The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "So do it,” snapped the boss. “You're the commissioner, make an executive decision, for God's sake."

  Bertrand Joly let it go. There was no point to a contest of wills with a prime minister, even if the man was acting like a jackass and copping out of his responsibilities. Joly resolved to make a formal arrest, and to let the media know. No sense in having them find out on their own, with their LieDecks, and us getting egg on our faces, he said to himself.

  St. Aubin turned away from his colleagues, leaned on his elbows on the stone ledge, and stared down. The morning sun was sucking up molecules of water from the river and flooding Canada with a promise of green leaves and warm rains ahead. Little white carts were edging their way around the Royal Oaks on the Québec side of the river. A man in a kayak braved the icy waters and dodged the last of the ice floes as he struggled upstream. Life was continuing on, blundering on, as if nothing had changed.

  "What was it you wanted to tell us about the UN, Prime Minister?” asked Godfrey, carefully. “I believe that's why you asked us to—"

  "First things first,” said St. Aubin as he rejoined the discussion. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his LieDeck. He turned it onto the beeper mode and said, “I'm not with the WDA ... are you?” He pointed the black case directly at his minister of defense.

  "I most certainly am not,” sputtered Godfrey, “and if—"

  "Are you?” asked the Prime Minister, turning his attention to the Commissioner of the RCMP.

  "You know fucking well I'm not,” said Joly, “and I resent the fact that—"

  "Look,” interrupted the Prime Minister quietly, “I spoke earlier with Cam O'Connor, Randall Whiteside's security chief, and I have reason to believe that Denthor Gütsch, the Secretary General of the UN, is probably in on this WDA thing. Now what the fuck do we do about that?"

  Chapter 29

  WE CAN ALWAYS PUT A BAG OVER YOUR HEAD

  "The two kids were back,” said Annette, “down the hall, a little boy and his sister, I think. Their parents must have been visiting a patient, I guess. Anyway, they were fighting again—the kids. I was rooting for the girl, of course, but the funny thing was, even though I could hear every word, I couldn't make out what the problem was. In fact, I'm not even sure who won, or if anyone won, or if winning was even the point of it all. Metaphor for life, eh?

  "I've been such a dunce, ever since ... you know. I got this rhino of a nurse—her name's Beatrice—and for about ten times in a row, when she'd come in the room, I'd ask her what her name was. I just kept forgetting. I think she likes giving me grief, that one. And the last time Helen was here, I sort of passed in and out of consciousness. I'd start to say something and forget where I was going, or why I was saying it, and then she'd say something, and I'd lose track of her train of thought. I know I need the drugs, but wow, are they ever strong."

  Annette paused for a few seconds, to make sure she had a firm grip on where her own train of thought was going.

  "But today, I feel fantastic, like I just smoked a great joint, you know what I mean? Well, I guess you don't know, Steve. Sorry. I don't smoke that stuff any more anyway, or cigarettes either.

  "They might let me eat some actual food in a few days, but the thing is, I'm not really hungry with this intravenous gizmo sticking in the back of my hand. I want to eat mostly just for the feel of the stuff in my mouth, and the taste. They only let me drink warm tea. Major thrill.

  "I guess ... I'm going to be here for a while, eh? On Earth, that is. I gave the doctor a hard time this morning. He told me I had a ninety percent chance of a full recovery, so I asked which ten percent wouldn't be working, and he just laughed. I couldn't quite laugh along with him then, at least not very convincingly. Not enough drugs swimming around inside me I guess. Too much pain. But I really enjoyed making him laugh.

  "But listen to me now, talking like there's no tomorrow. See, there I go again, making death jokes. It's so nice to be able to really talk freely. I'm not sure why I'm enjoying all this yacking when I don't even know who you are. I mean, I remember meeting you and you were a priest and all that, and I remember we had a dance at the Beach Barn, you and me, but are you my ... friend now? You visited me once before, didn't you? Funny ... I can't be sure. I mean I know you did, but in my feelings ... I can't be sure. Anyway, I could use another friend now. Come to think of it, Helen is about the only friend I have ... really close friend. I always make friends with the men in my life, of course, but they always seem to be sort of passing through, no matter if they love me or if I love them.

  "When I get better, maybe you and I will become actual friends ... I mean, more than a sick person jabbering away and an ex-priest or bishop or whatever putting up with her. I hope so. I like you, and I think I need somebody to talk to ... I mean besides Helen ... a man, I guess I'm trying to say.

  "I seem to ... to sort of flit from man to man. Maybe I'm fickle ... or impossible to please. Lou Glassen and me—that was never going to work anyway. I only knew Victor for a short time, but there was far more to that man than I imagined at first. I'll miss not getting to know him. It shouldn't have been his time..."

  She stopped to reflect on the near-death experience she'd had right after the shooting, on her introduction to heaven ... God ... or whoever. She remembered her decision to tell the doctors all about it, and others, if they'd listen, but not ... yet, not while her body was still crammed with chemicals.

  "Men ... seem to pass through my life, you know?” she continued. “It wasn't there for me and Lou on any long-term basis, I don't think, but then it's usually me that stays away from long-term stuff. I always put the blame on the man, though, when things come crashing down. The natural order of things, eh? The truth is, I never wanted marriage and babies and the traditional route. Maybe I'll want them some day ... I don't know. Do you think you'll pass through my life, Steve?"

  Steve's head was whirling. He had never heard anyone talk of life's prospects and possibilities at this speed, or with quite this degree of glasnost. This attractive, thirty-five-year-old woman with the gauze-encased head and the drug-addled brain was doing it again, dealing with him like he was a man, an ordinary man. He was sitting on a chair beside the bed, thankful that she was alive, but also grateful that this conversation was not taking place in front of the focus group he was involved with at Randall's HQ, studying and using the LieDeck. Fact was, or seemed to be, that too much truth, or truth too widely shared, could hurt.

  "I'd be happy if ... we became friends,” he said cautiously, “for as long as you like, or is that just me being too altruistic again? Let's say for as long as we both shall want to be friends. Am I getting the hang of—uh—not being a priest?"

  "You're doing great, Steve,” Annette smiled, “but you're still much too nice. Cut it out. Answer the damned question.” Annette tried her best to crack a grin—gave it a respectable effort, all things considered. She saw crinkles around Steve's blue eyes, and liked what she saw.

  "I ... don't want to just pass though your life,” said Steve with clerical sincerity. “If you mean that we might ... get ... involved, well, I'm afraid I'm rather inexperienced at such things. I'm—uh—you see..."

  "You're a fifty-five-year-old fricken virgin?” squealed Annette.

  "You got a problem with that, sweetheart?” said Steve, in his best Humphrey Bogart impersonation.

  "Nooooo,” said Annette, truthfully. “I think it's ... delightful."

  "I'm way too old for you anyway,” said Steve. “Besides, it's going to take me a while to sort myself out on that score, and I think I have to do that before I—"

  "Oh, give it a rest,” she said as she tried to adjust the pillow under her neck, looking for a cool spot. “I may be in an awful state now, but I still know bullshit when I hear it. If you're not a priest any more, in your heart, then you're a man, and you have to face the fact that you have an emotional life and needs and—” She cut herself off and paused to consider whether she dared to speak the rest of wh
at was on the tip of her tongue. “And a weenie,” she blurted out.

  Annette laughed at her chutzpah, and so did Steve, from the gut, to her great relief. It still hurt Annette to laugh out loud, but it could be done, in moderation. She de-escalated deliberately, and tried not to let the pain show. Then she dropped a hand casually onto his, and held on.

  "I'll bet you broke a few ladies’ hearts when you started wearing long black dresses,” she went on. “What on Earth made you decide to be a priest anyway? Whoa! Forget I even said that. Don't even start to answer, okay? We'll save that one for another time. Can I ask you something about myself?"

  "No,” said Steve bluntly.

  Annette couldn't prevent herself from laughing this time. He was getting the hang of it all right; too well, perhaps. It ached to laugh, but she had asked for it, so she paid the price, and brought herself down to normal, never letting go of Steve's hand. There was a question still dangling in her mind, a stupid question, Steve would likely conclude, but an important question for her. “Am I going to be ugly when they take the bandages off?” she asked.

  "You mean uglier than before?” asked the former bishop.

  "I've created a monster,” she complained. “Please. Be serious for a minute. I used to be pretty ... well, sort of pretty. I keep thinking I could end up in a circus where people pay ten bucks to gawk at my face. ‘See the miracle-lady who got shot right between the eyes and lived to tell the tale,'” she pretend-barked.

  Steve smiled. “Well,” he began, “Bishop Sutherland would say that true beauty comes from God and rests in the soul. And Father Sutherland would say that beauty is only skin deep and—"

  "And ugly goes right to the bone?” suggested Annette.

  "—and that appearances shouldn't control your state of mind, your feelings, or the quality of your life."

  "Enlightening,” said Annette, “but not very helpful. What would a fifty-five-year-old male virgin say?"

  He had to smile again. “I would guess that Steve, the mixed-up middle-aged teenager ... I think he'd say that if—uh—we ever get to feeling that way about each other, we can always put a bag over your head."

  Annette hooted, too hard, and cringed from the pain. Steve was afraid he might have overstepped the bounds, but as she eased off wincing, the joy came back to the part of her face that could be seen.

  "You bastard,” she smiled. “I'll get you for that."

  Steve released Annette's hand and suggested she should get some rest. He stood and pulled up the covers a bit, tucked them under her chin. She knew he was right, but she wasn't ready to agree just yet.

  "I saw Victor,” she said with her eye closed. “I ... I already told you that, didn't I? The last time you came?"

  Steve couldn't decide what to say. He didn't know why he hadn't said something before about the fact that Victor was still alive, and now he was stuck.

  "Didn't I?” Annette asked again, this time with her eye open, and with much less conviction regarding the accuracy of her memory.

  Steve sat back down on the side of the bed, and found he was too scared to just take her hand again. “You ... don't watch television much, do you?” he asked.

  "Never,” she said ... by which she meant “rarely,” she realized. “I hate it."

  "And Helen didn't say anything to you ... about Victor?"

  "No ... at least if she did, I don't remember."

  "Victor's ... fine, Annette,” said Steve gently. “He ... he wasn't hurt ... at all."

  "But the explosion!” said Annette. “He couldn't have survived. And I saw him up in heaven and—"

  "You sent him down to the bomb shelter, Annette. Actually, you saved his life. He's ... fine."

  "Oh my God,” said Annette in a tinny voice that seemed to have been left over from her childhood. “I totally ... forgot about that..."

  Steve just sat there for a moment, not sure what he could say, not sure if there had been brain damage after all.

  Annette's parents had died when she was young, but Victor, it seemed, was alive, and living on Planet Earth. “Then ... there is no heaven?” she asked sadly.

  "I ... really don't know,” said Steve, wondering privately if a LieDeck would beep his statement. “I used to believe there was one, or at least I thought I believed there was, and there ... there might be a heaven, Annette, but if there is, Victor isn't in it. He's here, and he's doing fine. Your N.D.E., your near-death experience, was apparently just a ... well, a hallucination, I guess we'd have to say."

  Annette closed her eye again and tried to settle her feelings. She had seen paradise, and now it was gone. And so was Victor, the Victor she thought she knew, the guy who gave her the big speech in Ray's Restaurant about how maybe she was only being his friend because she was paid to play that role.

  "How could I forget about sending him to the bomb shelter?” she asked pitifully. “And ... why hasn't he come to see me?"

  "I guess he's ... been kind of busy,” tried Steve, hoping to slide by the first question.

  "Liar,” she said. “Busy doing what?"

  "Well, taxi-driving, actually,” he said.

  Annette looked at him with her good eye, and from the look on his face, her internal LieDeck told her that he had spoken the truth. She didn't even want to know why Victor was back driving a stupid goddam cab. It was enough that he depended on the kindness of strangers, or the company of strangers.

  "Give me your hand,” she said as she reached out and took it. She held it between her own, kissed it and tucked it under her good cheek. “Tomorrow I'm gonna ask Nurse Bea for a big brown paper bag,” she said through a yawn.

  Chapter 30

  YOU OKAY, HONEY?

  Nancy Ferguson hadn't seen her husband, or her dogs, since last Tuesday, and she was anxious to get home mostly for those two reasons, although not necessarily in that order. She'd been at a conference in Vancouver, a not-terribly-useful discussion of substance abuse put on by the federal Department of Health and Welfare. She had stayed over for the Monday following the conference, to visit relatives.

  "It was one of those last-minute things,” she explained to her seatmate. “My boss, the deputy director, he was supposed to go, but he couldn't, so I was asked to fill in. Then when I got to the coast, I get this call from my husband Tom, and he says that two of our dogs got picked up in a damned helicopter by this big shot Randall Whiteside—that was last Thursday. The dogs actually belong to this guy Victor Helliwell, a taxi driver, but—he's boarded his two dogs with us for years, eh? He comes out to our farm every couple of weeks and takes them for a walk, but he never even stays for a coffee or anything like that. Strange fellow. I tried to call him on Saturday morning, from Vancouver, but there's no answer at his place. So then I call Whiteside Technologies, and this guy Mr. O'Connor gets on the line with me and tells me Victor is staying out at the Whiteside estate, and he says that Victor is okay, but then he tells me about that freaking attack on the Whiteside's lodge out at Wilson Lake, which was where Victor and his dogs were staying. And since then, I can't reach this O'Connor guy or Victor by phone. I just don't know what the hell is going on, and I—"

  "Oh yeahhhh,” sang the mother of four who had been chatting with Nancy since they flew over Winnipeg. “I heard about that on the news. So you know the mystery guy that was involved in that explosion thing?"

  "I'm really anxious to contact him,” said Nancy, remembering but utterly ignoring her promise to Mr. O'Connor not to tell anyone that Victor was the guy at the lodge when the attack took place. “I want to find out what the heck happened. I mean, he's a nice guy, you know? But he's just a taxi driver, after all. I can't imagine what he was doing at the Whitesides’ lodge in the first place."

  "Maybe it had something to do with that new lie detector Whiteside Tech announced just yesterday,” said Nancy's temporary friend, “that LieDeck device everybody's talking about."

  "Well ... I seriously doubt that,” she said with a smile.

  A flight attendant w
as asking people to fasten their seatbelts and prepare for landing at Ottawa International. Nancy looked out the window at the brown, wet farmland. There had been a few stubborn pockets of snow when she had taken off from Ottawa five days earlier, but they had melted now.

  "My dogs are Samoyeds,” she said. “I bet they're just soaking. When I'm away, my husband Tom takes care of the kennel, sort of. He's not the best poop shoveler I ever had, but he's free. The taxi driver, Victor, his two sammies are called Snowball and Kodiak, and like I said, they were taken out to Mr. Whiteside's lodge. I really hope they're okay. That O'Connor guy made like he was in a huge hellova hurry. He never even told me if the dogs got hurt when the lodge got blown up ... although I'm sure he would have said if..."

  The 747 said a quiet hello to Mother Earth. The passengers baby-stepped their way to the exits, and twenty minutes later, Nancy was in her car, paying the parking fee, and on her way.

  Her route home took her up the Québec side of the river. She had to make a stop at Le Général, a highwayside store on the 148 near Luskville, to pick up a few forty-pound bags of dog food, wholesale. She had decided that from there, she would cross back to Ontario on the ferry, at Quyon. It was almost five o'clock in the afternoon, and doubling back through Ottawa meant fighting thousands of federal “silly servants” driving home from work. Nancy wanted to get home in time to watch the fireworks on TV—the press conference that the Prime Minister was holding, presumably about the LieDeck, at six o'clock, according to the car radio. The ferry would be the quickest way as well as the most convenient.

  When she arrived at the Quyon turnoff, she decided that before heading down to the ferry landing, she would silence the insistent messages she was getting from her stomach. “RESTAURANT—RESTAURANT—RESTAURANT,” she read on the oval sign as she drove into the lot. What a strange sign, she thought.

  * * *

  "Oh, man, we're in shit,” said Bobby Thompson to his chum at the backmost table. “This LieDeck thing is the end of the fucking world, man. We're gonna get nailed for the break-in at the restaurant here, and they're gonna find out that Jake shot Fatty over a dumb-ass pot deal, and we're gonna get dragged into that fucking mess, and they're gonna find out fucking everything. Everybody in the whole damned country that's out on bail, they're all gonna skip, man—you watch. We gotta head outta here before the cops start in on us with that LieDeck thing."