CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
When a segment finished, and as the lights brightened, Rebecca Trevino liked to remain stationary and watch the tumult of the newsroom, before moving to the lavatory. The scene reminded her of feeder fish seconds after a net dipped into the tank.
New York City represented efficient congestion. Inside Today’s studio personified that. Fifty-three employees intersecting across twenty-two hundred square feet often made forging your way from one side to the other a game of green light/red light.
The central bathroom always teemed with activity, and throughout the years, people had unconsciously slotted their daily usage times. A far bathroom offered execs and onscreen personalities privacy. Rebecca stood there now, a hand on each side of the porcelain sink, head down, focused on the clean white gully.
After tonight’s episode, she would be allotted a larger studio. A neutral reward. More room, but she appreciated the close proximity of the camera in her quaint studio.
Insisting on a neurotic make-up specialist, her face never revealed its natural flaws. When the lens panned out to include her surgically enhanced cleavage, her breasts looked firm enough to be enjoyed, yet soft enough to be natural.
The sound of toilet paper spooling in a stall turned her around. Feet under the door: what madness! The far bathroom stayed one hundred percent off-limits before taping or airing of her programs. Everyone knew that. The toilet flushed and Rebecca turned back to the mirror—her scowl internalized.
“Knock ‘em dead,” a woman said as she rinsed her hands under the faucet two down from Rebecca.
Keeping her grip on the sink, Rebecca stared at her own reflection, saying nothing. She couldn’t place the voice. This stunt earned whoever it was a transfer, possibly a termination. Thankfully, the interloper seemed to recognize her mistake and exited without drying her hands.
Rebecca figured her for an intern. The regulars granted her the needed privacy for each episode. This one promised to be epic. In the last few weeks, she’d ended the battle for most-watched primetime program. She now danced as queen atop the mountain. And she’d soon make Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward’s Watergate reporting seem as relevant as junior high gossip.
Lifting herself on her toes, she extended her face close to the mirror, examined her skin, and then checked her teeth. It baffled her when people said the camera added ten pounds. It actually removed ten years, eradicated all blemishes, and caused people she was used to seeing on television to take on haggardly effects when encountered in the real world. Particularly the makeup-less men.
Feeling centered, she exited the wooden door and found two women patiently waiting. They smiled and wished her luck. Those women she knew. Daynah produced the show following hers and Allisa managed miles of audio cables.
As Rebecca made her way to the break room, everyone she passed nodded and shared encouragement: ushering her to her throne.
The world had never experienced anything as compelling as the Lobby, and the discovery that the alternate reality machine preserved life, catapulted it into unimaginable levels of interest. Just the notion that millions of people longed to sign onto a machine and die, gave her goosebumps, but she wasn’t one of them. This world held the action. Here, each day brought incalculable surprises. For proof, one only needed to recap the emergence of computers over the last half-century.
They started as a math aids, code-breakers. Small businesses soon utilized the technology, and eventually computer nerds exploited them for simple games. Fast forward a few decades and we had more computers than homes to hold them; cell-phone applications existed that could monitor a person’s heart rate and ensure they properly brushed their teeth. Then came the Lobby, which dwarfed those amenities, and then exceeded its own greatness by offering an amendable afterlife.
Nothing would ever surpass the awe of reality. Knowing a larger story loomed in the future allowed her to attack each day with an enthusiasm unknown to womankind.
Entering the densely packed break room initiated a light applause. Everyone greeted her with congratulations, gratitude, and lit-up faces. She made sure to return them all. These people were like family. They were the blood that flowed through the body of Inside Today. They made it function, while she acted as its heart; its soul.
A sixty-inch OLED headed the room. Corner speakers bolstered the sound. She glanced at the clock, three minutes until they aired.
Jack Fleeman, a field reporter who she’d worked with for the past four years, offered to fill a cup of coffee for her. She politely declined. Any added stimulant could burst her heart. Someone shut the lights off as she nestled into her proffered seat in the front row between Casy Marvin, a studio executive, and Ryan Lambert, her boyfriend of ten years. She smiled at each, hugged one, kissed the other, and accepted a fact she’d never voice: she no longer needed either of them.
The opening credits finished and when Inside Today returned from commercial, the on-screen Rebecca sat inside the cockpit of a Maersk cargo liner—an expansive triple-decked ship—packed with cargo containers stacked eight high. In front of her waited the silhouette of a man sitting atop a stool, his identity protected by a well-placed shadow. The most visible feature was the horizontally patterned, tan shirt that covered a bloated belly and looked outdated by twenty years.
“Good evening,” Rebecca said on screen. “I’m here with a ship captain who wishes to remain anonymous. We are on a cargo liner we will not name, that started its journey in one of the numerous ports along the west coast of North America. For reasons that will soon become frighteningly obvious, all identifying images will be edited.
“Sir, tell me, how long have you been a captain and what do those responsibilities consist of?”
The man’s voice sounded deep and off-pitch, as if played through an old-style tape recorder set on too slow of a speed. “Well, I’ve been on these waters for over thirty years. Been fortunate enough to stay alive, gain the notice of my employers, and have had the pleasure of piloting this same vessel for the better part of two decades.
“The job description varies, but mainly we pick up products from countries ‘cross the Pacific, often China, but there ‘er others. We ferry ‘em back, unload, get paid. Some shore leave, and then hope to resupply with American products.” He leaned forward. “Though, I can tell ya, sometimes we’re forced to leave with empty bellies. In a nutshell, that’s my job.”
“Thank you, and I am to understand there have been recent changes in outbound cargo. Can you explain?”
“Oh, we’re not empty no longer.” He shifted on his stool.
“So, you’ve found a shippable product from America?”
“People mainly.”
A few members of the room around Rebecca hitched their breaths. She pictured tens of millions of gasps around the world and had to squeeze her thighs shut to control her excitement.
“Are you saying human beings are the outbound cargo?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“American citizens are paying you to smuggle them out of the United States?”
“Sure. Tho’ some ‘er Canadians, Mexicans…paying big bucks too.”
“Wow,” the on-camera Rebecca adjusted her sitting position. “I can tell you, that is quite a shock.”
“Ain’t no shock. Maybe to some rich gal like yourself. But people been talkin’. When you’re down here with ‘em, ya hear.”
“Yes…well, can you tell us how this came about? How you located these passengers.”
“Well now, they found me. I gotta call from a skipper a few days back. He says he’s already to sea, but he’s got people he couldn’t fit on his ship lookin’ to hitch a ride. Says the number of people and the amount they’re willin’ to pay would knock my socks clean off.” The captain’s shadowed form nodded as if in deep reflection. “That it did.”
The camera panned around for a panoramic view of the surrounding ocean. While doing so, Rebecca posed a question. “How far out to sea are we now, Captain?”
“Hmmm…Lemme see. We’re almost through day two. That’d be ‘bout halfway. ‘Bout eight hundred miles outta port, I reckon.”
“And you have people on-board now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with pride. “Full hold.”
“Do you have an estimation of how many travelers you have on this vessel, and what their reasons are for boarding?”
“They reasons ‘er for them Death Trips,” he said matter-of-factly. “Open to anyone with a wad-o-cash and a desire to leave this pit-o-(censored word) called life.” He scratched his face, paused. “Well, that ain’t tirely true. I s’pose some ‘er travelin’ to see a monk fella preachin’ ‘bout salvation, harmony, and all that nonsense.” He fidgeted. “Now, wait another minute, allow me to take that back, too. It’d been nonsense a month ago, but when a man preaches ‘bout somethin’ specific, sayin’ he had visions and what not, and those visions come true to the letter, there ain’t no more second guessin’ him. Now is there? But still, most ‘er here for that final ride. The Death Trip.”
Rebecca watched herself cross her legs. To viewers it seemed inconsequential, but that two second break created pacing, and set her apart from her peers. “You said you had an idea as to how many people you’ve taken on-board?”
“Sure, sure. I can do ya one better. We got exactly fourteen hundred and ninety-two souls on-board this vessel.”
More gasps circled the audience around her. Rebecca knew this dialogue word for word, yet a bomb going off in the next room couldn’t break her attention from the screen. Knowing that degree of rapture must be amplified in others ten-fold was the truest testament to the power of information in the real world.
“So, you’re saying, right now, below us are hundreds of people, riding with full intention of killing themselves?”
“Nah. They won’t be dead, ya see? I’d call it freein’ themselves. Free from pain, torment, bein’ judged. I’m sure a pretty thang like yourself knows the deal. Betcha can’t walk to the market without a hundred eyes checkin’ ya out. The Lobby’s a great option. ‘Less ya think there’s some old guy in the sky waitin’ to pamper ya. If so, I won’t say you’re wrong, but that ain’t nothin’ I can sink my teeth in.”
“Well sir, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but almost ninety percent of the world believes in a higher power. Are you saying you don’t?”
“I’m not sayin’ that, but most people ‘er brain-dead sheep. Don’t know what they believe, juss say what they think ya wanna hear. That much I know. And, I do believe in a higher power. It’s ‘lectronic. I can touch it, feel it, hold proof of it.”
“I see.” On screen, Rebecca checked a pad of paper in her lap. “Can you tell me how difficult it was to reach that number?”
He snickered. “Wasn’t. I could’a turned people away after few hours. I had some rules too. No kids under eight. Tho’ I fear some might’a smudged the ages on me. I had one couple wanted to bring their newborn.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t sure if they was to see the monk or…ya know. But, I can’t see how loadin’ up a infant is right. Shoot, I didn’t even need this many people. Guess it shows I got a kind heart.”
“Need? Can you elaborate?”
“They payin’ whatever ya ask. Five thousand, fifty, a hundred per head out there. I had more than enough after the first two dozen, to be honest. “
“More than enough..for what, Captain?”
“For my own Death Trip, ‘a course.” The shadowed figure checked his watch. “I’ll be out of this bag ‘a fat and (censored word) in less than three days. I ain’t never been so ‘cited. If I was you, lady, I’d leave that ‘copter parked on my deck, call that deep bank a ‘yers, and join the rest of us ‘fore they find a way to lock us out.” A moment passed and he added, “One thing I know, it’s a great time to die.”
The program faded to commercial.
The room stayed so quiet, a hair dropping would have sounded like a cannonade.
Coming into this, she expected applause, pats on the back. This shocked silence meant so much more.
Following the commercial, Inside Today panned a flowing shot below decks. People of all ages and sizes filled narrow hallways and every hold. Families huddled close, suspiciously watching the cameras pass. A New Years Eve-type of party raged in one of the larger areas.
In voice over commentary, Rebecca reinforced the thoughts of a nation. “All of these people have chosen to abandon faith, hope, and humanity for a one-way ticket to cyber prison.” Rebecca didn’t necessarily agree with that, but in modern journalism, it’s not what you report, it’s how portentous you made it. Fear sold ads, ads created revenue, and revenue led to recognition in the form of millions of fans tuning in to watch the greatest journalists cover the biggest stories.
Her lead segment did just that. It showed doomed people preparing for the inevitable. The misgivings on that cargo ship occurred five days ago, but they continued today, would expand tomorrow.
Her next segment focused on religions and their gurus, covering Buddhism conversion rates around the globe. Before this theory of life to death to everlasting existence on a machine hit the population, roughly twenty-four percent of the world had been Islamic, slightly more Christian, Buddhists comprised twelve percent and the members of the other thirty-three thousand registered religions added up to another twelve. Agnostics and atheists claimed what remained.
Since the preachings of Sung Yi, a full one-third of the world now considered themselves students of Buddhism—a more than three hundred percent spike in thirteen days. Those same people now thanked Gaea, Creator of the World, for gifting the Lobby to her children. Sung Yi’s Youtube videos had been translated into ninety-one languages. They converted people by the second.
The most frightening statistic (for supporters of monotheism) came from the chart that showed the expected conversion from the two major religions to Buddhism. Even with a drop in the current rate, in twenty years, Christianity would be all but extinct and Islam nothing more than backwoods voodoo.
Another commercial. This time chatter erupted, but no one spoke to her. You can’t run from facts. This was their new world, and her report would ignite a controversy and spark a struggle for the ages. Controversy, strife, death: the ingredients of good media.
Although Rebecca would never be knighted or anointed to sainthood, she was saving lives by creating conflict. Millions of people would forego an eternity inside the Lobby simply to catch that day’s news.
Outrage would follow this program. Faith in Jesus and Allah strummed in billions of hearts. This would be like paddles jolting that passion to life. Her research didn’t lie. Society strolled the path to a new world religion. The only way to avert its destination would be to derail the engine. People would try, and she’d report all the gory details.
The final segment touched on Tara Capaldi, Brad Finder, Roy Guillen, a four minute expose on Alex Cutler, and a six minute finale on Adisah Boomul—the reclusive mastermind hiding in his futuristic fort.
What an amazing interview that would be. Maybe she’d reach out. The world had a right to know what was happening in those Montana mountains.