The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "A mother of four discovers that her son Terry is the most unpopular kid at school,” explained Trout. “He lies compulsively, and doesn't seem to care who knows it. He's allegedly stupid, irresponsible, lazy, nasty, and unlovable. But he is her offspring, her firstborn! What's a mother to do?

  "Well, Elsa Worthington is that mother, and she has recently realized that she doesn't like her boy any more than anybody else does. She wants him to get out of the house and never come back, but her husband won't hear of it. Ladies and gentlemen, from Hinton Falls, Alberta, please welcome Ellllllsa Worthington."

  "Theme music, applause, kissyface,” said the producer. “Now wave to everybody back home, Elsa. Good girl. Where the hell's Hinton Falls? Fade music, aaaaaand..."

  "Welcome to the show Elsa ... may I call you Elsa? Now, you really do hate your own fifteen-year-old son! Isn't that the truth?"

  "Yes I do. He's a jerk,” spat Elsa Worthington at her host, to the loud approval of the audience. “He's an asshole,” she added, “and I'm fed up with people saying it's my fault. I'm a decent person, a loving, caring person, but my oldest son happens to be a creep. It's not my fault. I agree with everybody else who knows him. He's a piece of shit."

  The audience was delirious. The LieDeck had yet to beep. This lady was telling the truth, at least the truth about how she felt. Her son wasn't literally a piece of shit, of course, but when a person spoke figuratively, when there was no intent to deceive, the LieDeck remained silent. It seemed that Terry had simply turned out bad, and it wasn't her fault, and like the man said: “What's a mother to do?"

  "Okay, so we know that Elsa Worthington from Hinton Falls speaks the truth as she knows it, but there's always another side to every story, isn't there?"

  "Yes, yes,” chanted the audience.

  "Give us the kid,” shouted an old man at the back.

  "Bring on the jerk,” shouted a woman in the front row.

  "You got it!” Trout winked as he pointed to the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen, liars all, meet Terrrrrrence Worthington."

  "Applause applause. Theme music. The jerk shakes hands like he never did it before,” said Helena Wong. “Oh, God! Looks like he's on something. Security, keep an eye on the jerk. The jerk scowls at his mother—niiiice touch. More applause. Jerk sits down. And he slouches! Don't you love it? This loser has the aplomb to slouch on national freakin’ TV! Okay ... fade music, aaaaaand..."

  "Welcome to LieDeck Live, Terry,” said Trout. “We just had a little talk with your mother, and it seems that she's a nice person, but she hates your guts, my young friend. How does it—"

  Bells rang, horns blasted, and lights flashed. It was the LieDeck Live equivalent of “beep.” The audience went into hysterics. They couldn't tell if Wally Trout had made the LieDeck go off on purpose, nor did they care if he did.

  "Okay,” laughed the host, “so I'm the first victim. When I called this young man my friend, I was just trying to be polite and—"

  "Whonk-clang-bong,” went the cacophonous collection of effects. The audience loved it.

  "Okay, okay, I give up already,” confessed the ever-smiling host. “I wasn't trying to be polite. I was lying about Terrence Worthington being my friend, right?"

  "Liar, liar, pants on fire,” sang the audience.

  "The truth is that I met this young man just minutes before the show,” said Trout, “and he is definitely not my friend. I find him to be boring, obnoxious and rude.” He glanced furtively at the LieDeck on the mike stand and waited for the whonk-clang-bong that he knew wouldn't come, and added, “...but then, doesn't everybody?"

  "Jerk,” cried members of the audience.

  "Let the kid talk,” screamed one woman indignantly.

  "She's probably a Unitarian,” said Helena in the production booth. “Or a socialist."

  "Maybe she just wants him treated fairly,” said her assistant.

  "Ask him outright,” shouted a man in the audience. “I want to hear him say it."

  "Terrence Worthington,” asked Trout earnestly as he held up a hand to silence the audience, “some people seem to think you're a no-good, bottom-feeding smartass. I have to ask you. Are you a jerk?"

  "Fuck no,” said the boy, only to be whonk-clang-bonged into utter submission. The audience was beside itself. Not only was he a jerk, he even knew he was a jerk! And he was such a jerk that he lied about it ... and got caught ... on TV! This was what they had come for, the public humiliation, the open wounds, the chance to watch a fellow human being die with his pants at his ankles.

  "A classic moment in reality TV, ladies and gentlemen,” boasted the silver-haired truth-addict. “Question: Are you a jerk? Answer: Fuddle-duddle no! And the LieDeck saaaays?"

  "Liiiaaar, liiiaaar, liiiaaar,” sang the audience.

  "One for the books, wouldn't you say? Now ... here's a no-brainer, Terry. Was it worth five grand to be exposed as a human whoopee cushion on national television?"

  "Yeah, I guess so,” said Terry, to a round of laughter. “At least now I can afford to move out of that dump,” he added.

  "So you'll be moving out of your parents’ home now?” asked Trout.

  "Fucking right,” sneered Terry, only to be whonk-clang-bonged again, to the delight of the audience and the utter dismay of the mother.

  This went on for a while, with Terry's mother telling horror stories about her son, and Terry was caught again and again by his own lies. After several minutes of abuse, the boy stormed off the set—a popular move, judging by the audience reaction, perhaps the first popular move of his sad life. Where would he go? What would he do? “Not our concern” was the unspoken message of LieDeck Live.

  "Say goodbye to the jerk,” laughed Trout. “And say goodbye to Mrs. Worthington. Stay tuned, folks. We'll be back in a minute with the story of how Lou Moffat got tripped up in a lie he'd been living for an incredible twenty years."

  "...aaaaand cut to commercial,” said Helena. “Security, see the Worthington kid out of the building. Give him his check. Tell him to get lost. We don't need any bad moves while we're on air. This is our maiden show here, for chrissakes. Get me a coffee."

  Jean Proulx turned off the sound on the TV monitor in the dressing room and let his eyes close. Commercials were a bore, and besides, he was scared, big time. This was an act of desperation on his part, being on the show, and there was no backing out now. He stood up and walked around the room after the ads were done, but his fear only grew. In an attempt to distract himself, he turned the sound back on to watch the next guest, Lou Moffat, do his thing.

  Jean had met the so-called King of Shirk already, during the make-up session, and they had spoken a bit during the endless wait for the show to begin. In the smelter where Lou Moffat was paid to work, there was a house-sized steel box that held twenty tons of a special kind of sand. The sand would be wetted down, shaped into a cone, put on the end of a long steel pole, then shoved into the hole from which a blast furnace poured molten metal. The cone of sand would instantly solidify into clay, which would seal things up until the time came for it to be punched out—to allow the next pouring of slag or nickel. Lou had been working steady graveyard shift in the Coniston smelter for twenty years, and for all that time, he'd paid his boss a quarter of his wages (like several other slackers on his shift) to let him sleep in the sand box all night ... at full pay. INCO was suing him, and he was counter-suing INCO for firing him, and his shift boss was suing the union, and ... ?

  "Who gives a shit?” muttered Jean aloud as he turned the sound off again. About nine minutes later, the self-proclaimed King of Shirk had completed his stint in the electronic sun, and he'd won the extra $5,000 for not getting beeped once.

  After the next block of ads, it was Jean's turn. He wished he were stoned, but he knew it was best that he wasn't. He wished he'd never committed to doing the show, but this was the way he had chosen to get the story out ... and to get off the hook! He believed his life was in danger because of what he'd heard. By saying his p
iece on LieDeck Live, he was trying to protect himself ... and, not incidentally, pocket a tidy ten grand.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, meet Jean Proulx, from Quyon, Québec, which is just a few miles south of the Whiteside estate. I talked to Mr. Proulx on the phone myself ... and by that I mean he whispered his story to me, as people have to do if they want on the show. We flew him to Toronto immediately and hid him in a safe house, just in case his story was true. Now all three elements of his remarkable story come from the same source, so let's get the details out of the way, and then get down to the serious stuff.

  "Mr. Proulx, you told me that you had heard the name of the man who invented the LieDeck. What is that name?"

  "I heard dat his name is Victor Helliwell,” said Jean, unbeeped.

  "Mr. Proulx, you told our researchers earlier that this man, this Victor Helliwell, was at the Whitesides’ lodge at the time of the attack. Is that true?"

  "Dat's what I heard,” said Jean, again unbeeped.

  "And you heard that it was Mr. Helliwell who was the target of the attack?"

  "Dat's what I heard ... yeah."

  "Now, Mr. Proulx, this is the important one. Who exactly was behind the attack at the Whitesides’ lodge on Wilson Lake, the shooting of Annette Blais, the attempted murder of Victor Helliwell?"

  Annette shuddered in her hospital bed to hear her name spoken on national TV.

  "Look,” said Jean, “I tol’ you before when I am whispering to you on da phone, I tol’ you not to ask dat question dat way. I heard what I heard, okay? You want to ask me what I heard, I will tell you dat."

  "Jesus, the frog scored one on Wally,” exclaimed Helena Wong from her perch in the booth. “Go get him, Wally. He's got to be lying."

  "Okay,” conceded Trout. “You're quite right. So, who do you belieeeeve was behind the assault on the lodge?” asked Trout.

  "I hearrrrd," said Jean emphatically, “dat de RCMP was involve."

  "And so you did,” cried Wally when the whonk-clang-bonger failed to whonk-clang-bong. “Of course we've all heard the rumors, haven't we?” he said to the audience. “But this young man says he heard it on a short-wave radio, in a conversation that was clearly supposed to be private, and the person who said it was...?"

  "Well,” said Jean, “me and a couple of friends, Geoff and Bobby, we like to listen to da police radio, eh? And sometimes we pick up odder stuff too, and we are picking up dis frequency dat's being use by Mr. Whiteside in his helicopter ... dat's da guy is making dese LieDecks like you got here ... and he's talking to dis odder—"

  "Who's actually doing the talking?” interrupted the host.

  "Whiteside ... Randall Whiteside,” said Jean. “He is talking to dis odder guy Joly ... Bertrand Joly ... he's da Commissioner of de RCMP, and—"

  "For our American viewers, RCMP stands for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Canadian equivalent of your FBI,” explained Trout. “Please continue, Mr. Proulx,” he said, adding a “hurry-up” hand gesture.

  "...and dese two guys, dat's who dey said is doing it. And bote of dem is saying dat,” concluded Jean.

  There was no whonk-clang-bong.

  "The Commissioner of the RCMP himself was saying that the RCMP was involved?” asked a suddenly serious Wally Trout.

  "Yes sir,” said Jean, and again there was no whonk-clang-bong.

  The host seemed suddenly frozen. “Jesus,” yelled the producer into his earpiece, “do your song and dance, Wally!"

  "Ladies and gentlemen,” exclaimed Trout, “did you hear a beep?"

  There was dead silence.

  "A scoop for LieDeck Live,” proclaimed the host, to hesitant applause from his confused fans.

  "Oh my God,” said Cam to his boss at Whiteside Tech. “Call Victor ... and the Commissioner ... and the Prime Minister."

  Chapter 36

  THIS COULD BE DANGEROUS

  Rebecca Donovan was seventeen and a half, and although she was a woman and an adult in most respects, her parents still thought of her as their “little girl.” Becky often felt that being a good daughter was much harder than being a good student, a good person, a good friend, or even a good lover. An after-dinner discussion with her parents had been due for a month, and now there was no getting around it. She was sitting at her traditional place at the Donovan dinner table in the family home in Shawville, having coffee at the end of a fine meal.

  "Mom, Dad,” she said in a measured way, placing her linen serviette beside her plate, “I'm going over to Whiteside Tech with Michael. I may be gone for a few hours or a few weeks ... I just don't know what to expect. Mr. Whiteside asked Michael to be involved in some important work that's going on over there—a focus group on the LieDeck—and he said I could be part of it too ... and I accepted ... and he said this was an immediate need, and that those who agreed to be involved would have to live in some apartments in the office tower until the job is done ... and each person gets their own apartment. I hope you'll be really proud of me when this is over. I'm only a phone call away, and you have the number, and—"

  "But what about your school work?” her mother pleaded.

  "School can wait,” said Becky firmly. “I'm a straight A student, Mom, and I'll pass grade twelve with flying colors. This opportunity, or rather this invitation, is a lot more important than school."

  Her father usually did little of the talking during these rare discussions, but when he did participate, he expected to have his every word taken seriously. “This whole thing with the Whiteside lad,” he said slowly, “it concerns me a great deal, and I—"

  "Dad,” interrupted Becky, “I do realize things were altogether different for you and your generation, but Michael and I have a fulfilling and wonderful relationship, a sexual relationship, if you must hear me say it. We're not married, and we may never marry, but for now, we're both ... happy and serious ... and we're headed in a very good direction ... not in spite of our relationship, but in large part because of it. Believe it or not, he's as important in my life as you are. You just won't accept that I love him. Now please, send me on my way with a smile and a hug, because I have to go now."

  They came around. They always did ... not before their “little girl” had to spell it out for them, but eventually, which may be all that a daughter can ask of a mother and father. They hugged and kissed, and Becky knew that her mom would have a good cry as soon as the door closed.

  Michael had been waiting, somewhat fearfully, in the living room of the Donovans’ Shawville home, staring at Becky's suitcase, which was sitting on the floor by the door, defiantly. He had been let inside by a maid—the Donovan family had money—and he'd asked the maid not to tell anyone that he was waiting inside. She didn't like that plan one bit, so Michael said he'd go back outside and wait in the limo, but ... well, he just hadn't got around to doing it yet.

  When Becky emerged from the library at 7:32 p.m., Michael could tell—it hadn't been easy. He also knew she wouldn't want to talk about it, at least not yet. Time enough for that with the comforter drawn to their necks.

  Stuart Harper—Jeeves, the Whiteside chauffeur—was in a sour mood himself, and when his feelings went south, the trick was to call him Mr. Harper ... or walk. He had already been out on a tiresome errand that morning, to deliver Helliwell's two dogs to his dilapidated farmhouse, twenty miles south of Ottawa. It would have been a lot easier to chopper the animals around, Harper felt, and the same applied to Michael and Becky. As the two teens climbed into the limo, it was clear by his manner that “Jeeves” wanted to be left alone.

  "We're going over to the office, Mr. Harper,” said Michael, meaning the corporate headquarters of Whiteside Technologies in Ottawa ... well, in the Ottawa suburb of Kanata, fifty-some miles southeast of Shawville. Michael buzzed up the dark power window that divided the driver's cab from the spacious passenger compartment.

  Becky flopped over, dropped her head into Michael's lap, and folded her arms. As she stared at the lines in the leather ceiling, Michael put his rig
ht hand in her hair and quietly massaged her scalp. Then he drew his other hand gently from her forehead to her chin, closing her eyes gently on the way down. He ran a finger around her ear, under her chin, across her neck, and finally, as her arms unfolded, to places that heal, under her blouse, into the armpit, on to her small, warm breast.

  They had never dared make love in the limo, although they'd been sorely tempted on more than one occasion, and joked about it often. A look in Michael's eyes said that this was the moment, that they could keep the noise down, that they had enough time to make a first-rate memory. Becky peeked, caught his silent suggestion, and told him with her own eyes that it wasn't a good idea. Michael jutted out his lower lip and scrinched up his eyes as if to cry, and Becky laughed, at last. Michael smiled too. No one deserves to be loved as I'm loved, he said to himself. Life was good, almost too good at times.

  Jeeves—Mr. Harper—had called Patriot Security on the car phone as they rolled through the outskirts of Gatineau, on the Québec side. As he had predicted, the limousine arrived at the office at exactly 8:50 p.m. Steve Sutherland had been chairing the focus group, and when they called him to say the limo had arrived, he took a break in order to greet Michael and Becky at the front door of the tower.

  Michael had only been to one meeting of the group, and was only now committed to working with them full time. Becky, of course, was brand new. Steve filled her in on their progress to date as they rode the elevator. He escorted them to one of the apartments that were built into the office tower, where they dropped off their suitcases. And when they all arrived at the seminar room, the other members of the group made a point of welcoming the newcomer.

  "You'll get to know all their names in time,” said Steve.

  Nancy Ferguson had been included in the focus group—what was now called the LieDeck Assessment Program, or L.A.P.—at the express invitation of the president. Cam O'Connor had complained to his boss about her constant calls concerning Victor's dogs, so Randall had called her back personally, yesterday, figuring the only way to get Cam off his back was to get her off Cam's back.