Emperors

Part 1 of 3.

Detlev was fat. He knew his weight had no negative health consequences, but it still felt wrong. Julia liked him this way, however. Chantilly, he reminded himself. Chantilly liked him fat. He suspected she had seen a fashion netcast on thin women with fat spouses last June. That was when she had first suggested the genotype mod. In September she had begun cajoling and wheedling, then in December she had started to sound angry. After three marriages, he knew what came next. So, he was fat.

His weight had settled mainly in his gut. He had always had commendable posture, but now he found himself leaning slightly backward to balance his protruding belly. He looked like a bell curve stood not end. His pants were huge, his underwear ridiculous. He was embarrassed to shop, so he had started ordering his clothes. He had always thought his mustache balanced a dignified, imposing mien with friendliness. Now he saw a walrus in the mirror. His hands felt like flippers whenever they were unoccupied, so he had taken to clasping them across his beltline.

His wife was not the only person who liked him fat. He received admiring looks when he went out, and even propositions, though never from the kinds of people he would have wanted this kind of attention from. Obesity was trendy again, in some circles. But so was mutual cannibalism, he reminded himself. He did not like being fat. There had to be some way to tell Julia–Chantilly–that he was done with it. Forty-six years and three marriage contracts. He knew in his newly-expanded gut how such a discussion would end. He folded his hands around his stomach and frowned.

“Det, did you even hear what I just said?”

He turned. Artemis was looking at him with her head cocked.

“What? Oh, sorry, Artie. I was just thinking about this…” he nodded toward his belly. “Wondering if there’s some way to tell Julia it’s not working for me.”

“Chantilly.”

“What? Oh, damn. Chantilly.”

“Well,” said Artemis, “You know her best. You only have six years left in this contract. Can you live with it?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I suppose so. You know, I truly can’t remember what I was thinking when I married her, this time.”

“My security archives will show that I recommended a shorter contract.”

“Yes, I know,” he said. “I’m not blaming you. I suppose I must have been in love again. Damned woman. Why can’t I fall in love with someone else, for a change?”

“Well, nothing for it,” said Artemis, “and this discussion is wasting my fee. The patent talks are in three days and sixteen hours. We need to agree on a strategy.”

“Artie, how long have I known you?” He turned back toward the window.

“That’s a strange question. Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m about to tell you to go with your instincts. You’ve negotiated every one of my patents, and done a bang-up job. Just do what you always do. However things turn out, I’ll know you did your best.”

Detlev turned his back again on the Chicago sunset just beyond the glass wall. Artie was staring at him, her head tilted to one side again. The ruddy light lit her face as if she were blushing, which was a ludicrous thought. Artemis did not blush. But she did occasionally remain silent for several seconds.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“One hundred and twenty-seven years.”

“What?”

“That’s how long you’ve known me,” she said. “forty-three patent negotiations, and you’ve never opted out before. What is going on?”

“Nothing, Artie.” He folded his hands across his waist again.

“Det, I’ve know you longer than anyone alive, including your wife.”

Detlev tried to stare down her professional worry, and failed. He lifted the lacquered Chinese fortune balls from the antique writing desk. He imagined the gesture was smooth, practiced. He felt the wave of a noncommittal shrug ripple down his stomach to his thighs.

“You’re right, naturally. There is something wrong, but I don’t know what it is.”

“The firmware in your house is up-to-date?”

“Oh, yes.” He tried to wave away the point, but his hand flapped gracelessly. “It keeps wonderful tabs on me. I’m healthy. I’m getting the right amount of sleep, exercise, socialization, therapy, trace nutrients, light levels; everything.”

Artie was quiet again, and Detlev looked up to see her looking at the floor. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Eventually, the silence seemed to ask for input, and Detlev provided it.

“Artie, does your system still have access to my security archives?”

“I don’t remember. Why?”

“Because,” he said, “Someone seems to be following me, or stalking me or some such. He’s shown up two or three times this month.”

“This could be serious. A corporate spy, perhaps?”

“No, no,” he said, waving his hands as if to ward off the thought. “I don’t think so, anyway. It’s never at work, and he doesn’t try to avoid eye contact or anything. He doesn’t really act suspicious; it’s just odd. Damned odd. I thought maybe you could find out who he is.”

“Sure. City ID owes me some favors. I can have someone run a search.” She touched a finger to her lips and looked at the floor again. “Could he be an old client or associate, from “Shanghai, for instance? “Jakarta? Hong Kong? Seoul?”

Detlev shook his head for each city. “I don’t think so. But who knows, right? Seoul was sixty-five years ago. I forget things, treatments or no. I’ll send the authorization for my archives. See what you can come up with, all right? Deduct the bill from the consulting account.”

Artie did not answer. She paced to the door and back again. Detlev knew enough to wait when she started pacing.

“Det, when was the last time you took a vacation?”

“Just last month. You remember. Julia I mean Chantilly and I did the Ancient Italy tour. Vatican, catacombs, Coliseum, Mediterranean, the whole bit.”

“That was only a week, and if I remember correctly, you accessed the specs for the plasma jet actuator four times.”

“Artie, are you checking up on me?”

“Only a little. Italy wasn’t a vacation. Maybe you should consider taking a few months, or even a couple of years. You can afford it. Thanks to me, I might add. Haven’t you always said you wanted to see the semisentient vegetation on some planet or other in Upsilon Andromedae?”

“Well, yes, that would be lovely, but the transit time alone would take months out of my schedule, even with the tube to Arcturus. I can vacation anytime. Right now, I’m swamped.”

“With what?” she asked.

“Well, there’s the actuator, of course, and I always have new projects. It’s a competitive field.”

“I know. But you don’t actually need to finish any more projects for a few decades, to tell the truth. You can afford the time. Have the journals forwarded to you, if you can’t leave work totally behind.”

“Perhaps, perhaps. But there’s my avocation, too. You know I don’t take it lightly.”

“Detlev, the customers can wait. A break might even whet their appetites.”

“Perhaps you’re right. See the sights, relax a bit. Maybe that’s what the doctor ordered.”

“The lawyer ordered it.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that for a minute,” he winked.

“I’m serious,” Artemis said. “I’ll ask you about it next month.”

“I’m sure you will. That reminds me,” he said, “are you going to the Jeanfleurs’ little soiree tonight? Jul… my wife wanted me to ask you.”

She continued to stare at him for a few seconds, perhaps debating whether to let him off the hook. Her pose softened, suddenly.

“I’m not sure. They always have polyamory parties, and that’s not really my thing.”

“Actually, Julia said–”

“Chantilly.”

“Right. Chantilly said it’s not a sex-related theme, for once.”

“Really? What, then?” Artemis asked.

“I don’t remember. Costumes or something. I’ll forward the message.”

“All right. I’ll think about it.”

…

The lettuce and the toasted buns were both lukewarm. Luc was grilling brilliantly, as always; it was Detlev’s lack of focus that had killed this meal. By the time Table Three finished the French fries, the lettuce had completely wilted. It draped over the meat like drab silk. The Chapmans were good sports about it, but Detlev was not satisfied. He knew his mind was not sufficiently focused on the food service experience. It was Ledbetter. He could make no sense of the man.

“Thank you for dining at Johnnyburger. We hope to see you again, soon.” He used his most soothing yet cheerful voice.

“It’s lovely, Det. Really. We look forward to your lunches all week.”

“Thank you, Sylvia. Rolf. See you next Wednesday, then?”

“Of course.”

He produced their change, accurate to the penny, with a flourish he had seen in a black-and-white film and practiced to perfection. It was the small details that made the fast-food experience enjoyable, even when the food was subpar. The Chapmans deposited their remaining bills and coins in the silver bowl by the door, where they had come from in the first place. Period currency was too valuable to leave the restaurant.

Ledbetter was odd, but not odd enough to be remarkable. Was he following him? Watching him? Artemis’ suspicions should not be dismissed. She had excellent instincts. Maybe Ledbetter was some kind of spy, after all.

Detlev adjusted his hat and moved on, pocketing the change in his apron with one hand and fishing for his notepad with the other as he did so. These psychomotor sequences were, he thought, the most challenging aspect of historically accurate food service. Novices often underestimated the discipline required to master them, and suffered unacceptably long service times as a result. The little things always added up.

Damn his feet. They were killing him. It was the extra kilos.

Detlev did not recognize the trio at Table Two. Perhaps his clientele was expanding. There was always the chance, slim though it might be, that they were reviewers from Historical Dining. He adjusted his necktie and readied his notepad.

As he greeted the customers he saw Alice closing the hostess’ station behind them. Just as well. He was out of sorts anyway. The order was nothing notable: burgers, fries, two shakes and a root beer. Reviewers would probably have ordered something unusual, just to shake him up. Chicken Caesar salad. Country-fried steak. Curly fries.

“Two Big Johnnies and one Little John, the works all around,” he called through the order window. He tried to make his voice sonorous and commanding, like the fellow in Big River.

“Got it,” said Luc, barely audible over the hiss of patties on the grill. Detlev dropped a cage of frozen potatoes into the oil, as Anita was on vacation. Where had she gone? Hokkaido? Ursae Majoris? He could not recall. She was a good fryer. He would be glad to have her back. He set about preparing the drinks.

Ledbetter was a riddle wrapped in a mystery disguised as an extremely unremarkable person. Artie had produced a full report that was full of uninteresting information. Ledbetter worked in one of the firms for which Detlev was currently consulting. He was a nanoelectromechanical engineer, and apparently quite a good one. Maybe he wanted in on one of Detlev’s other projects.

Table One was ready to go, and Table Four looked like they needed soda refills. Detlev was able to momentarily lose himself in the soothing discipline of customer service; hands, legs, feet and brain all coordinated to produce a superior dining experience. His great-grandparents’ generation had known a thing or two about what was important in life.

“Great little restaurant you have here,” said the blonde woman at Table Four. Her companion nodded enthusiastically. “Right out of old-time television. Twenty-first century?”

“Twentieth, actually. Thank you.” He tried a bow. His gut was in the way.

“The only thing I’d change is the lettuce. It might be a little fresher, but everything else is great.”

“Of course. I hope you’ll give us another try, next week. Same time.”

“Maybe I could give you a try sometime before then.” She casually caressed his belly. Her mate watched her hand, idly.

Detlev froze for a moment, his stomach convulsing where she had touched him.

“Flattered. Delighted. Love to, naturally, but I’ve got the wife and there are ethical guidelines, you know.” There were no such guidelines. He scuttled back to the kitchen without a reason.

Ledbetter worked very hard. Too hard, really. Detlev had seen performance reports. The man’s production and quality were among the highest in the firm. The detail that caught his attention, though–perhaps the only interesting fact in the entire report–was a casual note from a senior engineer that Ledbetter had dozed off several times at work. Detlev knew the firm. Employees could pop home for a nap whenever they liked. There were sleep lounges in the basement. Circadian adjustment drugs were certainly within Ledbetter’s means. These were not the dark ages. Instead, he had fallen asleep, right at his workstation. More than once.

Naturally, Artie had checked Ledbetter’s finances. Bank information was off-limits, but the value of his home, his car, his boat and his cabin in Norway were all available. Ledbetter was solid middle class, probably with fairly low debt. His house system was a late model, presumably keeping pace with psychomedical advances. It was virtually inconceivable that Ledbetter should be unhealthy. But there it was. Sleeping at work.

Detlev bid goodbye to the Table Four customers and concentrated on making a smooth circuit through the kitchen and back to Table Two with the appetizers, remembering to check the lettuce and the buns, this time.

Ledbetter’s personal life was the next logical area of inquiry, but it was as dull as the rest. He played golf. He visited his children. He collected and repaired transistor radios. He did pro bono work designing survival equipment for the asteroid colonies. Detlev had always wanted to do something charitable, like that. He could not recall why he had not done so. No matter. There was time. Next year, maybe, or maybe after this marriage contract was up.

The burgers were much better for Table Two. Cold lettuce, firm tomatoes, and buns just out of the toaster. The contented munching was music to his ears.

“Excuse me, sir?” said a teenager. Or a convincing teen mod. He held his burger as if it were alien.

“Yes?”

“Are these… meat?” It was not clear which answer would displease him more.

Detlev chuckled a chuckle he had learned from a kindly bartender in a Western series from the nineteen-sixties. “My boy, neither you nor I could afford that.” He winked in a way he hoped was kindly. “Replica. But many people say they can’t taste the difference. Enjoy.”

The boy, or not, seemed reassured.

This Ledbetter apparently had a good life, including a strangely happy marriage. He and his wife had signed a fourth contract renewal, this time for fifty years. Detlev wondered what the terms were. Nobody married for fifty years.

He was being stalked by a go-getter who fell asleep at his desk, married the same woman four times, and was otherwise completely ordinary. Maybe it was hero worship. That made no sense. If it was some kind of personal fixation, why hadn’t the man talked to him? Perhaps he was shy. Maybe he had started liking Detlev when he had gotten fat. Detlev disliked him a little, just thinking of this.

…

Part 2 of 3.

Chantilly found him in an upstairs bedroom at the Jeanfleurs’ considerable house. She accused him of hiding, which he denied, though it was true.

“Well then, Detty, what are you doing up here?”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that, Ju–Chantilly.”

“Fine. Detlev. What are you doing? Dessert is being served in a few minutes, and that’s when the fun starts. The Jeanfleurs will be so disappointed if you miss the opening. They’ve got something really sensational planned. I think the Randall-Cranes’ robes are made out of that dissolving fabric, and you must be dying to see Chrissy’s new tattoos. You simply can’t hide up here all night, darling.”

“Ju–” he sighed. Changing names was not easy after a hundred years. “Chantilly, I didn’t want to come in the first place. You said it wasn’t a polyamory party, remember?”

“So I was wrong. Everyone loves your new look, sweetie. You’ll have fun once you get into the swing of things. Get it? I said ‘swing.’”

“Yes. Lovely. I’m afraid I’m just in a foul mood, and I’d prefer to be left alone, if you don’t mind.” He looked out the dark window. No stars, no moon. He felt, like a tingle between his shoulder blades, her decision to put off the fight they would certainly have at some point.

“Fine, darling, but don’t pretend to be all regretful when everyone tells you what you missed.”

“I won’t.”

She turned back as her hand touched the doorknob.

“Det, be serious. Really. We’re all having such a marvelous time, and here you are moping in an empty room. It’s just too depressing.”

“Never fear, my love. I plan to escape out one of these windows. I think there are enough sheets here to tie into a rope.”

“I wish I could be sure you were joking,” She sighed. “If you change your mind, I’ll be downstairs. There’s a masquerade game, later, and I’ve brought my cat mask. You like that one.”

He did like it.

In the end, the sheets were not necessary. A small door Detlev had taken for a closet led down a cramped staircase and outside. It must have been for servants, long ago. He felt like he barely fit.

…

The overcast sky gave no hint of light, and the street was the kind of dark only found in very rich neighborhoods. As Detlev had slowly joined the ranks of the upper middle class, he had discovered that an abundance of money was often indicated by conspicuous absences. The monosyllabic product brand. The unadvertised event. The unlisted phone number. The neighborhood with no street lights. There must be, he knew, any number of devices monitoring his passage along this street–low-light, infrared, audio, microseismic, mass-displacement, gravitics–all creating records in a properly confidential archive in a properly secure and unseen building, all for the comfort and security of the residents of Arlington Heights. And it was comforting. After nearly two centuries of nighttimes, darkness still held an edge of malice for Detlev.

The knowledge of the unseen electronic eyes was much slower than his midbrain’s startle response. When his name reported like a quiet gunshot from the shadows, he jerked wildly and sputtered for a second. He recovered his wits enough to ask,

“Who the hell is there?”

“Arthur. Uh, that is, Arthur Ledbetter.”

He had no words for a response. He kept walking, because to stop would have diverted mental resources from the task of figuring out why Ledbetter was accosting him in the middle of the night, a hundred kilometers from home. There was no danger, of course. The cameras, the sensors, the security patrols. But quick, hot fears held more sway with his nerves than the cool, ponderous reassurances of his cerebral cortex. He was utterly alone in a blackness opaque to technology. He fought to avoid running, whether to maintain decorum or because he knew he could outrun no one with his extra kilos, he could not have said.

Ledbetter had caught up to him and was keeping pace, half an arm’s distance away. Detlev could feel his presence more than see it. He counted on the cleanliness of the well-to-do sidewalk, as he could barely perceive its outlines, let alone where he placed his feet.

“Ledbetter?” was all he could think of to say. He wanted to buy time without appearing ridiculous, although he suspected it was too late for the latter.

“Yes,” said a surprisingly hesitant tenor, “I think you might know of me, but we haven’t actually met. I work at Ames, Dvorak & Chao.” Ledbetter’s feet shuffled to overtake and match Detlev’s strides.

“Of course you do. What are you doing here?”

“Following you, actually.”

“Following me?” Again Detlev worried about seeming foolish, but he had no idea what else to say.

“Yes. I heard you were up in one of the bedrooms, back at the party, and I went to see if I could find you, but you were crossing the back lawn by that time, and, well… It’s terribly dark out.”

So it was a romantic interest. Relief began to seep through Detlev, starting at his feet, with a disdainful awkwardness following.

“Ah. Well, then your journey has been in vain. I’m a bit unfashionably prudish, these days. Those parties are not my thing.”

“Oh, no,” said Ledbetter, sounding amused, “You misunderstand. I just wanted to talk to you. That’s why I got an invite to the, um, activity tonight.”

“You went to one of the Jeanfleurs’ parties because you wanted to talk?” Detlev chuckled, and Ledbetter joined him. Neither of them spoke for several more footsteps. The moon appeared like a miracle, illuminating the sidewalk in fractal patches beneath the trees. Then, as soon as it had come, the light vanished.

“Mister Grundig, do you have a moment? There is something I would like to talk to you about.”

“Ledbetter, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“What could you possibly have to say that would require all this skulking around? I have a mind to set off my personal alarm.”

He was bluffing. He had deactivated the alarm years ago. He could not remember the exact excuse, but personal crime was something that only happened elsewhere. In the asteroid colonies. In central Africa. Not in Chicago. Not since he was a young boy in the final years of the U.S.A.

“Please, don’t do that. I promise I’ll be brief. I won’t bother you again, if you’ll just hear what I have to say.”

His voice held a slight quaver. He sounded sincere, even a little pleading. So Detlev stopped in a patch of marginally lighter darkness. Something he hoped was a bench hunched darkly beside the walkway. He felt his way to it and they sat.

“Well? What’s this matter you’ve go to discuss?” He hoped he sounded gruff and no-nonsense. This never fooled his wife, but it might work on Ledbetter.

“First,” said Ledbetter, a charcoal silhouette on black, “I’d like to tell you a few things I know about you. Don’t be angry. I haven’t been spying or anything like that. It’s all public information, with a few of my own guesses.”

“Damned strange, but I won’t stop you,” said Detlev. This was the first truly unexpected thing that had happened in months, and he admitted to himself that he was interested in where it would lead.

“Thanks. Well, first,” Ledbetter’s voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. Perhaps the explain-yourself-you-rascal routine had made an impression. “First, I notice that you don’t take vacations. At least not full vacations. Archaic food service is your only real hobby. You go to social functions, but usually these revolve around your wife’s friends.”

“I thought you said you weren’t spying.”

“I assure you, Mr. Grundig, I am not. This information is easily obtained through fully legal, public-domain searches.” Ledbetter sounded apologetic but determined.

Detlev harrumphed like the grandfather from a German movie from the Twentieth Century.

“Moving on, if that’s all right. You have made comments on some public technology and news sites that indicate you have a keen interest in extrasolar travel and exobotany. I suspect finances would not prevent you from extrasolar travel, yet you have never gone.”

“Is there a point to all this?”

“Yes, I assure you there is,” said Ledbetter. “You are in perfect health, yet experimenting with body modification fashions.”

Detlev clasped his fingers around his belly. Ledbetter continued,

“None of this, you understand, is uncommon, but bear with me a moment more. You are ranked highly in your chosen profession, yet you seem to attend only the minimal amount of work-related conferences. You accept only enough work to keep you busy about thirty hours each week, but you do not suspend your work during holidays, and, if I may say so, you do not seem to really enjoy your personal activities, except your weekly restaurant, which consumes most of your time outside work.”

Ledbetter stopped, and Detlev waited. At length he asked,

“Is that all?”

“No. But I’m concerned that I’ve upset or offended you.”

“I grant you, it’s not pleasant to hear my life reduced to such an unflattering caricature, but I suppose it’s not totally inaccurate.”

“I understand. May I go on?”

“Only if you get to the point sooner, rather than later.”

“Of course. If it’s not too personal, I happen to know a bit about your relationship with your current spouse. Third marriage, right?”

Detlev nodded automatically, forgetting that his gestures were not visible. Ledbetter continued.

“That’s what I thought. The first two ended less than amicably, and yet you married the same woman a third time. Before you protest, I know this is hardly unheard-of, but it is noteworthy. You have a son and daughter. You rarely see them, although you have referred to them frequently in your online commentaries and in the training films you made for Hsiao & Hsiao. They’re clearly important to you, and yet you are not involved with them.”

“Yes, I suppose you have been prying a bit,” said Detlev. “My personal affairs are my own. I love my wife, and I respect my children’s desire to be autonomous at this point in their development. There will be time to catch up later, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” said Ledbetter. “That’s the crux of everything, isn’t it? Marcia LaCroix is still alive, did you know that?”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes, and she’s close to three hundred years old. She was the first to ‘go immortal,’ as they’re calling it these days. She’s healthy as a horse, and the treatments have just gotten better. Public Health says they expect nearly every human on Earth to live at least a thousand years.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the same thing.”

Detlev waited for a response, but none came. He felt tired. It was the gut, most likely. It took too much energy to haul it around. He thought of something.

“Wasn’t that a greeting, or some such, for ancient Chinese emperors? ‘May you live to be a thousand years old’?”

“It sounds familiar,” said Ledbetter.

“We’re all emperors, now, I suppose. The money economy is less relevant every year, because we’ve all got so damned much of the stuff.”

“Exactly,” said Ledbetter. “Emperors. Money is just the tip of it, though. Automata, computers and appliances do our work for us. Most factories are self-managing and self-maintaining. Nobody has to harvest, weave, fight, or anything. We’re emperors. Even if we had no money, we’d live in relative comfort for centuries.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘comfort’,” said Detlev, “Is this what you wanted to do? Remind me of my amazing power and wealth, just like nearly every other citizen of Mother Earth? Maybe tell how awful life was, back when they had to grow their food by the sweat of their brows, walk to work in the snow, and only watch prescheduled entertainment networks?”

“No, no. I guess…” Detlev heard an intake of breath, as if the man were about to dive into the deep end of a swimming pool, “I came to tell you you’re not happy, and for someone paying attention to the signs, it shows.”

“That’s… that’s…” Detlev did not know what it was. Preposterous, perhaps. “That’s unfounded. I am as happy and healthy as it is possible to be. I have two therapists and three doctors, and nothing but rave reviews with every checkup. Really, Ledbetter, I expected something more shocking, or perhaps more believable. I’m not happy? Pfft.”

“I admit I could be very wrong. If I am, I apologize. But just think about it. Why aren’t you out seeing alien plants and mosses? Why haven’t you seen your children in almost a decade? Why is your restaurant only open on Wednesdays?”

“Your contention is that it’s due to my unhappiness? This is ludicrous. Good night.”

“Please, Mr. Grundig, give me just a few more minutes. If you listen to the rest, I promise not to talk to you again, if that’s what you’d like. At any rate, the party won’t be over for hours.”

Detlev sat back down. He was angry, now, or at least annoyed.

“Thanks. I meant no offense to you in particular. I was only trying to make the point that humans in general were not meant to live like this.”

“Isn’t that what people say when they’re miserable? You know, not enough food in their bellies, and the roof leaks; humans aren’t meant to live like this? But you’re saying the opposite.”

“Sort of. Misery is exactly what we were meant for, at least to some extent. A healthy measure of it is necessary for true happiness. Our evolutionary history has prepared us to combat misery, but left us unprepared for luxury. Dealing with opposition, difficulty, struggle, challenge… it’s fundamental to who we are. It’s where we get our deepest satisfaction. Take it away and we’re empty, hollow, although it may take us a long time to understand that.”

“I have plenty of challenge and opposition, fellow. My designs don’t create themselves, and my relationships are not as easy to manage as they may seem from the outside.”

“Yes, of course,” said Ledbetter. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. It’s just that those challenges are only a part of what we were designed for. Things are out of balance. And now we’ve beaten death. Death!”

His voice rang down the street. Detlev looked both ways, startled. There was no reaction from the trees or the mansions beyond them. The hidden watchers must have concluded that Ledbetter’s antics were harmless.

“Sorry,” said Ledbetter. “It’s just so amazing. We may never die. Never. It’s at least possible, at this point. The world will feed us, clothe us, house us, and keep us so healthy we’ll never know what the common cold feels like.” He stopped abruptly, then continued, “Oh, I’m very sorry. You were born before the vaccines. I’m sure you have experienced sicknesses I can’t imagine. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“No need to apologize, Ledbetter. A cold wasn’t typhoid, you know. You were saying?”

“It’s basic, really. At first, humanity struggled against physical danger. This lasted for hundreds of thousands of years. Then this collection of protections we call ‘civilization’ saved most of us from that, most of the time. We entered a new way of life. For a couple of millennia many people lived well most of the time, even though there were still diseases, accidents, wars, and so on. Life was more comfortable, but still fundamentally uncertain. And now, what do we have? A completely new era. An era with no uncertainty about life. Well, none to speak of. Accidents happen occasionally, and there are still incurable genetic disorders, and so forth, but in general, the probability of death in any given year for any given human on this planet is effectively zero.

“Even our social and personal challenges are almost toothless, compared to the way things were during our evolution. Poverty? Less than one percent of the population, and those who are poor would be rich as royalty to our great-grandparents. Every person on the planet now has some form of political voice. Who even has mental illnesses, anymore? Nobody is really even depressed, though we still use the word. Our ‘depressions’ are perfectly normal reactions to negative life events, none of which are catastrophic. Divorce. Arguments. Employment changes. Infighting in our socially inbred cliques. None of these can hold a candle to the daily problems faced by the average human in the Sixteenth Century, or the Eighteenth, or the Twenty-first. Life is tame, and so are we.”

“That’s a good thing, I think,” said Detlev. “Ask any medieval peasant or post-industrial slave-wage if they would like to trade places with us, and I think I know the answer.”

“Absolutely correct,” said Ledbetter. “We have a constant drive toward security and safety. It would be crazy to allow all the mindless death and meaningless suffering to go on. But here we sit, at the end of the struggle, with no discomforts that can’t be remedied within minutes, if not seconds. Even the nagging certainty that death will find us eventually is gone. That, at least, was a constant until our generation.”

Ledbetter had a point. Detlev’s food was prepared by his kitchen. His clothes were made by automated factories and shipped through the tubes. He exerted himself only for exercise. His state of mind was managed just as tightly as his somatic health. He had what his therapists considered an optimal individualized balance among his work, personal life and avocational pursuits. One of his therapists even considered his problematic re-involvement with Julia (Chantilly; damn the woman) to be a healthy expression of the ambivalence in his personality. His life was perfect, and would probably continue to be so, indefinitely.

“I see your point,” he said. He should probably stop listening, but he suddenly could not tolerate the thought of standing up and walking. Not quite yet. His belly felt like a lead belt of world-heavyweight-champion proportions. And this was the most interesting conversation he had had in ages.

“It’s the same for everyone,” Ledbetter said. “The philosophers and therapists know something’s wrong. They call them ‘existential issues.’ There’s getting to be more and more discussion of them, but if you ask me, those people are spinning their wheels. The answer to these problems will not be found through intellectual inquiry.”

“Hm.”

Lethargy filtered from his head, through his face, down his neck, into his chest, and toward his feet. It was slow and tantalizing. He could not recall feeling so tired. Perhaps it was the hour. He rarely stayed up this late.

“What, then?”

“Eh?” Ledbetter sounded drowsy, too.

“What is the solution, then?” said Detlev.

“Oh. Sorry. I may have dozed off for a moment. Anyway, I don’t claim to have the whole solution, but I’ve come across one thing, at least. There has to be a change in the parameters of living. That’s what ‘existential’ means. Concerned about your existence? Change the way you exist.”

“Sensible enough,” said Detlev. “And you’ve made changes? To these… parameters?”

“I’ve made some, yes.”

“That’s why you sleep at your desk.”

“What? How do you mean?”

“You’re not the only one checking up on people. You sleep at your desk. You become obsessed with work assignments to the exclusion of concerns about your mental health, and you stay with the same woman, decade after decade, in defiance of fashion and expert opinion. Is that the result of your parameter changes?”

“Oh… I… I guess so. This is uncomfortable, being the subject of someone else’s scrutiny this way. Distinctly uncomfortable. I suppose fair is fair, though.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you should know, Mr. Grundig, that I have presented this to you out of the deepest respect. You are the kind of person I can’t stand seeing unhappy. Truth be told, you remind me of my own father. So, I wanted to give you the chance to know about this… well… parameter change I’ve told you about.”

“Or not told me about.”

“Right. I know I’ve been a bit mysterious. Sorry. It can’t be helped. This is the kind of thing I really can’t give to you all at once, or right here in the street. There would be repercussions. I had to see if you might be receptive to new ideas; if you were really concerned about your happiness.”

“And am I?”

“That’s a preposterous question. Anyway, I’ll send you a message tomorrow, letting you know where you can learn more. It’s kind of clandestine, I’m afraid. It will be up to you follow up.”

“Or not.”

“Right. As you wish.”

Detlev should have told this man to leave him alone. He should have called neighborhood security. Somehow. But now here he was, and his curiosity was working at full speed.

“Are you talking about religion? I’m really not interested, you know.”

“Oh, no. I see that it might sound that way. No, I’m as secular-agnostic as the next person, never fear. This isn’t religion. It’s more… time management.”

“Care to tell me any more about this nonreligious existential time management? It all sounds crazy, now that we have it out in the air like that.”

Ledbetter laughed, and Detlev found himself laughing along.

“Yes, it does. No, I’ve said enough for now. Thank you for listening. You’ve been a great sport. I’ll be as good as my word. No more contact unless you take the initiative.”

“Fine.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Detlev was surprised to feel a trickle of regret as the shadow that was Ledbetter disappeared into the midnight shade, moving back the way they had come. It took him half an hour more to get up off the bench. When he did, he surprised himself by walking three kilometers to the nearest tube, instead of returning to the Jeanfleurs’ house.

…

Part 3 of 3.

“What are you talking about, Detty? We help others all the time.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Fine. Detlev. But you’re being impossible. We contribute to others’ well-being with every dollar we earn. Our taxes, our charitabledonatrions, our voting behavior, our very existence is a benefit to the less fortunate. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you, sometimes.”

“I’m not saying we don’t help at all. I am simply saying that I could do something more active. I could help with the redesign of community power centers on Luna, for example.”

“Detty–I mean Det, dear, you can do anything you like, naturally, but please try to keep it from interfering with the things you know are important to me. I haven’t said anything about the restaurant, as you well know, but it’s possible to take things too far.”

“I really don’t think you are hearing me.”

“Me? You’re the one who’s been acting so strangely the last few–I don’t know, the last few years. Maybe you should take a vacation.”

“I just had one. Italy, remember? You were there, as I recall.”

“I mean a real vacation. That’s what you need, instead of more commitments.”

“I think I might need both, actually. I’ve thought about this. I never take vacations because I can always do that later. I have always felt that vacations are a possibility, but I can’t stop working, can I? I’ll never have enough money or enough favors stored up to support myself–and you, should you need it–after I stop. Why? Because I will live to be a thousand years old, at least. Don’t you see? How much money do I need to make sure I can retire for five hundred years? For eternity? Of course, there’s always next year, and there will always be next year, so why should I stop for a vacation that I will always be healthy enough and, I hope, wealthy enough to take, someday in the eternally-receding future? My father worked for five decades before retirement. I could work ten times that long and not be able to retire.”

“Detlev, calm down. You’re as red as a lobster. Of course we’ll live for ten centuries or so. Everybody will. That’s a good thing, but you’re making it sound so unfortunate.”

“Perhaps it is. Don’t you wonder why we have stopped visiting, or even calling, Ursula and Roth? Why do you never contact your other children, for that matter? We can always call next year, or the year after that. No reason to interrupt their lives for nothing in particular when we will be able to do that any time we like. But we won’t do it, don’t you see? A thousand years from now I’ll still be wondering why I never call my son and daughter.”

“Then call them, dammit! Don’t complain to me about some impossible situation that doesn’t exist. If you want to call them, just do it.”

“That’s not really the point.”

The door slammed, coincidentally, as Detlev said the last word.

When he checked his mail, he had a message from an anonymous account, inviting him to a meeting, tonight. He would not go. Chantilly was right. Everything was fine.

…

The tube itself took only a tingling, disorienting second. In that same second he might have gone anywhere: Rio, Moscow, Luna City, or even Arcturus. Before that, however, Detlev was forty-five minutes in the medical and security screening stations on the Chicago side, and another twenty-five in the acclimatization salon. Luckily, the air pressure in Veracruz was not drastically different from Chicago, or it might have been hours. Contamination checks on the Veracruz side took another fifteen minutes, plus a half-hour cab ride from the station to a sculpted white nightclub overlooking the bay. He was ten minutes late.

The woman at the corner table looked like any of a thousand ageless, beautiful women, but Ledbetter’s face was as distinctive as his own son’s, after all the security video he had reviewed lately. Detlev had requested the Arlington Heights surveillance feeds two nights previous, as well. The recordings were legally available to him under the Personal Information Act, but the company’s vague apologies suggested there was some kind of problem with those particular archives. This bore consideration.

The anywoman at the table was named Moriah, and her manner was as businesslike as her charcoal suit.

“Thank you for coming. Arthur tells me you are understandably leery of all this, so I hope we can resolve your concerns.”

“I don’t mind telling you it smells a bit suspicious.” He would have said ‘fishy,’ but the ocean gleamed obsidian through the giant windows, and he could still smell the docks, despite the air filtration.

“We do a bit of sneaking around, by necessity.” There was no apology in her posture or tone.

“So I’ve noticed,” said Detlev. “What’s to prevent me from recording this, or accessing the security feeds here in the restaurant, and alerting the police, or the media?”

Moriah smiled a CEO smile. Detlev wondered what she did for a living.

“Well, you’d find no security archives,” said Ledbetter. “We have means of disabling recording devices. It’s fairly easy, actually.” He was blushing.

“I see,” said Detlev. No feeds. That explained the absence of archives from his first conversation with Ledbetter. He felt an aftershock of the anxiety he had experienced on that dark street.

“This part of Veracruz is lovely,” said Moriah, “but I have to be back in Hanoi in a few hours, and I’m sure you two need to get back to Chicago. Arthur, how much have you told Mr. Grundig?”

“Everything I could, without telling him the rest, if you get me.”

“Of course. Mr. Grundig–”

“Detlev, please.”

“Detlev it is. What we are about to tell you is very sensitive. If you were to report it, we would deny everything and produce an authentic security feed showing the three of us talking about something completely different. We can’t take any chances.”

“I see. Last chance, run now, is that it?”

“Oh, no!” Ledbetter interjected. “You’re in no danger from us, if that’s what you mean. But if you don’t want to hear anything more, then… Well.”

“I don’t see how anything you tell me could drive me raving mad,” said Detlev, “and you’ve fixed it so I can shoot my mouth off all I want, so perhaps I’d better hear your story.”

“All right,” said Moriah. “Arthur has described some of the problems with our current living situation, from an individual perspective. Comfort, luxury, immortality. These produce some unfortunate and, we think, disastrous side effects.”

“Who is this ‘we’?”

“Good question. Ordinary people who have decided to do something about these problems. Perhaps ten thousand of us, at this point, though no one really knows.”

“’Do something…’?”

“We don’t think the problems are limited to the individual level,” she continued. “They affect all institutions and systems. In fact, we think they may spell the end of humanity, on Earth. We are in desperate need of a correction.”

“Funny. That’s just the kind of thing I expected you to say,” said Detlev.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Ledbetter, smiling like an anxious missionary.

Detlev considered the dancers swaying a few feet away, unaware of the bizarre conversation happening just outside their music.

“I think I can see the logic, so far.”

“Good,” said Moriah. “Then try to see the logic in the solution.”

“Ah, now we get to it. Even when people agree on the problems,” he said, “they often have very different ideas about solutions. What is yours?”

“Death,” she said.

“What? That’s a bit vague, even for revolutionary jargon. Shouldn’t there be a little more? ‘Death to…’ fill-in-the-blank?”

“Death to us,” said Ledbetter. “We are the ones who need to die.”

“Well. Perhaps I should have left when I had the chance, ten minutes ago.”

“Might as well stay another ten, then, eh?” said Moriah, smiling like a barracuda.

“This certainly can’t get more strange,” Detlev agreed. His back had begun to ache in the rigid chair, as if from a continued effort not to fall forward. It must be the fat.

“Arthur and I have made a contract to die,” she said.

“Good heavens.”

Despite the endless permutations of shocking pronouncements in movies and books, no one had ever said anything this far outside the norm in Detlev’s presence. He stared, goggle-eyed, at Moriah, then at Arthur, flailing for an appropriate response. Horror? Condolences? Condemnation?

“Oh, not with each other or anything,” said Ledbetter, stumbling ahead. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then how does it work? Suicide cult? Drink the fruity punch? Terrorism for everyone’s own good? Strap a bomb to your chest and walk into a shopping center?”

“No, Mr. Grundig, nothing at all like that,” said Ledbetter, “I have committed myself to die, that’s all. I won’t hurt anyone else in the process. At least, I hope not.”

“Oh. I see.” His voice had returned, but Detlev’s head was floating somewhere over the dance floor. Death. At this table. He had suspected it, of course, but here it was. “No, actually, I don’t see. What are you saying?”

“It’s actually very simple,” said Moriah, as if she were calming investors after a downturn in stock prices. “Several years ago, I signed a contract to have myself killed, at an unknown future date. My life is now temporary. This simple fact has–I must say, nearly miraculously–reinstated all the primal uncertainties and fears and worries that I need, as a human. I know, absolutely, that I will die. The precise date is irrelevant; the key fact is that my time is limited. That changes everything. Everything you can imagine.” The look on her face was a strange combination of serene and afraid, the corporate persona gone. There were tears in her eyes.

“Hold on,” said Detlev. “I’m sure it’s very enlightening, but when? And who?”

“I don’t know the answer to either of those questions,” she said, smiling with an intensity incongruous in the carefully casual club, “and I won’t know until the moment it happens. The killer will be a stranger. It will look like an accident. If all goes well, it will be sudden and relatively painless.” She sipped her drink.

“Heavens. It sounds atrocious.”

“I suppose it is. You also asked when. That’s an important issue. None of us knows, exactly. We choose a date, sometime in the future, and that’s the most likely time for our death, but that’s only a suggested target. The actual event could be any time before or after the year we choose.”

“The time choice is based on the normal distribution,” said Ledbetter. “That’s how it’s arranged, like a bell curve of death probabilities, with our preferred target year at the center of the curve. That’s the most likely time for it to happen. As the curve gets progressively thinner to the right and left, so does the probability that we will die either later or earlier than our chosen date. My date, for instance, is two hundred and thirteen years from now, but I don’t know when I’ll actually die. The uncertainty is important.”

“No thousand-year life for you, then,” said Detlev.

“Probably not,” said Ledbetter, regret open like a wound on his face. “I have about a ninety percent chance of dying within twenty years before or after my target date. The probability of living another hundred years beyond that is miniscule, but so is the likelihood that I will die before I turn one-fifty. It’s all managed by a fairly simple computer application that runs on a secure server. Somewhere in Indonesia, I think.”

“The statistics are elementary,” said Detlev, “but the entire undertaking is ghastly. Insane.” He grimaced when he realized he had said ‘undertaking.’ The most offensive subjects were always the most difficult to avoid.

“Possibly,” said Moriah, “but it’s the logical extension of our species’ love-hate relationship with progress. Most of us will never have to forage, farm or hunt, so gene therapy and recreation keep us from getting fat…” She gestured toward Detlev’s gut, “or make us that way on purpose. We’ve nearly eliminated disease, war, and infertility, at least down here on Earth, so we control our population with hormones and legislation. We are rich enough to live in socially isolated homes–sometimes the size of small villages–so we interact through electronic networks. And now that we’ve doctored ourselves into immortality, we need to create an artificial mechanism to provide the uncertainty and finality of natural death.”

“It’s still insane, but it sounds almost reasonable when you put it like that.”

“Insane or not,” said Ledbetter, “my life is a different life, now that it is finite. I won’t bore you with a list of the differences, but it’s been quite… perhaps ‘enriching’ is a good word.”

“Basic economics,” said Detlev. “You’ve reduced the supply of an important quantity—your lifespan—and now every bit of it seems more valuable.”

“I suppose so,” said Moriah, “but it’s more than that, at least for me. I have different priorities, now, with cascading effects throughout all areas of my life. I’ve accomplished things I would never have attempted, or in some cases even cared about, otherwise. And, to be honest, I’ve done some spectacularly stupid things since I signed my contract.”

Something about this conversation crawled on Detlev’s skin like an oily perfume, and it mixed with the faint scent of rotting fish. It made him want to squirm until the desire was a physical pain. He had heard enough.

“Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about, but I really must be going, now. Good evening.” It was too abrupt, but this encounter was strange and awkward beyond anything he had ever experienced.

“But Mr. Grundig, if you’ll just–” began Arthur, but Moriah placed a hand on his arm.

“You know how to get in touch with us,” she said.

“Yes, of course.”

He left the restaurant in a direction that guaranteed him a good view of the dance floor. Ursula had always loved to dance. She had danced standing on Detlev’s toes, when she was a young girl. She had made her brother, Roth, dance with her in school. She had been part of a folk dancing company, in university. Did she still dance? He hadn’t thought about it in years.

…

Detlev was sweating when he arrived at the travel agency. There was no need to walk, or even to come in person, but exercise helped settle his dyspeptically shrinking stomach and his spinning mind, which for a week had revolved around Chantilly. The very day he had signed his “mortality agreement” he had been nearly immobilized by a memory of Julia, holding him while he wept after the death of his father. The next morning, before fully waking, he recalled her in labor, bearing his two children. During dinner it was making love in a rain-hammered tent in Yosemite. As the week went on he was reminded of her kindness, her determination, her strength, and her brilliance, and each wave of recall touched him more deeply than the last. Most of the memories came from their first marriage–a true marriage, not a limited contract, though it had only lasted thirty-two years–but a few were from later. So much had happened in his hundred-odd years with her, and somehow he had fallen into this numbing cycle of ambivalence and apathy. The reminders of what seemed to be a previous lifetime were sometimes painful.

Chantilly–he found he no longer cared what she called herself–was still in Europe, meeting with prospective clients. For the first time in many years, he found himself looking forward to her return.

“Two,” he said.

“Like a second honeymoon, then?” asked the travel agent. She looked fifteen, with soft black fur on her ears and cat whiskers growing from her cheeks. Detlev had to admit the effect was endearing.

“Something like that,” he said. They had already had a second honeymoon. And a third and fourth.

“For you and…”

“My wife,” he said. “Her information is there.”

“Should I send receipts to each of you?”

“No, please. I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“Very good,” said the agent. She turned and fluttered her fingers in an input space visible only to her.

Detlev’s ear buzzed Chantilly’s name.

“Excuse me, will you?” he said to the agent, who was no longer listening.

He took the six paces to the door, enjoying the feeling of gliding out of the air-conditioned space into the heat and glare of the sidewalk.

“Yes, dear?”

“What’s going on, Detty?”

“Welcome home, dear. I’m in the middle of something. Can we talk later tonight?”

“No, we cannot,” said Chantilly. “We can talk now, and you can explain to me what’s going on.”

“What do you mean?” he said, knowing what she meant.

“The house says you’ve lost fifteen pounds in the last two weeks.”

“Yes, that’s right. It was going to be a surprise.”

“But Detty! Detlev. You’ve barely had a chance to get used to it.”

“It’s been almost a year.”

“But you look so good this way.”

“I’ve never thought so,” he said.

“Detty–Det, I mean–let’s be reasonable. Do we really want to look just like all the other couples we know? You’re much more memorable with a few extra kilos, and you contrast so nicely with my figure. Everyone says so.”

“Sorry, love. It’s been started. Doctor Herrera says it would be unwise to strain my genotype any more this year. On the bright side, I’ll fit into my old suit again, the one you like.”
“I would have expected you to at least let me know. You got beautifully fat, and I adjusted. Now you want to be so ridiculously thin again. What is going on with you?”

“Plenty, love. I’m really right in the middle of something. Can we finish talking about this tonight?”

“No, we cannot.” She was quiet a moment. “I think I need some time to reevaluate our dynamic. I’m going to stay with James and Olive for a while. Leave a message if you have anything useful to say.”

“Chantilly, I really wish you wouldn’t. We have things to discuss–”

The connection went silent.

“The reservations are in place,” said the cat girl, back in the air conditioned office. “Will there be anything else?”

Detlev waited a long time, staring at his shoes.

“Sorry,” he said, at last. “I’m going to have to cancel my wife’s ticket.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Grundig.” She smiled. The whiskers swayed.

“And change the return date. I’d like it flexible.”

“Not a problem.”

…

“Chantilly, it’s Det. I’m sorry about the weight. I should have told you, I suppose. I called to tell you I’m going off-planet for a couple of years, this Thursday. I’ll be on Luna for a few weeks, then off to Upsilon Andromedae A. I’ll tell the house all the details. I’d love it if you’d come with me. Or join me later. I’ve missed you.”

Detlev sauntered down Illinois Avenue the way he had once seen a pimp walk, in a comedy from the 2030s. The gene therapy reversal must be working. He was sure he was getting lighter.

© Darrin L. Rogers