The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "Right,” said Helen. “Listen, here's an idea, Cam. What do you say we start the sale now, to ease the pressure?"

  "Good idea,” said Cam, “if the cops will go along with it."

  Helen Kozinski had called in twelve of her female security officers at 2:00 a.m., when it seemed that the situation could get difficult. The “chick brigade,” as they jokingly called themselves, usually escorted visitors to their destinations within the corporate office tower or the factory. They had been trained to perform reasonable facsimiles of the world's most adorable personalities, but each one of them was an expert in the martial arts, armed ... and dangerous if provoked.

  They had charmed most of the would-be customers in the lineup by this time. Four of these agents were now perched in the circular security booth in the front lobby, ready to accept payment and hand over the coveted devices. The police supported the decision to start the sale early, so Helen went outside to give the word.

  "Ladies and gentlemen,” she said into the battery-powered megaphone, “I would like to thank you once again for your patience and understanding. We have decided to begin sales immediately and—"

  There was no way she could finish her announcement. The crowd roared its approval, and Helen had difficulty getting them to quiet down so she could explain the rule about only cash or credit cards.

  By 6:00 a.m., everyone who had been in the original lineup had been served—even the frightened man who had to make six trips. For a while, the lineup had shrunk to about forty people, but just after 7:00 a.m. it started to grow again ... and now there were more than 400 new people, including many women, waiting to get in the door and purchase a LieDeck or ten. Helen decided to take a short break, and after a trip to the washroom, she went up to Gauthier's office, where Cam and Laurent were discussing a plan for the new LieDeck casing and keeping vigilant eyes on events below.

  "How's it going down there?” asked Cam.

  "Okay,” said Helen through a yawn. “Everything's under control. I get the impression that lots of those people are scalpers. They heard about media guys selling their LieDecks for thousands of dollars apiece and they want in on the action."

  "How many have we sold?” asked Laurent.

  "Almost two thousand,” said Helen. “Can you imagine? Two million dollars in sales before frigging breakfast! If this keeps up, we'll be out of stock by noon. Advance-order customers are going to scream at us when they hear about the sale at the door. We've got ninety-seven thousand people on the waiting list, last I heard—all pre-paid. It's not fair to them. What do you want me to do?"

  "Keep selling until ten o'clock,” said Cam. “We'll get every radio station in town to tell people not to come here, starting as soon as we can call them with our message. We can say we don't have any more in stock. Tell the police what we're planning."

  "Okay,” said Helen, “but make really sure that whoever does the phoning to the radio stations doesn't know it's a lie. The media have LieDecks, or they could tape the call and check it out with a LieDeck later, or with Bell Tel's nine-six-seven-LIEDECK service. They could find out, and we could become the story, you know what I mean? Whiteside whopper: company lies about lie detector supply."

  "Christ,” said Cam, “you're right. Life's getting too damned honest for my taste."

  Helen went back to the lobby and continued to oversee the sale of the LieDecks. Cam found an agent who had just returned from his holidays and didn't know there were still thousands of LieDecks in stock. He asked him to call the radio stations. Life was getting too complicated.

  By 8:00 a.m., Laurent and Cam had done what had to be done. The sun was up, and tensions were down. They felt they were no longer needed on-site, and agreed that they deserved a little shut-eye. As they were putting away their notes, a thud was heard from outside. They jumped up to look out the window. A block away, to the north, fire could be seen, or at least the smoke from a fire.

  "What the hell was that?” hollered Helen into her walkie-talkie as she ran to the front of the lobby and peered through the glass doors.

  "Helen, this is Ted, up on the roof,” came a voice. “I got it all on video. It was a brand new Cadillac, black, chauffeur-driven. It was driving real slowly north on Falcon Avenue when bang, it just blew up. I'm sure we got the plate on tape. The cops are heading there now. Whoever was in that car has to be dead. I guess somebody didn't want somebody else to have a LieDeck. Should I keep rolling?"

  "Bring that tape to Gauthier's office,” ordered Cam into his walkie-talkie. “For sure it'll be needed by the cops. Put in a blank tape and leave the camera trained on the scene. Helen, are you listening?"

  "Go ahead,” she said from the lobby.

  "Stop the sale immediately. Take the receipts up to the safe. I'll meet you there after I call Randall. We got a major PR problem, at the very least."

  Chapter 47

  BEAT IT

  It was mid-morning, and the sun was slashing through the venetian blinds, trying to cheer up a still-somber situation. Randall sat beside Annette's bed and looked down quietly at her face, drugged or asleep—restful, in any event. He had intended to visit earlier, but he hadn't managed, and now that he was finally able to make it, he worried he was wasting his valuable time doing ... well, doing nothing, as it happened.

  "She seems so peaceful,” he whispered to Nancy. “It would be a shame to wake her."

  "Then don't, dammit,” said Annette with her eye still closed. “You're going to give me another frigging needle, aren't you?” she groaned.

  "It's ... Randall Whiteside,” he said as he took her hand in his.

  "Oh ... sorry.” Annette smiled as she peeked at him with her good eye. “I figured you were one of the gazillion doctors I see every day. I've been giving them a hard time, I'm afraid. So, how are things over at the LieDeck factory?"

  "Good, good,” lied Randall. “The LieDeck Assessment Program is making progress. I shifted it over to the Destiny Foundation so it can get some government money to support its work. This is one of our newer members, Nancy Ferguson. I told her a little about you and ... well, she wanted to meet you."

  "Hi Nancy,” said Annette. “How'd you get involved with our little conspiracy?"

  Nancy pulled her chair up to the bedside and told a heavily censored version of her story. She talked mostly about keeping Victor's dogs for all those years, and she talked about Victor's ability to pass himself off as a cab driver. “I could hardly believe it when Mr. Whiteside told me Victor was the guy who invented the LieDeck."

  "I had a near-death experience—an ‘N.D.E.,’ they called it—when I was shot,” said Annette. “I thought I saw Victor, in heaven—my parents too. But then I found out it was just a dumb hallucination. Steve told me Victor was still alive, so he couldn't very well be in heaven, could he? But he never came to visit me, the bastard. I'm ... I'm pretty sure I prefer illusion to reality."

  This was a side of Victor that Nancy had never seen, and she'd known him for years. She found the situation unsettling, squirmed in her chair, and looked squarely at Randall Whiteside, wondering if perhaps there was a misunderstanding here, or whether Annette's injuries might have affected her memory, or her mind. She found herself wondering if Annette was expecting a bit much of the man. But then she realized that Victor hadn't returned any of her calls either, nor had he dropped in on the L.A.P. to say hi. Maybe he just wasn't a very good friend to his friends.

  "Victor really couldn't visit you, Annette,” said Randall. “His life was in danger, and he had a lot of trouble dealing with that. He's back at the lodge now. It's been completely rebuilt, you know? Victor said he was intending to drop by and visit you later today."

  "Mr. Whiteside,” she said, “could you do me a favor?"

  "Of course, Annette. What is it?"

  "Well, I don't care what Victor's excuse is. He and I agreed to be friends a week ago, and I got shot protecting him. He should have at least called. I'd like you to tell him I don't want to see him, okay? In a fe
w days, maybe..."

  "Of course, my dear,” said Randall. “Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Yeah, beat it,” said Annette as she withdrew her hand from his comforting grasp.

  "You ... want me to leave?” asked a startled Randall Whiteside.

  "Yes sir, I do,” she said. “I like you, and I appreciate all the things you've done for me, but I just ... I haven't forgiven you for not visiting earlier. It's been almost a week since I got shot. I'll get around to forgiving you, but I'm just not there yet. Sorry ... but that's the way it is."

  Randall was devastated. He'd spoken to Annette over the phone several times since the shooting, and she wasn't pissed off at him on those occasions. And he certainly was not in the habit of thinking of himself as a jerk. But deep inside he knew she was right—he should have visited before this, and he felt deeply embarrassed and ashamed.

  "May ... I come to see you again, say tomorrow?” he asked.

  "No,” said Annette. “I'll call you when I'm in a better mood."

  "But—"

  "So ... Nancy, you want to stay and shoot the breeze for a while?” she asked, pushing Randall to leave without a last word, a hug or a smidgen of absolution.

  "Boy, you really knocked the wind out of Mr. Whiteside,” said Nancy as the door closed.

  "Good,” said Annette. “He'll survive, and maybe he'll smarten up a little. He's a hell of a guy. I ... know that. But being rich, I think it can get you disconnected with human values sometimes. I've known lots of men who were rich and powerful, and most of them suck. I'll let him off the hook tomorrow, but I want him to stew a bit, you know what I mean?"

  "Well, I don't doubt that you accomplished that,” said Nancy. “How's ... your head? When do they take the bandages off?"

  "My head's fine, apparently, but my face is a mess. The doc told me I'd need plastic surgery so I don't scare little children when I walk down the street. You're pretty, Nancy. How would you deal with it if all of a sudden you found yourself facing life with a big ol’ bulging eye and a big red crater where the bridge of your nose used to be?"

  "Tell you the truth,” said Nancy, “I wouldn't deal with it very well. Men are a funny lot, aren't they?"

  Nancy had been told by Patriot Security that Annette never watched TV, and was therefore out of touch. Nancy had also been instructed by Patriot and the Ottawa police and a doctor to not say anything about the sorry state of the world, and to not mention other things that might cause stress. So, she said nothing about her husband having an affair and walking out on her after ten years of marriage, not that all this was caused by the LieDeck, but certainly triggered by it. Annette had her own LieDeck-related cross to bear, after all, and she didn't seem to be listening anyway.

  "Can you make sure I don't foul up those hoses and stuff they got sticking into me, Nancy?” she said. “I have to turn over."

  She was stiff from always lying on her right side, though the back of her neck didn't feel as tender as it had for the past few days. She managed to turn over without creating any medical emergencies, but she looked tired, and Nancy sensed that it might be time to go, to let the poor woman sleep. “Is there anything I can get you, bring for you?” she asked.

  "Please, sit a while,” said Annette. “I'm slowly getting to know my limits, and I can hang in for another ten minutes or so. I had them cut back on my pain medication there for a while, for a couple of days, but it was too early. Boy, did I pay for that mistake!

  "Tell me about how things are going in the focus group ... or the L.A.P., I hear you call it now. Tell me about the people in the group. Nah, never mind. Tell me about Steve.

  "It's funny, you know, but all I can think about is making a life with Steve. I'm so turned on by that man it scares me. And it's not just sex either. Well, I mean it is that, but it's more than just that. It's obvious I'm feeling vulnerable, and maybe I'm a dope for grabbing onto him like I am, but after I almost died, I just ... I just don't care how stuff looks ... to other people."

  "It does seem kind of fast, you know,” said Nancy, “I mean, how you seem to feel about him, but there's no hard and fast rule that says—"

  "Does he talk about me at the L.A.P. group?” asked Annette. “I have this paranoid dream that as soon as I'm better, he'll go running back to the priesthood and tell me that he was just being nice because I was hurting and needed a friend."

  "Well, he never mentioned you at the L.A.P. when I was there,” said Nancy, “but that doesn't mean he doesn't care about you. I mean, some things are kind of private, and—"

  "I sort of think we'll end up together, he and I,” Annette cut in. “It's like I finally met someone who stands for something more than his own self-interest, you know? Or at least he did before, when he was a priest. Did he tell you he was a bishop? I figure all the good stuff that got him into that line of work is still there, but it needs a new way to express itself, you know? I keep thinking about what he and I might do together if we were, you know, partners.

  "I already told my friend Helen Kozinski—I guess you never met her; she was my boss and my buddy—anyway, I told her I wasn't going back to the security business. I haven't a clue what I'm going to do when I get out of here, but I have this overpowering feeling that whatever it is, it'll be with Steve. Weird eh? Where's that—uh—where did I put that..."

  Annette was reaching, unsuccessfully, for the button that summoned nurses, and she seemed to be breathing hard. She had clearly overextended herself.

  Nancy followed the cord, found the puffy rubber button, and placed it in Annette's hand. “I have to go now,” she whispered. “I'll come and visit you again. Take care, eh?"

  Chapter 48

  POLITICAL JUJITSU

  Nicholas Godfrey was alone in the PMO, and he was exhausted. The inner cabinet had been up all last night, and most of them had continued working through the day with senior officials from various government departments. Tempers were getting short from frustration and fatigue. It wasn't easy trying to figure out how to survive a technological revolution in a few days, but they had no choice. It had to be done, and it had to be done now. Delay would make choices for them, and in politics, delay usually chose poorly.

  Godfrey had managed a catnap just before supper, but it didn't help much. “Maybe I'm in the wrong game,” he said out loud. “I could have stayed in academe,” he added as he twisted a pinkie in his ear to erase an itch, “but then who the Christ would cope with this LieDeck ... mmmm ... craziness?"

  At 7:45 p.m., Bertrand Joly entered Godfrey's office without knocking. In his hand was a red rose. “It worked for Pierre Trudeau,” he said. “Thought it might be worth a try ... a positive image, subliminal, to take the edge off."

  "Sit down, Bertrand,” said Godfrey nervously, as he himself stood up ... and started pacing out a small circle on the office floor.

  Not a good sign, thought the RCMP Commissioner as he put the rose on the desk, expecting it to die there. He knew that every prime minister had to be tested by fire, and it was somewhat unfair that this good man had run into a multi-megaton wild one in his first week. But then who ever said life was fair? he reminded himself as he sat and braced himself for whatever was about to transpire.

  "I'm not going to do it,” stated Godfrey. “Now, before you try to make me walk the political plank, let me tell you why.

  "I realize the dimensions of the WDA scandal. I know how deep the rot goes within the RCMP and elsewhere, even at the UN. I wasn't at all surprised by that bombing at Whiteside's shop this morning, and I know that criminals are expected to start bumping each other off at an alarming rate. I also know the suicide rate and the divorce rate are expected to quadruple in the next couple of weeks. And I know the international trend-line is towards ‘preemptive over-control,’ as it's being called. And I know that some people—not a lot, but some—call me ‘The Right Honorable Mr. Goofy’ behind my back."

  Godfrey continued his pacing routine. He felt he had to have this conversation with
several people, and the Commissioner was first on the list. It was difficult to bare one's soul, and the new prime minister hadn't had a lot of practice at that. But he continued. “I used to have a reputation as a Cold Warrior during the first go-around with the Russians, the former Soviet Union,” he said towards the window, “and that reputation was entirely deserved. But I'm a believer in democracy, Bertrand. That's why I was a Cold Warrior, why I opposed communism so vigorously. Are you ... with me so far?” he asked as he turned back towards his top cop.

  It seemed to him that the Commissioner should understand where he was going by now, but by the look on his face, he didn't. Ever since Godfrey had acquired a personal LieDeck, he'd come to realize that his manner of speaking—his manner of thinking, really—was off-putting to others, and tended to obscure his worth as a politician, even as a human being. He frequently asked people what they thought of him, and now, even if they lied, they told the truth. He had a crucially important speech to make in the House, in a matter of minutes. This was destined to be his first major test as prime minister, and he had been practicing the art of “getting to the fucking point,” as Louis St. Aubin used to scream at him. He realized that he hadn't mastered that trick yet.

  "After I graduated, back in the nineteen seventies, my first job was teaching history,” he continued as he fell into the large, padded chair behind his desk. “This was back when Trudeau was dealing with the October Crisis in Québec and had his famous flirtation with the War Measures Act. I felt then that his actions were premature and unwarranted, and I refuse to make that same mistake. I don't give a shit if the cabinet was unanimous. I'm the Prime Minister, and I get the final say. Now ... are you going to back me on this or not?"

  The Commissioner felt his LieDeck tap his chest when Godfrey said he didn't care if the cabinet was unanimous. “Of course I'll back you up, Prime Minister,” he said calmly. “It's my job,” he added. Unless you ask me to break the law, he thought, but didn't say.