by Jim Stark
Christ! he thought absently, smilingly—meaning the curse, nothing more. It's almost impossible to shed the myths of youth, especially when the trees go wonky in the fall.
Victor looked back at his life, a life that was now drawing to a close. Childhood was a time of joy for most kids, no matter what their circumstances, but it was a period of time that the eventual adult was pre-programmed to forget. He could remember lots of verbal battles and slap-fests with other little boys, but he had no recollection of what they were about. They weren't about the issue of the moment anyway, he realized. They were about bodily juices. They were merely programmed training sessions for the anticipated mortal combat of an adulthood that would be passed in a jungle, fending off dangerous predators and capturing live prey with only his stubby teeth and his soft little hands.
He remembered a red tricycle with a black rubber seat, and red, white and blue tassels hanging from the ends of chrome handlebars. There were countless squeals of glee and bouts of debilitating laughter in his youth, but their causes were equally lost in the fogs of time. They weren't about what they were ostensibly about either; just his internal “reward juices” reminding him of the stunning prizes that may be won by executing adaptive adult behaviors with excellence.
His teenage years were eminently forgettable. He got through high school by being smart, not by working hard. His world revolved around the little head more than the big one. Life was not about graduating—it was about girls. He remembered striding into a Saturday night party in somebody's parents’ rec-room and instantly losing all interest in philosophical notions. Such frivolities bowed to the superior and prior demands of his chemical programming. His eyes would scan the female population, always from left to right, as it was with reading, and his internal calculator would instantly rack up verdict after verdict: “Would fuck, wouldn't fuck, would fuck, wouldn't fuck...” He could even remember the names of some of the girls he had lusted after, but not the names of those few he had managed to feel up. That's strange, and destined never to be sorted out. He had even lost the name of the pimply grade-tenner he'd actually nailed, when he was in grade twelve. Laura ... Lisa ... he tried again, but it was gone.
University was about beer and science ... and girls who didn't put up such a fuss, if only because the earning potential of a science degree was almost as attractive as a square jaw. And when his Master's certificate was safely entombed in a cardboard tube, he felt that life was finally ready to start, in earnest. Then he'd met George Cluff and joined his small American electronics company as junior partner, where he helped develop the Cluff Voice Analyzer, the unreliable forerunner of the LieDeck, and...
That's when my life got weird, he thought, as he watched nothing change outside the window, except the lighting. George Cluff was killed in a plane crash. Murdered, Victor said to himself. That was the turning point. If I'd have just gone out and gotten another damn job and left all that lie detector stuff behind, everything would be different today ... everything.
Now, with a healthy tumor growing like a weed in his brain, it seemed as if his life had unfolded according to a plan over which he had no control, a design not of his own making. But maybe all those seemingly random yanks on the steering wheel were actually choices I made, he reconsidered. Maybe I just made bad choices. Or maybe I made smart choices, brilliant choices, courageous choices! Certainly that's what I felt at the time ... thought at the time ... most of the time. At least back then I could assume that what I felt and thought were the true product of my instinct and my rational mind. Now ... well, who knows? Maybe my sense of myself is nothing more than the product of a lump of cancer. I'm in no shape to be making any decisions, but when death looms, perspective changes. Jeeze, I could commit a murder and not have to pay for it, he realized. So ... who should I shoot?
He smiled inwardly at this very foolish line of thought ... this malignant feeling. Far too many had died already. The last inning in a losing game was a time for manic home-run slashes with the bat, not a time for whining or tears. What he'd done in the past, he'd done in the name of life, never mind that his legacy was one of ... well, that's for history to judge.
Chapter 21
MINUTES OF SILENCE
Monday, February 14, 2033—5:15 p.m.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door leading to the hallway and stairs, a timid knock, but a knock all the same. Three knocks, actually ... like I'm not likely to hear the first two, Victor grumbled to himself. It isn't Noel. He knows to knock only once, and to not knock at all unless it's mealtime. It must be someone who doesn't know me, somebody who shouldn't be knocking at my door at all, someone uninvited, unwelcome, someone who doesn't give a sweet shit about my rules, my comfort levels, my lifestyle, my vow.
"Fuck off,” he shouted, without moving a limb, or even an eyebrow. “Whoever you are,” he added loudly for good measure. Jesus, he thought, those are the first words I've spoken out loud on purpose in about nineteen years. “What the fuck do you want?” he bellowed, still without turning from the arms-folded pose at his gaze-onto-the-Earth spot.
In the window's reflection, he saw the door open. A very tall woman in a dark skirt and jacket walked in and closed the door ... rather roughly for such a simple task ... and then just stood there, legs apart, arms folded, seeming to mimic his posture.
He felt his instinct soar. He wanted to hit something, to hurt something, someone ... her. He wanted to hurt his fist doing it. He wanted to watch her drop heavily to the floor; he wanted to inflict emotion; he wanted to balance the ledger ... payback time! He smiled then ... broadly. It was comical, feeling this hostility, being a Human Two, almost being a Human One. There was nothing to avenge, no insult, no blow to the ego or the body—only a petty infraction of the rules, a breach, albeit flagrant, of a ridiculous regulation he had made up himself ... and which wouldn't matter a row of pins if I wasn't so fucking rich.
Snow wouldn't waltz right in like that, he thought. It stops at the glass, alights quietly on shingles. Wind wouldn't do that either. Nor would a tree, a goat or even a mosquito.
That's the best thing about winter, he remembered someone saying maybe forty years ago. No fucking mosquitoes. But they'll be back in a few months ... the little bastards. He resolved again to have the upper deck screened in, but then he recalled his reasons for not having done so in years past. It made life interesting ... not knowing when the next sting would occur, or where on his body it would occur. Sometimes in the summer he would sit out on the deck and just take it for five or ten minutes, after which he would explode in a grunting rage, slapping himself wildly in a berserk, Whirling Dervish routine, knowing far too intensely that he was still alive ... for better or worse. “I feel, therefore I am,” he said quietly, followed by a minor chuckle at the sound of his long-lost voice. It was ... how to describe it? “Airy, when I don't shout,” he said aloud. Like a violin, he thought.
"I ... beg your pardon?” said a voice behind him.
Oh yeah, he said to himself as he glanced at the dark window at the lengthy slip of a woman who was still standing there ... after all that time. He had no firm notion of how much time had elapsed since the intrusion, since he'd drifted off ... and cared not at all. “You are in my space,” he said in a monotone. “State your business and then leave.” He waited a few seconds, marveling at what a son-of-a-bitch he had become in his old age. “Please,” he added, with more authority than courtesy.
"One,” came the surprisingly low voice, “I'm with the WDA, as I'm sure you have guessed. Two, I'm a human being, and I'd appreciate it greatly if you would treat me as such. Three, I'm going to LieDeck-verify you. And four, I've decided that I'm going to let myself care about you. That's not to say respect you or like you, and I'm certainly not going to get tingly with you, but I am going to get inside your head, and find out what's in your heart, and ... well ... care ... like I said ... not that it matters."
Lilly waited a few seconds, to let things settle in, but the short balding man w
ith the long white hair and yellow-green caftan didn't budge. She found herself wondering why the room was so hot, but she quickly aimed her mind back at the immediate task, as she'd been trained to do.
"I don't have to give a damn, you know,” she continued. “However, I am entitled to LieDeck-verify you, and I guess I'll use whatever means it takes to get you to cooperate. We've given you a free ride for nineteen years because of your stature, and because you never talked to anybody or did anything anyway. But ... that's over now, so unless you make it easy on both of us, I'll have to make it hard on you. Can we start now ... please?"
No one had talked to him like that for ... well, like she said, nineteen years. Of course no one had talked to him in any other way either, except for Mr. Wu and Doctor ... what was his ... Valcourt, he remembered, surprising himself. He of the awful prognosis ... he of the lamenting eyes ... he with the baddest news there is for the instinct, the exact thing that feelings fear most, the end of the song, the “point final,” as they say in French.
"It seems to me most strange that men should fear that death, an inevitable end, will come when it will come,” he said, still facing the window, motionless. “Ol’ Willy didn't know the first fucking thing about death, or life, to say something so unbelievably stupid. There's nothing even remotely strange about that."
"I ... heard,” said Lilly, smiling internally at his silly nickname for the Bard, William Shakespeare. “So you're ... scared?"
Those nosey WDA fuckers know everything, he thought. It wasn't that she had no right to know; just that he felt no obligation to like the status quo, or anything else. “Of course I'm scared,” he huffed. “So what?"
"Like I told you,” said Lilly. “I made a decision to let myself ... care."
"Come back in ten minutes,” said Victor. For reasons unknown, his mast was up, and that was embarrassing in a paisley caftan. It shouldn't be up, he thought. It never goes up like that for the Netsex women I watch from time to time.
The door closed, this time with an unobtrusive “click.” The “hermit of the lodge” was no more, partly because the WDA had found out that he was dying and decided to press its advantage while there was still time, partly because Victor had to deal with death, and felt ... thought, he corrected himself ... that he should spit out what he had to say while he still could. Let the leaves turn, he advised himself. Let the games begin.
He wasn't terribly surprised when he spoke those first few words, but he did wish, for history's sake, that his ice-breaking efforts hadn't been “Fuck off” and “What the fuck do you want?” Not quite the same cachet as “One small step for a man,” he considered as he walked to his bedroom, or whatever Buzz Aldrin said ... or was it Neil Armstrong? He had been thinking of ending his silence ever since he got the bad news from Dr. Valcourt. Now he'd done it. Big deal!
He shed the silk robe, the only thing he had on, and was not pleased at what he saw in the full-length mirror. I gotta lose some weight, he thought—and then he chuckled at the wasting-away process that was coming ... that had already begun. At least I'm no longer aroused by Lady Beanstalk. Did she say her name? He couldn't recall. If she did, I forget, he knew. And if she didn't, she was rude, and if she was rude, that was because ... I was rude. Humph!
He put on white cotton underwear, green socks, brown pants—his jeans hadn't fit over his “one-pack” gut since the Revolution, and he'd neglected to order another bigger pair. Then he put on a red and yellow checkered flannel shirt, and gray suede shoes—new ... never before worn. Just to round out the ensemble, he threw on his old black bowling jacket from his taxi-driving days. As he pulled his long hair out from under the collar of his jacket, he rolled his eyes at the unfine figure of a dying old fool he cut in the mirror. “Live hard, die young, make a good-looking corpse,” he remembered a college buddy advising during a beer-binge. “The train's sort of out of the station on that one,” he said as he walked out of the bedroom. He was used to feeling the thick carpet under bare feet, and this Mr. Dressup routine seemed as senseless as it was uncomfortable. He turned down the temperature. During winters, he'd kept his microworld at twenty-three degrees Celsius—almost hot—since ... well, since the Revolution. “Come in,” he hollered at the door to the hall.
"My name is Lilly,” the woman said, guessing that Victor knew about and shared the modern disregard for surnames. “Lillian Petrosian,” she added as she closed the door, just in case she'd guessed wrong.
"Drink?” he asked.
"No thanks."
"Joint?"
"No thanks."
"Lamb?"
"Pardon?"
"On a shish kebob,” Victor explained. “A lamb kebob. Noel, the cook here, he does this Afghan dish that's absolutely—"
"Thanks, but I'm expected back for supper, and—"
"Net, up, now,” he interrupted the WDA agent. “Link with Noel in the kitchen.” The LieDeck-response in Victor's mind had beeped, but he wasn't going to get into a dumb argument in the opening seconds of this unwanted encounter. “Noel, could we have two of those lamb thingies you make, and a bottle of good red ... and another dining chair if you don't mind, for my guest. Net, down, now."
"But—” tried Lilly.
"So don't eat it,” he cut in. “Have a seat, uh..."
"Lilly,” she repeated as she walked over to a padded chair. “Petrosian."
"Victor,” said Victor, pointing to his head, pretending to mock her, mocking himself, really, but at least avoiding a lie about how he hadn't forgotten her name. “Helliwell,” he added, with a stiff finger-poke at his temple.
"I really am sorry to hear about the—uh—you know,” said Lilly as she sat down on an easy chair.
"Put your Sniffer on the side-table and turn the LieDeck switch to the beeper mode,” he said. “I know that you're not supposed to use the beeper if you can avoid it, but you and I will get into a dandy conflict if you don't. Agreed?"
Lilly wasn't interested in getting into a wrangle with this obviously difficult man, and her superiors would not make an issue of this procedure, given the importance of the end product. At least she hadn't had to pull any of his teeth to get him to talk. “No problem,” she said, as she obliged his request.
"Beep."
"Small problem,” she rephrased, with an equally small smile.
"Now, you were saying?” asked Victor.
"About...?"
"How soon they forget!” he wailed. He pulled over the single upright chair from the dining table and straddled it backwards, directly in front of her. He lifted his foot-long beard so that it would fall over the back of the chair, placed his forearms onto the top of the back, rested his chin on the top arm and simply stared at his guest, waiting for her to get back to reality.
"Oh!” she exclaimed. “I ... was just saying that I really am sorry to hear about the—uh—about the brain tumor.” There was no beep, and Victor was seriously surprised. She actually was sorry. “I also meant what I said about letting myself care about you,” she offered, aware that she was now being LieDeck-verified. “I can do that. I ... know about your theory of human consciousness evolution, that Human One, Two, Three stuff you wrote about twenty years ago, although I'd like to know more and—"
"I didn't write about it,” corrected Victor. “I made some tapes of my ideas, and it was nineteen years ago, not twenty. You look surprised that you could be completely wrong twice in one sentence and yet not get beeped. It's not that you didn't know those things—uh—Lilly, it's ... just that you didn't bother remem—"
"Whatever,” said Lilly, trying to not hide her irritation. It wasn't that she couldn't stop herself from being assertive and rude at times, it was just that this old fart was a bit of a bully, with words, and there was no reason why she should put up with that. “I never understood why you didn't let people study those tapes, frankly. Anyway, the general idea did get out to the public, as I'm sure you know, and of course most of Evolution picked it up and ran with it, but ... well, it interests m
e ... to hear it from you. As for myself, I've got good control of my feelings, and I've got a fairly good handle on what I feel, and why. And with my LieDeck here ... well, as you can imagine, I had to check out where I was coming from, emotionally, before I could even think about moving forward on this assignment, eh?"
Lilly was of Russian descent, by her name, but Victor knew she was American by her slight accent. He figured that the Canadian “eh?” that she'd tacked on the end of her last sentence was probably trained into her for this northern tour of duty. Maybe that's part of her caring routine, he thought. Maybe she's a potential Human Three!
"Can you sit on the couch, on the end, so I can put my head on your lap and look up at you?” he asked. “While you ask me your four stupid WDA questions?"
"No problem,” said Lilly as she started to stand and reached for her Sniffer.
"Beep,” it went.
"Okay ... I ... don't mind ... too much,” she said, levering herself back down into the padded easy chair. “Emphasis on ‘much.’”
Victor wasn't buying, even though there was no “beep” this time. He just ... stared at her, waiting.
"I'm ... just getting over a nasty cold,” she tried. “And ... you ... might catch it.” She had to pause periodically to assure herself that the content of her words was true; whether or not they amounted to an adequate excuse was another matter.
"I'm immune,” asserted Victor. As theSniffer beeped his deliberate lie, he studied the agent's face for the trace of a smile, but came up empty. “We are not amused?” he asked, trying to mimic the accent and arrogance of Queen Victoria, but managing to sound more homosexual than British.
Lilly gave up, stood, and sat on the end of the couch, placing her Sniffer on the arm and putting a cushion on her lap. Victor pushed the ottoman to where her feet could reach it and sat down on the couch. Then he grabbed the cushion from her lap, threw it spinning across the room, rotated, and weebled his legs up and his head down, flipping his white hair off to the side. This was much nicer, being able to feel one thin thigh under his neck and the other touching the bald top of his head.