The Liedeck Revolution Book #2: Endgame

by Jim Stark

  "We!” said George, as both bushy eyebrows shot up. “Just who, exactly, is ‘we'?"

  Clint knew better than to lie, about anything—that was a quick ticket home, and out of action. “There are ... a lot of other MGAs who share my concern, George, and they thought you should hear it, so I was chosen to—uh—"

  "Priority override to George,” came a serene voice on the MIU screen. “Your visual is requested. Are you alone?"

  "One moment,” said George in the direction of the large screen. “Sorry, Clint, but the demands on my time are...” He stopped himself before he told the lie—Clint was WDA, so he had a LieDeck too. “I'll—uh—get a report done on this matter,” he said, realizing that he would now have to do it ... or rather get it done. “Thanks ... for coming in."

  General Heatherington saluted the frail man in the pale gold uniform—the only one of that exact shade on Earth, it was said—and left the office quickly.

  "Visual on now,” said George brusquely as the door closed. “What is it?"

  "Just me ... coming to your rescue, sir,” sang Laura Becker as her image came on the screen. “You said to call you when he ran out of steam or got too—"

  "Thanks kiddo,” said George. “You said there was some—uh—little Sri Lankan girl that—uh—"

  "A contortionist—I'll send her in,” came the reply. “You might want to take all that stuff off your desk for this."

  "Gotcha,” said George.

  Chapter 43

  BECKETT

  Monday, March 14, 2033—11:30 a.m.

  Sheena Kalhoun sat irritably in her office, just two doors down from George Brampton's office, listening to the Netfeed, alone. It had taken years to push “the old coot” (as he was called in private by the most powerful woman on Earth) out of the loop. In fact it wasn't until 2026, seven years ago, that she and her allies had finally succeeded in “promoting” George to the largely fictional post of Honorary Chairman, a role of inconsequentiality in reality, but unprecedented honor in its elaborate trappings. Figureheads rarely appreciate or enjoy the impotence that their jobs require, she said to herself.

  She and her closest advisers had discussed “the Brampton situation” in that curious language of hints and allegories that had been spawned by the LieDeck. They had a plan. It might not work, of course, but the fallback position was as solid as the Earth's mantle. If push came to shove, George would have to go ... by which they meant “die."

  The timing of Sheena's entrance into Brampton's office had to be exact, and give her the advantage. Getting by the loyal Laura Becker wasn't difficult, since Sheena could fire her or snap her neck in seconds. As it happened, and as planned, she walked in just as the naked Sri Lankan woman—a slip of a girl—was slinking out, pressing her clothes against her skinny chest with one hand, and trying unsuccessfully to hide her face with the other.

  "George!” Sheena she ebulliently before he could object to her unannounced arrival, and without so much as a glance at the girl. “I noticed earlier—twenty-two minutes ago, I think—that people are still singing your song out on the street. You're like a fucking god to your fans. Should I kiss your ring or something?"

  Brampton was a real sucker for flattery—never could get enough of the stuff. At this moment, however, he couldn't reconcile his satisfaction over Sheena's deference with his fury over her intrusion. His heavily layered facial folds seemed to read “tilt,” like a 1950s pinball machine.

  Sheena took pride in her opening thrust. She wondered if old George wasn't standing to greet her because he was frail, or because he was sitting there with a painful, unused erection. “You're looking trim,” she lied. George Brampton's left eyebrow flipped up a bit, and Sheena was dismayed to see that he still hadn't mastered the art of concealing his emotions, of hiding the fact that he had an active LieDeck operating, using the pin mode. She had let him catch her in a dumb lie, and he didn't even have the acumen to know that on a higher level, she'd caught him!

  "Please ... do sit down, Ms. Kalhoun,” he parried, gesturing carelessly at a chair and seeming to suppress a belch. “What's ... on your mind?"

  Sheena knew she could easily club the aging icon into a blubbering submission, and although that was tempting, she stuck to her game plan. Out of respect for his reputation and legacy, she'd decided to give him one chance to take his licking like a man. “One chance, and one chance only!” she'd bellowed at her inner circle of advisers when they had pressed her to be merciful. It was not her first instinct, and it still stuck in her teeth like a popcorn hull, but it did have the additional advantage of covering her own precious butt ... and likely a truckload of other highly placed recta.

  "As you know, Gil Henderson implied in the Times last month that we were behind Lester Connolly's illness ... or might be.” She spoke wearily, like a mom trying to come to grips with a son's truancy. “We figured the best way to deal with Henderson when he made that scurrilous accusation was to ignore the son-of-a-bitch, so we said nothing, and people started to lose interest. Then, as you know, when Connolly died yesterday, all hell broke loose ... for eleven hours. The people have finally stopped demonstrating, thanks in part to the Whiteside kid, even if we may not want to admit it. Still, he and his USLUC gang also asked all citizens of Earth to refuse to talk to WDA agents, even to refuse to do their LieDeck-verifications. People seem ready to believe just about anything about us—anything bad, that is. We're—uh—taking a real shellacking. A lot of people now seem to believe that we ... well, that we murdered Connolly!"

  "So, tell ‘em it's a big old load of crap, and leave your LieDeck on while you do it,” sputtered Brampton.

  "But ... what if it's true?” asked Sheena coolly.

  The general froze ... not the reaction of an innocent man, noted Sheena. Their eyes were locked, and every second of silence trebled the trouble he was in. The ball was in his court. Sheena showed no emotion—not fear, not hostility, not anything.

  She has to know, thought Brampton. “And ... and ... are we?” he asked nervously. A cold perspiration shower crept onto his forehead, and his hard-on began to wilt. She's got to know, or at least suspect.

  "Are we ... what?” asked Sheena, feigning ignorance.

  "Are we responsible for Lester Connolly's ... misfortune?"

  Sheena Kalhoun detested the post-Revolutionary habit of answering questions with questions. It was the coward's way out, a means of deferring a direct answer, a method of surveying the enemy's emplacements before committing your troops. If this were anyone other than “the old coot,” she would have taken action then and there. She was Supreme Commander of the World Democratic Authority; not a person to suffer fools gladly. I did promise to give him one chance, so ... here goes, she thought. “Have you read Beckett?” she asked. “By Jean Anouilh?” she added, underlining her awareness of the man's lack of culture.

  Brampton's lowered eyes exhibited the full terror of a defeated dog lying on its back, exposing his neck, praying for mercy. He'd never read the play, but he'd seen the movie a lifetime ago, and knew the reference. “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?” Henry II had lamented. Had that matter gone to court, King Henry would have faced some unbearable questions, he thought. “Didn't you realize your sycophantic underlings would construe your complaint as a direct order, that they would see in your question an opportunity to ingratiate themselves to the monarch?"

  "What's ... your point?” he finally asked, weakly, his eyes still pointed down, filled now with two gnarled hands that seemed to be his own, desperately hoping that some idle motive lay behind this curious question.

  "Well, the press conference this afternoon was originally planned to just say when the World Identity Bank would be going online, to announce the awarding of contracts—that sort of thing. But now that Connolly's dead, there's a lot of Netnews speculation that we might unban the LieDeck soon, and—"

  "Over my dead body!” shouted Brampton. His eyes were back up now, issuing forth a virtual flame, a direct threat
that used to cause presidents and potentates to tremble.

  "Possibly,” said Sheena, returning his stare with all the confidence of a player holding a royal flush. “What I need from you is a blank check."

  "Explain,” ordered the general as he drew a wrinkled hand down his damp face, then wiped it on a leg of his pants.

  "I want you beside me at my press conference this afternoon, and ... no matter what, you will confirm whatever I say, but without any verbal comment. A pleasant nod will do just fine, George. Agreed?"

  Brampton closed his eyes, trying to prevent any telltale tears from leaking out. She's ... actually trying to save my ass, he realized. If our roles were reversed, I'd have her shot. She doesn't know whether I did anything, and she doesn't really want to know, but if I confess, she'll have to throw me to the wolves. As long as she only suspects, she can pass LieDeck-verification. “Okay,” he said softly with his eyes still closed, “but I'm only agreeing to this because...” He was going to say “because I'm too fucking tired to fight with you,” but he couldn't say that. He often forgot about the LieDeck when he needed most to remember. Getting old sucked.

  "And ... please take one of your—uh—nerve pills an hour before you get to the press conference,” Sheena asked as she stood to leave. At least he'll look too feeble to talk, she thought. “And be there on time,” she added forcefully as she marched out of his office.

  Chapter 44

  100% INNOCENT

  Monday, March 14, 2033—1:00 p.m.

  God bless the SuperNet, Sheena Kalhoun said to herself as she watched the green dots pepper her MIU screen. She'd ordered that every single MGA—Member of the General Assembly—be immediately LieDeck-verified on the subject of Lester Connolly's illness and death. The same LV test was also ordered for every paid employee at the WDA's headquarters in New York. Green dots indicated that the respondents knew nothing, and were innocent. The whole process was expected to take one hour, max. MGAs and other employees who were off-site carried Sniffers at all times, so LVing everyone on the two lists posed no problems.

  General Carlos Juarez, the Brazilian MGA, entered Sheena's office unannounced, and as quietly as possible. His head pounded with every push of new blood. “The executive picked me,” he said. He and Sheena were fairly close, and that's why he was picked. No one had ever done this before, and Sheena's temper could flare without warning.

  "Picked you for what?” she asked irritably.

  "To—uh—LV you ... personally,” said General Juarez.

  Sheena stared at the man, wondering how much fear he was feeling. “Go ahead,” she said calmly ... finally.

  General Juarez felt as much fear as he'd ever known. If Sheena flunked, he'd have to arrest her! And deep inside, he expected her to fail! Like many other MGAs, he suspected she had a super-secret cadre of agents ... like Richard Nixon's “Plumbers,” he imagined ... who didn't exist on any MIU list, or in any mother's memory or heart ... people who could do the dirty work and never be found because technically—digitally at least—they didn't exist at all. He inhaled fully, made sure his Sniffer was set on the beeper mode, and proceeded with his task. “Do you, Sheena Kalhoun, have any knowledge of how former USLUC president Lester Connolly contracted the flesh-eating disease?"

  Sheena reminded herself internally that the question was about knowledge, not about suspicions. “No,” she said flatly. I'm one hundred percent innocent, she wanted to add, but didn't dare. It wasn't that her suspicions made her culpable or made her feel culpable, only that a profession of total innocence could conjure up Shakespeare's “the lady doth protest too much,” or come across the way O.J. Simpson had in 2023, when he repeated his famous 1996 lie in a barely audible whisper, two days before his deathbed confession.

  "Thank you,” said General Juarez as his adrenal gland decelerated. He put his Sniffer away, trying not to betray the unwarranted doubts that had almost choked him one minute earlier. Then he watched as Sheena glanced at her MIU screen so she'd observe when the green dot pop up beside her name. “You'll—uh—do George?” he asked as he reached for the doorknob.

  "I will assure that my directive is carried out in full and to the letter,” she said stiffly to General Juarez as she raised her eyes resentfully from her MIU. He took her words and her unamused glare to mean that one way or another, George Brampton would indeed be officially LieDeck-verified—for the first time in anyone's memory. Sheena meant for him to take it that way. What she didn't manage to mention was that the vaunted founder of the WDA, while he had a generous pension, was not technically a “paid employee” of the WDA, which meant ... which means we're home free, she thought, unless Henderson busts his brain dissecting this thing. Indeed, Jesuitical equivocation still worked ... if you thought the thing through carefully, she admitted internally.

  Sheena was watching as the last green dot popped onto her screen, and a voice from inside the MIU said: “Program now complete; no lies detected.” Sheena's smile was sub-molecular. She prepared to proceed with the rest of the plan. “Face Michael Whiteside, and override, now,” she commanded.

  * * * *

  Michael and Lilly were on the sixteenth tee of the Diamond Princess Golf Course, a short par three. Lilly had hit her ball first—that “honor” always went to whoever had won the previous hole. Michael had a seven iron in his hand, and was staring at Lilly's ball, lying on the green, ten feet from the pin ... in birdie territory. Tall people are supposed to be rotten golfers, he recalled from when he was a kid. Even though she was no taller than he was, she was very tall ... for a woman.

  Lilly had been the beneficiary of some good luck earlier in the round, some amazing luck, and Michael was having a bad day—as far as the game of golf was concerned. They were both tired after yet another rather aerobic night, and while this game was irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, Michael badly wanted to win. He'd assumed Lilly would not even be competitive. He'd been wrong. They had played golf for five days straight, and each had two victories so far. And today they were tied with only three holes to go ... and she had a birdie putt ... and then his Sniffer buzzed.

  "This had better be important as hell,” he muttered as his caddy ran to the golf cart to fetch the Sniffer. Michael took it from him roughly, letting his frustration show, scaring the old caddy but delighting Lilly. Any distraction at this critical point should be good for a bogie, she figured.

  "What!” he demanded before he realized whose image he was addressing.

  "It's Sheena Kalhoun,” said the most recognized face on the planet. “Sorry to disrupt your game, but I have a very important favor to ask of you."

  Even though the WDA was the only customer for LieDecks made by Whiteside Tech, and even though LieDeck sales were the main profit center in the company, Michael was not predisposed to do any favors for that organization at this pivotal time of his life. He had just sold his interest in the company, for one thing, but ... if I'm going to be the next prime minister of Canada, I'd better ... “And that would be?” he asked flatly.

  * * * *

  Two minutes later, Sheena got a Netcall from the main verification studio of Whiteside Technologies. They'd received instruction from Michael Whiteside, and they were ready to go. Sheena commanded her MIU to interface with George Brampton. “It's time,” she said to the old man. “We'll do this here, right from my office, okay?"

  George Brampton's ceremonial office was only two doors away, but it took him a full three minutes to preen himself and hobble over. Sheena was sitting at her teak table, with the large WDA emblem behind it, on the wall, daring anyone to miss the connection. She usually preferred to have her face right in the middle of the emblem, as if to say, “I am the world,” but she needed to give the impression that George, the founder of the WDA and an icon to billions, was at least a part of the package, and a full participant in these proceedings. Sheena sat on the right, facing the remote-operated camera lens, and she tried not to show her impatience and contempt as Brampton made a production of si
tting down and looking erect.

  "Universal override,” said the Supreme Commander of the WDA, the only person in the world who could bust in on every MIU conversation in the world, simultaneously, or wake people from their sleep, as the case might be. “People of all nations, fellow citizens of Earth,” she began. “I'm sure you're not happy to have me interrupt your lives like this, but this Netcast is important. It will be automatically archived on all MIUs, of course, but I hope those of you who are awake will stay where you are and listen as I speak. I'll keep it short."

  Sheena Kalhoun gave people the world over a few seconds to stumble out of bed or apologize to their Netlink partners; then she began in earnest.

  Recently, as you may know, suggestions were made that the WDA was somehow involved in the illness and death of Lester Connolly, the late president of the United States LieDeck Unbanning Committee, or USLUC. This Netcast is being real-time LieDeck-verified by senior staff from Whiteside Technologies in Ottawa, Canada—as you can see on your screens now—and they are using five brand new LieDecks straight off the production line. The read-outs will be broadcast live in the corner of your screen, as you can see now. We're doing this so that everyone can be totally confident in what the truth is.

  Earlier today, March fourteen, two thousand and thirty-three, I personally ordered the LieDeck-verification of every Member General of the WDA General Assembly and every paid staffer here at WDA headquarters in New York ... which of course includes myself. All these transactions were recorded, and all the electronic records are available for outside scrutiny. The question that all these people were asked was as follows: “Do you"—and then the name of the person was said—"do you have any knowledge of how former USLUC president Lester Connolly contracted the flesh-eating disease?"

  Sheena gave an invisible knee-nudge to Brampton. He nodded dutifully, even wisely. She continued: