The Problem With Immortality Ch. 05

The Problem With Immortality

Chapter 5

By Gary LM Martin

Chapter 5: The Fear of Death

Anson was still haunted by the holoimage.

The holoimage of Jennifer, on the Circuit. The one with the mystery penis half in and half out of her vagina. That, coupled with the photo of her face orgasming, preoccupied his thoughts day in and day out. There were hours when he could think of nothing else.

Why should it upset him so? He had broken up with her. He had left her. After 311 years of marriage, she had bored him terribly. Even sex with Jennifer had become boring; every thrust, every motion, was tedious repetition from the thousands of other times they had done the exact same thing in bed before.

And yet, seven months later, the cooling embers of his feelings for her had started to burst anew into flame. Seven months of absence caused him to feel a renewed need for her.

But he couldn't call her. He couldn't contact her. He didn't have the right to. She would cut him right off if he tried to comm her, he knew.

So all he had of Jennifer was the holopicture of her orgasming face, and the photo of another man having intercourse with her. Of course he had other holos of her, but somehow, these were the ones he kept returning to.

Jessica could see he was distracted, as they tried to research other options for Francisco Odour, and Anson realized he was setting a bad example for her. He had to snap out of it.

And then he found something, something radical, but it might be just the thing to help both himself and Francisco Odour.

The fear of death.

********

Robert Klobuchar was a survivor.

When radical followers of Laquinta, the Ramadan God of Blood, demanded a Caliphate and Ramadan-style Sharia Law in the United States, and crashed star fighters into the White House and US Congress building in 2384, Robert Klobuchar had almost been killed.

He had been on line to get into the White House when the star fighter crashed into the White House from the west side of the building. If he had been in line on east side, he would have been vaporized.

The White House shielded Robert Klobuchar from the worst of the blast, but even so, he was thrown off his feet. He felt tremendous vibrations, and saw a giant chunk of masonry the size of an elephant fall to the ground in a circle around him. It was a miracle he had survived.

As he slowly got up and dusted himself off, and saw a figure, on fire, screaming as he ran in circles on the grounds of the White House, a figure who he would later learn was the President of the United States himself, Robert Klobuchar felt sheer terror.

But later, the next day, as he sat glued to the holonews watching the Vice President being sworn in and images of the first bombers taking off to blast Ramada with fission bombs, he felt something else.

Exhilaration.

He realized his life had been one of quiet desperation. He had a do-nothing job in the Department of Social Services, analyzing happiness data, a sinecure provided by the World Government to give people a sense of feeling needed, nothing more. It was deeply dissatisfying.

But this near death experience had revitalized him. Robert started to take up dangerous sports with a passion: heli-skiing, paragliding, forcebridge hopping, and more.

As the immortal population aged and people grew more and more listless with eternal life, Robert realized a solution for them: the fear of death.

So he set up Death, Incorporated. Not to kill people, but to give them the fear of death. But the fear of death had to be real, for it to work. Some people, a tiny percentage, had to actually die in order for the experience to be real for everyone else.

"Our death rate is two tenths of one percent," said Klobuchar, speaking to Anson Ford and Jessica Dhomes in his office. He would be delighted to get a client like Francisco Odour. Delighted in more ways than one.

"It's a very small percentage, but still large enough to give people the fear of death," said Klobuchar. "The fear revitalizes people. It causes them to reassess their lives. It makes them appreciate what they have. With immortality, everyone expects to have tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. They no longer appreciate what they have. They no longer live in the moment. Death, Incorporated gives that back to them."

Anson nodded. Klobuchar could see in his eyes that something had traumatized Anson. He was there for Francisco Odour, but he was also there for himself.

"Is there any chance I could try a sample of your service for free?" Anson asked.

Klobuchar smiled broadly. "Death Incorporated is free to all, Mr. Ford."

"Really? How do you afford to provide such services for free?" Jessica asked.

"Our goal is to provide the fear of death to as broad a swath of the population as possible, so everyone can experience it," said Klobuchar. "To make it happen, we require all attendees to sign temporary wills."

"Temporary wills?"

"Last will and testaments, which override any other arrangements they have, during their stay at Death, Incorporated. If they should be one of the unlucky two tenths of one percent who die in one of our experiences, all their life assets revert to us."

They looked shocked.

"After all, it's not as if the poor unfortunate will be needing assets after that, will he?" said Klobuchar. "Like I said, it is a very small price to pay. So, would you like to try it?"

Anson considered, and nodded.

"Yes," he said.

"Excellent!" Klobuchar handed each of them a datapad. "Please sign here."

"What is this?"

"Your temporary last wills and testaments. Don't worry," he said, seeing their expressions. "It expires right after you leave here."

They started reading it. "Feel free to read it, if you like. But most don't," said Klobuchar.

Jessica handed the datapad back to him. "I'm not doing this."

"You're not?" said Anson.

"I'm only 72 years old. Risk your own life if you like," she said.

Anson nodded, and started to read the document from beginning to end. Then he nodded to Jessica, and they both signed theirs.

"Now flip to the next document. This is the indemnity agreement."

"What is that?" Anson asked, starting to read.

"A very simple document, saying you understand the risks of participating in Death, Incorporated and agree not to sue us in the event of injury or death."

Anson read the document, and then signed it.

"Very good! Now turn to the next page, and sign the non-disclosure agreement."

"Non-disclosure agreement?"

"We don't want our competitors finding out how we do what we do here and copying us, do we?"

"You have competitors?" Anson asked.

"Endless Fear launched in Los Angeles two years ago. And Sharia Terror in Riyadh has been operating for years. They constantly have tried to worm spies into our operation."

Anson signed.

"Excellent, Mr. Ford! I think you would fit well into a four pack."

"A four pack?"

"Four near-death experiences. It will give you a taste of what we have to offer. We have many different kinds of near death experiences to choose from. This will be a good sampler of the types and varieties. Trust me."

And they did.

The orientation for the next four-pack was at 2 o'clock that afternoon. Anson and Jessica arrived a little late, and filed into a room filled with a dozen or so other people, each seated facing front.

Anson and Jessica sat in the last row. The lecturer in front was talking about basic safety requirements.

"-always obey the rules of your instructor-" he droned on.

Anson's attention and gaze started to wander. His gaze fell on the back of the head of the woman seated directly in front of him. She had straight brown hair, almost chestnut colored, though it was hard to tell in the uneven lighting of the room.

Anson started to get an uneasy feeling. He didn't know why, exactly, not at first.

"-almost perfectly safe as long as you follow the rules-"

And then a very disturbing idea started to crystallize in his mind. No. It couldn't be.

"-danger is always a constant but-"

Jennifer. There was no way it could be Jennifer.

"-first rule is to always follow the rules-"

The woman in front of him coughed slightly.

That was Jennifer's cough.

That was Jennifer.

"Jennifer?" said Anson. He hadn't planned it; the word just came spilling involuntarily out of his mouth.

And then the woman turned around.

It was Jennifer.

Jennifer Spaulding, his wife of 311 years.

Her eyes widened in horror. "Anson?" she breathed. "What are you doing here?"

"I, I'm just-"

"No talking in back, please!" said the instructor.

Jennifer turned around, facing forward, her mind aswirl.

Jessica looked as shocked as well, looking at Jennifer and then back at Anson for confirmation. He nodded curtly.

They both sat there, one in front of the other, highly anxious, while the rest of the lecture finished at a crawl.

The minute it ended, Anson said, "Jennifer!"

She got up and turned around. "What are you doing here?" she asked again.

Everyone around them turned to look at them.

"Don't you all have better things to do?" Anson snapped. They all turned away. In moments it was just him, and Jennifer, with Jessica standing to the side.

"What are you doing here?" she said insistently. "Are you following me?"

"No!" said Anson. "I'm on a job."

"What kind of job brings you here?"

"What brings you here?" Anson asked.

"You're following me, aren't you?" said Jennifer, crossing her arms.

"No," Anson said again. The words spilled out of him, about Francisco Odour, about the assignment he had taken on. He could tell from Jennifer's expression that she didn't believe a word of it.

"Jennifer, what are you doing here?" he asked her again.

"That's none of your business," she said. "You lost the right to ask me anything when you walked out on me." She turned to Jessica. "And who is this?"

"This is Jessica, my assistant."

Jennifer eyed the blonde's 22 year old luscious body. "Your assistant, of course," she said, cynically. "Well, I hope you and your assistant have a good time," she said, walking away.

"Jennifer! Wait! Please! Jennifer!" but she was gone.

And then Jessica was there, taking his hand.

"She's here!"

"I know," said Jessica, rubbing his hand.

"It's really her!" said Anson.

"I know," she said, looking up at Anson. "Why don't we have sex, Anson?"

He nodded dumbly. He let her lead him back to their hotel.

********

Anson never noticed when he orgasmed. Twice. He wasn't even aware when he brought Jessica to orgasm. Afterwards, he barely slept the entire night. His mind was awhirl with thoughts of Jennifer.

How could she? How could she recklessly risk her life like this?

The answer wasn't long in coming.

It was because of him.

She couldn't get over the pain of his leaving her.

In light of that, Jennifer's presence on the Circuit made more sense. She wasn't simply enjoying herself with huge numbers of sex partners; she was trying to drown out the pain, as Anson did. Suddenly, the image of the mystery penis in Jennifer's vagina no longer held the sting it once did; it no longer represented Jennifer experiencing joy; it was a desperate cry for help, an effort to find someone, some man, who could put out the fire in her mind.

And if Jennifer died during one of these experiences, Anson couldn't live with it. He would be the cause of her death. He knew the statistics; he knew the possibility of death was very low; but yet, he worried for his wife. Worried for the path he had set her on.

********

Their guides for their experiences at Death, Incorporated were a man named dark haired man with an old fashioned curly moustache named Henri and a blonde woman named Layla.

It took a special kind of person to work for Death, Incorporated. Henri Dubonaire was one such. Layla Hempstead was another.

Even as a child, Henri was always fascinated by news of disasters. He loved to watch holos of big vehicle wrecks, natural disasters, spaceship crashes, collapsing buildings, and things like that. But what he enjoyed the most were the sight of the bodies. What position would they assume in their death? What would be the last expression on their faces? To Henri, death was an art form, and the human body was a canvas.

Unfortunately, holos usually didn't show the actual bodies of accidents, and so Henri was frustrated. For a time he became an ambulance driver and first responder, but frustratingly he found that most of the time when he arrived, the victims were not dead.

And then he discovered Death, Incorporated.

He was the perfect fit for the company. Each time a client took a leap into danger, his pulse would race, thinking, maybe this is it. Maybe this is the time someone will die, and create art. It still happened all too infrequently to suit his tastes, but the thrill of the possibility is what kept him on the job.

The other guide was Layla Hempstead. Layla worked for Death, Incorporated for the exact opposite reason as Henri. When her husband died in a senseless air car accident, Layla had been enraged to discover that he hadn't been wearing his restraining belt. He could have been saved, if only he had taken precautions.

When she saw the opportunity to work for Death, Incorporated, she took it with both hands. She saw her mission in life was to save people from themselves, to make the deadly feats as safe as possible, so that no one would die. If she even saved one person by her intervention, she would feel it was all worth it.

Layla got the sense of what Henri was all about and didn't particularly like him because of his interests. And Henri didn't like Layla because she was constantly trying to reduce peoples' chances of dying. But they hid their mutual dislike for each other in front of the clients.

They were, after all, consummate professionals.

There were twelve people in all gathered at the cliffs overlooking the rocky shores of Dover, England. They all for some reason wanted to risk themselves, to inject some excitement into their lethargic eternal lives.

One man of note was Robert Dalton. Dalton was a wealthy private investor. He got thrills taking big risks with his money. The feeling of gaining huge sums, or losing huge sums, in the space of hours thrilled, excited, and infuriated him. Life was a rollercoaster for him.

But over the centuries, he had made so much money that it was now so repetitive for him. He didn't truly feel alive anymore. He was looking for something else, anything else, to recapture that feeling. His wife Gladys was reluctant to let him sign up for this service, but she saw how depressed he had become. She was worried he might get hooked on Weed or even turn himself in to a Soylent Green Recycling Center, as so many others did. So she reluctantly agreed to let him try it, though she herself was just along for the ride.

Another participant was Garrick Sanduval. Garrick Sanduval didn't really want to be here. He was a wealthy man as well. He had invented the primary flow valve used in the FTL drives of every starship. Once he had patented it, he had become a multimillionaire. But his wife Shelly kept insisting that he was depressed, that he needed to do something with his life, that he couldn't just sit at home and carve wood, as he always did.

Garrick liked carving wood. He made old fashioned figurines and little toys which he distributed to children in the neighborhood. But Shelley insisted he was depressed. She kept demanding they go on trips around the world. She wanted to see the galaxy, to see Proxima Centauri, and all the pleasure planets. Garrick never wanted to go anywhere. So she insisted that he try Death, Incorporated, figuring it might make him more adventuresome.

After much lobbying, Garrick agreed, but reluctantly. Unlike Robert Dalton, Garrick was afraid of death, and wanted to take as little risk as possible. Shelley kept assuring him he would be perfectly safe.

Another participant in their little group was Kayla Anbinder. She was by far the richest of all the participants, with a net worth of at least a half a trillion credits. She was the daughter of Kelmar Anbinder, who had invented the pathways of the modern quasitronic brain used by robots.

On her wedding day, when she was supposed to get married to the love of her life, a freak earthquake devastated her home, killing her parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, her groom to be, and his entire family. Kayla, found in the rubble two days later, was the only survivor.

The extremely traumatic experience changed her. Kayla no longer felt anything, anything at all. She hoped that this experience would rekindle her interest in life.

They were all standing at the edge of the cliffs of Dover in a chilly Monday morning in April. All were wearing bathing suits. Anson only had eyes for Jennifer. She was wearing a brilliant red, white, and blue one-piece which looked stunning on her. He eyed the outline of her firm C cups which created a pleasing curvature at the top part of her outfit. The way the material of the bathing suit tightly framed the gap between her legs was also an eyeful. She caught his avaricious glance, gazing at her like a piece of meat, and shivered and turned away.

Anson could not help it. Even after she turned away, he had to admire the way the bathing suit sunk into the crack of her ass, the way it framed her ample bottom globes. The voice of one of their guides interrupted his thoughts.

"Our first event is to jump into the water below," said Henri, one of their guides. "Have a look! It's a long way down!"

They looked. It was at least a hundred foot drop. The waves clashed dramatically against the cliff face.

"We have red markers here on top, about 200 feet apart," said Henri, pointing this out. "It is perfectly safe to jump anywhere between these two markers... except in one two foot area."

"Which two foot area?" asked Garrick Sanduval, the man who didn't want to die and didn't really want to be here.

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it?" Henri smiled. "If you look into the water below, it is impossible to tell which area has rocks in it and which does not. But in a 200 foot length of shoreline, the chance of you selecting an area with the two feet of underwater rocks is tiny. This is the first of many thrills you will enjoy."

"Enjoy," said Garrick sarcastically.

"So choose your spot, and jump away!" said Henri.

Anson found himself going up to Jennifer. He hadn't planned to do this. "Jennifer," he said, grabbing onto her arm.

She turned, surprised that he had touched her like that.

"Please don't do this. Please," he said.

"Take your hand off me," said Jennifer coldly.

"Please!" Anson cried, his voice aching.

"Now!" said Jennifer.

"Is there a problem here?" said Layla, the other proctor.

Anson withered under Jennifer's gaze. "No problem," he said, releasing her.

Jennifer glared at him, and went over to the edge of the cliff.

"No... no.... Jennifer... no..." said Anson.

Jessica, who was wearing a bright pink bathing suit even though she was not jumping, grabbed his arm. "Anson, you've got to stop thinking of her. You have a job to do!"

Anson couldn't help himself. He went over to the edge of the cliff where Jennifer stood. He looked down, but couldn't tell if there were rocks in the water.

He didn't say anything, but looked pleadingly into her eyes.

"Go away, go away," Jennifer muttered, trying to avoid his gaze as she gathered up the mental strength to jump.

"Jennifer... I love you," said Anson.

Jennifer looked at him, an expression of pure agony on her face, and then, without looking forward, stepped off the cliff's edge.