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  The LieDeck Revolution (Book #2)

  The Endgame

  Jim Stark

  A Literary Road publication

  ISBN 1-934037-24-9

  © Copyright Jim Stark 2006.

  Cover art by Jim Stark

  This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author or publisher permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  In 1997, I received a literary grant of $19,650.00 to write this book. I would like to thank the Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec for their indispensable support. I hope I have done them proud. I also wish to thank Dr. Robert Bernstein, without whose help this book would likely not have been written, even with the grant.

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  Note to readers

  This book was written in the late 1990s (and re-written in 2006) but it is set in 2033. As such, certain terms will not be familiar to the reader. For this reason, I have added a short glossary at the back of the book. (Confession: I had to use it from time to time myself, so I can vouch for its convenience.)

  Chapter 1

  EMOTION WRESTLING

  Tuesday, February 8, 2033—11:45 a.m.

  Lilly Petrosian took off her headphones, leaned to the left, and looked up the aisle to see what all the commotion was about. Two flight attendants in the forward alcove were trying to fend off an attack of the giggles. Well ... pretending to try, thought Lilly. They were doubling over, turning their jiggling backs to the passengers, wiping their eyes, putting hands over their mouths to kill the sound, each begging the other to stop. Every time there seemed to be a glimmer of hope for self-control, the giggling would start all over again, with each one blaming the other. “Emotion wrestling,” it was called by the pop shrinks. “Very unprofessional,” Lilly scowled under her breath. They're probably Evolutionaries, she figured.

  The performance in the alcove was infectious. Many of the first class passengers were smiling and suppressing laughter, even though they had no idea what was so funny. Instinctively, Lilly wanted to be in on the joke too. On the other hand, she thought wearily. She straightened up in her seat, put the headphones back on, and closed her eyes. It made her feel old, somehow, seeing these civilians just enjoying life, without the tensions of the world welling up, closing in, and getting in the way. She was only a few years older than the two flight attendants, but she felt like she could have been their aunt, or their sergeant.

  Captain Lillian Petrosian had joined the WDA in 2026, the very year that Sheena Kalhoun took over the leadership of the world body. Lilly had been an agent for seven years now, and the first six had been grand. Her work had been confined to the United States, and most Americans were still in a state of wonder that war and crime had finally been dumped from the human condition. Indeed, civilians had responded to her as if she were the fountainhead of the magic, as if she had personally waved the extra-terrestrial wand that some people believed had to be behind that hairpin turn nineteen years ago. After a seamless tale of bloody turmoil, stretching back to the first hunter-gatherer tribes, people were profoundly relieved that “history” had finally reached the end of the track, that human life could finally just happen, without the fear of sudden chaos, without the traditional certainty of eventual calamity. All human “history” before 2014 now seemed like a comic book, an unfunny caricature, an embarrassing corner of the family tree that one didn't talk about, except maybe in a whisper.

  Of course it wasn't any kind of magic that had changed everything back in 2014. It was a little device called the LieDeck, a lie detector that worked by instantaneously and infallibly analyzing our voice patterns—plus the inevitable political and social fallout from such a potent invention. The advent of the LieDeck had shaken Homo sapiens to the nucleus, unmasked the unreality and duplicity of almost every person, every institution, every belief. As everyone on the planet knew, the device had brought civilization to the brink of omnicide, and the LieDeck Revolution had plainly and indisputably required the establishment of the World Democratic Authority. Civilians simply could not handle the LieDeck ... or rather the corrected version of reality that was so brutally exposed by the thing. That was proven quickly, and beyond a smidgen of a doubt. Now, only the WDA had the LieDeck, and as a result, there was peace on Earth—without which there would likely be exactly nothing, or at least nothing alive, or at least no humans alive.

  Until the spring of twenty thirty-two, if I called someone on the Net, faces lit up, Lilly remembered with sadness, and the responses were almost sung. If I arrived at the door ... well, that called for tea and cookies, or the offer of a beer, or a joint.

  Everyone knew that WDA agents couldn't accept more than a glass of water, but that regulation didn't stop the invitations. Whether the approach was in cyberspace or “on the warm,” Americans had always shown their gratitude, their appreciation. It made Lilly's job a joy. Now, since the Henderson Scandals of last May and June, most citizens asked straight off the top: “Are you really with the WDA?” It was as if nobody with a pinch of common sense would choose to work for the world government. And there was always that implied supplementary: “When you're done asking your stupid questions, would you please leave me alone?” If we didn't ask the four questions that deter criminal activity, thought Lilly, the answers would be different from what they are now. Some things were nothing less than self-evident, and yet nowadays, billions of people seemed to miss the point.

  The civilian governments of nations still backed the World Democratic Authority one hundred percent—not that they had much choice—but the universal public consensus was that the world body had gotten too big for its britches, and had invaded the sacred spiritual territory that lay out beyond its policing mandate. It was broadly believed that the chance to rein the thing in had passed, forever. Most civilians felt locked in, doomed to wonder in the silence of their minds whether this or that event in their lives might have turned out differently, or better, had not “those bastards from the WDA” interfered, using their damnable little LieDecks. The WDA hadn't just lost the trust of the people; it had lost their respect. Where once it was loved, it was now doubted, feared ... even despised by some.

  It's just not fair, Lilly grumbled silently. We tax the nations at a lousy two percent of their government revenues, guarantee the peace, and provide the SuperNet free of charge to all. It's a fantastic deal. Her mind flew back to the day, in her first year of high school, when she had learned that Fëdor Mikhailovich Dostoevski, the giant of Russian literature, had ultimately defined the human species as “ungrateful bipeds.” He was too generous by half, she huffed internally. People aren't happy unless they're pissed off.

  Lilly felt there was no sense in proving her own point by being ticked off, so ... she made a concerted and conscious effort to dismiss her anger and look on the bright side. It wasn't easy.

  She'd left Miami, Florida o
n short notice. She had a few friends from work ... and the good ones will still be in touch with me when I hit forty. Her father had mercifully passed away after suffering from cancer for thirty months. Her dad's death had happened fifteen years ago, half a lifetime for Lilly, but her mom was still grieving today. Spiritually and psychologically, Lilly's mother was perhaps half the woman she used to be, but the part that had survived was still a good and caring person. And her mom had finally found a new “man friend,” as she called him. She'll be fine.

  Lilly fiddled with her seatbelt. She'd left a man behind, a live one, but that was more a blessing than a heartache. We were just using each other anyway, she rationalized. That was true enough, but there was more to it than that. Isn't that always the case, and every time it's the same basic tune, and almost the same lyrics. There was no point in doing yet another mental review. Edward T.—or “good old Ed"—was a memory now, a reasonably good memory, but nothing more. He wouldn't be on her electronic Christmas greeting list in eleven months, and she wouldn't be on his. “Goodbyes” were losing their sting.

  The music wasn't helping, so she took the headphones off again. For a while, she just listened to the hiss of the engines and tried not to hear the voices inside—to no avail. Her thoughts went back to a routine afternoon a week ago, last Tuesday, when she'd received an unexpected Netcall from Control Upper America—not from some minion, but Control himself!

  Control's real name was Mark Drummond, but nobody in his sweep of influence ever called him that. Control was big, responsible for policing everything from the Panama Canal to the North Pole! The Supreme Commander of the WDA was a scant six rungs up from Control Upper America. “Take the job, Ms. Petrosian,” he had strongly advised when he saw her do a body-language balk on his Netscreen. “Never mind that it looks like a tedious chore. It's only for a year, and once you're up in Québec, you'll receive further instructions."

  Her plush seat was tilted back, but physical comfort couldn't seem to kick her mind out of high gear. This was supposed to be an ordinary flight, originally—a ticket for the coach section, a little small talk, listen to some music, ignore the film, look out at the sky, eat steak for lunch, sip a glass of undistinguished wine, think about the new life she was heading towards, doze, more small talk, then disembark. But at 5:00 a.m. this morning, she had received a second Netcall from Control. “On the plane today,” he'd said, “you'll be sitting in the first class section beside one Randy Whiteside, Michael Whiteside's son. He's not one of our biggest fans, and apparently he has become involved with the U.S. LieDeck Unbanning Committee—he's even gotten chummy with USLUC's head honcho, Lester Connolly. His dad is absolutely furious—he wouldn't even send the corporate jet to pick the boy up in Miami. Try to strike up a conversation with Randy. I'll tell you why later."

  Lilly wasn't keen on intrigue. She had joined the WDA to construct the new world, to do her small bit in building the post-conflict era, to position herself at the forefront of this most exciting of human adventures. Now, it seemed that she was caught in the ranks of an international regime whose image had been given a public swirly by the media over a couple of ... she searched her mind for the right word ... peccadilloes. Civilians, as a class, internationally, seemed to have condemned the entire WDA over minor misdeeds, committed by a few bad apples. It just wasn't fair, but there it was. Oh well, she said to herself, the further instructions I'm told to expect seem to have something to do with the Whiteside family. That should be interesting.

  Randy Whiteside was only eighteen, but he had a movie star quality about him—long blond hair lighter than his bronzed skin, exceedingly blue eyes, and shoulders twice as broad as Lilly's. They sat near the front of the upper deck of an ancient 747 gas-guzzler, and he had the window seat. Ever since taking off in Miami, he had used his headphones and the oval window to ignore the lanky woman to his left.

  Lilly had been told that those who traveled first class usually assumed that they had something in common with each other, but Randy was a boulder. “Lilly ... that's short for Lillian,” she had said as soon as she took her seat. He had said “Randy,” flatly, and not a syllable more. It was short for Randall, the name of his illustrious grandfather, the founder of Whiteside Technologies. She knew that, of course, but Randy had declined the opening to say so, or to even mention his surname. After takeoff, she had asked about his life. “Student,” was all he said. He didn't ask why she was on the plane, or where she was going, or what she did for a living. Instead, he had turned back towards the window and stared out at the endless sea of brilliant cloud tops. During the last four hours, whenever the social circumstances had permitted, she had tried various tricks to break through—some questions about his schooling, a bit of humor, even some mild flirtation. Nothing. Rien. Nada. Bupkas.

  He's got to know I'm WDA, she thought as she studied the perfect tan on the back of his smooth neck. She had reviewed his Netfile briefly, at 5:03 a.m., right after the second call from Control. The boy was friendly, by all accounts, and as horny as any guy his age. But I get the cold shoulder, the brush-off.

  It bothered her that he hadn't twigged to her efforts at triggering his machismo. The fact that she was six feet tall and thirty years old shouldn't have been a reason for him to pass on what kids these days usually called “a tingle.” On some level, his silent rebuffs made her feel insecure about her sexuality. It's just a God damned job, she reprimanded herself.

  A Customs officer was making his way down the aisle, pre-clearing the first class passengers. He chatted briefly with each traveler, and made a busy display of confirming bits of information on his hand-held Sniffer—his SuperNet Interfacer, to use the proper term. He was WDA, of course—all Customs officers were WDA—so when he arrived beside Lilly, she just flashed her badge. The officer smiled, and moved his attention across to Randy.

  "Purpose of your visit, Mr.—uh—Whiteside?” he asked, checking a list on the small black-and-white screen of his Sniffer.

  Randy slowly turned his head—too slowly, as if to emphasize that his compliance was grudging, at best. “I can't putt,” he said, directly into the man's eyes.

  "Would you mind explaining that,” said the officer, in a distinctly less friendly tone.

  Randy sighed. “I'm on a golf scholarship at the University of Miami, as I'm sure you already know, and I'm the best they ever had, except I can't putt worth shit. I'm taking a couple of weeks off with my family to decide if I've got what it takes ... to be a pro."

  "Any other reason?"

  "No."

  There was a shiny, electronic “beep,” and the Customs officer's whole body flicked with surprise. His LieDeck was dialed onto the pin-signaling mode, not the beeper mode, so that his LieDeck-verification results would be discreet. He threw a quick, condemning glance at Lilly—the only other person nearby with a LieDeck-equipped Sniffer—and he went on with his duties.

  "Repeat! Any other reason?” he asked the boy.

  "My little sister wants to join Evolution,” explained Randy, with audible resentment, “and my parents can't seem to talk her out of it, so I'm going to give it a shot. I suppose it's really important for the WDA to know that, eh?"

  "Any other reason?"

  "No."

  "Anything to declare?"

  "No."

  "Thank you, Mr. Whiteside,” said the Customs officer with a practiced smile. “We'll be arriving in Ottawa at one twenty p.m., Eastern Standard Time, right on schedule. Have a nice visit, and welcome home."

  It annoyed Lilly a lot to see a privileged youngster show such deliberate contempt towards a stranger, just for doing his job. In recent months, she'd had disturbing dreams about things like that, about people saying or doing things that were technically correct but clearly designed to annoy, or lying on purpose, just to tick off a WDA official. It isn't very constructive, she thought.

  She was too prudent to protest and too self-confident to worry about the architecture of her eventual relationship with the snotty young golf
nut ... never mind that he's a Whiteside. The WDA was always in a position to prevail. Battles lost were temporary itches, passing twinges. She knew that, and she knew as well that the new world order was exactly as it had to be, that her cause was both righteous and necessary. So why do I resent these snubs? she asked herself. “If you've got a problem dealing with rejection, then don't work for the World Democratic Authority,” she remembered from her earliest days at the Officer Training Academy. And that advice was given to us when the WDA's global popularity rating was in the high nineties, she reminded herself, back when only a few civil libertarians and the last of the Godists were complaining about us, about our exclusive use of the LieDeck and ... and all that other stuff...

  "He's not even a freakin’ Canadian,” Randy complained when the Customs officer had moved out of earshot. “How come you WDA types gotta play brain games like that all the time?"

  "He was just being courteous,” said Lilly, coolly. “And besides, who's Canadian or American or Floridian or Québécois any more? We're all citizens of Earth first, so in a way he was just trying to show that—"

  "Give it a rest,” interrupted Randy. She had included “Québécois” in her list, and he had never mentioned to her that he was from Québec. “I don't have to apologize to you or anybody if my country means more to me than...” He let it drop, turned his eyes back to the window, and focused on the comforting fact that he would soon be descending in to Ottawa International, bumping down through a wet layer of floating porridge, leaving the glorious sun behind, joining a bleak, frigid countryside below, beloved land of his birth—bride white for half of every year. Since when is patriotism subversive? he asked himself. Maudit Yankee.

  "Listen, Randy,” said Lilly as she hand-dusted some lint off her black pants, lint that maybe wasn't even there, “I don't deserve this hostility. Working for the WDA is how I make a living, and I'm at peace with what I do. I tell you what: Let's you and me face on the Net some time, just to talk, you know? I'm an honest person, and I'm a good person, and that's the truth. In fact, I've had my LieDeck set on the beeper mode ever since I got on the plane, so you know I haven't lied.” She took her LieDeck-equipped Sniffer out of the inside pocket of her vest so he could see the signaling button ... if he were to turn his head, that is. “See?"