Kalifornia by Marc Laidlaw Page A

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 Proposition 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,