The Click

The White House press room was nervous with noise waiting for Dillon Burber

to make his grand entrance. Reporters sat at desks in semi-circle rows around a podium standing on an oval platform. All the desks were outfitted with computer shells and the names of the organizations assigned to those desks. More than a dozen cameras and their operators stood on another platform behind the reporters. Dillon was only five minutes late when Yennie, sitting to one side in the corner, began shookling his right foot in nervous anticipation. He and Dillon had gone over a number of times what they had hoped to accomplish. At the same time he … they, didn’t want it to seem staged, nor did the president. Nevertheless, he knew how unpredictable a press conference could be and, of course, the whole world was watching. Yennie hadn’t seen that many TV cameras at any of the previous sessions.

Just when he thought he should go back and check on Dillon, the Press Secretary stepped into the room.

“Sorry I’m late, guys and I apologize for the short notice,” Dillon Burber said as he walked up to the podium. “Before I take questions, let me address an explosion in the recent news cycle.”

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 Post’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 Post 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 shookle.

“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 chord 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 liberal presses 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 expectedly 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 Post, 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 was stomping down the street thinking about razorblades and the Minister’s balls. At the same time he was talking 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 evolve. If it’s true that a large population of unvaccinated old people … He couldn’t complete that thought. It was to … 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.

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.”