S Hunter - Longevity

He was lying on something soft – not a floor – and it was covered with cloth, warm and a little musty. There was total silence. There was light strong enough to be apparent through his closed lids. His ribs hurt, even more than he remembered from yesterday, and he was as sore otherwise as he had ever been in his life. Some rhino must have found him while he was out and stomped for a while, hard.

He remembered leaving Mickey Bedford’s, and going over the conversation with Mickey in his mind, feeling fairly confident that he’d been convincing enough. He’d also been worrying about what he should do next. He’d seen nothing suspicious while making his way to the car before feeling three Stinger darts in the back in quick succession, but then he hadn’t really been paying attention. Given the situation, that was inexcusable.

He hoped Livvy had been more cautious and was being sensible. Meg and the Chief would be helping her out with appropriate advice. The Chief’s hardcore policy of using minimal personnel on every case – detectives working alone or in partnerships – was another reason he was still alive. No one could betray him, if they couldn’t get inside on the case, and Bedford might be more reluctant to kill him, if he was one of only two people who knew the weaknesses in his plan. He’d want to ferret out and destroy whatever had given Chris his lead. If he got his hands on Chris’ notes, he’d know.

If you’d been darted before, as he had, you knew the sensation. In the split second after being hit and before turning to look for his assailant, he’d already known that it had to be someone in Enforcement. Not only were Stingers illegal and rare outside of the job – they were hard to get and the criminal element preferred the more lethal varieties of weapons – but the use of three darts suggested someone who understood reversal implants. Unfortunately, he’d either blacked out before spotting who had wielded the Stinger, or had a memory loss from the anesthetic. He had essentially figured out who in his unit was in Bedford’s pay, but as with Bedford himself, he could prove nothing. He was still way behind Bedford, and it looked now like he would never catch up.

He opened his eyes and confirmed that he was alone. The light was from numerous small sources built into the walls and ceiling. Including the bed he was lying on, the room was provided with a number of comforts, including antique books, lounge chairs, a dining set, a kitchen, and a series of large viewing screens on one wall. There weren’t any windows. It was about twice the size of his efficiency, and a lot more richly furnished. After giving it just a little thought, he decided it was an underground bunker created by someone who had a lot of resources, remembered the Riots, and wanted to be prepared for next time.

With an effort, Chris sat up, keeping his back ramrod straight. He’d had fractured ribs before, but not like this. Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to make plans to fight his way out. He’d also been kidnapped before, and so far this time wasn’t so bad. Except for his ribs.

If it was Bedford’s bunker, he could start with a number of assumptions about it: hidden from the outside world; capable of being secured from the inside, although not currently; variable power sources, including a lot of remote sources of power independent from the grid; good supplies of food and water; and, probably, a system for monitoring what was happening out in the world. He suspected there was also a lock on the outside of the door and a system that allowed them to watch him, in which case they now knew he was awake. The system that allowed viewing the inside of the room might well be a new addition, or maybe not. Bedford seemed to take the long view on things.

Bedford didn’t waste any time. He came alone, closing the door behind him as he entered, and because he was a secretive man, Chris suspected there was no one watching at the moment although there was undoubtedly some security within easy call.

For the first minute, they studied each other. Chris felt a brief chagrin at the disadvantage of sitting on the bed, leaning back against the wall, but he supposed it was better than lying across it and unconscious.

He had been prepared for it, but it still surprised him to see how much John Bedford looked like Jesse. Chris had been looking in the mirror for almost 70 years taking for granted the immutability of the face looking back, but he had somehow been thinking of John Bedford as an old man. The slim young man with the face of Jesse Bedford and the hard gaze sat down in an antique leather armchair near the door. He was 103 chrono, 33 biol, but looked 21. A difficult accomplishment, even with the blurring of physical ages that Chris now took for granted.

Chris thought he knew what Bedford wanted. He didn’t fool himself into believing Bedford saw him as anything but a small bump in the road. To a man who would plan the murder of three members of his own family, someone like Chris was barely a blister.

“You’re a self-righteous meddler. First it was your damn pest of a wife whose interference helped make all of this necessary in the first place. Your precious Laws.

You could easily look the other way and no one would even notice. A few simple manipulations by those of us who can afford it, world leaders, the men who really run this country, no one is hurt, and you’ve preserved continuity for a nation that badly needs it.

“I paid for this life. I built it. Who the hell do you think funded the science that created Longevity? The naturals you pretend to care about?”

“You lived through the Riots, but none of it meant anything to you?” Chris asked.

“So there were a lot of people who had no understanding of the situation who reacted with panic. With a little backbone, we could have won in the streets, and by now, everyone would accept the outcome. They’d get used to it, and they’d stop caring. They would have learned to appreciate having leaders freed from the cares of aging and mortality. Leaders growing in wisdom.”

Chris laughed. It hurt more than he cared to admit to himself, but he honestly couldn’t suppress it. “You mean, like you? You mean like the slaves of three centuries ago accepted their status? Enforced with whips and chains and hunting dogs. Its just one of your fatal flaws, Bedford; you underestimate every one around you and overestimate yourself. You, as one of a master race of immortal overlords?” Chris suppressed his scorn but allowed himself to sound amused.

“And yet here I am, with all the power,” Bedford said. He didn’t quite sneer. “I’m the one in control.”

“Confusing power and wealth with merit is the sign of a seriously unbalanced ego. What do you want, Bedford?” Chris asked, suddenly bored. “We’re never going to agree, so why am I here?”

“I want you to understand that the only way you’re going to get out of here alive is to tell me how you discovered my plans, what you know and what you’ve reported. And then I want you to go out and forget it, and destroy any record of it. If you want to live, and I know you do, maybe as much as I do, you’re going to do all of that.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Besides, there are too many other people who already know about it, and too many records.”

“I doubt it. I think it’s just you and your pretty little partner, and I can deal with her easily enough.

“You think you’ve had a hard few days? Think hours, days, the rest of your life, which will be very short, for you and for her. And for what; the hypocrisy of trying to enforce some meaningless restrictions that you’d circumvent yourself if you could?” Bedford sounded very sure of himself, and Chris found it annoying.

“You’re confused. You are so blinded by your own ego you think everyone else thinks like you do, only less openly. Try to get outside of it, Bedford and understand: some of us have this idea that humanity trumps megalomania. Can’t seem to shake it.