"Hey, pal, you're not allowed back here."
Having removed the old disguise elements and -- with Pete Krindon's help -- added a few new ones, Tim wasn't immediately recognizable as Tom Altman. His recut hair, clean shave, and green-tinted contacts lent him a different appearance from afar -- and his facial swelling helped, too -- but he was still glad to be confronting a new hire. He snapped his fingers, halting the Protector's approach. "You'd better step to and Get with The Program, my friend, unless you want to reserve a spot for yourself on Victim Row. Now, where's Skate Daniels? I thought this was his post."
"I...uh...the Teacher wanted him up at the ranch to keep an eye out after all the...uh, mix-ups this week." He bobbed his head uncertainly, his tone hesitant but respectful. "Um, who are you again?"
Tim placed a hand on the guy's chest, steering him aside. "I'm the head of East Coast Expansion, and this is my assistant. You question me again, I'll have you fired. Got it?"
An openmouthed nod.
"Step aside."
Reggie at his back, Tim shoved through the doors into the ballroom proper, the sudden heat making his lips stick to his teeth. Reggie kept his head ducked so none of the venerable Pros would recognize him.
They'd sent Dray and Bederman through the official channels, since they ran no risk of being identified. They'd made false reservations in advance; Will had gladly paid their $2,000 entry fees.
The partition between Hearspace and Actspace had been removed to accommodate the wider horseshoe, composed of close to a thousand chairs. Bear had brought them word of this after managing his way in last night posing as a building inspector. The altered floor plan was to their advantage -- it would be easier to create diversions during Actspace drills, and now they could do so with Prospace in sight.
Neos grazed on punch and cookies at the back, eyes bleary and manic at once, like those of depleted gamblers hanging on for a last good hand. The blue-shirts moved through them, offering refills and pawing affectionately at arms as the rumbly, incomprehensible sound of chanting monks spilled from hidden speakers.
Two more knockdown men guarded the black curtain leading to Prospace -- as Tim had anticipated, there'd be no sneaking backstage to Leah during Guy-Med. Three more Protectors prowled through the audience. They wore blue shirts to blend in, but they were scruffier and bulkier than the other Pros, easy to pick out. One of them would likely move to Randall's old post at the main exit once the festivities commenced, and Tim guessed the others would take up positions on either side of the stage.
Tim spotted Bederman and Dray as they walked through the entrance from the landing. He and Dray made eye contact, exchanged an across-the-room nod.
Reggie exhaled in a hiss as the drum started its build, and the Pros whipped the Neos into a frenzy, everyone scrambling for the horseshoe.
Dray and Tim arrived at one side of the U at the same time, securing two seats side by side. They did not acknowledge each other. Bederman and Reggie did the same across the way. Dray mopped at her forehead, her hair already darkening at the edges with sweat. The woman beside her slumped over, already spent from the heat and the spiked punch, and Dray shouldered her back upright like an irritable economy-classer on a commuter flight.
Tim tried to locate the rest of his incoming class -- Don Stanford and Jason Struthers were on the far side of the horseshoe, proudly displaying blue polos. Wendy slouched in her chair, working a thumbnail between her teeth. He did not see Shanna.
Janie took the stage alone -- no Stanley John to play Sonny to her Cher -- and began recounting the rules. Her voice trembled slightly at first, but she gained confidence as soon as she started rattling off the conditions.
Dray made sounds of annoyance as she listened, eliciting a few stares.
"Everyone strong enough to pledge not to leave no matter what, stand up," Janie said chirpily.
A grand rustling as almost everyone rose, including Dray, Bederman, and Reggie.
Tim remained seated. The lights dimmed, and the spotlight, clumsier than Tim remembered, sought one dissenter after another. Janie harassed them until they either rose or exited. At last she turned her focus on Tim, his new look holding up from the distance. "And how about you? What excuse making are you going to use to justify undercutting your growth here today?"
He'd almost forgotten the hardwired embarrassment of sitting while everyone else stood, the shame of being on the receiving end of hundreds of glares.
Even shouted, his answer sounded meager in comparison to her miked preemptive strike. "From what I've seen, I'm not sure if I like The Program yet. If I decide that I don't like what's going on here, I'm leaving. Thank you for having me here today."
Janie sneered, her lipsticked mouth parting to issue a prepackaged reply.
Tim stood up abruptly and began clapping. Across the horseshoe, Reggie and Bederman joined in, and then the other Neos, confused, were clapping, drowning Janie out.
When the applause died down, Tim was standing in conformity with everyone else, short-circuiting Janie's usual recourse. She reddened and continued with the next rule. "Okay, if you came here with someone else, please change your seat now."
The Pros paid close attention, double-checking some of the Neos to make sure they hadn't cheated. Tim and Dray waited through the seat shuffling, as did Reggie and Bederman.
Janie regained her confidence swiftly, finished her introduction, and had them do some hand-holding and group breathing. Then a few Pros jogged around the edge of the chairs and counted them out into groups. Dray gave Tim's hand a squeeze and broke off with Janie, her leader.
The Program's lantern-jawed attorney, Sean, a thirty-something bundle of grating vigor, ran Tim's group. He'd been particularly insidious at the retreat, a sly elicitor of signatures on dotted lines.
"Now, everyone needs to circle up and --"
"Excuse me," Tim said.
"Yes?"
"I'd heard some rumors that you guys practice deceitful methods --"
"That's ridiculous. Ridiculous. This is an honest, forthcoming organization."
"-- and that you could be pretty abusive on some of the Neos."
"I don't know who you've been talking to, but they're obviously pretty weakness-oriented."
A few of the others in Tim's group bristled nervously. A Neo with a supplemented hairline chimed in, "Sounds like he's already taking a victim posture, Sean."
"That's absolutely right. Now, are you done wasting everyone's time on your personal issues?"
"Just wanted to make sure."
They coughed up their cell phones and watches. Sean produced a stack of forms and led them through writing their individual Programs.
When it came Tim's turn, he announced, "My Program is: I participate in activities that give me self-esteem, and I have the courage to decline to participate in those activities that do not."
Bederman had come up with the wording in the Blazer on the way over, eliciting a high five from Reggie.
Sean grimaced. "That's not a good Program. I think we should change it to: I experience self-esteem as I participate in the activities here today."
"No thanks."
"I really think --"
"Hey," a quiet, older man in a button-up said, "it's his Program. Let him write what he wants. That's the whole point of this thing, isn't it?"
After a hushed consultation with two roaming Pros and growing dissent in the ranks, Sean grudgingly moved on. They finished the recitation of their Programs, and Sean took them through a few sharing exercises before announcing with great reverence that they were ready for their first game: Lifeboat.
Within minutes Tim and his group members were gathered on the carpet, arguing their right to one of five spaces on a lifeboat as their imaginary ship went down. Sean alone commanded a chair. He perched above them, countenancing their pleading with a stately air.
All through Actspace, Neos from other groups groveled on the floor, the seated Pros rising above them.
An obese black woman in Tim's group was pleading, "My two baby boys already lost a father. If I'm gone, they'd have no one to take care of them."
"Sorry," Sean said. "I don't buy it. You sound like you want to be around for your kids, but you said nothing about you. Why should you live? Why should you get a space over these twenty people?"
Across the ballroom stirred a minor commotion as Bederman addressed his group with great animation. In the far corner, Reggie was arguing vehemently with his leader, those on the carpet around him growing visibly unnerved. Neither of them was able to draw a Protector from his post; no doubt TD had instructed his new muscle to leave the psychological maneuvering to the Pros.
"You're not even sitting up straight," one of Tim's group members added. "It doesn't seem like you really want it."
The black woman started to cry. A roaming Pro rested a hand on Sean's shoulder and puffed out his cheeks to imitate her fatness, drawing scattered laughter.
"What's this one crying about?"
"There's no one to take care of my boys," the woman wailed, sweat and tears moistening her dark face. She was shivering against the blasts of air-conditioning.
"You can't even think of a single reason why you should live. I bet you only had kids to give meaning to your pathetic life."
"You're a selfish parent!" someone cried out. "What do you have to offer your kids anyway?"
"Get your own life," a wild-haired woman in a fluttery blouse hissed. "Quit sucking your kids dry."
Sean said to the black woman, "You just committed suicide with that answer, Charlena. Lie down on the floor. Down on the floor. Be still. You're drowned. Next."
And so it went.
When the group's focus turned to Tim, he said, "This is stupid. If the boat's going down, we're not gonna have all this time to argue about a lifeboat."
"Afraid to answer the question, Tim?"
"No. I just think this game is idiotic. Why don't you pick something that makes sense instead of berating everyone?"
Sean directed an imploring look at one of the roaming Pros, who started toward them but got tied up in another dispute, not surprisingly, in Dray's group.
Sean glared at Tim, stalling for time. He adopted a singsong voice. "Our friend is making his usual excuses here, guys. Is he On Program? Guys?"
"Yes." Charlena propped herself up on her elbows. "He is, actually. He said he wouldn't do any activities bad for his self-esteem. I wish I'd written that damn Program."
"You lie down. You're drowned, Charlena. Do I have to remind you you committed suicide?"
"What you're trying to get us to say is that we'd step on anybody to get a space on that lifeboat," Tim said. "That there's just us, and we decide our reality, and our reality should be power. So here's my reality: How about I kick you in the fucking head, Sean, to get on that lifeboat?" When he stood up, he drew the attention of both Protectors guarding the Prospace entrance, but neither started toward him as he'd hoped. "Who the hell are you to tell everyone that caring about anyone is committing suicide? How about I pull you off your throne and I decide you committed suicide by being such an asshole? Then the rest of us can take our turns treading water around the lifeboat so no one gets too tired, and we're all nice and safe when the rescue boat comes. How about that, Sean?"
"I vote him," Charlena called out. She covered her mouth comically when she remembered she was supposed to be drowned, but the others were already chorusing their approval.
"He's a strong leader. He tells it like it is."
"I want him on the lifeboat."
A plastic smile spread itself across Sean's face, but it did not touch his eyes. "Very good, Tim. You made it aboard."
Tim eased himself back down to the carpet, favoring his right leg. The others pounded his back and congratulated him.
The roaming Pro whom Sean had signaled finally extricated himself from Dray's group and ran over, huffy and red-faced. "Group Five needs an extra person. I need to switch you --"
"No thanks," Tim said. "I experience this group as growth-oriented, so I'm staying here."
Sean cleared his throat. "I think maybe you could benefit from --"
"Please, Sean. No negativity." Tim smiled inanely. "We're all happy with me staying, right guys?"
Rousing applause overpowered Sean's objections. He finally nodded curtly at the other Pro, who shrugged and moved on.
The chanting monks blared, and they all scrambled for their seats in the darkness. Dray was breathing hard, exhilarated. "I'm taking that blond bitch apart."
The trumpets sang, and then TD glowed into sight onstage like a Vegas performer.
"My name is Terrance Donald Betters, and I'm here to talk to you about your life."
The Pros shouted, "Hi, TD!"
"Our world, our society, is filled with victims. This is America. Nothing bad's supposed to happen to us. Someone else is always responsible. Someone else. Granny dies of old age? Sue the hospital. Twist your ankle in a pothole? Sue the city. Get hurt fucking off on the job? Worker's Comp. Economy tanking? Go to war. Get pregnant? Have an abortion. Decide to carry it to term? Give it up for adoption or, hey, just go on welfare. Last year a burglar fell through a skylight on a building that wasn't to code, sued the company he was robbing, and won!"