The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "Well,” said Godfrey, casually, “you know us Canadians. We'll do approximately the same thing, but in our own, low-profile way. No fanfare, no name for the program, just competent, persistent police work performed by self-effacing gentlemen ... and women. That's the way our people like it. But don't let that fool you. We'll have our perps under control as quickly as you. I hope other heads of governments have been watching us, and will take a page or two from our book on this issue."

  "Trust me, they will,” said Barker in a manner that suggested he wasn't about to leave that to chance. “And thanks a ton for the LieDecks."

  "Jacques,” said Godfrey into the intercom as soon as he heard the click. “Get hold of Whiteside right now and get him to part with a hundred LieDecks. Don't take no for an answer. Pick them up in a military helicopter. Call ahead and have Whiteside's people bring them to the rooftop helipad at his office tower, so you can just grab them and take off. Take them to Uplands Airport. Fifty go to an American fighter pilot. He'll be there in half an hour or so. Bring the rest back here."

  "Yes sir,” said Lafontaine.

  "And Jacques,” added the prime minister, “tell Whiteside that I'll need to see him this evening—not to make plans. He'll be called later with the details."

  "Okay,” said Lafontaine.

  Nick Godfrey sat at his desk in the Centre Block and wondered if he was really cut out for leadership. For some unknown reason, he found himself thinking of an ancient Chinese curse: May you live in interesting times. He wasn't a particularly contemplative man, but then he had never had the misfortune to live in such ... well, interesting times. And being in charge during such times was not what he'd had in mind during the two decades that he had coveted the position he now held.

  He stood up and walked to the window. Everything looked normal ... some tourists wandering about, a few RCMP officers in full regalia getting their pictures taken, couriers delivering and picking up the business of the nation. But for how long, he wondered as he pulled at his belt and re-tucked his shirt. Will Canada be forced to opt for martial law? Is there any alternative? Will there be soldiers out there next week, instead of tourists? Will democracy buckle under the pressure of the damnable truth machine? Will communism simply implode from the impact of the device? Will life ever be the same again?

  What bothered him most about this LieDeck business was the abrupt advent of the thing, the lack of reliable information and research, the total unpredictability of the so-called LieDeck Revolution. He needed advice, and most of his cabinet ministers were either deathly afraid or oddly ill, afflicted with the political equivalent of writer's block. It felt as if a deity or an alien race had taken a fit of other-worldly pique and decided, on a random whim, to screw everything up, just to see if Nick Godfrey could piece Humpty Dumpty back together again ... without any assistance from all the king's horses and all the king's men.

  He felt completely alone. “And it's not just that I feel that way,” he said towards the glass, towards the people below. “I am alone."

  Chapter 41

  REALITY: $20 A SHOT

  Victor didn't wake up until almost 2:00 p.m. He was alone in his bed, and wished he weren't. This would be his first full day back at the rebuilt lodge on Wilson Lake, and although he was still glowing from a night to remember, he found himself vaguely wishing he was out driving his taxi—and driving passengers to distraction, if the mood struck.

  He walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stepped in, and began to sing a madrigal ditty he knew from long ago. By Henry Purcell, he recalled—mid-1600s. The choir used to sing it at university, although he was never sure why.

  I gave her beads and bracelets fine

  And I gave her gold down derry

  I thought she was a'feared

  Till she tickled my beard

  Then we were wondrous merry

  As he set about soaping down, he found his mind reviewing the evening before. When he had arrived by helicopter, just after 11:00 p.m., he'd been too upset over the loss of his freedom to say much to Winnie or Noel, in spite of the fact that they had both stayed after their regular shifts to attend to his needs, real and imagined. “The fact that I understand my own negative emotions is no guarantee that I can dismiss them by an act of will,” he said out loud as he lathered his armpits. That wasn't entirely true, of course, but it had served as a perfectly good rationalization last night ... and again now.

  By midnight, Winnie had decided she'd had enough. She had flopped herself down beside him on the chesterfield by the south fireplace in the living room, grabbed his lit cigarette from the ashtray, butted it out, and let fly.

  "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't smoke in the lodge,” she'd fumed, burning Victor with her piercing green eyes. “It really really bothers me. But what bothers me a lot more is that you and I were starting to be friends last Friday. You asked me to join you and the others for dinner, and then we had such a good time at the barn dance ... I mean, we were together almost all evening. Then on Saturday, after the attack, you weren't taking any calls at the manor, and on Sunday you just took off. Yes, I was safely tucked away in my apartment in Quyon during the attack, but did it occur to you that I didn't know if I still had a job? And did it occur to you that maybe I might have been worried about you? You didn't call me on Monday or Tuesday, then you show up here again tonight and all you can do is sulk! You want this to be strictly business—you the big shit inventor and me the lowly housekeeper—fine, that's just peachy, but I think you should have the guts to say so. On the other hand, if you want us to be friends, then you have to talk to me and relate to me like I'm a human being."

  Victor winced at the memory of his lousy behavior, and he felt a debt of gratitude that Winnie had had the courage to speak her mind last night He took the shampoo and started on his hair. He was already feeling guilty last night, for not having called Annette, when Winnie lit into him. He knew he had a terrible propensity for alienating people who had treated him decently, but he seemed incapable of preventing himself from doing it over and over. He had apologized to Winnie, repeatedly, and she had finally accepted. Then they had talked into the wee hours about the wonders of the LieDeck, about the incredible insights that were available into the workings of a human mind and “heart” by using the LieDeck on oneself.

  Victor finished rinsing off, put the plug in, and sat down in the tub to let the hot water pour over his body. He put a washcloth over his face and leaned back to enjoy the liquid memory of the night before.

  Winnie had seemed fascinated by an analysis of human nature that he had formulated ... had discovered, really ... and she had used his LieDeck to check out some of her own attitudes and views.

  Victor could tell by the tone and tenor of their conversation that she was feeling a rekindling of the attraction she had experienced towards him the previous Friday evening, when he had insisted she join the gang for dinner. It was like a rebirth of the magic they had flirted with, gingerly, at the Beach Barn.

  About 2:00 a.m. this morning, Victor had gone to the bathroom. During his absence, Winnie had used his LieDeck to check out the feelings she had towards him, and then she talked about her findings openly when he had returned. She told him that apparently she was not only turned on by him, but was falling in love with him as well, according to her heart (she meant the emotions, not the muscle that pumped blood) and according to those unerring evaluations of her words by the LieDeck. “Two quite different things,” she had emphasized. Victor had then used the LieDeck to confirm that he felt the same about her, on both counts.

  They had readily agreed that it wouldn't be prudent to go leaping into bed until they knew each other better, a decision that stood like the rock of Gibraltar ... for about fifteen minutes.

  I gave her cakes and I gave her ale

  And I gave her sack and sherry

  I kissed her once and I

  Kissed her twice

  And we were wondrous merry

  Now it was the mo
rning after—the afternoon after, actually. When Victor emerged from the bathroom in his terrycloth robe, Winnie was sitting at the table in the bedroom, pouring coffee, uncovering eggs Benedict, admiring Wilson Lake through a wide open window, looking ever so much like a wife. She enjoyed serving him, not because it was her station, but because she loved him. Her eyes said it, and Victor made them close with a soft kiss.

  "Good morning, sweet lady,” he said.

  "Good afternoon, sweet man,” she joked back, blinking her green eyes.

  As Victor sat down and took a sip of his coffee, Winnie pressed the remote for the sound system.

  "'Lyin’ Eyes,’ by The Eagles,” he exclaimed. “How did you know? That's one of my all-time favorites."

  "It didn't take no Sherlock Holmes,” she snarled in her best Brooklyn accent. “You like country and western music. You invented a lie detector. I put two and two together."

  Victor smiled. If they could keep humor in their relationship, the rest would take care of itself. “God,” he said, “I used to put that CD in my old Discman while I was out at the farm. I'd come home after a twelve-hour shift behind the wheel and put that tape on. I've spent many a lonely night with that song ... and the LieDeck ... well, earlier versions of the LieDeck."

  They ate and drank to the strains of “Lyin’ Eyes.” On the choruses, Victor hummed a high harmony. “Always wanted to sing with a band,” he said when it ended.

  "So do you think you could tell if I was lying just by gazing into my eyes?” Winnie asked, batting her lashes again.

  "Maybe ... probably not,” said Victor. “But there are people who can tell if a person is lying without using a LieDeck."

  "Really?” asked Winnie, who still didn't have the hang of not needing a LieDeck, of not challenging the veracity of friends as a manner of speaking.

  "Aphasia,” said Victor—he knew she wasn't questioning his honesty when she'd said “really"—she just meant he should explain. “It's called receptive or global aphasia. It's a psychiatric disorder associated with problems in the left temporal lobe, and aphasiacs are incapable of understanding words, so they develop an extreme sensitivity to the meaning of what people are saying from the tone of their speech, the involuntary expressiveness and feeling that goes along with words, the ‘paraverbal,’ it's called. And they seem to do it much the way a dog understands some things that people say or mean, but more so."

  "Amazing,” said Winnie. “Where'd you learn all that?"

  "I read about it in a weird medical book called The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, by Oliver Sacks. There's apparently a truism that you can't lie to an aphasiac. One day, this Dr. Sacks walked into the aphasia ward of the hospital where he worked, and all the patients were laughing hysterically. It seems that Richard Nixon—he was president at the time—was making a speech on TV—something about the Vietnam War, I think—and these aphasia patients knew that he was being disingenuous, even though they hadn't the slightest clue what he was talking about. So they were—like—cracking up."

  "You're kidding,” said Winnie, who realized after the fact that her exclamation was beepable, and represented yet another pre-LieDeck speech pattern that would eventually collect an unheralded cultural death.

  "God's own truth,” swore Victor. “Now there's an expression that will fall out of use, eh? ‘God's own truth'?"

  "You know what I heard on the radio this morning?” said Winnie.

  "What?” asked Victor.

  "There's a new nine-six-seven number you can call ... 1-967-LIEDECK ... and you can get something verified with a LieDeck anywhere in Canada, over the phone! It'll be in the United States in a few days. They must've bought some of those LieDecks that Mr. Whiteside gave to reporters. Anyway, it's twenty dollars a call, plus six dollars a minute for as long as you stay on the line. Apparently they're flooded with requests. It goes right on your phone bill."

  "Oh my God,” said Victor. “Now it's really begun."

  Chapter 42

  HICK HEAVEN

  The focus group had been working twelve-hour days in a large room at the headquarters of Whiteside Technologies, in an urgent effort to understand the LieDeck, with dwindling hope that events might not fly out of control. However, under the able leadership of Steve Sutherland, a clear picture was beginning to emerge, aided in part by the headlines in the daily newspapers.

  In the short term, it seemed that the LieDeck spelled serious trouble on almost every front. Many politicians were in hot water, business scams were being exposed daily, and sex scandals were now a dime a dozen. The advantages offered by the LieDeck were real but long-term, and they seemed doubtful in value compared to the chaos that was likely to be injected into most areas of life in the “here and now.” Humanity, it seemed certain, was going to have a very difficult time coping with the thing. The irony, of course, was that hundreds of thousands of people were clamoring to get LieDecks as soon as possible, in spite of the danger, in spite of world events.

  Everyone now referred to the focus group as the LieDeck Assessment Program, or L.A.P. New members had been recruited, and specific tasks had been assigned to seven subgroups.

  One of these subgroups, headed by “Chairman Steve,” was set up to assess the impact of the LieDeck on belief systems and public morale. Another group, headed by the legal team at Whiteside Tech, was asked to gauge the effects the LieDeck would likely have on the court system and law enforcement. Nancy Ferguson had insisted on joining the group that was asked to study the pressures that the LieDeck would bring to bear on marriage and the family. Another subgroup was looking into the economic forces that would be affected or unleashed by the LieDeck. Eight men and one lone woman had volunteered to examine the influence of the LieDeck on the political process.

  Most of the new members of the L.A.P. were outside specialists. There was a team of eminent sociologists and psychologists from the University of Ottawa and cross-town Carleton University. They had been asked to outline the expected effects of the LieDeck on society at large, and on the mental stability of individuals within society. Of course Michael Whiteside and Becky Donovan were also members of the L.A.P., and they had been asked to sum up their thoughts and feelings on how the youth of the country—well, the youth of all countries, really—might react to the LieDeck in terms of their personal relationships, education and careers.

  And everyone was waiting to see what might be on those three reel-to-reel tapes that Victor had made over a twelve-year period, a period during which he was the only person alive with a reason to ask himself the questions that had now seized the attention of the L.A.P.... and the whole world. Rumor had it that although he had promised to turn them over, then promised to write a report himself with the help of Chairman Steve, there was a strong reluctance on the part of the inventor to let these tapes go, to personally confront the consequences of what he had started.

  The overall group had grown from the original twenty members to fifty. Some of those who had been involved since its formation three days ago were already suffering burnout. Randall Whiteside had told everyone to take this afternoon off, if they could, but there was to be a meeting that evening at seven o'clock at which all seven subgroups were to present their preliminary observations and recommendations, verbally and in writing.

  Michael and Becky had been working on their report in one of the company's unused labs, with help from a secretary whose normal duties were in the advertising department of Whiteside Technologies. They felt reasonably satisfied with the conclusions they had reached and the usefulness of their suggestions. Becky had only been at it for a day, but she had worked hard and contributed much to a report that Michael had begun alone. Like everyone in the L.A.P., they needed a rest.

  "Look,” pleaded Michael, “all's I'm saying is let's you and me crack this pop-stand for a couple of hours. There's no reason why we—"

  "Crack this pop-stand?” squealed Becky in disbelief. “I thought I actually heard you say ‘crack this pop-stand.’ You didn't
say that, did you?"

  "Beckeeyyeeyyeeyy,” whined Michael as he pretended to bash his forehead on the blacktopped lab desk. “Our report is done. It's not even due until seven o'clock, so let's take a break is all I'm saying."

  Becky usually melted when he whimpered like that, but she and Michael had been entrusted with an important aspect of the work, and she wanted badly to do it right, and make a difference. It was already 3:00 p.m., and the mature decision, she felt, was to stay.

  "Our report isn't actually done, Michael,” she said. “It's dictated. It hasn't even been proofread. It has to be checked one last time. I want to submit a document that's ... you know ... like ... polished. You're always—"

  "We're talking homemade frigging pies here,” explained Michael as he jumped up and danced wildly around her, wiggling his fingers, “pies that win blue ribbons at county fairs, smooth vanilla ice cream that people get addicted to. We're talking golden French fries, sizzled to perfection in one-hundred-proof cholesterol, green overalls, permanently dirty fingernails, wild-assed conversations that fly around from table to table. This is hick heaven we're talkin’ here, honey."

  Becky said nothing as she struggled to choose between a heavy sulk and a sharp rabbit punch to the kidneys. Michael saw the chink in her armor and leapt in to close the deal.

  "It's on the highway, right at the Quyon turnoff, near the estate, and it's unbelievable that you've never even been in there. We chopper out to the dock at the lodge: that's like fifteen minutes. We grab the boat over to my cabin: another two minutes. We get into our grubbies: two more minutes. We boat back to the lodge, grab the jeep, and we're at Ray's by four o'clock. We stay an hour, have a wonderful, fattening meal, then we just reverse ourselves, and we're back here by five thirty, five forty-five tops—to check our report. Come on ... puleeease ... Beckyyyyyy,” he begged, on his knees, now.