by Jim Stark
Victor had stopped using his MIU to interface with Annette, and was now using live runners instead—Julia mostly. He was profoundly suspicious of the WDA, and he wanted to keep his activities private. He was entitled to his privacy, of course. His activities were quite legal, and he had passed his second LV session, this time over the Net, and this time he had only a skeletal chat with Lilly.
The only thing available from InfoBank on Victor were the images of him staring, with what seemed at times a mad intensity, at the Netnews, on a daily basis. Lilly had found herself taking an increasing interest in this strange behavior. She didn't know if her own boredom was at the bottom of it, but she spent hours watching Victor watching the Netnews, searching his eyes and his body language for clues to what he was feeling or thinking. She had assembled a montage of archived Netbites of Victor doing this, and she was observing his manner, especially at the beginning and the end of these sessions. He seemed to physically transform at both ends. He was bored, hunched and mute before he began and after he logged off, but he seemed intense and very focused as he watched the world turn. Lilly had gone deep into InfoBank and dredged up records from three, five, even ten years earlier, for comparison, but the only difference between Victor's current Netnews sessions and the old ones was that he looked younger and healthier back then. She had tried to figure out what triggered his ending of these Netnews-watching sessions by listing and comparing the last stories he watched on different days. But they varied normally, and this line of inquiry brought no useful insights. That guy's an enigma inside a mystery wrapped in a conundrum, thought Lilly ... or something like that. She wasn't sure who had coined that phrase originally, but she thought it was Winston Churchill, and he was speaking about Russia, if memory served.
Annette had become rather busy trying to reorganize the “fuss groups,” the regular mediation system maintained by every Evolutionary clan, to handle the additional role of simulated LieDeck-verification, or “simLV,” as Victor dubbed it. The governing council eventually gave up and let the established fuss groups off the hook by assigning the new simLV responsibilities to the founding members, “the gang.” It was better for the clan that way, but it didn't make Annette any easier to pin down, because she chaired both the official council and the unofficial gang. It seemed to Lilly that her basic relationship with Annette now resembled the uneasy truce she'd reached with Big Wus.
Julia had been spending most of her time with Victor, out at the lodge, returning to the clan from time to time for a rest or for a “date” with Alex, her taxi-driver pal. She was still a “technical virgin,” and while that didn't bother Victor, it was starting to irritate her pal Alex. Julia was tingling with both of them—enjoying Netsex and the occasional romp on the warm—but she was inexplicably unwilling to “go all the way,” as she put it, with either of them (or with any of the “strays” she occasionally lassoed, for that matter).
Sex had lost its traditional mystique in the first decades of the new century, and while it hadn't been reduced to a mere bodily function, the loss of most medical and theological terrors had taken an expected toll ... created “a paradigm shift in sexual attitudes,” as the academicians phrased it. Lilly couldn't relate to this guilt-free spreading around of sexual favors, but it seemed to work fine for Julia and most of her fellow Evolutionaries, most of the time. At least Michael stopped having sex with Becky, Lilly thought. I couldn't handle that.
Today was Wednesday, and Michael's only predictable Netcall came at exactly 7:30 p.m., as always. Lilly smiled at the list she'd drawn up of all the reasons she had to love this man, and chuckled out loud to recall that “punctuality” had made it onto the list, near the top! “Hi guy,” she said at her MIU screen. She was surprised to see that he was in the limo, and using his Sniffer—the image on her screen was in black and white, and jerky. He had always handled the after-work Netcall from the estate before, in between kissing Becky and Venice and jumping in the shower. “So, how was your day?” Lilly asked.
"I just passed the Quyon turn-off,” he said, holding his Sniffer close to his face and giving Lilly a close-up of the mischief in his eyes—they would have been blue, if he'd been using an MIU, but they were still vital in shades of gray. “How long does it take you to pack?"
"Say what?"
"Pack."
"For ... what?"
"A few days ... away ... alone ... with each other."
"Where?"
"Trust me. I want to surprise you."
"I do trust you, but I need to know where we're going so I can—"
"There won't be any snow."
"Let's say fifteen minutes."
"You can take a week off without a problem?"
"Uh—yeah."
"See you in ten minutes then. Net, down, now."
"I said fifteen!” she snapped playfully at the blank screen.
Lilly flew into action, stuffing clothes into a suitcase without her usual meticulous care. No snow! she thought. Alone ... together ... yum yum! It occurred to her that these emotional reactions were a lot like Julia's had been during the hockey tournament ... but so what? Hardly the Stockholm Syndrome, where the kidnapee starts identifying with the abductors. Like they said at the Academy, “everybody likes to tingle."
Ten minutes later, Lilly got into the back of the limousine in front of the E-tery. There were stares as she walked through the restaurant with a suitcase in her hand, and much gawking out the windows as the chauffeur put her case in the trunk. Maybe I'll never come back! she said to herself as she ducked into the spacious backseat. Wouldn't that be wonderful!
She kissed Michael—not passionately, but sweetly—and to her he looked younger than he'd ever done before, certainly more excited, even a bit impish. “So, come on,” she prodded. “Where are we going?"
"Where's the trust?” joked Michael.
She yielded. “I am in your hands,” she said, batting her eyelashes just in case he missed her double meaning.
The limo went east for one mile, turned left off the highway, into the small town of Shawville, and eventually pulled into the parking lot of the Pontiac Regional Hospital.
"We're going to a hospital?” said Lilly.
"Where's the trust?” repeated Michael.
They walked into the lobby, followed by the chauffeur, who carried the luggage. The elevator took them up to the roof, where the Whiteside Technologies corporate chopper was idling on the helipad.
"We're going to where there's no snow in a helicopter?” asked Lilly.
"Where's the trust?"
Forty minutes later, they touched down on the tarmac at the Ottawa International Airport, close to where Whiteside Tech's corporate jet idled in waiting. They scurried across, and minutes later, they were airborne, headed south.
"Well, being rich sure is liberating!” said Lilly as they punched through the clouds and entered a world of perfect sunsets and forever-starry night skies. “Come on, tell me."
"I keep a villa just outside Freeport, in the Bahamas,” said Michael as he took off his tie and threw it over his shoulder with deliciously reckless abandon. “We'll be there by eleven p.m., and I've booked a tee-off time for us at eleven a.m. tomorrow."
The inside of the plane was like nothing Lilly had ever seen. It seemed very small compared to the wide-bodies of commercial airlines. And there were no close-packed rows of seats here. It was like a narrow living room or a den, like the insides of a really nice trailer, perhaps. There were four upholstered chairs in the middle section. They all faced the front during takeoff, but when she heard a clunk, Michael explained that the pilot had disconnected the locking system, and he showed her the controls in the armrest that made the chairs swivel and tilt ... even vibrate. Then there were the state-of-the-art, Whiteside-produced speakers in the wraparound headrests, and headphones hidden in compartments inside the arms in the event of differing musical tastes. And there were motorized tabletops that unfolded from concealed slots in the sides of the chairs and then moved up,
over and into place. The decor was all Michael, with walls of rare woods and some expensive-looking paintings. Surely not originals, Lilly said to herself. The carpet was deep blue, and the lighting was ... well, it was whatever you wanted it to be if you sat in Michael's chair, with all the extra bells and whistles. Lilly unbuckled her seat-belt, pressed a button with an arrow pointing left so that her chair swiveled to face his, and blew him a kiss.
The front section, between the den and the pilot's cabin, was a kitchen—"a real-live honest-to-God kitchen,” Michael said. The rear section of the plane was separated by a dark wooden partition and an antique door from ... from the nineteenth century, Lilly guessed. Behind that door must be a bedroom, she thought. Maybe we'll put it to good use on the way back.
"I managed to miss supper,” said Michael. “Have you eaten?"
"Sort of,” said Lilly. “But the E-tery is a no-star joint, so I—"
"Lobster Newberg?” asked Michael.
"Yum!” she said excitedly.
"I brought Noel along for the trip,” he said, smugly. “The cook from the lodge,” he explained, unnecessarily. “Julia said she'd cook for Victor while we're gone. They've become fast friends, I'm given to understand, but I sent one of the estate cooks out to the lodge to—uh—'help’ her.” He used his fingers to put knowing quotation marks around the word “help.” Then Michael took out his Sniffer and called the pilot. “Hi Grant, how's it going for you up there?” he said with a genuine familiarity that quite surprised Lilly—Grant Eamer had been the Whiteside's pilot for thirty years, she remembered reading in the Netfiles. “Would you tell Noel we're ready?"
Noel served up a meal that would have garnered rave reviews in the New York Times, and Michael and Lilly feasted, and drank, at an altitude of thirty thousand feet. Michael then took out a pack of Camel Mini-Jays Mild, and they toked up over brandy.
The night air in Freeport was warm and moist as they stepped down from the Learjet and walked over the floodlit tarmac to the two waiting limousines. “The other one is for Noel and his supplies,” said Michael.
A small black man in a uniform stood off to the side, seemingly too shy to do his job. His mouth moved, but Lilly heard nothing. “Pardon,” she said.
"Anything to declare?” asked the little guy real meekly. He had a LieDeck-equipped Sniffer in his hand.
Well, I love Michael madly and I'm going to fuck him purple tonight, Lilly thought of saying. “No,” she said.
"Just ... the usual,” said Michael.
The man smiled thinly and put away his Sniffer.
"What was that about?” asked Lilly as the family's Caribbean chauffeur (la dee da!) held the door for her. “What's ... ‘the usual'?” She knew the Customs official could lose his job over this, so she was almost obliged to ask. He was paid by the WDA, after all.
"I'll tell you tomorrow,” Michael said. “It's sort of a—uh—an arrangement I have in this country. No big deal."
She let it pass, for now, and buzzed down her window to devour the absence of snow. The lights of the city were gaudy, and the wet streets were full of mostly white tourists, mostly black locals and much merriment. The downtown area had the metallic pong of a recent thunderstorm, one that their plane seemed to have missed or ducked or skirted on their way down to Mother Earth. Once they were through the city and in the countryside, the envelope was particularly dark, sprinkled with only a few windows, glinting through palms in the distance. There were no stars, there was no moon, but there was cloud cover, even if it had to be inferred from the absence of light above ... of any kind. Lilly buzzed up her window, and they passed the rest of the drive in silence, enjoying a prolonged and unathletic cuddle.
Lilly found it strange that she was grateful to have air conditioning—the last thing a sane person would think of in Québec, except perhaps in July or August. Lilly also felt overwhelmed with gratitude to have met and befriended ... I mean met and fallen in love with ... Michael. Life didn't always ache after all.
"Well, this is it,” said Michael as the limo passed through iron gates held open by a uniformed Patriot agent. Lilly remembered that in addition to the electronics company, Michael also controlled a security firm—even if security had stopped being an issue—or a profitable industry—back in 2014. The villa was like a downsized mansion, with white pillars and a lot of glass in the front. The outside was lit up brightly by floodlights hidden at the bases of bushes. “We'll turn those spotlights off when we get inside,” said Michael. “I just wanted you to see the place. First impressions matter."
"What was your first impression of me?” asked Lilly as the limo slowed on the paved, circular driveway.
"When we first spoke on the Net—that was when you were on your way to the lodge to LieDeck-verify Victor—I thought..."
"Yes?” said Lilly as she privately admired the stately villa.
"I ... I thought you'd be big trouble,” admitted Michael as he opened the limo door.
"The night is young,” noted Lilly, with a flirtatious batting of her eyes.
Within a few minutes, they had changed—separately—into shorts and light shirts, and were standing barefoot on a deck, just off the living room, at the back of the villa. They leaned side-by-side on the varnished railing and looked silently over the private beach to a becalmed ocean and a luminescent crescent moon that was alternately visible and gone behind the thinning clouds. Michael couldn't help dwelling briefly on a scene almost twenty years ago, at the estate on Wilson Lake, when he and Becky stood like this on the deck of his little cabin across from the lodge, naked. But that was then, he knew, and this was even better. “God's thumbnail,” he said as the moon crept back into view. He was glad he'd remembered to turn off all the floodlights. Darkness was so ... sexy.
"I can't believe we're here,” said Lilly. “It's almost like you were ... trying to seduce me."
"You can have your own bedroom if you prefer,” said Michael. “If we make love, it has to be because we both want to and everything is exactly right."
"I know,” said Lilly, remembering their pact. “So ... what do you think?"
Michael put his arm around her shoulders, and she put her arm around his waist. He didn't answer her question, nor did he need to. The past few years of Michael's life had been bereft of uncomplicated natural pleasures. The past few weeks had been a rebirth. He felt like Lazarus, except that his Jesus was flesh and blood, and female, and gorgeous ... and so tall. “One way or another, we'll go back to Québec different people from who we are now,” he said.
Lilly thought about that. He's a big shot, she reminded herself. Every major move has consequences, and nothing goes unnoticed. “Could this—uh—tryst cost you the Liberal Party leadership nomination?” she asked.
"Possibly,” he said, “but I doubt that it will have any bearing on that."
"So if it doesn't, you'll ... accept?"
"I haven't decided a hundred percent yet,” he said, looking at the mostly hidden face of the moon. “I'll call them with my decision tomorrow."
Lilly turned and squeezed in between Michael and the railing, so that she was facing him, and Michael thrilled again at the fact that they were of exactly equal height. She put her bare toes on his and kissed him. “I'll try to be a grand first lady ... if that's what's in store for us,” she said. “And if not...” She shrugged nonchalantly, only to realize, again, that she wasn't remotely as indifferent as she pretended to be.
"I think you're already my first lady,” said Michael. “My only lady."
"What ... about Becky?” Lilly asked.
"I'm a one-woman man,” said Michael. “Becky ... will be fine. And ... so will we."
"I hope so,” said Lilly as they started a slow walk through the double sliding doors leading into the villa.
There was a circular stairway up to the second floor, a far smaller version of the one that put its stylish signature onto the entrance of the manor house in Québec, except this one had a small landing at the halfway point. Mich
ael stopped briefly at the base of the stairs to activate the electronic security system, turn off the lower-level lights and flip on the muted lights of the stairwell and the upstairs hall. Lilly started up before him ... and every step seemed an eternity ... a fateful footfall towards her first full-blown tingle in months ... or at least the first she would have with an actual partner.
Michael ascended silently, about four stairs behind ... and seemingly in no hurry to catch up. We're not even talking, Lilly thought as one leaden foot followed another. Kids today have rollicking fun with sex, she considered, and we're acting like a conspiracy is afoot, like ten-year-olds sneaking out behind the barn for a first-ever toke, like Christians deciding to sin now and get forgiven later. And since when do I use the expression “kids today"? That's a new—
"Yikes!” she hollered as she flung herself up to the landing ... and turned around in absolute astonishment. “You fucking goosed me, you bastard!"
"Yeah,” he said. “And I'm going to do it again!” He lunged upwards.
Lilly started running up the second half of the staircase, laughing crazily and yelping as Michael's thumbs kept landing left, right and below target. “That's ... an unprovoked taliation, Your Honor,” she said as she stopped dead at the top of the stairs ... and turned. (That was a running joke with them; who had “taliated” and who had “retaliated.") “You absolutely know I'll get you back!” She grabbed for his bundle, causing him to leap back down a couple of stairs.
"Whoa! No fair,” Michael complained indignantly.
"Fair!” said Lilly, with a facial expression that screamed: “Not a good time to mess with me.” She took up a lineman's pass-defense stance, but with both hands out in front, cupped for action. “Chickennnnnnn,” she taunted.
Michael folded his arms and stared at her, smiling melodiously now. “God, you're beautiful,” he said serenely.
"And dangerous,” she snarled, squinting her eyes for fuller emphasis. “Nice try, white boy!"