Nobody knows what is said at the meeting of CEOs from around the WOCO world. We can only speculate.
The world’s media only got a sniff of the meeting the day before it took place. Security is so very tight.
The summit is held in New York, in what was formerly the *Bank of America Tower*, a building WOCO acquired when it took over the bank.
Ordinarily, the CEOs meet every three months. So gathering only five weeks after their previous meeting is a tacit admission that all is not well.
But as the WOCO heads from New York, Paris, London, Moscow, Cairo, Rome, Madrid, Brasilia, Beijing, Tokyo, Mumbai and forty or so other major cities assemble, they remain tight-lipped.
WOCO does not wash its dirty linen in public. It prefers not to wash it anywhere. Acquiring new clothes is better than trying to get stains out of old ones. New clothes mean new gadgets in the WOCO world. Releasing a new gadget every year generally keeps people in line.
But not this time.
Until the riots began, the biggest news story was the impending worldwide launch of WOCO’s self-driving, intelligent car. Such a revolutionary addition to people’s lives. And WOCO was going to make the cars available at such a reasonable price.
But the newspapers, the internet, the broadcast media couldn’t ignore the fires, the rocks hurtling through the air, the broken windows, the bodies lying in the streets.
WOCO, for their part, feared that the issue of immortality was upstaging the launch of their car.
There are three days of talks among the CEOs, after which there is a press conference.
Present at the press briefing are Gordon Stewart, CEO of New York; Yuri Bortsov, the Moscow CEO; Rosa Dioli, the Rome CEO; David Cummings, the London head; and Pierre Dubois, the Paris chief.
A recent graduate of journalism school, Maria Jenas attends the press conference because the political correspondent for The Journal has been taken ill at the last moment.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” says Gordon Stewart, who as host of the summit sits in the middle of his fellow delegates, dressed in his WOCO tailored hoodie. “We have just completed three days of very fruitful talks.”
Before continuing, Stewart glances around at the journalists as if committing each one to memory, or at least trying to give the impression that he is.
“Although many of you here will be keen to know what measures will be taken to restore peace in areas that are currently suffering unrest, I have some other news first.”
Stewart then goes on to announce that the release date of the intelligent car has been put back a month. Not because of the riots, but because the design has been improved and WOCO wants it to be perfect.
But nobody is fooled — it’s because of the riots.
Stewart takes a deep breath. “Before I answer questions about the unrest, we have one more announcement. It has been decided that anybody convicted of rioting will be fined eighty-thousand credits and banned from purchasing an intelligent car for ten years.”
WOCO has used this tactic many times before. Having turned the world into one internal market, its control over consumer goods has proven to be more of an effective deterrent to criminals than taking away their liberty; especially since the introduction of genetic ID-ing of all consumer goods. This effectively links something like a TV to the original buyer for the lifetime of the machine, rendering it unusable if he, or one of his family, isn’t present. Crime doesn’t pay like it once did.
Maria puts her hand in the air.
Gordon Stewart chooses her ahead of the more seasoned journalists sitting at the front. “Yes. You at the back with the long hair.”
“Is it true? Have your scientists devised a medical procedure that leads to immortality?”
There’s a silent sigh of relief from the other journalists. They all know this is the first question that needs to be asked. But with their experience they would have asked it in a more roundabout way, sympathetic to the WOCO position. Something like “What do you make of the wild allegations on the internet?” But this young pup has kept it direct, not sugared the pill.
Gordon Stewart smiles a pinched smile. “We cannot comment on this matter at the moment.”
“It’s a simple question.” Maria’s voice sounds thin by the time it reaches the front of the room. But thin can also be sharp.
Stewart stops smiling. “I said we cannot comment.”
Maria is running on adrenaline. “People have died, Mr Stewart, in these disturbances. People deserve an answer.”
“WOCO scientists work on many different projects all the time.”
Stewart has barely finished his answer before the Paris and Moscow CEOs start arguing amongst themselves.
It’s difficult to hear what they are saying. Some of the journalists closer to the table don’t want to hear.
Before the argument can get out of hand, Stewart turns and, as discreetly as he can, hisses at his colleagues.
Then he announces to the press corps that the briefing is over.
But that isn’t the end of the matter.
Later that day, the WOCO CEOs release a communiqué, stating that there will be an announcement made on all major TV and radio stations around the world. It’ll be made the following night at six p.m. Greenwich Mean Time.
It’ll be a statement about the immortality rumours. No further hints are given.
Maria leaves her first ever press conference not brimming with pride but satisfied she’s done a good job. She asked the question that needed to be asked, putting to shame her more experienced colleagues.
That afternoon, when she returns to the office, her editor poses another question that needs to be asked: “How long will it take you to clear your desk?”
