A Rage for Revenge

25 Denial

At least, now I understood what the two gold coins were for. They were to be placed on the eyes of my corpse.

An old tradition. The coins were to be used by the recently deceased to pay the ferryman's toll. The assumption was that Charon, the boatman who plied the river Styx, did not give freebies.

So I thought about that for a while.

The traditional view of the ferry was the one derived from the Gustav Dore illustrations for Dante's Inferno; a hooded, cloaked figure standing dourly in the stern of a grim-looking gondola, poling his way across the dank, fetid Styx with dispassionate gloom.

That was the traditional view.

But I expected something more modern.

With the traffic crossing the Styx these days, a Hovercraft would be far more appropriate, or maybe one of the superferries that ran between Calais and Dover. For that matter, why not just put in a toll bridge and be done with the whole tawdry business of ferries and boatmen and pennies on a dead man's eyes?

But there would probably be an interminable wait in the customs line.

I wondered if there would be duty-free shopping.

What kind of souvenirs would you find in hell anyway?

I wondered if anyone would be waiting for me. Dad? Shorty? Duke? Or, maybe . . .

Never mind. I'd find out soon enough.

Foreman had stepped off the platform. He was conferring quietly with the Course Manager. She nodded and returned to the back of the room. Foreman climbed back up the steps and looked at me. "You don't believe this yet, do you?"

I blinked back to the present.

I was still sitting in the canvas chair. I was still on the platform. I was still in The Survival Process.

"I-I'm sorry. I was thinking."

"Yes, that's right," Foreman agreed. "You were performing an activity or a learned behavior which you have connected to survival."

Foreman turned to face the room. "Here's what's going to happen, I'm going to explain some things about how the mind works. Then we're going to talk about them. And we're going to a:vlk about this process. Talking about this process is the main part of the process. It will demonstrate just how firmly connected to survival all of you really are."

My mind was wandering again. I was trying to visualize Hell. What kind of tortures could I expect? What kind of tortures did I deserve?

My dad had once defined hell in a game, but nobody took it too seriously. It was just a game. But once, in an interview, he admitted that his vision of hell was "to be trapped forever in the Small World ride at Disneyland."

Foreman was saying, "One of the first things that happens when the mind is confronted with information that it doesn't want to hear, or doesn't want to believe, is that the mind retreats. It goes unconscious. We saw that rather dramatically demonstrated when McCarthy here passed out.

"But there are other kinds of unconsciousness too. Daydreaming. for example. Here's the joke. You want to notice when you go unconscious-if you can-because that thing that your mind is trying to block out is very likely the one thing you most need to hear. McCarthy, are you paying attention? Remember, this process continues until you are dead."

I snapped to attention. There was a little laughter from the room. Had I been daydreaming again? Yes.

"Good. McCarthy is a textbook case. But don't feel superior. It doesn't matter who we put up here on the stage: any one of you would be a textbook case. The point is, you need to stay conscious today. This may be the single most important day in your training. It's certainly the most important day for McCarthy. Right, James?"

I was beginning to hate him. How could he talk so calmly about my death?

"Remember when we were in Africa?" asked Foreman. "Living in trees, scratching for fleas? Remember all those millions of years of evolution that are hard-wired into your cerebral cortex? No? Well, no matter-it's there anyway. The problem is, you think because you're not conscious of it that it's not there, that somehow you can be a human being independent of your evolutionary history. I say that's bullshit. You can no more be free of your evolutionary history than a fish can be free of water. You swim in your history-and it's as transparent and invisible to you as the water is to the fish."

Foreman grinned abruptly, as if remembering a joke. "The only difference between you and the fish is that the fish doesn't spend half his life making explanations for the other half. That's right, laugh. Laughter is another way of avoiding the issue. Reality evasion. Pretend that this doesn't have to be taken seriously. Yes-remember how we used to joke about Chtorrans and the people who claimed to have seen them?"

"This is different!" shouted somebody.

Foreman didn't even look up. "Raise your hand if you have something to say." He looked and pointed. "Yes? Rodman?"

A man near the front stood up. He had long, shoulder-length hair. He looked like a Navajo Indian. Maybe he was. "This is a stunt," he said. "A very carefully prepared stunt, I'll admit. It's very convincing. But you're not really going to kill McCarthy, it'd be a waste of a good officer."

"Those are assumptions on your part: one, that we're not going to kill McCarthy, and two, that he's a good officer. Frankly, I've heard he's a terrible officer."

"He's still a human being!" A woman stood up without waiting to be recognized. "You can't just kill a human being."

"I can, I have, and I will," said Foreman. "Let me demonstrate something. Every single person in this room who has ever taken a human life, regardless of the circumstances, please stand up." At least a hundred people stood up.

Foreman nodded. "All right, remain standing. Now, if you have ever been present when a human being was violently killed, please stand up."

At least another hundred and fifty people stood.

"You're talking about combat situations--that's different!" The woman protested.

"That's an assumption," Foreman replied quietly. "We don't know that those deaths occurred in a combat circumstance. It's a probable assumption because most of you think this course is filled with military officers, but it's just as possible that most of the people in this course are murderers, granted conditional reprieves from Death Row. Don't make assumptions." He waved the people back down into their seats.

"You're horrible!" said the woman.

"Yes, I am. So, what?"

"You shouldn't be making jokes about it! This isn't funny!"

"I agree with you. This isn't funny at all. There's a human life at stake. It was never meant to be funny. I apologize if it came off that way. The point is that violent death is not an uncommon or unusual occurrence to most of the people in this room; so the notion that there is something uncommon or unusual in what we're doing is invalid."

"We're talking about a human life!"

"I know that," said Foreman calmly.

"You can't just kill him!"

"I can. And I will-if that's what it takes to convince you that I'm serious about this process."

"It's illegal!"

"No, it's not." Foreman pointed to the screen where the president's order was displayed.

"Well, it's still wrong."

"Ahh! It's wrong. Yes: Life is right. Death is wrong. Therefore, killing is wrong. That's your survival mode speaking. If the truth be told, you personally don't give a shit whether Jim lives or dies-you're just terrified that if we establish the precedent of taking lives without apparent reason, you might find yourself in front of the gun next. Right?"

The woman didn't answer immediately. After a bitter pause, she snarled, "You're awfully glib. What if it was you in front of the gun?"

"It's not me in front of the gun. The question is irrelevant. This process isn't about my survival. It's about yours. And McCarthy's." Abruptly, Foreman noticed that Rodman was still standing and waiting patiently. "Actually, Rodman had the floor-you're interrupting; sit down. Rodman, do you have anything else to say?"

"No. I just wanted to say that I don't believe you. I think the gun is some kind of psychological trick to make us angry or scared. You're trying to get us to jump through your hoop. And it's already starting to work. Your conversation with her shows you scared her silly." He sat down, pleased with himself.

"Thanks for sharing that," said Foreman. "But what you think has nothing to do with what's actually going to happen. We have a loaded gun up here. I intend to use it before the end of the day." To the rest of the room, "Rodman doesn't believe that. He thinks it's a trick. Let's see, what was it Samuel Johnson said? Oh, yes," Foreman read from the manual, " 'Depend on it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully.'

"It's still very early in the day," said Foreman. "At this point, I'm sure that most of you are still thinking that this gun is only a prop to help you 'concentrate your minds wonderfully.' Well, yes-that's part of the purpose; the gun does focus your attention; but I should also remind you what Chekhov said. That's Anton, not Pavel," Foreman frowned his annoyance at the presumed illiteracy of the group and turned the page of the manual. "'If somebody places a gun on the mantel in the first act, it must be fired before the end of the second.' I promise you that we will use this gun today."

Foreman stopped himself to make a tangential point. "What we are doing here is demonstrating the first part of the process of dying. Denial. Most of you in this room-including even McCarthy-are refusing to accept that I am serious about this process. We will remain in the denial phase until everybody in the room is satisfied that this is not a trick. I am going to tell Colonel Marisov to shoot Captain McCarthy. This process will continue until Captain McCarthy is dead. The denial of this process is part of what you think you have to do to survive. That's why you do it. Now, where was I?" He strode back to the stand with the manual on it. "Oh, yes-I was talking about our evolutionary history.

"When we were still living in the trees, life was a lot simpler-and so were our brains. Is this a good banana or a bad banana? Monkeys that could recognize good bananas survived. Monkeys that couldn't, didn't. The evolutionary history of this species has served to put a premium on the ability to make appropriate decisions. Every time one of you chimpanzees pops out a baby, you are passing along not only your genes, but your vote on the hard-wired programming of the species. Because of our billions of years of evolutionary history, we are hard-wired to be decision-making machines. Whatever circumstance we are presented with, we make a decision about it. The decision is always reduced to its simplest level: 'Is this a good banana or a bad banana?' Yes or no? Is this a threat to my survival? Or not? If something unknown presents itself, we are hard-wired to treat it as a threat until proven otherwise. Eveything that your mind does-that whole conversation in your head, no matter what it's about-that's the mind considering its decisions for survival.

"Now, you want to notice here pay attention!-that this places an incredible burden on the mind to be right. Because in the mind's view, the alternative to being right is being dead. The mind equates rightness with survival and wrongness with dying. This is hard-wired into us. We, as individuals, have to be right whatever we do. That's why we have so much trouble with the concept of death-because Death is wrong. By the way," Foreman added, "the purpose of this process is not to change that orientation. We can't. It's hard-wired into you. The best we can do is make you conscious of it. Notice that most of you are now in denial. Notice the attempts to find the loophole, the escape, the fine print in the contract. "

Foreman sat down in his chair and looked out over the room. "Feedback?"

Several hands went up.

"What's to prevent McCarthy from walking out that door in the back of the room?"

"The door is locked and will remain so until I tell the assistants to unlock it."

"What if Marisov refuses?"

"We'll pick someone else." Foreman was emotionless.

"What if we all refuse?"

"Then I will fire the gun. Nothing will change the fact. The process continues until McCarthy is dead." Foreman pointed to a woman in the front row.

"I'm not going to argue with you," she said. "I just want to ask why? Why is it necessary to kill McCarthy for this process?"

Foreman considered his words carefully. "Remember what I told you at the beginning? We don't explain anything here. That's the mind trying to sidetrack the purpose. You want to bring a centipede to a crashing halt? Ask him in which order he moves his legs. In here, we concentrate on results. The only explanation you will ever get is: because that's what is necessary to produce the result."

"But isn't this a rather severe and heartless way to make a point? Couldn't you just tell us what we're supposed to realize?"

Foreman gave her a look. He gave her the look. "Don't you think we've had this discussion ourselves? If there were any other way to achieve the result, if there were an easier way, don't you think we'd take it?"

She sat down.

Foreman looked out over the room. "Do you see the denial at work? Do you see how you are trying to deny the circumstances of the situation? You're still not taking it seriously." He pointed at another raised hand.

A man this time. "Sorry, but I don't believe that the president of the United States would authorize this kind of bullshit. I don't believe it. If you're serious, then you're a murderer and you're asking us to be co-conspirators. And if you're not serious-if this is some kind of a trick, like Rodman said-then this is still an outrage. I'm going to take this up with Senator Brodie. When this is made public . . ."

Foreman held up a hand. "Excuse me, but Senator Brodie is one of our graduates."

"Then I'll find another senator. I still don't believe this . . . "

Foreman looked at him calmly. "I acknowledge your disbelief. Are you willing to take McCarthy's place up here on the platform?"

"Uh . . . " The man hesitated. The roomful of people laughed.

Foreman grinned. "That's the first sign that any of you in this room are taking this seriously. Does anyone want to trade places with McCarthy? Does anyone really and truly disbelieve?"

No hands were raised.

"Hm," said Foreman. "Suddenly, we have a roomful of hiders." He resumed his analytical tone. "I think most of you are still in denial. You want to notice that denial at least pretends to be a rational process." He grinned. "Wait till we get to anger. Anger is terrific. There's no pretense at all in anger. You'll see. Does anyone else want to deny the circumstances of this process? McCarthy?" He looked at me.

I shook my head slowly.

Foreman looked at me oddly, then he looked to Marisov. "What about you?"

Marisov spoke in carefully measured tones. She said, "I won't fire the gun. I can't. I won't. McCarthy has committed no crime. He does not deserve to die."

"Agreed: he has committed no crime. He does not deserve to die. But he's going to die anyway. We are all going to die someday. So what? Will you fire the gun?"

She whispered, "Nyet."

"Thank you. You may resume your seat."

Marisov climbed down off the platform and found her way back to her chair in the audience. She put her face in her hands and began weeping quietly.

Foreman waited until an assistant had verified that she was all right, then he turned back to me. "Unfortunately, McCarthy, you don't get off so easily. What's going on with you?"

I shook my head again.

Foreman turned to the rest of the trainees again. "All right. Marisov won't fire the gun. Who will?"

No hands went up.

"Oh, come on!" said Foreman, annoyed. "We're going to be here all day! There must be some one of you blood-crazed baboons who wants to get this over with."

Three hands went up.

"I thought so. Morwood, you had your hand up first. Do you want to blow McCarthy's brains out?"

Morwood stood up, grinning. "Sure. I never liked him anyway."

Foreman looked sideways at me. "You want to notice, McCarthy, Morwood has an excellent justification." He turned back to Morwood. "Justification is what we use to avoid being totally responsible for our actions. Sit down, Morwood. You're enjoying this too much." Foreman pointed to a black man. "Washburn?"

Washburn nodded. "I'll do it."

"Why?"

"Why not? Washburn shrugged. "You say it has to be done. Somebody's got to do it. I'll do it."

"Interesting," said Foreman. "Remain standing." Foreman pointed to the angry-looking woman. "Takeda?"

"What if I take the gun and shoot you?" she asked. "Would that end this silliness?"

"No, it wouldn't," answered Foreman. "Miller, the Course Manager would take over and the process would continue. You can sit down. I'm interested enough in my own survival that I don't feel like testing your ability to follow instructions." There was a little laughter at Foreman's candid admission. "All right, Washburn. Come on up and take Marisov's place."

Foreman turned back to me again. "You see, James, the universe has no shortage of executioners." He stopped and studied me. "Okay, what's going on with you? It's all over your face. What's that about?"

"You lying, supercilious, manipulative, cock-sucking, shit-eating, morphodite!" I exploded. "You asshole! You motherfucker! You know what I've been through! You know this isn't fair! You made promises to me! Your promises are worthless! You want us to keep our word, but you can't keep yours! You're a goddamn, lawyer-loving liar! You make Jason Delandro look like a fucking saint! If I had the gun, I'd kill you! You scum-sucking, son of a bitch! You-you . . .!!" I stopped only for breath, and only because I couldn't think of anything else to call him.

Foreman was still grinning at me. He. shared his grin with the room. "Now," he said. "Now, we're at anger."