Free Kalifornia by Marc Laidlaw Page A
Authors: Marc Laidlaw
like
plastic cable, shiny and clean, ending not in an irrational foreskin-covered
glans, but in a reasonable metal tip. A simple prong.
The High Priestess’s laughter echoed from the buildings. Far away,
one could hear an unwitting answer in the revels of the Franchise.
The Official Crone let out a sigh and sank to the street.
“Yes, old woman, you have served Kali well.” The High Priestess
signaled to the other Daughters. “Let her have the reward Kali promised. The
Black Needle—Kali’s blessing.”
The Official Crone let out a cry of relief and delight. The
Daughters crowded around, helping her to her feet, excitedly proclaiming, “Isn’t
it wonderful? Kali’s blessing! Tonight you die!”
“Oh!” she cried. “Thank the Goddess!”
“Have a nice death,” the High Priestess bid her. “You well deserve
it.”
While others took the Official Crone to her reward, the High
Priestess remained behind. She held the child close to her cheek, inhaling the
sharp scents of night that clung to the warm, damp flesh. She smelled sulfur,
gunpowder, the brassy taint of human fear. Not the child’s fear, no, but the
fear of others who had touched her during the night.
Her own mother must have feared her.
The High Priestess gazed at the night sky, a black maelstrom of
smoke.
“Kali is your mother now,” she whispered.
The baby gave a startled cry.
“Yes, Daughter, we are all her children. But for you she has
reserved something special, something quite unique.”
The child quieted, staring at the High Priestess with deep golden
eyes. The girl was more beautiful than she had imagined. Her eyes glowed like
the sun. But this sun would bring an end to the other.
“In honor of this night, we have a special name for you. Yes,
Daughter. Henceforth, you shall be known as Kalifornia.”
PART TWO
S01E04. Revolt of the Wage Slaves
Alfredo Figueroa stood at his sea-level window, thumbs hitched in
suspenders that never stopped chafing, looking out at a distant figure with
long, sun-bleached hair who seemed to be standing on the waves. Sandy had found something to amuse himself in the corporation: he surfed the break that
peeled off a corner of the seascraper. Alfredo, on the other hand, never took a
moment’s pleasure from the business. He’d thought working would distract him
from grief, but it had proved an added burden. Thoughts of Marjorie never went
away. They couldn’t be papered over, not even by a bureaucracy.
He’d given the corporate world its chance to heal him, to return
all the favors he’d done for commerce when, as America’s favorite father, he’d
lived the life of a walking, talking sponsor. Three years, and no improvement.
What’s worse—for the public—since the Figueroas there had been no family with a
fraction of their appeal. It was as if the audience itself had lost a mother
and seen its family fractured. Which was true enough. Most members of the
audience had never had a real coherent family of their own, certainly nothing
with the clear and stable lineaments of the Figueroas.
We were a force for stability, he thought with more than a little
pride. We were always there for folks; with all our problems, they could count
on us. Our wires were their moral fiber. And then . . . we
let them down. We wimped out. Ran away. Skedaddled. No wonder I’ve been sick
with myself ever since. At a time when they needed us the most, we abandoned
them, ignoring the fact that our problems had become their problems. It really
wasn’t fair to tear our support away from them like that.
Who knows what other influences might have rushed in to fill the
gap we left? At least we were wholesome and traditional—we had the network
censors to see to that. We were living therapy. Might they ever take us back?
Would they trust us now—or what remains of us? Are they waiting for a sequel or
have they lost interest?
Do they need us as much as we need them?
No. The healing I needed
plastic cable, shiny and clean, ending not in an irrational foreskin-covered
glans, but in a reasonable metal tip. A simple prong.
The High Priestess’s laughter echoed from the buildings. Far away,
one could hear an unwitting answer in the revels of the Franchise.
The Official Crone let out a sigh and sank to the street.
“Yes, old woman, you have served Kali well.” The High Priestess
signaled to the other Daughters. “Let her have the reward Kali promised. The
Black Needle—Kali’s blessing.”
The Official Crone let out a cry of relief and delight. The
Daughters crowded around, helping her to her feet, excitedly proclaiming, “Isn’t
it wonderful? Kali’s blessing! Tonight you die!”
“Oh!” she cried. “Thank the Goddess!”
“Have a nice death,” the High Priestess bid her. “You well deserve
it.”
While others took the Official Crone to her reward, the High
Priestess remained behind. She held the child close to her cheek, inhaling the
sharp scents of night that clung to the warm, damp flesh. She smelled sulfur,
gunpowder, the brassy taint of human fear. Not the child’s fear, no, but the
fear of others who had touched her during the night.
Her own mother must have feared her.
The High Priestess gazed at the night sky, a black maelstrom of
smoke.
“Kali is your mother now,” she whispered.
The baby gave a startled cry.
“Yes, Daughter, we are all her children. But for you she has
reserved something special, something quite unique.”
The child quieted, staring at the High Priestess with deep golden
eyes. The girl was more beautiful than she had imagined. Her eyes glowed like
the sun. But this sun would bring an end to the other.
“In honor of this night, we have a special name for you. Yes,
Daughter. Henceforth, you shall be known as Kalifornia.”
PART TWO
S01E04. Revolt of the Wage Slaves
Alfredo Figueroa stood at his sea-level window, thumbs hitched in
suspenders that never stopped chafing, looking out at a distant figure with
long, sun-bleached hair who seemed to be standing on the waves. Sandy had found something to amuse himself in the corporation: he surfed the break that
peeled off a corner of the seascraper. Alfredo, on the other hand, never took a
moment’s pleasure from the business. He’d thought working would distract him
from grief, but it had proved an added burden. Thoughts of Marjorie never went
away. They couldn’t be papered over, not even by a bureaucracy.
He’d given the corporate world its chance to heal him, to return
all the favors he’d done for commerce when, as America’s favorite father, he’d
lived the life of a walking, talking sponsor. Three years, and no improvement.
What’s worse—for the public—since the Figueroas there had been no family with a
fraction of their appeal. It was as if the audience itself had lost a mother
and seen its family fractured. Which was true enough. Most members of the
audience had never had a real coherent family of their own, certainly nothing
with the clear and stable lineaments of the Figueroas.
We were a force for stability, he thought with more than a little
pride. We were always there for folks; with all our problems, they could count
on us. Our wires were their moral fiber. And then . . . we
let them down. We wimped out. Ran away. Skedaddled. No wonder I’ve been sick
with myself ever since. At a time when they needed us the most, we abandoned
them, ignoring the fact that our problems had become their problems. It really
wasn’t fair to tear our support away from them like that.
Who knows what other influences might have rushed in to fill the
gap we left? At least we were wholesome and traditional—we had the network
censors to see to that. We were living therapy. Might they ever take us back?
Would they trust us now—or what remains of us? Are they waiting for a sequel or
have they lost interest?
Do they need us as much as we need them?
No. The healing I needed