by Jim Stark
"I was ... there,” he said nervously, “and Bishop Doyle was, you know, like ... he was doing it, or getting ready to. And he couldn't hear me. I was shouting at him, but no matter how loud I screamed, he ... couldn't hear me. I ... I couldn't even hear my own voice."
Becky sat beside him on the bed and hugged him. “It's okay now,” she said. “What did you mean when you said ‘Not like that'?"
Michael held her tightly and began to tremble as the memory of the dream returned in detail. “I was trying to get him to put his glasses on the cement floor with the lenses facing up ... you know, so they wouldn't get scratched,” he managed. “I mean, this guy's getting ready to slash himself, and I'm worrying myself sick about his stupid frigging glasses. Jeeze!"
"Come on, honey,” whispered Becky, kissing his ear. “It was only a dream. Dreams get weird at times.” She held his head in her hands, using her thumbs to wipe away the tears he had hoped she wouldn't see. “I love you so much,” she whispered into a light kiss on the lips. “I was so proud of you today."
Earlier, at the lodge, Victor had invited Michael and Becky back for dinner—"with Winnie and me,” was the way he'd put it—and they had accepted. As Pride and Joy sped across Wilson Lake, they felt guilty to be going on with life as if nothing had happened. It seemed wrong to be heading out for what was supposed to be an enjoyable evening with another “couple,” especially because they had both resisted the efforts of their respective parents to be at home, with them.
The pain of that lost nun praying in Latin ... it was infectious, etched in their minds. They found it perplexing to be mourning someone they had never met, but because they had been there, it seemed somehow necessary, unavoidable. In fact, they both felt vaguely responsible for what had happened because of their involvement with the LieDeck.
Neither spoke from shore to shore. The youthful joy of the frenzied and frigid water-ski trip that morning was long gone, replaced by a powerful sense that no one was in control any more. They tied up the boat and were pounced upon by Victor's genetically bubbly Samoyeds. On any other sunny day, they would have found it next to impossible not to share in the furry frolic, but such uninhibited glee in the midst of their sorrow was annoying, and resented.
"Come on guys,” said Michael as he walked them by the collars back to their kennels and locked them in. “Don't take it personal, but we want some peace and quiet, okay?"
Noel met them at the front door. He told them that Victor was in the shower and that Winnie was changing her clothes. “Is like dey been marry for ten year,” he said, “except dey don’ having dat big fight yet."
"We'll wait in the den,” said Michael. He felt a strong need to talk, but not to Noel.
"Can you believe Victor,” he whispered to Becky as he closed the door, “taking up with the housekeeper like that?” He fell into the large sofa, reached behind, and picked up the TV remote from an end table.
Becky flopped into a large, comfortable chair, kicked off her shoes, and crossed her legs under herself. “Well I think it's bloody terrific,” she said as Michael surfed channels with the mute on. “Why shouldn't older people fall in love?"
"I didn't say they shouldn't,” said Michael, defensively. “It's just a little convenient for both of them, you know? I mean, like they're both here, they're both lonely. They're sort of ... using each other, you know what I mean? And with Victor going to be so rich and all..."
"Well, I think it's great,” insisted Becky. “I bet Victor helps her with the housework and does his share of the dishes. Steve was telling me about the day he met Victor and Winnie, about how Victor invited her to join them for dinner and helped serve dinner and all that."
Michael didn't choose to respond to her thinly disguised advice, and sought to lose himself in a boxing match—a mismatch really. A black kid was pummeling a white kid on Wide World of Sports, and the ref didn't seem to have a grip on his responsibilities. “I really hate that,” he said. “Once a guy's beaten, they should stop it."
Before there could be a knockout or an official intervention, the screen went blank. A few seconds later, the network emblem and the words “NEWS BULLETIN” came on. Michael cranked up the sound just as the announcer was asking viewers to stand by.
"Oh God,” said Becky. “What now?"
"Jesus Christ,” said Michael, “I better call Victor.” He pressed the button on the intercom. “Victor, you might want to come down to see this,” he said. “There's a news bulletin. It might have something to do with the LieDeck. Maybe it's about ... Bishop Doyle."
Marshall: We're having some trouble getting ... Katie, can you hear me? It seems we've lost our feed from ... uh ... okay, we've got you now. Go ahead, Katie.
Lochart: This is Katie Lochart on the steps of city hall in Halifax. As you can see, Trent, the police have set up a perimeter around the building. Nova Scotia Premier Joey Underhill and his entourage were literally forced to retreat inside this building by a collapse of order that threatens to turn this civilized city into an ocean of anarchy. No one wants to believe this can be happening. There are bodies in the streets—bus drivers, students, police officers, mothers, kids—no one seems to be immune to the madness. After the midday newscast, rioting erupted in several black neighborhoods. It continued sporadically throughout the afternoon. It was mostly bloody noses and shouting and vandalism until a half-hour ago, and then things started to go completely crazy.
Victor entered the den with Winnie on his arm, dressed for dinner. They sat down beside Michael on the couch, without a word.
Marshall: For those just tuning in, perhaps you could bring viewers up to speed on how the noon news broadcasts became something of a trigger for this breakdown of order, Katie?
Lochart: Trent, we ran the same story that most other news organizations felt compelled to cover, about a controversial public opinion poll in which the LieDeck was used to confirm the truth or falsehood of the opinions expressed by the respondents. This survey was commissioned by a Professor Milton Graftie of the University of Calgary, and it was paid for by an allegedly racist outfit called White Right. The same poll has been done in the USA, and those results are even more alarming.
The Graftie poll indicated that sixty-eight percent of whites in Canada fear and dislike blacks. Apparently, we don't want to hire them or rent to them or buy from them or even share beaches or restaurants or hotels with them. We think they smell bad, have no proper sense of morality, and ought to be sent back to Africa. Our attitudes about natives are apparently no less critical, according to this poll, except that we don't know where we'd send them back to, since they were here before we so-called whites were.
Michael and Becky were both stealing looks at Victor, and Winnie seemed to be making an effort to keep her head erect, to not look or feel condemning. The teens were also glancing at each other, remembering the talk they'd had at the cabin, two hours earlier, about what made Victor tick.
Lochart: It isn't that people admitted these things freely, just that their answers were checked out with a LieDeck. If they said “Yes, I'd rent property to a black or a native person,” and the LieDeck then identified that response as a lie, it was counted as a “no.” Scientists have not been able to deceive the LieDeck, and most researchers are reluctantly saying that the methods used in this poll are scientifically valid—indeed, that the whole science of opinion polling has been revolutionized by the LieDeck, has made it into sort of a psychiatric X-ray.
Many blacks literally went berserk when they heard about this poll. It began with some teenagers tearing around the streets, screaming obscenities at white people—adults and senior citizens and kids—everyone and anyone. Then the looting began, and the first black teen was killed by a police bullet as he ran down Dover Street with a stolen MIU, brandishing a kitchen knife and daring the police to stop him.
The TV dialogue was continuing over visuals of the destruction in Halifax, including a shot of two black youngsters, perhaps fourteen years old, throwing what appea
red to be lengths of pipe at the police, baring their young teeth, clenching their young fists, using language usually barred from TV screens, or bleeped over. All this hate and fear made everyone squirm. Becky quietly put her shoes back on, got up, and sat on the arm of the sofa, beside Michael, putting a moist hand on the back of his neck.
Lochart: Within minutes of the death of this young man—the only name we have is George—a white ambulance attendant who was trying to help the boy out was killed by a shotgun blast fired by the father of the black teenager. That was followed by a police response, and the boy's father was killed in front of his wife, who was standing only a few feet from her dead son. A kind of mini-war ensued, and as word spread throughout the city, there were outbreaks of violence elsewhere. Reports are apparently coming in to police headquarters by the hundreds.
There are at least a dozen fires burning in the city, but Alpha has learned that the Halifax fire chief almost pulled his men back to their stations. It seems that one fireman was fired on by a rifle about ten minutes ago, about five forty-five p.m., as he and his mates tried to put out a fire in the home of a black family—a fire that had allegedly been started by white teenagers in retaliation for some other provocation that had happened minutes before.
The visuals were horrifying: fires, looting, a female police officer with blood fairly streaming from a gash behind her ear, where the scalp had been partly peeled off. Victor was the only person in the den whose eyes never left the TV.
Marshall: Have things begun to settle down yet?
Lochart: It's really hard to tell, Trent, what with nobody talking to anybody. The Prime Minister has ordered everybody to “shut the hell up and wait,” to quote his exact words—that was about half an hour ago.
The police seem to have lost control in most of Halifax, and the Army has sent in troops. They've established some control in the west end of town, where an indefinite curfew has been imposed. Apparently everybody gets one warning. If they don't put their hands in the air and enter the nearest building, they are arrested and confined in city buses, under guard. We're hoping that the Army will arrive here soon, but we don't know what they're going to meet up with in the dock area.
Every radio station and television station in the province is carrying non-stop news of this day of rage, and dozens of important people, from Grand Chief Joe Norweejan to Jesse Jackson, have been telephoning in emotional messages for the black, native and white communities, begging everyone to stop where they are, to abandon their weapons, to go indoors and to speak to no one—friend or foe, the same color or another color—and just wait until this wave of hysteria has passed so that we can figure out what society can do to deal more sensibly and peacefully with the problems that confront us.
The message here seems to be that sometimes the truth, as laid bare by the LieDeck, doesn't make us free at all. In fact, this LieDeck-assisted opinion poll seems to have had quite the opposite effect.
"Well, they see to be regaining some control,” said Winnie. No one responded.
Marshall: Katie, have you been able to get any reaction from the Premier?
Lochart: Trent, I've got two police officers standing near me with their rifles loaded and their eyes on the surrounding buildings and streets. They've given me exactly eight minutes to make my report from this outside position, after which they're going to arrest me and my crew if we don't go into city hall and shut up, along with the rest of the people in there. Believe me, these police officers understand their orders, and they're not fooling. Once I sign off and go inside, I won't be talking to anyone, and no one will be talking to me either, including the Premier.
Marshall: Katie, there are reports that Native populations have also gone on the rampage in several parts of Canada. Is this a part of what you're seeing down there?
Lochart: Yes, the Natives are attacking whites and looting white businesses with their newfound black “brothers and sisters.” They are challenging all whites—especially white police officers—to fistfights and knife fights. It's as if the natives and the blacks have suddenly been fused together by what they perceive as racist oppression by whites, and hatred has simply taken over from reason—blind hatred ... fury. We've received some unconfirmed reports that dozens of Natives have been killed or wounded in the fighting. The number of police killed or wounded is said to be over twenty, and ... ?
"I wouldn't call that control,” said Victor as the visuals went back to the streets, showing Natives and blacks fighting as allies against a common enemy, and lugging off the booty of this pseudo-war. Winnie threw her man a sharp look, her green eyes ablaze, but he missed it. Becky and Michael, however, noticed.
Marshall: We received reports only a few minutes ago that the American poll is having a similar effect. Several U.S. cities are in worse shape than Halifax, and they are now trying to implement the so-called “Godfrey solution,” as they're calling it, in their hot spots. Do you see any signs that this policy is working in Halifax, any sign that the “shut the hell up and wait” strategy is helping cool things down?
Lochart: The short answer is yes, Trent. Politicians from all parties are saying that things would probably be much worse in the absence of Nick Godfrey's unorthodox approach. As of—
Marshall: Sorry to interrupt, Katie, but your eight minutes are up, and we are concerned for your safety. Thanks for your report.
We return now to our chief Ottawa correspondent, Lorne Chambers, who is standing by in the lobby of Parliament, one place where the Army is firmly in control now. Lorne, this horrifying event does seem to be peaking, in Canada, anyway. I realize that the cabinet is in emergency session at this time, but is there any indication the Prime Minister will make another public statement, another appeal for calm?
Chambers: Trent, the word “extraordinary” is much too weak to describe the radical ideas that are flying around here. The consensus among journalists is that we're going to live under martial law for the next while—indeed, for the foreseeable future. I've been told that Prime Minister Godfrey may be coming out soon to ... excuse me, Trent, but he's coming out now. Prime Minister ... Prime Minister, can you tell us whether—
Click.
Victor had picked up the remote and turned off the TV.
"What the hell are you doing?” Michael said angrily as he reached to grab the remote from Victor.
"Dinner's ready,” said Victor as he put the remote in his pocket. “Shall we eat?"
"Jesus Christ, Victor, turn on the fucking TV,” shouted Michael.
"Michael,” said Victor soothingly, “you're in my home, and I say the TV goes off. Dinner's ready, and Winnie and I are hungry, and you probably are too. My friend Noel put a lot of effort into making us a nice meal. Come on. Let's eat."
"Don't you want to know what Godfrey says?” asked Becky.
"I already know,” said Victor sadly, “and so do you, I suspect. He ... has no choice. We're going to be living under martial law, I'm afraid. I wish it weren't so, but there's nothing I can do about it, and—"
"Christ Almighty,” said Michael with disgust as he jumped up and turned on the TV using the button on the front of the set.
Godfrey: This has been made necessary by the rise in—
Click went the television again as Victor pressed “power” on the remote. He walked towards Michael like a predator moving in on his smallest prey ... no posturing ... just absolute confidence that a leisurely swipe could snap a backbone and turn the opponent into raw lunch. Victor was no taller than Michael, but he seemed to tower over him ... or so it seemed to Michael, and to Becky.
"Chill out,” said the inventor, the man of this house, or this lodge. His eyes were clamped onto Michael's like the curved talons of a falcon, and yet their grip was cool, bloodless, assuring only that his words would be taken as more than a suggestion.
Michael almost lost his balance from the force of the words. His sense of a stumble was so sudden and physically palpable that he didn't realize immediately that it was only
internal, emotional. “Fuck ... right off, man,” he blurted out before his brain was fully engaged. “You think you fucking own this—” His mouth stopped abruptly as his intellect caught up with his instinct, as he remembered that Victor probably had his LieDeck on. Michael's sentence, completed, would have been a bald lie.
Victor simply stared. He didn't want to fight. Fighting brought no joy for him, no pleasure in winning. There was no prize that he coveted, or even valued. Fighting brought pain, and the enjoyment of pain was a typically Human Two aberration, in his view. And yet he was fascinated to find himself responding emotionally to a mere insult, wanting to accept the tiny gauntlet that had been thrown down by this barely-bearded upstart. In nature, this male-male confrontation would be about sex, or territory. He knew that if his feelings could be translated into the words of prehistoric man, the words would be: “I could take your woman and make her mine and I could drive you away from your family, and into a life of solitary wandering in the jungle.” Humanity has come a long way since the cave, he thought, but my God, the road ahead is long.
"This morning,” he said calmly, “I told you a little about my other discovery, about consciousness evolution. That stuff is far more important than the LieDeck, frankly. Now Winnie is the only person I've explained it to so far ... in full. I wanted you two to be the next—you and Becky. If you'd rather watch politicians do what they have to do, then go to the manor. It's up to you."
Michael was stunned. “I'm not sure the world can handle any more of your freaking discoveries, Mister Helliwell,” he said. “Look at that fucking mess down in Halifax, not to mention—"
Again, Michael stopped himself short, in mid-sentence. Word by word, his intensity had seemed to double, until he was literally screaming. At the very least, he was savagely devaluing his own currency in Becky's eyes.
The texture of Victor's gaze transformed from parental to professorial. “Wild boars, hyenas, snakes, apes, cats ... all animals,” he said, “they seek to intimidate with loud noises and threatening gestures. It works for them because there's an implied threat, a threat that if bluster doesn't do the job, physical violence will then follow. But I can't take your shouting seriously, Michael. I can't feel afraid of you. You can't hurt me much with your bare hands, and I don't think you're the type to pick up a blunt instrument and crack my head open. This is my home, Michael. I don't want to be a sanctimonious prig about this, but Winnie doesn't like it when I swear, so ... we don't swear here ... end of discussion. You can come and eat with us ... or you can take a hike. Those are your two options, sport."