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Authors: Jason Werbeloff
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check my availability,
please.”
“Could do Friday next.”
“Excellent,” says Inesa.
“But …” Paul is fading to a paler blue by
the minute. Droplets dot his forehead. “I just can’t live with the
thought of this hanging over me for the next ten days. I just …” He
swallows. “I just can’t.”
I reach out a hand and touch the man’s
shoulder. His golf shirt is saturated. “Not to worry, sir. A memory
wipe is included. You’ll never know you were here.” I offer him my
warmest smile. Janet calls it the Big Daddy. “In fact, you may’ve
been here before, and you wouldn’t know.”
Paul eyeballs me. “Have we been here
before?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” I wink again.
Paul’s brow furrows.
“How much for the gas leak?” Inesa asks.
“Well, it’s a double. I charge three times
the single fee, with the complications and all. That’ll be …” I jab
on my ancient calculator for effect. “A hundred and sixteen
thousand.”
Paul bolts upright.
“But for you,” I add, “a ten percent
discount.”
“How do we know,” Paul says, watching me
sideways, “that we haven’t paid for this before? If you wiped our
memories, you could be double charging us.” He raises his voice.
“Hell, we may have been here multiple times.”
I sigh internally. “The memory wiper only
works once, sir. If I try to wipe your memory of this meeting, and
you’ve met with me before, it won’t work.”
Inesa nods. Satisfied. Paul slumps back into
his chair. She grips his arm. “It’s a small price to pay, darling.
Just think … when they thaw us in twenty years, imagine what your
savings will be worth.”
That seems to sway him. “You sure it won’t
hurt?”
I chuckle. “You’ll be dead before you know
it.”
Inesa’s cheeks bunch into a perfectly
dimpled smile. “Oh Paul, isn’t this exciting!”
An hour later, Paul’s cash locked away in the top
drawer, I walk the couple to the door. “Now remember to have an
early night. You’ll wake up in the morning with a hangover, but
you’ll recall nothing of this meeting. It’s important you tell
nobody about this before the memory wipe takes effect. The Cryo
Bureau have ears everywhere. If they get wind of this … you don’t
want that.”
“Of course,” says Inesa, “we won’t say a
thing. Will we darling?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Good. And thank you for using Life
Extensions Ltd.”
I close the door behind them with a
tinkle.
“Tough sell,” says Janet, not looking up
from her screen. “I thought the husband was gonna pull out.”
“You doubted me?”
She finds my gaze. “I don’t know how you do
it. How you convince them to … you know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” It’s not
the first time I’ve said this. “Even if it’s illegal.”
“Yes, but …”
I give her a stern look.
“Alright.” Her tone returns to business, as
she hands me my moleskin folder. “You’ve got a stroke at two-thirty
– Mr. Oglevy. Dr. Hanfan called to say the butter’s ready.”
I swipe my coat and hat from the dumb
waiter. But I turn back to her before I leave. “One day, you’ll
want a New Year’s special too, Janet.”
Janet’s hand shoots to the chain around her
neck.
I thumb the moleskin as I step to the car. Strokes
are tricky, and Mr. Oglevy had requested one specially. “My dad had
one,” he’d said. “And his father.”
The man’s right. Genetic predispositions are
a good strategy for avoiding the coroner’s gaze. The Cryo Bureau
hardly investigates them. No, what their systems flag are unusual
deaths. Untimely demises.
I open the door to the old Buick, and flop
into the worn leather. The door closes with a comforting clang . They don’t make car doors like they used to. Nowadays
they shut with the thwunk of cheap rubber and plastic. But
not my Buick. The engine roars into life.
I place the open folder on the passenger
seat. Tod Oglevy’s myopic eyes regard me from behind
please.”
“Could do Friday next.”
“Excellent,” says Inesa.
“But …” Paul is fading to a paler blue by
the minute. Droplets dot his forehead. “I just can’t live with the
thought of this hanging over me for the next ten days. I just …” He
swallows. “I just can’t.”
I reach out a hand and touch the man’s
shoulder. His golf shirt is saturated. “Not to worry, sir. A memory
wipe is included. You’ll never know you were here.” I offer him my
warmest smile. Janet calls it the Big Daddy. “In fact, you may’ve
been here before, and you wouldn’t know.”
Paul eyeballs me. “Have we been here
before?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” I wink again.
Paul’s brow furrows.
“How much for the gas leak?” Inesa asks.
“Well, it’s a double. I charge three times
the single fee, with the complications and all. That’ll be …” I jab
on my ancient calculator for effect. “A hundred and sixteen
thousand.”
Paul bolts upright.
“But for you,” I add, “a ten percent
discount.”
“How do we know,” Paul says, watching me
sideways, “that we haven’t paid for this before? If you wiped our
memories, you could be double charging us.” He raises his voice.
“Hell, we may have been here multiple times.”
I sigh internally. “The memory wiper only
works once, sir. If I try to wipe your memory of this meeting, and
you’ve met with me before, it won’t work.”
Inesa nods. Satisfied. Paul slumps back into
his chair. She grips his arm. “It’s a small price to pay, darling.
Just think … when they thaw us in twenty years, imagine what your
savings will be worth.”
That seems to sway him. “You sure it won’t
hurt?”
I chuckle. “You’ll be dead before you know
it.”
Inesa’s cheeks bunch into a perfectly
dimpled smile. “Oh Paul, isn’t this exciting!”
An hour later, Paul’s cash locked away in the top
drawer, I walk the couple to the door. “Now remember to have an
early night. You’ll wake up in the morning with a hangover, but
you’ll recall nothing of this meeting. It’s important you tell
nobody about this before the memory wipe takes effect. The Cryo
Bureau have ears everywhere. If they get wind of this … you don’t
want that.”
“Of course,” says Inesa, “we won’t say a
thing. Will we darling?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Good. And thank you for using Life
Extensions Ltd.”
I close the door behind them with a
tinkle.
“Tough sell,” says Janet, not looking up
from her screen. “I thought the husband was gonna pull out.”
“You doubted me?”
She finds my gaze. “I don’t know how you do
it. How you convince them to … you know.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” It’s not
the first time I’ve said this. “Even if it’s illegal.”
“Yes, but …”
I give her a stern look.
“Alright.” Her tone returns to business, as
she hands me my moleskin folder. “You’ve got a stroke at two-thirty
– Mr. Oglevy. Dr. Hanfan called to say the butter’s ready.”
I swipe my coat and hat from the dumb
waiter. But I turn back to her before I leave. “One day, you’ll
want a New Year’s special too, Janet.”
Janet’s hand shoots to the chain around her
neck.
I thumb the moleskin as I step to the car. Strokes
are tricky, and Mr. Oglevy had requested one specially. “My dad had
one,” he’d said. “And his father.”
The man’s right. Genetic predispositions are
a good strategy for avoiding the coroner’s gaze. The Cryo Bureau
hardly investigates them. No, what their systems flag are unusual
deaths. Untimely demises.
I open the door to the old Buick, and flop
into the worn leather. The door closes with a comforting clang . They don’t make car doors like they used to. Nowadays
they shut with the thwunk of cheap rubber and plastic. But
not my Buick. The engine roars into life.
I place the open folder on the passenger
seat. Tod Oglevy’s myopic eyes regard me from behind
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