The Program tr-2 Read online

  TD drifted back a few steps, keeping just within earshot.

  "Jesus," Stanley John weighed in. "Great job. You can learn a lot by exploring your identification with your daughter's killer."

  Staring at the genuine awe etched into Stanley John's face, Tim felt his hand twitch. He repeated to himself, I am Tom Altman, to help check his natural instinct, which was to ram his fist through that all-American jaw. Far more disturbing, he felt his mind open slightly to Stanley John's ugly suggestion.

  "Now let's see you stand up to this guy. Tom? Come on, now. Your daughter's killer has spoken. Now respond to him."

  Tim thought for a moment but came up with nothing except a feeling of sickness. "I have no response to him. He killed a random girl who happened to be my daughter. Telling him off would be like explaining to a rabid dog why biting is bad. He's just an animal. There is no answer."

  Stanley John leaned in close. "The Program's going to give you that answer."

  The ballroom fell abruptly into darkness. Trumpets vibrated the partition walls – 2001: A Space Odyssey redux.

  Mad, sightless movement as the crowd stampeded back to Hearspace. Tim used the confusion to sneak beyond the horseshoe, keeping Leah in sight. When she ducked through the curtain, he hid behind an amp nearby.

  For once TD wasn't pacing; he sat on the edge of the dais, Stanley John and Janie perched on either side of him. His voice came low and smooth. "I'd like everybody to lie down flat on the floor for the first Guy-Med. Close your eyes. Make sure no body part is crossed over any other body part." A deliberate pause after each phrase. "Go still. Clear your mind. You're here for you. This is your moment. Now think about your breathing. Listen to yourself breathing. Feel the oxygen going into your body. Feel all your contamination leave you as you breathe out. Now concentrate on your toes. Take a deep, cleansing breath. Send the clean, pure, oxygenated blood to your toes."

  TD moved soporifically up the body, repeating each command three times in rich surround sound. The lights waned until they held only the feeblest presence in the room. Most of the participants stayed eerily still, their brains autopiloting across a sea of alpha waves. The room went black. Crouching behind the amp, Tim felt his own eyelids relax, and he dug a thumb into a pressure point in his hand.

  TD continued languidly, "You're six years old, standing outside your childhood door. You're going to follow me. Let me lead you. Let's open the door, you and me."

  Tim pulled off his jacket and unzipped the heavy lining bit by bit, bunching the fabric over the teeth to cut the sound.

  "Go inside. I'm going to leave you here. Don't be scared."

  Tim freed the coat lining, tucked it under his arm, and belly-crawled the few feet to the curtain. When TD's voice changed intonation, Tim froze. He waited a few moments as the commands resumed, then continued.

  "There are your favorite childhood toys. A beloved teddy bear -discarded. Your blankie – ragged and torn. Lie down on your little bed. Hold up a mirror, see what you look like. Look how sad you are. Look how lonely you are. Confused. Insecure. Ugly."

  Childhood images flew at Tim from the darkness, unleashed bats. His mother's bare drafting table. His father's entrusting him to a girlfriend's aunt when he left for a "business trip" – the woman hadn't gotten out of bed the entire three weeks except to empty her ashtrays and reheat frozen dinners.

  "Why are you weeping alone in your bed? What made you a victim? Daddy forgetting to play with you? Mommy not kissing you good night? They're still there, those broken promises, tearing at you, controlling you."

  Tim reached the curtain, blinking against the stream of light. Leah faced away from him, engrossed in the sound board. As hoped, she was alone.

  He slithered into Prospace, rose silently, and unfolded the coat lining on the floor; it expanded into an olive-drab duffel. Another Pete Krindon perk – creative clothing design. He bent over, tugging up his pant leg and pulling the thin, handkerchief-wrapped flask from the top of his left boot. Presized strips of duct tape adorned the rise of the boot; using TD's sonorous voice for cover, he peeled them off and stuck them dangling from his arm. He slid the flask from its handkerchief. Using a rolling wardrobe as partial cover, he crept up behind Leah, holding his breath and dousing the paisley fabric.

  He pictured it perfectly – one arm wrapping her torso, the press of the handkerchief to her mouth, the firming of the arm-sleeve gag. Working swiftly, he'd ease her unconscious body to the floor, crossing her ankles and weaving the duct tape through them. The thin strips he'd wrap around her thumbs so she wouldn't wind up with bruised wrists. He'd lay her in the duffel, hoist it over a shoulder, and shoot down the fire escape to the back lot before TD noticed a hiccup in his sound engineering. The Hummer held down a VIP space around front. The getaway key pressed against Tim's thigh through the thin pocket.

  He moved forward, ether dripping on the carpet. Visible just over Leah's hunched shoulder, the EMERGENCY EXIT sign beckoned. He took a final silent step; he could have reached out and stroked the frayed edges of her hair.

  TD's amplified voice continued its deadening cadence. "Look -there's your mother, full of life and mistakes. There's your father, with all his shortcomings. See him for what he really is. Why does he have a need to turn you into a victim?"

  Tim lowered the handkerchief.

  Leah spun and covered her gasp with a hand, unable to prevent a pleased smile.

  "Oh," she said in a hoarse whisper. "It's you."

  Her features transformed as she took note of the rag in his hand, the lengths of tape dripping from his forearm, the open duffel on the floor behind him.

  One shout would bring a stampede of blue-shirts.

  "You're here to kidnap me." She spoke with a sharp, wounded anger.

  Tim stuffed the wet handkerchief into his pocket. "Not anymore."

  "You lied. Like everyone else." Her face trembled, on the verge of tears. She edged toward the curtain, and he let her. She sucked in a breath, turning to scream, but then stopped and faced him. "Your dead daughter. You make her up, too?"

  "No."

  They stared at each other, the sound board humming beside them and throwing off heat. Tim barely had time to register the sudden silence when a burst of radio static issued from outside the curtain, followed by TD's unmiked growl.

  "- what happened to my rear sound?"

  Leah scampered back to the forgotten sound board. "Oh, shit. Oh, shit."

  Tim dove behind the clothes rack, skidding on his stomach. He disappeared behind a veil of dry cleaning as Skate blew through the curtain with a flourish of his thick arm, radio pressed to his face. Peeking from the waistband of his sweatshirt was the gun-blued hilt of a knife – an odd tool for a hotel seminar.

  He took note of the open duffel on the floor and, with a single expert movement, swept the knife from its sheath. He held the ten-inch bowie upside down, the blade out and pointed toward his elbow. "What's up?"

  The ballroom, filled with hundreds of entranced Neos awaiting their next command, gave off a deafening silence. "Nothing," Leah finally said.

  Skate toed the duffel. "The fuck is this?"

  "It stores the mike cables."

  Tim watched the exchange breathlessly through a screen of cellophane.

  TD's voice spit again from Skate's radio. "- there some issue back there?"

  Leah pursed her lips, stared at Skate's gleaming blade. "I…just zoned out. I got swept up in the Guy-Med."

  Skate eyed her, probably picking up the slight tremble in her voice. Finally, he keyed the radio, sliding his knife back into its sheath. "She screwed up."

  "Please explain to Leah that if she doesn't fix the rear distortion, I'm going to lose the entire group."

  Head bent over the graphic equalizer, Leah fussed with the frequency levers. Skate stared at her for a long time, then withdrew.

  "Get the hell out of here before the lights come back up," Leah said. "If Skate catches you, we're both in deep shit."

  Tim
found his feet. He hesitated, facing her.

  "You've done enough already, okay. Just go. Now."

  "Mommy," a woman shrieked in a little girl voice. "Moooommy!"

  Within seconds the ballroom reverberated with the screams of regressed voices, a chilling, insane-asylum chorus.

  Tim crept over and gave a peek under the curtain. Skate had retreated to his post, but a few of the Pros were up, wandering the shadowy horseshoe perimeter, contributing malicious echoes. "Mommy. Daddy. Where are you?"

  Stanley John and Janie patrolled the interior, leaning over the sprawled, mewling bodies, pouring it on. "We never wanted you!" Sweat dripped from Janie's forehead as she bent over a sobbing man. "You're worthless."

  Tim watched the movement of the blue-shirts, then crawled out and rolled swiftly across the open carpet. He made it a few yards inside the horseshoe before Stanley John's voice rained down on him – "What are you doing over here?"

  "Mom," Tim bleated, fluttering closed eyelids. "Where's my mom?"

  "She doesn't care about you. She left you." Stanley John moved on to harangue someone else.

  An overpowering voice cut through the commotion. "TD is here with you now. You're safe. Your guide is here." The clamor gradually settled, until only scattered sniffling persisted. "Now let me lead you out of your childhood room. Turn and say good-bye to me, your guide. I'm leaving right now, but I'll always be here, right inside you. Always. When the room grows bright, you'll come to, and you won't remember anything that you've experienced."

  The lights came up, and they all stirred, then found their feet, battle-field dead coming to life. As the Neos groggily located their seats, TD pressed on as if nothing had happened.

  "In The Program there isn't anything we despise more than a victim. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of living in a victim society. You can sue cigarette companies because you chose to smoke for thirty years. You can sue a TV show if your stupid kid lights himself on fire. Hell, you can sue McDonald's because you turned yourself into a fat-ass. Better not pat a female colleague on the arm, or you might be victimizing her. Don't say 'Jesus Christ' in front of a Bible-thumper or you'll be victimizing him.

  "In The Program we're accountable for our choices. We're not excuse makers. But some of you" – an Uncle Sam point of the finger -"still are, and your mind-set is contaminating. You need to negate Victimhood. Nothing is more useless than actions to please, actions to gratify, actions to ingratiate. They are the epitome of powerlessness. Your behavior should be for you. Don't laugh courteously. Don't call Mom because you feel obligated. Those actions have no place in The Program. Here we exalt strength -" He fanned a hand at the audience.

  "Not comfort!"

  "Comfort will make you weak. Only strength will set you free. We strive for fulfillment -"

  "Not happiness!"

  Tim mentally filed these additions to The Program Code.

  "You don't want to be happy. Happiness is for idiots. You want to be decisive. You want to be fulfilled. Sometimes that involves suffering. Sometimes that involves working hard. Are you ready to work hard?"

  "Yes!"

  "I want each group to select their biggest victim to come up here and take a seat on Victim Row." TD rested his hands on the backs of two chairs in the line being assembled by diligent Pros on the dais. "Think of it as intense therapy." His voice dropped, taking on an edge of menace. "One Pro will be joining us onstage. You already know who you are." Leah emerged, head bent, and trudged to the dais. TD helped her up, eyes smoldering charitably above his tight smile.

  Hearspace filled with the sounds of Neos fighting. A few Pros with trays strapped to them like vendors at a baseball game threaded through the bickering groups, tossing Cliff Bars and handing out Mountain Dews. People tore at the wrappers with their mouths, gulping and slurping, gulag prisoners in Levi's Dockers. Tim could almost hear the rising sugar hum. It took his last ounce of willpower to refrain. A woman screamed out that her bladder was going to explode; she was told to visualize it empty.

  Back in Tim's group, Joanne, the leading contender for Victim Row, suffered a battery of buzz-phrase accusations. Her inability to stand up for herself only proved the charges against her. When Victim Row convened, she was seated beside Leah.

  TD paced in front of the chosen ones. He laid into a nursing student first, working on her skillfully until she admitted she'd created her own diabetes when she was a little girl to get her daddy's attention. The prematurely bald teenager next to her divulged that he'd smoked pot twice and wrestled in high school; within minutes TD had him convinced he was a violent drug offender who'd never taken responsibility for himself.

  Moving down the row, TD grew increasingly personal. The crowd contributed to the abuse during riotous interludes. After Joanne floundered on a few of his questions, TD produced a mirror and handed it to her. "Look at yourself." He spoke with an icy calm. "You're obese. You're disgusting. Why would anyone want to be with you? What? What, Joanne? Why are you blubbering? How am I making you feel?"

  "You're making me feel inferior."

  "Wrong. You feel inferior. Don't try to say it's my fault. Tell me I'm stupid. Go ahead, tell me."

  She exhaled shakily. "I…I can't."

  "Can't. My favorite word." TD's mouth became a dark slit. "Look in that mirror. Tell me what you see."

  "I guess a woman who's trying to -"

  "Trying to. Trying to? Let me tell you what I see." His eyes bored through her. "I see three-point-five billion years of evolution, drawing you out of the primordial stew, straightening your stoop, granting you opposable thumbs. I see the trillions of other faulty models with slightly different physical traits, perceptive systems, cognitive skills, who died along the way so you can sit here today. I see a two-and-a-half-pound cerebrum. I see thousands of years of cultural advancement leading to the crops and farms that produced the sustenance that's gone into your cells. I see the sunshine that fed those plants, the universe that created that sun. I see life, time, and space distilled into human form, into this pinnacle of existence. And you can't…what? Tell me I'm stupid?"

  She was wheezing so hard she barely got out the words. "You're stupid."

  "Guess what? I don't feel stupid. You can't make me feel anything. Do you know why, Joanne? Because I'm not a victim. And if you weren't a victim, you'd be able to take an insult or two. If you weren't a victim, you'd be able to endure a little criticism."

  She fumbled for her inhaler.

  "Oh, there it is. Your sympathy crutch. Did someone develop asthma so people would feel sorry for her? Where's your self-respect? Well, since you're so concerned with what other people think…" He faced the horseshoe. "Let's give it to her, folks."

  The crowd exploded. Neos rose to their feet, shouting abuse at her. "Ugly pig!"

  A shovel-spade of a woman, a good fifty pounds up on Joanne, stood on her sagging chair, hands clutching her buttocks as she leaned forward like a fan baiting an umpire. "Fat fucking cow!"

  Joanne doubled over, head lurching. Janie stepped forward and produced an airsickness bag into which Joanne promptly barfed, eliciting another outburst of vilification from the audience. Her hairdo had collapsed like an angel cake.

  "That's good," TD said. "Purge your self-loathing."

  The torrent of deprecations continued unabated as Joanne purged. At last TD raised his arms, and the crowd silenced instantly.

  TD massaged Joanne's shoulders. "I'm proud of you, Joanne. By being able to sit through that, you've shown incredible growth. By the time you're done with The Program, you'll never have to feel that way again. Now, get up and take a bow."

  Joanne's knees buckled when she stood. The crowd picked up TD's encouraging applause, drowning out her mumbled objections as she was guided off the dais.

  Leah sat alone in the row of chairs, her hair over her eyes. Her fingers wound convulsively in the fringe of her shirt. The crowd was breathing together, a slow, forceful rhythm.

  "Leah, do you still have your
rash?"

  "Yes. I've chosen a rash because it's a way to make myself a victim privately."

  "You're still learning to escape your cycle of victimization, aren't you?"

  "Yes. I am."

  TD swirled in a magician's pivot. "Why don't you show everyone here your victim rash?"

  She looked back at him with glassy eyes.

  "You've learned to hide your urge to be a victim, not eradicate it. Hiding your victimhood gives you comfort. So. Why don't you show everyone here what a victim you are? In fact, why don't you take off all your clothes? You're not going to give these people the power over you to make you ashamed of your own body, are you?"

  The audience began to simmer.

  Leah mechanically began shedding her clothes. When she finished, her skin glistened with a fine perspiration.

  The crowd went rigid with a kind of dark ecstasy. Despite the cooling drafts from the overhead vents, Tim's undershirt clung to him like a second skin. His stomach churned as he watched TD prompt Leah.

  She bit back an energized smile and shouted, "This is my body! And you can't make me ashamed of it! I negate victimhood! I reject comfort! I exalt strength!"

  Uproarious applause. As Leah took up her clothes and stepped off the dais, TD said, "I wouldn't be surprised if that somatic manifestation of victimhood cleared up soon."

  The activities and Oraes and Guy-Meds continued, an endless, torturous cycle, grinding down Tim's sanity until he longed to submit. But he fought every moment of the afternoon, evening, and night, upholding Tom Altman's plausibility while focusing, meditating, doing anything to avoid being swept away in the rush of lunacy. Using pain to guard against the ceaseless kettledrum and soft-fluttering lights, he twisted one hand into the other as if boring a screw through an obstinate plank. His palm was developing a blister from his thumbnail's grinding, a stigma he might have considered melodramatic had the discomfort allowed him room for amusement.

  A flurry of scenes marked the final hours, glimpsed as if in the sporadic flash of a strobe light. Joanne standing on a chair, screaming, "I take on anger! I permit myself to feel anger because I stand up for myself!"