by Jim Stark
Everyone knew exactly where Victor Helliwell was, or at least where he had been for the nineteen years since the Revolution. Gil made a decision and left a hand-written note for his secretary, Fiona Bledsoe, telling her where he was going. Then he took a taxi out to JFK, got on the first available flight, and landed in Ottawa a little before noon. When a Customs official had asked him the purpose of his visit, he'd said: “Personal—a friend of mine is dying.” The agent's LieDeck didn't go “beep."
By 1:45 p.m., he was in the back of a Canadian cab, at the front gate of the Whiteside estate, arguing with a Patriot guard. “Who's closest to Mr. Helliwell?” Gil demanded to know. “I want to talk to whoever says ‘no’ for him—directly for him."
"Well,” said the guard, “I don't think it'll do you any good, but I guess that would be Julia Whiteside. She's been with him pretty much all the time for the last month or so but she's—uh—mentally challenged, and—"
"Just let me talk to her for fifteen seconds,” demanded Gil. “If she says no, I promise I'll go right back to New York."
Julia was delighted to learn that Victor's friend—Eyeball's old friend, really—had come all that way just to say goodbye. Without even talking to the American visitor, she told the Patriot guard to let the taxi come out to the lodge. “We'll see if Victor can talk when Mr. Gil gets here,” she said. “Net, down, now."
She met the taxi in front of the lodge, and made a show of reaching over her slightly bulging stomach to give this stranger a welcoming hug. “Victor won't take the morphine, so he can still talk pretty normal when he's awake, but he's ... almost never awake any more,” she explained. “But I know that he likes you and he'll want to say goodbye to you ... but you'll have to wait, I guess. Why don't you get some comfortable clothes—there's lots in the lodge there—I'll show you where—but just put on the clothes and come right out, eh? Nobody's allowed in there any more for more than two minutes at a time ... they didn't tell me why, but that's why they set up that big tent down by the dock ... there's stuff in there like chairs and tables and cots and some cold drinks too ... and a barbecue ... and then come and sit on the end of dock with me and with Annette and Becky ... and Noel, okay?"
Gil couldn't begin to guess what this two-minute time limit was about, but two Patriot agents, three doctors and a nurse were sitting out on the porch, apparently abiding by the new rules, by these inexplicable sanctions. Gil also had no clue who all these people were that Julia had named, but he obliged her suggestions without asking any questions. Julia showed him Michael's room, and left immediately.
Gil was utterly astonished to see a cluttered display of Whiteside-produced electronic equipment in the first-floor bedroom. It's like a museum, he thought. He scanned all the walls and the cases, and the one instrument that was missing, of course, was the LieDeck. Damn shame, he said to himself.
He chose some jogging duds from the closet, changed, and handed his dress clothes to a woman—a Patriot agent, she said—on the porch, on his way out. He asked her who was who—besides Julia—at the end of the dock, and she explained. Then he joined the three women and the cook at the end of the dock, which was a helipad, judging by the painted target. He took off the borrowed moccasins and his socks and let his feet join the others hovering over the chilly waters of Wilson Lake. Thirty or forty yards out there was still some floating ice, he noted, and that brought his feet back up. He sat cross-legged in the rising sun.
The prevailing mood, after the introductions were over, was one of sadness, and Gil wasn't inclined to start asking questions—his usual routine. He was a guest here, not an investigative journalist, and his mission was personal, not professional. Nobody seemed particularly impressed that he was that Gil Henderson, and his ego winced quite in spite of himself. They hadn't even asked why he was here, why it was so important to him, and he didn't offer any explanation. He just sat, and looked over the lake. He remembered a story he'd covered ... almost twenty years ago ... of how a fake RCMP plane—actually manned by WDA agents, when those letters stood for World Democratic Alliance—flew in low over this very lake. Its occupants blew up the lodge ... where he had just changed his clothes ... and it was rebuilt by Randall Whiteside, he recalled.
Annette Blais, he reviewed in his mind. Wasn't she the Patriot agent who got shot in that incident, and almost died? He turned his head to the right and looked at Annette's face. She was staring across the lake, at the cabin he'd noticed on the far shore. Gil could see the faint traces of plastic surgery just above her left eye. My God! he said to himself. It's her!
"The—uh—Whitesides own the entire lake?” he asked Annette, hoping to get a full frontal peek at her eye.
"It's contained within the estate,” said Becky, who was on his other side. “That cabin over there is Michael's. It was our secret hideaway when we were teenagers. We were over there the day the lodge got blown up, back in...” Her voice withered, as memories of that terrible moment swelled within her.
Annette's head jerked suddenly, as if she were about to say something apocalyptic. Gil looked back in her direction just in time to see her restrain herself. “Noel,” she asked urgently, “could you throw together a real quick picnic lunch—I mean really quick? I'm thinking we may take the hovercraft for a spin. Just go in, do it in less than two minutes, and come back here, okay?"
"Bien sur,” said Noel as he struggled to his feet and began lumbering down the dock barefoot, carrying his shoes and socks. He had no idea what this “don't-go-in-the-lodge-for-more-than-two-minutes” business was all in aid of, and he wasn't inclined to ask. He had other things on his mind, and he was actually glad of the diversion from his sorrow. I loving dat crazy son-da-bitch Victor, he thought as he trudged.
Annette signaled everyone to just be quiet until he was out of earshot, and then she said: “By the livin’ Lord Jesus, there is a God!"
"No there isn't,” laughed Julia. “You know that's not—"
"I didn't mean actually,” explained Annette. “I just mean that sometimes your luck is so good it just seems like there must be a God."
"Oh,” said Julia, still not understanding, but accustomed to letting things like this slide by so people could get on with what they were saying. “So ... we're lucky?” she asked.
"We sure as hell are, kid!” said Annette. “Becky, what do you think of us bringing Mr. Henderson over to the cabin?"
Becky's face went white. “Are you sure that's a good idea?” she asked shakily.
"Too bad we don't have a LieDeck,” said Annette. “Julia, could you please run up to the lodge and get an old video disk recorder from Michael's room? He's got all sorts of electronic stuff in there. Make sure there's batteries in it, and grab some extra disks too, okay? And don't stay in the lodge too long, eh?"
Julia headed off down the dock, listing from side to side and cupping her hands under her protruding stomach ... mostly because she thought it was fun, not because she was that far gone. She knew she couldn't go with them over to Michael's cabin ... what if the baby starts to come? ... but she also trusted Annette completely, and was glad she could help, whatever the plan was.
Out on the end of the dock, Annette was beside herself with excitement. She took Becky to one side, explained her plan, and offered her the option of not being involved.
"But now that I know, I am involved,” she whispered to Annette. “And besides, he's my husband. And besides, I think it's a great idea—and we don't have another plan, so count me in."
"Mr. Henderson,” Annette called over to their illustrious visitor.
"Gil,” he said as he stood and approached the two apparent conspirators.
"Gil,” Annette restarted, “you didn't come here as a reporter, but you are about to get the story of a lifetime."
Five minutes later, Julia and Noel came back out to the end of the dock, each of them waddling for their separate reasons. Noel put the picnic basket into the hovercraft, said his goodbyes and hobbled off to the tent for a nap.
Ju
lia explained to Gil why she couldn't go, and handed a plastic bag to Annette. “So there's a video tape recorder in there, and extra batteries, and extra tapes ... plus a biiiig surprise!” she said gleefully.
Annette was disappointed that Julia had gotten it wrong, and brought an old analog camcorder instead of a digital disk recorder, but she supposed it was all the same, as long as the thing worked. Plus a surprise! she thought curiously. She looked in ... and slowly pulled out a small black plastic box, with silver duct tape over some of the buttons. “Holy shit!” she yelped. She recognized it immediately—it was the original prototype LieDeck that she had seen way back in twenty fourteen, when Victor Helliwell had first shown it to Randall Whiteside. “Where the hell did you find this!?” she asked.
"Victor had it all the time,” said a delighted Julia. “He said he sewed it inside the arm of his chair, the one in front of his MIU, and when his mind went kerflooey and he turned into this other guy—uh..."
"Eyeball,” said Gil.
"Eyeball!?” asked Annette.
"Yeah,” said Julia. “Like Victor didn't actually know that he was like turning into this other guy, but when he did..."
Julia went on to tell what she knew of the story, as only Julia could. Annette waited out the convoluted explanations. Julia was a friend, after all, and the only person Annette had ever met who was devoid of guile as a function of her basic biology, not as a result of Victor's theories or a technological censor. And besides, this was the first Annette had heard of all this. When Gil spoke of Eyeball's remarkable contribution to his career, and of his conviction that the man who named himself Eyeball had to have a rogue LieDeck, the information shattered and reassembled Annette's perception of Victor Helliwell, and of the world ... and of post-Revolutionary history.
"Julia,” said Annette as her girlfriend was winding down and struggling over fuzzy details, “you must not say a single word about this for a day or two—until I say it's okay, okay?"
Julia thought about it, and looked as if she were on the verge of tears. “I don't think I ever ... told a lie before,” she said nervously. “What if—"
"If someone asks, I know you'll tell the truth,” said Annette. “But if you stay out at the lodge in that tent that the agents put up on the beach here and you don't ever talk on an MIU or even a Sniffer, nobody will ask, see? And in a couple of days, everybody will know about all this stuff anyway. So ... can you do that ... for me?"
"I ... guess so,” said Julia. “But if the baby comes I'll want to talk to my mom and to Michael and—"
"If the baby starts to come,” said Annette reassuringly, “you can do and say whatever you want, okay?” The baby wasn't due for several months, but Julia had heard about how sometimes they come out early, and her grip on time was ... well, it was ... unique ... not quite the same as everybody else's, at any rate.
"Okay,” said Julia. “Tell Mikeyface I love him when you go over there, eh?"
"Okay,” said Annette as she kissed Julia on the cheek. “By the way,” she whispered in Julia's ear, “we found Lilly and Lars, and they're okay, but it's best if you don't tell anybody about that either, okay?"
"Where did—” started Julia.
"Shhhhh!” said Annette. “It's our little secret for now, okay?"
"Okay,” whispered Julia, although she still wasn't entirely sure whether not saying anything was the same thing as telling a lie.
Chapter 78
SURPRISE VISIT
Saturday, May 14, 2033—2:10 p.m.
Randy Whiteside and Yolanda “Lucky” Dees pulled up to the Victor-E “3” Primary School in Shawville. This was to be a surprise visit home, so he had rented a car at the airport rather than calling for the family's chauffeur to pick them up. Actually, Lucky had done the renting, and there had been three cars rented, not one. The monks were still attached to the couple, ever since Randy became the interim president of USLUC, and in spite of his subsequent resignation and return to college. For the last two months, three of the Jesus-Eers had stayed down in Miami, with Randy—the other three had stayed up in Washington D.C., protecting Lucky. Now the monks were reunited, as were their two “subjects.” They never spoke, these monks, and because of that they were easy to forget, to ignore. There were six monks in the combined squad, so they also needed two monk-cars, one to lead and one to follow. Randy and Lucky had discussed dismissing them, but they had ultimately decided against, for now. Randy wasn't too sure if the monks would shoo even if he told them to bugger off. So ... it was a mini-caravan that had pulled up in front of the school, and three of the hooded monks had followed the young couple inside.
It was a Saturday—a school day like any other for Evolution, although a day when attendance was down and the fun level was up above normal. The din that greeted them was like nothing Randy or Lucky had ever known when they were in grade school. A veritable tribe of kids ran through the hall as the guests entered. They were all screaming, playing a kind of chase game, making a shrieking noise that pretty much confirmed their having been raised by hyenas. The monks stood shoulder-to-draped-shoulder, frozen, praying silently to God, or Victor, God's boy, to take this cup from their lips.
Kids are still kids, thought Randy, no matter what kind of school they go to. He tried to remember if he had ever gone quite this nuts with a gang of children when he was a child himself. It occurred to him that he really was grown up now, inclined to hang back and smile at this lunatic behavior. It wasn't so many years ago that he was a ten-year-old. And now I'm getting married, he said to himself in amazement. Well ... I'm engaged.
He had called Patriot on his Sniffer from the car—to make sure Venice was home and that his parents wouldn't see him before he was inside the manor. Patriot had told him little, other than the fact that Venice spent her weekends at this “3” school now—not the private school that she attended, but Victor-E's outfit, in Shawville. Randy took Lucky's hand as they watched the gleeful children rush by, and they both wondered if some day they might be the parents of one or two manic proto-humans themselves.
"Wanna play?” asked a ten-year-old kid with bushy, rusty-red hair and a generous crop of freckles. She had slammed on the brakes when she came upon the huddle of strangers in the doorway, as the rest of her gang ran off up the stairs. “I'm Chantal,” she said, holding out her little hand as if it were the real thing. She shook with Lucky first, and Randy was glad the little girl had said her name—he thought she was a boy. She shook with him next, then with all three monks, who confused her first by not speaking, and then, when she persisted, by admitting in a whisper that they didn't actually have names.
"So how does the WDA keep track of you for all that LV stuff?” Chantal asked. “The LieDeck machine doesn't even work when you whisper, right?"
The Netnews had reported that Jesus-Eers were now apparently allowed to talk, but in the last couple of months, Randy and Lucky had not heard so much as a word from their ever-present escorts, or “kidnappers,” Randy recalled one of them writing on a notepad, as a joke.
"They make us say ‘no’ out loud, and they give us made-up names, using numbers,” a youngish monk said out loud to Chantal. “They ... call me Diefenbunker ninety-one.” He shrugged. “Dumb, eh?"
"You ... talked!” said Lucky.
"It's only polite,” said the monk, “and ... you know ... she's just a kid."
"Actually, I'd love to play,” said Randy, in answer to Chantal's original question, and hoping to get back to the situation at hand. “But I haven't got time. Me and this lady are on our way to—"
"Lucky,” said Chantal. “Her name is—"
"Me and Lucky,” restarted a chastened Randy Whiteside, “are on a surprise visit to my mom and dad ... to tell them we're engaged."
"Like ... to get married?” asked Chantal, who wasn't altogether sure these two were old enough for that.
"It's also my birthday,” said Randy.
"Happy birthday,” said the smiling, speckled face. “How old are—"
"I'm her brother, Rejean,” said a different voice. A boy had sidled up behind Chantal. His hair was the same shade of red, and he had even more freckles than his sister.
"Can I help you?” asked an approaching male voice from down the hall.
"Hi Daddy,” squealed the two kids as they ran for hugs.
Sébastien Roy introduced himself, and was impressed to find himself in the company of yet another Whiteside—the famous one who, as the interim president of USLUC, had sucker-punched the WDA back in mid-March. In fact, Sébastien was about to effuse, to comment at length on Randy's short-lived celebrity, when he remembered just in time that he, Sébastien, was in transition. Any strong emotion, bad or good, was an automatic “slam-on-the-brakes,” a time to stop, to review ... at least until his new “consciousness” became habit. He swallowed his giddy feelings and greeted Lucky and the monks, with no less interest in one than in the others. Sometimes, being Human Three feels downright ludicrous, but...
"We're looking for Venice,” said Randy when the formalities ended.
"Ah, my TA,” said Sébastien effusively. “Will you guys run upstairs and get Venice to come down here?” he asked his children. “Don't tell her why, okay?"
"She's your ... teaching assistant?” asked Lucky as the two kids fully engaged their afterburners.
"Oh yes,” said Sébastien, “and a good one she is, too. She comes every weekend now ... wants to be a journalist ... says she's onto some pretty hot stories ... she loves kids ... loves people ... I'm lucky to have her."
Randy had mixed feelings about this. He'd never put much stock in this Human Three business, but he was certainly used to his sister having a mind of her own, even at the age of twelve. During his last visit, Venice had promised her dad that she wouldn't go over to Victor-E for six months, but she'd evidently found another, roundabout way to enhance her involvement with Evolution and enter transition, and by a route that her father—their father—couldn't object to.