by Jim Stark
Lafontaine was out of the office and on the phone in mere seconds, to alert the press. Godfrey looked blandly at Commissioner Joly and shrugged his shoulders. “Let's give the media ten minutes to get their shit together,” he said. “And don't ask me what I'm going to say."
Bertrand knew better than to ignore that advice. And besides, he needed a few more minutes of privacy.
The Prime Minister watched his beleaguered pal lumber back to the bathroom, then he wandered over to the wall of framed cartoons from the nation's daily papers, mostly caricatures of himself being mocked for his perfect attire and less-than-perfect character. One of them showed him facing a horde of bearded and/or bra-less peaceniks, who were holding placards calling for “conversion” ... the making of swords into plowshares, the switching of armaments factories to civilian production. The artist had drawn him with tiny, squinty eyes, a massive grin, and a pointy head, and the caption in the bubble read: “Don't you people have jobs?” God damned Cold War, he thought. (The War on Terror got short shrift in many minds, including Godfrey's, precisely because that war simply didn't matter if Cold War II turned into World War III!)
When Bertrand Joly re-emerged from the can, the two battle-weary comrades walked down the hall to the elevator. The Centre Block was ominously empty since Parliament had been suspended and the public barred, and the walls had nothing to do but echo the sounds of their footfalls. Three military security officers followed them at a respectable distance.
"You're just going to wing it?” whispered Bertrand.
"I got a few ideas,” said Nick. “Sometimes a prime minister just has to go with his head, you know, even if it feels wrong. The frigging generals may have my balls for this, but I'm going out on a limb. That's what I'm paid for ... leadership ... and by God, that is what I'm going to deliver."
Nick Godfrey, Bertrand Joly and the three military officers rode the elevator together, without a word. When it stopped, Nick Godfrey was out the door first and down the hall so quickly that the Commissioner fell behind, unwilling as much as unable to keep up.
"Roll cameras,” said the Prime Minister as he entered the pressroom. “Turn on your mikes, and turn on your LieDecks too, if you want. I'll take questions at any point, but only if they're not stupid."
Jesus H., thought Joly as he hobbled into the room. Here we go again—policy from the hip.
"Item number one,” said Godfrey, very loudly. “I am sending our UN ambassador, Lynden Jacks, back to the UN, with a bunch of LieDecks, and with instructions to ask every diplomat and international civil servant in the damn place whether or not they are involved with that WDA outfit. Canada was a founding nation of the UN, and there is no denying that this proud and mightily-useful organization has been hijacked by a bunch of right-wing bandits, and they are just as corrupt as any left-wing bandits or any other kind of criminal. We are going to take it back, take back the United Nations, for the people of Canada and for the people of all nations. Any questions?"
There were none. Just amazed stares. Godfrey had scored a bull's-eye with the “shut up and wait” policy that ended the race riots the day before, and he was being given high marks for his efforts to impose martial law in a manner that was humane and reasonable. Still, the reporters were afraid of a man who felt so comfortable ordering people about and taking charge the way he did.
"Item two,” he said. “I'm recalling our ambassador to the United States. I am deeply concerned that the democratic process in the U.S. has also been hijacked by the WDA. I intend to work with American law-enforcement agencies—those who can tell me in full voice that they are not sympathetic to the so-called World Democratic Alliance—to assist in assuring the continuance of democracy in that country. I'd rather not answer questions about this right now. In fact, I won't.
"Item three. I am sick to death of all the sexual abuse that's going on in this society. Victims are asked to call the RCMP or the local police or the military in their area. Those who are accused will be questioned, using a LieDeck, within one hour, if at all possible, and guilty parties will be jailed immediately, and held without trial until we figure out how to deal with these ... animals.
"There's sort of an unwritten rule in jurisprudence that the pain of punishment should correspond to the pleasure of committing the offence. For this particular offence, under martial law, I am going to make sure that the pain of punishment is much greater than the suffering of the victim—an eye and a tooth for an eye, if you will. I am not pretending this is enlightened or progressive. It is, nonetheless, exactly what I intend to do. This new deal begins right now, because I say so. Any questions?"
There were a host of questions on the minds of the reporters, but they didn't dare ask them yet. This was a rough justice, but it was justice. A hand began to go up, but Godfrey pretended not to see it and proceeded with his list of decrees.
"Item four,” he said, in a more conciliatory tone, but with no less authority. “We've got an epidemic of suicides in this country, and I want it to stop, NOW."
He took off his suit jacket, threw it at a very surprised soldier, and loosened his tie. He took his LieDeck out of his shirt pocket and held it in front of himself. It was on, and set for the beeper mode. He didn't know exactly what he was going to say until the very “moment of truth” arrived, but it was obvious that the people he had to reach out to were those who would be the next victims, and those who could prevent further tragedy.
"If you are thinking of suicide,” he said, “please listen to me just for a minute. Here's my LieDeck. I'm giving you the straight goods. If you make up your mind to die, the sad truth is, we can't stop you. So here's the deal.
"You want to die, make it easy on yourself. Go to a hospital. You talk to a person in there—not a doctor or a social worker or a shrink, necessarily—but a ... person, a human being, just like you. Explain why you want to die, and use a LieDeck to make sure you're not fooling yourself. If the person you talk to can't help you deal with your problems and talk you out of killing yourself, then fine, you'll get an injection. Painless. Just give us an hour or two of your time before you check out, okay?
"I do that myself, you know—turn to other people when I need help. I ... use other people, and I use my LieDeck, to see if I'm thinking clearly. I wasn't very sure of myself about the martial law decree, and I obviously had to be sure that it wasn't a power trip or an overreaction. The situation looked hopeless yesterday, and I got depressed. I couldn't see a way out. But with a little help from my friends, and with the help of this LieDeck, eventually I got a grip, and we came up with a plan to stop the riots, and it worked ... or at least it has so far.
"But who are these people that you'd talk to at the hospitals? Well, I will be one of them. I will volunteer a few hours a day for that. And there are maybe a million or two million other people in this country, adults, with their heads on straight and their hearts in the right place. You know who you are, so you just get your buttocks down to the nearest hospital and volunteer, just like me. If you've got organizational skills, you help organize the effort at your hospital. And if you volunteer to be a supporter and you get matched up with someone who wants to die, and if there's no place where you can talk privately, take the person you're trying to help to your own home.
"Everybody who needs somebody to talk to should have somebody to talk to, and if you can't resolve the problem of the person you're trying to help, then you just drive him or her back to the hospital, so somebody else can have a crack, okay? Or for the injection, if nobody can help.
"And if the person you're trying to help ends up dying, you have to understand that it isn't your fault. People who choose to die have to take responsibility for their decisions, just like the rest of us.
"And you doctors and nurses, remember that Canada is under martial law here. What I say goes. You're not breaking any laws by giving lethal injections to people who ask for them. This program is not designed to make our hospitals into suicide centers or to make our health car
e workers into murderers. It's supposed to give us the chance to save lives.
"When people get upset, I mean really upset, and most of us have been out of control at one point or another in our lives, we feel very strong emotions, we say things we don't really mean, things that aren't true, and sometimes we can't think straight. You might be one of those people who hate the LieDeck, but one thing is certain. It gets to the root of the matter when there's a question of truth, even the truth about why you feel so bad or why you want to die. The sorry truth is that we all lie, and ... worst of all, we all lie to ourselves! It's complicated and it's dangerous, but it's fixable, and the LieDeck can help.
"In five minutes, I'll be ordering Whiteside Technologies to make its entire inventory of LieDecks available to hospitals across Canada for people to use in the new anti-suicide campaign. I can do that under martial law, and I am doing it.
"So that's it, for now. If you're feeling suicidal, you get yourself to a hospital, NOW. And if you're a person who can play a support role for one of your fellow human beings who's in need, you get yourself down to the closest hospital, NOW. Go to the cafeteria, and by my order, everybody in this country is commanded ... to start coping!
"And if it means missing a day or two of work, or a week, or if it means spending a bit of your money or taking a risk, do it. They say that people come together in a crisis, like we Canadians did during two World Wars. Well, this is a crisis, a serious crisis, and I expect all Canadians to do whatever they can.
"We had one hundred and sixty-one deaths in the riots yesterday, and that's a tragedy. But we're having more than a thousand deaths a day from suicides. That's far worse than during the great stock market crash of nineteen twenty-nine. So ... we are now declaring war on suicide, and if the economy collapses, well, we'll just have to fix it up later, after we take care of the business that matters the most, the welfare of the Canadian people. Any questions?"
Any invitation to the media for questions was traditionally followed by twenty or thirty loud shouts, none of which could be understood. Either these reporters weren't sure if he had finished his statement, or they didn't know how to respond. Or, thought the Prime Minister, maybe they're hellish impressed.
"Should other countries do this?” asked a young man in jeans—youth market TV, by all appearances.
"Yes, of course,” said Godfrey, and if his forehead could speak, it suggested that that was not a very bright question. “All countries should. Next?"
"Would a suicidal woman be assured of a female support worker?” a female reporter finally asked.
"Should she?” asked Godfrey.
"If ... she wants,” said the reporter.
"Then do it,” said Godfrey.
"Do you think that your approach to sexual abuse infringes on the civil rights of all Canadians?” asked another reporter.
"Yes, I'm sure it does. But I'm also convinced that the incidence of sexual abuse will be down by ninety-nine percent by this time tomorrow."
"Do you have any moral problems with what you're doing?"
"Yes, I do,” said Godfrey, and nothing more.
"Aren't you concerned that people will say you're acting like a dictator?"
"Sticks and stones,” said the Prime Minister. “I've been called a lot of things, some of them worse than that. Names do hurt, but they won't cause me to back off."
"So you still think the LieDeck has a positive value, in spite of the problems it has produced?"
"The LieDeck hasn't produced that many problems,” said Godfrey, in a tone that showed his annoyance. “But it has exposed a lot of problems that were already there, and forced us to deal with them. And it has also started solving some problems. The crime rate in Canada is down eighty percent already, because of the LieDeck, and I hope the LieDeck will help stop this wave of senseless deaths."
"Do you think your anti-suicide program will work?"
"I honestly don't know,” said the PM, “but if you have a better idea, I'll be glad to change the plan. It's going to depend on whether the people who aren't suicidal get off their rear ends and do their part."
"Do you think the program could backfire?"
"I hope not,” said Godfrey. “Tell you what. In a week, I'll let you know how I did as a support volunteer, and you tell me how you did. I trust you'll all be volunteering?"
Chapter 60
GREASE
Randall Whiteside had decided to bring Cam O'Connor out to the manor, even though he wasn't the family's favorite guest. His perpetually sour attitude tended to dampen the atmosphere, so much so that little Julia had taken to making faces at him behind his back. However, the two men had not finished their day's work, and Randall had promised to be home by six, so there was no real option except to bring Cam along.
Grant Eamer turned his head towards the passenger compartment of the helicopter. “Patriot called on the radio,” he said loudly. “There's a press conference happening with the PM. Helen said you'd want to know.” Randall asked Cam to turn the TV on, and to close the door to the flight deck, so they could hear better.
They were glad to see Nick Godfrey trying to cope with the WDA crisis and the domestic suicide problem, and it was good to see that the LieDeck was proving useful. However, it was also clear to Randall and Cam that if the LieDeck hadn't been invented, these awful events wouldn't even be happening. The black holes in their guts grew larger.
The question of moral responsibility was easy enough to resolve ... intellectually. Victor had figured it out years ago. “The harsher the truth, the truer the friend that shoves it in your face,” he'd said just yesterday ... paraphrasing the famous line from Camelot. “If you don't know something's broke, you won't likely try to fix it,” he'd also said. “All very well,” Randall had replied, “but the dogs of war don't listen to reason, even when it's LieDeck-verified."
"How's Michael doing?” asked Cam after the broadcast, sensing that they could both use a diversion.
Michael Whiteside had been virtually living at the WT HQ for the past week, coming and going as he pleased, at times in the helicopter ... sometimes messing up the orderly flow of business. Cam had been fairly cold towards the boy ... until Friday, when the suggestion of placing LieDecks in the schools had suddenly become national policy. He had found it hard to think of Michael as a member of the team, just as he couldn't think of the taxi-driving inventor as a business partner. Cam's approach to life was to assume the worst of people and then wait for them to prove him right. It usually worked, but in Michael's case, it hadn't. This innocent question about how the boy was doing was as close as Cam ever got to admitting that he might have been wrong.
"Mikey's doing ... sort of okay, I guess,” said Randall above the whipping of the blades. “He and his girlfriend missed some school, of course, and now they're hiding out over at his cabin ... ever since they found Bishop Doyle's body yesterday."
There it was again, the LieDeck, grabbing center stage in their minds, not by way of celebrating technology, truth, or the profits they were raking in, but as a pall, draped over a beleaguered planet. It was becoming almost impossible to think of a person, a situation or even a country where the LieDeck wasn't threatening to trigger a “critical mass,” and reduce order to ash.
In all his twenty years of marriage, Randall had never known a family problem that he and his wife couldn't handle with good humor, will power, caring and compromise. But now, the LieDeck seemed poised to interrupt that winning streak as well.
Steve had been at the manor the night before, recovering from the heartbreak of Bill Doyle's suicide. After all the words that could be said had been said, Doreen and Randall had shared some of their concerns about the children. Doreen was worried about Michael, in spite of the brave front he was putting up, but she was even more upset about Sarah, who was literally being shunned by some of her schoolmates. Randall and his wife had already decided to withdraw Julia from her special education classes and switch her to home tutoring, and after the talk wit
h Steve, they decided to withdraw Sarah from her school as well, starting Monday, tomorrow.
Julia would miss her little friends, to be sure, but she'd adjust, if only because she couldn't really understand, and was very quick to forget. Sarah, on the other hand, was fourteen, very bright, and hypersensitive. She would suffer from a sudden dearth of peer-pleasures. She could be in danger of a serious depression over the LieDeck. It was hard enough being a teenager from a wealthy family, but being the offspring of “the guy who fucked up the whole planet” was a reputation that no child could be expected to bear. That, apparently, was the coded message she was receiving from some of her erstwhile girlfriends at school—that all the terrible things that were happening in the world were her father's fault.
During this late evening discussion, Steve had put on his bishop's hat, or at least his old priest's hat, and found himself mouthing platitudes and clichés that would probably wilt into embarrassed nothingness under the scrutiny of a LieDeck. Randall had used his usual formula on Doreen, trying to cheer her up with bravado and hope, but it had failed, for the first time ever. They had agreed to tag the subject “to be continued."
After a full day of uncomfortable debate with his senior staff at the office—mostly about the LieDeck and this question of responsibility—Randall had decided to respond to Doreen's concerns by donating 50% of his personal share of profits from the LieDeck, the profits that had been made so far, to the Destiny Foundation, to develop programs and techniques that could soften the impact of the device and assist people whose lives had been disrupted by the thing. That came to a substantial amount of money—an estimated $22 million from 162,000 pre-paid orders—and Randall had also expressed the hope that Victor would do likewise with his share of the profits, or say 25% of his share. Still, as the chopper touched down at the Patriot compound behind the manor, he knew that the chances of an early return to normalcy were no better for his family than they were for the world. Put on a happy face, he told himself as he entered the back door of the manor.
