Kalifornia (23 page)

“Are you mad?” she wails. “Baby’s blood from a bottle?”

“It’s the same substance you’d get by slitting that baby’s throat,
but whipped up in quantity in our patented marrow vats.”

“But . . . does it work?”

“Does it work? Why, madam, you will see and feel the difference on
the first application. Why not try it?”

She snatches the bottle from his rubber-gloved fingers, unscrews
the cap, and fills her palm with warm, bottled blood. It smells real, it looks
real, it even—she splashes her cheeks delightedly—tastes real!

“Why, madam, just look at yourself!”

The doctor holds up a mirror, and in its surface she sees her
withered hag’s face changing, the wrinkles and fat sloughing away beneath the
slick red mask. Within moments she is young and maidenly again. Her belly feels
tighter, her legs are slender and firm.

She wipes her face and, with an imperious gesture, dismisses her
outmoded minions forever: “Begone! But not you, Doctor.”

The silver-haired fellow bows becomingly. “Why, madam, don’t you
look delectable?”

He holds up the bottle, addressing her and the eyes, the nerves,
the wires, the
Santiago
deep
within:

“Dr. Batori’s Magical Youth Formula. When you’re ready to come in
out of the Dark Ages! (By agreement with McNguyen Industries.)”

(Cut-please-cut-please-cut-please-cut.)

***

Allejandro Gutierrez, a border inspector for twenty years, was
full of stories of the things he had seen. They had piled up in his head until
he thought he would go crazy. His family was sick of hearing them; his California counterpart, in the inspection booth across the lane, had tales of his own to
tell, and Allejandro could never finish a sentence without the other man
cutting him off. He could speak for days of what he’d seen, but no one had ever
asked him.

Until now.

It was a typical day at the border station. Private vehicles
paused for Allejandro’s inspection as they passed into Mexico. Grounded aircars, pedal vehicles, skateboarders, all jostled together in the broasting
midday heat. Little boys threaded through the traffic selling sandals,
shouting, “Chiclet—two dollars!” Waving plaster cobras and models of the
spacebuses that were slapped together in the factory city that had once been Ensenada. It was busy, but not so busy that Allejandro couldn’t make time to talk to his
guests.

They had pulled up in a polished, mint green aircar, parked
alongside the booth, and walked in looking like strange twins.
Another
story
, was his first thought. Then his American partner across the way
began jumping around and shrieking, “You’re Newsbodies! You guys are from
Channel Ninety, aren’t you? Alex! Look! They’re gonna make a star out of you!”

Journalists, yes, but odd ones. Allejandro invited them to stand
in his booth and watch him at work. The tall Newsbody, whose tautly bulging
mask covered a remarkably large nose, said Channel 90 had sent them to feel at
first-hand the duties of a border guard. The other, shorter Newsbody said very
little, though he sometimes sang catchy little songs and shouted what sounded
like nonsense. The tall one said his partner was doing live commercials; it was
all part of the program.

Allejandro was bursting with stories, yes, but all the traffic
made it difficult to speak to the Newsbodies. He considered inviting them home
after his shift, so he could really tell his stories properly. Meanwhile, as he
searched cars, he shouted his stories over his shoulder to the men in their
masks. They seemed anxious, or at least the tall one did; Allejandro suspected
that the assignment bored them. He started to tell them about the time the
poison-oak topiary robots that patrolled the desert stretches to the east had
gone out of control and come crashing into Sandego—but then the big one
distinctly yawned under his mask. How could he convince them that the job was
full of dangers and surprises?

Here came a car full of nuns. Damn.

Allejandro tipped his cap to let them pass, but his American
counterpart, having little respect for the Catholic Church, made them stop and
get out of the car. The vehicle was air-conditioned and the nuns, of course,
were dressed in very heavy black clothing. It was disgraceful, making them
stand out in the heat.

Suddenly the American guard backed out of the car with a bag of
red powder that wasn’t dried chili. Allejandro let out a shout to warn the
Newsbodies.

By then the nuns were firing at the booths, and at Allejandro
himself, producing guns from their black robes, plucking fire-knives out of
their wimples. Allejandro crawled into his booth and called for help. Sirens
began to wail. He heard the nuns’ car screech away into the dense Tijuana traffic.

The tall Newsbody pulled his babbling partner out the door,
heading for their car.

“Where are you going?” Allejandro cried.

“Where there’s a fast-breaking story, it’s our duty to follow!”

Allejandro watched them drive past the booth into Tijuana, feeling numb and disappointed, his moment of stardom already fading. Just before
the traffic closed around them, the green car leaped upward and sailed into the
smoke above the city.

They should have stuck around, he thought. Heard his stories.
Those nuns were nothing compared to other things he’d seen.

***

We now return to our regularly scheduled commercial, featuring
Chas Tatty as Klarabell La Honda, Porcy Jones as Tryque Trombalos, and introducing
Eloi Killian Shemhamphorasch as Blorg.

Below, the pocked and cratered surface of a blue moon:

“Think it’s safe to land, Trych?”

“I don’t know, Klarabell. We’d better ask Blorg.”

Blorg, warily, hungrily, watches them approach. Blorg starves for
manflesh. The cage is sturdy. Blorg knows it will not be fed unless it
cooperates.

“Blorg, is it safe to land?”

“It looks hungry, Klarabell.”

“Well, feed it.”

“I’m not going to feed it. Look what happened last time. That’s
Glanz’s leg in there. You feed it.”

“I’m not going to feed it.”

Says Blorg, “You no feed, I no tell.”

“Look, Blorg, we don’t have any more human flesh for you. Our
larders are a little low. If you eat more of us, that’s it. This ship doesn’t
fly itself. We have to land and look for food. There might be an old colony
supply ship down there, with maybe a few survivors left over for you.”

Blorg turns its backs on them.

“It’s useless. It’ll never tell us.”

“Hey, I know! Why don’t we try giving it some of Those New Cheesy
Chewy Beefy Superstrings?”

“It won’t eat that. It wants real meat.”

“But they’re a real meat-synthetic, in a fun new shape. Blorg
might like them.”

Later.

“Mm. Blorg like Superstrings better than manflesh. Blorg happy.
Blorg say safe to land, but no supply ship. Blorg say go to nearest superstore
and buy more of Those New Cheesy Chewy Beefy Superstrings.”

“Wow, Blorg! You’re okay!”

(Please. Cut. Wires.)

***

Sandy
moaned in the backseat, eyes half open but
still far from waking. He stirred and thrashed and shouted, “Blorg quite
satisfied!” He tore at his Newsbody 90 mask and began to chew on the lips.

Cornelius prayed they weren’t too late.

Beneath them, the life had been stripped from the land. He looked
down on brown desolation, sparse vegetation. Once-bright plastic signs lay
toppled in the cactus-choked parking lots of ghost malls. Here and there, a
figure hunched atop a plodding mule raised a trail of dust that the wind
blurred. He couldn’t understand why Raimundo had chosen Baja California for
his home. According to the navigator, the car was fewer than three miles from
the Navarro homestead, but there was no sign of inhabitable land.

And then suddenly everything changed. Without warning, the
Jaguaero plunged over a green world.

Trees rose up out of nowhere. Silvery creeks wound through cool
shadows. Horses ran in a pasture, sheep grazed on rolling hummocks crowned by
circular stands of cactus. At first he thought it a mirage, until he looked
farther and saw sheer stone walls beyond which the desert went on as before.
This narrow valley was a fertile oasis sheltered from the harsh Baja sun,
spring-fed, secluded.

Within seconds, glimmering silver bodies appeared at either side
of Cornelius’s car: aircraft with a distinctly military look. The whole car
shook as they seized it in mag-grips from either side.

“How do you do,” Cornelius said, gritting his teeth against the
vibration. He hoped they were decent pilots—a slight variance in their flights
and they could tear the Jaguaero to pieces.

Their speed slowed considerably. The trees crawled below at a
leisurely pace. He saw a brown stallion carrying a rider in a broad white hat,
black boots, dressed all in blue with a touch of red at the throat. The rider
looked up, startled by the aircraft. As she did, he felt an overwhelming
relief.

It was Dyad.

More trees obscured her, then parted to reveal the pink tile roof
of a large
hacienda
whose stucco walls shone as
if freshly whitewashed. Ornate wrought iron gates were wide open on a fountain
jetting blue water in a courtyard lined with tall-spiked century plants and
agaves as big around as truck tires. The Jaguaero was placed almost tenderly on
the earth outside the gates.

The jets were sleek, bullet-shaped things with swept wings and
metal arms. With a buzz and a click, they released their grip on Cornelius’s
car. He punched open the door and leaped out, looking off through the trees to
see if he could spot Dyad.

Someone ordered him to raise his hands. Cornelius turned slowly to
find five guards surrounding him. The great wooden door of the
hacienda
swung
open and a lean, thin-lipped young man stepped into the heat of the afternoon.

“Greetings, Raimundo!” Cornelius called.

Raimundo Navarro-Valdez stiffened, recognizing his visitor. He
rushed forward.

“What are you doing here? You’re that Figueroa!”

“Not quite, sir, but a close friend of the family. I come on behalf
of Santiago Figueroa. At his request.”

Raimundo looked unconvinced. “Is that him in the car? What’s he
doing? He looks drugged.”

“I wish it were that simple. He needs the care of your best
surgeon.”

“My surgeon? What are you talking about?”

“Santiago desperately needs his wires removed, much as you did for
your bride.”

“His wires . . .” Raimundo looked incredulous. “It can’t be. He’s
the worst of them, an incorrigible sender.”

“So was Dyad once, I believe.”

Raimundo hesitated, then apparently decided that all the
advantages were his. He nodded the guards away.

“Who else knows you’re here?” he asked.

“I brought Sandy in secrecy.”

“Hello, Cornelius,” said a calm voice. Cornelius turned as Dyad
walked out from the shade of a nut tree. “What’s going on?” She glanced into
the car and saw Sandy. She slid into the compartment and put her hands on his
cheeks. “Sandy, what happened?”

His eyes came open, but only slightly.

“Die, Hyperbolean dog!” he cried in a choked voice. Then: “Look
out, Rooster Man! They’re lice!”

She backed out of the car. “Is he out of his head?”

Cornelius began to explain. Once Dyad understood what was
required, she snapped at Raimundo: “Well, don’t just stand there! Call Dr. Vargas!”

***

As the sun set over the walls of the lush little valley, Cornelius
sipped punch with his hosts on a flagstone patio. Raimundo meditatively plucked
the strings of a twelve-string guitar, reflecting his mood in his choice of
rhythms, which wandered from slow, stately classical tunes to a passionate
flamenco. Dyad, in a white cotton dress, ladled sangria from a bowl afloat with
ice, strawberries, and lemon slices. She sat down by Raimundo and watched his
face and fingers. At first he did not seem to see her, but eventually he
stopped playing and set the instrument aside.