The Problem With Immortality Ch. 02

The Problem With Immortality

Chapter 2

By Gary LM Martin

Chapter 2: Six Months Later

Anson sat on a beach, listening to the sounds of the surf. He had rented a beach house on Kiawah Island in South Carolina. Several hundred years ago, Kiawah Island used to be the main launching facility of the old United Survey Service, now simply called the Survey Service. After the nuke of 2355, everything had been wiped out. Once the radiation had died down, the island, now in a much reconfigured shape, had been rebuilt as a tourist resort with beach bungalows.

Anson lay still and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind. He had drunk too much last night at that party. And then later, he had had that blonde he had been eyeing all night. Or did he have the flirty brunette?

He struggled to remember. No, he was sure now, it was the blonde, definitely the blonde. She had a body that could kill in a tiny red bikini and a smile that could melt any man. She looked to be 18 years old, and it was only later, much later, after they lay in bed after doing what they did, did he learn that she was even older than him, at 472 years old, one of the very first to take the immortality serum.

"Why do you keep yourself looking like you're 18?" he had asked her, snuggling against her luscious breasts, which were far bigger and more luxurious than Jennifer's.

"I like looking young and sexy," the young 472 year old girl said, snuggling against his chest. "Why do you look so old?"

Anson didn't think 32 was "so old", but he wasn't offended. "I'm a Fixer. No one's going to hire me if I look like a teenager."

The girl gave a high pitched, teenage laugh. Remarkably, it seemed she was still a teenager in more ways than one, even after 472 years.

Anson had spent two months at Kiawah, and before that two months in Santa Monica, and before that two months in Miami, going to parties, meeting women, and enjoying what he hadn't enjoyed since the day he started dating Jennifer, all those hundreds of years ago: new flesh.

At first it had been exciting. Different faces! Different sized breasts! Different voices! Different hair! Different bodies! Different personalities!

Anson had felt a thrill of excitement each time he had plowed new ground. Every man psychologically felt the need to spread his seed far and wide. Those who married and managed to stay faithful to their wives conquered this most basic instinct, but it never totally went away; and after 311 years of pent up desire from being faithful to one and only one woman, Anson exploded, in a sensual way. The first week after he had left Jennifer he had sex with seven women; by the first month, he had slept with 25. By now, six months later, he had lost count.

He felt the joy of immense freedom, after having his penis tied up in a cage for so long, so very long. It felt simply grand to be able to spread his seed at will.

At first.

The first woman he plowed into was glorious; the first ten women were exceptional; the first fifty women were good; and now, after six months, he still enjoyed sleeping with women, but the imperative drive to urgently copulate was gone. He had shaken the bonds of captivity of marriage, and while he could and did enjoy and appreciate sex, he was calmer now, and looking for someone who could be a longer term mate.

Not a lifetime partner. Oh no! He had learned that lesson once before. But he would have liked to find someone with a killer body and an intellect to match, someone he could pair off with, say, for a few years, and then see what happens from there.

But so far he had found no one who met his standards. Not even close. No one who even so much as moved the needle for him, emotionally speaking.

He hadn't talked to Jennifer since That Day, but had informally kept in touch with her via Judith, their daughter.

Judy told him that Jennifer was crushed, and crying every day, and Anson felt bad about that. But Judy didn't exactly blame Anson; at 304 years of age, she had gone through three husbands of her own (or four, if you counted Robert, who she had never actually married).

Short term contract marriages were considered perfectly normal now. In fact, people rarely even bothered to get married anymore, even for a defined contract term. Relationships simply didn't last that long. In the first century or two after the immorality Serum was developed, people stayed together for 50 or a hundred years before divorcing or moving on; but as time went on, marriages became shorter and shorter, and now it was uncommon for people to be married for longer than 30 or 40 years... if even that.

"In fact, I'm surprised you and Mom stayed together this long," said Judith, over the holocom. "You're the only couple I know who stayed together past 200 years, much less 300. Don't get me wrong, Dad, Mom is devastated, but I understand what you must be feeling. Marriage for so long simply isn't healthy. The human mind wasn't built for it."

"Thanks for understanding, dear," said Anson.

"You feel guilty, I know you," said Judith. "But I think it's for the best. Mom will find someone else, and so will you."

"Has your mother found anyone yet?" Anson asked, very casually.

"N-no," said Judith. "I think she's put herself out on the Circuit, now and then, but there's been no one she's really been excited enough to mention to me."

The Circuit.

"How about you, Dad?"

"No," said Anson quickly.

"You sound a bit down," said Judith. "Remember, it's only been a few months. Give it time. After 300 years of being together, it's going to take time for both of you to figure out what you're like apart." Judith was an exemplary psychologist, and had been so for hundreds of years, and was always the peacemaker in their family.

"Thanks dear. Thanks... for being so understanding," said Anson.

"I love you, Dad," said Judy, signing off.

Jennifer was on the Circuit. Anson shouldn't care.

But somehow, he did.

Anson sat there on the beach, watching the tide flow in. There was another party tonight he could go to. Or he could go on the Circuit himself.

Suddenly, he found himself sexually satisfied. After enjoying being inside dozens of women over the past few months, he found himself without the urgent need to inseminate a female.

But what did he need? What purpose was there to living so long? What could he do with himself?

He heard the sounds of footsteps behind you. "There you are."

Anson didn't look up. "Go away. I'm on leave."

"For six months?"

Jessica Dhomes stepped into view. She was a beautiful blonde with blue eyes, blue like Jennifer's. Her only redeeming quality, in Anson's opinion.

The Guild had required Anson to take an apprentice. As one of the top Fixers on the planet Earth, everyone wanted to apprentice with Anson. He had sorted through dozens of applications, but something about Jessica's had stood out.

She was young. Very young, in both ways. She was only 72 years old. Someone who was only 72 years old usually didn't know enough about life to be a Fixer. And to complicate matters, she held her cosmetic age at 22. No one would want to hire a Fixer who looked so young.

And yet, when Anson had interviewed her she had really impressed him. Not just in her answers to his questions, but her drive, her passion, her determination. She had put a hand over his, looked into his eyes, and said, "Anson, I know many people want this job. Well, I want it more."

And that moved the needle for Anson. He had hired her on instinct.

But all that had been put on hold when he broke up with Jennifer, and went on leave.

"I'm on leave," said Anson.

"For six months?" she said again.

"Go away," Anson suggested. And then, when he saw she didn't, he added, "How did you even find me?"

"I'm a Fixer, remember?" said Jessica. "You haven't been checking your messages."

"Why should I?" said Anson.

"Because if you had, you might have noticed the 100 million credit deposit into your account."

That got Anson's attention. He sat up, and immediately started manipulating his datapad.

"That got your attention, didn't it?"

Anson punched into his financial portfolio. Then he whistled. "Where did this come from?"

"Francisco Odour," said Jessica.

"Why?"

"He only wants the best. And he's so confident you'll take the job, that he put the deposit in your account. And get this, Anson. That's only a 10% down payment."

Anson's mouth flew open. "What is Francisco Odour willing to pay a billion credits for?"

Jessica held out a hand. "Come with me to Paris and find out."

********

Francisco Odour was one of the richest men in the world. He had a net worth over seven trillion dollars. His company held the patent on three kinds of FTL engines. He owned a lot--mansions, yachts, robot football teams, mechanical equestrians, small towns all over the globe, a number of large sized companies, several spaceships, an enormous plantation on Proxima II, and more.

As they flew first class on the stratoliner to Paris, Jessica looked at him anxiously. "You seemed kind of out of it back there. Are you going to be all right when we meet Odour?"

Anson nodded.

"It's still about Jennifer, isn't it?" Jessica asked.

"That was six months ago," said Anson, not answering her question.

"It is about Jennifer," said Jessica. "Anson, be reasonable. You were married for over 300 years. Marriages weren't meant to last that long."

"That's what my daughter says," said Anson.

"And she's right," said Jessica. "You take this job, and it will get you back on your feet, you'll see."

********

Francisco Odour lived on a massive 5000 acre estate in a wealthy suburb of Paris. He had a full scale model of the Eiffel Tower and the Champ Elysees built on the grounds. He had real human servants attending him, a luxury only the wealthiest of the wealthy could afford.

A butler led them into the black and white checked marbled floor of one of Odour's many drawing rooms.

Odour was a tall man with greying hair. Although he was well over 400 years old, he chose to look in his 50's, feeling it gave him an air of authority.

He was also a mess. His hair was unkempt. He was unshaven. His eyes were red. His clothes were wrinkled. He was wearing battered slippers which looked like they had seen better days. And his office was a mess, with piles of... stuff... scattered everywhere.

"Mr. Ford, thank you for coming," said Odour politely, shaking his hand and giving him an iron stare.

"For 100 million credits, it was the least I could do," said Ford.

"Yes, it was," said Odour. He turned to Jessica. "And you are...?"

"Jessica Dhomes. Anson's assistant."

"Ah," said Odour, biting his lip. He seemed to immediately lose interest.

"I am here to offer you a billion credits if you can answer a question for me," said Odour.

"For that sum of money, it must be a big question," said Anson.

"It is," said Odour. "And the question is... why should I continue to live?" He paused.

Anson sat back in his chair. "Are you looking for an answer right now?"

Odour looked annoyed. "I'm a multitrillionaire. Every moment we talk I make several million credits. Making money and building financial empires provides no more interest for me. I have mansions. I have yachts. I have estates. I've had women. Many women, Mr. Ford. I've travelled all over the world. I've travelled to all the colonies. I think I've seen, and done, everything there is to see and do."

"I know many others have gone down the path of least resistance and entered the Dreamscape, or gotten themselves hooked on Weed. I have rejected the Dreamscape. It is an illusion, a fantasy. And I have rejected Weed. That is simply a slightly faster road to suicide than the Dreamscape. Drugs are always the coward's way out. I want to live, to live as a man! But I cannot think of what there is I can do. What then, is the reason I should have for wanting to live?"

"You're not the only person with this question, Mr. Odour," said Anson slowly. "There are many who have lived for hundreds of years who have the same dilemma."

"True," said Odour. "But not many of them have a billion credits to offer to attempt to find a solution to the problem."

"There may not be a solution," said Anson.

"I'm so disappointed," said Odour. "I was told that you were the best. The best of the best."

"Maybe I'm not."

"And maybe you are," said Odour. "You don't want this job. You don't need this job. You're not hungry for it. Any other Fixer standing before me would be begging for this payout. He would be assuring me of success."

"Perhaps," said Anson.

"But you're the man who helped Michael Warner cope with the loss of his wife of over 220 years."

"Yes."

"You're the man who helped the renown painter Francois Salliphus overcome a years-long bout of depression and make such tremendous works such as the Star of Aphelion."

"Yes," said Anson again.

"And you're the one who helped Aukara of Arcadia when he lost his eyesight, and ocular implants were not feasible. He was condemned to a life living in darkness. And yet you found a way to help him find happiness."

Anson nodded.

"You're the man," said Odour, as if he were deciding it once again. "If anyone can help me, it's you."

Anson looked at the tremendous opulence around him. "I can try. But I can't guarantee success."

"Spoken like an honest man," said Odour. "At this point, I have lived so very much, and have so very little to live for, what do I have to lose? Think of it as your greatest challenge, your greatest commission."

Anson slowly nodded. He thought of that, but he also thought of something else as well. This would be a way to keep himself busy. This would be a way to keep him from thinking of Jennifer. Jennifer, who right now was probably on the Circuit.

"All right," he said slowly. "I'll do it," he said.

"Good," Francisco smiled.

Anson gave Francisco a quick interview to find out his situation. Francisco had every electrical entertainment device known to man. They bored him. Watching sporting events held no interest for him. He used to enjoy the fine arts, but now it was all a blur to him.

Francisco had been married four times and had been involved with fourteen women in all. He had five children, who were all grown.

"What about having another child?" Anson asked.

Francisco shook his head vigorously. "No, I've done that."

"There is a famous 20th century work of literature called Time Enough for Love about a man who is immortal and depressed, just like you," said Anson.

"Never heard of it."

"The man in the story wants to die because he has lived so long that he has nothing left to live for."

"So what does he do?"

"His friends secretly create two female clone daughters of himself, exact duplicates of him except that they are female, and he raises them. And then when they get old enough, they become his lovers and he impregnates them," said Anson. He paused. "The book gets wild after that. The main character travels back in time to have sex with his mother."

Francisco stared at him for a moment. "Sex with daughter clones. Sex with one's mother. I hope you can do better than that, Mr. Ford."

Anson cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. "Of course." But he had found out something useful, as he had intended. Sexual fringe possibilities did not interest Francisco. That was one line of research which not need to be explored.

"What about finding another wife?" Jessica asked. She had mostly been silent as Francisco's attention had been focused on Anson.

Francisco waved a hand dismissively. "No more wives."

"Or how about a girlfriend?" Jessica asked.

"I've had every woman there is to have," said Francisco. "Blonde, brunette, redhead, big, tall, small breasts, big breasts, whatever."

"But there's more to women than just breast size," said Anson. "What about love?"

"What about it? An elusive concept that never seems catchable. Much like a unicorn," said Francisco.

"Have you never been in love, Mr. Odour?" Anson asked.

Francisco glared at him over the personal nature of the query, but then relented, realizing it was a necessary question. "Once. My fourth wife, for a time."

"Not your other three wives?"

"I had a... fondness for them, at times," said Francisco.

"But nothing more?"

"No."

"Are you seeing anyone now?"

"No."

"When was the last time you've been with a woman?"

Again the glare. No one would dare ask Francisco Odour such a question. But the seriousness in Anson's face shut him down. This was a professional, trying to do his job.

"A year ago... no, two years, it must have been."

"Two years is a long time," said Anson.

Odour shrugged.

"Maybe it's time to try again."

"I have tried them all."

"There's more to women than hair color and breast size, Mr. Odour," said Anson, trying hard not to think of Jennifer.

"Is there?"

"I'd like you to try a few select matches first. I will hand pick them."

"It's a waste of time," said Odour. "I thought you were going to look into exotic technologies, or DNA modifications."

"I'll look into those things too, but I want you to try this first," said Anson. "If you want me to work with you, you have to work with me."

Odour gave Anson a long stare. He was unused to taking orders from others. "Very well, young man. I will give this a try. A brief try. A handful of women. That should be enough."

Anson nodded. It was better than nothing. He got up to go. "One more thing. However this turns out, I expect that this line of research will take some time to complete. Months, at least."

"Time," said Odour bitterly. "What else do we have more of?"

********

Jessica had booked them into a fancy three room hotel suite overlooking the Champs Elysees. The Eiffel Tower could be seen in the background, at the very same height as the one on Odour's estate.

"You handled that well," said Jessica, rubbing his shoulders.

"Thanks," said Anson.

"Do you really think finding Odour another woman is going to work?"

"Probably not," said Anson. "But it's best to eliminate the easiest possibilities first."

"How exactly did you help Michael Warner get over the loss of his wife, who he dearly loved and was married to for over 200 years?" Jessica asked.

"He vowed never to take a wife or fall in love again. It took nearly a year," said Anson.

"What did you do?"

"I set him up on one terrible date after another," said Anson.

"Terrible? With ugly women?" she asked, still rubbing him.

"No, with very pretty women," said Anson. "But each one had some very obvious flaw. They were shallow, or callous, or not very interested, or were obvious gold diggers, had some personality trait that would turn off any normal man."

"Why?"

"After eight months of this, Warner grew exhausted. His standards, which previously been held up to the idolized memory of his wife, dropped substantially. Without fully realizing it, he became willing to accept women who actually existed. Once I saw he was ready, I set him up with a woman who I had prepared from the very beginning, a smart biophysicist who I knew complemented him in personality and personal interests. They hit it off immediately."

"So, would that work with Odour?"

Anson shook his head. "You heard him. He won't go on more than a handful of dates. He wouldn't have the patience. No, that won't work on him."

"You're tense," said Jessica, rubbing out some of the knots in his back. "Are you still thinking of Jennifer?"

"No," said Anson.

"Paris always reminds me of Michael," said Jessica.