The Problem With Immortality Ch. 19

The Problem With Immortality

Chapter 19

By Gary LM Martin

Chapter 19: The Necessity of Pain

"There's something wrong with you," Jessica observed, as she lounged on the hotel room bed in a bra and panties. Her hand was inside her panties, casually masturbating, as she often did in front of him.

"What do you mean?" said Anson, studying his datapad.

"Ever since you came back from the doubleblind, you've been silent. Absolutely silent."

"I'm talking to you, aren't I?"

"Almost absolutely silent." She leaned forward. "And now you're going to submit yourself to the sadists who inflict pain."

"Mild discomfort, not pain."

"Whatever. Do you really think Francisco Odour is going to let people Inflict pain on him? You've gone way, way off profile this time, Anson. This isn't about Odour at all, is it?"

Anson didn't reply.

"What happened to you, Anson? What really happened during those six hours, those six long hours in that hotel room with that mystery woman? What did she say to you, Anson? What did she do to you?"

"Nothing," said Anson.

Jessica lifted his head so she could see his eyes. "It was her, wasn't it, Anson?"

"Who?"

"You treat me like a fool, but I'm not," said Jessica. "I did a little research on Carl, the guy I was having sex with while you were with your mystery woman--and by the way, before I forget, Carl is simply tremendous in bed! His penis is amazing, and his testicles! They make this wonderful banging sound when they--anyway, I digress. I did a little digging on Carl, and his associations, and do you know what name I came up with?"

Anson didn't reply.

"That's right. Jennifer. Your ex-wife. She was there, with you, in your hotel room. What did the two of you do for six hours?"

"We had sex," said Anson woodenly.

"For six hours? Did your parts wear off?" She looked closely at Anson. "What did she do to you, Anson? What did she say?"

"Nothing," said Anson.

"And now you're going to do this, this... seeking out pain. Well, I'm not with you on this, Anson, you're on your own on this one."

"Fine," said Anson.

********

No one would say that Jabil Morrison had led a charmed life. When he was nine, he saw his younger brother run over by an air car.

His mother was killed by a mechanical grape picker on his family farm when he was 12.

His father was killed by a robotic steamroller that malfunctioned when he was 13.

Jabil was raised by his grandparents, who were trampled to death by a runaway hoarde of giraffes from the Omaha Zoo when he was 15.

That was bound to have an effect on young Jabil. At first, Jabil coped by cutting himself. He was institutionalized and drugged. When he was judged rehabilitated, he was released. He returned to school and eventually went to medical school and pursued a career in pain management. With a particular emphasis on how to cause pain.

With the population increasingly depressed by the prospect of eternal life, with more and more people killing themselves with Weed, or killing themselves by rotting away in the Dreamscape, or killing themselves in Soylent Green Centers, or just plain old killing themselves, there was a demand for panaceas for the restlessness of immortality.

And Jabil Morrison saw a need he could fill. He created a Pain Management Center, where people's nerves could be stimulated so they could feel mild charges of discomfort in different parts of their bodies. That pain, while totally harmless, could turn people's lives around and give them meaning, the way pain gave Jabil's life meaning after his parents died.

Anson was desperate enough to try almost anything at this point. He had been extremely traumatized by his experience with Jennifer. Not by the sex--the sex had been wonderful. It had been afterwards, realizing that he still loved Jennifer, and that Jennifer still loved him, but he could never, ever have her. It was too much for him to bear.

Anson sulked for a long two weeks after his encounter with her. He seriously contemplated killing himself. Oh, not through going to a Soylent Green Center or by getting hooked on Synthetic Weed; that wasn't his style at all. He toyed with the idea of plugging himself into the Dreamscape. His body would rot away in a few years, but he could spend all that time thinking of Jennifer.

The more rational part of him still ruled, however, but needed something to end the pain, the obsessiveness of his near-constant thoughts of Jennifer. Perhaps these mild pain treatments could be the shock to his system he would be needing. At this point he was no longer even pretending to be helping Francisco Odour; this was all about helping himself.

"So how much pain are we talking about, exactly?"

"It's not really even pain," said the Jabil. His bald head shined brightly in the light of his office. His black goatee would have made him look sinister, if he weren't so soft spoken. "It is more a sensation than pain. Calling it mild discomfort would be much more accurate."

"And this... discomfort... helps people? How?"

"In two ways. Have you ever been in discomfort, Mr. Ford?"

"Frequently," Ford smiled grimly.

"By that I mean a stomach ache, a toothache, a headache?"

"Of course."

"And when you suffered these maladies, did the other things that bothered you life trouble you?"

"Of course not. I was focused on the pain."

"Exactly." Jabil's eyes were shining.

"But you can't keep me in pain full time."

"Of course not. The actual interval of discomfort is not more than a moment or two. But after the discomfort is removed, that's when the healing begins. You feel so good to be free of discomfort, that your mind adjusts. Instead of focusing on your problems, you feel happy to be the way you are."

"Free of discomfort."

"Precisely," said Ford.

"And... I can discontinue treatment at any time? Even in the middle of a treatment?"

"Of course. You are always in charge. That is my pledge to all my clients," said Jabil.

Ford took a deep breath. "All right. I'll give it a try."

"Excellent! Just sign here, and here, and here, and here and here...."

********

After Anson filled out the necessary electronic forms, and made the even more necessary payment, he was processed into the clinic, given a room, and a white robe to wear. All the clients wore white robes here. The medical staff wore white pants and white shirts. Those were the only two kinds of clothes in this place.

Anson was assigned to a waiting room to await his first treatment. He found a depressed looking sandy haired fellow sitting next to him, and found himself striking up a conversation.

His name was Charlie Ransom. He was the owner of a company which produced a special kind of lubricating oil used extensively by robots and other mechanicals. He was quite wealthy. He lived with his wife, Jeanny, and had four children, nine grandchildren, and many more great grandchildren beyond that.

"So why are you here?" Anson asked.

"This has been my life for over 200 years. I go to work, I make money, but I don't feel anything. I go to dinner with my wife, I make love to my wife, I don't feel anything. I see my kids, my grandkids, I don't feel anything. It's all the same thing. Too much of the exact same thing," said Ransom. "I need to be able to feel again. To feel anything."

"Even pain?"

"Even pain," said Ransom. "It makes me feel alive again. After a treatment, I find myself grateful not to be in pain. For a time I can even feel happy, a little, and talk to my wife, my children, with some genuine joy in my heart."

"I guess that's something," said Anson. He realized Ransom's situation was much different than his. Anson was trying to distract himself from his own pain. Ransom felt no pain; Ransom felt nothing. For a moment, Anson wondered who was worse off.

And then, Anson was called into the next room.

He was met by a bald man with a black goatee who could have been a duplicate of Jabil Morrison. But this was a different person. He introduced himself as Mr. Walker. "So nice to meet you, Mr. Ford. If you'll lie down on the table, please."

Anson saw a padded table, with something above it that looked like a giant laser. He nodded, and lay down on the table with some trepidation.

Mr. Walker, whistling as he worked, secured clamps on Anson's arms, legs, and finally his head. "What are these for?"Anson asked.

"Just a safety precaution. To make sure you don't shift position while the beam is in operation. We don't want you to get seriously injured, Mr. Ford. Safety is our top priority," said Mr. Walker, smiling at him.

Anson noticed that the room was almost empty, except for the table he was on and the control panel behind him. But one wall of the room was different from the rest--it was all reflective, like a giant mirror. He wondered why it had been made that way.

Mr. Walker went over to his control panel. "Are you ready?"

Anson paused. "I guess."

"There's nothing to fear," said Mr. Walker. "This will only be an introductory level one treatment. My grandmother could handle a level one treatment."

"It's funny that grandmothers are never around when people say things like that."

Mr. Walker chuckled. "I admire your sense of humor, Mr. Ford. Let us begin, shall we?"

He waved his hands over his virtual control panel. The machinery that looked like a giant laser gun started to glow. It moved on a track in the ceiling, slowly repositioning itself until it was over his left hand.

There was a loud hum, and a beam of light struck out from the giant laser. It struck Anson's hand, and---

He felt nothing.

At first.

Then he felt a... warmth.

Then the warmth became stronger. His hand started to tingle.

And then he felt the slightest edge of discomfort. The discomfort built, ever so slightly, and stayed that way for a moment, then two minutes, and then a third minute. Anson was about to ask what was going on when the beam shut off, and so did the discomfort.

Anson felt the restraints retracting into the table.

"How do you feel, Mr. Ford?" said Mr. Walker, walking up to him with a smile.

Anson looked at his hand. The mild discomfort was gone, but the memory of it remained. "I feel... fine. No different."

"This was, of course, the test setting. Designed more to acclimate yourself with the procedure rather than to actually treat you. But now you understand what we do, you will hopefully approach the next treatment without apprehension."

Anson nodded.

Mr. Walker clapped him on the back. "Get some rest. I'll see you after lunch for your next treatment."

Anson walked out of the room, numb. He felt no different. Would this treatment really work?

At lunch he found himself thinking about Jennifer. Where was she now? What was she doing? Was she in Carl's arms? Obviously, Anson was still obsessed with her. But he had just begun the treatments. He looked around at the other patients. They ate their lunches quietly. Some of them were in a daze. He didn't see Charlie Ransom, the man he had met before.

After lunch, Anson sat once again in the waiting room. This time the waiting room was empty. But suddenly, he heard a scream from one of the treatment rooms. First there was one scream, and then another, and then a third, louder than the next. It sounded like it was coming from the third treatment room on the right. Anson went up and went to the door and was about to try and open it-

When Mr. Walker came out of the first door.

"Someone's screaming in here," said Anson, indicating the third door.

Mr. Walker stood still, listening. "I don't hear anything."

Anson listened as well. The screaming had stopped. "I heard it before."

"I don't think so, Mr. Ford."

"Let's go inside and make sure everything's all right," said Anson.

He felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ford, but interfering with another patient's treatment is strictly forbidden, for privacy and ethical reasons."

Anson looked at the door, and back at Mr. Walker, and thought about it. The screams had not resumed.

Nodding reluctantly, he followed Mr. Walker into the other treatment room.

"Please remove your clothes, Mr. Ford."

"Why?" Anson asked.

"It's necessary for treatment."

"It wasn't necessary last time."

"Last time we tested your hand. We may treat other areas of your body that we need unobstructed access to. Please remove your clothes, Mr. Ford."

Anson reluctantly removed his white robe.

"All your clothes, Mr. Ford."

Anson removed his underwear, wondering why this was necessary.

"Now please lie down on the treatment table, Mr. Ford," said Mr. Walker pleasantly.

Anson paused. He thought about the screaming at the other room. But then he looked at Mr. Walker's innocent face. The bald goateed man smiled pleasantly at him. He had already put himself under his power once before.

Anson reluctantly lay down. This time instead of securing the restraints manually they came out of table and curved around him.

And then Mr. Walker started to walk out of the room.

"Where are you going?"

"Strictly speaking, my job is only to prepare patients for treatment. Mr. Wheeler will be in shortly to conduct your session." He saw the look of anxiety on Anson's face. "Don't worry. He's very gentle."

Anson lay there, strapped to the table, for an interminable period of time. Then he heard footsteps, and a new person entered the room.

It could have been a clone of Mr. Walker. Like Mr. Walker, and like Jabil Morrison, he was totally bald, with a black goatee, but his cheekbone structure and nose was different. That was the only way Anson could tell him apart, because everyone seemed to dress alike here.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ford," said the newcomer, in a deeper voice than Mr. Walker. "My name is Mr. Wheeler, and I will be conducting your session." He casually walked by the table where Anson was strapped down. Anson was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was strapped down to a table, totally naked, with his legs spread, in a very vulnerable position. Anything could be done to him. Anything.

Mr. Wheeler smiled, as if he were telepathic and could read Anson's thoughts. Or maybe Anson's facial expression conveyed his latent fear.

Mr. Wheeler rested a casual arm on Anson, and then pulled at one of the circular cuffs. "You're all nice and restrained, I see," he said, smiling again, and somehow his smile gave Anson chills.

Mr. Wheeler went to his virtual control panel, and started to operate it. The giant laser device moved so that it was over his left arm. It started to hum with power.

"You may feel a slight pinprick, Mr. Ford," said Mr. Wheeler.

And then the beam shot out, and Anson felt discomfort on his left arm. And then discomfort turned to pain.

Real pain. Not searing hot pain, but throbbing, insistent pain. Anson gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it. He stared at the mirrored wall across from the table. The throbbing continued, and it intensified. Suddenly he realized it was too much. He was going to scream out for it to stop.

But just as he opened his mouth, the laser device stopped, and the pain vanished.

The restraints retracted themselves. Anson cautiously got up.

"How do you feel, Mr. Ford?" Mr. Wheeler asked.

Anson cautiously touched his arm. There was no sign of injury.

"As you can see, you were never really harmed. All that happened is that your nerve endings were a little... overstimulated," said Mr. Wheeler. "Now why don't you go and relax until dinner and we'll have another session in the morning?"

Anson left the room, feeling a little confused. He had been in pain, that much was clear. But now the pain was gone. And how did he feel?

Relieved. Good, even. He felt good not being in pain. He sat in a lounge, with other people recovering from treatments, and just sat there, staring at a wall. No stimulation was needed. It felt good just not to be in pain. This is what Jabil Morrison meant. He was seeing first hand the benefit of the treatments. He wasn't thinking about Jennifer. He wasn't thinking about the utter futility of life.

All he was thinking about was how wonderful it was to be free of pain.

********

Anson saw Charlie Ransom at dinner that night and sat next to him. "How was your treatment?" he asked.

"Fine," said Charlie. "I actually felt so good afterwards that I called my grandkids. Being in discomfort, and now free of discomfort, gives me a whole new appreciation of life."

"You mean, being free of pain, right?" said Anson. "I just had my second treatment, and it was pretty painful."

"No, it was just discomfort, nothing more," said Charlie, looking at him oddly.

And as Charlie talked some more Anson realized that Charlie's voice was the same voice he had heard screaming, earlier in the day. He was almost sure of it.

But talking to Charlie now, he seemed completely normal. He wouldn't even admit that he had been in pain. He told Charlie what had happened to him.

"...if you have a problem with the treatment talk to one of the staff. There's Mr. Walker, right there," said Charlie, pointing with his spoon.

"Thanks, I will," said Anson.

He got up and went over to Mr. Walker, who was sitting and eating dinner at a staff table. He smiled and greeted Anson. Anson indicated he wanted to talk privately and they went into another room together. Anson explained his experience with Mr. Wheeler, and how painful it had been.

"Painful, Anson? Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"The treatments are not supposed to be painful. Merely uncomfortable," said Walker. He appeared to think about it. "I'll have a word with Mr. Wheeler. I'll tell him to make extra sure that you're being treated on the lowest setting."

"Thanks, I greatly appreciate it."

"You're most welcome, Mr. Ford," Mr. Walker smiled at him.

********

As Anson stripped off his clothes and lay back on the treatment table, Mr. Walker smiled at him. "I had a talk with Mr. Wheeler. He promised to take extra good care of you."

"Good," said Anson, watching the restraints close around his arms and legs.

As soon as Mr. Walker saw he was secure, he left the room.

A few moments later, Mr. Wheeler entered.

"Hello, Mr. Ford. So good to see you again," said Mr. Wheeler, looking at Anson's naked, bound, and spreadlegged form.

"Hello, Mr. Wheeler," said Anson, for some reason feeling apprehension.

Mr. Wheeler, humming a merry tune, went to his virtual control panel and started to operate it. The laser above Anson moved until it was pointing at his right thigh.

"Are we ready to proceed, Mr. Ford?"

"Yes," said Anson, his voice heavy with apprehension.

The laser above him hummed, and then lashed out. Anson started to feel discomfort in his thigh. Discomfort quickly turned into mild pain. Mild pain turned into throbbing pain. Throbbing pain turned into-

"Stop!" Anson screamed. "Stop it! It hurts! It hurts!"

But the beam continued. He felt the stabbing pain extend from his thigh, down his leg, up into his body. The pain was spreading. Anson screamed. "Stoppppp!" he yelled.

And then the beam stopped.

The restraints drew back.

"Are you all right, Mr. Ford?" said Mr. Wheeler.

"Why didn't you stop when I asked you to?"

"But I did, Mr. Ford. Immediately."

Anson looked at him warily. "It was painful. Extremely painful."

"But Mr. Ford, I was only using the second setting. That's the lowest setting, right after the test setting. It would be impossible for you to experience pain."

Anson looked at Mr. Wheeler. He looked so sincere, so earnest. "Well, I felt pain."

"I'll have the equipment checked from top to bottom. We'll get to the bottom of this, before your next session, I promise," said Mr. Wheeler.