by Jim Stark
"Well, I'd have to say it's not ... completely undeserved,” said Michael, trying to be diplomatic ... and to not laugh ... and to not get beeped.
"Let's be honest here,” said Lilly. “The WDA pisses people off all the time. Those so-called scandals that Gil Henderson broke, that was the turning point. And for all their triviality, we were in the wrong. But even when we're not wrong, the WDA isn't always wise. We should have legalized grass long before we did, and frankly, I see more pluses than minuses in unbanning the LieDeck."
Michael was stunned that a WDA agent would say such a thing, especially to him, and most especially with a LieDeck operating. And the LieDeck didn't beep! he noted. “Well, that would certainly make a whole lot of money for my company,” he conceded, “but I...” He wanted to explain his thinking on this controversial matter, but he rarely said a word to anyone about this, and now he was talking to an agent of the WDA, albeit an agent who was officially off duty. “My—uh—personal position is ... I'm ... really not prepared to risk a return to chaos,” he finally said, unchallenged by the LieDeck.
Lilly was impressed. He really believes what he said. She respected his view, even if she didn't share it. She was only eleven years old during the LieDeck Revolution, but she remembered school friends joking blackly about the “puddle count,” the most recent tally of the jumpers’ splattered bodies. She also remembered the terrible drum roll of stories about which kid's father or grandpa or brother or sister or teacher or mother had become the latest person to “hit the bricks.” Who is to make the choice between repression and anarchy? she wondered. I'm sure there's a way to unban the LieDeck without everybody doing a synapse-collapse. Well ... fairly sure.
"Let's put that issue aside for later,” she suggested as the limo slowed at the outskirts of Gatineau. She withdrew her Sniffer from the slot and held it in her lap. “And so that we can keep on being open with each other, I'll leave my LieDeck on, and I'll leave it on the beeper mode, okay? I mean ... except in public?"
Michael looked over the woman who matched or exceeded his height ... among other things, he thought. “I reserved a—uh—private dining room,” he said.
"I'm glad,” said Lilly. “I'll leave my LieDeck on over dinner."
"And I ... shall lie to my heart's content,” said Michael.
"Beep,” went Lilly's LieDeck.
"Even when the waiter's in the room,” he added.
"Beep."
Chapter 32
PHASE 2
Saturday, February 19, 2033—8:30 p.m.
The Patriot Security van eased up to the third glowing Pliesterine structure on Bubble Street—"The Pot-house,” it was called. Victor had difficulty with his blood circulation, among other things, so this building had been chosen for today's meeting. Its temperature was kept at twenty-three degrees Celsius—a lovely summer's day—just like his hideout on the second floor of the Whitesides’ lodge.
The Pot-house had large airtight garage-type lifting doors, two of them, in series, so that in addition to keeping the bubble “blown,” it allowed vehicles to drive right inside without letting out too much heat. The Patriot van stopped in the holding zone between the doors. A few seconds after the first one closed behind them, the second door opened, and the driver eased the van into the bubble, as per the protocol (no loading or unloading of things or people was permitted between the doors). From the oppressive darkness of the outside world, they had gone into the normal light of the waiting area, and finally into the intense brightness of the hothouse.
Victor stepped out and thanked the Patriot driver. He stood awkwardly, feeling the warm embrace of the humid air, and feeling ridiculous to be dressed in a suit. He watched as the van backed out into purgatory and the inner door descended, and he listened as the outside door rose and the van backed out into the hell of a Québec winter. He realized he was on his own in the big wide world for the first time since the Revolution, and perhaps for the last time ever.
He began walking down the wide central pathway. On both sides, water gurgled, and immature, lime-green plants soaked up sustenance from high-pressure sodium and metal halide bulbs. Row upon row of light fixtures were suspended from moveable trestles. He was glad to make the walk alone. For this first-ever sortie from his private sanctuary in nineteen years, he'd insisted that there be no welcoming committee, no fanfare over the meaningless milestone. “Hi there,” he said to a particularly tall plant as he lifted a leaf with his hand and sniffed its pungent odor. The plant did not answer. “I understand perfectly,” he said, looking up between the hanging lights to a gray Pliesterine canopy, fifty feet above.
At the back, inside of the bubble, was a small aluminum room with its own roof. It looked like a square house trailer, and it was used variously as a lunchroom, a de-leafing and packaging room—even, on occasion, as an overnight sleepery for homeless Normals. There were wooden stairs built on the outside of the room, leading ten feet up to its roof, and he could see “stuff” up there—a pile of mattresses under a plastic sheet, a column of stacked plastic chairs, dozens of labeled boxes. Victor guessed that a lot of that stuff had gone flying up there rather recently, and that the enclosed space had been hastily tidied up for this meeting. The more things change, he thought. Plus ça change...
* * * *
"The gang"—the small group that had founded Victor-E in 2016—was inside the room, waiting, sitting nervously around a long wooden table, trying not to become too excited. Most of them had been there for an hour. This was a day they would remember for the rest of their lives. This was a day they would tell their children and their grandchildren about, and talk about on the Net with friends, and describe in exquisite detail when they got around to recording their life profiles.
"Hi,” said Annette as she opened the door for Victor. “There's a rack in the corner over there,” she motioned, without offering to shake hands, as per the protocol.
For reasons Annette didn't understand or question, Victor had insisted on facing her blind for the past week—she could hear him but not see him on her MIU. And now, she understood. She was shaken by his appearance—the long white beard especially. He even seems shorter, she thought. I can't believe he's wearing a suit and tie!
Victor shed the nylon coat and hung it up. “It's about eight sizes too big for me,” he said, laughing. “I borrowed it from old Noel, the cook out at the lodge. I used to have one of my own, but...” Did I really? he wondered.
Inside the room, the sweet smell of grass smoke hung in the air. Little clumps of roll-your-owns peeked out of owl-shaped toothpick holders on the table, and “the gang” had laid out hot coffee, cold soft drinks, baked snacks and ashtrays. “Does anyone have a real cigarette?” asked Victor. No one did—tobacco was frowned upon by Evolutionaries, and so few people smoked it any more anyway. “It's just as well,” he said, unsure of whether these words were beepable. “I haven't had a real cigarette since I stopped talking back in twenty-fourteen, but now..."
"Coffee? Munchies? Brain candy?” offered a weathered man at the far end of the table. “I'm Bob, by the way."
"No thanks—uh—Bob,” Victor said.
Besides Annette, the only other members of the original “gang” who had met Victor before were Tirone Lucas and his wife, Tammy. They'd seen him way back in 2014, just before the Revolution, when he came in to buy a pack of cigarettes at Ray's Restaurant on Highway 148, at the Quyon turnoff. That was the only time they'd seen him, but ever since, they had told the story of that fleeting encounter as if they remembered him well.
"He seems so old,” whispered Tammy.
"We're not getting any younger ourselves,” whispered Tirone.
"Well,” exclaimed Victor as he sat down on a plastic deck chair at the end of the table, “phase one seems to have gone rather well."
"Phase ... one?” asked Annette as she re-took her seat beside him.
"Of Evolution,” said Victor, with a puzzled look in his eyes. His whitened eyebrows seemed to curl protectively
. “I ... invented Evolution, remember?"
"I—uh—thought it was Annette's husband's idea,” said a woman seated just beside Bob. “Every Netfile and Netshow on the subject says it was Steve Sutherland's idea."
"Oh yeah,” said Victor, with a vague smile. His body relaxed. “I remember now. I emailed my document to him on the old Internet, and made him promise to say it was his idea. I'd forgotten about that. Well, you remember, eh?” he said to Annette.
"Of course I remember,” she said, making a pretend-attempt to grab his beard and give it a tug. “It's true,” she said to the astonished gathering. “But—uh—what do you mean by ‘phase one'?” she asked, turning back to their distinguished guest ... and away from a subject he'd probably prefer to avoid.
"Duh!” mocked Victor, holding his hands facing upward like an Egyptian dancer and looking around the room for a three-digit IQ.
"There's ... a phase two?” guessed Tammy Lucas, her voice brimming with pride.
"Duh!” repeated Victor, this time with a smile, and this time the founders of Victor-E broke up.
As the laughter receded, a timid voice came from half way down the left side of the table. “Do you remember me, Mr. Helliwell?” it said.
Victor peered at the attractive, blond-haired woman—the only person in the room who wasn't middle-aged or better. “I'm—uh—really sorry,” he stammered, “but I don't seem to be able to—"
"I used to call you Rip Van Winkle,” she exclaimed gleefully. “That was when I was just a little—"
"Julia!” exclaimed Victor. He stood up and started towards her, and she stood up and danced, arms aloft, towards this white-bearded, mostly-bald incarnation of the inventor she had met so many years ago, when her father just sort of brought him home one day. They embraced warmly. Julia was very surprised that she was now taller than Victor. She pulled his face against her breasts and kissed the top of his head. “I really missed you,” she said as she pulled back and laid her hands on his shoulders. Then she rotated him left and right, like the agitator of an old-fashioned washing machine. The “gang” clapped and whistled at the touching reunion.
"After Steve passed away, we figured we would invite Julia to join the gang,” said Annette. “She's in the ninetieth percentile on the CQ scale, and—"
"Aw jeeze,” said Victor as he let go of Julia's waist and turned towards Annette. “I ... I didn't know!"
"It's okay,” said Annette. “It's been more than a year now. He ... had a stroke."
Victor took his seat again, saddened by this news. “He was a very good man,” he said to Annette as he reached over and touched her hand. Then he drifted into what appeared to be a fugue state. His vision became clouded, and his feelings were minced. Everyone waited.
How could I have not noticed that Steve wasn't here? he wondered. How could I have not even thought about seeing Steve again? How could I have failed to ask Annette about him all those times we spoke over the Net in the last week? If Steve ... was considered the father of a movement that now has two hundred and thirty million Evolutionaries in it, his death ... must have been a big deal all around the world! A huge deal! How did I manage to not hear about that? Or ... did I hear about it and forget? Have I ... lost my mind? Am I ... senile? Or is it just the brain tumor?
The awkward moment was broken by Julia. “So, can I ask you about that ... what did you call it?” she asked. “It started with a ‘fff’ sound I think, like ‘fridge.’”
"Oh, Phase two,” said Victor, snapping back to the shared reality. “Sure. I'll explain it, but before I tell you, your clan will have to get a whole lot more serious about Human Three Consciousness. I'm proud of the progress that's been made, of course, but ... well, as you know, there's an awful lot more to Human Three Consciousness than simply never telling any lies, and from what I hear from Annette, Evolution hasn't even nailed that part down yet ... I don't think, anyway. Is that—uh...” He turned to Annette for support. It was so difficult, not knowing anything for sure. Scary.
"We ... do try to support CANLUC as much as we can,” said Annette. “The—uh—Canadian LieDeck Unbanning Committee,” she clarified, when Victor's face seemed to register yet another area of absent knowledge. “We've ... come a long way in removing lying from our experience with our fuss groups—our system of mediation—but without a LieDeck to verify things, it's ... sometimes it's extremely difficult."
"I know,” said Victor. “Well, buckle up, folks. I got some ideas on that!"
The gang fell into a profound silence as Victor gathered his thoughts. He proposed a sort of court system to “simulate” LieDeck-verification. The new “simLV” plan called for every Victor-Een to report every remotely possible fib that occurred within the clan, no matter how white or tiny, and then for a “jury of peers” to analyze each situation for however long it took to determine the truth, after which the “offender” would apologize and make amends—including financial compensation—never less than $100—if it turned out that all this trouble and bother was caused by a stupid lie. And to really deal with the commonplace habit of jiggying with what was said—"rewriting history,” Victor called it, or “revisionism"—he proposed two things: first, reports of suspected lies should be made “within the hour, while everyone's memory is still fresh,” and second, each Victor-Een should carry a 100-hour “digicorder"—a disk-based digital recorder—with the “record” button superglued in the “on” position and a voice-activated lapel mike—whenever they were at home in the life-base. He further suggested that a system of yellow- and red-light verbal warnings be instituted, like the military had for sexual harassment, so that people could extricate themselves from temptation or transgression before a gob of time had to get wasted figuring things out after the fact.
LieDecks are so much more efficient, Victor mused internally. He reminded all of the founders of Victor-E that according to all the research, the average person—"the average Human Two” was how Victor particularized it—told about 200 lies per day! The research also proved that these quite-normal compulsive liars didn't usually even realize it, when they were doing it ... and that they believed the result of unbridled truthfulness would be societal collapse! And finally, Victor told them—a bit more forcefully than he intended—that “not-lying is a matter of will, not skill,” and he chided them mildly for not having yet made the decision to eliminate lying completely from their lives. “Sheesh!” he said, not in a flattering or amused way. He was clearly disappointed in them on this score.
"So, when you can assure me that not a single lie has been told by any Victor-Een for forty consecutive days,” he said, “then, and only then, will I fill you in on phase two.” He clasped his skinny hands on his still-bulbous stomach, hoping he had forty days left. And he waited for a response.
"I think you're sort of assuming we're willing to go along with all this,” said Annette.
"Well, you—uh—don't have to,” said Victor. “For me, it's just a matter of which clan takes on the project. And yes, I ... I did assume that you'd want to."
"Of course we will,” chimed in Julia as she clapped her hands.
"Yeah,” said Tirone. “Why the fuck not!?"
The consensus emerged quickly without a formal vote. Tammy joined in with Julia's and Tirone's responses, and soon the whole room was ringing with applause, whoops, whistles and play-punches. They knew the governing council of Victor-E would jump at the offer of this new challenge ... if only to avoid the embarrassment of some other clan succeeding where they had feared to tread. Victor made a gesture to dampen the cheering, and they dutifully stopped before he had to say the words that were right on the tip of his tongue: “Knock it off, eh?"
"Can we maybe have like one hint about the phase two thingie?” whined Julia as she chewed on a muffin. “Please."
Victor stood and walked over to the small square window of the stuffy room. There was no glass in it. He stuck his head half way out and looked over the raised hydroponic fields of marijuana, diligently manufact
uring tetrahydrocannabinol. I've gotten most of my best ideas after toking up, he said to himself, but I think I'll stay straight for this one. He returned to the table, flicked the lightweight deck chair off to one side with his foot, and laid his fists knuckle-down on the table, leaning forward melodramatically. “I don't think so,” he said soberly, but with a barely-perceptible twinkle in his eye.
"Beep,” yelped Julia, throwing her right hand into the air repeatedly, like a grade one student desperately wanting to answer the teacher's question. “That's a beep, isn't it?"
"Yes,” said Victor, “although you could have said ‘yellow light,’ to see if I wanted to admit to my sinful ways ... but...” He stopped himself—it was obvious that Julia, who didn't and couldn't drive a car, also didn't understand the “yellow- or red-light” system of warnings, except perhaps as they might affect pedestrians. Still, for a moment, Victor's feelings wanted to scold her for not paying attention. Jerk, he called himself in his mind. He decided to let someone else explain that to Julia, a bit later. His head hurt, and he felt it was best to stay focused and get on with stuff. So he took a deep breath, and again, all twelve members of the gang seemed to silently bewitch themselves, as if an oracle were about to belch out a rare revelation from the mystic beyond.
"First,” he said carefully, “you have got to accept that I am an atheist. That was the first thing that I verified for myself when I had a foolproof LieDeck to play with back in twenty fourteen. So ... no problem with that?"
All heads agreed—no problem there.
"Okay,” said Victor, standing straight, stroking his long white beard and fighting off an inclination to change his mind. “So, having established my bona fides on the Godless front, here's your first and only clue.” He took another heavy breath, and a second ... and then he let fly. “Christianity is such a wonderful idea, it's a shame nobody ever tried it."