Choices

 

Choices

 

Neves looks good tonight. The shit. Five years younger than me, but you’d think fifteen.

What’s he got that I don’t? I still fuck like a nineteen year old. I’m as fit as ever. I follow every longevity program known to man and practice most of them. My carefully prescribed and bespoke regime of moisturisers and skin treatments is applied assiduously. My health is in the top teeny fraction for men my age. I work so hard, yet to him the prize.

He gives the impression that work neither interests him nor takes up much of his time. Maybe ‘laid-back’ is his secret ingredient. Though I suspect something else. Like exclusive access to an undisclosed longevity program.

The invitation he extended to me tonight, to his party and his overly ostentatious home, gives me an opportunity to engage Neves on that very subject. My pre-occupation will have to wait though, because I’m chasing a different kind of invitation now.

The woman in the red dress. Dark hair, big eyes. Elegant. And hot. Standing just so in dress and heels, to leave no doubt. Catching my eye again as she exits the reception hall through a door beyond the fireplace. Alone.

I shrug off the acolytes and follow her out. Catch a glimpse of red skirt turning right into a long corridor at the top of the adjoining room. And again, at the corridor, another flash of colour, disappearing through a door to the left. Staying the same distance in front of me. This is fun. I’m aroused.

Perhaps a convenient bedroom awaits … Instead, a library. Devoid of everything a man would want. Filled with books. A trophy library. Leather-bound volumes. First edition blah, blah, blah.

One shelf, colourful, less ordered, disrupts the ambience. The books are contemporary. Disarray suggests one or two might have been opened once or twice. Neves has been reading? I rest my hand, fingertips splay across volumes on a high shelf, and tip my head to read titles along the spines of this dissimilarly bound selection.

“Dorian Gray.”

A ridiculously good-looking man has entered the room after me, smiling a ridiculously perfect and entitled smile. Tight black clothes accentuate his pecs, flat stomach, thigh muscles, while the impression of a large penis and balls indent the fabric of his form-fitting slacks. Black rubber shoes below tight trouser cuffs.

“Hello Gray. What do you want?” My attention returns to the bookshelf. Where is the woman in red? “This room is reserved for a private meeting. You’re not invited.”

“You misunderstand. Your hand, it rests on ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’. And Goethe’s ‘Faust’ beside it.”

Embossed gold writing on blue leather verifies his claim. So what? I shrug. His eyesight is as exceptional his looks.

“Could you do a deal with the devil, Mr Dolph?”

“Young man I’ve done several.” irritated now. “What do you want?”

“I’m actually older than you,” he smirks, sinking into an armchair, eyes locked onto mine, faultless smile. “Not much, but older. Young man.”

Ridiculous! Outrageous. He’s thirty years younger than me, and more. But outrage is reflected back at me, qualified by his calm and control. I’m lost for words.

“You’ve been looking for us Dolph. You don’t know we exist, but you suspect,” he says, intently holding my gaze. “You send signals and hope. We noticed. Here I am, at your service.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I want to be rid of him but remain, transfixed. “But you’ve got thirty seconds. Make it worthwhile.”

“Longevity biotech startups. You’ve blown several fortunes there, for nothing even remotely promising. The experimental drug regimes. Tacky, but no harm done. Yet. The cryogenics buy-in. If all else fails, why not kick the can down the road? In the meantime, keep checking the telomere length, the cell metabolism rate, the neurodegeneration, the etc. Etc. Etc. And keep hoping.”

“How do you …. never mind.” Time to turn the tables. “So, what are you selling, Mr …. ah?”

“Young,” he shrugs. “Call me Mr Young.”

“So what is it you’re selling? Eternal life? The fountain of youth? Because I’ve heard it all before. Give me your pitch. If it’s good, I’ll have my people set up an appointment.”

“Not sure I trust your people, but thanks. ‘Eternal life’. ‘The fountain of youth’. Eternal passions, are they not.”

“The clock is ticking Young. Drop the build-up. Cut to the chase.”

“Rich people don’t die anymore. More accurately, rich people don’t have to die anymore. But you already knew that. You’ve noticed.”

“I’d noticed a small but growing cohort of older, richer people, living longer and stronger than seems reasonable or probable.”

“Well put Dolph. Now it’s you waxing lyrical. So eloquent.” With hands close together, fingers bounce back and forth against their opposing digit, a small soundless volley of applause. “That’s us.

“I won’t bore you with technical details. Death is a disease and we’ve cured it. For some people. You want in. Simple as that.”

I don’t bother to speak, or even nod – abstention itself an invitation to continue. How appropriate, how exciting, that the pursuit of one great passion has crossed paths with the pursuit of the other.

“But this solution creates a problem. Or two to be precise. The first is cost. The solution is very, very expensive. Something only the ultra-ultra-rich can afford. Ultra-rich old bastards like yourself, Dolph.”

“But you’re not,” I say. “Ultra-ultra-rich. Or I’d know you. At least know of you.”

“Can you be sure?” he asks. “Don’t I remind you of someone? Could I not be so rich and in the know for so long that somewhere, out there, a body double ages for me? While the real me just gets better and better.”

I study the masculine embodiment of physical perfection before me, trying to find a way in, past the unshifting smile, to something, someone, I recognise.

“I’m messing with you Dolphy,” he says after an uncomfortably long interlude. “I’m certainly richer than most people. But looks and good contacts, and a modicum of application, will do that for you. A lot richer than I used to be, but not ultra-ultra-rich. Not even close.

“I’m of the fortunate few. Fortunate to have skills that the program needs. Like the hired help: not entitled, but an insider nonetheless.” Said in way that, without saying it directly, emphasises my own lack of insider status.

“Will you join us Dolph? Bathe with us in the luxurious fountain of youth? A pleasure everlasting, an offer extended,” he asks. But cuts me off as I move to speak …

“Don’t answer just yet, because … but you have a question for me?”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re fabulously rich. Not ultra-ultra-rich, but rich enough. And because … but here,” he indicates the other armchair, angled towards his own. “Let me explain.”

The armchair almost swallows me, wrapping me in welcoming warmth and comfort. Then releases me back to the surface, poised and attentive.

“The second problem: Not everyone gets to live forever. Even if everyone could afford it, we can’t have everyone on board. Earth would become very crowded, life very tiresome for most. Once hoi polloi decide they don’t want eternally shit-filled lives they’ll take action. Upset the order. On the other hand, if we stay hidden and small, what happens when sooner or later our secret gets out? What do you think Dolph? What do we do?”

“We, the everlasting?”

“Indeed, as we are and shall be.”

“We get rid of them? As soon as possible.”

“Excellent! You are a worthy candidate. But why, and why soon?”

“From our eternal perspective, it makes a blip of difference if they die tomorrow, or slowly and painfully after dull and pointless lives. The longer they’re around, the greater risk they realise we exist, determine who we are, and act. We seize the initiative to neutralise the threat. It’s rational self-defence.”

“Very rational.” For the first time, the smile has slipped. “I will tell you now as much as I can without your joining us. Enough to leave you in no doubt about where we are at, but not so much that you could undermine or expose our plans. You can try, and no-one has, but we will shut you down. People will think you crazy.”

“The last exit approaches,” I say.

“We envisage a world, a nirvana, a natural wonderland. A world of at most a million human inhabitants. Enough to ensure adequate breeding stock to replenish those lost through accident or misfortune. Enough to ensure we need never run out of new friends and acquaintances. Enough to ensure the human endeavour can continue and continue to develop. Few enough to ensure we have space to wallow in paradise forever, in or out of each other’s company.”

“But … who will …”

“Who will clean up the mess? A reasonable question. You might be surprised how little mess a million people make. We’re adults: we clean up after ourselves. We’ll have time, after all. Robots Dolph. Robots will do the cleaning, the manufacture. The dross. All the dull jobs no-one else wants. Mostly out of sight. Leaving us free to pursue our passions –– ”

An image of a lithe body in a red dress.

“ –– in science, the arts. In exploration. Ever fancied a trip to the moon? To the bottom of the ocean. The depths of the Amazon, the Congo. The poles. How about a deserted metropolis being reclaimed by nature? Build your mansion midst the crumbling ruins.”

“Sounds absolutely enchanting.”

“It does. It is.”

“What about the … others? How to … dispose of them?”

“As humanely as possible. Inexorable epidemics. Industrial accidents that sterilise great swathes of the Earth’s human population. Natural disasters linked to climate change. Nothing they haven’t already brought upon themselves.”

“Unfortunate.”

“But necessary. Once they’ve caught on, our forward analyses project a 60% likelihood they’ll coordinate hostile activities –– “

“ –– a war –– “

“ –– that they can’t win.”

“And a 40% likelihood?”

“That they sue for a peace that grants the right to exhaust the terms of their natural lives.”

“Will that work?”

Young shrugs.

“For those who won’t give up, gladiatorial contests with eternal life the prize.”

“Entertaining.”

The perfect smile again, on the perfect face.

“So you’ll join us.” Spoken as a statement of fact. “Or take the last exit. Because joining us, becoming a member, means committing to the cause your resources, your wealth, your brilliance, your skills. The beginning will be a little disconcerting as others instruct you in what to do and how to do it. But they’re kind and careful and experienced. It won’t take long to find your place, your space. Take back your autonomy. The choice is yours.”

At this critical moment, as at other such moments in the past, a thousand different potential lives flash before my eyes. As at all these moments, I can choose only one.

“I’m in.”

“Excellent. So the others …”

“The others?”

“The other seven billion humans. The excess stock.”

“Fuck ‘em.”

“Fuck them. Well said Dolph.”

Young stands. It’s like watching a video playing backwards. A single effortless motion. I do my best to rise to the occasion.

“Welcome aboard,” says Young, his hand proffered to seal the deal.

 

 

 

 

Ceiling. Top of bookshelf. Top of head enters field of vision. Woman’s hair. Hands in peripheral vision. Perfume. My head tipped down to the horizontal. The red-dressed woman leans over me. Gorgeous in her proximity. She kneels, between my legs. Smiles. Leans slightly forward. Rests an elbow on the arm of the armchair.

“Hello Dolph,” she says. “Is that a gun in your pocket?”

The erection pressing against my pants is outlined by the fingers of her nitrol-gloved hand.

“No! You’re just pleased to see me,” she says, with malice. “Won’t be in a moment though. Oh .. now it’s going floppy. Your last hard-on. Gone so soon.

“You’re in big trouble Dolph. The chemical Young treated you with paralyses and anaesthetises. But breaks down extremely quickly, to leave no detectable trace. As it breaks down you become violently ill. Your body will convulse and the contents of your stomach be thrown up. Except at the first convulsion –– “

My field of vision whips to the ceiling before flopping forward. Her hands push my face up until I can see her again.

“ –– and there it is. As you convulse, I stuff your tongue down your throat. And hold it there.”

My head rocks. What I can see of a wrist below my nose suggests her hand is entirely within my mouth.

“For the coroner’s report, you will have either died of asphyxiation after swallowing your tongue, or drowned in your own vomit. Or both. Not a nice way to go but you won’t feel a thing. Far more humane than the murders, the seven billion innocent and unwitting deaths, you were preparing to participate in.

My head jerks. She holds it steady.

“The gagging begins. And vomit too!

“That conspiracy you thought it wise to join. It’s real. Its agents are in the building as I speak. Neves invited you specifically tonight to facilitate their approach. But we got you first. Needless to say, they don’t like us and we, to put it mildly, don’t like them. Or you.”

Her fingers in my throat, her arm in my mouth, inhibiting the constant reflexive spasms of a body frantic for oxygen.

“I wonder what goes through their minds at times like these,” she says, looking away. “Blind panic or calm rational acceptance.”

“We’ll never know,” says Young, unseen but nearby.

Losing focus. Eyes watering. Red fog closing in. Oxygen starvation. The spasms subsiding.

“You made a bad choice Dolph,” she says. “Choices have consequences. For you, the consequence is the pursuit of immortality. The old-fashioned way.

“Good luck with that.”

 

 

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