The LieDeck Revolution: Book 1

by Jim Stark

  "Imagine that!” said Winnie, trying to restart the conversation. “No newspaper! I wonder when's the last time that happened, I mean except for Christmas and stuff like that?"

  "I suppose there's one story that doesn't need to get reported on at all,” the driver offered.

  "What's that?"

  "Doomsday,” he said, with a quick glance back at Winnie.

  "Oh puleeeease!” she said. “Nobody really believes that's what we're in for, for heaven's—"

  "Beep,” went the agent's LieDeck, and Winnie sat back in her seat ... to think, perchance to pray.

  Chapter 65

  A TINY BIT UNFAITHFUL

  Doreen was sitting on the side of her bed, their bed, the bed that had been the warp and weft of her marriage. She held the telephone receiver with jellied hands. After several aborted efforts, she let her call go through. “Hi ... Randy,” she said rather awkwardly. “I'm using the phone in your den. Is that line—uh—scrambled?"

  "I'll call you right back,” said Randall. He hung up, asked his secretary to hold his calls, and wondered what the hell this could possibly be about. Doreen positively detested security—had done ever since they were married, even if she understood the need for it. He arranged with Patriot Command for a secure line, punched in the number and asked his wife what was up.

  "I got this ... strange call a few minutes ago,” she explained. “The guy—at least I think it was a guy—it was impossible to tell because he just whispered—I actually think it was Cam, from the way he used words—anyway, he said...” There was just silence now; silence and what seemed to be labored breathing.

  "Are you okay, honey?” Randall asked, but that netted him nothing. “What did this ... person say?” he tried.

  Doreen cleared her throat in a way that Randall had noticed only two or three times before, and not on the easiest of days. “He whispered that ... that you had sex ... with Helen Kozinski ... a few years ago ... in Geneva. Of course I hung up right away, but ... Randy, please tell me it's not true."

  Randall closed his eyes. I ... I could lie, he supposed. He knew that Patriot would have taped the mysterious call that his wife had received, as they did all telephone calls to the manor, but they wouldn't be able to LieDeck-verify the tape because the person had whispered. That escape hatch wasn't really open. It had to be Cam, the son-of-a-bitch, and he could always call Doreen again and say the same thing in full voice. And besides, she'll probably want a LieDeck-verified denial from me at some point. And ... and she's entitled, he thought.

  "I'm afraid ... it's true,” he said slowly. “It was a long time ago, honey, and it was just one time, and—"

  "You ... you freaking liar,” screamed Doreen, revealing without words that she had a LieDeck tied in to her end of the phone, a LieDeck that had surely blinked when he said it was only the one time. “How could you?” she cried out. “And with Helen! Jesus Christ, Randy, I should..."

  Randall's gut wanted to retaliate, but his brain wasn't up for that. Better to take the hit, and hope. She had, after all, stopped short of completing her threat. She had to know that this slippery slope led to no good place, no happy ending. If they were to duke it out, she had to know that he would eventually ask the same question about her fidelity. Her dalliance really was a long time ago, and hers really was only one time. “But ... with Buck Ash!?” Randall recalled bellowing at Cam so many years ago. “I want that bastard destroyed!" he had screamed ... that was before he had learned from a very nervous and much younger Cam O'Connor that Doreen had actually been the aggressor, had pretty much thrown herself at the famous hockey star.

  And if they fought, and if the fight got as far as tit for tat, Doreen would fall into emotional gridlock when she found out that her husband had known for the last fifteen years about her sweaty one-timer with “the Buck". And she would leave him—and sue him into penury—if she ever realized that much of her adult life had been surveilled surreptitiously by the likes of Cam O'Connor ... and Helen Kozinski!

  Funny ... I never anticipated having to deal with this when I met Victor, he thought. I guess I got used to having all the aces up my sleeve.

  He thought of telling Doreen that he had just fired Cam, but that would have led to a whole other dilemma, the thorny question of why Cam had been busted. And she couldn't handle that. He thought of telling Doreen he was sorry, but ... he couldn't do that either. He wasn't the least bit sorry. It had been a glorious three-day tryst, and it had become a memory that he cherished deeply, and often—even during moments of tenderness with his beloved wife. He wondered briefly if Doreen ever thought about her illicit romp with Buck's athletic body when her hands were creeping down her husband's bulging belly. Maybe it didn't matter if she did. Maybe it even helped their love life.

  Maybe we're better off not knowing such things, he considered silently. Perhaps we all need to lead two lives, a public one and a private one, like JFK, or J. Edgar Hoover. In the end, we want what we want. The freaking rational mind has got piss all to do with it.

  Randall wasn't the contemplative type, and it now occurred to him that he'd strayed several galaxies south of the situation at hand, and that Doreen hadn't said anything for a half-minute or so. I wonder what she's thinking, he said to himself.

  "I suggest that we set up a little private amnesty, Doreen, like the government did, but just between you and me—at least until this political crisis is over. Please, Doreen ... just for now?"

  Again, there was near-silence from his wife's end ... and then a click.

  "I'll take that as a yes,” said Randall, aloud, and there was no beep.

  Chapter 66

  I+T=C

  By the time Winnie stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor of the Ottawa General, her decision was firm. Other people's rules had never been her strong suit, and she was feeling empowered now that she'd told Dr. Secord about Human Three Consciousness ... a bit guilty, a tad scared, but empowered ... and righteous. Now she was poised to do it again, to break the code and tell Annette what the hell was going on in the world.

  She found it quite incredible that the conspiracy of silence had held, unbroken, even unwrinkled, for nine days. She didn't know Annette all that well, but they'd had a couple of chats out at the lodge and shared a few belly laughs, usually at the expense of the male of the species. Annette had been surprised and pleased to receive Winnie's phone call yesterday, and she had welcomed the idea of a get-together. “I'll give you the scoop on Steve and you give me the skinny on Victor,” she'd said. Patriot had told Winnie that the news blackout had originally been Annette's own idea, a self-imposed thing, but Winnie knew in her heart—believed, she corrected herself—that Annette would rather know than not know, considering her current condition, which wasn't so bad, and considering the state of the world, which was ... worse than bad, she thought ... again.

  There were no reporters to be seen, but there were four Ottawa police officers sitting in the hall, and all eyes were on Winnie. “Excuse me,” said the one at the desk, about ten feet from Annette's room. “And you are...?"

  "Winnifred Jopps,” she said. “I called yesterday."

  "Oh ... yes,” he said, checking his papers.

  Winnie began walking past the desk, assuming that that was the full extent of the interrogation.

  "Excuse me!” snapped the officer as he jumped up, extended an arm, and flipped the flap on his holster. Suddenly, all four officers were standing. They seemed pumped, primed for some kind of worst-case scenario, and they were staring at Winnie through narrowed eyes.

  "Jeeze, no problem,” said Winnie as she backed up with her hands fanned out at shoulder height.

  "Sorry Ms. Jopps,” said the officer with the papers. “There's just a couple of—uh—formalities, for first-time visitors."

  His apparent partner, a female officer with a frying pan face and a forced smile, went through Winnie's purse, an operation that took longer to repair than to execute. Winnie was embarrassed to see the eclectic clu
tter that seemed to accumulate in there, or grow in there, and she made an effort to stay unflummoxed as she stuffed all the junk back in. The only thing the female agent didn't return was the front section of the Ottawa Citizen.

  "Were you planning to show that to—” started the female cop.

  "I know the ground rules,” Winnie said, defensively.

  "—show that to Ms. Blais?” finished the officer, undeterred by the interruption.

  "Fine, I'll leave it with you,” tried Winnie, but it was clear from the eyes that they wouldn't be letting her in the room unless they could LieDeck-verify her intentions.

  "I do solemnly swear,” Winnie intoned, her right hand thrust up in courtroom fashion, “that I will not talk to Annette about recent news events."

  Both officers sensed that Winnie had intended to tell all to Annette, but her change of heart had passed muster on the LieDeck. And besides, their police colleagues would be listening in on the conversation in the private room from the communications center that had been set up in the adjoining room, unbeknownst to Patriot, Randall Whiteside, even the RCMP.

  "Thank you very much, Ms. Jopps,” said the female officer with a barely suppressed glare. “Actually, Ms. Blais isn't in her room right now, but she should be back in—"

  "Gangway,” hollered Annette as she careened around the corner in a battery-powered wheelchair. “Gimp coming through!"

  Winnie laughed. Annette was wearing black wraparound glasses and the grimace of an Indy driver, and she was being followed by a harried Ottawa policeman, who had to jog to keep up. “Hey, you're mobile?” said Winnie as Annette jerked to a halt. “That's great."

  "You been giving my pal a hard time?” Annette asked the officer in charge.

  "No no,” said Winnie. “Make that yes yes,” she confessed when the police LieDeck beeped. “But it was mostly my fault,” she added, unbeeped.

  "Humph,” said Annette as the chase cop took over, disengaged the power drive and pushed her manually into the room.

  "Thanks,” said Winnie to the officer, indicating that she could handle things from there.

  "I just got this contraption ten minutes ago,” said Annette as the officer exited the room. “I can walk now, but they won't let me. Something about insurance. So how are you, my little gold-digger?"

  "You're evil,” said Winnie, as she jiggled the wheelchair back and forth towards the bed in preparation for the next move. “The fact that Victor is rich has nothing to do with how we feel about each other. It's a good thing I know you didn't mean that."

  "You got a LieDeck on?” asked Annette.

  "No, and I don't need my LieDeck to know that. You're just being naughty, Annette, like a little kid at recess. I'm going to tell Steve what you said."

  "No you're not,” said Annette.

  "You got a LieDeck telling you that?” asked Winnie.

  "I don't need the stupid thing either,” said Annette, as she braced herself to move up in the world.

  She was not as well as she pretended to be. Mentally, she was in top form and high spirits, but physically, she was obviously still weak. Winnie helped her stand and pushed the wheelchair away with a foot as soon as the patient was stable. Annette had one hand on a corner of the night table and the other clamped onto Winnie's forearm. Her face betrayed self-doubt, and her whole body shook perceptibly as she transferred her weight to the mattress and lifted her legs up, with Winnie's help. As she eased back onto her pillow, they both felt relieved.

  "Thanks,” sighed Annette. She looked into her friend's green eyes, and hoped she didn't appear too pathetic. “I hate that my body won't behave."

  Winnie pulled a chair up to the bed, sat down, took Annette's hand and squeezed it. “It's good to see you."

  "So ... let's have it!” Annette grinned. She seemed to have gotten her second wind ... almost.

  "Have it?” asked Winnie with her eyes thrown skyward, feigning ignorance ... and innocence.

  "Come on, Winnie,” said Annette. “I want the lowdown. Is he ... you know ... is he ... good?"

  "None of your damn business,” protested Winnie in a squeaky voice that defined her objections as pro forma and temporary. “Okay ... yeah,” she revealed with twinkling eyes. “In fact, I'd say he's ... terrific."

  "Ooooeeee, I'm getting goose bumps,” squealed Annette. “So ... come on ... tell me everything."

  "No way,” said Winnie. “Not till you got traders."

  "Traders?” said Annette.

  "Yeah, something juicy to trade back. Like after you and Steve get together in a few weeks."

  "Okay, Ms. Poop,” grumped Annette. “But everything ... else is okay with Victor? I mean ... on other levels?"

  "Well, yeah, except we're having our first big fight, him and me. And it's going to get a lot worse tomorrow."

  Annette propped herself up on one elbow and focused her good eye carefully, to pick up all the nuances. “So ... what's the deal?"

  "Well,” began Winnie, “it's kind of a long story. You see when Victor was out at his farm, working on the LieDeck, he started talking to himself, out loud, LieDeck-verifying himself, and after a while he realized that you could find out a lot of things about yourself that way, and eventually he developed this new sort of a theory ... about what happens to people if they've been exposed to the LieDeck for a while. He made a few tapes about it, and ... the thing is, he won't let anybody hear them. I felt it was very important for him to release them. We argued about it a bunch of times, and one minute he'd be ready to do it and the next minute he'd change his mind, and we'd start fighting all over again. Now he says ‘No way José'—that's his favorite saying these days."

  "But what's his reasoning?” asked Annette. “Why wouldn't he want people to know about that stuff?"

  Winnie suddenly realized she'd put her foot in it. She couldn't answer the question truthfully without breaking her word to the police, who were right outside the door, possibly listening. “Oh, who the hell knows?” she said, pretending to be exasperated. “He's one of those guys that just won't budge once he gets his heels dug in—you know how men are. Anyway, then he tells me that he hid those tapes, eh? And he won't even tell me where! So I said to myself, ‘Screw you, buster.’ You see ... he already told me everything that's on the tapes. That's how come I knew it was really important for him to release them. So I—uh—told Mr. Whiteside about it. He agreed with me, and he set up a meeting with this Dr. Emile Secord ... nice guy ... heads up the Psych Department at the University of Montreal. Anyway, I met him at the plant this afternoon ... actually, I just came from there ... and I told him every damned thing that was on the tapes ... at least insofar as I could remember ... and I'm pretty sure I understood all the main stuff."

  "Lord Jesus!” said Annette. “Victor's going to go ballistic when he finds out. Why did you do that?"

  She was right, of course, and Winnie realized that her foot was back in it, even deeper this time. She couldn't talk about the world situation that had eaten at her conscience and finally led her to feel compelled to take this precipitous action.

  "Yeah,” she said, with resignation in her voice. “He's going to be awfully upset ... for sure. But he's flat out wrong on this one. He's bright, you know, exceptionally bright, but sometimes he can't seem to get a handle on his responsibilities. He's the only person in the world who's had any long-term experience at living with the LieDeck, at coping with this ... technological censor. It's not fair, you know? I mean some people are bound to have trouble with his invention, eh? And it's clear to me that this theory of his can help people adjust to the thing, you now? I'll—uh—tell you about his theory ... if you want."

  Annette sensed that there was something vaguely evasive about Winnie's answer. “Maybe later,” she said, reaching up under the eye bandage to scratch an itch. “Could ... you get me another pillow from that closet over there?"

  * * *

  The police inspector in the temporary communications center adjacent to Annette's room quick-di
aled his boss at Metro headquarters in Ottawa. “Sir, I think we got something here,” he blurted out, glancing once more to make absolutely sure the three tape recorders were still rolling.

  "Situation?” demanded Chief Hodgins.

  "Winnifred Jopps, Victor Helliwell's—uh—partner, she's in the room with Annette Blais, and she's telling her some stuff that ... well, it's the other shoe, sir."

  "Talk English, Inspector!” barked the Chief.

  "She's got the information from the Helliwell tapes, sir, and she spilled it all to a Dr. Emile Secord, at Whiteside's plant, about an hour ago. He's a psychology professor from the University of Montreal—head of the department, she said. And guess what? This Dr. Secord made a tape of their whole conversation! He's probably still out at the Whiteside plant. Think we should bust him?"

  "Shoot me the digital of what you've got on line four. And keep this line open. And keep taping. I've got you on the speaker, but don't interrupt me unless—"

  "I know the drill, sir."

  * * *

  "So,” said Winnie cheerfully, “I guess you're ... gearing up mentally to restart your life."

  Annette thought about the question. The housekeeper from the lodge had nailed it. That was exactly what she faced, and now she realized that she hadn't developed a plan, at least no further than getting her face fixed and definitely not returning to her old job. She qualified for a pension from Patriot as a result of her injuries, and while she wasn't about to turn down the money, it wasn't her style to kick back and let life happen to her ... at least it didn't used to be.

  "Welllll,” she said slowly, “I hope Steve and I get married ... like I told you on the phone ... but apart from that..."

  "What are a few of the things that you'd want to do in the very first week after you get released?” asked Winnie.

  "Hmmm, maybe there was some brain damage after all,” joked Annette. “Normally ... well, before ... I'd have a five-minute answer for a question like that, right on the tip of my tongue."