The Liedeck Revolution Book #2: Endgame

by Jim Stark

  There were no requests for meetings. Not one! There was an archived “Hi-how-are-ya?” face from good old Ed ... I'll face him back later. There were several archived faces from her mother, too, and although Lilly loved her mom and felt guilty about having been incommunicado for the past week, she resolved to respond to her later as well. And sweet bugger-all from Michael! Nice, she thought as she stared at the absence of his name and likeness from her MIU screen. Control hadn't called either ... which I could have known from my Sniffer anyway, she reminded herself.

  The problem was, she had nothing handy to do, nothing she could use to legitimately postpone her report to Control, her report on Michael. She had no idea what she should say anyway. She thought she would have quit her job by now, and wouldn't have to make that call at all ... or at least not until her final debriefing, which wouldn't be for a week or two, under normal circumstances. For lack of a better plan, she ordered up the “News in brief,” and saw that Sheena Kalhoun was scheduled to make another major live Netcast in just over an hour. Lilly knew she would be expected to check in and touch base with Control before that, or immediately after, but the sorry truth was that she cared not at all what the WDA chief had to say ... about anything.

  She looked down at the finger on her left hand where a new engagement ring should have been shining back at her, and tears almost began forming at the inside corners of her eyes ... again. She looked back at the screen, and then jerked her head sideways—she'd heard a sound from the direction of her door. It sounded like a knock, but it was so faint, it could have been almost anything. Probably just Big Wus, thumping his tail. Or maybe he came up to apologize, she thought crookedly. “Just a minute,” she yelled.

  "Hi,” said Lars when she opened the door.

  Lilly looked heavily into his young face. “You're ... talking to me,” she noted, matter of fact, crossing her arms.

  Lars made a point of looking over both of her shoulders, as if to check that there was nobody else in the apartment. “I must be,” he said playfully. “There's nobody here except us two,” he added needlessly. “Hi,” he tried again. “How's—uh—your new showerhead working?"

  Lilly was a tad taller than the Lars, and she looked calmly down into his dark brown eyes, trying to decipher his current agenda ... other than the ever-present invite for a sweaty bone-bashing. He had bushy brown hair, and large shoulders that ... knock it off, she thought when she found herself taking inventory of his physical features. “What can I do for you, Lars?” she asked evenly.

  "I got an old shack out in the woods, and I'm going hunting there for a few hours,” he said, with an air of innocence. “Wanna come along?"

  Lilly blinked her disbelief, but Lars just stood there, crossed his arms, and smiled his dare that she disbelieve him. “Hunting!?” she repeated. “You're asking me if—"

  "You need a distraction, Lilly,” said Lars as he used his foot to gently prevent Big Wus from sneaking through the doorway into Lilly's apartment. “I'm heading out in a few minutes. Join me in the restaurant if you decide to tag along. It's gorgeous out in the bush this time of year—no mosquitoes, no blackflies—and it's such a nice day. C'mon, Big Wus. You can help me get organized, but ... sorry, you can't come with us.” And with that, Lars turned and left, with the dog panting excitedly after him.

  Us! thought Lilly, pondering the unbounded nerve of the apprentice plumber. She watched his tight T-shirt and jeans bound down the stairs two at a time to the landing, then she closed her door. She had no idea how to respond, and she was painfully aware that her handlers were watching her from the camera eye of her MIU. She also recalled that Sheena Kalhoun's Netcast was due to start in less than an hour, but she could always catch it later. I'll report to Control and then ... she began in her mind. Nah, I think I'll go hunting, she revised the thought, with a hopelessly confused shrug.

  Chapter 48

  OMNIBUS BILL

  Thursday, March 17, 2033—11:00 a.m.

  The Great Hall of Order was the formal name of the meeting room where the General Assembly met and deliberated. Today, it was packed to the rafters with two hundred and thirty-nine men and seven women, in full military attire—and their top aides, of course, another four hundred souls. It was a veritable medal-fest, although through the last two decades, the WDA and all national governments awarded medals for battles avoided, not fought. The word that did the trick in luring out the jingling regalia was “history."

  A typical military leader of a nation was a fifty-year-old male, steeped in the stuff of history, and more often than not nostalgic for the “good old days” of gallantry and gore. These men and women had lived the tradition of the warrior in a time of perpetual peace, and had known the inner ache of the middle-aged, when the hopes of a whole career are reduced to rote and irrelevance. The job of the Member Generals was to make sure they themselves stayed idle, unneeded, never to practice the only trade they'd ever lusted after. They were part of a totally effective global program designed to bring an end to history, or at least history as it had always been, before the LieDeck Revolution. They lived in the heart of New York, these people. They ran their countries by MIU, ignored their civilian “masters” back home, and felt utterly powerless.

  But now, that magical word had come over the secured Netlinks of the WDA's elite. “There will be a closed assembly of Member States today at eleven a.m.,” the Minister of Information had said soberly. “The Minister of Correct Opinions” was what most people called him behind his back, for reasons that seemed obvious to those who laughed at the nickname. “You will be asked to consider the most important proposal that has come up before the world body since the adoption of the WDA Charter,” the Minister went on to say. “And whatever the outcome, my fellow soldiers, we will be making history."

  Every single delegation had immediately demanded clarification. It just wasn't right for the Supreme Commander to spring “historic” legislation on them like that ... so they complained, especially since Sheena hadn't had the courtesy to give them any clue as to the content or architecture of the bill. The more important the issue, they had always held and argued, the greater the need to contemplate, to consult with all their advisers in New York plus their civilian governments back home. But ... the Minister of Correct Opinions never came back on the screen, and demands that were sent elsewhere were re-directed to that Minister. Three national delegations had even tried going over his head with appeals directly to Kalhoun, to no avail. There was just no way around this problem. A proposal would be put forward, kicked around for perhaps ten minutes, and then adopted, they all suspected.

  Or rejected! considered Sheena Kalhoun as she stood at the podium. She was feeling nervous for the first time in years, and found herself glancing at the second hand on the wall clock. It had never happened before, of course, but it was still theoretically possible, according to the WDA Charter. Her eyes traveled around the massive chamber, and as she listened to the muffled buzz of whispered words, she wondered how many of these peacocks would have the guts to vote “no.” A dozen, tops, she figured. I won't even want to know who they are.

  "Member Generals of the WDA,” she began on the stroke of eleven to a very silent assemblage, “a word from our founder, the Honorary Chairman of the WDA, General George Brampton.” It always helped to trot out “the old coot” on occasions where the “feel-good” quotient was below normal. Just being in the same room as the once-great man was enough to make youngsters swoon, a privilege that guaranteed the beneficiaries center stage with their peers for the re-telling of events. I think he'll make a wonderful dead hero, thought Sheena. Then we'll be able to doctor up his image without the daily fear that he'll do something idiotic and make liars of us all.

  Brampton was sitting close by—to minimize the time required for him to stand and baby-step to the podium. The clapping was raucous, led by Sheena herself ... and she felt confident that his words would be reliably self-serving, if not inspirational. And when he finally arrived at the
microphone, the hoots of approval rose another level. The Honorary Chairman smiled his appreciation, but he also flapped a flipper-like hand for them to shut the fuck up and sit down so he could get on with it—which they did.

  "All over this wide world,” he intoned, “doors are unlocked, for there is no fear of intrusion. Fathers and mothers no longer have to worry whether their daughters will be raped. Businesspersons do not have to worry that their stores will be robbed, or that their accountant will abscond with their hard-earned treasuries. WDA taxes are always paid, all contracts are always honored, and for the..."

  Yadda, yadda, yadda, thought Sheena. It was a rerun of his anniversary speech. He never tired of that speech, and he never realized that others did. After eight minutes of typical Bramptonian verbiage, it was finally Sheena's turn to do the real stuff. She joined in the standing ovation for the old coot and went to the podium, patiently waiting for the homage to peter out, and for the old coot to sit back down.

  "History has recorded the righteousness of General Brampton's inspired vision and decisiveness back in twenty fourteen,” she began. “We were absolutely right to expel all those lazy, useless diplomats,” she barked, with a convulsive jerking of her fist and head on the word “right.” “We were absolutely right to restructure the UN and to make it into the effective guarantor of peace that it has been since the Revolution. And we—” She did try to barrel right on, and leave no time for another round of wild applause after that last sentence, but only because she knew it would be impossible, and she would appear to be altogether taken with her message, and utterly disinterested in ovations. “And we were a hundred percent right to ban civilian use of the LieDeck,” she barreled on.

  The MGAs stood as one, clapped, roared their approbation, and hoped like hell that she meant it, that these salving words were not to be followed by a “however."

  "However,” continued Sheena when everyone was once again seated, “in spite of our great successes, people have come to take peace for granted, and it is said that times have changed so much that some of our policies are holding back the tide of human progress. I don't happen to agree with that analysis, but some of the criticisms are arguable, and the problem is real. We must do something to restore the esteem of our grand institution. The grumbling and defiance of the masses must end, and our best efforts have so far failed to restore the high honor that has been ascribed to our mission from the time of the LieDeck Revolution until last year, when a certain journalist made our lives very difficult with his prying and innuendo.” She conveniently omitted the fact that Gil Henderson had caught the WDA with its pants around its ankles on several small but significant lies in recent years. Her craggy face revealed the faint shadow of a grimace as she realized, at least on the subconscious level, that there was that wee glitch in her indignation. Best to press on, she said to herself.

  "In consultation with the Executive Committee, I am pleased to report to you today that we have a plan of action that will not only do the job, but make history.” Applause rippled through the room—approval in principle, she thought. No way more than ten of those guys vote “no,” she said to herself, ignoring the fact that seven of her MGAs were not “guys"—eight if she were to count herself, although she only voted to break ties, and there'd never been a tie, so...

  "Resolved,” Kalhoun read from the small screen built into the podium, “that Member Generals of the WDA adopt the omnibus bill that is now...” she bowed almost invisibly to a technician, who immediately pressed a button “...is now on your Sniffer screens."

  "I second the motion,” bellowed General George from his big chair near the podium. He had no voting rights in the world body, or any other legislative rights, actually, but no MGA would try to stop him from getting his name into the official record one more time ... and everyone knew there was no need for a seconder to a Sheena Kalhoun motion in any event. Anything she proposed got voted on, period.

  There was dead silence as 246 MGAs took out their LieDeck-equipped Sniffers and began reading. Kalhoun swelled up her chest, much like a man might do—a young man, at any rate. She adored these moments. It was as close as the lady would ever get to being Caesar, to looking down on the bloody detritus of a defeated foe.

  This was a closed meeting, and the security precautions were excessive, as everyone knew. Still, the rules were “eyes only,” and no out-loud talk about the details ... unless a significant number of MGAs voted for that. The Member Generals leaned forward to read every word on their Sniffers, scrolling up and down and up again to get all of it into their military minds. The details were stunning, but...

  "This is an experiment,” Sheena said when she figured everyone had had enough time to read the thing twice. “We have the power to prevent war, or to prevail in any conflict that we fail to prevent. We have the power to prevent crime, and the power to find and punish all criminals foolish enough to defy our authority. Our powers will remain as they are, and not be diminished, ever. For now, this new plan—which will be fleshed out in due course—is proposed for a five-year trial period. If it succeeds, we extend it, amplify it. If it fails, we simply rescind it. And if it fails, then we were right to do what we did with reservations. I have a number of reservations myself, and I'm sure most of you do too. However, in the absence of discussion, I will call the question. Since I am confident most of you will agree with me, let all those who oppose the resolution stand ... now."

  No one stood. The representatives were in shock. Only the Syrian MGA raised his hand, and that only to request a recorded vote. A half hour of wasted time, Kalhoun felt. “I think not,” she said. “Meeting adjourned, with my thanks."

  Chapter 49

  A'HUNTING WE WILL GO

  Thursday, March 17, 2033—11:40 a.m.

  "The trick is not to make any sound,” said Lars as Lilly sat beside him at the counter in the E-tery, “but the really hard part is, like, to not laugh, eh?"

  Lilly wished Lars would drop the teen-talk, the “like” that seemed to fall into the middle of any old phrase, and the ever-present Canadian “eh?” at the ends of sentences. She was grateful for the delaying tactic that his unusual invitation had provided for her, but she was unsure whether there were other reasons why she had accepted to go on a “hunting” trip with the boy. She also had to wonder if she would have made the decision to go if she hadn't just toked up, but she had always assumed that her judgment was as good under the influence as not. And that “not laughing” bit ... well, she didn't even ask.

  "Nice boots,” said Lars, looking down, noticing the boots in passing—after checking out her ass and her long legs. “New?"

  Lilly just nodded. She knew his interest in her was sexual, but that was just Lars. His interest in every woman was sexual, but he was a committed Human Three, and would never even consider “coming on” to her ... or to anyone. She also knew that Victor-E was unofficially opposed to the sport of hunting, but she had a pretty good sense that Lars was holding something back, planning some kind of a surprise. He smiled at her the way he'd done the first time they'd met, the way he did every time they met nowadays. He looked plain goofy in his plaid shirt with a florescent orange “don't-shoot-me” vest over top. She touched her own vest pocket—she was wearing a normal vest—to double-check that her Sniffer was there. It was.

  Not ... laugh? Lilly repeated in her mind as Lars finished his coffee. What's that all about? She hadn't done anything this spontaneous for a long time—well, not since flying off to the Caribbean—and this young man was so persistent ... and charming, I suppose, in a limited-IQ sort of way.

  "Where ya going in that get-up,” asked one of Lars’ Normal friends—acquaintances, really—from the town of Shawville, a regular local who wore plaid shirts for real, not so's he'd look like a local. He seemed to be about thirty, and he was slumped at a table drinking beer alone, looking for all the world like life had bored him to distraction.

  "Hunting,” said Lars emphatically, almost proudly. He stood up and sign
aled Lilly to follow him through the E-tery. “It's kangaroo season, ya know,” he added playfully.

  "You fuckin’ Evolutionaries couldn't follow a menstruating elephant through three feet o’ snow,” said the local as he scraped mindlessly at the label on his beer bottle.

  Lars ignored the comment; just walked on.

  He made Lilly turn her back and wait in the hall beside the kitchen while he nipped into the restaurant's larder. He emerged a minute layer with a length of string, a two-foot square cardboard box and a brown paper bag with something in it. As they walked down the Mainspoke, around the rim of the hub and out Spoke North, Lars would periodically rattle the bag and ask Lilly to guess what was in it. She had no idea, and firmly declined his offer to play the “Twenty Questions” game to find out. When they reached the end of Spoke North, he finally admitted that it was bait.

  Better bait than poison, thought Lilly. And unless I'm mistaken, I seem to be the only one here with a weapon. “What ... kind of bait?” she asked as they emerged from Spoke North at its last sleepery—Sleepery #8—and set off down a spongy path in the bush.

  "Oh no!” said Lars. “Then you'd guess what we're hunting.” He danced ahead of her, shaking the bag and saying “hi” to every bird that chirped and several trees with whom he seemed to have personal relationships—trees with names—Swedish-sounding names.

  Lilly was beginning to feel silly to find herself enjoying the aspect of mystery ... and the company of this barely-twenty-something boy. She tried to take in the pungent smells of spring and limit her delight in Lars’ antics. After fifteen minutes of stepping over logs, climbing up and down rock outcroppings, almost slipping on some wet moss and dodging deep pockets of mushy snow, she began to wonder just how far it was to the “abandoned shack” where Lars did his hunting. Being cooped up in her tiny apartment with unwanted responsibilities staring at her was a problem, but it was perhaps easier to handle than this apparent game that Lars was playing.