Майкл Бламлейн - Longer

“I’m a disaster. Leading naturally to the question of what happens next. How to remedy the situation. Juving is no longer an option. Having used my allotment and then some.” She paused. “Thoughts?”

“You’re asking my advice?”

“Your thoughts. You don’t know me well enough to give advice.”

“Fair enough. A question first: are you on life support?”

“To a large degree. Yes.”

“Stop it. Get rid of all the wires and tubes. Including your feeding tube, assuming you have one.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Take sips of water if you like. Get someone to help, if you can’t do it yourself.”

“I can’t do anything myself. Except think. I’m a thinking machine. A rabble-rouser. A visionary. You want me to stop. You’re telling me to die. Commit suicide.”

“Die with dignity.”

“That’s the best you can come up with? And if I did? How long would it take?”

“Days. A week. Maybe two. Little by little, you’ll fade.”

“I’ll fade.”

“You’ll drift off.”

“I’ll drift.”

“Yes.”

“Slowly.”

“Yes.”

“And gently. You forgot to mention gently. And peacefully.”

“Yes. All that.”

“Like a little cloud, warmed by the sun. I’ll drift away, and slowly evaporate. I’ll become one with the universe.”

He didn’t reply.

“Do you think I’m a child?”

“I know you’re not a child.”

“It sounds awful.”

“You could take something. Go to sleep. Hurry things along.”

“Sleeping pills.”

“Your very own. You wouldn’t have to pay for them.”

“That’s cute.”

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

“Of taking pills?”

“Of dying.”

She could barely move her head. He’d been talking to the side of her face for most of the conversation. But something came over her, and she wrenched herself sideways, until she was looking him straight in the eye.

“I’m afraid of nothing, Doctor. Nothing. If I die, I die. But I don’t want to die. I want to live.”

“You’ve proven that,” he said. “Three lifetimes’ worth. Isn’t three enough?”

“Not nearly enough. Four would not be enough. Ten might be enough. Might be. You’d have to ask me then. How old is the universe?”

“You want to live as long as that?”

“Shoot for the moon, then negotiate. I’d settle for a millennium.”

“You’re not greedy.”

The barest hint of a smile on her dry, cracked lips. “A little greedy. Tell me about H82W8.”

“You have our reports. Everything’s there.”

“I don’t want everything. I want your summation. How does it look?”

“You should speak to Dr. Gharia. She’s responsible for the bulk of the work.”

“I plan to. But I’m speaking to you now. Is it promising?”

“Too early to say.”

“But worth pursuing?”

“Depends what you mean by worth.”

“You’re being cagey, Doctor.”

“I’m being honest.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. I’ve been told that Dr. Gharia has left the station. I won’t ask why.”

“It’s no secret. The work is done. The study is complete.”

“Did she take H82W8 with her?”

“Yes. Of course. It’s not ours to keep. It’s yours.”

“Just so. I intend to use it.”

“In what way?”

“On myself.”

“Inadvisable, Ms. Gleem.”

“Not here. There. Where you are. Gleem One. Where it works.”

“We don’t know that it works.”

“Where it isn’t lethal.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We’ll find out then, won’t we? I’ll need help. Obviously. I can’t do anything without help. I can’t eat. I can’t speak. I can barely move. I’m a fully dependent creature, Doctor. Do you know how that feels? Do you know what that means? There’s always someone nearby. A person. A robot. Some other kind of machine. Beeping, spewing, watching. I’m never alone. I’m surrounded. Fenced in. Encased.”

“You need privacy.”

“I need independence. Without it I feel …”

“Trapped?”

“Lost.”

“I understand.”

“Disrespected,” she added sharply.

“Respect comes from within, Ms. Gleem.”

“Oh please. Respect is earned, Doctor. On a daily basis. Speaking of which, I want you to do something with those things.”

“What things?”

“You know what things. The Raggedy Anns. The abominations. I want them.”

“ You? Why? For what purpose?”

“They’re mine. I own them.”

“They’re no use to you.”

“I disagree. They’re historic. They should be preserved. Somewhere they can be seen. Viewed. Appreciated.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“A museum maybe.”

He stared at her. “How about a trophy case? Or a zoo?”

“Those could work, too.”

“They’re not animals. They’re not souvenirs. They don’t exist for people’s amusement. They’re also not yours. They’re nobody’s. Ownership doesn’t apply.”

“On the contrary.”

“They’re public property.”

“I’d say not. They’re kept in vaults. Private vaults. They’re traded on the dark web, and the black market. Highest bidder claims the rights of ownership.”

“In that case, they’re mine. I purchased them. Paid for them out of my own pocket. You can check your accounts.”

“You signed a contract, Doctor. Read the fine print. From the time you set foot on the shuttle to the time you touch down, with plenty of room on either side, everything that passes through your hands is mine. All property: real, intellectual, unreal, whatever. All of it. This can’t be a surprise. So just do whatever you have to in order to keep them alive. Further instructions to follow.”

The screen went dead. Seconds later, it blinked back to life. A new image appeared, the Laura Gleem known to millions: brassy, high octane, irrepressible.

“Tell me something, Doctor. How do you feel about pink?”

He felt dizzy. “Pink?”

“All my doctors wear pink. I insist on it. Pink for my doctors, pink for my nurses, pink for all my staff. Pink pink pink.”

“I’m not on your staff.”

“But you could be. Easily. In a second. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger. Wouldn’t have to move an inch. Just stay where you are. Stay there, Doctor, and I’ll come to you. I need someone I can trust. Someone who understands me. Meanwhile, enjoy your solitude. There’s nothing like it, is there? And what better place? Just you and Gleem One. No one else around. No one telling you what to do. No one hovering. Free as a bird. I envy you.”

The call left him deeply disturbed, for reasons both obvious and not. He sat for a long time after it, wrestling with himself. At length he came to a decision, and rummaged in the lab for the necessary equipment. Once he had it assembled, he poured the now fully dissolved and cooled sleeping potion into a boiling flask, lit the flame underneath it, set the timer, then left.

He had not intended to leave a message or a note, but the call changed his mind. He wanted to set the record straight.

He began by identifying himself. He absolved all parties of responsibility. His decision to end his life was purely personal, he explained. It was not meant as a statement. That said, his conscience demanded that he speak out.

Juving came at a price. It had political, social, and economic consequences. It put a strain on the world’s resources. It put a premium on long life at the expense of new life and new blood. It widened the gap between the haves and have-nots.

None of this was news. But it bore repeating. At some point people were going to have to find a way to pack more life into less time. Be satisfied with a shorter life span. A century and a half, say. Two, max. A radical idea, but progress rode on radical hooves. Civilization would be nowhere without them.