by Jim Stark
* * * *
Twenty-four hours later, the deed was done. Virtually every Evolutionary clan in the world, representing more than two hundred million people of every color, creed and background, had endorsed the USLUC campaign to snub and defy the WDA. In some countries, citizens were being arrested en masse. Arenas, warehouses and community centers were being converted into ad hoc jails. Those arrested were being denied their Sniffers, but they were mostly singing, sleeping, sexing around and having a jolly good time, expressing neither anger nor objection of any sort. They knew that just as pyramid schemes mathematically had to implode at level thirty-two, when there weren't any more people in the world to sell to or con, the WDA's strategy had to collapse in two or three days if every single act of civil disobedience led to a new arrest. The determination of Evolutionaries was very strong, and the Netnews had reported that only seven percent of them were folding under pressure. Then add in the fact that a significant number of non-Evolutionaries were also inclined to join in, for the fun of it, if for no more philosophical or political reason, and the WDA could see the writing on the wall.
Chapter 46
NUMBERS
Wednesday, March 16, 2033—9:20 a.m.
Gilbert Henderson, muckraker extraordinaire, had refused for the past two days to reply to any of the “faces” that were flooding in to his MIU, or even to answer the door of his Manhattan office and home. His now-famous February 14 “hint” that the WDA might be involved in some criminal activity had converted his life into a misery of conflicting and unrelenting pressures. He even took the battery pack out of his Sniffer so he couldn't hear the constant “bings” that called for his attention. Plus, he'd given his long-time secretary and friend, Fiona Bledsoe, an unrequested week off.
His enmity towards the WDA wasn't a personal thing, but a “position” he'd taken as a result of its arrogance and past misdeeds. He suspected the WDA was responsible for Lester's death; he just didn't quite know why he felt so sure of it. In journalism, as in life, it wasn't enough to just “feel” a certain way. Sheena Kalhoun had demanded an apology or an explanation from him. “I'll be damned if I'll apologize to that bitch,” he'd said to his boss at the New York Times. “And I have a constitutional right to protect my sources. Give me twenty-four hours,” he had demanded when they clashed on the Net two days ago, just after Kalhoun's global Netcast.
When he made that demand, he had no idea what was going to be any different in twenty-four hours. He wouldn't apologize—that would damage his credibility, fatally—but he didn't have an explanation. Network camera crews were encamped in vans for a block either way of his home, and it was now forty-eight hours since he'd insisted that his boss give him twenty-four. His anonymous source had never let him down before, never; but the carefully-couched accusation Gil had made against the WDA back in February had been based on no evidence at all—just that cryptic snail-mail letter he had received from the mysterious “Eyeball.” If something didn't break soon, Gil faced disgrace, ruin.
He had slept fitfully for the second night in a row, and his body ached in a way it had not done since his last “all-nighter” at college, thirty-some years ago. When he finally got out of bed at 9:20 a.m., he walked out to the front door, opened it a wee crack, pushed the outer glass door, and reached around to collect his mail, letting the camera crews see only his arm and a bit of his back. He was wearing only a gray housecoat, and hadn't combed his hair, but that was not his reason for hiding his face. He knew that the cameras outside were rolling and the mikes were hot. He ignored the shouted questions. He'd speak his mind when he was good and ready, which might be soon ... or never.
There was quite a stack of letters—mostly of encouragement, he figured, and surely a few brickbats from diehard WDA supporters as well. There was one letter—sent special delivery—that had no return address. This simply has to be from Eyeball, he figured. He ran to his bathroom, sat on the toilet lid and ripped open the envelope, using the ballpoint pen that had lived in his shirt pocket for about thirty years. “About time,” he muttered. I started the rumor about the WDA being behind Lester's illness on his say-so, and now my butt is on the line.
Inside was a letter from his unknown informant, as expected. Instead of an exposé of an outright lie, caught with a rogue LieDeck, it had a rather elaborate set of calculations that purported to prove that Sheena Kalhoun had to have known about the illness and the diagnosis even before Lester Connolly was admitted to hospital. Her Netcast in response to Lester's illness was made from her New York office, and had been pre-recorded—but she was in the air at the time of Connolly's admission to hospital, on her personal plane, Peace One, headed for LA, and the diagnosis had taken another twenty minutes or so after that! The first law of physics was in play here: nothing (and no one) can be in two places at the same time. If Sheena Calhoun was at 30,000 feet, headed west from New York, she simply couldn't simultaneously be in her New York office. The numbers did seem to prove the case, but they didn't carry the same level of comfort as a solid “beep” from a LieDeck, or some direct evidence. Gil was led to wonder if other insights he'd received from Eyeball in the past hadn't been LieDeck-verified. Some of them had to be ... he knew that. But this one ... apparently not.
He copied the figures carefully onto a sheet of toilet paper, slipped it into the pocket of his housecoat, then tore the letter and envelope to bits, and flushed them. Now that his source was protected, he left the washroom to get dressed and prepare his defense.
Since Sheena Kalhoun's denial of any WDA involvement had passed the tight test of an independent LieDeck-verification, Gil was under searing pressure not only from the WDA, but also from other news organizations and even from his boss to come up with a credible basis for his cleverly guarded speculation one month ago. These numbers, and this approach, did seem watertight, but Gil found his feelings flying off in two opposite directions. On the one hand, he was going to have the last laugh on his critics—again! On the other hand, if he did successfully prove that the WDA was behind the illness and the death of Lester Connolly ... well, the fallout would be just horrendous! And potentially violent! On the up-side, however, discrediting and destroying Sheena Kalhoun could lead to the first steps in reforming the WDA, at democratizing the thing, a goal that had been whispered by journalists and intellectuals the world over ever since General George and his World Democratic Alliance had set up shop as the new World Democratic Authority back in ‘14. True, Homo sapiens could not be trusted to behave in any civilized fashion without the kind of global LieDeck-based policing that was offered by the WDA. Well ... imposed by the WDA, Gil revised his thinking. But surely that fact should not serve as the premise for a permanent state of planetary martial law.
He picked up his Scotch tape from a drawer in the kitchen, walked out to his MIU, and stood with his shoulder to the screen, blocking its view—he always assumed that he was being monitored. He then extracted from his shirt pocket the square of toilet tissue and taped it right beside the wall-mounted screen, where the machine's camera lens could not see it. He was now ready to go to work, and he was determined that this blockbuster column would be out on the Net within the hour.
Chapter 47
UNHAPPY ENDING
Thursday, March 17, 2033—9:35 a.m.
Two identical limousines had rolled up to the Whiteside Learjet at Ottawa International Airport, casting sharp shadows in the brilliant morning sun. Lilly and Michael shared a perfunctory kiss on the wet tarmac before they headed their separate ways. The trip had started out as an adventure of a lifetime for both of them, sort of a trial honeymoon, but it had ended on such a doubtful and awkward note that neither knew if they had any future together.
It was closer to April than it was to February now, and for the last two days there had been torrential rains in eastern Canada and Québec. Lilly had been astonished to look out the Learjet window and see that after only a week away, much of the snow was gone; in fact most of it was gone from the flatter pastu
res. She sat in the back of “her” limo, alone, and prepared herself to “endure” the trip through Ottawa.
Her mind went back to her first trip in from this very airport, when she'd gone across the border at the still-frozen Ottawa River to l'état de Québec and her new “home” on the outskirts of Shawville. That had been a time of no expectations, a time of no emotional baggage, a time of looking forward. This, however, was a time of deep reflection for the depleted WDA agent, a time to wonder how events could have conspired to sour such a glorious relationship, or at least slam it onto the back burner. It's 2033, she thought, but in matters of the heart, at least for me, it might as well be 1933.
Lilly knew that a lot of women, especially Evolutionaries, would simply feel grateful to have had a week in the Caribbean sun along with fine food, great entertainment and superb sex, but for Lilly, the pleasure had to come from context more than content. She had hoped—even assumed—that Michael would talk to her about divorcing his unfaithful wife, and then propose ... well, maybe not marriage, but ... some kind of living-together arrangement. What she got—conveniently on the last night, and after sex—was a feeble explanation of how a great many Normals still put a lot of stock in marriage and fidelity ... when it came to their elected officials, anyway. It wouldn't help get Michael elected, he had explained, to go through a divorce during the campaign or to be seen in public with “the new woman” while he was still technically married to Becky, the mother of his children. What he didn't have the guts to say was that in addition to that stuff, the “other woman” worked for the WDA! The reputation of the world body had taken quite a major-league beating since the death of Lester Connolly, and Michael's real worry, she knew, was that “consorting with the enemy” would cost him a lot of votes ... could cost him the election.
She had been stunned to realize that Michael was essentially breaking up with her, at least temporarily, and she'd been furious at him—almost unforgivably so. The truth was, now that he had committed to running, he desperately wanted to be prime minister, and he wasn't about to disrupt his family life—even such as it was—while he was out on the hustings. He'd told Lilly that she could Netlink with him whenever she wanted, or they could meet on the sly, but that had only made her temper boil hotter. “You know how I feel about you,” he had insisted. “Crap,” said Lilly under her breath as the limo swam through the bright Canadian spring. If he really loved me, he'd have let nothing stand in the way.
When the limo rolled into the E-tery parking lot, Lilly was surprised to have arrived so soon. Time's supposed to fly when you're having fun, she thought, not when you're drowning in self-pity. She thanked the driver and carried her suitcase into the restaurant.
There were perhaps a dozen Evolutionaries—retirees, for the most part—having mid-morning coffee and chatting. Most of them gave her a slight glance, and nothing more. Nice to see you too, she thought bitterly. Claire Lapine was behind the counter, and she'd been cutting the day's freshly baked pies. Lilly could see there was a lapel mike pinned to her apron, and she wondered how long they were going to wear those things before they either gave up or got it right. Claire stared at Lilly, her round face as blank as an unsullied canvas.
"Hi Claire,” said Lilly cheerfully. “How's business?"
The kitchen honcho stood as she was, the sharp knife poised for its next purposeful cut. She didn't turn her back or sneer or even move—she just stared.
"Real mature, Claire,” said Lilly as she walked with her bag towards the stairs that led up to her apartment. So this is the kind of treatment I'm in for, she said to herself as she mounted the stairs, the kind of treatment that every agent in the world is getting from Evolutionaries ... and others. She made a mental note to send an archived face to Randy, Michael's son, telling him a thing or two about how mature he was for suggesting this global act of defiance.
Big Wus was sitting on the landing, his tail thumping the carpet, his jaw flat on the floor, his eyes cautious. “You just never really know about me, do you?” said Lilly as she stopped to return his gaze. I'm talking to a fucking dog, she realized, blushing visibly, a dog that tried to have its way with my freakin’ leg! Big Wus's head tilted, and his tail became syncopated. Lilly reached down to pat him, and the spaniel pulled his head in slightly, hoping for the best but obviously fearing the worst. Lilly tickled him behind the ear and continued up the stairs. Somehow, Lilly expected the dog to follow her, but he didn't. She looked back from the top of the stairs, and he was still lying there, staring ... like Claire, she thought. “Well fuck you too,” she whispered as she let herself in. “And anybody that even looks like you!” And the horse you rode in on, she almost added aloud, although clearly she was getting carried away with her hillbilly put-downs.
The maid had been in. The place was spotless. The window in the aluminum door at the back had been hoisted to allow in cool spring air through the screen, and thermostats had been set lower. Lilly lifted her suitcase onto the dining table and made a beeline for the bathroom. As she sat there, taking care of business, she put her elbows on her thighs and rested her head in her hands. It would be really easy to cry right now, she thought, for several different reasons. She'd apparently been completely ostracized in her own home. Things with Michael, so perfect for the past month, were now in limbo ... or worse. And her secret hope of leaving the employ of the WDA was in tatters. Even Big Wus hates me, she felt as she tore off some toilet paper and doubled it over in her hands. I'm not going to cry, she resolved. I'm just not!
She walked back out to the living room, and worried that she was being too obvious in not looking at her MIU, which she knew would have that damned little red light at the bottom, blinking away feverishly. She sidled over to the picture window at the rear of the apartment, just as she'd done when she'd first arrived here, five weeks ago. She felt good then, reasonably good, even if a bitter snow covered everything. She felt lousy now, even as the land was beginning to show off its greens and browns. Progress, she thought as she folded her long arms. Time to cope, she decided as she turned to the job of unpacking.
Lilly had asked Annette's secretary, Robert Chamblis, to keep a written list of those who wanted to connect with the WDA during her absence. It was mostly a formality, required by WDA regulation, since leaving an archived face on the agent's computer could get technically glitched up. Her request certainly had nothing to do with any great demand. In fact, before her departure, the only Evolutionaries who wanted a piece of her time were Julia, because she didn't know any better, Lars, because he fancied a tingle, and Annette, because she seemed to feel the WDA agent needed the occasional scolding for various infractions against the clan's customs or sensitivities. Other than that, Lilly's involvement with Victor-E had been strictly business. She had tried to loosen people up during LV sessions, but the best she ever got was “polite,” never genuine warmth ... and this from people who say they value friendship and love above all else, she thought as she threw clothes directly from her suitcase into the laundry hamper.
She put her bag away in a closet, and briefly entertained the notion of having another shower ... if only to wash the scent of Michael Whiteside off my skin, she felt. She went back into the bathroom with an armful of clean denim jeanswear, and closed the door.
Michael had smoked marijuana quite a lot down in Freeport, and Lilly had taken to carrying a pack of his Camel Mini-Jays with her wherever they went. If she remembered rightly, there was still a half a pack and some matches in her jeans jacket. She looked in there and found them. Then she turned on the shower, drew the curtain, and let it run. She sat down on the toilet lid, lit up, and toked deeply, flicking the ashes into the sink.
She didn't so much rethink the fiasco of her last night with Michael as feel it all over again ... and again ... and again. It was like a disk error on her internal hard-drive, some kind of emotional loop that played the same cacophonous song over and over, frontward and backwards, until she wanted to scream. She sucked on the joint and lectured her
self inwardly until her emotional dissonance ... well, it didn't go away, exactly, but she got a lid on it and shut out the smell.
Her thoughts moved over to Control. He wouldn't object to her snap decision to go on vacation—in fact he would see it as a useful and important part of her express mandate to get close to Michael ... and he'll be expecting a full report, she realized as she flushed the roach. Fuck!
Lilly turned off the shower ... that's long enough if I'd been using a shower cap, she estimated. Then she washed her face in the sink, dried off, and changed into her casual clothes. Before leaving the bathroom with her armful of soiled clothes, she stared at her face in the mirror, trying to see if she looked stoned. She knew there was no legal or other problem in her enjoyment of this small pleasure when she was with Michael—Control would see that as part of her job too—but she didn't want her handler to know that she was smoking up just because she liked it. My life sucks less when I'm ripped, she thought as she threw a forced smile at her reflection.
By the time she sat down at her MIU, Lilly was trying so hard to act normal that she couldn't be sure she wasn't making a damned fool of herself. It seemed to her that she'd been too efficient at making coffee or checking her hard mail—mostly stuff that had been forwarded from her old Miami address—and settling into the grand swivel chair that her WDA predecessor had left behind. She entered her bioID and her PIN casually.
"Net, up, now,” she commanded as the cup approached her lips. “Display requests for meetings from Victor-Eens,” she ordered.
She drank ... and realized too late that she'd swallowed a gulp of coffee before giving it a fair chance to cool down a few degrees in her mouth. She reached instinctively for her throat, realizing too late that that wouldn't help—then feeling another wave of paranoia come over her, a fear that Control was watching her and that her altered state of mind was showing, big-time. She closed her eyes, and forced herself to get on with her duties.