FINDING GAGA

2061/04/21

DIARY, a small lifetime passed tonight with me staring at your solar-powered, superannuated screen, not believing what I’d typed. If only you weren’t an iPad machine but some Deux Ex Machina with Ctrl+Z abilities beyond the digital to undo the reality of these words:

Dad. Is. Dead.

I left him there, beside the ‘East Egg’ estate-bunkers we’d scavenged, and the monster I’d savaged for shooting him. Still, as I dazedly solar-boated the East River west, then into 57th Street—our final tableau echoed in my mind, like those old Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response videos.

“Run Ellie-Girl,” he’d groaned. “They’re coming.”

“Nooo—this is my fault,” I’d sobbed, attempting to hand-staunch his bloody wounds.

“No, it’s Adorn’s fault,” he insisted. “Take Diary. Find the heart’s path to Gaga. You’re sixteen—a baby! Live Ella! Don’t let them turn my brown-eyed girl into that—dead-eyed thing.”

“Dad”—

—“GOOO!” he’d bellowed with his last breath.

I went—wondering how the world had come to this.

In December 2020, Prof. Haim Eshed, the ‘father of Israel’s Space Program,’ announced that aliens were ‘in contact’ with our governments. But, earthlings were too overwhelmed with coronavirus to stomach space conspiracies. One year later, the preternaturally perfect aliens—think Armie Hammer and Elizabeth Debicki, circa-2018—appeared on CNN, declaring straight-faced, in lovely WASP-ish accents, to be ‘Zagens from Proxima Zagis seeking scientific collaboration with earthlings.’

It played like fancy fiction but the Zagens’ technological abilities to travel 7 light-years—among other things—shot doubts into another realm. Their realm. Suddenly, every Zagan proclamation from Adorn—formerly NORAD—their goodwill-touting megapolis of graphene, glass, and guile—was gospel. Totalitarian gospel. Especially concerning coronavirus.

By 2029, the resistance movement, Mama’s Monsters, line-bombed Zagen H.Q. on 57th. The Zagens retaliated with a ‘War On Monsters,’ and the Great Desolation began. ‘Desolation’ being the ecclesiastical word the media used once things went from Awesome(!)-aliens-do-exist, to DEFCON 1, to God-if-you’re-real-and-listening-SEND-HELP!

Today, 57th Street was still burrowed and flooded waist-high. Ahead, the sunset aligned between abandoned skyscrapers to create the summer solstice phenomenon of ‘Manhattanhenge’—its builders almost myth now, like Stonehenge’s Druids.

I returned home to our—Dad-rigged—solar-powered penthouse atop Amazon’s ruined Bezos Tower, aka ‘Bozo Stewer’, according to the cheekily reshuffled logo downstairs. Before today, I’d felt safe here, untouchable Maybe because I was weaned on the superhero-centric apps, video, audio, and text files someone had downloaded onto you, pre-Desolation. But, I ‘stew’ like a Bozo clown realizing the joke’s on her. I am only as untouchable as the billions of consumers who’d long ago financed this tower, mocking the unthinkable, then falling foul of it.

Now, Dad is dead.

2061/04/28

DIARY, that awful day started with Dad’s lecture:

“Ella, if anything happens, use Diary to survive. I’ve logged hunting and foraging maps, drone routes, everything. Remember the 4P’s? Plan. Passwords. Ping. Path.” Later, I was mocking the 4P’s and peeing when I heard a familiar buzz.

H.D.—Hybrid Drone. Off-course.

“Hellooo Friend,” called the programmed, stentorian voice. I zigzagged off on a ‘borrowed’ solar-scooter.

“Staawp Frieend.” It sounded like a recruiter for some android cult. Do they dance the robot all day and count—electric?—sheep all night. We’d always evaded them, always done endzone dances—“hellooo friend”—until today. “Prepare for retinal scanning.”

“Friends don’t retinal-scan frien”—I recoiled.

There, surgically fused to a drone was the top half of a person. Veiny. Raw-skinned. Abyss-black eyes. This wasn’t the elegant Artificial Intelligence promised to mankind in science fiction. This was a red, transhuman Gollum.

Aliens made this?

Red shuddered, klaxons sounded. It’s reporting to H.Q.—or having an orgasm.

“Dangerous Unregistered Dissident,” it announced.

Adorn voices crackled through Red’s chest interface.

“Wow! It survived?”

“You report it. Maxim terrifies me.”

“More like thrills you.” They giggled.

“Ahem!" I interrupted loftily. “I demand to be apprehended with more professionalism.”

“Indeed,” said a stern, new voice. “Admiral Maxim, sir, Commander Ana reporting a DUD in X19. We don’t know how it survived radiation.”

“Perhaps she wasn’t a DUD and adapted to the non-existent radiation,” I said dryly. Don’t go gentle into that ‘H.D.’ night.

Silence.

Admiral Maxim’s chuckle washed over me, deliciously deep and rich as the cryogenically frozen chocolate I’d once tasted. It dissolved the miles between me and alien Adorn. The city that killed the world. Could this alien dignitary in that Potemkin democracy that fused dissidents to drones—be different? He hadn’t called me ‘it,’ and I’d amused him…

“Transport authorized.” He signed off; I slumped—shit just got real!

“Secure DU”—

—“Aaaaghh!” Dad suddenly charged in and launched himself at Red.

It fired a micro-thermobaric bomb. They fell, tangled.

“DAAAD”—adrenaline-fueled, I hoisted my scooter and smashed down on Red till—we matched.

Sorry not sorry, Bitch!

2061/05/07

DIARY, I have D.A.—‘Dissociative Amnesia’ according to your Telemedicine downloads. No wonder I can’t remember your passwords, or Gaga’s identity, or the damned heart’s path.

I remember: The migration Dad and I had made south, on foot. Our life back at the Montreal commune, him as the only doctor, me playing nurse. Mom’s sweet nature, and her sudden, fatal arrhythmia. My overheard accounts of worse, huddled-together lives elsewhere—rat diets, amateur surgeries, daily terror from barbarous nomads.

2061/05/14

DIARY, I dreamt of a resolute-eyed, silver-haired woman riding off with the Hells Angels. Was she—Gaga?

Soon the sounds of morning will rise like a dissonant orchestral tune-up. A hyena cackle here. An elephant trumpet there. Later, those Satie-like refrains will bridge into a creature cacophony of vast—though not symphonic—range, in a distinctly un-New York state of mind.

Right now, there’s a lull—as if New York mourns my losses too.

2061/05/21

DIARY, I watched the sunset from the roof deck, until a cat-sized rat gave me the Voldemort eye before magicianing himself through a crack. I hope liquid cat-rat never materializes indoors.

Downstairs, I pinged using Dad’s data radio.

“Little Monster to Gaga, come in?” I repeated, absently fingering the heart-shaped locket on my bracelet.

Static. “Dammit Diary!”

“You speak like that iPad’s human,” said a hot chocolate voice.

Gawd! “Better than speaking like H.D’s still are. How did you find me, Admiral?”

“H.D. department reported your escape. So, I tracked Diary’s electronic signature using old N.S.A. tech—which also tracks radio.”

“Cue Adorn’s jackboots”—

—“I’ve wiped you off Adorn’s systems.”

“So magnanimous,” I said laconically.

“Seriously! I wanted”—

—“Another victim for your zombie-drone experiments?”

“No! I design jets. Zombie-drones are a conspiracy theory,” he mocked. “Our androids”—

—“Are human beings, you MONSTER!”

Static.

Yeah—bye Felicia!

2061/06/14

DIARY, I found giant, Neo-Hippy poetry freshly-graffitied in Times Square:

‘Stop throwing stones at your sisters and brothers.’

‘Why do we gotta fight over ideas?’

I photographed them, feeling—watched. Suddenly—impossibly—the digital billboards roared alive—and a stalking cougar bolted off.

2061/06/28

DIARY, I carry a gun now whenever I fish, forage and scavenge. Oh, and Max intercepted again.

“You were right.” He sounded—despondent. “The H.D’s were human. That’s why they’d strayed—they were barely sentient yet searching for home.”

“God!”

“I’m not a monster, Ella.” I savored the sweet tumble of my name from his lips like a piece of candy. “I didn’t know.”

“Your Utopia’s B.S. Maxi.”

“Adorn’s leaders are mad with power”—he caught himself—“anyway, I’ve outlawed the H.D. program.”

“Can the ‘reality of experience’ reform a totalitarian society?” I heartlessly paraphrased Hannah Arendt.

A rasping followed like Dad used to make wearily scrubbing his hands down his face. “‘If you can feel that staying human is worthwhile,’ then yes,” he responded with Orwell. “Stay safe, Ella.”

2061/07/07

DIARY, I spent the evening on the roof deciphering your newly graffiti-collaged screensaver—hot chocolate in my ears.

“Ella?”

I whirled up.

He was younger than I’d imagined. Mid-twenties, tall, with chestnut hair framing a perfect patrician face, and violet-alien eyes that matched his Adorn uniform. I retreated.

Run Ellie-Girl!

“Ella, if I’d wanted to hurt you I wouldn’t have sat-tracked you and activated those billboards.” He stepped forward, I stepped away. Brick by brick my fortress had become my oubliette.

“How—why are you here?”

He pointed to a dragon-sized craft shimmering on the upper deck. “Raptorian-7. Hydrogen-fueled—super-quiet,” he said in proprietary tones. “Who’s Gaga?”

“Who are you?”

His throat bobbed. “I’m a transhuman being—genetically bred for the coming master race. NASA was right—aliens never made contact.”

“I KNEW IT!”

He raised his hands, “after you exposed the H.D’s, I researched the old Resistance propaganda. Adorn had always mocked that name—‘Mama’s Monsters’—but it makes sense. This is a war of humans—Mother Nature’s monsters versus synthetic spawn.” I frowned at his self-loathing tone. “Half of Adorn’s global society are still human. Help me find Mama to lead them.”

“How—I don’t know her!” I insisted.

“I think you do.” He gestured toward the Raptorian.

Gulp!

I followed him aboard to a computer-lined cockpit and he input my dream’s description of Gaga. Nothing. He stared at me speculatively. I wilted.

“Let’s cross-reference your family.”

Double gulp!

He input the details I provided. Photos populated his screens:

“That’s Mom! Born Amy Singer to—

“Daisy Singer, aka Gaga—aka Mama Monster.”

“That's a leap.”

He pointed to your screensaver, Diary. “I’ve researched the Time Square graffiti. They’re lyrics by a 2020’s singer called Lady Gaga. The song’s called”—

—“Come To Mama.” I drooped like a Dali clock. “I should’ve known. I’ve had amnesia since Dad”—he nodded sympathetically.

“I analyzed the H.D. footage from that day too.” A photo featuring dots and dashes popped up.

“That’s just my locket’s inscription.” I held it up. “In Morse Code, it asks: What 3 Words Leads Home? Below, the answer reads, I.Love.You.”

“‘Leads’ with an ‘s’?” he asked quizzically. “What if it’s not a question but a name—separate from the statement of love below. Heard of an old app called, What3Words.com?”

“What three”—suddenly memories surged back. “YES! What3Words.com mapped earth into 3m square segments corresponding to three unique words. Grandma—aka Gaga—aka Mama downloaded it onto Diary for me. She also made me this locket before she and her Monsters left to establish a haven somewhere south. She promised to send an escort back, warning that if he missed us, he’d leave us lyric clues at landmarks—like Time Square.”

Max hesitated, “it’s not brilliant”—

—“It’s only human,” I said defensively.

“My favorite people,” he grinned. “I meant—it’s not brilliant, but without phones, internet, or post, and with radio interceptions, she probably had little choice. Besides, any 100km2 area would offer them at least 33, three-word combos to match to thousands of songs.”

I input ‘Come To Mama.’ “It corresponds to three locations”—I faltered as he leaned in—“the closest, in Mexico. I should have remembered”—

He clasped my face, “stop! Gaga’s Little Monster endured the worst and metamorphosed into a resilient butterfly.”

I squinted up at his guileless eyes, “what’s your full name?”

“Max Maxim,” he answered, surprised. A gorgeous, principled—transhuman dork. Nice. “Butterfly, I propose we fly south for now. When we return, it will be with Gaga’s army to set shit straight. Or at least, firmly crooked and wrong for good.” I grinned. No Douglas Adams-quoting alien could be evil. He smiled, and my world tilted on its axis.

“Meanwhile”—he lowered his mouth to mine—“we’re going to follow our heart’s paths, Darling Ella. What do you say?”

“The locket’s inscription wasn’t wrong. Love does lead home.”