Kalifornia (4 page)

Footsteps padded toward him.

“Mister Figueroa?”

At first he didn’t recognize the voice. He insisted that the
farmhands call him Sandy and pretend to be his pal.

A figure in a tattered suit stepped onto the porch. A bandage
decorated the visitor’s long snout; his doglike whiskers were twisted and bent
like used pipe cleaners.

“Corny?”

The sealman bowed as low as he could, an apology on his thin black
lips. Sandy let out a glad cry and threw his arms around him.

Cornelius remained characteristically stiff. He reciprocated the
embrace, but awkwardly, as if it pained him. He had always been uncomfortable
with human displays of affection.

“Greetings, young sir. Excuse my appearance. I had a run-in with
an autograph hound.”

“Who cares about your appearance? You look great to me. But what
are you doing here?”

“Your father is throwing a birthday celebration tonight, and he
misses you and Poppy terribly. I offered to do my best to convince you to come
along.”

“So where is she?”

“I, ah, couldn’t convince her.”

“Is this a big party? I mean, like, really big? Or is it just a
family get-together?”

“It’s rather large, sir.”

Sandy
sighed. “I hate those things. You think he’ll
be upset if I don’t make it?”

“He’ll be very disappointed if both of you fail to attend. And it
will look very bad for me.”

“Oh, all right,” Sandy finally said. He was suddenly eager to go,
although he knew he would hate it. “I suppose I should dress for the occasion.”
He swept a hand at his threadbare jeans, which stank of sweat and marijuana
resins. “Or would this be appropriate?”

“You know your father’s tastes, Santiago.”

Cornelius followed Sandy into the house and upstairs to his room.
The sealman was more than slightly neurotic after all the gene tinkering and
mental programming that had gone into his creation. He stayed in the exact
center of Sandy’s room, as if reluctant to come in contact with the grimy walls
or furniture or even the cluttered floor. Stuffed and mounted, he could hardly
have looked less lifelike. Corny’s obvious discomfort prompted Sandy to make a diligent search for clothes. He was rewarded with two moderately scent-free
tabi-socks (one red, one green) and a pair of worn sponge thongals that made
his ankles tilt inward. His only clean pants were swim trunks bearing
shimmering tropical patterns. He found a reasonably fresh black chamois
teashirt, over which he pulled a vest of very fine (if somewhat tarnished)
chain mail. He crowned his efforts with a Greek fishing cap.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Cornelius trembled slightly. “I suppose you no longer utilize
wardrobe consultants?”

Sandy
grinned. “You kidding? Everything I wore had to
be brand name when they were dressing me. Keep the advertisers happy! Every
time I dropped my drawers to take a crap, I was supposed to look down at the
label on my underwear.” He deepened his voice to imitate a livewire voice-over.
“‘Yes, Santiago Figueroa wears Ample Briefs, the shorts of the stars.’”

Cornelius made no comment. He pivoted on a polished heel and held
the door open.

Sandy
said, “Shall we take my truck?”

“Not unless it has wings. We’re running late as it is.”

***

The dark cannabis preserves of Humbocino passed quickly beneath
Cornelius’s airborne Jaguaero and the view gave way completely to the
state-spanning metropolis of SanFrangeles. From Tijuana in the south to the
bustling northern factories of Weed, the Frangeles “Franchise,” or “Lunatic
Frange,” stretched with little interruption. Sandy often skipped up in the
company SkyScout to ogle the pretty colors. Normally the sight was spectacular
enough to keep him enrapt for a zoned eternity, but tonight its beauty was
beyond belief.

As far south and east as he could see (which was fairly far, this
being a fogless night), the city was fired up for celebration. Gouts of flame
rocketed from the hearts of habimalls, exploding harmlessly (one hoped) amid
the air traffic. The sky was full of giddy cars, all circling and spiraling to
take in the sights, and consequently becoming part of the spectacle. The land
looked like a carpet of burning jewels, heaped into hills and terraces, some
spilling out upon the water. And it was seaward that Cornelius steered the car,
away from the thrilling chaos of the Franchise, into the near total dark.

On the wet western horizon, Sandy saw a string of lights, perhaps
a parade of nuclear yachts moored offshore to observe the continent’s
festivities.

Approaching the lights, the Jaguaero lost altitude until it
skimmed the water. Sandy watched Cornelius to see if he gave the sea a wistful
look, but apparently the sealman harbored no tender sentiments for the cradle
of his ribosomes.

One sea-flung form loomed directly ahead of them. In a moment, Sandy saw the lights for what they were: windows in a massive offshore office building. The
forward beam of the aircar showed wind-whipped wavelets lashing at the sea-level
panes. Sandy gripped the edges of his seat, expecting to crash at any moment.

Cornelius brought up the Jaguaero in a smooth motion; they soared
five stories in the time it took Sandy to gasp, then poised motionless over the
roof while an aircar below them taxied into the indoor garage, freeing the
landing pad for Cornelius. A minute later they were humming down fluorescent
corridors. Cornelius parked in his reserved space near the elevators.

“This way, Master Santiago.”

As they stepped into an elevator car, Sandy caught a whiff of
powerful female pherofumes. His head filled unavoidably with the sights and
sounds of sex, all called up by the smell. He shoved his hands into his swim
trunks to hide a sudden woodie from Cornelius, who probably wouldn’t have
cared.

As the doors closed, he tried distracting himself with equations
and mnemonics. Sandy knew he had a closet full of sexual anxieties from his
years in the wires, when he couldn’t so much as scratch his crotch without
exciting legions of horny teenage wire-hoppers. Even now, as an RO, privacy was
something he couldn’t believe in.

The scent maddened him. He wanted to tear off his shirt and
trunks. Even Cornelius was starting to look good in the stuffy compartment.

The doors opened. Laughter and music washed into the car and swept
them out. Cornelius took hold of his arm, leading him firmly around the edge of
the crowd, though Sandy would rather have dived in and followed that smell to
its source. He knew intellectually that the pherofume was completely
superficial, but the knowledge did him little good in the face of olfactory
lust. He wanted to find that woman, whoever she was, pull her into a dark
office and bury his face between her—

But Corny kept tugging him along, toward the smell of food and
fainter perfumes. Many guests wore osmodelic pomanders around their necks; as
he passed among them, the air filled with trails of light and his nose began to
vibrate with desire. The multitude merged into a boundless blur of colored
cloth and jewelry, a single, buzzing, hive-mind party insect.

They passed a row of tall windows at sea level. Waves broke
against the panes, throwing phosphorescent foam and spray like wide, lacy fans
above the heads of the guests. Kelp clusters rose and fell on the water,
barnacled root systems trailing away beneath. Periwinkles left gleaming trails
on the glass.

“Suddenly I want sushi,” Sandy said.

“Haven’t you eaten?”

Sandy
shook his head, and Cornelius pointed out a
long serving table.

“If you care to serve yourself, I’ll find your father.”

As the sealman disappeared into the crowd, Sandy grabbed a handful
of honey-glazed prawns from an icy tray and hurried to lose himself. It was
difficult being a Figueroa. Guests broke off chattering and smiled at him, some
bowing slightly, some greeting him with hearty halloos that meant nothing to
him, coming from total strangers.

“Sandy! Hey! How’s life?”

“Very lifelike, thanks.”

He was halfway across the vast room when a syrupy voice said, “Sandy,
my boy!”

The voice was unmistakable. Turning, he put on his phoniest
smile. “Reverend . . .”

The Reverend Governor of California, Thaxter H. J. Halfjest,
waited with his arms spread wide to embrace Sandy. His crown of gold wire
glittered with huge precious and semiprecious stones. His thick, red-gold hair
stuck out through the crown, giving him an unkempt look. His clothes were gold,
to match his shoes, and a golden mantle descended from his shoulders. Diamonds
pricked his earlobes, more clustered at his nostrils, and bands of stones at
his wrists and throat clicked together when he moved. “I’m
so
glad
you could make it!”

He slipped his arm through Sandy’s and patted his wrist. Sandy feigned a coughing fit, freeing himself before the Rev-Gov could smother him.

Halfjest was impossible to offend; nothing bothered him. His life
was perfect. Not only was he governor, but he was perpetually live as well. His
wire show had been second in popularity only to the Figueroas’, and since
Marjorie’s death he’d been number one in the California ratings. No other
politician was so open to global eavesdroppers. Living inside Halfjest,
receivers conned themselves into believing they were gaining a political
education, seeing the workings of government firsthand. But this was a
well-orchestrated illusion. Actually, they rode in the tanned and scented skin
of the most flamboyant entertainer since Liberace. It was showmanship, and not
politics, that gave Halfjest his appeal. He treated his audience to a rich diet
of caviar and champagne that few of them could have afforded (although, as
taxpayers, they managed to somehow), leading them through the spectacle of his
ever-changing Sacramento palace with its rich carpeting, scented lawns, and
indoor waterways, inviting them to glamorous parties like this one, marked by
meetings with the world’s rich and famous. Halfjest had opened the corridors of
power to his constituents—and taken them roller-skating down the slick marble
halls.

He pretended to be continually open to the opinions of his
audience, occasionally reversing the flow to look in on their lives and listen
to their opinions. This was the perpetual promise of the wires: the
simultaneous involvement of all citizens in the state, their opinions and
desires constantly tallied and monitored and taken into account, then enacted
personally by their most popular representatives, the elected embodiments of
their will. However, Halfjest—like other politicians—opined that he was one
lone man, without the superhuman ability to field and synthesize all their
desires at once, and lacked the discrimination to separate momentary urges from
deep conscientious longings. The task of processing, making sense of, and
acting on so much input was beyond the ability of any computer of the day, let
alone any one person.

And so the wires, with all their potential, were put to the
endless task of distraction.

Had he cared to, Sandy could have flipped into his wires right now
and picked up the governor’s broadcast. Could have stood here talking to
himself through Thaxter’s POV.

But that was sick. It was bad enough to do it singly, let alone in
duplicate. Besides, feedback was an ever present danger. Had their eyes met . .
.

“Have you been keeping well, Sandy?”

“Tan, Thax. Totally tan. You?”

“I’ve been frantic preparing this birthday bash. Listen, we’re
having a contest. We need a new name for California. Something splendid to mark
the bicentennial.”

“A new name? Are you kidding, Thax? What’s wrong with ‘California’?”

Halfjest, disdainful, pressed an oiled hand to his breast. “You
mean you don’t know? I’ve been telling everyone what a horrid name it is. I
mean, the associations, the imagery! Ghastly!”

“I guess I missed it.”

The RevGov tried to reclaim Sandy’s hand, but he got it into his
pocket just in time.

“The California myths are all so terrible. Why, Calafia was a
dreadful Amazon queen—not even a libby-lezzy! She only tolerated men as food
for her giant buzzards! It’s an awful story, and I hate our lovely realm to
bear such associations. Imagine, they came looking for gold and ended up on the
bottom of a birdcage! What were those Spaniards thinking when they came up with
the name?”