by Jim Stark
It was something he'd said to himself hundreds of times, silently, in his head, during his nineteen years as a mute. He felt sure that someone else had said those words ages ago, but he couldn't remember who it was. And it always brought to mind another quote, this one by Wendell Berry, who wrote in Blessed are the Peacemakers: “I know of no Christian nation and no Christian leader from whose conduct the teachings of Christ can be inferred.” Victor had a pro forma chuckle over that one—and couldn't remember if he'd said that second quote out loud or not. That Berry fellow should have added “and no economic model” to his list, thought Victor ... and this time he was sure that he had only though those words, not spoken them.
Everyone was puzzled. Julia asked what “boner feedays” were, and Victor explained it was a pretentious way of saying that he could be trusted to speak the truth. “Snooty,” he said when Julia asked what “prenchuss” was.
"Ahhh,” she said, understanding all too well now. “Prenchuss ... I like that word."
Tirone and Tammy were whispering guesses as to the meaning of the hint, and Victor was gratified that no one pressed for more. He lifted his coat—or Noel's coat—from the rack, and put it on.
"The—uh—governing council may have a problem with the cost of buying several hundred digicorders and lapel mikes,” said Annette.
"Oh jeeze, I almost forgot,” said Victor, with a sheepish grin. “Your—uh—your little charity outfit ... what's it called?"
"Foundation-E,” volunteered a woman who was on the board of the charity.
"Yeah, that's it,” said Victor. “Well, I was sort of rude to that nice WDA woman—uh—Lilly Petrosian, when she came to LieDeck-verify me last Monday. There was no reason for it, other than the fact that I can be as Human Two as anybody else. Anyway, I apologized profusely, and then I promised that I'd do something concrete to express my regret—give a pile of money to a charity or something like that. So ... well ... I decided that Foundation-E will cover all the costs of phase two, so I—uh...” He reached inside the big coat and dug out a rumpled check from his shirt pocket. “Here's my donation to cover all that ... and I can tell you I had to raise my voice to Mr. Wu to get him to write this out for me ... he said he hadn't written an actual old-fashioned check since...” Victor was almost at the point of chuckling, and then he realized that he'd forgotten how many years Mr. Wu had said, and he'd started to lose his train of thought in any event. “Damn drugs,” he muttered to himself, even though he couldn't live without them.
Annette knew of Mr. Wu through her friendship with Julia, but she didn't know that he also handled Victor's finances. She took the check, looked at it, and gulped, audibly. “A million dollars?” she asked.
"Well, the digicorders won't cost much,” he replied. “Maybe a hundred thousand or so—Michael can give you a deal on that through his company, I'm sure. But phase two of Evolution will be really expensive. And besides, I got another ... I don't rightly know ... I think more than two hundred million, and half of that will be going into this phase two project sooner or later, so ... by the way, can I take a few of those joints with me?” They helped with the pain ... a lot.
"No,” joked Julia. “Beep me silly,” she added.
Chapter 33
A TOAST
Saturday, February 19, 2033—8:45 p.m.
The limousine pulled into the parking lot of the Royal Oaks Golf and Country Club in Gatineau, Québec, and Lilly mentioned that she'd better leave her LieDeck turned off. “We can always verify each other later,” she said, “if there's any need."
The maître d’ met Michael and Lilly at the door, and silently led them down a wide, wood-paneled, red-carpeted hall to the Heritage Room. The private dining room had a painting of Michael's smiling father at one end and a portrait of his grumpy grandfather at the other. If I didn't know better, I'd think we were in the Whiteside mansion, thought Lilly.
The room was wrapped in gentle old wood. The many trappings of class announced that this was a very “inner” sanctum. A window faced the frozen Ottawa River. On the far shore, above the black bluffs, were the stately Parliament Buildings—their silhouettes, really, cast darkly against ambient light, the pink-tinted night sky that hovered awkwardly over the Canadian capital.
The chandelier above the dining table was dimmed to the point where it helped them see, but didn't diminish the contributions of the four candles. The waiter was discreet and mostly absent, the wine was eighty years old, and both Michael and Lilly were beguiled by the atmosphere, and by each other. The problem was, neither was ready to jump into an overt tingle. They were rather shy and out of step with the normative world culture on matters of the heart—he in spite of his great wealth, she in spite of the impressive power she possessed as a front-line worker in the WDA.
"You heard about the kidnapping of Lester Connolly?” asked Michael sarcastically.
Lilly sighed. “I guess it's a sort of ... like street theater."
"More like theater of the absurd,” said Michael.
Six Canadian Jesus-Eers had shown up at the Washington D.C. General Hospital a few days ago, and they were now camped around Lester Connolly's room, videotaping everyone who came within hollering distance of the recovering USLUC leader. They worked in three-monk contingents, doing twelve-hour shifts, and they spoke no words, according to the vow of Jesus-E. They claimed in a written note to be his “loyal body-guards,” but Lester Connolly and his family members laughingly called the monks his “kidnappers,” and of course that got onto the Net as a hot topic. In fact the Netnews and the TV networks made quite an issue of the event for a couple of days, then moved on to other, more exciting stories.
"I didn't think it was fair of Henderson to suggest that Lester Connolly's illness might not have been a fluke,” Lilly said coldly, “or when he came out in favor of that so-called kidnapping caper by Jesus-E. The implication seemed to be that the WDA somehow, you know, made him sick, or that we tried to kill him! I mean for God's sake..."
"Gil Henderson didn't actually say ... exactly that,” said Michael.
"He's very skilful at saying things without actually saying them,” countered Lilly. “The whole charade with those Jesus-Eers is a slap in the face for the WDA. Next thing he'll say is we—” She cut herself off.
"We...?” asked Michael.
"Nothing, nothing,” said Lilly, with a fluttering hand.
It was far from nothing. She was going to suggest that Gil Henderson might imply that the WDA was also somehow responsible for Victor Helliwell's brain tumor, and it hit her gut like a backpack nuke that it might actually be true. Surely not! she thought. Surely to God they wouldn't! And why would they? Later! I'll ... I'll think this through later.
She shook her head free of that disturbing thought, and looked up at Michael just as the waiter came in quietly with vichyssoise and freshly baked cheese croissants. They were both glad to have this distraction. The departure of the waiter seemed to call for continued conversation, but both Lilly and Michael settled for some words of praise for the food, and looks that needed no verbal explanation, glances that would have suffered in translation.
Michael had many questions on his mind, most of them guaranteed mood-killers. He was particularly interested in this new World Identity Bank that the WDA was setting up in California. He knew that the WDA could easily eavesdrop on people at any time by way of their MIUs, even when they were “down"—after all, Whiteside Tech made many of the world's MIUs. He also knew that a facility of these fantastic dimensions, coupled with modern data-compression techniques and the gargantuan storage capacity of the new Japanese Z-chip arrays, could archive the digitized output of every MIU in the world, twenty-four hours a day, for hundreds of years. He wanted to know if that was indeed the plan, but ... he couldn't ask. She'd lose her job ... and besides, what else could it be for? Whatever its purpose, Michael wanted his company to get a good piece of the action, and found it very strange that the WDA hadn't even responded to his several inquiries about
participating in the project. Later, he thought.
"How's Randy doing?” asked Lilly, after tasting a spoonful of vichyssoise.
"He's got some big matches coming up,” said Michael. “His putting has improved. He told me about the advice you gave him. He won't tell you that it helped, but it did."
"How much?” asked Lilly, holding a glass of red wine beside her cheek, hoping it would play with the candlelight.
"Thirteen percent, he told me—enough that he went back to Miami a couple of days ago, to resume his studies ... well, his ... career."
There was something off about the pauses, and about Michael's miniscule inflection on the word “career,” something that troubled Lilly. He wants Randy to become another portrait on the wall in here, she thought. He's disappointed that Randy isn't more a chip off the old block. “Do you play golf?” she asked. She knew he did, of course, but feigning ignorance was one of the unpleasant conversational necessities of working for the WDA.
"Love it,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “As a hobby."
"Hey, me too!” Lilly said brightly, hoping that when winter finally melted away, they could play at the Oaks, together.
She had a lot of questions on her mind, too. Did Michael know that his son had flown from Miami to D.C. yesterday, on a one-day visit with his girlfriend, and that he'd had a private meeting with Lester Connolly, right in his hospital room? And did he know that Randy was increasing his financial support for USLUC, and sending large checks to the Québec and Canadian LieDeck Unbanning Committees as well? Did he know his family members were making the WDA nervous? With his son's involvement in the unbanning movement, with his sister Julia living in Victor-E and his daughter Venice wanting to join her, and now with his wife getting caught up in the Human Three movement, Michael has to know that his exclusive contract to build LieDecks for the WDA is at great risk. God, I almost told him as much when we met last week.
The big question on her mind, of course, had less to do with the WDA than with her conscience. Lilly felt sure that her job security would not be affected by her friendship with Michael—Control had practically suggested that she seduce the man—but she didn't want the role of “the other woman” ... even if Becky approved! Any significant role in Michael's life would probably mean fissures and quakes for the Whiteside family. And now, having promised Michael that she would be open with him, it was impossible for her to ask Control for advice on that score. She would have to tell Michael if she ever did talk to Control about such things. Worse yet, if she talked to Control and then didn't tell Michael, she would have to admit all of it if he asked, and that could prove fatal to their new relationship.
"How's Victor doing?” she queried as if she didn't know.
"He's on the Net all the time now,” said Michael, “mostly with Annette over at the Victor-E clan, getting the eleven disciples ready for—"
"The eleven disciples?” repeated Lilly, quizzically. She knew, of course, but no way could she let him know that she knew. In some ways, I'm never off duty.
"Oh ... just a little family joke,” said Michael. His face seemed torn between sweet nostalgia and regret. “It was rather strange for our kids to grow up with this mute holed up at the lodge, and we'd always leave some fruitcakes and candy canes and homemade cards outside his door on Christmas morning. And for reasons we never could figure out, Randy—back when he was five or six years old—used to call Victor ‘the baby Jesus.’ I guess he heard something from one of his little friends about the beliefs of those Jesus-Eers across the river. Anyway, then Venice picked it up, and as they got older, it kind of stuck, you know, as a joke. So the twelve people who started Victor-E, well of course the kids started calling them the twelve disciples ... I guess because the clan was named for Victor. Then Steve Sutherland, Annette Blais’ husband, died a year or so ago, so now it's the eleven disciples. Kids, eh?"
"Yeah,” said Lilly. It was tedious to appear interested in stuff that she already knew. “So ... Victor's been Netlinking with the eleven—uh—founders, and ... and...?” Lilly also knew most of what there was to know about Victor's Netlife and his plans, but, as always, she had to be certain she never did or said anything that confirmed the WDA's eavesdropping capabilities. Moreover, Michael knew she knew, and she knew he knew she knew, and so on and so forth in an infuriating web of ridiculous gambits that no one seemed sure how to avoid on those occasions when bedrock post-Revolutionary reality wiggled its way into an otherwise comfortable discussion. At least the WDA can't listen in over a Sniffer unless it's in use, Lilly thought. She touched her handbag instinctively, even though she knew her Sniffer was turned off.
"He's getting the ‘disciples’ set up for a crash course in that—uh—you know, that ... that theory of his,” said Michael. “Becky's been out to the lodge a lot, talking to Victor for hours at a time about his concept of Human Three Consciousness. I have to admit it ... it bothers me that she's been talking about letting Venice go out there with her. I'm ... sort of concerned about that."
As well you might be, thought Lilly. “You still ... love Becky?” she asked. No sense whatsoever in avoiding that one.
Michael took a sip of wine, and wondered if he should have smoked that Mini-Jay in the limousine. “Yes,” he said, with as little enthusiasm as such a true confession had ever generated. “We were still just teenagers ... when we got married, Lilly. It was just a few weeks after the Last Holocaust. Maybe we ... did it because of the Revolution ... I don't know. Anyway, that was the very day my dad was assassinated, right on the church steps, and by a damned preacher, of all things—I'm sure you know the story. So ... Becky and I started off on a rough footing, and...” Michael took another sip of his wine, mostly for the time it bought him. “We were very happy for several years, as happy as one could be, given the circumstances, but ... well, I think Becky and I make much better friends than we do lovers, or spouses. We've ... grown apart. I know this sounds all too familiar, like it's a line or something, but..."
Lilly looked into his lovely blue eyes. She knew from classified WDA Netfiles that Becky was pregnant at the time of their marriage—pregnant with Randy. She knew that Michael's mother, Doreen, had blown a gasket on that issue, and had used her money and power to get Randy's birthday officially registered as May 17, 2015 instead of November 28, 2014. And now, Lilly sensed that Michael wanted to say more about that period of his life; about how he and Becky were really too young to get married; about their four years at the University of Toronto together, with the baby; about the killer question of whether Becky had perhaps gotten knocked up “accidentally-on-purpose” ... and about the agony that their wedding night must have been. But there were other important matters that had to be pushed out of the way first.
I suppose it might as well be me that starts off, Lilly thought. “I have a confession to make,” she said calmly after wiping her mouth with a stiff linen serviette. “My—uh—handler suggested that I get close to you, Michael. When we first met, I was ... well, I was sort of flirting with you, on purpose ... because of his suggestion. I think you have to know that, and I hope you realize that I'm way past that now, that my feelings are—"
The waiter came in, and served the entrée—the tenderest prime rib east of Calgary. He topped up the wine glasses and left.
"I assumed as much,” said Michael, “but I'm glad you fessed up. So I should tell you that I ... well, I had some practical reasons for asking you out—the World Identity Bank contract, mostly. I want a piece of that, of course, but I'm ... past that too ... I think ... as far as my motivation goes ... I mean for asking you out."
Lilly was struck by his honesty, by his vulnerability and self-doubt, and by that drop-dead gorgeous face of his. Her body was telling her to get sexy, now ... or her “loins,” as D.H. Lawrence always called it. But she was still ill at ease in some indefinable way, and there was no hurry.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, they quickly moved on to other things, safer things, ordinary things, n
ormal things. When Lilly raised the subject of politics—Québec politics, Canadian politics—Michael seemed to shift gears internally, seemed to feel a bit uncomfortable.
"Something I said?” she asked.
"Can you keep a secret?” asked Michael.
Lilly smiled. She was highly trained as a keeper of secrets, as Michael knew well. “You mean will I keep a secret?” she said. “Of course I will, as long as you're not going to tell me you're a part-time bank robber."
Michael smiled. “I've been asked to take over the leadership of the Liberal Party of Canada,” he said.
Pope-on-a-rope! thought Lilly. He's a shoo-in. And the Liberals are in power ... and there's an election coming soon, possibly as early as this fall. I'm having dinner with the next prime minister of Canada! “That's wonderful!” she said. “But ... my understanding was that you've never been particularly political, in the partisan sense."
"Well, I'm an outsider in two ways,” said Michael. “I'm a Québécois—I've got dual citizenship, of course—Québec and Canada. And I'm an outsider in that I've stayed out of partisan politics in the past. But being an outsider seems to be an asset with the voters these days. I haven't decided what I'll do yet, but..."
"Let me guess,” said Lilly into the empty space Michael had left hanging. “Making money isn't much of a challenge any more; they've guaranteed you a convention victory for the leadership; the pressure to run is quite unbearable; you know that you can win the election, barring any disasters; the fact that you're a Québécois isn't a problem; there's a lot you can do for the country; and the only potential problem is that Becky's a budding Human Three, but Canadian voters won't mind that very much, and—"
"You some kind of mind reader?” asked Michael, with his eyebrows at full mast. “Or ... you knew about this? Or ... the WDA knew? Or ... they suspected?"