again in a single bound.” He winked. “No one’s the wiser. You’re out of the redwoods, I hear.”
Sandy shook his head. “Haven’t gotten high in weeks.”
“Did I ask for a confession?” He threw up his fatty hands. “It’s the curse of my profession. Everybody wants to spill his guts!”
Sandy shrugged. “Sorry.”
The pope leaned closer. “You’re not by any chance a sender these days, are you? If you are, I’ll have to ask you to edit this meeting out of your life.”
“I’m strictly RO. But what about Thaxter?”
The RevGov grinned, took Sandy’s elbow confidingly. “I’ve acquired a new special-effects device, straight from the Livermore Livewire Labs. It fabricates new scenes out of old sensations, and blends them into my broadcast seamlessly whenever I wish. That’s what my adorable audience is living at the moment.”
“You’re kidding. You mean you’re feeding your receivers canned reality?”
“I prefer to think of it as synthetic.”
“But why, Thax? What’s going on?”
“You heard the pope. McBeth wants to tax our intercourse . . . so to speak. (He’ll be doing that too, I don’t doubt.) He wants to know everything that goes on. Getting a wee bit paranoid, I’m afraid.”
“And here you are talking about him behind his back,” Sandy said.
“He’s driven us to it. There’s no privacy anymore!”
“When did you ever have privacy?”
Thaxter bowed slightly, smiling. “That’s different. I was alone with my audience, whom I trust. But McBeth is pressing for presidential censure. He’s anal in all the worst ways. He wants everything I experience to pass through the White House before public release. That goes against everything I stand for. California isn’t beholden to those tiny zipperdown New England minds. I’m not standing for it.”
“So there really is a conspiracy against McBeth.”
“There is now, perhaps, a teeny one, but he brought it on himself. Not that I ever trusted the man. He still won’t let himself be wired, despite all the petitions. I can’t understand that mentality. He’s completely backward! The man gets all his news from flatscreens. He’s out of touch. He has something wicked to hide—he and all his neopuritan cronies.” The pope made a pooh-poohing gesture. “It’s the last gasp of the old guard, Thaxter, why don’t you believe me? After this, the revolution.”
“I think it’s already started,” Sandy said. “A bunch of kamikazes just went after Dad’s seascraper in protest of—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about it,” said Thaxter, “and I say well done! They have my full support.”
These words amazed Sandy. “Your support? But they’re—fanatics! Kids! And they’re killing themselves!”
Thaxter shrugged. “Which is what any devotee does in an impossible situation. Their selfless act illuminates a shameful corner of our society—the wage slaves cut off from life for eight hours a day, six days a week. I expected a benefit from this action, Sandy. It will lend momentum to the special election on Proposi
tion fifty-nine-ninety-seven—to ban those awful office scramblers throughout California.”
“I’m afraid you just lost yourself a whole fleet of voters.”
Halfjest seemed unconcerned. “Plenty more where they came from. Besides, my stats show they were mainly too young to vote.”
There was no flexing Thax on this point. Sandy gave up.
“Speaking of getting cut off, I just tried dropping in on Dyad.”
“Oh, bad idea! Don’t even try.” Thaxter’s face darkened; he looked almost enraged for a moment.
“I won’t do it again. Somebody took a shot at me.”
“Ooh, that girl—I don’t understand her. Those so-called Castilians—another regressive faction—are moving the whole operation down to the South American Republic. She’s probably with Raimundo in Baja by now. Those people won’t be happy till they’ve found a time machine to carry them back to the Dark Ages. She had her wires completely removed, can you believe it? That’s a dangerous operation! I’ve never felt so cut off from her.”
“Mexico?” Sandy said. Great. Now I’ll never see her.
“She’s broken my heart,” said Halfjest.
“I hate to break this up—” said the pope.
“Sorry, Father.”
“—but I have a mass to lead this evening at Caesar’s Coliseum, before the gladiatorial gambling games.”
“So, Father,” Sandy said, “you must know the answer to that old question, ‘Does God play dice?’ ”
“Does he play? My boy, he’s one of our best customers. We comp him to a suite, drinks, girls, you name it.” The pope let out a great laugh. “It’s worth the investment, believe me. The old boy never fails to lose his shirt!”
Thaxter clucked and shook his head. “How pathetic. A god who gambles? Don’t you two agree it’s time for some new divinities?”
S01E05. Seersuckers