by Jim Stark
He sat at the small pine kitchen table, pen in hand, trying to think of a poem to write, looking east as the sun irradiated the light mist that hid the lodge across the lake. I'll ... never be a poet, he thought, but I can feel all that a poet feels. He looked over at the floor of the living room, to see if Lilly's Smith and Wesson was still lying there. It was right where he'd left it, of course, and Michael didn't know whether to feel disgusted at the primeval consciousness it represented or terrified that he might have to use the thing. He wondered what Victor or Annette or Becky would say about managing your feelings at a time like this. Impossible, he thought. He looked at the blank sheet of paper, picked up the pen and put it in his shirt pocket.
The stillness was broken by the distant sound of an engine from the direction of the lake. Michael looked out the window, but he saw only the whiteness of ground-level cloud. Then it registered. Trouble.
He crouched down, retrieved the gun, and slipped into his big bedroom. “Lilly,” he whispered. She opened her eyes, and it was like Freeport all over again—but there was no time for that. “Here's the gun,” he said. “You better watch outside, from the window. It's Noel, the cook from the lodge, bringing my supplies over in the hovercraft."
Lilly had to think fast. “Is there enough food and stuff to keep the three of us for ... say ... three or four days?"
"I—uh—was intending to go back to the office in a couple of days, but—no,” he said.
"Okay, we need supplies,” said Lilly—she had no idea how long they would be at the cabin, or when—or even whether—they could slip over to the lodge to get Lars’ wrist attended to. “Ask for extra food,” she said. “Tell him you'll be staying longer than you thought—and ... and you don't want to be disturbed for a week. Tell him to bring the extra stuff out tomorrow ... mid-afternoon."
Michael ran back to the kitchen table and used his poetry supplies to write out a list of things he alone might need for a week away from civilization ... no, for two weeks, he decided. He wondered as he did it how many days or hours it might be before the WDA closed in and played the endgame. Noel will ask why I'm extending things, Michael felt sure, because Becky will want to know, and she'll ask him. He quickly wrote the names of several financial reports he had been dealing with at the office before the company went into gridlock, and a few others that were a year or more old. They'll think I'm still trying to figure out how to win the company back.
Lilly watched through a slit in the curtains as Michael went down to the dock and pretended to be nonchalant with the Frenchman. When Michael hoisted the box onto his shoulder and the hovercraft backed off and roared away, she relaxed. She put the pistol under the sheets, and decided to pretend that she'd gone back to sleep. She surely knew she couldn't sleep, but she needed some time to think—some time alone.
Chapter 76
OUT OF THE LODGE!
Friday, May 13, 2033—2:50 p.m.
Annette Blais walked out the front door of the lodge disappointed. She had gone there basically to say goodbye to Victor, but he was unconscious, and of course the doctors wouldn't allow her to wake him up ... not that I wanted to. The curtain that someone had jerry-rigged across his bedroom door was open a crack at the side, where it wouldn't lie flush against the jamb. Annette had taken advantage, of course, but all she'd seen was his back, as he lay face down on the modified Stryker frame bed. The bedroom was darkened, and in the air there hung those antiseptic smells that always seemed to surround a death. Various medical devices sat on dressers and chairs, and several plastic bags hung from a multi-pronged chromium pole, dripping sustenance and painkillers through tributaries to a tube that was attached to the back of Victor's right hand. Annette had felt tears welling up, and she left Victor's suite without having to be ushered out by the medical staff.
Now she stood on the screened front porch, beneath the elevated second-floor deck, leaning against a load-bearing pillar and looking into a brilliant May afternoon that sang of vitality and health. She hadn't been at the Whitesides’ lodge for nineteen years. It was a place of painful memories for her—in fact this was the exact spot where she had been shot ... during the LieDeck Revolution.
Her thoughts drifted to her late husband, Steve Sutherland, to the day when the two of them had been allowed into the lodge's fallout shelter ... after Bucharest was H-bombed. She wondered what ever could have happened to her old Patriot Security partner, Helen Kozinski. She never wanted to keep in touch with me, even after all we'd been through together. I guess she's happy working for the WDA ... not that I care. Annette was very surprised to catch herself auto-lying—lying to herself—after so many years as a Human Three. I do care, she said in her mind. But Helen doesn't ... obviously. Such a shame.
Across the lake, Annette could see the little cabin that Michael used to retreat to as a teenager, with his then-girlfriend Becky Donovan. The last time she saw Michael was in cyberspace, three weeks earlier, during their ill-fated CQ-assist session, when Michael had basically stomped out. She wondered if she'd been forgiven, or if Victor-E had been forgiven for the mix-up of using her as Michael's and Becky's transition guide. He's over there right now, she thought, staring across the water. And he's either basking in angst or ... or becoming a Human Three. No, he's in transition now, she knew, but he's not going to have an easy time of it ... the rich never do, except for Julia. “Eye of a needle” and all that.
Annette had talked to Becky about that bungled CQ session. The actual fault lay with a young woman who was new at CQ scheduling, but that fact didn't get Annette off the hook. Annette couldn't apologize enough, and although Becky seemed to have taken the incident in stride, Annette still felt weird when talking to her. It was as if the relationship between Becky and her husband might be a lot better if only, if only...
The long dock directly in front of the lodge had a helipad at the end, and Annette watched the backs of two women as they dangled bare feet over the lightly ruffled waters of Wilson Lake. It was Julia and Becky, she knew, Michael's sister and wife. She had seen them walking out the dock, arm in arm, when she'd first arrived at the lodge twenty minutes earlier. Julia had mentioned to her last week that she was helping Becky become more fully Human Three, and both of them were helping Victor die. Annette wasn't sure how you helped someone die—she still felt that she hadn't done very well when her late husband had a stroke and passed away ... a year and a half ago. But she'd been amused to learn how Julia was actually helping Becky. Annette had asked her—Julia—about that, and in her innocent manner, Julia told her she had explained to Becky that Human Threes work! “I told her that I'm lots richer than almost everybody,” Julia had explained, “and of course I work lots and lots every day, same as everybody else at Victor-E, but you never do anything, Becky. If you want to become Human Three, you have to get more busy and do some good productive stuff.” Christ, thought Annette, I would love to have been a fly on that wall!
Should I go out on the dock and commiserate with them? she wondered. Maybe they just need each other right now? But ... what I need counts too, she thought as she headed across a rocky yard to the man-made beach where the dock began. The hell of winter was gone for another half-year, but she estimated the water was still far too cold for her feet ... never mind those two days of unnatural heat a few weeks ago. The sun shone full force through a cloudless sky, and she wished her mood would allow her to just wallow in the comforts of this long-awaited spring.
When she reached the helipad, she took off her shoes and socks and sat cross-legged beside Julia without saying a word. She put an arm briefly over Julia's shoulders, and then she sat in silence, her hands fiddling with each other as the minutes of Victor's life ticked off.
"I don't think Michael's ready to see me,” said Becky finally, “and Julia can't leave the lodge—partly for Victor's sake and partly because the baby might start to come.” Becky knew full well that Julia couldn't drive a boat or a hovercraft and that the baby wasn't due for another four months, but she didn't wan
t to mention these things.
Annette didn't look over at Becky. There was more to come—that was clear—but deep waves of emotion tended to stretch things out at times like this.
"Noel was supposed to bring some additional supplies over to Michael this afternoon, but he's sick ... well, he says he is,” Becky said. “I think he's just sort of depressed about Victor, but anyway, would you ... run the food across to Michael?"
"Sure,” said Annette. “No problem.” We could talk, she figured.
"He gave Noel a list of everything he wanted yesterday, and some of it is in my car up by the lodge,” Becky continued. “The Patriot guys are getting the last stuff on the list, and they'll put it all in the hovercraft."
"Yikes!” said Julia. “The baby just moved his leg right across my tummy! Or his arm, maybe it was!"
"So ... how long is Michael going to stay over there?” asked Annette, ignoring Julia's reproductive epiphany.
"I don't rightly know,” said Becky. “A while more, he said. He's still hurting. That CQ session we had with you pretty much threw him off his feed—metaphorically—but judging by the long food list he sent back with Noel, he may be there for another week or two. He's got a lot to think about besides whether or not to become a Human Three. He lost the company—although there's a bunch of company reports that he asked for in my car, so maybe he's trying to figure out how to get it back. He lost the Liberal leadership nomination. He is trying to become Human Three, but it's difficult when you've had so much and lost it all ... or most of it. He even lost Lilly—he really blames himself for that, and—"
"Well, he's too proud to call her on the Net,” said Julia. “Lilly told me that, and she wouldn't lie, so I think maybe it is his fault, and—"
"He's got an MIU over there?” asked Annette. “Or a Sniffer?"
"Good God no!” said Becky. “He's never wanted any technology over there except for his battery-operated fridge,” she said, remembering their delicious teenaged weekends at the cabin. “That's always been a strict rule of his.” She knew he had a cell phone, but that was strictly so he'd be informed immediately if Victor passed away, or was about to. He does want to say goodbye.
Annette stood up and signaled for Becky to come with her, to step off to the side for a minute, hoping that Julia wouldn't notice, or at least wouldn't follow. She put her arm around Becky's shoulders and walked slowly to the far side of the helipad, as if she had some private comforting to do. “If I go over there,” Annette said softly, “I don't know if I should tell Michael that Lilly's been missing since yesterday morning."
"Well I was talking to Claire at the Victor-E clan, on the Net,” said Julia helpfully—she had materialized right behind them, like a cat—"and she told me that Lilly probably went to Washington or New York on her WDA business or something."
Annette gave in, figuring she couldn't keep things from Julia forever, and that Julia would resent it if she even tried. “We—uh—went to check her suite yesterday, and the doors were unlocked—which isn't like Lilly—and all her stuff was still there. It's kind of ... strange, actually. And Lars is missing too—he apparently disappeared about the same time. We ... don't know if there's a connection, but the WDA called me twice on the Net, asking if we knew where they were—both of them. I'm ... a bit concerned."
"Hmm,” said Julia. “Maybe they—you know—went somewheres together, like to just be with each other for a while?"
"Maybe,” said Annette, airily. Aw jeeze! she thought.
"Yeah, maybe that's it,” Becky agreed—or seemed to. No point in worrying Julia.
The Patriot agents arrived on the dock, and began loading all the things that were on Michael's list into the hovercraft. After an agent started the motor for her and briefed her on the vehicle's quirks, Annette set off, and Julia went back into the lodge to lie down for a bit.
Becky sat down again on the end of the dock, alone, thinking about the past, of the future, the turning of the leaves that would be coming in a few months, and the imminent death of the peculiar genius who had occupied the lodge for the last ... jeeze, nineteen years now. It occurred to her that since religion fizzled off the world stage and slithered out of mind, people tended to date things in terms of “since the Revolution” ... BR and AR, she considered. Everything “BR"—before the Revolution—seemed Dark Ages now ... and everything “AR” is darker still, she felt. It had only taken a few weeks for the UN to get dumped in favor of the WDA back in 2014, and Becky suddenly remembered that the nineteenth anniversary of what was laughingly called “Peace Day” was coming up in less than a month. Half of the world—well, half of the Normal world—would lay down tools and pause to listen to the alleged “king of peace” make the same old boring, self-serving speech he'd been making in Central Park every year “AR.” Why on Earth am I thinking about such stupid things? she wondered. She pushed General Brampton and the world out of her mind.
Thoughts of her husband crowded into the void—how he was trying so hard to cope with several crises at once. It was a lot for any man to handle, but if anyone could get through it and come out on the winning side, it was Michael. She had fallen in love with him mostly by hormone, but she ended up loving him for a very long list of reasons, one of which was his formidable ability to cope, his tendency to think things through and take the rational decision. She still loved him; she always would.
The minutes went by, and Becky began to wonder what could possibly be happening over there. It was just a mile across the lake, and she had seen a miniature Michael come down from the cabin, walk out the dock, and help Annette tie up the hovercraft. Becky expected that Annette would just give him the supplies and the company reports and head back. But then she had gone up to the cabin, and she'd been there for ... what? ... fifteen minutes?
Becky continued to stare across the lake, worrying about everything ... and nothing. Then she saw Annette run from the cabin down to the dock, jump into the hovercraft, go mildly berserk at her clumsiness in untying the thing, start up the engine and head back. It was as if something ... had happened ... oh God, please let Michael be okay. It brought memories rushing back of the day that Michael had forced her to stay at the cabin while he tore across the lake—the day the lodge had been bombed—the day Annette had been shot—the first major WDA shot of the Revolution proper.
Annette came in hot, and smacked the dock with the side of the hovercraft. Becky could tell by the look on her face that something was wrong. “Is he okay?” she asked.
"He's fine,” said Annette. “Call those Patriot agents to come here at once,” she said even before the hovercraft could be tied up.
Becky turned around, hollered and waved frantically at the agents, who were standing amid the parked vehicles outside the lodge, talking quietly. They came running down the dock with their weapons drawn.
"Put those guns away,” shouted Annette as she met them part way down the dock. “This is a note from Michael, telling you to do exactly as I say. Get Victor transferred down to the bomb shelter beneath the lodge with the medical staff and all that equipment. Close the shelter door, but don't lock it. And until further notice, no one is to go into the lodge except to go to the shelter, and if someone has to go to any other place inside the lodge, there's a two-minute maximum time limit. And nobody gets in the shelter without my okay. Is that understood?"
The agent in charge read Michael Whiteside's note, then instructed his men to carry out Annette's orders immediately. “What's the problem?” he asked.
"Just do it!” snapped Annette. “And have someone tie up that hover-craft properly. I made a bit of a mish doing it."
"Annette,” screamed Becky as soon as the Patriot agents had run off the dock. “I demand to know what's going on."
Annette was accustomed to brute authority from her days as a Patriot agent, but she wasn't used to people screaming at her. She calmed herself. “Becky,” she said quietly, “I am instructed to tell no one. Michael said not to worry ... and that he loves you."
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Chapter 77
A PICNIC FOR GIL
Saturday, May 14, 2033—7:00 a.m.
Gil Henderson rose to find a hand-delivered letter in his mailbox, mixed in with all the brickbats and bouquets. But the hand-delivered letter no return address. Maybe it's from Eyeball, he thought. When he got inside and opened it up in the bathroom, it turned out to be from a Mr. Wu, a high-priced lawyer/accountant in Canada, judging by the long list of names (with credentials) on the regally-embossed letterhead. There was no signature, and the letter said simply:
Eyeball is Victor Helliwell. He has only days to live. He asked me to relay these words to you: “Thanks, friend, and goodbye.” Do not contact me ever, under any circumstances. Destroy this letter now.
"Well I'll be damned!” exclaimed the New York Times reporter under his breath. He must have made a LieDeck from scratch after the thing was banned. He sat cross-legged on his bathroom floor and tore the letter into very small pieces, dropping the bits into the bowl. With a minimum of flourish, he finally stood up, threw a thumbs-up at the volatile flotilla, and flushed.
After all that his formerly anonymous source had done for his career, it simply didn't seem fitting that it should end like this. Gil thought of Netlinking with Victor, but by the sounds of things that wasn't possible, physically, nor would it have been wise, politically. There was no use appealing to this mysterious Mr. Wu, but Gil felt strongly that he had to do something to say his own “thank you” to the inventor of the LieDeck ... or to his alter ego, anyway.