The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  The coffee was hot, the waffles were decadent, and Michael had apparently been forgiven, again. The dogs had settled down in the kitchen, with the help of a couple of soup bones. “Da grinding of da powerful teeth is dat vurry happy soun,” said Noel as he brought out a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  "So, what are you guys up to today?” asked Victor. “Aren't you in danger of flunking if you skip classes like you've been doing?"

  "No danger of that for me,” said Becky. “Mr. Pea-brain, though, I worry about him. Yikes!"

  Victor smiled. Becky winced and scowled. Michael had obviously retaliated under the table, and it didn't seem proper to ask about his technique.

  "We thought we'd drive over to Norway Bay and visit Steve Sutherland and his new roommate,” said Michael, “that's if we can get through the media campers at the manor. Dad told me about that other bishop who's staying with him at his cottage, Bill Doyle, the same guy that kicked him out of the Catholic Church. Weird, eh? Anyway, Dad said that this guy Bishop Doyle kept Steve up all night Thursday, or almost all night. Steve was trying to help him cope with the new Bill Doyle he was discovering with the help of the LieDeck. It must be tough, eh? I mean, this guy's in his sixties. We figured he could use a bit of cheering up, you know? We're going to ask Steve and him to come with us to the Miniputt. You want to come?"

  "No thanks,” said Victor. “I still have some tapes to go through and a report to do for your dad. It's supposed to be done by tomorrow—a draft, anyway. Steve may come over later, to help me."

  "What tapes?” asked Becky.

  Victor wasn't altogether sure that he should get into this with Becky, or even with Michael, for that matter. But if young people couldn't get excited about consciousness evolution, then the whole point and purpose behind the LieDeck might be lost, and all the suffering and anxiety that people were experiencing might be for naught. He decided to tell them.

  "Well,” he said very seriously, “when I spent all those years building the C.V.A. with George Cluff, and all those additional years developing the LieDeck on my own, I wasn't particularly interested in catching liars or criminals, or in making money, for that matter. I'm quite surprised no one has asked about my motivation.

  "You see, human beings, as we are now, are just one step along the way, like Homo erectus was a step en route to Homo sapiens. You've studied that in school, I'm sure. Well, I believe—let me rephrase that; I try never to use the word ‘believe'—I have come to the conclusion that by removing illusion, which the LieDeck will do in time, we open the door for the next stage of human evolution ... human consciousness evolution, at any rate. A pre-rational human, what I call a Human One—capital “H” on “Human” and One with a capital “O"—or with the numeral “1” I suppose—was a purely instinctive being, same as a dog or a cat or any other animal. Well, they had brains, of course, but like all of the other animals, the instinct said what to do through the animal's emotions, so the brain just served to figure out how to do whatever the instinct had ordered. In other words, they were instinctive. Homo sapiens, humans as we are today, are both instinctive and rational, which a LieDeck can confirm. I call them, or us, Human Twos. And humans as we will be after we've been influenced by the LieDeck for few years ... well, I call them Human Threes. Are you ... following me here?"

  "What?” asked Michael. “Like, after we're exposed to the LieDeck for a while we all turn into spiritual supermen or something?"

  "Superbeings,” scolded Becky.

  "Oh, nothing that grand,” said Victor. Or that silly, he thought but didn't say. “I'm not nearly as sure about what the LieDeck will lead us towards as I am about what it will lead us away from."

  "Like what?” asked Becky as she finished off her coffee.

  "Like all the dumb ‘isms’ that are floating around ... anti-Semitism, sexism, racism, ageism, looksism ... that sort of primitive thing. They stop making sense when—"

  "Looksism?” said Becky. “What's that?"

  "Prejudice against ugly people ... a big problem for some of us,” said Victor, with a hearty laugh. “Anyway, all these ‘isms’ start looking pretty lame when they're checked out on a LieDeck. There's a lot more to this, but let's just say that if you're interested, you can see my paper on the subject, at least as far as I'm concerned you can. I should have a draft done by tomorrow, and if your dad doesn't have any objections, you can take a copy over to your cabin."

  "Good enough,” said Michael.

  "Thanks,” said Becky. “I'd like that. It sounds fascinating."

  "Well, let's go,” said Michael, rising. “See ya later, Victor. Thanks Noel,” he hollered towards the kitchen.

  They got in the jeep and went bouncing off down Whiteside Highway ... too fast, in Becky's opinion. They stopped briefly at the manor, to tell Patriot where they were going and to make sure the media crowd had been told to leave them alone. Then it was two minutes of asphalt to Ray's Restaurant, a right-hand turn, two miles up the 148, a left, and three winding miles down to the river, to the cottage community of Norway Bay.

  Many of the buds were out now, and the fields were greening up a bit. In another two weeks, there would be little evidence that winter had recently decked the country with a six-month knockout blow.

  "The ducks got it right,” said Michael. “No one should have to stay in Canada for the winter."

  "Grump,” said Becky.

  There were no actual numbers on the houses and cottages of Norway Bay. You were supposed to instinctively know where things were in this community of retirees, and if you didn't, you were supposed to ask. That was easier said than done in winter, because most Norway Bay residents were still in Florida, with the ducks. But human life was gradually returning now, along with the leaves, and Michael pulled up alongside a white-haired man who was checking the chain on his bicycle. He leaned across Becky to speak through the open passenger window.

  "There's a cottage belongs to the Sutherlands,” he said. “You know where I'd find it?"

  "You know the road that goes to the government wharf?” asked the man. “Well, it's on there, maybe four or five cottages from the river. It's white ... with a black roof, as I recall."

  "Thanks,” said Becky.

  "Thanks a lot,” hollered Michael as he drove away.

  They found the cottage without difficulty, and they were surprised to see a car parked in the driveway. Everyone knew that Steve had never learned how to drive. “He must have visitors,” said Becky.

  They went onto the porch and knocked, but no one answered. A muffled voice could be heard coming from inside, and Michael wondered what could be going on. He pulled the screen door, eased open the inside door, and stuck his head in. There was a plainly dressed woman, on her knees, in the middle of the living room, praying ... and shaking.

  "Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum," she moaned. "Benadicta tu in mulieribus et benadictus fructus ventris tui Jesus."

  "Excuse me,” said Michael politely. “Is ... is Steve Sutherland here?"

  "Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, orare pro nobis," she continued, "nunc, et in hora mortus nostrum. Amen."

  "Is ... Bishop Doyle here?” he tried.

  "No,” said Sister Beth through bloodshot eyes. “But his body is in the basement."

  "His ... body?” said Becky in a hoarse whisper.

  "Ave Maria, gratia plena..."

  "Who ... are you?” asked Michael.

  "I'm Sister Beth,” she answered, without looking up. "Ave Maria, gratia..."

  "You stay with her,” said Michael softly, with a hand on Becky's elbow. “I'll check the basement."

  He found the door at the back of the kitchen and pried it open. He turned on the light, walked down the first few steps, and bent over to see what could be seen.

  In the corner, slumped on the concrete floor, was the body of Bishop William Doyle. He didn't have his shirt on, and a cross was carved deeply into his chest, from his throat to his navel and from pec to pec. Viscous, black blood c
overed his stomach, his pants, and a square yard of floor. One wrist had been slashed repeatedly, and his steel-rimmed glasses lay folded on the floor, lenses-down, in the blood, beside an orange carpenter's box-cutter. Also on the floor, a few yards to the Bishop's left, was an envelope.

  Michael turned his eyes away and beat back the urge to vomit. Must have happened last night, he figured. He gathered himself and went down the stairs to get the envelope. It wasn't sealed, and on it were written the words “Bishop Steve Sutherland.” He slipped it in his back pocket and ran hurriedly back up the stairs, two at a time.

  Sister Beth was still in shock, still saying the Hail Mary over and over in Latin. Becky was kneeling beside her, an arm snugly over the nun's shoulders. She took no apparent notice of Michael's return.

  "I'll call in,” he said.

  He dialed Patriot, and Patriot put him on hold while they contacted the police and arranged for an ambulance for Sister Beth. When all the right wheels were set in motion, Michael told the Patriot agent that he should locate Steve and give him the terrible news. After he hung up, he noticed that the red light on the answering machine was blinking. He pressed “play."

  "Bill,” came Steve's cheerful voice, “I'm still up at Whiteside Tech. I'll be working late, so I'll just crash here tonight. They've got a few nice apartments here in the office tower. I've got to go to the lodge tomorrow, Whitesides’ place out at Wilson Lake, to help Victor Helliwell with a paper he's preparing, and I'd like to visit Annette first. Hope you don't mind. I should be home for supper tomorrow. If there's anything you need, you know where the store is. Just tell Val to put it on my tab. Sorry you were out when I called. Hope you had a good day. See you tomorrow, partner."

  "...et in hora mortus nostrum," prayed Sister Beth.

  Chapter 50

  LET'S P-P-P-PARTY

  Dr. Otto Kreuzer was talking to Annette Blais as a nurse finished the job of replacing the dressings on her head. “We took out the other tubes,” he said, “so you can walk around a little bit now ... with your intravenous-on-a-stick, of course. But don't overdo it. You could faint and hurt yourself. If the buzzer on the pole sounds, it just means the batteries are low. Call a nurse. No big deal. We'll take you off the intravenous tomorrow, so you'll be able to eat real food again."

  "Thanks Doc,” said Annette. “You have no idea how much I look forward to that. I've got some friends coming over any minute, and they're bound to bring food. Can I nibble a bit today?"

  "Absolutely not,” said Dr. Kreuzer sternly, “unless of course I'm not here to see it."

  "Great,” whooped Annette. “Now, what about the plastic surgery? I want to get on with that as soon as possible. Whadya say, Ottooooh?"

  "All in good time, Ms. Blais, all in good time,” said the doctor. “Before we start in on your face, we've got to make sure your brain's working properly."

  "And ... you have doubts about that?” asked Annette.

  "Grave doubts, I'm afraid,” said the doctor, smiling and shaking his head as he read her chart.

  "Hi,” said Nancy as she peeked around the door. “You decent?"

  "Hey, Nancy,” said Annette. “The doc here thinks I'm loony-tunes, headed off to the funny farm for a lobotomy."

  "Sad case,” said Dr. Kreuzer melodramatically as he signaled the nurse that it was time to leave. “B-b-b-brain damage is such a t-t-t-terrible thing."

  "Git outta here,” said Nancy. “How ya doing, kiddo?"

  Annette accepted a hug from her new friend as Dr. Kreuzer and the nurse left the room. “Not b-b-b-bad,” she joked.

  "A few of the gang are in the lobby already,” said Nancy as she found a brush in her purse and drew it through her tousled red hair. “Are you okay for a major invasion?"

  "Invasion my butt,” replied Annette. “Let's p-p-p-party!"

  Randall Whiteside came with flowers, and wore a face that asked whether he'd been forgiven yet. He had, and Annette gave him an extra big hug. Cam O'Connor managed to stay for a while, but then his pager beeped. He excused himself and rushed out. Laurent Gauthier left moments later, after telling Annette the saga of trying to produce a new piece of technology in mere days. “If we run out of Dictaphone shells, we might have to put the LieDecks in electric-shaver casings,” he said with a laugh.

  Senator Cadbury was supposed to have come with the others, but he never showed up. Helen Kozinski had been working horrific hours, and simply couldn't make it this time. Steve was there, of course, although he seemed content to stand back.

  Buck Ash was in the same hospital, on the sixth floor. He had sent word yesterday that he hoped to be able to come to this little gathering, but as the talk rattled on, a call came in from a nurse, on his behalf. Steve took the call. He was told that Buck's cancer was in the final stage, and his condition was deteriorating rapidly. Steve tried hard to act nonchalant as he hung up the phone. “It seems Buck can't make it,” was all he said.

  "Where the hell's Victor?” asked Annette suddenly. “How the hell could you forget to invite Victor?"

  "He's right where you put him, Annette,” said Randall, “by which I mean anywhere but here."

  "Oh yeah,” admitted Annette. “I forgot. I'm still mad at him. Well, you can tell him he can visit me tomorrow ... if he's got the time, that is. I'd hate to disrupt his busy social schedule. Gee, this is great, being sick. Everybody comes to visit me, and I can act like a complete shit and get away with it!"

  For ten minutes, Annette and her guests had a rollicking good time, laughing and talking about the news ... well, some of the news. They all knew that Annette never watched television and had deliberately put herself out of touch with the world, and the doctors wanted everyone to keep it that way. “So do not mention revolutions, coups, suicides, martial law, the WDA, the UN situation—nothing like that,” Dr. Kreuzer had warned everyone in the hallway before they had entered the room. “Even healthy people could collapse emotionally under so much garbage,” Cam had added.

  "Did they say you could eat yet?” asked Nancy when a lull finally occurred. “We—uh—brought some deli food."

  "Why didn't you say so earlier?” scolded Annette. “Let me at it.” She fed her face ravenously. “Maybe I won't feel so goopy-headed with some food in my stomach,” she mumbled through a mouthful of pastrami on rye with mustard.

  Annette was also keen to get out of bed and actually stand up for the first time since the attack. “If only to get back to doing my business on a normal pooper,” she explained. As soon as she had popped the last of the dill pickles, she insisted on giving it a try, holding onto Steve with one hand and the “bag-of-juice” pole with the other. Her legs hadn't been injured in the bombing, but they didn't want to follow orders. The deli food, after a week of intravenous, had made her light-headed, and between the quivering knees and the fuzzy brain, the whole experiment was a bust.

  "I guess I'm pushing it,” she said as she fell back onto the bed in a sitting position. “Listen, it's been wonderful, you guys. I wish we could carry on for a while, but you've got responsibilities to attend to and I'm getting wobbly here, so ... do you mind? I'd like to spend a few minutes with Steve before I conk out again."

  There were goodbyes and good wishes all around. When everyone had left, Steve eased Annette back onto her pillow and watched as she wiggled towards the far side of the bed. “Lie down beside me, Steve,” she said with her eye closed, patting the bed. “Just for a minute or so..."

  Steve wanted to, and didn't want to, and wondered what God would say ... if there was one. He lay down gently beside her, put his forearm across her chest, and caressed the underside of her chin. She took his hand in hers, kissed it, and placed it quietly on her left breast. “Steve,” she said as a tear crept out of her good eye, “I know I'm not in much of a position to make decisions about my future, but I know, deep down, that I want my future to be with you.” She opened her good eye now, as she had planned to do if she found the guts to get through this conversation. “You are the most s
pecial person, man or woman, that I have ever met, and I'm...” She drew in a big breath and prepared herself to say the words she'd been wanting to say, the words she'd rehearsed a thousand times. “I'm in love with you."

  Steve already knew how she felt about him, but he'd never touched a woman's breast before, let alone contemplated marriage. “Are you—uh—proposing to me?” he asked incredulously.

  Annette fixed her eye on the face of the man she knew she could live for, and die for. “I guess I am,” she said simply. “I'm asking you to be my husband, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us ... etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."

  Steve's emotions flew apart. He couldn't make himself speak. All he could muster on the outside was a stare that reflected a great joy and an equally great terror, madly and badly mixed. He made himself remember that Annette was still on powerful painkillers. He was taken off guard by the blinding speed of what was happening, and he had no real choice but to review the serious questions he had about Annette's judgment ... and his own. What can I say? he asked himself as panic and confusion grew.

  "Sorry to interrupt,” said a nurse as she opened the door, startling both bedmates. “There's a gentleman outside asking to see you, Mr. Sutherland ... a Mr. O'Connor?"

  Chapter 51

  DYING WITH DIGNITY

  Louis St. Aubin stood on the concrete balcony of Ralph Dellaire's seventeenth-floor apartment, staring out over sun-drenched Canberra. Today was the day that the Australian Prime Minister was to have accepted his credentials as ambassador, but that wasn't going to happen.