A Pilgrimage to Plaka Kalada - Section 2

Section 2 - click here for section 3

Section 2 - click here for section 1

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         Up ahead - pink. Pink-haired people.
         "Aha," said Ida, and closed in for the kill.
         But the pink-haired tourists up ahead were not those she had seen earlier. Instead of ivory white sarongs, they were wearing daffodil yellow puffer fish suits, and walking about on knee-high stilts. Nevertheless, Ida hastened toward them, because she still had a question she wanted to ask.
         "They're never going to believe these mud bricks," said a pink-haired tourist on stilts, photographing frantically. "I should've done this earlier."
         "Excuse me," said Ida. "But which way is out?"
         "Out?"
         "Yes. Out. As in sunlight. Escape. You know."
         "Oh, this is the boarding section. You haven't just landed, have you? Find spaceport security, they'll have to sort this out."
         Find spaceport security? No thank you!
         Blunder by blunder, Ida went deeper and deeper into the spaceport, getting more and more lost. Then she saw something she recognized. A bronze plaque inscribed with an inscrutably intricate map dotted with cryptic signals. It was, as she knew very well, an orientation marker for the use of automated firefighting machines. They had had exactly the same markers installed around the Gem Tok Strategic Outpost on Elko Tray, even though there had been no automated firefighting machines on that planet. (Ida rather suspected that there were none on Plaka Kalada, either).
         "Hicamus hocamus," said Ida, activating her graft. "Interpret this plaque and show me where I am."
         Obediently, her graft accepted the data by tapping into her visual nerve, interpreted the data, used the interpreted data to map the spaceport for her and projected a map on the screen of her imagination.
         Once correctly oriented, Ida soon found her way to a door which should take her back to the holding area for new arrivals. The door was open, but it was guarded. By a sign. In a dozen different languages, including Omalashi and the Moxbit of the Zafari Jahar, the sign said UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS ATTEMPTING TO USE THIS DOOR WILL BE ELECTROCUTED.
         "Will they now?" said Ida.
         That sounded most unlikely. Spaceport passengers were very important people - you couldn't go round electrocuting them. Besides, unless she was mistaken, the facility in which she was penned seemed to be suffering a power cut.
         Boldly, Ida stepped forward. Jabbering lightning leapt from the door jamb. She crashed forward, thrown half a second into the future, where she arrived in a convulsing heap. Was she dead? Apparently not.
         Shakily, Ida got up.
         She was on the correct side of the door. In the arrival area. In a corridor lined with plastic chairs in a yammering fluorescent orange. Shakily, Ida took a seat. She was quivering. Her heart was hammering. Her skin felt like damp laundry - she was sweating badly. Any burns? Apparently not.
         "God!" said Ida. "What kind of place is this?"
         Overhead, a loudspeaker babbled incomprehensibly. Time to move. Suppose so. But can I walk? Yes, she could.
         "Just one question, though," muttered Ida. "Electricity to burn, how come you can't get the lights working? Huh?"
         "Are you all right?" said an elderly male, a vaguely professorial type, coming over to her. "I saw what happened. It's a wonder you weren't killed."
         "I have very dry skin," said Ida, with dignity. "I'm fine, thanks. Please leave me alone."
         And he left.
         It was true about the dry skin. In the past, Ida had survived more than one belt from mains electricity. Even so, she was shaken.
         Up ahead, a restroom. Good. She needed one.
         In the restroom, Ida washed her face and examined herself in the mirror. She was unrecognizable, her face disfigured by a big blotched purple birthmark matching that endured by - by whoever it was she was masquerading as. (Who am I?) Absorbable implants in her cheeks, lips and chin made her face fatter, heavier.
         And the Sampranosa coding ....?
         No sign of those familiar freckles, the coded facial marks which identified her on sight as a member of Sampranosa, proclaiming both her organizational affiliation and her identity number. They had vanished. But they would return. She had been promised that all her camouflage would either be absorbed or wear off within thirty days. Nothing permanent except what they had done to the ears, and she could live with that.
         Shortly thereafter, Ida found the proper exit, which was blocked by a long shuffling line of people who were being processed up ahead, beneath a sign which said VOUCHING POINT.
         "Hicamus hocamus," said Ida, subvocalising. "What's a vouching point? What's a vouching point?"
         "A vouching point," said her graft, "is an identity checkpoint."
         That once again raised the question. Who am I? For the life of her, she could not remember. Her cover story had gone right out of her head. You've got to know these things! Your name, your mother's name, your father's name, the name of your second cousin's grandfather's cat.
         "Who am I?" said Ida, with increased urgency. "Who am I?"
         "You are Ida Akandra Ma Brahma," said her graft.
         "No I am not!" said Ida.
         She wanted to hide herself away somewhere so she could interrogate her graft, recovering the details of her cover story. But it was too late. She was already at the vouching point. What is your name? I'm sorry, but I don't know ... would you mind asking me later?
         "Hand, please."
         "What?" said Ida, to the uniformed official who was confronting her. "What?"
         Interpreting that doubled question as being directed at itself, her graft replied.
         "Put your hand in the palmprint reader," said her graft. "The palmprint reader will talk to the ship. The ship will vouch for your identity."
         "Okay," said Ida.
         And put her hand in the box which was - she presumed - the palmprint reader. Something mechanical chittered at her. A slot in a plastic box extruded a dirty piece of paper. The spaceport official indicated that she should take it, which she did. There was a name on it: Valahajakalisa Nanchurstingapata. Oh, of course, of course! That.
         "Hicamus hocamus," said Ida, subvocalising again as she once more invoked her graft. "Read this, read this. Instructions, instructions. This is now my name. This is now my name. Got it? Got it?"
         "Got it," said her graft.
         "Who am I? Who am I?"
         "You are Valahajakalisa Nanchurstingapata."
         "Good," said Ida. "Excellent!" Then, to unambiguously terminate this conversation with her graft, she signed out: "Chibily chibily."
         Beyond the vouching point, the baggage claims area. My suitcase! Great! Ida liberated it with her thumbprint, then joined the line for customs. There, she was asked to open her suitcase.
         "What if I don't want to?" said Ida.
         "Then we will shoot you," said the customs officer, sounding bored.
         "Oh," said Ida, uncertainly, not sure if this was a joke or not. After the incident with the electrified door, she rather suspected that the customs officer was telling her the sober truth.
         "Do you mind if I smoke?" said the customs officer.
         "Not at all," said Ida, "as long as you don't shoot me."
         "You should have answered in the negative, madam," said the customs officer reprovingly, opening a packet of chewing gum. "How is it that I am supposed to help if nobody encourages me?"
         "I'm sorry," said Ida.
         "The sorry is mine, madam, not yours," said the customs officer, reprovingly. "It is ungainly of you to preempt it. Now do please unscramble your suitcase. But please do not acrobat while doing so."
         With the greatest of care, Ida opened her suitcase. Apparently she avoided any inadvertent acrobating, for the customs offer grunted with satisfaction, and started to paw through her things. He soon stopped, shocked by what he had discovered.
         "How is this, madam?"
         "How?" said Ida. "I don't understand the question. It's underwear, okay?"
         "It is colors," said the customs officer. "They are the colors of parrots and penguins, the colors of a harlot's thumb."
         "Right," said Ida, smiling encouragingly. "Colored underwear. Pretty, isn't it?"
         "It is not appropriate."
         "Pardon?" said Ida, hardly able to believe her ears. Then: "Hey! What are you doing with that! Hey, that's my underwear, give it back!"
         "No, madam," said the customs officer. "On Plaka Kalada, only the black underwear is permitted."
         "Only black?"
         "Yes."
         "I don't believe it!"
         In response, the customs officer produced a little hand-held gadget. He pointed it at Ida and pressed a key. A mechanical voice spoke to her through electronic static:
         "Your turtle has been confiscated. Birds may not be landed on Plaka Kalada. The plucking of dogs is religiously offensive to the Galahadeeli. Thank you for your understanding. Have a nice day now."
         Then the customs officer leaned closer to Ida, so that she could smell the mint-flavored chewing-gum in his mouth.
         "You are wearing underwear?" he said.
         "Yes," said Ida uncertainly, hoping that she was, though to be honest she could not remember.
         "What color, please?"
         "Black," said Ida.
         "Really?"
         "Trust me on this."
         "You will do something for me?"
         "That depends," said Ida cautiously.
         Was he after a bribe?
         "You will mention me in your prayers?" said the customs officer.
         "Oh," said Ida, "beyond a doubt!"
         Satisfied, the customs officer handed over a piece of pasteboard - a printed card of some description - small enough to fit into the palm of Ida's hand. What did it say?
         "This is to introduce Tukateka Ospelgoz. I am a customs officer. My sins are the moon, astrological perjury, tonking, consumption of a woman's urine, the eating of frogs. Please mention me in your prayers."
         "Oh, I will," said Ida. "I will, I will."
         Tukateka Ospelgoz, he whose crimes included the moon, took one last cursory sweep through the suitcase, and came up with an envelope. A pale blue envelope. Sealed. Not just gummed shut, but actually sealed with a red blob of sealing wax into which the image of a grinning prairie dog had been impressed.
         The envelope came as a complete surprise. Ida's scattered memories had come together sufficiently for her to say, of a certainty, that she had never before seen this envelope. Worse, it was addressed to her. In a clear bold hand someone had scribbled her name on the envelope: "Ida".
         "That, uh ... that is an envelope," said Ida.
         "A clever little dictionary," said Tukateka Ospelgoz. "But what is in it? Nanotechnological engines? Contraceptive medications? Dried pineapple? You must know, it is a very severe crime, the import of pineapple. It is a very monkey problem on this planet. Many cows have become airborne through eating it."
         "It is not cows," said Ida hastily.
         "I did not say it was," said Tukateka Ospelgoz, getting angry. "Are you absurding me?"
         "No," said Ida. "I don't absurd people. I've never absurded anyone in my life."
         This was a lie, and Tukateka Ospelgoz plainly suspected as much. He wrenched the envelope open, and pulled out the sheaf of papers inside. Revealing extracts from both the Ezra Akba - the holy book of Nu-chala-nuth - and the related text known as the Tazu, or, alternatively, as the Book of Ritual.
         "You see," said Ida, apologetically, "I am trying to be holy. Really I am. Though it's hard work. After all, I am a woman."
         "Yes, and we all know the reason for that, don't we?" said Tukateka Ospelgoz.
         Ida, who hadn't known that there was a reason, far less one that everyone knew, meekly agreed.
         "You are free to go," said Tukateka Ospelgoz, replacing Ida's envelope of holy texts in her suitcase.
         Ida closed her suitcase, and hastened onwards. Free! She was past customs. And now she remembered: yes, she was wearing underpants. And they were plum-blossom-pink.
         At that moment, she was another wretched checkpoint up ahead. Serious stuff. Guys with soldier-type uniforms, with soldier-type boots, with soldier-type guns. If they were checking underwear, she was done for. Lying to a customs officer, smuggling in contraband - put that on top of the manifest crime of being a woman, and she would be lucky to get out of jail inside of twenty years.
         Worse -
         Oh no, don't like this. Have they really - ?! Yes! They're reading grafts!
         True.
         Up ahead, a bunch of thuggish security types were interrogating people's grafts with what looked very much like one of those Ingorfs, the cerebral prybars which the authorities had been so fond of back on the prison planet Yorba Linda.
         "Seize the initiative," said Ida. "Do something."
         But what? And, anyway, her last exercise in initiative had not worked out very well, had it? Maybe she could prepare her graft for interrogation. But, no, there was no time, because one of the security thugs was already striding towards her, pointing at her, menacing her. They had singled her out for special attention. Her body language had betrayed her. Or maybe she had been seen crashing through the electrified door.
         *
         The interrogation hood, descending over Ida's head, smelt uncomfortably of burnt hair, as if it had recently malfunctioned. As the device was switched on, Ida felt her skin crawl, as if ants were hatching in it. In moments, her skin normalized, but she felt queasy. Seasick, in fact.
         "Chan, chan," said Ida's graft, speaking to her in the privacy of her head. "I am under interrogation. I will echo the interrogation to you."
         Oh yes, Ida remembered this. She knew this procedure all too well. All she could do now was sit tight and listen as the interrogation proceeded.
         "You," said the voice of Security, the voice of Authority, the voice of Bigfather One, the voice of God. "Read you and your as flesh-human you and your. What is your name?"
         "Valahajakalisa Nanchurstingapata," said the graft, speaking for Ida.
         "What is your occupation?"
         "I have several," said the graft, temporizing.
         "Name one."
         "I am a fire safety officer," said the graft, venturing a truth which was as good as a lie.
         "What is your purpose on Plaka Kalada?"
         "That question exceeds my competence. You are interrogating a graft. Please direct the question to the flesh-human."
         The hood was raised.
         "Blue syringe and bondage," said the security type. Ida blinked, not understanding this. "Well," said the security guard, registering disappointment. "You. What is your purpose on Plaka Kalada?"
         "Pilgrimage," said Ida, trying to remember the details of the privilege which had been inflicted upon her. "I won a lottery."
         "And so you are going on the Karma Bataan?"
         "The ... uh ... long walk? said Ida."
         "Exactly," said the security type."
         "I will satisfy the requirements of the pilgrimage, of course," said Ida.
         "There is something wrong," said the security type, decisively. "Do her."
         And Ida was dragged into a side room to be done.
         *
         "I'm sick," said Ida. "I am suffering from Wombat's Psychosis or Hair Spitting Fever, or maybe both."
         "This is not the quarantine department," said a big bull of a man, a leathery wrestler-boxer type with his right fist wrapped round a glittering stainless steel knuckleduster. "Sit."
         Ida sat in a massive old armchair apparently made of solid black wood. The chair shuffled itself as she sat, made an abortive effort to imprison her arms and feet, then gave up.
         "See?" said a mild, scholarly voice, belonging to a dusty little man whom Ida had not previously noticed. "I told you it wasn't working properly."
         "Good," said Big Bull, lightly smacking the palm of his left hand with the knuckleduster. "Maybe she'll try something."
         Ida told herself that this was now definitely No Initiatives day.
         Dusty Scholar came to Ida bearing a faded yellow cannister in his hands. His hands were made of old brown wood, yet they seemed to move almost like normal hands.
         "Open wide," said Dusty Scholar.
         Ida opened. Instantly, her teeth began to hurt. Why? He hasn't even done anything yet.
         Dusty Scholar squirted something cool into Ida's mouth. A mist of the greenest flavor of mint. Her name receded beyond recall. She was a bright eye of molten nickel. A transdimensional voice spoke to her in demotic Old Ivory.
         "What are you hiding from us?"
         "I love Doctor Defrock," blurted Ida. "I want his jet, his wet, on me, inside me, yellow gifts - cow, cow, cow, cow! I want the hairbrush, the vacuum cleaner."
         And more of the same, on and on for what felt like eternity, but was in fact only twenty-nine minutes.
         "Eat this," said a ghostly voice.
         Chocolate broke in Ida's mouth, wet with alcohol, honey enriched. Her flesh contained her, held her. It felt strange - too heavy, too lumpy, too complex. Two kidneys. Why two? In her next life, she would be a jellyfish. Simpler. More delicate aesthetics. Fewer of the choices given to mammals.
         "Get out," said Big Bull, in contempt.
         "Always the religious ones," said Dusty Scholar to himself, as Ida exited. "It's always the religious ones who are wet for it."