The Click

by Steve Shear

  After several cups of coffee, Julian led him through a triple locked door at the back of the reading room into a second reading room containing an ultra-high-speed computation shell. He entered several passwords into the shell, causing a floor to ceiling holographic screen to appear.

  “It’s all yours, my friend. I have things to do but let me know when you’re done.”

  Forty-five minutes or so passed and Oliver terminated his search. He knew that his friend could easily check his whereabouts on the shell but probably wouldn’t. In any case, he couldn’t do anything about that and left the room looking for him.

  “Well? Any luck?” Julian asked.

  “Don’t know yet. But somebody sure as hell doesn’t want me to find it.” The it Hitch was referring to had to do with a few links he discovered in his search relating to dissidents and outlandish opinions alluding to the idea that the Click might be a fraud. Outlandish, alluding! Not exactly hopeful links but it didn’t matter. They were removed. Even one of the most powerful search engines in the world could not bring them back. So, who were these dissidents and why were their opinions expunged? Julian might know, Hitch thought, and he might have to ask him, but not yet. With that last thought, he found the librarian at his desk. “May need your help later, and if I do I’ll fill you in on the details then.”

  Julian Iscar merely nodded and smiled. Both men knew about secrets, when to keep them and when to reveal them.

  Chapter Seven

  The Coalition United for Theocratic Oversight sat just outside the walls of Ecclesia opposite the Square on Via Dei Corridori. The large stone building was older than the Cūtocracy itself by at least a half century, and its location was no coincidence. Being within the shadows of Ecclesian power allowed the partnership between the Church and political arm of theocratic thought to both blossom and fester out of public view. In fact, early in their relationship, a tunnel was constructed between the Cūtocratic headquarters and the Casina of the earliest smotec, a building to the northwest of the majestic Basilica of Ecclesia, The Casina had been serving as the Academy of Sciences but became a private house for secret liaisons between the Church and the Cūtocrats after the tunnel was completed.

  High Minister Robert McGivney knew the tunnel well. As the Chief Counsel for the Ecclesian Church and chief political adviser to the present Supreme Minister of the Ecclesia, Smotec Pius V, he spent much time traversing its ancient cracked walls and dank stone path. At that moment he hiked unnoticed through the dimly lit tunnel from Ecclesia to the Cūtocracy, wearing his usual black Cassock and matching skull cap. It took him approximately thirty-five minutes at his measured pace. There was no secrecy involved in his rendezvous. He could have easily driven or taken an Ecclesian shuttle but wanted to walk, to think. His sources told him Innocent’s Smotecal Decretum had surfaced after more than a century. For what reason exactly? To harm the Church, the Cūtocracy? Did he even believe in Innocent’s Decretum? Of course not. Nevertheless, there were cynics who would use the fairy tale to malign the Church. He could just imagine the PR disaster he would have to cope with until the lies were put to rest. That doesn’t take into account the revenues lost every Sunday, he thought. “Mary, mother of God!” he heard slip from his lips and echo around him.

  The tunnel ended in the basement of the Cūtocratic headquarters. The High Minister, a tall man with a slight limp, climbed one flight up to an elevator in what appeared to be a large janitorial closet. He took the elevator from there to a similar closet off the private quarters devoted to the Ecclesian Church for its use only and accessible only by the right set of keys. Those quarters included several comfortable chairs and a small conference table. General Edmond Rosewall, the Cūtocracy’s highest military officer and director of VAMA’s paramilitary, waited in uniform next to the table. He was alone and biting his nails.

  “Your Eminence, I…” the general said standing erect upon seeing the minister enter. Rosewall was a short, ugly man with a scarred face and a mustache that extended well beyond his cheeks and below his upper lip.

  “Don’t give me that ‘Your Eminence’ crap, Rosewall. The smotec is on my ass and now I’m on yours. Do you have any more on that fucking Decretum that supposedly surfaced?” McGivney was in Rosewall’s face.

  “I have our best man on it, Your Eminence. Her name is Rousseau. She’s a bulldog. If anybody can—”

  “So the answer’s no! Get on it now, God damn it, and remember who’s paying to keep your Coalition solvent.” The Minister stepped back having made his point, then sat down and lit up a cigar. “In the meantime, we have other business that needs attending.” He blew out a puff of smoke and continued. “I want weekly updates on this Decretum matter, Rosewall. Weekly!”

  Chapter Eight

  For several weeks after visiting the CIA Library Oliver Hitchcock brow beat himself into believing he could find more on the Click, especially on those dissidents who seemed to have vanished into the blogosphere. At some point he gave up and called on his friend once again.

  “Listen, Julian, I will explain everything, but not over the phone. Why don’t we meet at the Pearly Gate… You’ve never been there… In that case we will definitely meet there. It’s on E Street, North West, up from Seventh… Yes, tomorrow night at nine will work, and you’re in for a treat.”

  Before he knew it, Hitch found himself meandering down Pennsylvania Avenue and up Seventh before turning right on E Street. There on his left stood the entrance to the Pearly Gate, big as life. Ellen Dee Welcomes You to The Pearly Gate read the marquee in alternating blue and white lights, chasing after themselves above the front entrance like greyhounds chasing a pound of flesh. Hitch felt comfortable seeing it. He spent many hours there before and after discovering he wasn’t going to be done in by the Click. But then his feeling of well-being quickly dimmed dark, as if he were the pound of flesh caught in the grips of a man-eating puzzle he could not solve. This wasn’t a social night out, nor was it a game.

  “I’m sorry, sir, this is a private establishment. Entrance is by invitation only,” a recently hired young man perched behind a standup desk and dressed in a tuxedo announced as Hitch was about to enter, as he tried to put behind him the frustration he felt.

  Hitch pulled a membership card from his wallet and handed it to the young man. “I’m Oliver Hitchcock and I left a message to have Julian Iscar meet me in the lounge if he arrived ahead of me.”

  “One moment please, Mr. Hitchcock.” The man behind the desk tapped on the screen of his ultrathin shell. Like other computation shells, it housed all types of transceivers, making it possible for the actual software processing to take place remotely, somewhere in the blogosphere, actually in Spider Rooms dotting the planet. From protolytes above, computations and data, in fact everything that makes the computation shell do its job, could be streamed into and out of the device. The shell could be designed as an ultrathin tablet—light weight, and extremely inexpensive to manufacture. Indeed, all computation shells and other such digital devices are built in the same way and they all fascinated Hitch. He loved the latest and greatest almost as much as a good bottle of whisky, a straight flush, a pretty woman, and a challenging covert operation.

  After several more taps at his screen, the tuxedoed man made a call on his scud, and a minute later a beautiful brunette who couldn’t have been more than eighteen appeared and introduced herself as Vanessa. “Follow me, Mr. Hitchcock.” She led him across thick red carpet with bright gold edging down a wide hallway past a number of heavy double doors on both sides, each guarded by a tuxedoed sergeant-at-arms similar to the bouncer out front. One of the doors happened to open just as Hitch walked by. His eyes widened and he froze in place for a second, just long enough to take in a gigantic casino lit up like an indoor football stadium. He hadn’t played on green felt for years, ever since graduating from Gamblers Anonymous. Fortunately, they continued on and stopped in front of a guard-free door labeled Lounge C.

  “Here we are Mr. Hitchcock. Mr. Isc
ar is waiting for you at the bar.”

  Hitch stepped into what appeared to be a dark, empty room, but after a second or two his eyes adjusted. A man waved him over.

  “Hitch, my friend, have a seat and buy me a drink. Apparently my money is no good here.”

  Hitched laughed. “That’s right; but before we drink, let me take you on a tour.”

  Hitchcock led Julian from the bar into the wide hall, then they entered the first set of double doors on the right and found themselves in the back of a theater. In front of them were at least four hundred seats filled with an audience mesmerized as it watched a modern ballet up on stage—burlesque style, mostly naked women waiving semitransparent colored scarves four and five feet long. Reds and blues and yellows and greens swirled across the stage. A few minutes later they proceeded up the hall and edged into the casino that Hitch caught sight of when he first arrived. It was one of the largest he had ever seen, and he wished he were still playing. To his right, three steps up, a raised floor of poker tables popped into view, causing his heart to pound against his ribcage. Julian knew the look, no doubt, and quickly steered his old friend back out. After poking their heads into a fancy restaurant, a bowling alley/pool hall, and a large steam room, they wound their way back to the bar and ordered beers on tap from Rudy Havercamp. Rudy was originally from New Orleans, heavy set, white, and Cajun to the core. He wore a firearm, one of the classic low-level red lasers, on his hip. Hitch could never get over the idea of civilians carrying firearms, civilians who had no idea how to use them. But they did, and it scared the hell out of him.

  “So, being the intuitive librarian you are, Julian, what is it you observed on our little tour?”

  “That it takes big bucks to be a member in this palace of fine art.”

  “Yes, that’s mostly true, but what else.”

  “I give up, what?”

  “The people, the members as you call them. They are all men approaching seventy-five if not already there, well-to-do dirty old men waiting to die.”

  “Are you saying that all these people have heard the Click?”

  “Many have heard it, felt it, whatever it is that happens letting you know the clock’s ticking, or soon will. But in any case, they are waiting to die and, as you know, they only have around three months following the death knell until it happens. They take one day at a time. And if they can afford it, why not enjoy every last second.”

  “And their little women stay home darning casket liners?”

  “Not at all. The women’s version is just as elaborate, if not more so.” Hitch once tried to get Edna to join. She would have nothing to do with it. “If I want to see naked men, I’ll watch you take a shower,” she said making her husband laugh out loud.

  Julian picked up the napkin under his drink. Ellen Dee’s Pearly Gate. “So, who is Ellen Dee?”

  “Ha! Ellen Dee is a very profitable corporation. LND—your Last Ninety Days of life. We promise you’ll enjoy them, at least that’s what’s mounted over the urinal in every Ellen Dee men’s room, and all of the matchbooks and napkins include a reminder that the Click is your key to Ellen Dee. See for yourself.” Hitch picked up his napkin and turned it over to prove it.

  “Okay, I buy that, but what is it you’re searching for?”

  “Julian, do you know how this Click thing works?”

  “Of course. Everybody does. It has to do with our genetic makeup that somehow got screwed up or accelerated during, during…”

  “During the time of the great ERAM-V plague,” Oliver Hitchcock was quick to add. “On the other hand, it could have been the Almighty or Mother Nature poking a nose in our business.”

  “Right. And when you hear the Click your biological clock begins winding down and you’re gone within three months or so. But what does that have to do with you?”

  “How old do you think I am?”

  “I always assumed you were about my age, sixty-five.” Julian looked around, then at his napkin. “God! I’m sorry, Hitch, I didn’t realize you…”

  “No, Julian, I’m not going to die in ninety days, not for a long while I hope. But I am well past the Click. I’m seventy-eight years old and while I thought I felt it once, nothing happened and here I am.” Hitchcock drank the last of his beer and then let his glass drop to the table with a bang that got his friend’s devoted attention. “I do however need your help because of the Click. You see, there are a fair number of people like me in the world, Beaters we’re called, people who beat the Click, sort of like cheaters cheating death. The bad news is there are a fair number of people who experience the Click prematurely, as early as ten or eleven years old, and…” Hitchcock went silent. His mouth closed, his lips twitched, his jaws danced as if he were chewing on his own words in an attempt to swallow them without choking. He could see OJ being wheeled into the ambulance, but it wasn’t OJ, it was Christopher.

  “And,” Julian said, breaking Hitchcock’s momentary bout with guilt mixed with a trace of self-pity.

  “And my eleven-year-old grandson happens to be one of those people who will die prematurely like my first grandson; he’s what they call a Preemie.”

  “He felt the Click?”

  “Not exactly, but he will soon enough, I’m afraid. I’ll explain that later. For now, please take my word for it. And where you come in is this. I promised Edna on her deathbed that I would do whatever I could to save Christopher from that fate. I will need your help to keep that promise.” Hitch gulped down the last of his beer and waved to Rudy.

  “Another, Mr. Hitchcock?”

  “Make it bourbon on the rocks, Rudy.”

  “And you, Mr. Iscar?”

  Julian shook his head and looked at Hitch. “Still drinking and gambling?”

  “No green felt. As for the drinking, it gets me through the day. Ever since we lost Oliver Junior, then Edna. And now Christopher at risk.”

  “Are the doctors sure?”

  “Yes. He’s been subjected to just about every test. All positive. I need to know if there’s anything out there that can save him.”

  “So, this is what you were looking for the other day?”

  Just then Rudy started toward them with Hitch’s bourbon. Hitch put his finger to his lips. He waited to answer Julian until Rudy came and went, then whispered. “Yes. I need access to those super search engine processing plants I know the Company has hidden somewhere in Virginia.” He then described what he found in Julian’s library search engine.

  “Let me see what I can do.”

  Hitch said goodbye to his old friend at the door and walked to his car, trying to sort things out. As he retraced his steps, he couldn’t help but notice all the VAMA hearses on the street, black with VAMA in gold across each side and down the back. They couldn’t be missed, weren’t supposed to be missed, Hitch guessed. But when did they start appearing so often, he wondered, as two passed by?

  He never thought about the Vaccine Assurance and Management Agency until around his seventy-seventh birthday. During that entire seventy-fifth year, Edna woke up every morning thinking it was his last. Not Hitch. He was stubborn enough, and self-centered enough, to believe no such flaw would assault the perfection he knew his DNA to be. On his seventy-seventh birthday, long after they were both convinced of his infallibility, a late-night rap at the door caught him by surprise. Through the peephole he could see a young fellow in a pinstripe suit flashing his VAMA badge without saying a word at first. He didn’t apologize for the surprise inspection or the late hour. Hitch had passed through the throes of the Click, was still breathing, and hadn’t reported that fact to the authorities, something all citizens had to do no later than their seventy-sixth birthday if they were still living. The youngster wanted to know why he hadn’t made a report and immediately demanded to see his papers and his V-Mark. Hitch would have shown him what to do with any fucking report or his papers if Edna hadn’t intervened. After seeing Hitch’s papers and V-mark, the pimple-faced moron instructed him to appear at the local V
AMA office within the next thirty-six hours. He complied. What choice did he have? It was comply or face the wrath of Edna, the only person who really gave a shit about him.

  He stomped into the local VAMA office at the end of Vama Way in upscale Alexandria, right at the river’s edge. Upon stepping into the opened lobby under a two-story glass roof and sinking into heavy black carpet, he knew instinctively who he was dealing with, and it wasn’t a bunch of bureaucratic shlebs. Only the Cūtocracy had the wherewithal to show off so lavishly. After extensive processing, they took blood, scraped some skin samples from his V-Mark. More than two hours later they let him go. Then nothing.

  As Hitch relived his first encounter with VAMA, he reached his car. Hopefully Julian Iscar would be able to help him, although he wasn’t sure what that meant or where that would lead.

  Chapter Nine

  Janine Rousseau, VAMA’s youngest chief inspector at the age of forty-eight, sat at the desk next to her scud listening to General Rosewall’s voice rattle out from its speaker and watching him on her new toy. It was a bright blue command center, a cube the size of a toaster with a keyboard, voice activation, and buttons. Rosewall appeared larger than life on a holographic surveillance screen seemingly draped over in a greenish-blue haze or fog so thick she felt like she could touch it. On several occasions, she stuck her hand in only to discover it turned greenish-blue and caused the optics to jitter and the images to look like they were in an earthquake.

  “You heard me. Keep your damn toy under wraps. It’s illegal as hell. If you’re caught with it that’s exactly where you’ll be. You’re only to use it to verify or squash the rumors about that stupid Smotecal Decretum thing and do it quickly or McGivney will be on my ass and I will be on yours. Do you understand?” Rousseau nodded as she glared at the short, fat man somewhat deformed by the greenish-blue haze that wrapped itself around his pulsating image. “Also, it’s come to my attention that you should keep an eye on your friend Oliver Hitchcock. “Now shut down that damn thing.”