by Jim Stark
But, whatever feelings had grown between herself and Michael, she was still a WDA agent, and therefore her day was not over. She was forgetful of the fact that she'd smoked a “reefer” and drunk half a bottle of wine, and that these minor pleasures might affect her professional performance. Duty was duty, and the flashing light told her there were some messages on her MIU. She knew she should review them, if only to make sure there was nothing in there that wouldn't wait until morning. She changed into her housecoat, went into the bathroom, washed the make-up from her face, walked to her Netstation, slapped in her bioID and PIN and booted the thing up.
Julia had called, asking her for a full report on the dinner party. Not very likely.
Davie Brown, the clan's volunteer snitch, had left her a message about how the “gang of twelve” had met with Helliwell in the lunchroom at the Pot-house. Interesting, thought Lilly. There's no MIU out there. I wonder how they planned that without my finding out? And ... I thought it was a gang of eleven.
There was a short archived face from Ed, her ex ... just to say hi and see how things were going for her up in Québec. Just freakin’ peachy, she replied in her mind, without a molecule of insincerity.
As she sifted through the rest of her N-mail, a new incoming face was being archived. She decided to observe, without engaging. It was Michael. He was using his Sniffer from the back of the limousine, saying goodnight one last time ... and giving her his personal Netsite address! “Call me any time at all,” he said. “And soon,” he added. You can count on that, Mr. Whiteside, she thought.
Lilly accessed InfoBank, downloaded the last twenty-four hours of her digitized spying on Annette Blais, then scanned for “events.” There were several recent Netcalls to and from Annette's MIU, having to do with the allegedly “historic” meeting with Victor. From the snippets Lilly reviewed, it was clear the meeting had gone extremely well. The big surprise for her was not that Victor had come up with a plan to simulate LieDeck-verification, but the news that it was Victor, and not Steve Sutherland, who had originally conceived of the novel lifestyle design that had come to be known throughout the world as Evolution! No wonder Sutherland insisted on calling the first clan Victor-E, Lilly said to herself. I always wondered about that.
And then there were several references to an undefined “phase 2” for Evolution. Lilly watched closely as this was bandied about by Annette and several of her Netlink partners. I'll look into that tomorrow, Lilly said to herself, although they don't seem to know what it's all about themselves, which is ... strange.
She skipped forward to Annette's last interface. It was a short Netcall from her to “the Lars,” as he was apparently called by the legions of women who admired him and wanted him, carnally, at least once. Annette was asking him to drop by for “a while."
"Ewwww,” said Lilly as she dumped Annette. That conjures up images I just do not need in my head, she thought. She returned to InfoBank, and this time she downloaded the last twenty-four hours of Victor's MIU activity. I wonder if our new World Identity Bank is actually intended for eavesdropping? she asked herself as billions of ones and zeros poured into her hard drive from InfoBank. She was still unconsciously reviewing the details of her evening with Michael. The Happy Hookah group seemed to assume as much, and they're probably right ... but they also assumed the WDA tried to kill Lester Connolly! She reminded herself. No way that's true, she thought, none too confidently.
When she scanned Victor's day, she found him staring at the Netnews for practically two hours during the afternoon, with that weird glazed-over look in his eyes, almost as if he were hypnotized. He's probably stoned, she thought. Or nuts! Or both!
She zapped forward to the point where Victor arrived back at the lodge from his short outing to the Pot-house. She watched as he marched straight to his MIU, without even losing the shirt and tie. She then fast-forwarded bit by bit as he spent more than an hour, dressed now in his caftan, constructing the types-of-snow/types-of-lies missive for the Victor-Eens. I'll watch all of that tomorrow, she said to herself as she skipped forward again, and ... what's this? Lilly wondered. Victor was smiling, and he was talking, going on about his years of silence. Who the hell's he talking to? A few seconds later, Victor turned around and started to laugh, realizing he had been talking to someone who wasn't even there yet. “Well, come on in!” he shouted. “I don't bite!"
Lilly saw Julia's giggly face peer around the doorjamb, holding her shoes in her hand. I don't believe it! Lilly thought. Jeeeeze!
"Maybe I like biting,” said Julia as she skipped into the room and kicked the door closed with the bottom of her bare foot.
Lilly was more fatigued than upset. Ever since she had started off as a WDA agent, the one thing that had grated on her was the peek-a-boo view she got of other people's sex lives. It really was important for WDA agents to have these insights—she knew that from the Academy—but ... well, she wasn't raised like that. And while she supposed that all this free-range sex would go on whether or not she was aware of it, when it came to people she actually knew, she did not want to know who was doing what to whom. Julia and Victor!? she said to herself. Good God, Michael will go ballistic!
She decided to postpone her review of their “communion"—it would surely wait until tomorrow morning. As she was about to close down her MIU, a new face registered—the face of Control. He's ... been watching me do my homework, she realized, waiting until I was finished.
"Hello, Ms. Petrosian,” he said. “How was your date?"
"None of your business,” said Lilly—not because it wasn't, but because she knew she'd need to report her reaction to the question to Michael. She winked, and Control took her meaning.
"What's this ‘phase two’ concept Victor was spouting at the Pot-house?” he asked.
S.O.P., thought Lilly. Standard operating procedure. Start with the easy items. “No idea,” she said. “It seems that everybody here assumes that the WDA is eavesdropping on them through their MIUs, so the gang had their meeting in a room where there was none. And Victor won't elaborate on what this ‘phase two’ business is all about anyway, or at least not until the clan goes forty days without a single lie being told. I'll keep an eye out and my ear to the ground on that."
"You—uh—sort of skipped forward past some pretty important stuff when you were checking Annette's archived data,” he said. “No big deal—I mean you'd find it tomorrow anyway."
"Like ... what?” asked Lilly, apprehensively.
"Victor apparently gave the clan's charity, Foundation-E, some money to finance a stack of digicorders for their new LieDeck-simulation program—that simLV thing, they call it—and to finance that phase two thing that he alluded to,” said Control.
"Really,” said Lilly. She was intrigued to see that Control was ahead of her on this, and was watching her progress with such a personal interest. It also bothered her to be chastised, no matter how politely. “How much?” she asked.
"A million bucks,” said Control, with no emotion on his face.
"A mil—” started Lilly.
"And he's giving them half of his fortune eventually ... presumably when he dies ... another hundred million plus,” he continued.
"Jesus H. Christ!” said Lilly. “I'd ... have caught it tomorrow, Chief ... I was ... it's just that I've been out all evening, and—"
"Don't fret it,” he interrupted. “You worry too much, Ms. Petrosian. Let's get back to business here. Can they simulate LieDeck-verification, like Victor said?"
"Uh—probably,” said Lilly, who was still shaken from having missed an important piece of information, even if only temporarily. “It will be time-consuming, but the whole Victor-E clan is already in transition to Human Three Consciousness—some of them are already Human Three, apparently—so I expect they won't have many situations to cope with. They—uh—don't lie much any more anyway, I understand. I'll—"
"I have to ask you one question about Michael,” said Control.
"Yes sir,” she said
. Her fear levels leapt again.
"Did he mention anything about unbanning the LieDeck?"
Whew, thought Lilly, he doesn't know about the political thing. “He's against it,” she said calmly. “He doesn't want to risk a return to chaos, even though an unbanning of the LieDeck would make a mountain of money for Whiteside Tech. And if production of the LieDeck is spread around to a large number of companies, Whiteside Tech still owns the patent on the device, so they'd still get royalties on every LieDeck any company makes, and—"
"That's ... verified?” he asked. “That he's against unbanning?"
"I—uh—left my LieDeck on, set on beeper mode, while we talked in the limousine. It was necessary for the—uh—trust levels, so ... yeah, it's verified."
"Interesting,” said Control. Actually, he was furious. If her Sniffer was on at the time, then we already knew about Michael's position on unbanning the LieDeck several hours ago, and I wasn't told! Communications snafus at my level are unacceptable. Someone's head will roll. “I know it's very late, but have you got a few minutes for a couple more questions? I imagine you're pretty—"
"No problem, sir,” she said.
"Annette?"
"She's clean. She doesn't like me, but we—"
"Julia?"
"Uh ... she's over at the lodge with Victor as of a few minutes ago. I've got a feeling she's—"
"Mrs. Whiteside?” said Control. “Senior—Michael's mother, Doreen."
"I didn't meet her. She's not really ... in the loop, I don't think. We—uh—don't have her on total archive, but we probably should."
"Rebecca, Michael's wife?"
Lilly hesitated. This one was a problem. “We need to place her under total archive, sir. She's deep in transition to Human Three. She even gave her blessing for Michael to date me! I—uh—I believe she's got other men in her life—I have no idea who they are, but you probably do. Did you know she was into this Human Three stuff?"
"And ... Randy?” said Control, ignoring her question.
"I reported on his situation yesterday. Nothing new."
"And ... Michael,” said Control ... less as a question than a statement, or an order. “How did it go?"
"I'll ... answer in full if you insist,” said Lilly, “but doing so could limit my future effectiveness. It's your call."
Control stared into his screen at the image of Lilly Petrosian as she looked back at him, expressionless. She's clever, this one, he thought. “I'll wait,” he said. “Good luck. Net, down, now."
Lilly kept her face in neutral, closed down her MIU, and went into the bathroom to have a shower. It was normally part of her getting-up ritual, but somehow the chat with Control made her feel itchy ... and cold ... and scared. Why did he ask the question about Michael's view on unbanning? she wondered as she took off her housecoat and slippers. They must have thought Michael was supporting the unbanning committees for personal profit, or that he approved of Randy's support for USLUC ... or maybe that Michael was even financing Randy's involvement!
She washed and rinsed her hair, then she took the soap to her body—a new bar with the remnants of the previous bar pressed on, exactly as the maid had “advised.” After lathering and rinsing her face, she started on her arms. Then she reached up, pointed the showerhead in a more vertical direction, and stepped to the other end of the tub, out of the hot spray. The soap felt so very sensual tonight, and she imagined her slippery hands were Michael's hands as they caressed her underarms and her breasts. Her eyes closed when she moved on to her stomach, her crotch, her ... No, she said just as her finger was about to slip through to her clitoris. I don't know why not, but ... no.
She wondered whether Michael would share her restraint, or if he was in the shower right now, joyfully pumping his penis and thinking of what might have been, thinking of what might happen next time. Or making love to Becky! came the sudden, awful thought. I hope not. Why do I hope not? Would Becky be hoping her husband wouldn't spend the night with me? Is she spending the night with one of her other ... what did she call them ... her “friends"? How the hell do people like Lars and Annette avoid all these muddled-up feelings? Is sex the great common denominator between and among the classes? Is Julia going to have sex with Victor? What would her taxi-driver friend Alex think of that? What if I...
Her trained mind had a way of running long lists of questions, and it usually left the one that mattered most for last. What if I ... quit my job? she wondered.
Lilly reversed her earlier resolve, and her finger slid wetly between her labia. Her orgasm was instantaneous and intense, and the word “Michael” kept shaping on her lips as her knees turned to gum.
Chapter 36
CAN WE TALK?
Sunday, March 6, 2033—2:05 p.m.
Venice Whiteside sat in her playroom—she called it her office now, at least in the quiet of her thoughts—staring at her MIU with the sound turned off. For the last half hour, she had been auditing—watching and listening, but not participating in—an adult Happy Hookah chatroom. The chatters were discussing the WDA; more specifically, its rarely-used power to inflict the death penalty and its reserved right to use nuclear weapons if chaos was threatening to overwhelm society, and nothing else seemed to be working to stop it. Assholes, Venice thought ... about the WDA, not the talkers in the chatroom. So she'd turned off the sound.
Not all Happy Hookah chatrooms were populated by Evolutionaries, but this one was—otherwise Venice wouldn't have selected it. When she wanted to participate, she'd log onto a “junior” Evolutionary chatroom, where no THC was allowed. Today, however, she wasn't up to being a player. She needed the freedom to quit whenever she wanted.
While she didn't understand all the words and didn't appreciate the coarse language that people sometimes used in adult chatrooms, she felt closer to these people than she did to most of those she knew on the warm—except her family, of course. It wasn't that virtual relationships had the depth or the rich texture of her schoolmates or her family or her adult acquaintances; they didn't, but they had presence, significance, and relevance. Venice was twelve, and she enjoyed her warm encounters as much as she needed them, even with the burdens of accommodation and the pressures of her personal history with “real” people—the “baggage.” But the untouchable temporaries on her screen connected with each other, and tangentially with her, in a way that was equally human, even if all the rules of that connection were different. Whatever the rap on cyberlife, Venice knew that she was one of “them,” a budding and future Human Three, just as it had dawned on her at the age of four that her certain destiny was to be a fully grown woman, with her own house, her own kids, even with her own husband, as handsome and perfect as her dad was ... or used to be.
The only thing she didn't particularly like about these adult Happy Hookah chatters was the fact that they smoked marijuana. At times they would do their emotion wrestling thing to an extent that just wasn't warranted by the words that had triggered the outbreak in the first place. Of course sometimes Venice suspected that she just didn't get it because she was a kid, but most of the time she knew exactly what they were cracking up about. And she'd laugh herself, but then as good things always do, it would end for her ... while the people on her screen were still at it, cackling full tilt! It wasn't that she lacked a sense of humor; just that “dopies” took emotion wrestling to ridiculous lengths. She had often switched chatrooms immediately after saying the words: “It wasn't that funny!"
Venice had tried grass once—just a couple of puffs—and all it did was make her choke and cough. She'd told her folks about it over supper, which got her grounded for a month and banned from accessing the Net for two months. For some reason, grass was legal only on your sixteenth birthday and thereafter. She didn't get the reason, but she had conceded even to herself that there was one, and that it was probably a good one, and that when she had her own kids, she would apply that rule even if the law had changed in the meantime.
At the moment, however, she was
suffering from Netburn. Cyberlife was real life, but then again ... it wasn't, really ... and it often got in the way of “on-the-warm” stuff. Life is what happens elsewhere while you're busy on the Net, she remembered hearing from one of her teachers, repeatedly (a few of her classmates were problematic cyberjunkies). It was a guilt trip then, but like the law on marijuana use, not without a certain wisdom. Venice had a sense of that wisdom right now, as she stared at the silent screen full of passionate exhortations, wisecracks, and grinning faces. She wasn't in the kind of sparkly physical condition that typified children of her age in generations past, and she led a life somewhat separate from her parents, even living in the same house. She just didn't know what it was like to have nothing to do, and with the Net, there were an infinite number of things to do at any time of the day. Mom has her “friends,” Dad has his business ... and Lilly, now ... and I have my MIU, she thought, and felt. She knew that she was just being bleak, with little justification, but since she felt guilty and bummed, she decided to survey her personal landscape and see what she found.
She crossed her arms and closed her young eyes. Where could I be right now instead of here? she wondered. She had eavesdropped on a chatroom last week where a twelve-year-old boy was telling story after story about the fun times he had as a TA—that meant “teaching assistant,” apparently—at a school, helping to “grow” the children in pre-K to grade four. It was one of those “3-schools"—Venice forgot the name—but it was based on the premise that everyone ought to be a Human Three, and school was as good a place as any to learn how and why and all that stuff. That very day, Venice had put her name in for a try-out as a “TA” at the 3-school up in Shawville, the Victor-E “3” Primary School, and she was waiting to hear back from a Monsieur Bellehumeur, the principal. That was a good step, but not one she could hurry any faster than other people were willing or able to move. There has to be other inner stuff I can get my head into, she thought. Slowly, she interlocked her fingers behind her neck, and let her brain ... wander.