The Click

by Steve Shear

  The room went silent, and everyone focused on the White House press secretary whose hair was slicked back as if he were attempting to cover up a number of sleepless nights. Clearly he was tired, which only reinforced the monotone in his presentation. That was saying a lot considering the entire press corps had dubbed him the king of drone. Nevertheless, every journalist in the press room seemed to be sitting on edge waiting to hear why he called an unscheduled session and how he planned to address the explosion in the recent news cycle, at least Yennie hoped so.

  “As all of you know, serious allegations have been made that the Click is not a God-given or natural occurrence of aging but rather a result of the ERAM-V vaccination process. If you haven’t read about the work that Professor Elana Wu from American University has been conducting, I suggest that you go online to the Washington Herald’s site. It’s all there thanks to Amy Winkler.”

  It was as if he were speaking in an echo chamber. The entire room reverberated with the words—the Click is not a God-given or natural occurrence of aging. Of course they had all read it by then, either on the Herald site or on at least a hundred other sites around the world. Nevertheless, hearing it uttered by the president of the United States’ official spokesman had to be electrifying.

  Before the room quieted down, Dillon glanced down at Amy Winkler and nodded, as if thanking her for having the courage to publish Dr. Wu’s work. She nodded back. He then briefly discussed the details of that work and explained the reason for him being there. The president wanted her fellow citizens and the world to know that she was not dismissing the allegations, outrageous as most everyone thought. Of course, that wasn’t the real reason for Dillon Burber being there. The real reason was coming, and Yennie smiled as he continued to shake his foot.

  “Now let’s begin this press conference with Gabriela Link of the World Network News Service,” Dillon suggested.

  She wanted to know why the president wasn’t doing more to push back on the Chinese who continued to flood the US market with low cost vehicles manufactured outside the Universal Trade Agreement. Everyone knew that Chinese workers were being paid below the minimum set by UTA, and in many cases they were underage. Dillon fielded that question and its follow up quite easily—in the minor key of E flat. At the same time, Yennie wondered why even she would lead off with such an inane question immediately following Dillon’s preamble to the session. Surely his comments trumped the press’s need to protect the American worker, at least for the moment.

  The next several questions were equally tedious, but at least related to Elana Wu and the Click. Then just as Yennie had hoped, Agatha Guthrie of the Ecclesian Monitor woke up the press corps. She wanted to know why President Wainwright had not been attending church regularly, for the past fourteen Sundays in fact, especially given that for eleven of those Sundays she’d been in town.

  Had she not asked that particular question, Dillon was prepared to ask it himself and then answer it. Yennie knew she would, given how he managed to leak a teaser to her editor, someone he played poker with regularly. Dillon’s retort was clearly unanticipated by the press corps and caused an uproar the likes of which even Yennie had not been prepared for just as President Wainwright had predicted.

  “Well, Agatha,” Dillon said in more of an E sharp tone, “President Wainwright has decided to leave the Church and take a break from religion itself. She chooses to be unaffiliated, if you will, and please don’t bother with a follow-up question. Now let’s see who’s next?”

  Agatha Guthrie jumped up from her chair. “Wait Dillon! Just one follow-up. Given that nonsense Amy Winkler is spewing in the Washington Herald, does the president’s decision to leave the church have anything to do with the Click and the ERAM-V vaccine?”

  Dillon looked over at Amy who seemed to shrug off the insult, then back to Agatha. “I cannot comment on the president’s decisions regarding her spiritual commitments. Thank you all for coming. I believe that is enough for today.”

  As the decibel level in the room cranked up, Dillon quickly disappeared and Yennie follow close behind.

  ****

  General Rosewall and Minister McGivney took their time finishing other business after Rousseau and Julian Iscar left them. Finances for one. The Cūtocracy needed additional funding to combat the barrage of bad press resulting from the publication of Elana Wu’s work and to beef up both VAMA and their private army that Rosewall was in charge of. They also had to establish a line of command. Rosewall thought he could win that one, but again money spoke louder than brass medals.

  “Just keep in mind, General, I hold the purse strings, and should you get out of line I will cut those strings as quick as a razorblade can cut through the veins in your wrists.”

  Twenty minutes later, General Rosewall stomped down the street thinking about razorblades and the Minister’s balls. At the same time, he talked to Rousseau. “They’re both assholes, McGivney and Iscar, but that’s beside the point. Just kill Wu, but find out what she knows first, God damn it. Take care of your friend Hitchcock also. And fuck McGivney. I can handle him.”

  ****

  After Rosewall left, McGivney remained by the window and watched him leave the building. He didn’t trust the sniveling snot but for now he needed him, or at least he might need him depending on how things evolved. If it’s true that a large population of unvaccinated old people… He couldn’t complete that thought. It was too… He shook his head and started back for the Vatican. The tunnel seemed more confining, the humidity more oppressive, the sound of his sandals pounding the pavement more disconcerting. It was as if he were walking a tightrope unravelling under his feet with the entire church and his beloved smotec on his back. There couldn’t possibly be a large tribe of people living well beyond seventy-five. God wouldn’t allow it. Neither he nor the smotec himself had that luxury. After all, they were God’s disciples and God’s disciples lived and died under God’s grace.

  Ten minutes later, alone in the tunnel, he was on his scud with Julian. “Yes, that’s what I said, keep working with Hitchcock. Do what you have to but get Wu. If there really is a hellhole in the jungles of India, I have a feeling she will come in handy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Oliver Hitchcock sat in his tiny hotel room listening to the traffic in downtown Mumbai through the open balcony door. He sipped on a scotch while he tried to reconcile uncomfortable thoughts flowing through his mind. Does he fly directly to Italy or go home first? Christopher’s V-Mark remained bluish-black, even more so, and the blistering seemed to be spreading. Kathy begged him to come home. She even intimated that Christopher might not live long enough for him to arrive in time. That was enough to make him decide to fly back to DC before meeting with Meta DeCarlo. He was about to make arrangements when he once again unfolded Ambika Patel’s note.

  Seek out Meta DeCarlo in Greve, Italy. Tell her the fishermen of Bombay sent you.

  Once again, he wasn’t sure what to do. Not like him. In the past he would have… “Damn it! This is not the past.” He decided to call Delahunt, hoping the doctor would be more optimistic than his daughter. Dr. Delahunt was out of the office. Could one of the other doctors help him? Christ no! Jesus, he had to make the decision himself. He inched around his hotel room with the note in hand hoping for an epiphany, then walked down to the bar and ordered a martini. Two martinis. Doubles. The TV over the bar was on the travel channel but muted. As he sipped his third martini, he watched a pretty young American girl with blonde hair walking across the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, Italy. The bright red Duomo rose in the background. The bartender looked over at him. “Have you been there?” he asked.

  “A long time ago.” Hitch hesitated, then nodded to himself. “But I’m heading there from here.” Good! He’d made a decision.

  In less than twenty-four hours, he sat on his balcony in Florence. A cool breeze crossed the Arno River and brushed over his face as he watched the tourists marching across the bridges. They took photos, carried bags, and
held hands. For three days, he sat on that balcony, off and on, and Meta DeCarlo, whoever the hell she was, had already canceled twice on him. Even if she were to lead them to an unvaccinated tribe of Ethiopian Jews, Elana Wu remained missing and without her nothing could be done. He was losing hope. He tried to shake the feeling by focusing on his immediate surroundings. By then, he had become a familiar guest at the Lungamo Hotel on the south bank of the Arno River.

  The cool breeze, now chilly, seemed to beach itself on the balcony. He shivered as his thoughts left his surroundings and came back to the problems at present, especially to Christopher’s condition. A few minutes later, his scud vibrated and he picked up the call after enabling its holographic mode. He could practically touch Barnaby’s furrowed brow.

  “Oliver, where are you?”

  “If you activate your holographic mode, Barnaby, you will see I haven’t left my hotel in Florence,” Hitch said sarcastically. “It appears this mysterious Ms. DeCarlo does not want to meet with me after all. And if she does…” He paused and finished up the scotch. “Like I’ve got all the fuckin’ time in the world.”

  “What about Elana?”

  “My friend is taking care of it, and I trust him with my life.”

  “Well, as long as he gets her back.”

  “He said he will, which means he will,” Hitch barked into the holographic image in front of him as he refilled his glass.

  “Quite so.”

  A few minutes later Hitch clicked off and moseyed down to the hotel bar close to the TV. After a few minutes, a news bulletin flashed across the screen. He and everyone else at the bar stared up at a demonstration in Washington, DC, taped earlier.

  Crowds of people, Ecclesian Crusaders according to their signs, marched down 15th Street heading toward Pennsylvania Avenue and the White House demanding that the president resign. They were practically rolling over the reporter trying his best to remain standing as they rushed by. Before he had a chance to speak, one of the signs smacked him hard on the shoulder and knocked the poor fellow down.

  No I’m sorry or excuse me, Hitch thought. Apparently, true believers didn’t have to apologize. Besides, they were all in a hurry to crucify Queen Wainwright. In fact, two of the spirited many racing past the reporter carried a banner in bright red letters as if written in blood urging those who could read to Burn Witch Wainwright just like they did the witches in Salem! The reporter stopped them and asked if they really meant that.

  “I not only mean it, but I would happily strike the first match,” Father Winterhaven exclaimed after he introduced himself and moved closer to the camera. He bore a toothless smirk across his face ruddy red from drink.

  “I guess that says it all,” the reporter declared. “I’m Gary Smith in the Nation’s Capital.”

  The anchor quickly appeared on screen. “That was late morning, Washington, DC time and was just one of hundreds of anti-Wainwright demonstrations around the world,” he announced from behind his desk. “And besides railing against the President of the United States, Cūtocrats everywhere are asking, who is Elana Wu? According to a recent Washington Herald poll, as many as thirty-two percent of those polled believe the Click could be a fraud. At the same time, rumors continue that Dr. Wu is really a heroin dealer who…”

  The anchor paused in midsentence as he cupped one hand to his ear piece. “More news from Washington, DC I’m afraid.”

  The TV screen switched to a reporter standing on Pennsylvania Avenue with the White House behind him. The anchor’s voice could be heard off screen. “We go immediately to Robert Mabry on the scene. What’s happening Bob?”

  “Well, Judd, we are told an assassination attempt on President Wainwright less than an hour ago has been foiled. According to my sources one of the conspirators involved was a secret service agent assigned to guard the president. According to one particular source the agent is believed to be a member of the secret society known as the Tarsusians…”

  “Tarsusians?” the anchor interrupted.

  “An extremist arm of the Ecclesian Church that has been around since the early nineteen hundreds. They’re a more violent spinoff of Opus Dei I’m told, but they have stayed deep in the shadows doing God’s work according to the strictest principles of Catholicism before its meltdown and the rise of Ecclesian religiosity.”

  “And how exactly was the plot foiled, I mean…”

  Just then Hitch felt a tap on his shoulder. “Mr. Hitchcock, please follow me,” a server said.

  He jumped from his stool and followed the young man through the bar’s small kitchen and out the back door to an opened, stripped down, high-tech Speedster painted deep maroon with stainless steel strips running across the center of its hood and trunk. An attractive black woman with coal black hair, around fifty years old Hitch guessed, sat behind the wheel.

  “Please get in, Mr. Hitchcock. We must hurry,” Meta DeCarlo said.

  ****

  Rousseau pulled out the Blue Cube, fired it up, and began pouncing back and forth along the edge of its HS-Screen as No Data blinked within the greenish-blue haze. She was on her scud talking to one of Rosewall’s lieutenants in charge of the mission. “He has to come out sometime, George. He’s been cooped up in that fucking hotel for three days now which means I’ve been cooped up here, and I don’t like it.”

  “How do you think we feel out here waiting?”

  Just then the HS-Screen went live capturing Hitch as he stepped into the open and began glowing intermittently. “Hold on, there he is, behind the bar, getting into… Now stay with him, George, and take him out or Rosewall will have your ass, God damn it!”

  Rousseau clicked off her scud and stepped up to the greenish-blue haze close enough to breathe in its magical ability to transport visions across the world. “As much as I hate to do this, Oliver, it’s beyond my control.” It surprised her how unemotional she was, considering the order she just gave. She and Hitch had history, good and bad, serious and indifferent. He was the… She stopped herself; had to live in the present. This was the mission. If she was to survive, there was no room for sentiment or even ambivalence. After turning her back on him, she crossed the room and faced the wall mirror close enough to examine the blood vessels in the whites of her eyes. “I mustn’t be vulnerable,” she said to herself, aloud, to make sure it sank in.

  From there, through the mirror, she saw the Speedster wind through the countryside. George’s black SUV carrying him and two other lieutenants followed at a distance, laser guns fixed to its hood. Overhead, an armed VAMA drone tracked their path. She swirled around and clapped her hands.

  ****

  The power of whatever sat under the hood of the maroon and silver striped Speedster kept Hitch glued to the back of his seat as Meta DeCarlo, seemingly relaxed and casual, cut corners at high speed and accelerated on every straightaway, sometimes lifting them as much as a foot off the ground. All types of alarms on the dashboard screamed with fright while the souped-up engine’s high pitched wail killed any conversation. He was mesmerized by the beautiful woman sitting next to him; her long hair blowing back, her steady hands on the wheel, the picture of something out of the movies. As she exceeded 275 kilometers per hour, he tried to stay cool and stare ahead, but his eyes had trouble leaving her.

  Finally he yelled out. “You always drive like this?”

  “Only when we’re being followed,” she yelled back, first pointing skyward, then behind her.

  Hitch pivoted to the rear. No car, then glance upward. No plane that he could see. He looked for the side mirror but it wasn’t there, then to the rearview mirror. It wasn’t there either. “How the hell do you know?”

  “Please, Mr. Hitchcock, just hang on.”

  The Speedster dropped to the unpaved road below with a thump. It broke hard and slid sideways creating a rising trail of dust between them and the black SUV that had just come into view. It then raced toward what appeared to be a dead end as a steel shield rose from its rear. Zing, zing, zing. Hitch heard
laser shots ricochet directly behind him while the roar of the SUV closed the gap. The VAMA drone dipped downward through the clouds and seemed to magically appear. Still glued to the back of his seat, Hitch couldn’t believe what he was witnessing, didn’t expect such excitement, as the speedometer registered 185 kilometers per hour He looked over at Meta DeCarlo who calmly steered the Speedster toward high brush without a discernable roadway.

  “This may get a bit choppy, so once again hang on,” she suggested.

  ****

  Rousseau became entranced with the chase, so much so that she pierced the holographic images in front of her. She even clapped her hands in anticipation of the catch and the demise of her dear friend. The optics caused the images to momentarily quake and Rousseau to jump. He and that woman were heading into a raised thicket of green that clearly would provide little support for the pneumatic blanket of air that normally maintained proper altitude. Surprisingly, it glided over at least two hundred yards of entangled weeds as if they formed a landing strip before dropping downward and bouncing onto a rock bed of sorts. Then up again it went. From Rousseau’s line of sight, the speedster seemed to fly over a narrow crevice and fishtailed onto a slightly tamer raised gravel road. After straightening out and rising, it flew down that road leaving the black SUV to suddenly reverse thrust its engine in braking mode. Clearly George did not know how to cope with the crevice and the higher ground on the other side.

  She watched in frustration but was still hopeful as the VAMA drone circled wide in order to swoop down, then followed the Speedster paralleling railroad tracks. From her vantage point, she saw the road veer away through an open field, making it a perfect target. Rousseau held her breath. Finally, she could check Hitchcock off her list. All of a sudden, instead of veering into the open field, the Speedster dropped down and slammed on its brakes, creating more dust.