by Jim Stark
He closed his eyes and felt a flood of sorrow sweep over him, like the downwash of a helicopter. He would have to forego the conversation they'd surely have a year from now, in a Human Three setting. Sexual attraction was grounded irretrievably in instinct, and no amount of attitude-adjustment would make that chemistry happen where it wasn't to be, or go away when it did occur. Martha Worth was simply not sexy. But ... on every other level, she was a “humdinger,” as his father used to say ... a real beauty.
Victor wanted to tell her that as he stared at the inside of his closed eyelids, felt her patting and brushing, heard her fiddling with the tools of her trade. He wanted to talk to her about how Human Three Consciousness would banish looksism to the dustbin of history, along with most of the other Human Two “isms.” He wanted to talk to her about blindness, like the color blindness that Human Threes would experience towards visible minorities. He wanted to explain the “appearance blindness” that ought to emerge in the next few years, about the possibility that the person of Martha Worth could, at least theoretically, be treated exactly the same whether it inhabited the body of a drop-dead gorgeous twenty-one-year-old white supermodel or a withered and weathered Ugandan grandma.
The time isn't right, he said to himself as Martha touched up his eyebrows. Maybe a year from now she'd see him again and throw her arms around him and bear-hug him until he burped or cried for mercy, all to say thanks ... thanks for the LieDeck, for the quality of her life in the new LieDeck society, the new Human Three society.
I really must get to work on those God damned tapes, he scolded himself silently. He had expected to have a year or so to work on that aspect of things, with professional help from a skilled team of writers and social scientists. He wasn't sure why he seemed to be procrastinating on that critical front. Yes, circumstances had gotten in the way, and it was difficult to focus his attention with all the troubling developments that were connected to the LieDeck. But still, he knew he was avoiding this difficult job, and he resolved anew to LieDeck-verify his reasons the next time he was alone.
"Want any special effects?” Martha asked as she snipped away at the tumbleweeds that grew out of his ears.
"Like what?” Victor asked, opening his eyes again.
"Oh, I could give you a pimple or a liver spot or a scar or even a missing tooth,” she said as she peered into his left ear.
"How do you do a missing tooth?” he asked.
"Pliers,” blinked Martha as she walked over to her countertop and fished around for some mislaid utensil.
"Pass,” chuckled Victor.
About an hour later, he was standing in front of a three-sided mirror in full uniform, checking out the armed enforcer he had become. Over the reflection of his shoulder, he caught the eyes of his new ... acquaintance, he supposed ... and he wished the situation had allowed them to use the past hour to become friends, or at least to explore each other to the extent that an actual friendship might have been considered.
"Is my gun loaded?” he asked.
"Yeah right,” said Martha, rolling her eyes and turning to attend to her messy counter-top. “Just what the world needs! Victor freakin’ Helliwell with a loaded gun."
Victor tugged lapels and fiddled with his police cap, looking for just the right angle, mostly to pretend that he hadn't heard what she'd just said, or hadn't really taken offence. She was probably kicking herself internally for having said something that could be taken as a serious jab. Or, then again, maybe she really did have a mean streak.
Life's too short to figure all these things out, he thought. No, he corrected himself, that's not right. A couple of Human Threes would have dealt with it in ten seconds flat if the hurt were unintended. She would say, “Oops, that sounded awful, eh?” and he'd say, “Up your nose with a rubber hose,” or some similar absolution, and it would be rubbed out, repaired, forgotten, forgiven, converted into laughter. And if injury was intended? he wondered. A minute, he estimated, or maybe two.
"Thanks a ton,” he said cheerily as he turned to leave.
"Break a leg,” said Martha, trying not to sound literal.
* * *
As he strode into the Ottawa General, he was amused by the looks he got from patients, visitors, and staff. It wasn't fear or hostility. It was different from anything he had ever experienced. It's a kind of morbid curiosity and awe that goes along with the right to terminate a human life, he supposed. “Do people always gawk at the police that way?” he asked his escort, one Sergeant O'Neil.
"Yep,” was the only explanation he got.
As they passed through the police checkpoint on the eighth floor, Annette's floor, Victor saw a reporter who looked like she'd been camped there for a long time. “When are we going to be able to talk to Annette Blais?” she asked. “Would you take a note to her?” Her camera equipment was heaped on the floor, as was her cameraman, and by the pitiful looks on their faces, they didn't expect the police or anyone else to cooperate.
There was something about the woman that seemed familiar, but Victor couldn't place her. “What's your name?” he asked, trying hard to sound appropriately gruff.
"Paula Choquette, Alpha News,” answered the reporter, “and I've been trying to talk to Ms. Blais since last Monday, two days after she got shot. Tell her I'll respect her wishes—whatever she wants. All I need is a couple of minutes."
Victor felt an explosion of adrenaline as he recognized her as the woman who had interviewed his old friend George Cluff back in 2002, just before his death. “I'll tell her,” he said.
He flipped on his LieDeck and entered Annette's room. He closed the door, and then removed his police cap. “How goes the battle?” he asked.
"Victor,” said Annette, with mixed emotions. “What ... you're a cop now?"
He gave her a kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hand. “Just my way of not getting harassed by the media,” he said.
"Pull up a chair,” she said, “and tell me why I shouldn't give you an earful of crap for not visiting me, or at least calling."
"I really couldn't afford the risk,” he said.
"Liar,” she shot back.
"Beep,” went Victor's LieDeck.
"I'm glad you didn't mean that,” he said.
"Yeah, well, maybe I didn't, but I still want to kick your butt from here all the way out to Vancouver,” she said. “And you see ... no beep when I said that."
"I don't ... blame you,” said Victor, also without getting beeped. “I should have sent you a letter or something. When I did get around to planning a visit, Randall told me that you'd had me excommunicated and—"
"Yeah, well you were,” she said angrily. “You behaved like a shit. I saved your ass and took a bullet through the head, and—"
"I'm really glad you weren't killed,” said Victor sincerely, “and I really am sorry I didn't call earlier ... honest."
"Well, you're forgiven,” said Annette, “and you don't have to say ‘honest’ when you got a LieDeck in your damn pocket. I believed you anyway. You're not such a bad guy, just thoughtless, inconsiderate, self-centered, and—"
"I know," he said forcefully, finally allowing his impatience to show, and smarting from the dearth of beeps. He already felt guilty, but Annette was making sure he didn't get away with these sins too lightly. “I'm—uh—in a relationship now,” he said, hoping she might be ready to move on to other, more pleasant topics.
"Really,” she said. “Who's the lucky lady?"
"Winnie Jopps."
"The green-eyed housekeeper at the lodge?” Annette asked with visible pleasure.
"One and the same. We're really happy, and I've heard through the grapevine that you and Steve are becoming ... close."
"He asked me to marry him,” said Annette, only to get beeped. “I haven't accepted yet, but if he keeps begging me the way he's been doing the last few days, I may have to accept, just to get him off my case."
Victor was laughing, and his laughter grew every time the LieDeck signaled yet another
fabrication. It seemed that Annette enjoyed saying whatever she felt like saying, LieDeck be damned. It didn't do any good by way of deception, but it got the message across just as effectively as telling the truth up front. He turned his LieDeck off.
The two laughed and talked for an hour. Victor thanked Annette for saving his life and asked her why she had sent him to the bomb shelter that fateful day. She explained that she was just being “overly paranoid, the way a security officer is supposed to be when in doubt.” He asked why she hadn't gone down into the shelter with him, and she told him how Helen had said the idea was silly, since it was only an RCMP plane.
Victor was careful not to mention anything about the recent troubles of the world, and Annette didn't ask. He wouldn't have done so in any event, but Patriot and the police had both informed him that silence on these matters was a strict condition for visits with the patient—for everyone. He had almost slipped up a couple of times, and he was glad he'd turned off his LieDeck as he tap-danced his way out of several near-blunders.
"Listen,” he said when the conversation slowed down, “there's a reporter in the hall who's been giving the cops a hard time. She says she's been waiting to talk to you ever since—"
"No reporters,” said Annette, firmly.
"You know what I was thinking?” said Victor. “Why not let her in and we'll both talk to her. Maybe we could—"
"I said no reporters!"
"Wait a second,” he said. “Hear me out. What I had in mind might be fun.” He told her about the plan that had occurred to him out in the hall, and Annette agreed—it might be fun.
Victor pulled the curtain around her bed and turned off the main light. “I think I'll call myself Inspector Joe Farley,” he said, “after that dead hick that we heard about at Ray's Restaurant, remember?"
"I remember,” said Annette as she assumed a near-death position and appearance.
Sergeant O'Neil was standing right outside the door to the room, and Victor asked him to tell Paula Choquette that she would be allowed in, but not her cameraman. After a brief, whispered chat, the police officer escorted her to the door.
Victor stopped her and gave her the ground rules. “No camera, no LieDeck, and only if you promise to have a conversation with Annette, not an interview,” he said. “And if she has a problem with any part of the conversation, then I take the tape and you have to leave empty-handed. Sergeant O'Neil is a witness to this, so think about it carefully. Are we agreed?"
Paula agreed readily—she knew she had no choice—and was led into the room. She was a slight woman, with mousy brown hair, gray-blue eyes and a ski-jump nose. Her appearance at the moment was ragged, the result of a vigil that had lasted too many nights and days. She was a seasoned pro and would rise to the occasion, but right now, she was secretly relieved that the camera had been barred.
Inside the door, where Sergeant O'Neil couldn't hear him, Victor introduced himself, in a whisper, as Inspector Joseph P. Farley, and then opened the curtain, slowly. Annette feigned semi-consciousness as the lapel mike was pinned to her blue hospital gown, and “Inspector Farley” whispered to the reporter that she had to go easy on Annette ... “She's had something of a downturn,” he explained.
"Of course,” she said.
He took Paula's LieDeck, made sure it was turned off, and put it on the bedside table. He also checked that his own LieDeck was turned off. When everything was set, Paula leaned in towards Annette and asked her if she was ready to start.
Annette opened her one good eye with a start. “Mom?” she said. “Is ... that you?"
"My name is Paula Choquette,” said the reporter tenderly. “I'm from Alpha News. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?"
"There's been some brain damage,” whispered Inspector Farley as Annette pretended to struggle with reality. “Best to just talk, rather than asking questions."
"Okay,” whispered the reporter.
"Do you have any babies?” asked Annette pathetically.
"Yes, a boy, sixteen,” said Paula. “You?"
"Two,” she said wistfully. “Both girls."
"Really!” said Paula. “I didn't even know you were married."
"Oh, I'm not married,” sighed Annette. “But if I ever do get married, I'd want to be married by a bishop. That would be ever so wonderful,” she said, pretending to smile with great effort, “to be married by a real bishop?"
"Yes ... I ... suppose so,” said Paula, with a confused look over at Inspector Farley. “Who's ... taking care of the kids while you're in the hospital?” she asked gently.
"Taking care of who?” asked Annette.
"Your children,” said Paula.
"Oh, I don't ... have any children,” she moaned as she pulled the covers more tightly under her quivering chin. “I'd like to have a few some day, but only if I was married ... by a bishop."
Victor certainly hadn't expected Annette to dive into the chicanery quite so daringly. He had to stand up and walk behind Paula to prevent his face from giving the game away. Paula looked directly into Annette's eye, suspecting that she was being had, but that feeling vanished as she watched the patient pry herself painfully into a sitting position.
"Did you ... meet ... Victor Helliwell?” Annette asked, gasping from the apparently Herculean effort.
"No,” said Paula. “I'd love to meet the man, but he's hiding out at Whiteside's lodge, now that it's rebuilt. He won't talk to any reporters. I bet I've called over there a hun—"
"You wouldn't like him anyway,” said Annette, as she put another pillow behind her head and collapsed onto it, looking exhausted. “He's a major ... major-league ... jerk."
"Now, now, Annette,” said Inspector Farley, “you don't mean that. I met him, you know, and I thought he was a real gentleman. Bright, too."
"Smoke ... and mirrors,” sighed Annette. “Underneath, he's a creep. And a coward. He ran into the bomb shelter and closed the door on me ... wouldn't let me in. And that LieDeck thing, I don't think he invented it. He told me that he stole the idea from some other guy."
"Oh, you mean his old friend George Cluff,” said the inspector knowingly, “the guy that got killed by the CIA?"
"Who?” said Annette, genuinely perplexed at how he had turned this gambit around on her.
"George Cluff,” said Inspector Farley. “He was a real wacko. A decade or so ago, he had this thing called a Cluff Voice Analyzer, or C.V.A., a kind of early version of the LieDeck. Cluff got killed in a plane crash. Helliwell says that the CIA did it, but he has no proof. I think the two of them were working for Scientology.” Victor smiled inside at his own cleverness, but his face suddenly showed alarm. “You ... won't use that stuff in your broadcast, will you?” he asked Paula urgently. “I ... I shouldn't have said anything about that—about the Scientology connection."
"Hold on now,” said Paula assertively. “You didn't say it was off the record."
"You don't care if his career goes down the toilet?” asked Annette, who had become miraculously lucid. “As long as you get your story, is that it?"
"Look, I'm just doing my job, and—"
"Wait a sec,” protested Inspector Farley. “I did you a favor, damn it, and you repay me by destroying my twenty-year career as a police officer?"
"I'm a reporter, for Christ's sake,” insisted Paula.
"I'll tell you what,” said Inspector Farley. “You promise me that you won't use that information, and I'll get you an interview with Helliwell. Is it a deal?"
"Well ... yeah ... all right,” said Paula. “I'll leave that part out ... for now, but I still have to follow up—see if I can get it corroborated from other sources."
"I ... suppose,” he conceded.
"The inspector won't be able to get you an interview,” Annette told Paula. “Victor hates his guts like you wouldn't believe. He told me so himself."
"You spoke to Mr. Helliwell on the phone?” asked Paula.
"He was here!” said Annette. “He said he walked right past you
in the hall and you didn't recognize him. He said you were stupid."
"I beg your pardon!” said Paula.
"Actually, he didn't say stupid,” said Inspector Farley. “But he did say that he wrote a letter to you about his friend George Cluff getting killed by the CIA—this would be back in twenty aught two—and he said that you never did anything about it. Do you remember getting such a letter from Mr. Helliwell back then?"
"I ... can't discuss that, I'm afraid,” said Paula.
"Oh, I see,” said Inspector Farley. “So you are entitled to privacy if something might threaten your career, but I'm not. Is that it?"
"Look,” said the exasperated reporter, “I'm trying to do a God damned interview here and—"
"But you weren't supposed to,” interrupted Inspector Farley. “I said you could have a conversation with Ms. Blais, not an interview."
"All right,” said Paula. “I did get a letter, but I assumed it was a crank. There was no return address, and I'd never heard of any Victor Helliwell then, so I—"
"So you did nothing,” said Inspector Farley, accusingly.
"What could I do?” asked Paula. “Call the CIA and ask them to tell me if they'd killed any inventors lately? Get real!"
"And now that it's been made public that the RCMP was involved in the attempted murder of Mr. Helliwell, did you dig that letter out of your files and show it to your boss and follow it up?” asked Inspector Farley. “Did you tell any police organization or the Solicitor General's office that you had possible evidence related to the attempted murder of Victor Helliwell?” he demanded. “And Annette Blais?” he added, embarrassed that he had almost forgotten about Annette in all this.
