by Jim Stark
"I'm the only kid you ever met since before I was born,” she noted.
"So ... then you're also my least favorite kid,” chuckled Victor.
Venice smiled, and then she got serious and scratched her head. “Nothing ... here,” she tried.
Becky looked at her twelve-year-old daughter curiously. What the hell did she mean by that? she wondered. Oh, she realized. She means she's not afraid of anything here, so the fear is—
"Zilla?” said Victor. He'd been through that with Becky before, and he knew all kids liked that expression—he knew some things about kids from the Net, of course. Zilla was short for Godzilla, meaning instinct, or the person when he or she was acting primarily on instinct; most especially when the person shouldn't be acting on instinct. “When it's Zilla that responds,” he explained to Venice, “for me, it's not a whole lot different from talking to a machine, because the instinct is on auto-pilot. The person that you defined yourself to be by way of conscious decision,” he emphasized, “is not even involved, or isn't hardly even involved."
"Yeah,” admitted Venice. “I still get all surprised when I feel stuff that's like ... you know ... totally stupid."
"So do I,” said Becky. “It's weird being Human Three, or in transition, anyway. Does it ever stop feeling weird, Victor?"
"Fucked if I know,” he said. “Oops—sorry,” he added when he realized he had sworn in front of a child.
"No harm done,” said Becky. She waved it off, although she wondered privately if Victor's judgment had suffered irreparable damage from nearly two decades of silence. She wanted to credit his words to the pain medication he was taking, but that wasn't it. Sometimes ... like now ... his judgment just plain sucks.
"Beep,” said Victor, and it stung him that he had to pretend that he had a LieDeck. I invented the fucking thing, and I can't even use one!
"What? Me?” asked Becky.
"Yeah,” said Victor. “No harm done to Venice—that's true—but I did harm both of your perceptions of me. I showed poor judgment, and it wasn't the pills I'm on, either. I think we all have to acknowledge that my social skills are ... sort of the pits."
"So ... does it?” asked Venice.
"Does ... what?” asked Victor.
"Does it ever stop feeling weird to be Human Three, or in transition?"
"I think—” started Victor. Hmm, he thought, maybe the pills are getting in the way. “I think,” he started again, “that for certain individuals—Julia, for instance—it never does feel weird. But for most people, including me, I think Human Three Consciousness will always feel weird—not every minute of every day, of course, but ... lots of times every day.
"Shrinks and gurus used to tell people to ‘go with their feelings,’ because whatever you do feel always feels right, right? Well of course that's perfectly ridiculous advice ... I mean, if you feel like kicking or insulting somebody, or killing them, then what do you do? Even becoming an adult Human Two involves acquiring certain inner controls ... an ability to refuse to yield to your own feelings. No, I think it will always feel weird when Zilla doesn't win every battle. He's designed to win every battle, of course, so it's only natural that he profoundly hates losing, and it's perfectly predictable that he beats you up, emotionally, whenever he loses, especially when you make him lose, with your mind.
"It took thousands of generations before Human Ones started not feeling weird about becoming or being Human Two, for Pete's sake, so perhaps it'll be hundreds of years or dozens of generations before we get the hang of really being Human Three. What do you think, Venice?"
Venice felt scared again, but this time she squashed the feeling before it showed, and before she got dragged into a long discourse about it. “Well,” she drawled, “I always fall back on the ‘two bosses’ thing. That's the best way of looking at it, at least for me."
Victor's legs hurt ... and come to think of it, so does the rest of me, he realized. He stood, walked carefully over to the stuffed chair that matched the sofa, and eased himself into it. Only teenage boys flaunt their agility by sitting backwards like I was doing there, he thought. Zilla made me do it. “So ... tell me about that ‘two-bosses’ dialectic,” he said to Venice as his body relaxed.
Venice had no clue what a “dialectic” was, but she figured that didn't matter anyway. It's probably one of those fancy words adults use because they don't want to say “thing” or “stuff,” lest they look vocabularily retarded. “Okay,” she said, flipping her eyelids up and shifting forward in preparation. “It's like we're animals, right? And we got these two bosses inside of us, Zilla and Albert, and when—"
"Albert?” asked Becky.
"As in Einstein,” said Venice. “That's ... how a lot of kids in transition call it these days—the wetware, the brain, right?"
"Gotcha,” said her mother. “Or I guess I could use ‘Alberta,’ if I didn't want to refer to my rationality as a male thing."
"Good idea,” said Victor.
"So,” continued Venice, “like Zilla says what to do—like eat—and then Albert's job is to figure out how to do it, right? Like if I think of myself as a corporation, when I was a baby or when I'm like being a total Human One, Zilla is like the president, and Albert is like the vice-president, eh?” Or Zilla is the dictator, she thought but didn't verbalize, and Albert is the sycophant. She had just recently learned that word, sycophant, and she loved it. In her dictionary it meant a “servile flatterer or toady,” but “an ass-kisser” was her own private definition. It disturbed her that reason could be brought so low, that it could be so grossly undervalued by Zilla and his ilk.
"Uh-huh,” said Victor, ignoring the all-too-frequent occurrences of the word “like,” while still admiring the message, or rather her grasp of the reality.
"Then—I'm not too sure I got this next part right,” said Venice. Against her wishes, her face betrayed an inner struggle that wasn't helping.
"Oh, well then, you should—uh—get scared and don't say nothing,” said Victor, enjoying the indulgence of a double negative.
Becky frowned at his sarcasm, but Venice laughed. “Thanks,” said the twelve-year-old. “I needed that.” She couldn't stop giggling in spite of herself.
"We all do sometimes,” said Victor, smiling.
"I ... don't,” said Becky, pausing only long enough to confirm that she felt that way.
"Do so,” said Victor.
"Do not,” insisted Becky, brushing her words with a dusting of doubt.
"Do so."
"Do not."
"Do so."
"Do not."
Victor wanted to holler “piss off,” just to prove his point, but he declined. If people didn't want to “get it,” no amount of reasoning or provocation or even torture could make them get it. Ironically, Albert couldn't win unless Zilla desired it, or at least allowed it to happen. He stared at Becky, waiting for her to make a decision ... her latest decision in a very long string of decisions to be Human Three. It's a lot like quitting smoking for her, he considered. Keep deciding the same damn thing, over and over, and sooner or later it will stick ... maybe. He decided to wait it out.
"Do so,” she admitted sheepishly.
Time was a'wasting, and Victor had little left of that particular commodity. “Okay, go ahead, Venice,” he asked.
"So, like,” she started, “so for a Human Two, Zilla and Albert are like co-presidents, eh? Like they can both decide what I can say or do.” She was going to go on to include a little example, about how her mom's Zilla was saying “do not” until her Alberta said “do so,” but she decided against. It was too easy to lose track when you got bogged down in examples. “So, most of the time they get along, and when they don't, they can fight, and Zilla can win sometimes when he shouldn't, and that's like a Human Two, right? And the danger is that Zilla can win and we can go like all the way back to being Human One, eh? So it's..."
"So if that happens,” interrupted Victor, “that regression to Human One, it's...?"
&n
bsp; "Well it's ... it's sort of relative,” said Becky. “Isn't it?"
"How so?” asked Victor.
"Well,” continued Becky, “if a regression results in you being insulting to somebody, then I'd say you were ‘acting like a jerk’ or some such thing. But if the regression results in an assault, for instance, or a murder, then I would say—using moral terminology—that you were bad ... or evil ... or, in terms of Human Two psychology, I would say you were experiencing ... what do they call that?"
"Temporary insanity,” said Victor.
"Yeah,” said Becky, “and if—"
"Or heroism,” inserted Victor.
"Heroism!?” asked Venice.
"Well,” said Victor, “if you're a normal person and you kill somebody just because it pleased you to do so or because they pissed you off, then you're either bad or temporarily insane, but if you kill someone to stop them from killing me, then you're a hero, at least you are to me. There's times and situations when people should regress, when it's helpful or efficient or okay to be a paranoid, aggressive, remorseless Human One."
"Like?” asked Venice.
"Like a professional boxer,” tried Becky, “as long as you stay within the rules ... I mean you can't go around biting somebody's ear off or—"
"True enough,” said Victor. “Same thing for a soldier or policeman, I guess, at least when a dangerous situation calls for that. So ... what about Human Three, Venice?"
"Pretty simple,” said the girl. “Albert already got one promotion, from vice-president to co-president—like when I became Human Two, meaning when I graduated from being a baby and became a proto-adult, eh?—and now Albert's got to become the president for life—like for me to be a Human Three, I mean—and Zilla has got to accept that he got a demotion, that he's just my vice-president from now on ... unless I get into one of those situations where ... like you said about the police or soldiers and all that, I mean. They both know how to be the boss, but if I'm a full-blooded Human Three, then Zilla never gets to run the show unless Albert says it's okay, right? And even in the middle of one of those rare situations, Albert can step in at any time and take control of a situation ... any time at all ... even if Zilla is having a ball, right?"
"Especially when Zilla's enjoying himself,” said Victor. “Not that you should never let Zilla run amok, mind you ... like you and your mom did with the snowballs outside ... it's just that Albert always has to keep an eye on things, like in that book Catcher in the Rye. Whenever there's the slightest doubt, Albert has to step in and take control, right?"
"Right,” said Venice. “I read that book, by the way, and I—"
"And ... lying?” Victor cut in.
"Albert's in charge of language, and he ... can't lie ... all ... on his own,” said Becky. “Albert can only lie if Zilla makes him, and Zilla can't make him if Albert refuses to let him.” She wished she had used “Alberta” rather than “Albert” in her response, but ... the pronoun situation got dicey ... him or her ... and besides, it actually doesn't matter much, or shouldn't, to a Human Three.
"There you go!” said Victor with a clap of his hands. “It's really very simple. We're designed to be a Human One. Then as individuals we evolved into a Human Two—as a normal part of the growing up process—with the ever-present danger of regression back to Human One. Now we have the option of choosing to be a Human Three. And if we make that choice as a species, humanity and planet Earth will survive. If we don't, well, I don't think we will survive. Time will tell, but..."
The base of his neck had accelerated from the relative comfort of the past half hour to a boiling ache, and he tried hard not to let it show. He wanted to get into a discussion of his now-famous I+T=C equation—instinct plus technology equals chaos—but he wasn't very sure Venice would get it, and he wasn't so sure that he could get through it without passing out or screaming from the pain. Becky knows all that stuff, he said to himself as he took a deep breath. I already discussed it with her—she'll have to take it from here.
Venice had a hundred other things on her mind, but it seemed clear that Victor was tiring. “My Zilla really wants to stay and talk some more,” she said, “but my Albert tells me that maybe you're tired and need to rest."
"You should always use ‘Alberta’ rather than ‘Albert,'” said Becky to her daughter with her kindest mom-boss voice. “I like that idea, Venice, and it just seems—"
"My Albert—or my Alberta—says I should rest,” said Victor, “but my Zilla is having lots of fun, and since I'm going to die pretty soon anyway, I think I'll let my Zilla win ... this one ... for a while longer, anyway. So, what do you think of this new Lilly Petrosian woman?” he asked them both. “She's a pretty interesting person, eh? I'd really like to see her enter transition. In fact, I'll bet she'd make a dandy Human Three."
Chapter 38
THE GOOSE
Wednesday, March 9, 2033—7:30 p.m.
Lilly and Michael had two nervous conversations over the Net the day after their first date, eighteen delightful days ago. They both found themselves fumbling the simplest emotional transactions because neither could believe that the hand they had apparently been dealt was real, or could last. When they faltered, they laughed, and that fixed things up nicely—closed the door behind and opened the next portal—and the band played on. They faced each other three times the day following, and thereafter it seemed to happen whenever one spirit or the other moved.
Sometimes they faced each other just to smile or to put their hands onto the glass—"like a prisoner with a visitor,” Michael once observed, without venturing as to who was which. They went on real dates the following two Saturday nights, dining in public now, at posh Ottawa hotspots that catered to Normal men with big money and the women they wanted to impress ... or vice versa. They danced with no precautions against the glances of gossips. And they talked about many things—Russian literature, the Pope's newfound poverty, the alienating effects of Netlife and the concomitant dilution of traditional social skills. They spoke of their families, and enjoyed each other's favorite childhood stories. Sometimes, they chatted about things as inconsequential as their favorite foods or the pro golf tour, but never about anything as irrelevant as the latest Netshows—what used to be called “television” or “TV.” The issue was never the issue when they talked anyway. The process was all that mattered, the simple act of being together, virtually or on the warm—the mutual rescue from their respective solitudes.
Still, no matter how much they tried to avoid the subject, in cyberspace or on a date, politics kept arriving at the doors of their minds, sneaking in, bullying its way in, elbows flying. Lilly knew little of Canada's internal dynamics, or of Québec's, but she knew a lot about power, including the perils of power. Nowhere in her reading of human history had she come across a “great divide” such as existed now between the WDA and the masses, not in the days of omnipotent monarchs and emperors, not even in the squalor-opulence mismatches of what used to be called Third World countries ... not even within the slave societies of antiquity. And never the twain shall meet, she often mused.
Michael was thinking of joining that hazardous in-between league, the quixotic and illusory cricket pitch occupied by the governments of nations. Below were the people, begging for more and better everything, and above was the WDA, the androgynous single parent who occasionally gambled away the milk money and drank the rent. Which is not to say that there's any other way to keep humans from depravity, Lilly always repeated in her mind. Somebody has to do it. She really wanted Michael to throw his hat in, but she wasn't altogether sure why she felt that way.
"I'm not a very public person,” he said every time she asked about his deliberations.
"Yet,” Lilly had usually responded.
Michael was leaning strongly against accepting the leadership of the Liberal Party of Canada, but time was running out. Prime Minister Templeton had already announced his impending retirement—for “health reasons"—and nomination papers had to be submitte
d by would-be successors before the end of March, about three weeks hence.
The only minor snafu was that Michael was un Québécois—a Québecer. Of course he had dual citizenship, and two out of the last five Canadian PMs had been from la belle province, (or “le bel état,” as it was now called by the few who still spoke only French). The problem was that some Canadians were still bitter about the souverainiste victory that happened just after the Revolution, eighteen years ago—a pyrrhic victory, as English had become the universal language in spite of the successful efforts of the “separatists” to form their own country to preserve the French language. Political reality in the former nation of Canada (and the now-segmented version of the country) was a matter of great disinterest to most people, a matter of passion to only a few. Michael just happened to be one of the latter. He cared about Québec, and he cared about the world's loss of so many languages and cultures, and he cared about Canada, even if he was a proud Québécois (he had been born back in the days when Québec was a Canadian province, of course). So to him, the political decision he faced was about service, not ego.
Lilly had warmed up to the idea of leaving her job, and was secretly delighted at the prospect of becoming the consort—and perhaps even the wife—of Canada's next prime minister. She was no longer able to avoid the “L” word, and although she and Michael were still deferring a physical consummation of their affair, their reasons were practical, not moral, and certainly not social. For them to take that step, however, everything had to be “thoroughly right,” they had agreed.
Lilly's WDA duties had become almost routine, and Control seemed to be content to let her “plug away” at her own speed. The weather had finally broken. The new snow was superbly wet and sticky, and that had led to a massive snowball fight in the clan's forest, out beyond Spoke North—a silliness episode that Lilly had been asked to join ... by Lars. She had declined, but it was a sight she couldn't help herself from watching out the back window of her apartment, with binoculars, and couldn't help snickering at. These people, whatever their shortcomings, sure know how to have big fun.