The Program

Chapter twenty

Wedged between a smoggy run of Sepulveda and perpetual traffic mainlining up Century Boulevard into LAX, the Radisson held its ground with a certain imperviousness and vanity, as if the recent renovation had fooled the establishment into thinking highly of itself. Tim pulled up and dropped a duplicate key in the palm of a youthful valet who all but Matrixed over getting an eyeful of the banana yellow ride.

"Keep it up front."

The valet nodded. "A-ight."

Standing erect amid streams of incoming attendees, Lorraine greeted Tim at the automatic glass doors, wearing a stewardess's polyester smile. "Nice wheels."

She took his arm, guiding him through the brochure-glossy lobby, leaving the others to progress unattended. Bill O'Reilly flapped about immigrants from a suspended TV in the bar area. A fountain nestled in the curving staircase's embrace burbled, the sound drifting with them up and around to a spacious second-floor landing. North-facing windows provided a view of a loading dock, a back parking lot, and an emergency exit.

A confusion of people sorted neatly into the International Ballroom through a set of double doors, the so-called Pros distinguishable by pressed blue polos and matching purposefulness. With a faint grin, Lorraine suddenly receded into the press of bodies, no doubt off to escort some other affluent convert.

Not only had event attendance grown exponentially since Reggie's day, but the target demographics had fanned out. The Neos, ranging from late teens to thirties, appeared to represent a variety of backgrounds. They hummed with nervous anticipation, picking up on the exuberance of the cult members. A few stragglers gathered near the back of the landing, staring longingly at a roped-off bank of pay phones guarded by an OFF-LIMITS! sign on a stout brass post. No one dared cross the velvet cord.

Tim scanned the crowd, looking for Leah's distinctive shaggy brown hair. The blue polos and flushed, youthful faces made the cult members easy to pick out as they darted to and fro completing their preparations, but there were too many for him to keep track. He barely had time to eyeball the ushers guarding the ballroom doors before a toothy young jock at a draped check-in table requested his name. Yes, Tom, there was a $500 fee. Wasn't his fulfillment worth spending a few bucks? No, they couldn't accept a personal check, but AmEx or Visa would be fine.

Another hand-off and he was whisked through the doors by a robust young woman in a shapeless dress. Two segmented partitions divided the fourteen-thousand square feet of ballroom. Another brass-post sign identified the empty first section as ACTSPACE. Led by hand, Tim passed through a gap in the partition into a second area with about three hundred chairs positioned in a giant horseshoe, the open end facing a dais. The sign there, predictably, read HEARSPACE. The woman deposited him in the rear at a banquet table and vanished. Enya oozed, bass-heavy and forlorn, from hidden speakers.

Tim accepted a glass of punch from a female Pro and surreptitiously gifted its contents to a fake ficus leaning from a peat pot. So he wouldn't stand out, he held on to the clear plastic cup, carrying traces of the punch. He avoided the snacks but crumpled a napkin in his hand. As he drifted effortlessly through the clots of people, he grudgingly recognized that he owed his father much of his ability to work undercover. The others chatted nervously, strained alertness tightening their faces. The 5:00 A.M. commencement meant a four o'clock wake-up for most participants, giving them a head start on exhaustion.

"I can't really afford this whole deal," a burly guy in a jean jacket was telling a few uninterested girls and a tattooed Marine, "but the owner said he'd only hire me if I went through this thing." He tapped a passing Pro, who turned glassy pupils and a disarming grin in his direction. "Hey, what are we gonna be doing anyway?"

"You don't want me to tell you anything about today's work before we get to it. It would undermine your experience."

Tim stood at the fringe of the group, his eyes picking over the enormous room. Numerous light panels and thermostats, carpeted metal partitions and cloth-dressed walls, hideously patterned rug, equally offensive chandeliers like dimpled breasts. A service elevator briefly came into view when a stressed-out blue-shirt swept through a rear waitstaff door – Tim's favored extraction route.

Tim craned his neck to see through the fifteen-foot gap in the second partition, but the far ballroom section, labeled PROSPACE, was dark. He edged nearer, wanting a peek at Oz's command center. Cult members continued to stream out like diligent ants; he guessed there were sixty in all.

Easing away from the crowd, he neared the dark portal to Prospace, his advance going unnoticed. He shouldered against the makeshift jamb near a pinned velvet curtain, ready to slip through. Scurrying figures were barely discernible beyond, shadows against shadows.

A small orb in the darkness was suddenly illuminated – the glowing red dials of a sound board firing up – and there stood Leah, knock-kneed and soft-faced and taller than he'd imagined, bent over the apparatus like a pianist. Her slim fingers punched buttons and adjusted dials. Her competence and apparent collectedness made clear that the abduction was not going to be as simple as he'd imagined -carting off a zoned-out cult zombie. She looked up, burgundy suffusing her hair at the tips, and their eyes met and held. She smiled, showing off an angled front tooth, and he had just an instant to take in the absolute sweetness of her expression before a block of shadow took form and collided with him, a forehead striking the side of his face.

He fell back into the light. A squat guy was standing over him, shoulders drawn back so his arms bowed wide. A sweatshirt with ripped-off sleeves was pulled tight across his broad chest. A necklace – copper wires threaded through earth-tone beads – was embedded in the V of chest hair visible beneath the shoelace stitching the ripped collar. He matched the description of the thug who'd assisted Leah with her move, bead necklace and all.

"Didn't see you," Tim said.

"Not allowed back here," the guy answered.

The thrill of finding Leah took the edge off the throbbing in Tim's cheek. A sharp pain pinched his hip where something hard and metal had struck him. A concealed weapon?

Tim pulled himself to his feet; no hand was offered. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was limited access. I'm Tom Altman."

The man stood motionless and unblinking. "You wanna be back over with the others."

The glow from the sound board had vanished, taking Leah with it.

"I didn't get your name." Tim smiled self-consciously. "I don't know anyone here."

"Skate Daniels. We're, uh, preparing back here."

A smooth voice reverberated through the speakers. "Let's all get seats now."

With a nod Tim retreated from the unbudging figure, finding a chair. Others trickled in, filling the horseshoe as "Orinoco Flow" continued to soothe. Sweat trickled down Tim's forehead; a raised hand to the overhead vents confirmed they were running full blast. He slid off his heavy winter coat and stuffed it under the chair. He'd made one arm of his long-sleeved undershirt detachable, Velcroed in place so it would give with a firm tug. The thick patch at the elbow doubled as a bit for the makeshift gag.

When the song ended, the low rumble of a drum replaced it, heartbeat steady. Tim felt tired already from the heat, and malleable, which was precisely the aim. Those around him seemed unnaturally relaxed, no doubt due to whatever concoction enhanced the punch.

Blond, fair-skinned, and slightly equine about the mouth, the couple who took the dais seemed peeled from a 1940s German propaganda poster. They gazed at each other with shared excitement, singers on the verge of a duet chorus.

"Hello, I'm Stanley John -"

"And I'm Janie."

Stanley John winked at the crowd, adjusting his head mike. "The Program was evolved by our teacher, Terrance Donald Betters, through years of research and study. You're going to get the opportunity to hear from TD soon. But first we've got to lay down some basic practices for what will be the most transforming experience of your life. Number One: Don't destabilize our techniques. The Program is precise. Success for all is reliant on no one's interrupting the process. It's not fair to everyone else if you cut in and derail their forward movement. Make sense?"

Janie was nodding for him. "Number Two: No leaving before the colloquium is finished. No matter what. The instruction and group work go all day and night. At five A.M. when you graduate, you'll be different people. But before then you must not leave. Not if your mother has a heart attack and they're reading her the last rites. Anyone who can't handle this level of commitment should go now. This is your chance." A dramatic pause during which no one moved. "Good -but this is an active commitment. So everyone who's strong enough to see this experience through, stand up."

About 90 percent of the attendees, including Tim, rose. Slowly, the others joined them, pulled by discomfort or obligation, until only three remained sitting.

One of them, a weary thirty-something, raised her hand. "I'm an only parent, and my kids are with a sitter. What if there's an emergency and I have to leave?"

"If you're an excuse maker, then you'll never learn to take control of your life. Just leave now. No reason to stay and interfere with everyone else's growth."

"But what if…?"

"Whoa, horsey." Stanley John chuckled kindly, Janie matching his Teutonic smile. Some scattered, nervous laughter from the crowd. "Ma'am, we explained the rules. We're not gonna take up everyone else's time holding your hand."

"Yeah, let's get on with it!" a plant shouted from the audience.

"If you want to be a victim of an emergency that hasn't happened yet, if you want to walk out on growth, the door's that way." Stanley John smiled benevolently at the woman, who wilted back in her chair, then pulled herself to her feet. He smiled even bigger, clapping, and the crowd slowly joined in. "Good for you."

During the applause one of the other dissenters stood, too, his face flushed. The last, an anxious-looking man in a bargain suit, scurried from the ballroom, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

Janie and Stanley John ran through the other rules in similar fashion. No questions during activities. No smoking or drinking. Eat only the food that's been provided.

"Why can't we take bathroom breaks without approval?" a frazzled woman wanted to know.

"Because TD found out it's too disruptive otherwise."

Tim began to rethink his plan for extracting Leah. Clearly he wouldn't have much mobility. He couldn't very well page her to a house phone or catch her on her way to the bathroom.

The recitation of the rules continued. Change seats now if you're sitting with anyone you know. Music will play between activities -get back to your chairs by the time it stops. You've got to participate fully.

The stifling heat, bursts of applause, and constant sitting and standing – enough to rival midnight mass – were working their magic, making the crowd at once obedient and lethargic. People with hesitations were mocked for being uncommitted, more people from the audience joining in each time.

Tim caught sight of Shanna at the far end of the horseshoe. Grinning dumbly, lips stained red with punch, she slouched in her chair, her head angled on a lenient neck. About five more people chose to leave before the lengthy introduction concluded, departing through a hail of hisses, boos, and – worse – sympathetic ohhs. The woman next to Tim, who wore a shell of egg-blond hair and no rings on her chubby fingers, appeared to be in a daze, humming to herself and nodding vehemently, her damp smock giving off an odor like curdled milk.

"All right!" Stanley John roared when the last rule had been summarily accepted. "Look around you. Everyone in this room has made the right choice. You've all chosen change and growth. From here forward, we're all in this together."

The room broke out in applause. Skate Daniels and the other likely knock-down man, a guy with a bald pate and a pronounced underbite, slid in front of the waitstaff doors and the Actspace partition gap -the only two exits. They stood like prison guards, arms crossed, expressionless. The herd was now corralled and Tim's extraction route blocked.

Jogging athletically around the horseshoe, Stanley John counted off the participants. More blue-shirts materialized to take control of the smaller groups. Tim looked for Leah to emerge, but evidently her technical skills were needed backstage.

"All right," Stanley John said breathily. "You twenty, come meet in Actspace."

Slipping on his jacket, Tim shuffled through the partition gap with the others. His neighbor introduced herself as Joanne, pumping his hand moistly. The gruff guy in the jean jacket was in their group, along with an appealing girl in a sorority sweatshirt who reminded Tim of Leah's college roommate. A gangly, thin-necked kid with comb marks gelled into his hair brought up the rear, his hands bunching the front of his Old Navy Swim Team shirt.

They formed a huddle of sorts, Stanley John in the middle, holding a plastic bin. "Let's put our watches in here. Cell phones, too."

Will's $30,000 Cartier disappeared in the heap.

They sat in a circle like kindergartners at storytime, filling out name tags that they were asked to wear at all times. Next a stack of forms magically appeared in Stanley John's hands. "These will help us keep track of your progress. Part of your job will be to look out for one another and provide feedback to me whenever you sense someone is getting Off Program."

Ben smoothed his name tag onto his denim jacket. "Big Brother's watching."

His joke was punished with disapproving silence.

"I'll do mine first." Tongue poking a point in his cheek, Stanley John bent over his form. He spoke the words slowly as he wrote. "My Program is: I experience empowerment as I follow guidance leading me to strength. My Old Programming is: I'm afraid to get angry." He looked up with a smile. "We want to stay On Program and reject our Old Programming. Get it? Now you guys go."

After everyone finished jotting, they went around the circle and read from their forms, the answers closely parroting Stanley John's examples. Blushing, Joanne read in a feeble voice, "My Program is: I experience fulfillment as I participate in my growth. My Old Programming is: I have a tough time standing up for myself."

Ray, the lanky kid, confessed that his Old Programming was that he was a bit of a control freak. Ben's was that he had a temper. Tom Altman confessed heavily that he often tried to solve his problems with money. The sorority girl, Shelly, admitted with obvious pride to using physicality to get a sense of self-worth.

"A consistent theme is an inability to express yourselves. Especially to express anger. We're going to do the Atavistic Yell to loosen up." Stanley John stood, the others following, and pointed at Joanne. "Go on. Yell at the top of your lungs."

She glanced around hesitantly. "What? I…Can't someone else go first?"

"Isn't your Program that you experience fulfillment as you participate in your growth? Are you participating in your growth by refusing to do the activity? Is she, folks?"

Several others chimed in. "She's Off Program."

"I think she's afraid to stand up for herself like she said!"

Her flushed cheeks quivered. She opened her mouth and emitted a tentative yelp.

"You call that a yell?" Stanley John was standing over her now, screaming. "Get out of your Old Programming. Let's hear you yell. Let's hear you stand up for yourself."

She was shaking, eyes welling. The noise level rocketed around them as people in the other groups shouted and screamed.

"Look at you. A grown woman, you can't even open your mouth and make a noise. How weak. You're useless."

The ploy – boot camp gone self-help – might have been offensive were it not so transparent.

Joanne tried to scream, but it came out a hoarse gasp.

"We're all sitting around waiting for Joanne to scream so we can progress with our growth. Everyone waits for Joanne; is that how it is in your world? Everyone waits -"

Joanne leaned forward and screamed with all her might, arms shoved stiffly behind her. She sucked in air and bellowed again, screaming until she nearly hyperventilated. Stanley John was clapping, and the others joined in. Following his example, they administered the quaking woman full body hugs. Her top, now drenched with panic sweat, felt clammy beneath Tim's arms.

Her shoulders sagged with relief. "I've never done anything like this before. This is amazing. I feel all tingly."

"This is lame," Ben said.

Shelly turned a smiling plea in his direction. "Don't be so negative."

Stanley John chimed in with his beloved standby: "You're interfering with Joanne's experience. And everyone else's."

Ben looked away uncomfortably, no doubt weighing the costs of initiating his Old Programming. "I'm just saying this ain't my cup of tea. Especially not for five hundred bucks."

Janie, who'd been prowling the group perimeters, stepped in. "Group Seven is one man short. Anyone here who can go?"

"Seven's a great group, Ben," Stanley John said. "Why don't you join them?"

Before Ben could answer, Janie whisked him off, threading herself around his arm like an adoring date. Tim watched them make their way back to Skate's province near the door, where Janie introduced Ben to a cluster of other seemingly displeased customers – a dissenters quarantine. Skate nodded into the radio pressed to his ear, as if it picked up motion.

Becoming a behavior problem clearly wouldn't buy Tim a backstage pass and get him near Leah; for the time being, acquiescence was the only option.

Now that Joanne had broken the ice, Shelly carried out the exercise with a minimum of resistance, and Ray followed suit. When his turn came, Tim allowed Tom Altman to be briefly berated for holding back. Stanley John poked a flat hand into his chest where it met the shoulder. "You don't have your money to hide behind now, Tom. You have to yell just like everyone else."

The others chimed in with impressive vigor, Joanne the most aggressive in her exhortation. "Reject your Old Programming. You're being weak."

When Tom was finally able to let loose a satisfying yell, the praise was effusive. After being smashed in a sweaty group hug, Tim realized that the temperature had suddenly plummeted. The oscillation made him light-headed, and he felt his first flash of alarm – two hours' sleep and an empty stomach might not have been the wisest preparation for what was proving to be a marathon.

The lights suddenly dimmed, Enya pouring through the speakers. At once everyone sprang into action, people scrambling back to Hearspace and finding their seats. With the synthetic arpeggios and blasts of refrigeration, the space had taken on a certain unreality.

Tim noticed Group Seven being ushered out during the distraction – so much for the "no leaving" rule. He detoured by the waitstaff entrance and picked up Janie's calling the bald door guard "Randall."

The Pros stalked the center of the horseshoe, physically steering stragglers to their seats and yelling for silence. The people in the group adjacent to Tim's were talking and laughing. Stanley John pulled the leader aside. "If you keep choosing incompetence, you might need a visit to Victim Row."

The Pro blanched, then turned and chastised her charges with renewed energy.

The lights went out completely. Pants and gasps filled the perfect darkness. Despite his weariness, Tim debated making a run for Prospace, but he knew that his chair would be glaringly empty when the lights came up. Even if he could locate Leah, he was no longer sure what to do with her.

Three trumpet blasts scaled octaves to form the opening bars of Thus Spake Zarathustra, signaling the next leg of the space odyssey. Diffuse yellow light bathed the dais. A slender man stood in the center, head bowed. A voice boomed through the speakers. "In The Program there are no victims." He raised his head, the floating black egg of the mike visible just off his left cheek. A tiny rectangle of hair glistened high on his chin – his face was youthful and smooth, his age indeterminable. "There are no excuses. You create your own reality, and you live inside it. You can follow The Program and maximize…or you can stay mired in your Old Programming and be victimized. Those are the choices – the only choices."

The chandeliers eased up a notch, the room taking on the dimmest edge of dusk. Tim peered at the digital watch face he'd hidden in his pocket – 8:03. Reggie's advice to mind the time had been crucial; with all the environmental manipulation in the ballroom, Tim needed to root himself in an external reality.

The participants gazed at the Teacher with adoration, all focus and veneration. Looking around, Tim couldn't help but feel as though he'd stepped into a dream. The Teacher began pacing the stage, and the white ovals of the faces pivoted back and forth, radar dishes keying to the same frequency.

"My name is Terrance Donald Betters."

The voices of the sixty or so Pros rose together. "Hi, TD."

"I've spent years and years and literally hundreds of thousands of dollars developing The Program. I do not exaggerate when I tell you it's going to change the world. It's a revolution. And guess what? You're ahead of the curve. You're joining in already, gaining access to The Program's Source Code. You're here to change your lives. And that change begins now." He stopped, breathing hard, looking out at the horseshoe's embrace. "Take sole responsibility for your life. You alone cause all outcomes."

Program Precept One was greeted by murmurs of wonderment.

"Your experience is your reality. You control everything. If you feel hurt, it's because you decided to feel hurt. If you feel violated, it's because of how you chose to interpret an event. The world is up to you. Make of it what you will. No experience is bad in its own right. I dare any person in this room to name an experience that is objectively bad. Well?" He scanned the masses before him, Moses considering the Red Sea. "Come on, now. I won't bite."

"Rape," a courageous effeminate male voice called from the back.

TD leaned back, laughing, his knees bending. "Rape? That's a good response." Again he began his hypnotic pacing, the steady, powerful movement of a caged tiger. "But take away societal issues around sexuality. Rape involves coercion – like lots of things in life. Getting pulled over and being given a ticket for an expired registration, for example. Paying our taxes. Submitting to having our shoes examined by idiots at airport security checkpoints. And yet we don't believe that those coercions are inherently evil. If you believe that rape involves some sort of objective, universal evil, you've been brainwashed. Society taught you rape was essentially evil. Society made you feel guilty if you entertained a rape fantasy. Society made rape fundamentally traumatic. And we bought it. Now, I'm not an uncaring guy. Nor a rapist. I'm not saying we don't experience negative emotions. After all, who among us hasn't felt sad? Who among us hasn't felt depressed? Beat up? Kicked around? Put down? Violated? We all have, haven't we?"

Shouts and exclamations. The lights dimmed until just TD remained illuminated. The heat was blowing again, mixing with the breath and perspiration of three hundred close-quarter adults to create a soupy humidity. Tim wiped the sweat fog from his fake glasses.

TD spread his arms. "You. Don't. Have. To. Feel. That. Anymore."

Somewhere in the darkness, a woman actually sobbed.

"A human being is the most sophisticated thinking machine ever devised. You work like a computer, but you know what? You're a lot better than a computer. You're the only computer able to run itself. Able to unplug itself and move itself around. The question is: Are you going to run yourself, or are you going to let others run you? The Program's not about how you feel. It's about how you think. Your Old Programming unconsciously controls how you think. Your Old Programming is everything your family and society downloaded into you that you've never considered critically. Your Old Programming is the part of your past that's holding you back. We're gonna take that, trash it, and teach you something that sets you free. You don't have to empty the trash. You can always recover lines of Old Programming code and use them again – they're always there. But we're gonna overwrite your Old Programming with The Program. And that, folks, is gonna set you free."

The second and third commandments.

Beside Tim, Joanne fumbled out an inhaler and sucked twice on it. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Tim glanced down the row -blank, neutral expressions, slack jaws, retarded blink and swallow reflexes.

"The Program works for everyone who's ever committed to it. Every single person. So unless you think you know better than everyone in this entire room, you'd better commit like you've never committed before. If it feels like it isn't working, it's only because you're not working hard enough. If you start having doubts, that's just your Old Programming talking. Maximize your growth by minimizing your negativity."

The Program Code was up to four tenets.

"The world around us has changed. Terrorists fly airplanes full of people into buildings. The news informs us daily as to what our level of terror should be. We march into war constantly. Al Qaeda, Afghanistan. Iraq. Pension funds suddenly evaporate. Everywhere we turn there's a new problem. SARS. Global warming. Anthrax. We're scared. We're confused. Well, no more. Say it with me."

"No more!" The chant filled the ballroom. Tim's eyeballs felt as though they were vibrating in his skull.

"Will we allow ourselves to feel shitty? No way!"

"No way!"

"Forget common sense. Do you know what common sense is? An excuse for not thinking. This is the new way to think. We're doing it right here in this room. The more you follow The Program, the more you are free."

People were nodding along as if the doors to life's deepest meaning were flying open.

"It's time for our next activity. It's Going to a Party, and it lasts ten minutes. Your job is simply to get up and talk to one another. Do you think you can manage that?"

Happy-go-lucky smiles plastered on their faces, the Pros bounced up and began introducing themselves to Neos from other groups. Slowly the Neos joined in, mimicking the shiny smiles.

Onstage, TD let out a little laugh. "Who says The Program's all hard work? We have fun here, too." He pulled off his mike and hopped down from the dais, conferring with Stanley John and Janie, then laying the word on a couple of awed Neos. The others milled around, talking and laughing as cold air blew down on them. Tim passed unnoticed by Julie, who perkily badgered a shy girl, "Everyone else is having fun."

He sneaked a glance at his watch, timing the event. A guy with narrow features and a ponytail approached, sticking out his hand and jutting out his chest so Tim could read his name tag. "Hey there. I'm Jason Struthers of Struthers Auto Mall."

"Tom Altman. Unemployed entrepreneur."

"Huh? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

Tim sidled toward Prospace. "My company was bought out in January."

Jason fidgeted with his wedding band. "What kind of stuff did you do?"

"I can't really talk about it. Defense work. Nondisclosure agreements, classified projects. You know."

The guy nodded as if he enountered similar security protocol on the auto-mall circuit.

A redhead with bulging eyes and an excited smile stole Jason's attention, and Tim took advantage of the distraction to get away. Turning an occasional eye to Skate and Randall, he moved toward the partition gap through bunches of people chattering idiotically.

He peered through the curtain into Prospace. A computer monitor threw enough light to reveal five workers, Leah not among them.

He turned, and she was standing right beside him. "Hi." She extended her hand with mock formality. "I'm Leah."

Up close it was all the more clear that none of Will's hefty genes were in the mix. She'd yet to grow into her shoulders. Her tank top revealed the edge of a hidden rash. Her angled front tooth barely split her closed lips, lending them the faintest suggestion of a pout.

Her hand felt soft and fragile. She wore her hair pulled back in a clip, but it spilled from the sides, arcing forward in brown strokes around a slender neck. Her eyes dipped to his name tag. "You having a good time, Tom?"

She seemed kind and engaging; Tim had to remind himself that these were the traits she'd been conditioned to exhibit. "It's pretty fun. A little out there, though."

The sincerity vanished from her eyes and with it her allure. "I was put off, too, at first, but I learned to keep an open mind. Constant questioning will only take you out of your process. Don't be afraid to let go."

"I'm doing my best."

The life came back into her face. "I noticed you earlier."

"I noticed you, too. You deal with the equipment back there, huh?" Tim used the question as an excuse to brush aside the curtain for a protracted look. In the far back corner, he detected a faint green EMERGENCY EXIT sign – the iron staircase that led to the rear parking lot. Five Pros were positioned between them and it; TD had clearly set up the colloquium to guard against the abduction of Pros. "Pretty mechanically savvy to run a show like this."

She blushed a little, her head dipping. "Oh, I don't run the whole thing. I just handle lights and sound."

"Still, I'd bet that takes some skill. Last time I touched a lighting panel was at a high-school buddy's garage concert. I electrocuted his cat."

A giggle escaped her. "Oh, this is nothing. I used to -" She stopped, her features going blank.

"What's wrong?"

"Okay," TD boomed. "Our ten minutes are up. Now we're playing Going to a Zombie Party. You can talk all you want, but you can't use intonation. And you can't make any gestures with your hands, arms, or bodies. This activity will last ten minutes, too."

Tim turned and peeked at his illicit watch. As he'd suspected, only five minutes had passed.

The corners of Leah's mouth turned up ever so slightly. In a robotic voice, she said, "I had better go interact with others. You are monopolizing all my time at this festive occasion."

"Over and out, earthling. Go in peace."

A smile broke onto her face, which quickly turned into an uncomfortable scowl. She walked stiffly off toward the horseshoe, pausing once to look back at Tim.

The others grew giddy from their attempts to restrain themselves. When someone lapsed, the Pros only scolded in monotone, which added to the carefree mood. Soon laughter filled the entire ballroom. Ray, arms at his sides, looked dead ahead at a circle of other frozen Neos. They were all howling with laughter.

When TD called out that time was up, Tim confirmed that ten minutes had passed with a quick glance at the watch. The sweat trickling down his sides alerted him to another radical temperature shift. The lights dimmed a few watts, the change barely discernible.

"Now we're Going to a Silent Party, and I think we can all guess those rules. You can only communicate through eyes and touch. If you have to, you can make noises, but no words."

Enthusiastic silent shuffling. Two Pros mimed each other's movements perfectly. Shelly let her hand glide limply through the air, as if tracing something. Five Neos crowded around her, their entire bodies undulating with the movement. Joanne sat cross-legged on the floor, sobbing violently. A shoulder-massage train of twenty people -Neos interspersed with Pros – snaked around Hearspace before forming a ring. Other Neos looked agitated, darting frenetically like rats in a maze.

Through all his years of training, combat, and street operating, Tim had never seen so many people knocked completely off their bases. Shanna approached and spread her arms wide as if to hug him but hovered an inch from his body. He searched for Leah – she was tucked into a ball, arms wrapped around her knees, face buried, shaking despite the heat. Only TD, Skate, and Randall remained tranquil in their poses, calmly waiting for the activity to end.

But it didn't. It stretched on and on, the shrieks and laughter growing oppressive. His undershirt pasted to his body, Tim staggered through the swampy warmth, squinting in the dimness. People howled. Bodies fluttered on the floor. The last time he'd checked the watch, the session had been at twenty minutes. He saw flicks of static between blinks. He was about to sit down on the floor when the room flooded with Enya.

Neos jostled and crawled back to their chairs. The lights came up to reveal TD on the dais, grinning coldly. "That was excellent. You're my most advanced group yet! You folks aren't afraid to Get with The Program. Now, everyone stand up and take your neighbor's hand. That's it." He stepped down off the dais, extending inviting hands to either side as the two ends of the horseshoe closed around him. "Now, squeeze and release. Deep breath. Squeeze and release. We are all one. Can you feel it?" Propagating from TD, currents of hand clasping ran around the circle. "Can you feel the energy running through us? Running through each one of us? We are all going to be successful. We are all going to be strong. We are all going to be happy."

He laughed. "If you believe that crap, catch a magic bus back to the seventies. Affirmations like that are old-hat cult bullshit. Telling yourself something doesn't make it happen. Making it happen makes it happen. If you think you can talk yourself into who you want to be, you deserve est, and Ronnie Hubbard, and selling Amway toilet paper out of the trunk of a Corolla. We're not a religion. We're not tax-exempt. We're a practice.

"Some people might identify us as a cult. Are we? Here's my answer: I don't care. What is a cult? A belief system that the person using the word 'cult' does not like. Is AA a cult? I don't care. They've helped people – I hope I help as many people in my lifetime. Is the Marine Corps a cult? I don't care. I care about effective. And since I know The Program is effective, you can call it a satanic coven of witches if you want. The Program Source Code applies effectively to living your life. Judge us by what we do for you, not by some useless term you found in your Old Programming user's manual." He threw his hands up, and everyone else followed, the circle flailing. "Now reconvene with your groups in Actspace. You can bring one Pro friend you met at the party."

On his way back, Tim passed Leah, who was being admonished by Janie. "- should be back in Prospace. I think you might have to do some work on Victim Row."

Leah seemed to crumble at the mention of this duty.

Tim touched Janie lightly on the arm. "Excuse me. I met Leah during the party and invited her back to my group. I'm Tom Altman."

Janie's features loosened – clearly, Tom Altman had been designated a VIP. A glance at Leah. "That true?"

Leah paused, agitated, then gave a brief nod, her tufts of hair bobbing.

Janie's pert smile bunched her pretty cheeks into sinewy circles. "Okay. You kids have fun."

Leah trailed Tim back to the group, visibly upset by her conformity with Tim's lie. The others were crowded around Stanley John, an eager horde of informants providing "feedback."

"Ray was totally Off Program during Going to a Zombie Party. He gestured a bunch."

"I experienced Shelly as being her Old Programming. She was using her physicality to draw people in so she'd experience self-worth."

"Joanne complained she was starving."

After administering a round-robin of reprimands, Stanley John walked them through several invasive "sharing" exercises, culminating in the Blame Game. Everyone had to share the most horrific event in his or her life, then reexperience it from the perpetrator's perspective.

Shelly, face stained with tears, was reliving a high-school rape. "I'm black. I'm poor. I don't have any money. I'm depressed. I live in a cardboard box, and a pretty young white girl walks by." Her chest started to heave, her words garbling. Tim noticed with a blend of pity and annoyance that she'd matched her hair clip to her socks. "I don't want to hurt her, I just want to feel good. She's wearing a low-cut dress and no underwear, and that makes it so easy."

"It's okay," Stanley John said. "You're doing great. We're all in this experience together."

They held hands in a ring, squeezing empathetically, and finally Shelly resumed her tale. "She's walking alone, she left a party on the Venice boardwalk alone, and is walking alone at three in the morning. I bet she wants it. Maybe she deserves it." She deteriorated into sobs, smearing her hair off her sticky face as the others clustered around to comfort her. Then Stanley John led her through confronting and telling off her rapist.

Joanne's teary performance as a breast lump that turned out to be benign was less rousing.

A woman nearby fainted, but a roving blue-shirt was waiting to break her fall. A group leader dragged an unconscious kid through the gap into Hearspace, probably to get him into cooler air – another procedure for processing the overwhelmed. Tim filed away this tidbit as a potential stratagem he could use later to move Leah's unconscious body from the building. Hot air kept gusting down; he added dehydration to his list of concerns.

Stanley John gestured to Leah. "Your turn to blame."

"Okay." Leah closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering courage. "The last time I saw my stepdad was after I'd had a pretty tough run with him. My mom, too. I was going to see if maybe we could patch things up. You know when you do that? Try to talk to your parents as if they're actually going to listen this time?"

Tom joined the murmur of accord, which Stanley John cut short. "Quit whining, Leah, and tell it as your stepdad."

Leah took a deep breath and held it before exhaling. "You're always in need of attention. You get yourself into messes and expect me to clean them up for you, then you complain I'm too controlling. You're jealous of our new family, and you interfere with our happiness constantly. Then you complain you don't belong here. You indulge your fantasies of your dead father, reminding your mother of the pain of that past life – your very existence causes her suffering. It wasn't until you went to college that we could finally celebrate our new freedom by having a child – our own child. And just when we think you're out of our hair, you turn up again with another mess. I don't care if you're afraid you might have made a mistake. I don't even have to listen to you, because it's the same story every time. You deserved" – she pressed her lips together until they stilled – "you deserved for me to slap you across the face in front of your mother and your baby sister."

"Great," Stanley John said. "Now, what do you have to say back to them?"

She took a moment to gather herself. "You punish me by taking a hostile disinterest in my life and friends and hobbies. You're cold and withholding, like you have to protect yourselves from me and what I represent, but that's nothing more than you stewing in your victimhood. Even though I love my baby sister, even though I think she's beautiful and precious, you've done your best to make me feel small by pouring your hearts and souls into her while reminding me every chance you get in some small, petty way how much you resent me. You want me to submit to your control, but I won't. Not anymore. It may drive you insane, but I'm finally learning to think for myself. And you know what I figured out? I don't need you anymore."

Whoops and applause. Joanne wiped her cheeks, shaking her head with amazement and envy. Tim blinked hard, seating himself back in character – he'd been drawn into her performance.

Leah's smoky green-gray eyes found Tim. "How about you? What's the worst thing that ever happened to you?"

"My daughter was murdered," Tim heard himself say.

Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. Stanley John stepped forward, shouting something above the deafening din and shattering the trance into which Tim had been lulled. At once he was back in the thrice-split ballroom at the Radisson with people sobbing and fainting all around him.

TD drifted to the periphery of the group, observing paternalistically.

A panic tingle ran across Tim's lower back as he fought for composure. He could practically smell the faint odor of baby powder and melted Jolly Rancher stored in the carpet of Ginny's empty room.

He started tentatively, "It happened about a year ago. Jenny was walking home from school. She never…never got there. They found her body that night." He was veering dangerously close to the truth. He wiped his nose, which had started to run, and became Tom Altman. "Even though I've had some financial success" – from Stanley John's expression, this wasn't news to him – "it's been a hard year. My wife and I split up."

"Tell it from the perpetrator's point of view," Stanley John said.

Tim sensed TD's eyes fasten on him. His mouth had gone dry. Sweat stung his eyes. He thought of Kindell's elongated forehead. The short, dense hair, so much like fur. "I, uh…"

"Go ahead, buddy," Stanley John urged. "This is about strength, not comfort."

Excavating a trick he'd learned in Ranger training, Tim imagined detaching from his body. He turned and watched himself, an interested observer.

Tom Altman faced the group, talking from the perspective of his dead daughter's killer. Tom Altman imitated the fictional killer, saying that he watched the girl walk home after school, but then suddenly Tim was back within his flesh, a seashell rush filling his ears. "One day she splits off from her friends and walks alone. I drive slowly behind her. I call her name. When she turns, I snatch her into my truck. I get tape over her mouth. I take her back to my place where I can have" – his body felt incredibly weighty, sagging on his bones – "privacy. I pin her arms down. I slice through her green overalls with a box cutter. She's very small and pale. She doesn't move. I don't think she knows what's happening. I don't want her to be frightened. But she is, and she gets even more scared when I cut through her underpants. They have different sizes of snowflakes on them. Later I'm scared when I cut her up with a hacksaw. I don't know how to dispose of what's left, so I dump the parts of her by a creek."

A clod of grief rose from his gut, lodging itself in the back of his throat. He coughed. The others' eyes were tearing up. Leah fixed him with a gaze that moved right through him. He kept his eyes on hers even as the others thumped his back and hugged him.

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!"

Shelly curled in the fetal position, sobbing, Stanley John leering over her like a barking drill sergeant. "Did Daddy molest you? Is that why you're a slut?"

Her nodding answer before slipping a thumb into her mouth. "I th-think so. In some ways."

Group claps. The loud throb of a recorded heartbeat. The numbing thump of a kettledrum.

Not once did Leah reemerge from backstage.

At long last, after the umpteenth rendition of Thus Spake Zarathustra, TD took a deep bow on the dais. "We'll be contacting you soon to make additional colloquia available so you can continue your growth. But for now I want to say congratulations. You're all on your way. I'm proud of you for having the strength to -"

"Get with The Program!"

After retrieving their cell phones and watches, the participants bustled to the exits, charged, exuberant, and babbling incessantly about how much they'd learned. Still competing for best in show.

A rush of light-headedness hit Tim, and he used an arm to lower himself back into his chair. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since dinner two days before.

Stanley John strolled up and leaned over him, hands on his knees. "Hey, buddy. Great work today. I have some exciting news. TD wants to invite you into Prospace for a minute." Randall and Skate slid behind him, confirming for Tim that his cover had been blown. He was going to go the way of Danny Katanga, PI.

They slipped through the curtain. In the midst of a jamboree of toiling Pros, TD relaxed in an armchair, a white towel around his neck – Elvis after the second show at the Sands. To his right, Leah was breaking down the sound board; she took one look at Tim and turned her back. He was certain she'd given him up. He noted with some amusement that she'd loaded his duffel bag with cables.

"Tom, my friend, sit down." TD patted a flimsy folding chair opposite him, and Tim gratefully sank into it. Only now could he see that TD had freckles, pale and plentiful, dominating his youthful features. After performing for twenty-four hours, he burned with evangelistic zeal.

Skate circled behind Tim, and Tim kept an eye on his reflection in the side of a metal crate. He tensed, ready to fight or bolt with what strength he could muster. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Please, please. Call me Teacher." TD eased one leg over the other. "I find you very impressive."

Tim let out a shaky breath, which fortunately made it seem as if he were shocked and honored. His mouth had cottoned from dehydration.

"It takes real strength to enter the mind of your daughter's killer. I think you've made peace with the killer, and that's why you have nothing to say to him. I think you haven't made peace about something else. About how you dealt with your daughter's death…?"

The painful secret, TD's hand whip of choice. Tim waited through the drawn-out silence, not wanting to commit Tom Altman to an unconsidered course of action. He resorted to understatement. "It was a difficult time."

TD's head dipped in a slight nod – the response seemed to be what he'd been looking for. "I'd like to advance you to the next step."

Leah wouldn't turn to meet Tim's eyes.

"Really? Like become a Pro?"

"We've only asked a few people – the Neos we see as very capable – to come to our ranch Monday for a special three-day retreat."

Leah froze, her shoulders and neck tensing.

"You see, this thing here today" – TD flared his hands – "this is only the beginning. A test model, no more. We're really optimizing – the Next Generation Colloquium we've been planning is new-platform software. Right now I'm interested in one thing and one thing only: selecting from the hundreds and hundreds of Neos the right few with the vision to take that next step with us. I'll be honest – we had closed the first platform, but we'd love to have you included."

Evidently Tom Altman's $90 million portfolio had checked out. The ingenious ploy – Inner Circle as bankroll for The Program's expansion – allowed TD to sidestep the encumbrances of attaining funding, repaying loans, or answering to a board. Even the process of weeding out the pikers he'd made profitable. Three hundred people at five hundred a pop – Tim's dad should have dreamed it up.

TD bent his head sympathetically. "What's wrong? I sense your hesitation. You can share it with me."

"I…well…I've just always believed in taking things slow," Tom Altman stammered.

Leah resumed wrapping a cable around her hand.

"That Societal Programming is precisely what stands in your way." TD's eyes, piercing and relentless, seemed fixed on a spot three inches behind Tim's head – a vintage technique for hypnotic induction. Tim relaxed his pupils, letting TD's face blur. "If you want to be free, you have to overwrite it."

Tom Altman mused on that, squirming a bit in his chair. "It's just a lot all at once, and I'm still a little hazy from my whole…experience. Can I give it some thought?"

"I'm sorry, Tom. It's a onetime opportunity. Things are moving really fast for us. And, hey, it's just three days. We're not asking you to sign over your house or anything."

Everyone laughed, and suddenly Tim was aware of their audience. Tom Altman joined in late and a touch eagerly. "There is more I want to find out" – Leah's cable wrapping grew furious – "about myself, I mean." Leah half turned, and Tim risked a glance at her profile.

TD nodded at Skate, who slipped out through the curtain, then he turned his intense focus back to Tim. "Today you were introduced to this new practice. This new reality. You have a responsibility to yourself now. But" – he slapped his knee and leaned forward – "maybe you're not ready after all."

Tom Altman steeled his neck a bit too dramatically. "I am ready."

TD rewarded him with a delighted grin. "Glad to have you on board."

"How do I get there?"

"Oh, we don't have people just drive to the ranch." TD's lip twitched at the vulgarity of the thought. "Randall will pick you up. Where do you live?"

"I've been knocking around between friends' guesthouses, actually." Tim added in a whisper, "Divorce."

TD smiled understandingly. "Precipitated by your daughter's death?"

Tim affected more agitated body language. "Sort of. You could say so."

"Well, we'll have plenty of time to explore that later." TD bit his lip. "Randall can meet you here at the hotel Monday morning? Why don't we call it eight o'clock?"

Skate reappeared with Jason Struthers of Struthers Auto Mall, keeping him on deck near the curtain.

Still light-headed and weak, Tim stood.

TD shook his hand. "Welcome to the future."