Kalifornia Read Free Page A

and the baby moaned, opening golden eyes. It was worth any
risk to spare her from the president.
    “You don’t deserve this, baby. You weren’t the one who cheated on
your taxes.”
    Clarry Starko loved stories portraying President McBeth as a
villainous tightwad.
    “She owes a birthdebt!” called a dog from above. She looked up,
about to argue with him, then realized that he was only trying to distract her.
“Hand her over!”
    The fire escape protested the addition of another dog’s weight.
    She leaned forward, over the dark-bright street, over the agitated
stew of people and creatures and cars and contraptions. She clung one-handed
to the cold iron rail, holding the child out before her in midair.
    Not yet . . . not yet.
    The landing swayed with too much weight. She would lighten it in a
moment. The dog at her level moved cautiously, though not fearfully.
    Not yet . . .
    An old gas-powered station wagon appeared directly beneath her.
The top was sawed away, leaving an open bed. The horn blared as the driver
pulled up on the sidewalk to negotiate a stalled clump of singers and beasts.
Bundles and baskets jostled in the bed of the wagon, fat soft sacks and heaps
of black cloth. The wagoneer cursed and slammed on the brakes. The vehicle
stalled for the moment, awaiting an opening.
    Now.
    Poppy let go and watched Calafia fall. Her daughter made an
acceptably soft landing on a bale of cloth, then slipped down among baskets and
bundles as the wagon started up again, moving off through a clearing in the
shifting crowd.
    The shock of what she’d done almost broke her from trope-trance.
She had dropped her baby daughter. As if this were a real threat, and not a
mere wire show.
    The landing had looked safe enough. The Shock-Pruf in the
swaddling would protect her. But still . . .
    Behind her, curses.
    Poppy looked back. Time to face the Lassies.
    Her free hand stole into her garment and pulled out a gun. The dog
on the landing growled when he saw it, lips peeling back from inhumanly sharp
teeth. She knew he wouldn’t ask for mercy. Not now. Nothing could keep her from
firing.
    Nothing but the weight that hit her from above.
    The second dog caught her by surprise, crushing her in furry arms.
She relinquished the rail and both of them fell. People screamed, catching the
show at its climax. An instant later, they struck cement.
    Poppy lay stunned, pinned beneath the dog, wondering where she
would find the strength to push him off and flee. The Lassie moaned and
tightened his grip on her throat. The world went black. She couldn’t breathe,
couldn’t move. He was choking her, really doing it now, caught up in the
tropes, believing the role, a canine actor overcome by his innate ferocity and
hatred of humanity.
    They should have used a man in a dog suit, she thought. He’s
really choking me!
    The weaker half of the fire escape, rigged to fall, tore away from
the wall. Clarry had meant it to create a convincing end for her attacker. But
as she toppled into blackness, she knew that it would come too late.
    “Kai,” she tried to say. “Kai, it’s me. It’s Poppy!”
    He didn’t seem to recognize her, and she could hardly speak. He
was strictly the president’s dog now. And she was a fugitive. His legal prey.
    Blackness. Light nowhere.
    “Kai!”
    Calafia . . .
    “God!” exclaimed a gawker. “This is so realistic!”
    ***
    “Cut! That’s enough, Kai. Let go of her, you fucking mutt!”
    Poppy felt as though she’d been washed up on a reef, drained and
exhausted. Clarry Starko and a few hands dragged the Lassie away. Kai looked
cowed, timid now, his vestigial tail tucked up between his legs beneath baggy
trousers. They led him off. Clarry crouched and helped Poppy to her feet.
    “Feel okay?”
    “Dizzy.” She clung to him for a moment, looking around at the
crowd. People only now were beginning to realize that they had seen a livewire
session.
    Several men pulled the fire escape aside. It was hollow,