The Click

by Steve Shear

  Rosewall clicked off as she powered down her toy, causing the Hologram Surveillance Screen to vanish. She wondered how Oliver Hitchcock figured into any of this but knew to keep her mouth shut. Minutes later she powered her toy back up and continued familiarizing herself with all its features, illegal as hell, as that may have been.

  Later that evening, midmorning in Paris, France, she began tapping instructions on its keyboard. The holographic surveillance screen streamed up in front of her, going from dark to light, then displaying the words Incoming Data All of a sudden, an aerial view of a school appeared. Hopefully its schedule hadn’t changed, a schedule she had memorized. After she held down one of many buttons, the school zoomed in, as if it were rising to the surface from the bottom of the sea. She saw a sandbox, swings, and other playground equipment, all within a greenish-blue haze of constantly changing density. She then zeroed in on a nine-year old child who glowed intermittently. That was the nature of the command center, or Blue Cube as she christened the new toy. It could find any subject based on their DNA and lock in on it so long as the subject was visible from the sky. Even without DNA, once an image appeared on the screen, it could be placed in memory and found no matter where it was. Once located, the image or target within the hologram glowed intermittently, as the child had, as Rosewall had. She watched the child’s every move, smiling, until Oedipus Mertens walked in the room. His presence caused her to smack another button. The screen went white except for the words No Data.

  Oedipus Mertens, a large-boned, gruff appearing lieutenant underling and loyal thug stood behind her watching the HS-Screen through one eye. The other eye was covered with a silver patch. “What ez dis?” he said with a slur he acquired as a child beaten to a pulp by a drunken mother, herself the product of abuse.

  “Something that will be of great use to us. What would you like to see, my friend?” A sneer developed across her face.

  “Mi ome. It ez so long since I bin der.” He gave her a questioning look.

  “Brussels, no?”

  “Outside Brussels. Anderlecht, Belgium, on Rue Kinet, 77 Rue Kinet.”

  She began tapping instructions into the blue cube once again. The words Incoming Data appeared.

  Then, suddenly, Oedipus’s one eye went wide. He stepped closer to the screen as she zoomed in. “Dat’s my ouse…and dat’s…dat’s Mr. Peeters, mi old neighbor.” He poked his fingers into the greenish-blue haze causing Mr. Peeters and his house to dither, then quickly pulled his fingers out.

  “Now watch this, Oedipus.” She started tapping again. “Once I locate anyone, even without their DNA, I can lock on them.” Suddenly, Mr. Peeters’ image began glowing. Rousseau pushed away from her desk and the Blue Cube, holding up her hands to prove a point. Without doing more, as the subject walked down the street, the HS-Screen followed him as his image glowed intermittently.

  “Is dees legal?” Oedipus wondered aloud.

  “Ha!” Rousseau answered and was about to continue when her scud rang. She looked at it suspiciously, tapped the Blue Cube, and the screen vanished.

  She clicked on her scud and looked at Oedipus with a raised eyebrow. It was the bartender at the Pearly Gate.

  “Havercamp! That was quick. What did you get?”

  “What you asked for, a video conversation between Mr. Hitchcock and a Julian Iscar, clearly CIA. I tape everything.”

  Rousseau looked at the clock on the wall, then at Oedipus. “Good. We’ll come by for you tomorrow evening. My man will call later to make arrangements.”

  “You’ll make it worthwhile?”

  Rousseau shook her head. “Worthwhile? Yes, of course.”

  The following evening a little before eleven o’clock, with Rousseau in the back seat, Oedipus drove his VAMA hearse down Pennsylvania Avenue and up Seventh Street where Rudy Havercamp waited. Oedipus pulled over and Rousseau waved him into the seat next to her.

  “Well?” she said with an opened palm extended.

  Rudy handed her a flash drive. “I got everything he and his one-armed CIA buddy said.” He then opened his palm and began wiggling his fingers. “I believe what you got is mighty valuable as you’ll see. A small cut of your laundry business and we’ll call it even.”

  “Laundry business?” Rousseau was incredulous.

  “I have contacts in the most amazing places. As I said, we’ll call it even.”

  Rousseau shrugged then looked in the rearview mirror and caught the one eye staring back from the driver’s seat. She nodded, then reached in her coat pocket. “I see.”

  Oedipus took off, maneuvered through the District, up and down one-way streets and angled thoroughfares teaming with open storefronts and a crowded populace seeking fun and frivolity. Eventually the hearse was lost in the formidable and downright scary Southwest quadrant where one wouldn’t venture out at night without the armored protection of a VAMA tank. Suddenly the vehicle turned into an alley that refused to admit any form of light, as if to do so would have divulged the most hideous form of human poverty that the Cūtocracy claimed didn’t exist. It also happened to be Rousseau’s private dumping grounds. She pulled out her blue laser gun and shot Rudy in the heart. He quaked for several seconds before going silently dead. The car came to a screeching halt. Rousseau reached over, opened Rudy’s door, and pushed him out. “Now we’re even.”

  Chapter Ten

  Once again Yennie Tawahada found himself in Dillon Burber’s overly illuminated office long after sunset. A few minutes later, before Dillon could look up from the mess on his desk, President Wainwright walked in with her usual gracious smile and her old white tennis shoes she wore when no one was looking. She was matronly in looks when not provoked, tall but heavyset across the middle, and carried thick bushy gray hair balancing out the top—the grandmother type and she played it well. Indeed, she raised six children in the good Ecclesian tradition and doted over fifteen grandchildren who were constantly at the White House. Yennie had met most of them. She was a good president, he thought, but then she did have her difficulties, politically speaking, considering she had only been president for twenty months.

  The fact that she was president at all was an anomaly. She had been President Roger Albritton’s vice president before he died in a freakish boat accident. Albritton had been the typical ultraconservative fighting for a second term against an even more extreme and much better looking right-winger, one backed by the Cūtocracy. Albritton chose Andrea Wainwright as his running mate, replacing Robert Silber, who the Cūtocracy learned had Jewish grandparents on his mother’s side. Although Andrea Wainwright was known to be somewhat moderate, the president needed the women’s vote and despite her political leanings she was an extremely popular governor of a Southern state. As she became more comfortable in the White House, and more progressive, her political detractors intensified their efforts to bring her down.

  “Good evening, Yennie,” she said before taking a seat in the corner. “Sorry to drag you back but I’m afraid we need to call on you once again. It seems the little leak you orchestrated needs a bit stronger drip. There’ve been echoes of concern in faraway places or so I’ve been told, but they haven’t made it across the ocean, at least not where they can do a whole lot of good.” The president rose from her chair. “So, I will leave you here with Dillon while I take my leave. He will fill you in. Thank you for all your help.”

  Before Yennie had a chance to respond, the president disappeared, quietly in her tennis shoes, and Dillon Burber insisted they get down to business. “Do you remember that young man you mentioned a while back, Rajiv someone? He was here from India attending a memorial service for a retired CIA friend of his, Oliver Hitchcock. This Rajiv fellow said, or was it you who said the man, Mr. Hitchcock, would be a perfect partner to propel our Smotecal Decretum plan?”

  “It was Rajiv who suggested Oliver Hitchcock. Rajiv Nadu.”

  “Good. Given everything you divulged about DanSheba and his connections there, I think we could use his help to make all this
work. Besides, the president happens to know Oliver Hitchcock. For better or for worse were her words,” Dillon added but had no idea what she meant, and it was clear she didn’t invite him to ask.

  In less than an hour Dillon explained their plan involving Hitchcock. Yennie excused himself and drove across Key Bridge to his condo in Rosslyn. On his way, he couldn’t help but worry about exactly what he divulged to Dillon and the president of the United States. He cleared it with Meta, who was supposed to clear it with the elders in DanSheba, but he wasn’t sure she had. It seemed too quick. The elders didn’t work that fast.

  After pouring a glass of milk and picking through a box of chocolate chip cookies, he carried his scud into the bedroom. A while later, he walked back out, talking on it. “Yes, I know you and Hitchcock are old friends, Rajiv. That’s exactly why I called. I need you to do exactly as I asked… No, it won’t. It will enhance your relationship, I promise, and it won’t jeopardize anyone else… Yes, Meta knows what we are doing. She was the one who gave the Decretum to the president and she suggested involving Nagasi… I know you will do what you can, and we appreciate all your help.”

  Yennie clicked off and tried to organize his thoughts. He hadn’t visited home in probably five years and his parents were not happy with him, nor were the elders who insisted that all DanShebans living abroad spend a month out of the year in DanSheba. They insisted, but he knew they hardly ever demanded it, especially when it came to individuals who did not rely on financial support from the village. Regardless, most DanShebans living elsewhere did make it home more often than Yennie. They brought with them the latest and greatest technology and gadgets from wherever it was they lived, a fact Yennie felt bad about, although he knew his parents felt even worse than him.

  After glancing up at the clock over the kitchen counter, he turned on the TV and groaned. Dr. Roger Fielding, Director General of the World Health Organization, was being interviewed on Ecclesian Monitor TV. The WHO was the health and welfare arm of the United Nation which had control over VAMA, although most everyone knew it was the Cūtocracy that controlled VAMA, and some even believed it controlled WHO.

  Yennie needed no introduction to Roger Fielding, who began pontificating. “Ladies, gentlemen, and children of the world, I am addressing you on this anniversary of the founding of the Vaccine Assurance and Management Agency, our beloved VAMA. Practically all of you—of us, have known nothing but prosperity in our lifetimes, good health, wonderful living conditions, no poverty, indeed a wonderful life. We don’t know and can’t envision hunger, disease, overpopulation, and we never want to see it firsthand, not as long as we live, nor do we want our children or grandchildren to witness these abominations. At the same time, because of our good fortune, we, most of us, have grown complacent. We have taken for granted what our governments have been able to achieve; what our beloved Cūtocracy and we at the United Nations, especially those able agents within VAMA, have fought so hard far. I wish to raise a glass to…”

  “Enough!” Yennie barked out to the TV and turned it off by voice command. Maybe their little leak has had an effect, he thought.

  Chapter Eleven

  Oliver Hitchcock arrived at Washington Regis International Airport early. As soon as his passport was electronically logged in and he passed through an eye scan to establish his identity, he debated whether to call Kathy. The previous evening, she had called to tell him Christopher was running a low grade temperature. He decided not to call. It would only worry her more. Instead, he hopped on a high-speed people mover divided into fast and slow lanes, the former requiring overhead gripping bars given how fast it floated over its tracks. Even though he was in no particular rush, Hitch chose the fast lane. He always chose the fast lane regardless the circumstances and reached his gate area in enough time to have a leisurely breakfast.

  After nabbing the only vacant table and punching in his order on a small device sitting next to the catsup and pepper sauce—a dumb waiter it was called—a glassy-eyed server in a stained brown Feast & Fly uniform eventually brought out his meal. A recent copy of Washington Now had been left on the seat. The cover story—The Proud History of Washington Regis International Airport. He thumbed through the article and had to laugh. The very airport he was sitting in exemplified state of the art use of federal tax dollars so that senators and congressmen could fly in style. The rich and the powerful from inside the beltway are carried into the airport on high speed, solar powered air-rail in a matter of minutes. They fly out on jets made of light weight plastellic material, a unique combination of plastic and metal—jets faster than a speeding laser ray. Well that was a bit of hyperbole. But the economy was surely thriving as the cover story claimed, wellness prevailed, and the population had been stable for decades. Peace and prosperity like never before, all thanks to God and the Cūtocracy. It was clear who wrote that article.

  “The world may be at peace, but not me,” Hitch shot back at the cover story.

  After finishing breakfast and paying his tab on the dumb waiter by joining it to the app on his scud, he headed for the gate just as the agent there announced his flight to Mumbai was delayed. Something about a faulty warning light that required checking. Well some state of the art things never change. Just when he decided to call Kathy, his scud rang. She must have read his mind. Christopher’s V-Mark seemed a little bluer than it had been. She wasn’t one to check it as often as he had, that was too frightening, but her son’s behavior bothered her too much to ignore it. “Keep an eye on him,” was about all Oliver could say. “And have Ralph check his V-Mark if it continues to change.”

  On the flight to Mumbai, all of two hours and twenty minutes, Hitch reflected on the circumstances that brought him there. The immense Data Retrieval & Search Center that Julian made available did not impress him at first. He had expected a grand ballroom packed with endless bays of computer terminals and mammoth size holographic screens. Instead, he found himself sitting in what at one time appeared to be a large walk-in maintenance closet containing a single input/output shell and a small solid screen mounted over it. It was much like the relics in the National Technology Museum. However, he quickly learned how fast and thorough it was. Every thought he blurted into the handheld microphone produced on the screen an index of possible leads he might not have ever considered. Nevertheless, after several hours of chasing his own tail, it seemed, he learned no more than he already knew. Except! Except for the fact that he was not the only one who had been interested in the few links relating to dissidents alluding to the idea that the Click might be a fraud. Apparently, others had tried to retrieve those links from not only the very same computation shell he sat at in the Company’s maintenance closet but from other computation shells around the world. There had been dozens of hits with no success. Who were those dissidents? How long ago was it? And who else was looking for them? Humm, Oliver Hitchcock wondered just as the flight attendant interrupted his thoughts and asked what he might like to drink. “Everything you have,” he quickly responded but settled on bourbon over ice.

  He would still be nowhere had he not received a call from his friend, Rajiv Nadu. Surprisingly coincidental and a bit strange, he thought, as he finished up his drink and looked for the flight attendant. Strange or not, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to see for himself. He doubted anything would come of it, but at least it was an excuse to visit Mumbai once again, and some of the gang he worked with way back when. Besides, he needed a break from Kathy and her… Damn it! That wasn’t fair, he thought as the attendant approached again.

  After he finished his second bourbon, the cabin lights turned off and the hypersonic plane cruised in the dark. Most of the passengers read by overhead light, some taking a catnap. Hitch, on the other hand, sat hard against the back of his seat studying the space between him and the seat in front of him. He was happy to be in first class where leg room was plentiful. He focused on such trivialities in an attempt to relax all the body parts. Not working so well. Too many things to think
about. He unbuckled and strolled to the back of the plane for still another drink. A female attendant, Egyptian, in her forties, attractive, headed his way. He turned sideways to let her pass.

  Just as she did, an elderly black woman rolled out of her seat and landed at Hitch’s feet, trembling in fear, hands to her ears grasping.

  “No! Please, I’m not ready. I can’t…”

  Hitch dropped to his knees, took her hand, looked into her eyes. The same desperation he saw in Edna’s eyes the night she… As the woman shook, he imagined hearing the click, click, click that rang so loudly in Edna’s last moments.

  The flight attendant hovered over the two of them. Hitch looked up. “Do something, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Sir, please get out from the aisle. One of my colleagues is getting a bag.”

  “Bag?”

  “A body bag. Now, please step away.” Without saying more, she walked back up the aisle leaving Hitch staring at her back.

  “She’s not even…” Hitch dropped closer to the woman and embraced her. He swore he heard a click, then a final sigh before she went limp in his arms.

  Suddenly Hitch felt a hand grab at his shoulder, hard. He swung around, ready to strike. The flight attendant now standing over him, a man in his forties, stepped back, frightened at first, then agitated.

  “Sir, please! International policy requires us to…” He stepped aside. Two other flight attendants swooped in and placed the deceased woman in a bright orange body bag, then zipped it up.

  Hitch did little to prevent the disbelief and disgust permeating through his body from showing on his face. The Egyptian flight attendant looked on shaking her head. “You have no idea how many of these we see, all coming out of your country.”