5 Billion Years Alone

By J E Murphy

In a not too distant future, the long dreamed of goal of immortality has become a reality, but only for the extremely wealthy. And even they can barely afford the annual maintenance. The rush is on to squeeze every bit of value from every resource, and all compassion is intentionally abandoned. That is until one of the immortals accidentally turns his compassion back on, and leads a revolution against his fellow immortals.

111,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Portraits of Earth Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386257479

J E Murphy

J E Murphy (Jim Murphy) is a retired network and computer analyst. He has spent much of his personal life in a comparative study of religions, and in pondering the nature of reality, humanity and what makes us human. His writing, while fast paced, and full of physical adventure, also explores the adventure of the mind and the soul.

Book preview

c-1 Termination of Employment

Some say the revolution began on the day I murdered my chauffeur, but I say murder is a very strong word. Murder implies illegality, as well as a lack of ethics, neither of which is true here. There was nothing illegal or sinister about my termination of my chauffeur.

I hated to do it, really, he was a very unusual man, and might have been the last living male of his kind.

He had simply gotten too old to be useful, and I did not want to turn him out on the street to beg for food or starve to death. I have found that when one turns out a servant, they simply hang around on one’s doorstep and will not go away. I suppose if I had taken him to a chamber, no one would have said anything, but I did not prefer that option. The screaming and crying of a servant who knows he is being terminated grates on my nerves. So, I simply came up quietly behind him and injected some of my blood into his carotid artery.

I had not always done it this way. The first person I had to put down, I did take to a termination chamber. It was a ghastly experience. The crying, the screaming, the name calling, and the struggling and attempts to escape—it was all I could do to subdue her. At the chamber facility, the organic assistants strapped her to a gurney, and wheeled her through some double doors. It was a relief to see her go, I suppose, but I could not get her out of my mind, as I still had some memory of compassion in those days. She had spent most of her life with me, but so has every organic servant since. An entire life to an organic is nothing more than a blip to a repandr, a season, a summer’s night when the mayflies come out and then are gone.

What will they do to her? I asked the receptionist. How do they put them down?

She looked bored at my question, but as I was a repandr, she had to answer. They will inject some repandr blood into her carotid artery. It’s pretty painless. It begins digesting the brain in seconds, and then it’s lights out.

That sounds expensive.

It doesn’t take much. Repandr blood is extremely lethal to humans. Especially in the brain. It turns it to mush.

I was too distraught, and too new at being a repandr to take offense at her distinction of organics as humans, implying that repandrs were not. 

After that first termination, I took what I learned and applied it myself. I would mold my finger into a slender needle, nip the end off with my teeth, and stick it without warning into the carotid artery of the person to be terminated. A few squeezes of my fist, and the deed was done. Although the repandr body is capable of some remodeling in this way, it sees it as an injury, so it is always painful, as well as temporary. However, I considered it to be worthwhile, not only for the cost savings, but for the avoidance of embarrassing emotional outbursts.

Was it a coincidence that I terminated my chauffeur on that day? Perhaps not. I was feeling strange and he was acting strangely. I kept seeing things from the corner of my eye, but when I turned, there was nothing there. I would think I saw movement out the window, but again, nothing there. I thought I heard things as well, obscure and faint conversations, as if from a distant room. All of this was making me feel very out of sorts, and the fact that the chauffeur was watching me so closely made me irritable and caused me to focus my attention on him. Why wasn’t he out polishing the hover-car? He could be checking the notron gun alignment. Anything except peering at me. Were his eyes going bad, I wondered. Lack of perfect eyesight was undesirable in a chauffeur. I noticed his hair was turning grey, a sign of age in organics. What good was an aging, blind chauffeur? I made a decision that it was time to get a new one. Rather than visit the schools of servility before termination, I made a decision to avoid the questions, the denials, the recriminations, the bargaining, and just put him out of his misery. Once a decision is made, there is no point in dithering over it. That is not how I got to be one of the wealthiest repandrs on the planet.

I still had Jeeves to drive me around until I could indenture a new chauffeur. Jeeves was my loyal valet. He was the only one who had access to my sleeping quarters. I had a butler as well, but his job was to supervise the other servants, while Jeeves had the task of fulfilling my every whim. Such is the life of a repandr. We exist as role models for those who wish to become repandrs. All repandrs live in great mansions with many servants. You will never see a repandr acting as a servant, or doing any other menial job. They absolutely cannot live that way; the mansions and servants are the least of a repandrs expenses.

As the day progressed and I made my daily stock trades, I became increasingly aware of the strange visual and audio affects. I found them quite distracting. By nighttime, I was on the brink of terminating Jeeves as well.

The next morning, the problem having persisted, I asked Jeeves to drive me to the analyst for a checkup. Jeeves does not normally drive, but, of course, the chauffeur had been retired already, and so Jeeves did not present any arguments. Repandrs do not drive themselves; it would be seen as a sign of financial weakness by other repandrs, who likely would seek ways to strip said repandr of his market holdings, resulting, of course, in his demise.

Jeeves parked the hover-car in the deck, and I chided him for making me walk unnecessary feet to the people mover. He looked as if he might faint, and I reminded myself that he had just lost a fellow employee. Nobody wants to be fired, so I explained that my remarks were simply on-the-job-training, and that I was otherwise very happy with his work.

There were no other repandrs in sight within the maintenance facility, or, as organics would probably think of it, the hospital. Repandrs rarely needed to come to the facility, and any repandrs in the facility would likely be out of sight and plugged into an analyzer. The staff are all organics. Repandrs only work with money, politics, or large corporations. They never work for wages.

In the examination room, the analyst asked me to describe my symptoms.

I see things and hear things.

What sorts of things? People? Animals? Objects?

People, mainly, or people shapes. They are not distinct at all. I might see a bit of shadow out of the corner of my eye, or even a bit of light, but when I look directly at the spot, there is nothing there.

What makes you think they are people instead of just the play of light in a room?

They are ghostly images that seem to move from point to point in my peripheral vision. They are mainly in the general form of people, but not always. But like I said, I can’t look at them directly without them disappearing, so I can’t give a good description. Anyway, what is the point of the question? These are hallucinations; I know that. The question is what is causing them?

What about the voices? Do they tell you to do anything?

No. I can’t even understand them. It is like I am in an apartment next to a big party, and everyone at the party is from some foreign country.

You never understand any of it?

Well, maybe a word or two here and there? But again, what is the point of this question? I came here to find out why I am hallucinating and to make the hallucinations stop, not to find out what my hallucinations are saying.

These are just standard questions, the analyst said. Have you taken a fall lately, or been around any strong acids?

No, not at all. I simply woke up this way.

Do you sleep in an induction bed?

Doesn’t everybody?

No, actually. It is just a convenient way to pass the time and let your thoughts untangle. Who has access to your bedroom besides yourself?

My valet, of course.

Anyone else?

No.

Where is your valet now?

In the parking deck with the car.

Really? Do you not have a chauffeur?

I did. I just recently terminated him.

For what reason?

Old age. General infirmities.

No behavioral issues?

No. He had always been a very good chauffeur. Why are you asking about him? He’s not the one hallucinating.

No reason in particular. We just like to make sure there hasn’t been any domestic quarreling.

There hasn’t. All my servants love working for me.

Of course. Maarten, please let me plug this cable into your access port, he said. We will perform a thorough diagnostic.

I went by the name of Maarten O’Toole. My repandr serial number was MAR-1002-ELL. As you surely know, one must have a unique name on the Nev, and the name Marten O’Toole was already taken. Also, I like the double ‘a’. It makes people open their mouths wider when they say my name, and makes me less forgettable, I think. A repandr needs every bit of advantage when dealing with other repandrs.

All of this could have been done across the Nev, except for the reason that it was against the law. Our lawmakers, all repandrs, had decreed that not only was it illegal for personal repandr information to go across the Nev, but that it was also illegal to access that information except through a physical connection, and that only a repandr could plug himself into any data access equipment, and then, only in a secure and known Andro-Idiom environment. This was because the entire world economic system was based on keeping all financial information secure and safe from tampering or unauthorized reading, and exposing a repandr mind, with all of its financial authorization codes, was simply too dangerous, not just to the repandr, but to world financial order.

As the diagnostic program ran, the results began to scroll up the analyst’s monitor. My repandr brain processed this information much more quickly than the organic analyst could understand it.

Jeebus in a frock coat! the clinician exclaimed. Before the words were even out of his mouth, I had leaped out of my chair for the door.

I crashed through the wooden doorway, leaving the diagnostic cable hanging in midair, and barely missing being cleaved in half by the steel security door as it slammed down from the ceiling. I charged at full speed through the hallway, accidentally killing a few organic employees along the way, but that was no matter, I had more important things on my mind, and there were no major legal ramifications for a repandr killing organics anyway.

I was furiously trying to access my financial accounts as I ran so that I could convert the funds into anonymous Nevshekels, but the accounts were all being shut down more rapidly than I could withdraw the funds. At the elevator, instead of doing the polite thing and waiting for the doors to open, I wrenched them apart and jumped into the open shaft. The elevator car was a few floors below me, and I crashed through the roof into the middle of some terrified organics. I jumped up and down on the floor until I had opened a new hole and I dropped the few hundred feet to the basement. I bent one of my legs in the landing, but I knew it would soon repair itself.

After smashing through a guard of organic security officers, I made my way to the parking deck, where I was just in time to see my valet chased down and shot by the local organic police. I had no time to think about what this was about, but needless to say, he could no longer offer me any assistance.

Thinking quickly, I reentered the elevator shaft and climbed the steel cables back up to the car, which was still descending. Some of the organics in the car had not yet died from my previous violent assault, so I dispatched them quickly and lay down with them, covering the grease on my clothes and hands with their bright red blood.

When the door opened, I groaned, holding my bent leg as if it were broken, and pointed to the hole in the floor. Some of the organics pulled me out, while others peered down the hole to see if the mad repandr was still down there somewhere.

They called an ambulance for me and carried me out on a stretcher, but, on the way to the organic medical facility, I rolled out the back door and darted up a filthy alley before the organics could see which way I had gone.

I regretted all the violence. This was definitely beyond the bounds of proper etiquette, and there could be lawsuits if I managed to survive. Yet, my algorithm, my desire, if you will, for continued existence had claimed priority, and all the destruction was simply a result of that. And all of this simply because of what the analyst and I had seen on the monitor screen: Someone had tampered with my programming, and this had not only put me at risk, but the whole world as well.

c-2 Singularity

I had suddenly, and unexpectedly, become a hunted individual. I had committed no crime, but now I was a possible tool for criminal activity, perhaps in ways unknown to me. I had seen in my diagnostics report that someone had somehow made alterations in my software, my mind. What these changes were, exactly, I did not know, but the tampering had caused me to start seeing and hearing things that were not there.

But what was I to do now? Fortunately, I had some emergency funds in an anonymous Nevshekel account, but I had been locked out of all of my other funds. Not only could I not continue to pay for maintenance, but if caught, I would be analyzed to the point of destruction to find out how the tampering had occurred. I was off the grid, I had decided.

Other repandrs before me had gone off the grid on purpose, but they had taken their money with them. Other than coming in for annual blood replacement, for which they paid cash, they lived anonymous existences. It was for the purpose of allowing this anonymity that laws had been passed forbidding the tracking of repandrs. If I was not careful, the paranoid government could tell what I was doing on the Nev, but, because Nev addressing had no locality, they had no way to physically pinpoint me unless I showed up in one of their cameras.

I needed to find the perpetrators of this crime and find out what they had done to me, and how. Perhaps then I could undo the damage, make a report to the authorities, and get a clean bill of health showing I was no longer a threat to world order. The big question was how the criminals gained access to me. No one but Jeeves was allowed access to my reset facility inside my otherwise very secure mansion. Jeeves had been with me for thirty years and was very loyal, or so I thought. Had he allowed strangers into my inner chambers? He had gone home to visit his mother last year. Perhaps he had made contacts there. Perhaps he had been compromised. There was no way to ask him about that now, as he had been foolishly exterminated by the organic police without benefit of questioning.

I hobbled out onto the sidewalk and flagged down a passenger car for hire. The driver pulled over and I got into the back seat.

Do you happen to have any knowledge of an organic valet named Jeeves? I asked him.

He sat suddenly upright at the words, looked in the rear-view video and then bolted from the vehicle.

Watching him run down the street, I puzzled at my mistake. Perhaps organics did not call each other by that term. Perhaps he had heard about Jeeves retirement, or perhaps about a rogue repandr recently escaped from a facility. Or perhaps he was simply one of those organics who had a phobia about repandrs, strange as that might seem. Repandrs are fairly easy to spot, being that we are all tall and unusually good looking. One look at me probably would have tipped off a good driver. Whatever had spooked him, he probably would not go to the police. Organics rarely interface with androids voluntarily; the results are never predictable.

I exited the back seat and climbed into the driver position, studying the controls for hints of how to operate the vehicle. It had been so long since I had driven a vehicle that the last one I had managed had rolled about on rubber wheels instead of highly-charged molecules of air. As I studied the controls, I also longed for the good old days of self-driven cars. They had been phased out for the good of the economy, as had most automation. It had been determined, and rightly so, that it was better to keep organics employed than to have them marching on Congress and demanding the vote. It had been suggested by one lawmaker that organics simply be exterminated, but the Office of Finance and Liquidity had determined that organics were a necessary, if unpleasant, part of the world economy. He explained that without the organics, who would buy the things that were made in the factories owned by repandrs, and who would work in the factories to make those things?

As I poked around on the various knobs and sliders, it also occurred to me that my valet’s name had not actually been Jeeves. Jeeves was more of a title than a name. I began to search my essentially infinite memory for information about Jeeves. My data storage is quantum based, and the limits of it have not been found. However, this, in its way is limiting. In my long lifespan as a repandrs, and especially in the early years, I had dumped all sorts of useless information into that bottomless pit, thinking that someday I would be happy to see it again. Now it was merely clutter, and it takes time to search through clutter. No matter how fast your processors are, you still have to look at each item.

After a few minutes the vehicle’s radio spoke to me. Talk to me Rodano. Why are you parked? Time is money. Are you having some problemos?

Manacles! I should have known there was some system for monitoring these for-hire vehicles. The police would probably be here shortly. I exited the hover-car and began walking. I could actually run as fast as a street vehicle but a bent-legged man running that fast was bound to attract attention.

Time is money, the organic had said through the vehicle’s speaker. The organics lived lives of desperation, like vermin. Although many had good incomes, which they were saving to one day pay for a repandr body, most had to work constantly to earn money to pay for daily food, shelter, and other necessities of life. Perhaps I could pay some organic to help me find Jeeves’ family. I did not have much money left, but it was still much more than available to any organic I thought.

I had finally dredged up some information on Jeeves from the vast universe of trivia stored in my quanta banks. His real name was Vico. Vico Perkaset. His mother, Anita, had co-signed his indenture papers when he was a teenager. At that time, Anita still lived with her mother, Molly, in a part of the world of which I was not familiar. She had given her address as BHHS, Ever Hell, Lanjolese, Cowafornica. Now I needed to find someone who could help me get to Ever Hell in the town of Lanjolese, wherever that was, and see if Anita Perkaset could shed any light on what had happened to me. I hobbled off down the street.

c-3 Those Meme Streets

Up ahead I could see a couple of police androids standing on the street corner. Androids are easy to spot. Although they can pass for organics at first glance, except for being larger than average, their behavior gives them away. They either stare straight ahead, or their heads move quickly in the direction of objects needing closer attention. All this while standing stiff as lampposts. Android police are thugs. They are really only useful for squelching the riots that start up in the organic ghettos from time to.

The androids had to be looking for me. Crime between organics was usually handled by organic policemen; what organics did to each other had little bearing on repandrs. On the other hand, crimes between repandrs were usually settled in an online repandr court. But crimes by organics against repandrs was often dealt with by non-repurposed androids. They were easily identified by their blank stares and lack of normal movement. Also, the newer models were a little larger than typical repandrs. A repandr who did not want to be arrested could not be easily stopped by organics without the use of explosives. A pair of repandrs or androids would have more success, and it was safer to send androids, as they did not have bank accounts or civil rights.

Androids would be looking for facial patterns to make an identification. They had limited logic of their own, compared to a repandr, or even an organic, so it would probably not occur to them to look for a bent legged repandr who might have fallen several stories and had blood and grease on his clothes, but would instead be scanning for my facial features. I quickly remolded my face with my hands and continued to hobble toward them. The remolding was painful, and I am strongly averse to pain, but worse than pain was the thought that I might end up as no more than forensic evidence in an investigator’s lab. My face would eventually return to the shape I had originally chosen, just as my leg would eventually straighten out, but it was a sufficient disguise for now. Our police system was just not adequately prepared to deal with a runaway outlaw repandr. It is possible that I was the first one in existence.

The androids’ lack of concern for organic affairs became more obvious as I approached. I could hear sounds of a struggle coming from around the corner, and as I made the turn past the ancient brown-brick building, I saw two organics fighting for possession of a briefcase. They continued to tug at the case but watched me warily as I approached, as if suspicious of my motives. It was apparent to them that the androids were not going to help sort this out, but they did not know what I was about. I quickly closed the distance and stuck a finger into each of their ribs.

These are guns, I said. Don’t make me use them.

No, they’re not, one of them disputed. I know a finger in my ribs when I feel one.

I took a chance that they would not know the androids were looking for me. It doesn’t matter. I am a repandr, I said in a low voice, so if you don’t want to die here, turn and walk down to the next alley.

The disputatious one let go of the briefcase with one hand and slammed his fist into my face. He immediately let go of the briefcase with the other hand so that he could rub his newly damaged hand with it. Jeebus in manacles! he groaned.

Told you, I said. Now get walking.

I glanced behind me, but the androids had not even turned around. Stupid machines.

In the alley, I took the briefcase. OK, then, who is the rightful owner of this?

It is mine. This was the one who had not hit me. He was wearing more formal attire than the disputatious one, so I tended to believe him.

I have just as much right to it as him, said the other one. He was still holding his hand in pain, and his clothes were rubbed thin and rough around the edges, so I tended not to believe him.

What’s in it? I asked them.

I don’t know, said Nice Clothes, shrugging.

Suddenly, I didn’t believe him either.

It’s money, said Rough Clothes. Lots of money. And it is owed to me.

Now, I believed him, at least partly. What is your name? I asked him.

Ganji, he answered. Ganji Labradoro. I did some work for his boss, and he didn’t pay me. I’ve been waiting for a chance to get even.

What’s his boss’s name?

I don’t know. Nobody does. He’s off the grid.

What’s the money for? I asked Nice Clothes.

I don’t know.

I don’t think you know anything. I think I should terminate you right here.

It’s his annual payment, Nice Clothes said.

How does that work? You give them his serial number or something?

That would be rather stupid, wouldn’t it? He is anonymous and wants to stay that way.

So, tell me.

The Transfusion Control Office gives me a token with a code on it. He can use the token at a private maintenance station for the transfusion. It’s not traceable.

How about if you make the payment and bring the token to me?

For starters, my boss would kill me. Why don’t you use your own money? All repandrs are rich as Jeebus.

For starters, if you don’t do it, I will kill you. Also, I am asking the questions around here.

OK, then. How’s this? If I give you the token, he will kill both of us.

I would kill you sooner.

I don’t think so. There would be a big fine, and then my boss would come looking for you.

You see these clothes? I asked. This is not my blood. Repandr blood is grey.

He looked me up and down as if he had not had time to think about this before. Manacles! You’re the repandr that killed all those people this morning! Jeebus in a leather coat! Why would you kill all those innocent people?

I had a very logical reason; just like now.

Ganji spoke up. I’ll do it, he said.

I turned to look at Ganji, and Nice Clothes chose that moment to make a break for it.

Help, help! he screamed. Help! Maniac rep . . .

I caught him in two steps and clamped my hand over his mouth. I didn’t want any more organic blood on my clothes, so I squeezed my index finger into a long needle-like shape and bit the tip off of it. I jammed this into his carotid artery and milked some of my blood into his. His eyes grew wide with fright. He had obviously heard about the results of any sort of repandr to organic transfusion.

Repandr blood is not blood at all. It is a grey, pearlescent fluid that has multiple purposes in the repandr body. It lubricates and repairs; it defends against foreign bodies, and it digests any organic matter it encounters and turns it into fuel for the body. This is why repandrs eat and drink the same things that organics do. We could even digest wood, if we had to, but why go to all that trouble when there are great chefs and sommeliers in the world. Wood has a very woody taste.

When repandr blood enters the blood stream of an organic, it immediately begins to digest every type of protein it encounters. The effect is much like being bitten by a giant rattlesnake, except it is worse, as the digestion process continues far longer than any venom. However, when it is injected into the carotid, it begins digesting the brain in seconds, and, as the brain has no nerves for pain, it is a very humane death. I do not understand why anyone would complain.

When Nice Clothes quit spasming, I laid him down on the pavement and turned back to Ganji.

You’ll take the money to get me a transfusion token?

On two conditions, he replied shakily. One is you promise not to kill me.

I wouldn’t have killed him, I pointed to the new corpse, except he was going to rat me out. What’s the other condition?

Pay me.

I don’t have a lot of money at the moment.

You have a briefcase full.

That is the exact amount of money required to purchase a transfusion token. If I give some of it to you, there won’t be enough left.

If you’re a repandr, why aren’t you rich?

Bad luck. Just like you. Without this money, I can’t get a transfusion. Without a transfusion, I will die. I’m sure you appreciate my situation.

Then take it. I don’t want to be a murderer.

What did you need the money for?

I’m about to starve to death. I’m also about to get kicked out of my apartment, and I can’t find work, all because of a bad repandr reference.

How much money do you need for all of that?

He told me, and it was a ridiculously tiny sum.

I can afford that. Let’s find a restaurant. But first, I want to get out of these bloody clothes. I think I should dress nice if we are going to dine out."

I stripped the clothes off the dead organic and put them on, giving him mine in return.

We found a shabby little restaurant where no one would ever look for a repandr. I told Ganji to order whatever he wanted.

While he ate, I asked him, How would you like to come to work for me?

I thought you were broke.

I can’t get to most of my funds, so I couldn’t afford a transfusion until now, but I could probably pay you enough of a salary to keep you happy.

What’s the job?

Personal valet.

I don’t know how to do that.

That’s the opening I have.

What would I have to do?

Whatever I say.

What if I don’t do what you say?

Then the contract is broken, and I will quit paying you.

Is that all?

You would also lose other benefits of the contract.

Such as?

While you are under contract to me, I would feel a personal obligation not to kill you.

Really? Why is that?

Because, until retirement age, you would be on my books as an investment, and killing you would constitute an economic loss. Killing you would be illogical. All of your training would be for nothing.

This is not the most enticing recruitment speech I have ever heard.

Do you hear a lot of them?

No. I guess not. You wouldn’t ask me to do anything kinky would you?

Kinky?

Sexual.

Jeebus, no! I haven’t had sex in two-hundred years.

Really?

It never even crosses my mind.

OK, then. We have a deal.

Good. Let’s go to your apartment. I need a place to hide out and think.

Mainly, I needed to consider my own mental deterioration. For the past two-hundred years, not only had I not had sex, but I had avoided all use of modern expletives and profanity. Now that I was among the riffraff, I found myself cursing just as they did. The Kirch (Church) of Jeebus and Maggie was something I knew of, but of which I had no interest, as I personally disdained all superstitions, and tried not to reference them in my speech. In addition, I considered all cursing to be pointless and beneath my position, yet now, here I was cursing like an organic, as well as robbing couriers on the street. I had much to contemplate.

c-4 Tortilla Flats

We had to walk up five flights of stairs to get to the floor where Ganji lived. This was not a problem for me, but Ganji had to carry two plastic milk jugs of water up the dark stairs to his room in order to have something to drink, and something with which to flush the toilet. As the sun had now set, the only light came from the sign out in the parking lot that advertised the place as Tortilla Flats. He said the building had not had electricity for years because it was not affordable. I had difficulty understanding this, as electricity was one of the cheapest things in my regular stack of bills.

I could see quite well in the yellowish gloom, although Ganji had to feel his way around a bit. He opened the back of the toilet, which was