The Immortality Virus

The Immortality Virus

By Christine Amsden

Twilight Times Books

Kingsport Tennessee

The Immortality Virus

This is a work of fiction. All concepts, characters and events portrayed in this book are used fictitiously and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Christine Amsden

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except brief extracts for the purpose of review, without the permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

Twilight Times Books

P O Box 3340

Kingsport TN 37664

http://twilighttimesbooks.com/

First Edition, June 2011

Cover art by Darrell Osborn

Electronically published in the United States of America.

The lobby of the Medicorp building loomed above Grace’s head like a majestic cavern, complete with holographic stalactites that almost perfectly imitated the age-old giants beneath the ground. Only the ridiculous notion of a skyscraper playing host to stalactites gave the ruse away; that and the recent popularity of cavern décor in buildings owned by people with too much money.

It was wasteful, Grace thought. Boastful and wasteful. But she had not come to this building to pass judgment. She did not know why she had come, actually. Every instinct in her told her that she was a fool to have agreed to this meeting.

The receptionist took quite some time verifying Grace’s identity and her appointment. Grace half expected them to turn her away, telling her there had been some kind of mistake, that Matthew Stanton, Jr. had not asked to see her that morning and she should leave before they called security. She wouldn’t blame them. Her skills were not exactly suited to Medicorp’s usual business.

“He’s expecting you,” the receptionist said. “Take the elevator to the thirtieth floor. I’ll buzz you through.”

The receptionist did not point to the set of elevators where dozens of people waited to go to their various jobs or appointments. Rather, she pointed to one that stood alone, with a large sign marked “PRIVATE” above faux-rock doors.

Grace nodded and headed for that elevator, which opened to reveal more cavern décor on a smaller scale. She stepped inside and shuddered as the doors closed, encapsulating her inside a space that felt a bit like a rocky grave. Or maybe that was just her overactive imagination.

Why had she agreed to come? The last thing she needed was to cross paths with The Establishment again. Mr. Stanton had told her she “would not have to worry about money,” but that only made her more nervous. Besides, she liked worrying about money. It was part of who she was.

So was curiosity. Her mother always told her it would kill her one day. Today might be that day, but she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t find out why the richest man in Kansas City had requested a meeting with a blacklisted private eye.

When the elevator doors slid open to reveal the thirtieth floor lobby, Grace managed to forget her worries long enough to gape at the lavish décor. It was so over the top that the word ostentatious sprang to mind. How much had been wasted on the holographic windows, the authentic-looking paintings, and the fountain? A dozen or so pedestals lined the walls, boasting different marble statues that Grace would have bet were originals.

A man in an expensive green on gray suit sat behind an executive desk in front of the only doorway on this floor. He motioned for Grace to cross the distance between them, and then pulled out an ID chip scanner. He did not say a word. His eyes and the scanner told her what he expected.

As Grace held out her left wrist for him to scan, she saw that this man used a better scanner than the receptionist below had used. The receptionist had compared Grace’s appearance with a picture programmed into the chip. This man’s scanner showed all the physical and medical data recorded on the chip and compared it with information collected by the building’s sensors.

“Thank you, Ms. Harper. Mr. Stanton will be available in a few minutes, if you would care to have a seat.”

Grace nodded and selected one of a half dozen chairs positioned along the wall. They overlooked holographic dreams of what the world outside might have looked like if it had not disintegrated into hell several centuries back. It was a bit showy, but Grace had to admit that it was also well done. Most of the time when she saw holograms like these they were inconsistent. They would either show the exact same picture through each window or they would each show a scene that had nothing to do with the next. This was far more convincing in its subtlety. Through one window she saw a view of a park, lush with trees, grass, and a handful of people walking, biking, or jogging. The next window showed the same scene at a slightly different angle.

For a moment, Grace tried to pretend the world really looked that way, but she could not pretend for long that these window scenes showed anything other than fantasy. It was the world that might have existed four hundred years ago, in the mid-twenty-first century. Now the park across the street had no trees, no grass, and no small number of people exercising in a carefree manner. The people who lived in the park now were crammed in elbow to elbow, using one another’s body heat to fend off the bitter January chill. A life like that couldn’t last long. Many died, especially this month, but the recyclers did a good job of removing the dead ones.

Somehow, despite all the deaths, their numbers never dwindled. Somewhere out there, a new mother would be giving birth to a baby with no chances and no hope.

An antique clock chimed nine times. Grace sub-vocalized, “Time,” and a moment later her portable unit, a thin silver bracelet plugged into her ID chip, replied, through her ear buds, “Nine oh two a.m.” The appointment had been set for nine o’clock, but Grace did not know what kind of man Mr. Stanton was. Would he be on time or late? In Grace’s experience, no one in a position of power was ever early.

Her thorough analysis of the floor and its holographic windows complete, Grace had nothing better to do than to continue to dwell on the upcoming meeting and what might have prompted Mr. Stanton to seek out a private investigator–especially one on The Establishment’s black list.

She knew that less than a month ago, the former CEO of Medicorp, Matthew Stanton Sr., had been killed in a stunning robbery. The stunning part was the fact that it had succeeded–rumor had it that the intruder had walked off with a brand new holosuit prototype that had not yet been released to the public.

None of which explained Mr. Stanton’s need for a private investigator. The police would be working tirelessly to find the killer of one of the elite. He would only need her if he thought the police were on the wrong track and unlikely to veer onto the right one.

Maybe the police even thought Mr. Stanton had something to do with it. Grace swallowed hard. The last thing she needed was to go head to head against the police.

Grace patted the gun strapped to her side. The state-of-the-art Smith and Wesson disruptor went with her wherever she went, though few ever tried to convince her to check her weapon at the door. Most people carried weapons. It was both their peril and their protection.

“Mr. Stanton will see you now,” the secretary said in a businesslike tone.

Grace noted the plaque on his desk that read “Lucas Smith” and thanked him by name before entering the enormous executive suite.

The suite had recently been remodeled. Grace could still smell the fresh paint: A strange shade of brown that was almost, but not quite, purple. The carpet was either brand new or made of some remarkable substance that never wore out.

The pictures in this room were not at all like the ones out in the lobby, which were meant to impress. The creators of these paintings–and they were paintings, not photographs–were not household names. The images depicted were all of a theme–human suffering. There was a man with a pike through his belly, a crowd of people on fire, and a group of people with peeling, blistered skin. The window scene of an overflowing park filled with hungry people fit in perfectly.

Then Grace realized that no holographic windows filtered this room from the outside world. She saw the park as it really was–teeming with people beyond counting.

A man stood in front of the window, resplendent in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit, his slightly thinning hair neatly combed back in a way that was regal without hiding the evidence of age.

An old timer.
Grace hadn’t realized that he was one of the few remaining people who had already been old when humanity stopped aging. Most people’s ages were impossible to guess past twenty-five, but for Mr. Stanton, his age was written all over his lined face.

Of course, Matthew Stanton Sr. had been an old timer. She remembered his bulging, lined eyes staring out at her from the news report of his death. It only made sense that his oldest son and heir was also an old timer, his face frozen in time at a slightly younger age than his father.

“Do you like the view?” Mr. Stanton asked by way of a greeting. He did not turn around.

“It’s honest,” Grace said. “I appreciate honesty.”

“I thought you would. That’s why I asked for you.” He turned then to reveal a distinguished, charming face. His blue eyes sparkled and his mouth fixed into a small smile. He strode toward her with long, confident steps and offered his hand. “I’m Matt Stanton.”

Grace took the hand. “Grace Harper. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Stanton.”

“Matt, please. My father was Mr. Stanton for over five hundred years. People only started calling me by that name a month ago.”

“Matt,” Grace said, though the name didn’t fit the image he put forth.

“Please, have a seat,” Matt said, motioning to a chair in front of his desk. He moved to a bar set into the wall and asked, “Something to drink?”

“Water, if you have it,” Grace said. She would not imbibe anything that might dull her reflexes.

“Smart choice,” Matt said, and surprised her by pouring himself a glass of water. He handed her one of the glasses and took a sip of his own, all the while remaining standing. It made Grace want to stand herself, but she had already accepted the seat and could not undo that now.

“Why did you call me here?” Grace asked. She remembered the newspaper headlines again and found herself wondering if, just maybe, Matt had killed his father. Accidents, murder, or disease were the only way for a person to die when age didn’t plunge them towards that fate. Perhaps Matt had been sick of waiting around for his father to step aside and leave control of Medicorp to him.

“Straight to business, then?”

Grace nodded. “You have to admit, this meeting is unusual.” She did not specifically mention the blacklist, but she was sure Matt would know what she meant. “Does this have anything to do with your father’s death?”

“My father?” Matt cocked his head to the side. “That was a terrible accident in the midst of a robbery. Once you get as old as we are, you begin to tempt fate every day just by being alive. Old age might not get to us, but accidents are inevitable. Besides, the police have already handled the investigation.”

“They found the killer?” Grace asked, confused. She would have heard. Besides, since the robber had successfully stolen a holosuit, it seemed unlikely that anyone would find him.

“Not yet, but our city has a fine police force, and I’m sure they’ll do their job admirably.”

Grace decided not to argue with the idea that the Kansas City police force was either “fine” or “admirable.” They would enthusiastically serve the rich, perhaps, but a madman could go on a shooting spree in the park, and they’d just call in the recyclers.

“Then why–?” Grace began.

“How old are you, Ms. Harper?”

“I’m sure you know,” Grace said. She suspected that this man knew quite a lot about her.

“Yes, but I’m trying to make you feel more comfortable.”

“I’m one hundred and thirty.”

“Still quite young, then,” Matt said. “The odds are still on your side. Although you chose a dangerous line of work.”

“Is there a safe line of work? This is what I’m good at.”