by Mike Luoma
“Calm down,” BC says to him. “So you haven’t found a cure. Neither have I. And even with my new job title, I’m thinking prayer isn’t our answer this time around. But here’s a thought: Maybe we can work together and find a way to stop it. How about it? Can the UTZ and the NcC put aside past estrangements, put our alliance back together and stop this thing?”
“You’re proposing this to me now?” Wentworth says, sounding taken aback. BC just laughs. “Well, to who else? And when? And why not? Two billion people are dead down here, Wentworth! More die every day. I seem to be immune. Others also have been exposed and survive. It isn’t infecting all of us. That makes me think that there has to be a way to stop it. There’s no need for formalities, is there? Fuck the formalities!”
“Heh. You don’t sound like any Pope I’ve ever heard,” Wentworth says with a laugh.
“I’m not actually much of a Pope, I’m not kidding myself,” BC admits. “But I’m all we’ve got. So…
How about it?”
“Frankly, Campion, I’m not sure it will make any difference. Our scientists have been working on it, as you well know. Every time they think they’ve defeated it, it finds a way to prove them wrong. It’s insidious. And as I said before, it’s apparently alien, maybe something they found on Mars and brought back here to kill us all.”
“I really don’t think it’s from Mars,” BC says. “That’s why I’ve been trying to call you. I’d have been in touch sooner, but this whole Pope thing came up…”
“What?” Wentworth demands, “What are you saying? And how can you be sure it isn’t from Mars?”
Wentworth pauses. “You sound like you know something,” he tells BC.
“I’m not sure what I know, yet,” BC tells Wentworth. “But I may be able to bring some more resources to bear on the situation. And I need your help.” After BC says that he grimaces. I really hate to ask this FUCK for anything, but we’re rapidly running out of options… and people, for Chrissakes…
“What do you want from me?” Wentworth asks warily.
“I want you get me a meeting with the full surviving UTZ CEO council,” BC tells Wentworth. Wentworth remains silent for a moment.
“We’ll have to take precautions,” he finally says. “You could be a carrier. I’ve kept my station clean through quarantine. I have no intention of allowing the Plague on board my station!”
“We could meet somewhere else,” BC suggests.
“Where? The Moon?” Wentworth asks. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“That’s where the plague began! It’s no doubt crawling with it!”
BC just shakes his head.
“Fine… then what about here? Vatican City?”
“No!” Wentworth says, almost too forcibly. “No offense,” he says, mellowing a bit, “but not the Vatican. Too easy a target. You don’t have any security there.”
“Comforting thought,” BC says. “Another Earth location? You make the call.”
Wentworth is silent for a moment. “New York City,” he says, finally. “My building. In midtown. I’ll send directions. Let’s meet tomorrow afternoon.”
“Sounds good,” BC says. “And thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Wentworth says. “I’ll see you there tomorrow,” he says, signing off. He’s scared. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him scared before. Huh. Maybe he should be. Now… how do I get a hold of The Project?
This sucks... I’m at their mercy!
Maybe I should click my heels three times and chant, “there’s no place like the asteroid base…”
No way to call them on the com… shit. All I can do is hope they get in touch.
Chapter Sixteen
When you’re the Pope, people do things for you, such as arranging for transit to New York City for the next afternoon... for you and your entourage. For when you’re the Pope, you’re no longer supposed to travel alone. BC sets out for New York City with an entourage of about fifteen. I don’t think I’ve ever had an entourage before.
Although BC is traveling in a crowd, when he arrives in New York City he finds the lack of crowds around them disturbing.
He watches from the window of the transport as they travel from the airport to their midtown hotel. The entire city is strangely subdued, quiet.
Those still alive are busy burying the dead, or hiding out in isolation and quarantine. BC and his staff have booked a floor of rooms at a hotel close to Wentworth’s building. BC tries to relax. Others have attended to all the details. All he has to do is go along for the ride. When they arrive at the hotel, BC only has to worry about walking from the transport to the elevator. There are staff people to check him in, to take care of his bags and luggage and such. I don’t even have to press the elevator buttons…
I’m not sure I like this.
Parts of this, sure… but I still feel like I’m fooling everyone… and myself. Pretending to be Pope!
BC is guided to his private suite and left alone to freshen up. His itinerary is tight. There’s no real down time.
BC only has the time to shower and get dressed before he has to head downstairs, into a waiting transport, and off to Wentworth’s building and offices.
Wentworth’s office building is just another nondescript skyscraper thrusting up off of the Manhattan streets and into the sky. BC doesn’t have much time to take it in as he’s whisked from the transport to inside the building. He’s escorted to a conference room.
The conference room is similar to the one BC once saw on board Wentworth’s Station. An arcing table, a hollow semi circle with seating along its outer edge, dominates the large open room. The design allows everyone seated to see each other as they discuss running the world.
There are signs of fresh construction. The entire table is sealed away from BC and his side of the room by an arcing, floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall sheet of Plexiglas, recently installed, by the look of it. Six men and women sit unevenly spaced around the table’s arc. Wentworth is sitting just about dead center, directly in front of BC as he walks up to the glass.
BC raps on the glass with a loud TAC-TAC. The six CEOs all jump, startled.
“Richard, are you scared?” BC says, indicating the glass.
“What the…?” Wentworth is caught off guard at first by BC’s directness. “Ah, Campion.”
“Just checking. Nice glass,” BC cracks.
“Precautions,” Wentworth explains. “We’ve all been in orbit or otherwise isolated from the ‘disease’. You and most people on Earth and the Moon at this point, have been exposed. So we’re taking some precautions.” Wentworth motions to the wall behind BC. “Why don’t you pull up a table and chair?”
BC turns to see a table and several chairs behind him, lined up along the wall next to the door. Got to do everything myself? Fine…
BC drags a table over to the glass, and then pulls up a chair.
Well, now, this is cozy.
“We’re still waiting on a few people,” Wentworth says.
“Fine,” BC answers.
BC looks around the table. The CEOs don’t look up or back at him. Each is busy: on a com, or talking to staff, or studying the tabletop intently.
There are three empty seats. BC notes a flurry of activity back behind the glass and sees the other three council members arrive.
Once they are seated, an unspoken word passes between the council members. They all turn to Wentworth, and then to BC.
The room is quiet for a moment. Wentworth breaks the silence. He addresses the rest of the CEOs of the UTZ Council.
“Pope Peter the Fourth has asked us to convene the council today to speak with us about this disease, this plague that is decimating the human population of Earth and the Moon. Your, um, holiness?”
Wentworth deliberately slips to slight BC.
“Why, thank you, Richard,” BC says over effusively. “And ‘thank you’ to all of you for meeting with me here today on such short notice.”
BC looks around the circle at the mostly passive, disinterested faces. Some are clearly not paying attention, speaking with staff or sitting with their eyes shut.
At least Wentworth looks interested. Concerned. Maybe it’s a business leader thing? Well, I’m the Fucking Pope, now! So give me your full and undivided attention.
“Ahem,” BC deliberately clears his throat. The board begins to turn to him, one by one. Thank you.
When they are all apparently listening, BC continues.
“I hope I don’t need to tell you that we face an unprecedented crisis right now. I don’t, do I?”
The council members, some visibly indignant, shake their heads “no.”
“I have some news, some information on this plague. You know this sickness is extraterrestrial. I have it on good authority that this plague is actually alien in nature and in origin,” BC says. He lets it sink in for a second.
“It didn’t originate on Earth or the Moon… or on Mars.” BC hears murmuring behind the glass.
“It was not created by humans. It comes from outside of our solar system,” BC continues. “And we have got to fight it with everything we have!”
A woman on BC’s left speaks up.
“Our scientists are trying,” the woman BC doesn’t know stresses. “Every time they think they’ve got a cure, they don’t! It’s impossible.”
“They’re doing what they can,” another CEO, an older man BC hasn’t seen before, insists.
“It’s not enough,” BC says. “Obviously.”
“It’s not enough,” Wentworth agrees. “Some live, some die. And we don’t know why. It’s not enough. Thing of it is, the structure of the microbe is more complex than anything we’ve ever seen before.
“Your ‘alien’ theory may make sense, as crazy as it sounds. We weren’t sure if it was made or occurred naturally,” Wentworth says. “The scientists said if it was natural, it was perfect, but also insisted that then there was no way it could be from here. If manufactured, it was perfect, and we couldn’t even come close to making a plague that advanced ourselves... yet,” Wentworth says, clearing his throat. “They are quite frustrated by this plague.”
“Do you have any leads on a cure?” BC asks them.
“No, not really,” Wentworth says.
“No, I guess not,” the older man says.
“Not anything practical,” the other woman says.
“No,” says another CEO.
BC looks around the semi circle.
“I’m here today to tell you that you’ve not drawn upon all the resources at your disposal.” He watches to see if he’s surprised them.
Murmurs. There is quiet discussion among the council as they try to figure out what BC is referring to.
“Which of you has jurisdiction over the old Transpace Project?” BC asks them. “”Do they answer to any of you?”
More murmuring. No one speaks up. BC looks at each of them in turn, his eyes making their way around the semi circle.
“Isn’t that interesting?” BC observes. “None of you even know what I’m talking about, do you?” BC
challenges them. “What does that say about the UTZ Council? You’ve grown so comfortable in your positions of prestige and power that you’ve managed to lose an entire company!
“How many others have slipped away?” BC wonders aloud. “How many projects have you simply lost track of? I wonder.” He pauses. “It’s not under any of you right now, am I right?”
No one answers BC, so he continues.
“I didn’t think so. Well, let me tell you, you’ve got a fully functioning project, the old Transpace Project, employing a couple thousand bright minds out there. They’re dealing with aliens. Other worlds. They tell me that some of these aliens may be the source of this plague.
“These aliens are more advanced than us. They’re called The Eldred, and they may be responsible for spreading the plague at the peace conference.”
Murmurs again behind the glass…
“The Project has committed all their scientists and labs to finding a cure,” BC looks from CEO to CEO. “We need to combine their efforts with your scientists’ efforts to attack this plague.”
“Where is this ‘Transpace Project’ now? The Moon?” Wentworth asks BC. BC laughs, “Well. Here’s an idea. Before I tell you too much more, I have a proposition for you.”
The council begins another round of murmuring.
“Aliens?”
“He’s out of his mind.”
“Transpace Project? Isn’t that dead?”
“Proposition? The man’s crazy.”
“What does a pope know about a plague?”
BC continues anyway.
“Here’s my proposition: Turn the Transpace Project over to me. Make me it’s CEO. Give me an honorary seat on the council, whatever. That way the balance of power between each of YOU stays the same. None of you gain any advantage over the others. And I gain a voice among you,” BC explains.
“Plus, we double the brainpower trying to defeat the plague, combining the efforts of your UTZ scientists and my Transpace Project scientists,” BC smiles. “It’s win, win and win!”
“The Pope can’t be on the board!” one of the CEOs says.
“Let’s cut through the pretense and lies!” BC says with authority. “The NcC and The UTZ are allies. We’ve worked together for years. When Peter the Second was Pope, he practically ran this board! He was like a senior member!” BC points out.
“Let’s not dance around the facts when there are so many lives at stake. If you give me control of the Transpace Project, I promise you we can make some major breakthroughs. Anything less would be foolishness.”
The murmuring picks up in earnest as the council discusses his proposition and request. A fat old CEO BC doesn’t know clears his throat, and addresses the board with a nasty rasp. “What does he know?” he asks the rest of the group. “What’s this about aliens? Why would aliens want to kill us with a plague? It’s preposterous! He must know more than we do! He knows something we don’t!”
“Yes, Sir Charles, he certainly does,” Wentworth says over dramatically, patronizing the old man.
“Thank you for joining us today,” Wentworth says in an “Oh, just waking up, are we?” tone. Sir Charles lets out a “harrumph.” BC decides to chime in.
“Look. This is what I know,” BC begins. “I know we need to cure this disease that’s killing us! I know where it may have come from. I think I know how we might be able to stop it, or at least how to better combine our efforts to that end. That’s what I know.”
The board’s indecision and confusion is nearly palpable.
There’s a weird, crazy energy in the air.
The murmurs come to an end. Fear hangs in the air.
“You are paralyzed!” Wentworth admonishes the rest of the board. “At least Camp… Pope Peter…” he clears his throat. “At least he’s offering us something. Let’s give him what he wants. At best, he may have something to offer. At worst, he wastes our time.”
“We may have little time left,” a woman CEO says.
“Why let him waste any of it?”
“Do you have another option that you’ve somehow been saving until now?” Wentworth asks her.
“Because as far as I can tell, Camp… The, uh, Pope here has the only new option on the table.”
Enough with the name thing, Wentworth, I get it…
“Let’s give him control of this ‘Project’ that he thinks is somehow worth something more than its fifty year old labs on the Moon. Why not? It does maintain the balance between us, after all.” Wentworth looks around the table. “I propose we give Pope Peter the Fourth control of the ‘Transpace Project.’ Do I have a second?”
“But that will make him a CEO!” Sir Charles blusters.
“What’s the problem? He’ll control one company,” Wentworth responds. “Many of you have only risen to your posts in the last month. Who are you to question the Pope?”
Wentworth doesn’t look at BC, but rather at each of the other CEOs seated around the table. I think if he’d looked at me we might have both burst out laughing. Me. The Pope! Well, I could soon be a CEO, too.
Now if I can just get The Project to get back in touch with me! I’d like to head out to The Project’s asteroid base again. Get those guys tied in with these bozos’ scientists. The board explodes in conversation. No murmurs now; BC can hear bits and pieces of their conversations.
“Who is this Campion to make demands?”
“Why should we work with him? Is he really Pope?”
“What do we know about this Project?”
“The Transpace Project? Kilner?”
“Still going? No way, that was dead years ago.”
The debate rages on.
Come on! If they do make me CEO of The Project, I should be able to protect the Project… better than I could protect those poor deluded fools back on Fortune Station. BC scans the group debating behind the glass. He and Wentworth catch eyes. BC can hear Wentworth in his mind, clear as a bell: What are you up to, snake?
Woah! That was freaky!
Oh no, not again!
BC feels a sharp pain on both sides of his forehead. The pain spreads across his forehead in a flash, meeting in the middle behind his eyes in an onrush of pain.
Not again, not another headache! Not now!
BC’s head starts pounding.
The headache comes on like a freightrain chugging through his brain. He closes his eyes and rubs his temples.
He hears Wentworth, out loud this time but off in the distance.
“Campion? Are you alright? A headache?”
“Yeah,” BC says. He opens his eyes, and then winces.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay,” Wentworth tells him. “How about you retire to one of my dens? I have several in this building. One is just outside of this hall, as a matter of fact. You can lie down for now in there, let that pass,” Wentworth offers.
