“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.
He paused at this point. He’d said what he had to say, but the message seemed incomplete. More a sermon than a farewell. But sometimes sermons worked.
And farewells … well, they were never less than awkward.
He saved the message, then returned to the lab, where the preparation was complete. A tincture-size amount of concentrated NOK remained in the flask. He decanted this into a bottle equipped with a spray head, then took it to the cargo bay.
The HUBIES seemed instantly alert to his presence. As he approached, their delicate nasal hoods retracted, their nostrils quivered, and their eyes swung like pendulums, then centered on him. The air felt charged. Even the Ooi, ever mute and mysterious, seemed to be holding its breath.
He administered his potion to the HUBIES. Sprayed each of their nostrils inside and out, until they were saturated. Repeated this, emptying the bottle, then moved a respectful distance away to wait.
It didn’t take long. Their bodies were pint-sized. The potion was concentrated. First their eyelids drifted shut, then their chests stopped moving, then their hearts stopped beating, then they were dead.
He said a prayer. Emotionally, he felt raw and nearly spent. He unfastened their harnesses, and one by one took them down. He cradled each in his arms, as he himself would not be, then tenderly tucked them into the bed they’d arrived in. Their womb was now their coffin. He closed and secured the lid, lifted the case, then headed to the door. Then paused.
He couldn’t leave without a parting word for their inscrutable visitor. He wished it had seen fit to be less opaque. He laid his palm on it a final time, thanking it for what it had been, what it was. Then he turned, and HUBIES in hand, left the bay.
The space suit was next. Getting into it was a workout; the boots, next to impossible. His back and fingers fought him every step of the way. He had to stop to catch his breath. At one point he thought he was going to faint.
If living was a chore, preparing to die was worse.
He considered going without the boots, going without anything, leaving life as he had entered it, naked and exposed. This was the last time he’d be dressing, the last time doing that most human of acts, clothing himself. Death was a journey of farewells. Internally, a shutting down; externally, a series of separations. He was no fashionista, hardly cared what he wore, but he did like a good pair of socks, and on occasion, a nice warm sweater, and it grieved him to part forever with those.
The space suit was bulky. He felt mildly claustrophobic. Worse once he got the helmet on and locked in place. Started breathing fast; heart started racing. Chest felt tight, like it was caught in a vise. He couldn’t seem to get any air, and began to panic.
He tore his helmet off, and immediately felt better. Waited out the attack, then tried again.
The second time was an improvement. Barely a whisper of distress. Instead, he felt a flutter of excitement as he entered the airlock. The call from Laura Gleem had sidetracked him, but now he was nearly there.
His plans had changed slightly. He wouldn’t be alone. The HUBIES would be with him. Attaching their carrying case to his jetpack took time and also ingenuity. It was large and bulky, but eventually he got it strapped on and secure. A minor adjustment for him, though likely a real head-scratcher to anyone who happened to come across them in the future. Not that anyone would: a speck of a speck of a speck in infinite space. But if. If. What would they think?
A signal of some kind? A fugitive? A messenger? A traveling salesman, haplessly—fatally—thrown off course?
It made him smile to think of himself as a puzzle for someone else to solve. Wished he could be there.
He closed and locked the inside hatch. The flutter of excitement persisted. So maybe not excitement, or not only. Ignoring it, he propelled himself to the outer door.
Through its porthole he could see a wedge of Earth, its far horizon limned with the sliver of approaching sunrise. The Milky Way was resplendent, not yet erased. He felt a fullness in his heart. Then, unexpectedly, a lurch, followed by a scary pause, then a pain unlike any he’d ever felt.
He grabbed his chest, broke into a drenching sweat. Couldn’t seem to get his breath. His arms and legs felt leaden.
An alarm went off somewhere.
Thank goodness, he thought. Thank goodness for alarms and reminders. He’d been remiss. He was grateful for the warning to set things right.
Everything was happening fast. Memories, faces, and sensations flew by and blurred. One moment he seemed to have all the time in the world, the next not an instant to spare. The alarm continued, loud and insistent.
A warning? Maybe not. In fact, it seemed to be more of an announcement.
His heart was giving out.
He was dying. Could that possibly be right?
Dying on the way to kill himself? Dying on the doorstep? Before he was ready? Before he could realize his plans? Caught with his pants down, fated to be frozen forever in the act, the purgatory, of almost there.