Kalifornia

by Marc Laidlaw

  Sandy touched his breast. “Moi?”

  “He’s my acolyte, an excellent pupil. This is part of his education, meaning no offense to any of your sect.”

  The three turned inward, conferred briefly, then the first one spoke again: “You, ‘Bob,’ may come inside if it is absolutely necessary for proper functioning of the construct. But your acolyte stays out here.”

  “Fine,” Sandy muttered.

  “Please, it’s a cold night—he’ll be no trouble.”

  Sandy said softly, “Hey, ‘Bob,’ I’m fine.”

  “If he could just wait in your lobby,” “Bob” pleaded.

  Half a minute passed in silence, the Mechanics waiting with their burden, the three in black seeming anxious to get inside. Finally, impatiently, two hurried back into the shadows. The third snapped, “He waits in the lobby then. No further.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Sandy said under his breath. “Bob” silenced him with a look.

  “Thank you very much,” “Bob” called to the woman as she turned to go in. He caught Sandy by the elbow and whispered, “Careful here, Santiago. They’re very easily offended by our kind.”

  “What kind might that be?”

  “. . . Men.”

  The lobby was a large chamber carpeted in ancient maroon pile, its darkness only slightly relieved by a few small candles. Stairs rose off into black heights, and the mouths of corridors yawned on either side. Sandy took a seat on a cement bench. The four Mechanics and the black-robed women vanished into one of the corridors. He heard their footsteps fading, then came a lull, and then a sudden, muffled commotion: voices and scuffling feet and whispers mixed together. Then, as if a door had fallen shut, this sound ended as abruptly as it had begun. He leaned against the wall and cleaned his fingernails.

  Time passed slowly, or so it seemed. Much of his recent experience had been a waste of wire time. All of it was being recorded, every single moment of his machine-shop education squirted off to Clarry for viewing and editing.

  Editing. That was Clarry’s forte; and it would have been a luxury in real life. In the final version of Sandy’s adventure, Clarry would undoubtedly cut this part, this sitting in a dark lobby. The four-armed robot would be good for a few incidental images, perhaps serving as a focus for Sandy’s stint with the Celestial Mechanics. But most of his stay in the Holy City had so far proven dramatically fruitless.

  Sandy could see it now: his first solo feature. It would start with him on his first night, hiding behind that pile of scrap, just before being discovered and evading the Rollers. Then the scene with the man or woman or whatever it had been. Then a few segments of Sandy wandering down dark, unfamiliar streets before finding a place to sleep. Cut to his rude awakening by the Wandering Jews, and a few scenes of his treatment at their hands. Reveal in glimpses the varied cults of the Holy City, suggesting a vast anarchic society too rich to be explored in more detail. Then, so as not to steep the poor wire audience in every bit of irrelevant byplay, the show would cut straight into the garage of the Celestial Mechanics, not to make too big a deal of it, but simply to introduce a few of the characters he’d met here in the Holy City. “Bob” would play a minor role. Funny to think of it that way, considering that he saw “Bob” almost every waking minute of his day. But once this program was edited, the Great Grease Monkey would be stripped down to a trivial part. He’d suggest Clarry leave in a few snatches of his training, then skip right to that dramatic night when the robot had been unveiled. And sure, they could even put in some of this very night, to show the fate of the robot. Wouldn’t want to leave that loose end hanging. But Clarry would certainly cut this endless waiting.

  If only he could cut it out now!

  Too much of his search had proved to be nothing but incidental. He’d landed in a position from which it was impossible to investigate on his own, even if he’d known where to begin in a city full of roller-skating headhunters and the Ignostics only knew what else.

  Sandy stood up, began to pace, and suddenly realized that he was alone, unattended, for the first time since the Wandering Jews nabbed him. Free to go!

  He crept toward the door, waiting for someone to stop him. The woman priests, if they were watching, would probably be happy to see him leave. And “Bob” was somewhere else entirely. “Bob” was—

  “Santiago! There you are!”

  —right behind him.

  He tensed, knowing that he wouldn’t bolt for freedom. It was dark out there, dark and scary. Roaming randomly in a night full of religious predators wouldn’t bring him any nearer to his goal.

  He turned back to the corridors as “Bob” hurried toward him across the lobby.

  “It works, Santiago! Wait until you see! It’s coming this way—by the Central Gear and Mainspring, I’m ecstatic!”

  He heard voices again, rising in exultation, coming closet. He heard laughter and song, all of it female.

  Something glittered in the dark entryway as candlelight went flowing up and down the slender rods and wires of the transparent body. Its four arms clacked and whirred experimentally. The robot moved from the shadows with a steady, graceful stride, as if it had been born walking. Black-robed worshipers followed, holding back a few feet so as not to overwhelm it; it was none of their wills that powered or guided the thing.

  Now the robot had a head, a brain, and a face of its own.

  A small living face with bright orange eyes.

  Sandy gasped and grabbed on to the door latch. He held on for his life and his sanity, both of which seemed to be floating away. He felt suspended, all doubts in abeyance. His awe was no less than that of the black sisters who surrounded their robot-borne baby.

  Another step she took, and another, heading straight across the lobby, straight toward Sandy. An infant’s head on a powerful metal frame; an infant’s body hidden inside that breast; an infant’s will compelling the construct to cross the room and stop before him. An infant’s eyes, but not an infant’s intellect.

  The orange-eyed baby stared at him. Sixteen powerful transparent fingers rested on his shoulders in a gentle, terrifying grip. He felt a rush through his body, a powerful surge that registered not in his nerves but in his polynerves.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

  Sandy swallowed. “For me?”

  The baby smiled. She had already cut her two front teeth. He had missed this milestone in his odd niece’s life. Immediately he had the urge to miss every other event that might befall her.

  He wanted to tear away, to run through that door and into the night and keep running, risking everything, abandoning his search and all his work merely for the pleasure of an immediate escape from the specter of this mechanically augmented baby.

  But he couldn’t move. She held him not only in a metal grip, but in a mental one. He’d been harnessed in one easy motion, and his wires were now held like reins in her hands.

  “Come with me,” she said.

  Divorced from his will, betrayed by his limbs, he followed.

  PART THREE

  S01E09. The Meatpuppet Master

  Kali hated wearing people. Flesh was icky—all blood and heat and fart sounds. But she was drawn to this one, sucked right in, her soul captured by his blood’s gravity. Flesh was a magnet and she was iron. But she was iron with a will.

  Unlike the Daughters, the man was vulnerable, just as the Seer had been. This time she would be more careful; she wouldn’t interfere with his biocircuitry. Death was a power failure, no good to her. She had to control him without killing him. But she could do that now. It was better than having a pet puppy dog. And since she could get around on her own in the grown-up machine, the Daughters wouldn’t be able to come up with any good reason for her not to have a pet.

  “Pay the Grease Monkey,” she told them. “We’re keeping this one.”

  The High Priestess’s expression was unreadable behind her veil, but another Daughter cried, “He’s a man! Kali forbids it!”
/>   She stamped her crystal-shod foot. “I am Kali.”

  No one could argue with that.

  She sent the blond man into the dark corridor, ignoring the complaints of the Celestial Mechanics. The pipe-smoking priest started after his acolyte, but the Daughters reacted violently to any further intrusion by a male into their domain. Kali had judged them adequately. Their faith in her was almost as good as wires, which they lacked. They would defend her decision. Besides, they probably liked the idea of keeping a male as a pet. She might make him do tricks to entertain them.

  She followed the man down the corridor, taking great delight in her long, smooth strides. She had always known that walking would be like this.

  She steered him into the nursery ahead of her. Over Kali’s crib was an intricate wooden mobile, a gift from the High Priestess that modeled the global genomic library. It pleased her to follow the twisted, entwined connections among all parts of creation, from prokaryotes to humans, and to situate herself somewhere outside of them all, observing.

  “You were looking for me, weren’t you?” she asked the man.

  He backed into a corner and stared at her, trembling. The shivers were uneconomical, since he was quite warm already, so she stopped them. His eyes bulged. She made him blink but it didn’t look right. She blinked him again, faster this time. It still wasn’t natural, not like the Daughters’ eyes. She tried not to think about it, leave it to him. A moment later he blinked on his own, and she was content. At least she didn’t have to do everything for him.

  “Y-yes,” he said. “I—I—I—”

  The stammer was unnecessary, a nervous misfiring. She fined-tuned his vocal apparatus, making him moan and babble for a few seconds. The next time he spoke it would be better.

  She thought it would be amusing to look at herself through his eyes, but as soon as their eyes met—Kali looking into Kali—she felt the hint of a terrible pain running through her, so she made him avert his gaze. She continued by causing him to fold his knees and kneel reverently before her.

  “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Santiago Figueroa. You can call me Sandy.”

  She giggled at this.

  “My name is Kalifornia,” she said. “But you can call me Kali.”

  “Kali,” he repeated. “I’m very glad to meet you.”

  His words came more easily now. He was relaxing. Santiago Figueroa seemed like a nice man. Suddenly she was full of happiness; she flexed her tiny muscles and the metal ones responded. The man cringed away from the motion of her four mighty arms.

  “What’s wrong?” she said. “Isn’t this very pretty? It’s my grown-up suit.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s lovely. But it’s also very strong. I think you’d better be careful with it.”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t break.”

  “No, I mean . . . be careful you don’t hurt anybody.” She crossed her glassy arms. “I won’t if they behave themselves. Do you think I’m mean or something?”

  “No, no, not at all.” He laughed and showed her a very nice smile. She liked it so much that she fixed it there. After a moment she felt and saw him straining to get rid of it. His eyes twitched and he fumbled with his fingers at the corners of his mouth.

  “What . . . what are you doing?” he asked, not daring to meet her eyes. “That hurts. A little bit, but it hurts.”

  She felt through his polynerves and didn’t find anything like pain. “No it doesn’t,” she said. “It’s a smile. It’s very nice. It means you’re happy.”

  “Oh, I’m happy, sure. I just think a slightly smaller smile is even nicer because it doesn’t hurt so much.”

  She let the smile shrink a little, then let it go completely. She was tired of making him happy. Sweeping her four shiny hands over her shiny body, she said, “I got tired of grown-ups having all the power. Now I’m just like them in every way. No, I’m even better. The High Priestess can’t tell me what to do. If it were up to her you’d be in a lot of trouble here. You don’t have to worry though. I’ll protect you.”

  Sandy bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, Kali. I appreciate that. You’re right, I was looking for you. Everybody wants to know where you are.”

  “Who’s everybody?”

  “Your grandpa. Your mommy. Your other uncle and aunt.”

  “I don’t have a mommy. I’m Kali.”

  “You do, though. Your mommy is my sister.”

  Kali thought about this for a moment, then put her lower pair of hands on her hips, half akimbo. “How can that be?”

  “Can’t you tell? Haven’t you seen your pretty golden eyes? They’re just like mine, Kali. Look here.”

  He put his fingers on his cheeks and she saw that he was right. His eyes were golden, just like hers. She had to withdraw from his eyes in order to look at him without the threat of feedback.

  “Your mother’s eyes are golden, too,” he said. “Nobody else has eyes like ours.”

  “Is my mother a goddess?”

  “No, you have a human mother. She’s not very well, I’m afraid. Your grandpa wants to see you, too. He’ll be happy to know that you’re well.”

  “First I want some clothes so I can look like everyone else.”

  “Clothes?”

  “I can’t go around like this, can I?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. We’ll see what we can do. You’re big, but not so big that we shouldn’t be able to dress you. Those extra arms might be a problem though.”

  “A robe will do for now,” she said. “Go get a blousy one.”

  “I don’t know where—”

  “I’ll work you. Go on.”

  She marched him out of the nursery and up a flight of stairs. Daughters cowered on the steps; some shrank away, others stared at him with disgust. She made faces at them, then tightened his vocal cords so that he could say, in a little voice like her own, “I’m watching you! The man is my eyes.” If they seemed to doubt it, she called them by name.

  At the top of the stairs, in the laundry and wardrobe, she had Sandy pick out two of the special robes reserved for the High Priestess on ceremonial occasions. The laundress didn’t say a word. As Sandy started back down the steps, a crowd gathered to block the way.

  “Move!” she said him. “These are for Kali!”

  The veiled High Priestess rushed up, grabbing at the robes. “Give me those,” she cried. “They’re mine.”

  Sandy caught her wrist. The Daughters gasped and the High Priestess screamed, trying to pull her hand away. “Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “Don’t ever touch me!”

  “Let go of the robes,” Sandy said.

  “They’re my robes—don’t touch me!”

  The priestess used her free hand to tear at his cheek with nails long and sharp as a cat’s claws. Kali didn’t feel it, but Sandy gasped. She forced him to keep his grip on the High Priestess while she struck him again and again, struck him until her fingers were bloody. Kali never let him move until the High Priestess had lapsed into panting, still held by Sandy, defeated.

  “Kali speaks through me,” he told her. “Kali sees through my eyes. And what she sees makes her very, very mad. You are selfish and mean. Kali wants these robes so she can be close to the Daughters; she doesn’t want them to be frightened of her grown-up machine. You should want to give Kali what she wants. If you don’t, she’ll hurt you.”

  Sandy let go of the High Priestess. She retreated a few steps, rubbing her wrist with a bloody hand.

  “You must never touch him again,” said Kali through Sandy’s mouth. “He is my uncle.”

  “I know who he is,” the High Priestess shrieked. “He-Demon!”

  “Get bandages and skin-glue. You hurt him, you make him better.”

  The High Priestess stared at Sandy a moment longer, then hurried away. The other Daughters let him pass. Back in the nursery, Kali looked at the wounds on Sandy’s cheek, touching them lightly with a crystal finger. Tears trembled on his eyelids. She gave him a
little smile to wear.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” she said. “I turned off the nerves.”

  “I’m sorry, Kali, but you’re wrong. It does hurt. You may have shut down the polynerves, but I have others you can’t control. You can’t feel them, but I can.”

  She thought about this, wondering if she should be upset with him. Maybe he couldn’t help himself. He really was inferior.

  “Well, you’ll soon be fixed up. Now dress me.”

  “Yes, Kali.”

  “But don’t get blood on anything.”

  “Yes, Kali.”

  They tied the robe around her collar, where it hung like a cape. The extra arms interfered with a proper fit. Clothes would have to be made especially for her.

  As she dressed, admiring her appearance through Sandy’s eyes, the door swung open to admit the High Priestess.

  “Good,” Kali said. “After you glue and bandage him, get drugs for his pain. Quick-as-can-be!”

  The High Priestess bowed. “Yes, Kali, I thought you would want them. I brought them along.”

  She held up a black cylinder, Kali’s needle. Seeing it, Kali grew suspicious: sometimes that needle brought death rather than mere cessation of pain.

  “Wait,” she said. “Bring it here.”

  The High Priestess bowed and walked toward Kali. “You wish to see the needle?”

  “Yes,” Kali said. “How do I know what’s in there?”

  “Simple enough,” said the High Priestess. She buried the needle in Kali’s neck.

  The grown-up machine sputtered out of Kali’s control. She tried reaching out for the traitorous High Priestess, but none of her augmented nerves would fire correctly. She spun away across the room and slammed into the wall. Darkness flooded her veins and then her brain, and she went down.

  ***

  Sandy, like a puppet whose strings had been severed, dropped to the floor as the needle withdrew from Kali’s carotid artery. He lay in a daze for several moments, hearing a clamor that gradually subsided when Kali slumped into unconsciousness.

  “Can you move?” said the harsh voice of the High Priestess.