by Jim Stark
"I know it's kind of stupid,” she admitted as the fan continued its blessed stroking, “but I just find myself hoping you won't ... you know ... blab it all over the place, that we were like ... together.” There! She'd said it, and whether or not it was silly, it was her, Annette Blais, a first generation Human Three, awkwardly marginalized between the past and the present.
Lars turned on the table lamp beside the bed, stood, and started pulling on his boxer shorts. “Listen,” he said, “I can't agree to that. My friends will be happy for me, really happy for me, because they all know how much I care about you, you know? And they'll be happy for you too, eh? They'll know that I did, like, everything I could to give you pleasure, eh? So, like, I'm sorry if it bothers you, but everybody knows that sex is like my main thing. And it's not like I'm bragging or putting anybody down or causing you like to be embarrassed or anything. It's just...” He was going to get into a discourse on the genesis of the Evolutionary term “Zilla,” but if he did that he would have gone from just suggesting to outright criticizing. He shut himself up.
Annette watched him zip up and pull his T-shirt effortlessly over his head and down over his hairless chest. “Sorry,” she said. “Maybe this will help me get past all these dead attitudes."
"Yeah,” said Lars. “I really hope so, Annette. You'll always be the most special lady I know, eh? And even if you don't want to ... like, be with me again, you know I'm still your really really good friend, eh? Like we can just talk sometimes, or go for a walk, you know? I like that stuff too, eh?"
Annette sat up, reached to the foot of the bed and pulled the covers up to her neck, looking half sheepish and half cute ... too cute for a mature woman, she thought before she could beat off the silliness. “Sure,” she said to the young man who had almost worn her out. “Sorry?” she said again, scrinching up her round face to emphasize the comic side of the one-word epithet that seemed to escape her lips far too often.
"No need to be sorry,” said Lars as he put a hand on her cheek, bent over and kissed her forehead. “Now we got a really great memory, you and me. See you at breakfast,” he winked as he opened the door and backed out. “And I won't tell,” he added just before he closed the door. But they'll all guess it, he thought of adding, but didn't.
"Bye Lars,” she said to the empty room. “You're a good ... person,” she whispered, and her skin flushed at the way she'd narrowly avoided saying “boy."
Chapter 25
BAD DOGGIE
Monday, February 14, 2033—9:10 p.m.
It was past nine o'clock when Lilly got back to Victor-E. She parked in front of the E-tery and plugged the block heater cord into the closest available outlet to the front door. From behind the old motel, she could hear the hypnotic beat of drummic, a fairly new musical genre that featured soaring and clever a capella harmonies, every percussion instrument known to humankind, and nothing else. The roof of the mess hall in the hub was getting a good old Monday-night workout. Those woofers are gigantic, she thought. She found herself wondering what kind of damage they must be causing to the ears of those dancing directly in front. I'll check out the decibel levels tomorrow, she thought as she made her way into the warmth and light.
"Hi Claire,” she said to the cook after glancing at the blackboard. “I'll have a bowl of your barley ‘n’ beef stew. I've been told it's wonderful. I'll toss my stuff upstairs and be right back, okay?"
Claire Lapine nodded, but said nothing. It was a decent start, and Lilly didn't mind the absence of actual language. Her apology that afternoon had been accepted by Claire. Lilly had admitted that since seeing-eye dogs were allowed in restaurants, and since Big Wus never bothered anyone, and since it really wasn't her job to second-guess the health inspectors, she would leave the situation as it was. Getting along with these self-exiled people wasn't as easy as she had imagined or anticipated, but she was gaining confidence that she would accomplish that goal, eventually.
She dumped her boots and coat in the apartment, used the washroom, changed into a more comfortable pair of pants, and checked her N-mail. Nothing important.
Back in the restaurant, Lilly chose to sit on a stool at the counter to eat her barley ‘n’ beef stew. It wasn't quite the lamb kebob Victor had ordered for her ... and probably ate all by himself ... but it was hearty. I wonder if anyone here has ever eaten a five-star lamb kebob? I wonder if they care? I even wonder if I care, she thought reflectively. Yup, she concluded after her second mouthful of rather indifferent stew. I care ... deeply. She added salt and pepper.
There was only one table in use in the whole restaurant. A group of eight teenaged boys were smoking tailor-made joints and wishing they could get themselves invited into the hub on short notice. Lilly listened to their whispering and their boisterous laughter. If she had been feeling better, she would have gone over and sat down with them, if only to see if the overly-testosteroned Canadian rabble was that much different from its Yankee counterpart. Fat chance, she thought as she finished up her stew.
"Thanks,” she said to Claire as she stood up to leave. She turned around ... and there was Big Wus, ten feet away, on his haunches, slapping the floor with his tail and panting. No sense mucking about, she considered. This is the one friendship I can't afford not to make. Let's see ... what would an Evolutionary do ... or a kid? Lilly pulled out a chair from one of the tables and sat on it. She made a kissing sound with her mouth and tapped her thigh audibly. “C'mon boy,” she said, bending forward a bit.
Little by little, Big Wus yielded to temptation, to the apparent offer of a friendship, or at least a truce. When he was within reach, Lilly held out the back of her hand for him to sniff. Before long, Big Wus had his front paws up on her right knee, and was getting well patted and well scratched on the head and neck.
"So ... we're buddies now?” asked Lilly.
Big Wus suddenly wrapped his front legs around her thigh, and before she realized what was happening, his butt was bouncing up and down on her shin.
"Aw jeeze,” she said as she slapped the dog on the side of the head and kicked her leg out, sending him tumbling, and then tearing for the safety of the kitchen.
"We don't hit dogs here,” said Claire as she picked up the shuddering spaniel.
"Yeah, but—” started Lilly as she got to her feet.
"What dooo they dooo with their doggies?” came a laughing question from the table of young male outcasts.
"Get a fucking life,” spit Lilly in their direction as she checked her pants for semen.
"Get a fuckin’ life,” she heard one of the boys mimic sarcastically as she headed up the stairs to her apartment.
Chapter 26
BRAIN GO BOOM
Monday, February 14, 2033—9:25 p.m.
I didn't commit a crime by giving Gil's message to Jesus-E, thought Annette as she threw on a terrycloth robe. But what about the question of whether I know of anyone else who has committed a crime, or plans to? Lilly will know that I'm lying. And refusing to reveal knowledge of someone else's criminal intent is itself a crime. Christ! I'm going to end up in jail! Or ... or maybe I'll have to go underground! But where? When?
Annette's winter digs were in the hub, fifty feet from the entrance to Mainspoke. Its official name was Sleepery #1, but it was teasingly called the “boss-spot” by most Victor-Eens. She had a private office and bathroom in addition to her bedroom, the only physical perks allowed for the top dog at Victor-E. She was in her bathroom, splashing water on her face, trying to wash the sweaty memory of Lars from her mind, off her skin. There has to be some way around this Jesus-E/Lester Connolly thing; there just has to be, she thought as she straightened up and let the drops of water trickle down her face and onto her chest.
She looked herself over in the mirror as she dried off, and longed for the image that lived in there twenty years ago, before her face had been disfigured. She leaned forward and took a close look at her face, the orbit of her left eye in particular. The several scars were hardly visible now, a
nd the memory of that awful pain had faded ... along with her natural beauty. I'll never be pretty again, she thought as she put on a dressing gown and tied the cloth belt. Not that it matters, here.
She thought about her husband, dead now for more than a year. He had never quite adjusted to the ways of Evolution, even though he'd been a founder of Victor-E, and had had a wonderful and productive time while he'd lived here. Steve used to refer to her and him as “the odd couple.” He was a former Catholic bishop, of all things, and she a former Patriot agent, and yet there they were, living comfortably as Evolutionaries, neither one inclined to look into the past, into their former incarnations as Human Twos. The stroke he had suffered two Christmases ago, in 2031, took his life only one week later. The last words he'd been able to whisper had been: “Try to have a good time with the rest of your life.” Annette reopened her housecoat and smiled at an aging body. “I try,” she said to the mirror, wishing he could hear, almost wondering if he could.
The LieDeck never makes an error, she thought as she used a wet hand towel to wipe the sink. She straightened the bath towel on the rack. But people do! People ... we make mistakes all the time! Magicians even tell us that they're in the business of making us see something that isn't real, and still ... we see it. I've got the advantage ... she doesn't even know I'm trying to trick her. And unlike the magician, I only have to do it with words. But how? How do I do that? C'mon, Annette. You used to be a pretty talented security agent. Think, for Christ's sake. Then, almost magically, something she had learned from Steve came to mind. Jesuitical equivocation worked centuries ago on some pretty smart people. There just has to be a way of getting through this ... with words ... just words.
She walked from the bathroom back to her office. It was 10:20 p.m. when she closed the door, and it was 10:30 p.m. by the time she had a plan. She wasn't sure she could pull it off, but she was sure she couldn't deal with jail or living on the run from the WDA. She booted up her MIU and called.
"Lilly,” she said brusquely when the clan's new resident agent came on the screen. “I don't expect you to understand, but I'm not too crazy about this LieDeck-verifying thing you have to do every month, so could we just get it over with? I know you're supposed to do it in person if possible, but the last guy, Harry Lloyd, he did it over the Net. You don't mind, eh?"
"Not at all,” said Lilly, even though she did mind being put on the spot. “If you'll just wait a second while I blow my nose..."
Annette suddenly wished she believed in God, so she could pray before answering the four questions. God never answered prayers—how could He, if He didn't exist—and yet somehow people used that ruse to feel better, more confident. That's nothing more than a simple form of self-deception, she remembered learning her first week as a novice Human Three.
"Go ahead,” she ordered as soon as Lilly came back on screen.
"Have you committed any crime?” asked Lilly politely.
"No,” pronounced Annette, letting her irritation show.
"Do you have any intentions of committing a crime?"
"No, I do not!” said Annette, with even more anger showing through.
"Do you know of anyone who has committed any crime?"
"No, I do not!” said Annette, even more forcefully.
"Do you know anyone who has any intentions of committing a crime?"
"Listen, Lilly, in the nineteen years since the WDA was established, I can't name a single person who has committed a crime or who has had or now has any intention of committing a crime. Evolutionaries don't break the law. You should know that, and if you really did know that, then you'd understand why we resent this business of proving ourselves innocent every fucking month. Are we through?"
"Yes,” said Lilly calmly. “Good night, Annette. Net, down, now."
Annette shut off her MIU and breathed as normally as possible. She'd done it! Thank God those monks don't have names, she thought as she walked back to her bedroom. I can't very well name somebody who doesn't have a name! A tentative smile crossed her face.
She lay down on the messy bed, still dressed in her robe, thinking about the day's intrigue, and about Lars. She found herself hoping to hell he'd keep his word about not blabbing all over the place, even though she knew he wouldn't lie to her. She wished that Gil Henderson had someone else to send his dangerous coded messages to. And finally, she wished she hadn't been so belligerent with Lilly, even though it was necessary.
Damn the guilt, she said to herself. She got up, walked the few steps to her office, and called Lilly back. She was surprised that the WDA agent even responded. “I'm ... sorry I was so rude to you,” she said. “I hope you understand that it's not personal."
"Net, down, now,” said Lilly brusquely, without accepting or even acknowledging the apology.
I guess I lied about it not being personal, thought Annette as she turned out the light in the office. Maybe I even lied about being sorry. Brain go boom!
Chapter 27
IS SO, IS SO!
Monday, February 14, 2033—11:30 p.m.
At 11:30 p.m., Lilly was still awake. She had used a strong decongestant nasal spray and swallowed a non-prescription sleeping pill, but she found herself staring at the ceiling in the faint light, somehow unwilling even to close her eyes. Her feelings were all jumbled up, tumbling about, and her mind couldn't sort out why that was.
Annette Blais was a pain in the ass, and she was a clever one, but she certainly hadn't fooled this WDA agent with the old “I-can't-name-a-single-person” routine. Lilly would deal with that little semantic somersault later, but right now, Annette wasn't the problem. Lilly was disturbed that Lester Connolly, although a major league pain in the ass, had lost an arm to a disgusting disease, but that wasn't what was keeping her awake either. The famous recluse Victor Helliwell had spoken aloud to her, and had done his damnedest to scramble her brain, but ... that wasn't it either. Something else had wormed its way under her skin and was churning things up, and it seemed that the harder she tried to identify the invader, the further she moved from an answer ... and from blessed sleep.
She slept naked—always had since she left home—and sometimes the feel of her own body, leg on leg, hand on breast, helped her feel loved, or at least relaxed. She wished she could be with “good old Ed” tonight. No, that isn't it either, she knew. I wish I could be with ... with ... “Michael!” she said softly.
That realization jolted her! It was like a body blow, but from the inside! She got out of bed and slipped into her fuzzy blue housecoat. After a brief pit stop, she strode out to the swivel chair in front of her MIU.
"N-mail to Michael Whiteside, Netsite on file,” she instructed after the usual security preliminaries—the finger in the bioID slot and the PIN number. “Hi Michael,” she said, realizing too late that he might expect her to use “Mr. Whiteside” in spite of their friendly encounter earlier that evening. “I wanted to say that it was a pleasure to meet you today. I was glad to be able to help with Venice. Please don't hesitate to take me up on my offer to talk with you further about Julia. Net, down, now."
As the MIU sealed the electronic envelope, Lilly sat there rather shaken by the pace of her heartbeat. She had never felt quite like that about “good old Ed.” In fact she'd only felt this turbulent twice before in her life, and both of those gentlemen had turned out to be ... what was that Canadian expression? she wondered. Hosers, she remembered. Not gentlemen, to say the least, she recalled painfully.
This is a problem, she told herself. I flirted with Michael because it was my job, the shortest route to a man's brain being what it is ... through his nuts. She smiled inwardly at the memory of being taught that lesson by an instructor at the Academy, a hefty old dame who made even Sheena Kalhoun look skinny and attractive. “The gonad gambit,” they called it out of class. And now I find I have real feelings for the man, she thought. That's an infringement of the rules, but the truth of it is, I ... I don't care.
She sat at her MIU, pondering her dile
mma, smiling at its pulp fiction aura, groaning silently at the power of the feelings she'd just discovered. It occurred to her that in a more perfect world, she would never have left that particular message. She would have left an altogether different one, a message that was congruent with the actual thoughts she had only now been able to express to herself. This was about his being a gentleman. This was about his being ... freaking gorgeous, she admitted to herself ... like his son, Randy, but with class, experience, maturity. This was not about his money. This was about chemistry ... explosive chemistry. This was about ... jeeze ... love? she asked herself. How the hell can I tell him now that my opening foray was planned, manipulative, job-related ... even phony?
Lilly was enjoying the sexual feelings, fearing those feelings, wondering if she could kill them before they grew, wondering what they might grow into, knowing that it was ridiculous to even think the “L” word, and wondering what kind of person she must be, to flirt and tease and play with his mind and feelings on behalf of Control, or on behalf of Sheena Kalhoun, or even on behalf of the cause itself. Lillian Svetlana Petrosian got lost along the way, she felt. Who would I be today if I'd gone into teaching, or social work, or if I'd been a preacher, like I decided in grade six? What ability do I still have to create my identity as I choose?
Several more minutes of introspection brought her to a firm conclusion. She had to do a much better job at being the person she had always hoped to be, the kind of person she knew she already was, somewhere beneath the layers of ... conditioning, she supposed it was.
"N-mail to Victor Helliwell at the Whiteside lodge, Netsite on file,” she said. “Hey ... Victor, it's Lilly here. I just wanted to—"