The Problem With Immortality Ch. 04

The Problem With Immortality

Chapter 4

By Gary LM Martin

Chapter 4: The Pharaoh of Detroit

Gilbert Amadiro never cared for reality. It was too boring, to plain vanilla, all too simple for him. As a young man, he immersed himself in the world of virtual reality, online gaming, online chat rooms, everything that wasn't physical. Old fashioned glasses with built in screens were a constant companion for him, augmenting his environment around him, adding pretty girls and monsters and gems and waterfalls and whatever else his programs could think of.

It should have been no surprise, therefore, when Gilbert got a degree in technoscience and worked for one of the big holographic amusement companies. But he felt limited by their ideas of "fun", and so struck off and started his own company. Instead of creating virtual amusement parks with rides, he created situations, where people could be presidents, or kings, or explorers, or anything else they wanted.

He bought up a large chunk of land in Detroit. Detroit was still a warzone, even in the 28th century. Land was cheap. Most people there were strung out on Weed. All they had to do was put up an inexpensive mine field and post warning signs to protect the facility from Weedheads (not that Weedheads were in any condition to read signs--still, formalities must be observed).

After 50 years of hard work, the Amadiroland Entertainment Complex in Detroit was one of the largest in the world, with 29 giant holowarehouses open for business, serving a public which, given the boon of eternal life, was in ever greater need of more and more exotic stimulation.

Such a place seemed tailored fit for Francisco Odour's needs, who had more than once hinted to Anson that perhaps the solution to his problem could be found in technology.

And so Anson and Jessica made their way to Detroit and sat in the office of Gilbert Amadiro. Normally, Amadiro was much too important to see new clients, but Francisco's name had opened doors for them.

"So nice to meet you both," said Gilbert, grinning broadly. "Have you seen our online brochure?"

"Yes, and it's very impressive," said Anson. "You offer virtual experiences being a president, or a king, or a pirate-"

"Excuse me, Mr. Ford. But we don't refer to our experiences as virtual."

"Well, aren't they?" Anson asked.

A young blonde woman, wearing a low cut gown that showed off her breasts, offered Anson a beverage. "Drink, sir?" She said, bending over to give Anson a better view. He smiled, but declined.

"Isn't what you offer similar to the Dreamscape?"

"Not at all," said Amadiro smoothly. "Though I can understand why it would confuse you. We get that question all the time. The Dreamscape is the gentle path towards suicide. In the Dreamscape, your mind has tremendous virtual experiences, stimulated by a central computer. Truly wonderful, and truly brilliant. I experienced it myself, once, briefly. Very briefly."

"But the Dreamscape is the road to death. It quickly becomes addictive, and your body starts to atrophy. In a few months, you can no longer walk. In a year, you are a cripple for life. In three or four years, you are dead." Amadiro smiled. "Our experiences, by contrast, are quite real. You will be awake the entire time. You will be using your body, the entire time. You could spend a month within our experience without harm. Or a year, or ten years."

"Do you really offer such long term packages?"

"We are starting to, for our well heeled clients," said Amadiro. "One could conceivably live a full lifetime, however long that is, in one of our experiences, provided one had the necessary financing."

"But you're using holograms... does it feel real?" Anson asked.

"Our experiences are as real as everything happening in this room. No one can tell the difference," said Amadiro.

"But your experiences are simulated," said Anson.

"Some would say that life is a simulation, Mr. Ford," said Amadiro. "We only know what is happening in the outside world from our sense of seeing, hearing, touch and taste. If we could wire our eyes, ears, mouths, and skin to a machine, we could produce the exact same sensations. To the individual, they would be identical. How, then, can we make a distinction between real and virtual?"

"The sensations could be duplicated, perhaps," said Anson. "But there would be no real world results."

"True," said Amadiro. "But in the current 28th century world, who cares about results? Results are meaningless in a world of plenty, where no one has any material needs. All we care about are sensations, and here at Amadiroland, sensations is what we deliver."

The blonde woman with the big breasts was back, this time holding a tray of small treats at chest level, sandwiched by two much larger treats behind them which Anson couldn't help but notice. "Snack, sir?"

Anson, smiling at her (or her breasts? it was hard to stay focused), politely declined again.

Anson turned back to Amadiro. "You're a fine debater, sir. But our client is a bit... particular...."

"I'm quite familiar with Francisco Odour's reputation," said Amadiro. "Frankly, it would be a public relations boon to have him as a client. That's why I'm willing to give you free access to one of our experiences."

"You will let us try one of your... simulations?"

"Experiences," said Amadiro. "No, that would cost too much to let you try an entire experience on your own. But I will allow you to visit someone else's experience, free of charge. You'll be able to see what our client sees, and to a significant degree, experience what our client does."

"That sounds fine, sir," said Anson. "But these holographic warehouses... will we be able to tell we are indoors?"

"Not at all. For our outdoor settings, it will look as if you could see for miles."

"And what about the characters, the participants?" Anson asked. "Will they be holographic too?"

"No," said Amadiro.

"You used hired flesh and bloods? That would be very expensive."

"It would be, which is why we use robots," said Amadiro.

"Robots," said Anson, making a face. "I don't know if that's going to work for our client."

"Maizie. Convince Mr. Ford," said Amadiro.

The blonde who had been feeding them snacks sinuously stepped forward and sat herself down on Ford's lap. He raised his eyebrows with surprise.

"Really, Mr. Ford, the experiences are quite real," said Maizie. "I've been in several of them, and I guarantee you, you won't be able to tell the difference." She put her arms around him. Anson looked at her eyes. They were deep blue, like Jennifer's. Anson thought he saw desire, and lust, in Maizie's stare.

"But robots," said Anson. "I mean, I know they can make humanoid robots, but you can always tell the difference-"

"Trust me, Mr. Ford, you won't be able to tell the difference," Maizie whispered. She reached forward and kissed him on the lips. Her lips felt soft and pliant as she grounded hers against his. "Trust me," she whispered again, looking into his eyes.

Ford started to feel himself getting hard. But he stayed focused on the issue. "I'd love to take your word, my dear, but I think I'll have to see for myself."

"By all means," said Amadiro. "Maizie, show Mr. Ford so he can see for himself."

"Gladly, Dr. Amadiro," said Maizie. She stood up, and pried at an invisible seam along the side of her face.

And then her face came off, revealing wiring and circuitry underneath.

Jessica, sitting behind Anson, gasped.

"It's really quite a unique experience," said the voice of Maizie, coming out of the robot-face. "I think it's a memory you'll relish for a lifetime."

Anson, his mouth opened, exchanged glances with Jessica. They both nodded in agreement.

********

Marjorie Killjoy and her husband Marvin Prenter had been married for nearly 120 years. She was a social worker supervisor, and he was an accountant supervisor. That meant that Marjorie supervised the robot workers who counseled people, and Marvin supervised the computers which performed all the financial and accounting work for his company's clients.

Marjorie liked helping people, but her job gave her very little contact with client. Mostly, she was performing diagnostics on the nanny state robots and studying output reports from her departments, and sitting in meetings discussing how the next generation of nanny state robots should be designed. After doing this for several decades, she grew restless.

Majorie was also a worshipper of the She-Goddess Aura. One of the basic tenants of Aura (besides the inherent superiority of the female form, which was a given for its followers), was a belief in Nurda Gababba, which translated roughly, means to "Heal the Earth". That meant fighting for economic, social, and sexual justice. The only problem was, in the 28th century there was little need for it. With the invention of Fabricators, anyone could have anything they wanted at the touch of a button. Want and material need virtually disappeared. With the invention of dimensional nuclear fusion, energy was cheap and limitless. And with the development of artificial intelligence, robots could and did most tasks of humans.

As a result, humanity no longer suffered from the isms--racism, sexism, classism. And that depressed Marjorie mightily.

But Amadiroland offered her a way out. She and Marvin had signed up for a two week stay in 21st century America, back when America was a brutally racist, sexist, and unequal country. And Marjorie would get to be President!

She was so excited.

Marvin, a little less so. He had his own hobbies and interests, but was content enough to let Marjorie have her fun. So she would be president, and Marvin would be... the First Man.

They were led into a large, empty warehouse by a nice woman named Maizie.

"It's so dark in here," said Marjorie, trying to peer around. The place was huge, but in the darkness, it was hard to see how big.

"Is it?" Maizie asked, and suddenly, everything was brightly lit, and sprung into focus, and suddenly they were in the outdoors, on the front steps of the White House.

"Is this... is this it?"

"Yes," Maizie smiled. "They're waiting for you, Mrs. President."

"Mrs. President! Mrs. President!" a crush of aides suddenly ran down the front steps, competing for her attention. Members of the national media appeared, shouting questions at her.

Marjorie and Marvin were led into the Oval Office by a middle aged woman with enormously overflowing breasts who introduced herself as Bertha Stoneman, her Chief of Staff. Majorie was doubly charmed, first to have a woman chief of staff, and secondly one who looked so old! Bertha looked to be in her mid 60's. Nowadays most people froze their cosmetic age at no older than 30. Her appearance gave the whole situation that much more realism.

Marjorie gasped as she walked through the marble floors of the White House. It was all as she remembered it from the histoholos. And the Oval Office! It looks exactly as she had seen it in the historical records. And the chair behind the desk was empty. It beckoned to her, calling her name.

Marjorie sat down with a smile and tried it out for size. It was wonderful. A man in a military uniform saluted her. "Welcome, Mrs. President!"

Mrs. President? Her husband Marvin idly wondered if the simulation was really historically accurate. Shouldn't they be calling Marjorie 'Madame President'? But Marjorie didn't seem to mind.

She smiled broadly. "Call in my cabinet! We are going to get to work immediately!"

********

His name was George Washington.

Surely his parents must have known what they were doing when they named him George. Surely they must have known about the teasing he would go through for years, especially at a young age, because of their choice of first name.

The fact is that George looked nothing like his historical namesake, and looked even less so as time went on. As he got older, he became much rounder and pudgier than the real George Washington ever was. Even when he reversed his aging and set it for a young 25, he still looked... heavyset. And his face was still round.

George's wife was named Marsha. Marsha Washington was close enough to Martha Washington for her to endure some cruel jokes too, though not as many since she didn't have to go through childhood with that name.

For 250 years, George had been a highly successful hedge fund manager. He had made billions upon countless of billions of dollars.

And now he was bored. He used to love making money. But now, after making billions, it was all just an abstraction to him. He could never hope to spend even a fraction of it. What use was it?

And so, George lost his purpose in life. He became depressed. Marsha tried to cheer him up. She dressed up in sexy outfits, and they role-played more and more bizarre sexual situations. But while George enjoyed it (Marsha was locked into perpetual 18 year old adulthood, at his request), it wasn't enough to give him a new purchase on life.

And then they had stumbled across the virtual brochure for Amadiroland. The idea had sparked George's imagination immediately. He looked over the different options. To be a pirate. Or an explorer. Or a this. Or a that.

Fuck that!

Because when George turned to page 54 of the holobrochure, he knew exactly what he wanted to be.

A Pharaoh.

Oh, there were options to be a king too, and George wouldn't mind being a king, for sure, but Pharaohs were different.

Pharaohs had slaves.

George became a changed man the minute he read the brochure. An evil smile latched onto his face that gave Marsha immediate hope and encouragement. So they had flown out to Detroit, got the pitch from one of Amadiro's salesrobots, and signed up on the spot.

For the past three days they had been treated almost like gods.

They stood on the top of their pyramid. They had views for miles around of the beautiful sands of the desert of Egypt. A crowd of his most loyal subjects circled around him respectfully, waiting to hear his every edict.

"Who is your pharaoh?" their Factorum in Chief, a burly man named Khalid, bellowed. Khalid was a big man, impeccably loyal, who never had to be asked twice to whip rebellious servants into line.

"George Washington!" they shouted.

"Who is your master?"

"George Washington!" they cried again.

"What do you say to your master?" Khalid shouted.

"We are your slaves, George Washington, we are your slaves!"

George Washington basked in the adulation of the crowd. They loved him, they truly did. There were thousands in the crowd. Technically speaking, most of them were probably holograms. Only those near him were robots. But George couldn't tell the difference.

Neither could Marsha. She hadn't been excited about the idea of being a Pharaoh's wife in ancient Egypt, but if it make George happy, it made her happy. Marsha was a good wife. And when George even took one of his harem girls for a lover, it didn't upset her, at least not terribly so. It was only a robot. What harm could there be in that?

But then the crowds parted, and they saw a party of George's royal guard approach, escorting two newcomers. The newcomers, a man and a woman, were dressed as George and Marsha were, in fancy silks showing that they were high born. Unlike the natives around them, their skin colors were as light as George's. Perhaps they were from Alexandria, or Cairo. Or if not Cairo, perhaps New Jersey.

Anson Ford and Jessica Dhomes walked up the steps of the pyramid, a little overwhelmed by the cheering crowds around them. They knew, for the most part, that they were holograms, but they looked and sounded real, as Amadiro had promised.

Amadiro had been kind enough to let them choose the experience they wanted to sample. Knowing Odour's tastes, Anson guessed that being a Pharaoh would have the most appeal to the third richest man in the world.

They were lead up to the Pharaoh and his Queen.

The herald spoke in a loud tone. "Announcing Anson of... Detroit, and his consort... Jessica." Jessica made a wry face at being called a consort.

"I bring you welcome, from Detroit, your Mightiness," said Anson, bowing low.

George Washington smiled. "Come closer."

Anson and Jessica approached.

"You are most welcome here, Anson and Lady Jessica. Your coming was not unforeseen. Amadirus, our high priest, foretold your arrival and gave us your purpose. We are honored by your visit," said Washington, and Marsha smiled at them as well.

"Thank you, Pharaoh. Your generosity is as legendary as your wisdom and might," said Anson.

George Washington smiled broadly, quite pleased by these words. "Come! We have prepared a banquet in your honor!" He clapped his hands twice, and servants scurried to obey.

Anson and Jessica were seated right next to George Washington and Marsha at dinner, so they could talk frankly in low tones. Not that it really mattered, as everyone else in the room were robots or holograms; but it just seemed improper to speak out of character in a loud voice, when the setting was so perfect.

"So you're scouting for Francisco Odour? Very impressive," said George Washington.

"You've heard of Odour?" said Anson.

"Who hasn't?" said Washington.

"So how has your experience been so far?" Anson asked.

"Wonderful! Can't speak highly enough of it. We're only three days in a two week starter kit. If we like it enough, we have the option to rent for up to three months, and beyond that, who knows?" said Washington.

"The minute we arrived we were treated like royalty," said Marsha, her eyes shining. "Egyptian royalty! Crowds of thousands of slaves shouted George's name! I'll never forget that moment."

"It looks like a lot of fun," said Anson.

"It is a lot of fun. And after lunch, I'll give you the grand tour of the realm," said Washington.

George Washington was as good as his word. Flanked by a retinue of spear carrying guards, he escorted Anson and Jessica on a walk through his kingdom.

It was beautiful. The sun was sparkling on the Nile. Sand dunes could be seen in every direction for miles and miles. And the weather was perfect! A constant 70 degrees, with a gentle wind. Anson had to keep reminding himself that they were inside a warehouse. The illusion was remarkable.

"This reminds me of the Gobi desert," Jessica whispered, as they walked. "I went across it once, with a tour group, on powered walkers."

"Really?" Anson was instantly envious. He had never done that.

"How was it?"

"Interesting. But mostly because of who I was travelling with." She grinned at him. "I met a guy on the trip. His name was Heng... or was it Hung? I forget. Anyway, he wasn't build like a typical Chinese, not thin as a stick, you know? Nor his thing down there, if you know what I mean." Jessica winked at him. "He was big and beefy. I liked that. Smart, too, on break from getting a second degree in astrophysics at the University of Shanghai. We hit it off instantly. We made love nearly every night under the stars, for two weeks."

"It sounds romantic," said Anson. "But what happened after the tour ended?"

"What do you mean, what happened afterwards?"

"With you and Heng. Or Hung, or whatever?"

"Nothing," said Jessica, looking oddly at him. "I went home."

"Oh."

Jessica's story about having sex in the desert under the night sky triggered a different memory for Anson. He remembered the time he and Jennifer had gone to Palm Springs.

Anson had never been a big fan of the desert. He liked going to places with more greenery. He had no interest in going to Palm Springs.

But Jennifer did, and she always had a way of convincing him. Whenever she wanted something, she always knew just when to bring the subject up for discussion.