Copyright ©1994 1995 David F. Norman
All Rights Reserved
Five Hundred Years Ain't Really All That Long!
(Primetime)
Bill Ball was feeling poorly lately. He knew he should probably go to The Place and get better. Somehow, he just hadn't been able to find the time. Hell, he'd only been here for seventy-five years, or was it closer to a hundred years? He was pretty s ure he hadn't been to The Place since he had come here from the Old West. There was still so much to do: battles to be fought; women to be loved (a new young thing only yesterday); and a whole planet to be ruled.
Bollocks--he had named the planet on a whim; it was his planet--wasn't really all that big. Bill could fly around the whole thing in a couple of hours. But there was always something new to see and do. New dangers were around every corner. A new adve nture every day kept him on his toes. He loved it. Lately, however, he had been thinking about making a Change. A man shouldn't have to worry about all this stuff all the time. Maybe after he....
"Now what the hell was I thinking?"
"Maybe I do need to go to The Place," he mused to himself. "When I start forgetting, I need some fixing."
Making up his mind to go as soon as he took care of that new girl again did something about that young upstart. Tell the truth, the young guy scared him a little-- Bill headed toward the clearing where he knew the girl would be. One thing about it: he always knew just where to find anybody or anything on Bollocks. Sure enough, the girl was waiting. So was his young nemesis.
"Get the hell away from her, punk!" Bill snarled. "Or go for that gun you are wearing."
Not giving the kid a chance, Bill drew as he spoke. The kid's gun fouled in his holster, but Bill never slowed his draw. As the bullets struck the kid dead center in the chest as always, Bill placed one shot after the other into the same hole. For so me reason, this one didn't die cleanly and shrivel away. The man on the ground made terrible sounds and began top crawl toward the girl. From the corner of his eye, Bill could see the girl recoil in horror as he fired a dozen more shots--this time aimin g for the head.
That did it. The bullet-riddled body was suddenly still and silent. Bill watched as it began to dry into dust. In a few seconds, all that remained in the clearing were Bill, the weeping girl, and the bright rags that had been the kid's clothes.
All at once, Bill realized that the feeling of elation that had always followed on the heels of a successful battle--even if he had won by ambush--simply wasn't there. Instead of the lust and rush which usually meant rough, abandoned sex with whoever wa s nearby, Bill felt a deep sense of disgust and self-loathing. He glanced at the girl and then looked back again, just in time to see her fade and vanish. Obviously, Bill had other things on his mind. A vast exhaustion swept over him and he decided to take a nap. After he rested he would make his way to The Place. Something was wrong.
(Real Time)
The technician checked the gauges and readouts as he heard the recorder relay click off. He checked the storage reel; it was still good for a few more hours of real time and a few more weeks of Primetime.
"Sixty-two is showing some distress", he advised the shift supervisor.
"Just log it and forget it," replied the bored Chief Technician. "You know the rules. If he doesn't request it, we can't do a thing. He's about done anyway. The last year, his ratings have dropped of to the point where he's not paying for his keep. Who wants to watch him screw and kill all the time? After all, this isn't the 1990's. People want real excitement and adventure. This guy thinks he's what-sis-name Jones."
The younger technician opened his mouth to say something and thought better of it and just nodded his head.
"Don't worry about him. He'll probably make a request before you get off watch."
The Chief Technician was wrong. The request didn't come until midway on his next shift. Bill Ball was really asleep.
(Primetime)
Bill woke feeling better with the episode of the girl and the kid he had killed only a faded memory. If he didn't know better, he would have thought it was all just a bad dream. He pulled some peaches off the tree by the clearing, ignoring the strawber ries, and shot a hapless rabbit who wandered by in response to his appetite. Cooked over an open fire, the rabbit tasted like the finest rib steak Bill could remember. Of course, he could have had steak, but he didn't feel like messing with it. Cleanin g a rabbit is much easier than cleaning a steer. It never occurred to Bill that the reason he didn't go to a restaurant and eat a proper meal was simply that it had never occurred to him. He had been here too long to remember the finer points.
He reached in his pocket and took out one of the fine Havanas. Lighting up absentmindedly, Bill knew it was time to go to The Place. Now if he could only remember where it was and what to do when he got there.
Bill left the clearing and walked toward the mountains. He could have flown but he just felt like walking. Not desiring any company--the incident in the clearing left a vague uneasiness in his soul--Bill didn't see a soul. As he walked his head cleare d, and he recalled how to find The Place.
Just ahead on the path, Bill saw a neat little log cabin. The sign over the door simply read "The Place." Bill opened the door and walked inside. As the door closed itself behind him, Bill felt a mounting sense of anticipation and real excitement.
The room lit up and a fire was already burning in the open fireplace. Bill sat in the chair and the console moved into position. Now he began to remember.
He touched the keyboard and the computer spoke.
(Real Time)
"Hello, Bill. What can I do for you?"
"Who are you? What's your name?" he asked the swirling colors on the screen.
The screen cleared without a flicker as the technician touched a button. Bill saw a clean-cut young face showing sincere concern smiling back at him.
"My name is Patrick, Bill. What can I do for you other than adjust your electrolytes? I am analyzing them right now. Not been feeling so good lately?"
"Well, yeah. There is that. I guess I'm feeling a little confused, too. Can you just talk for a little while? Maybe answer some questions? I just ......"
"Of course I can. I am required by law to remind you that the time we talk is real time not Primetime. But it's your nickel as they used to say, so ask away."
If Bill had any other questions, he got sidetracked.
"Primetime? Oh, yeah, I remember: When I am here in The Place, it's real time; Primetime is everywhere else. Right?"
"Yes sir. You have it absolutely correct. You should start to feel a little better about now."
Bill took stock and he did indeed feel better. The discomfort and fuzziness he had been feeling was gone along with the lethargy. He had a new thought.
"Can I make a Change? The Place is where I come when I want to be somewhere else, isn't it?"
"Certainly, sir. Where would you like to go and what would you like to be?"
Encouraged by the friendly image on the screen and by his own sense of well- being, Bill spoke without hesitation.
"I want to be the owner of a sailing ship in the 1600's. Make her a well-armed frigate with a bold captain. Until I can learn the seamanship myself, I wouldn't mind having someone else to do the worrying. All these years, I have been completely runnin g everything. I don't mind telling you, sometimes it's been a chore. I'm getting older now and I would like to take it a little easier."
"No problem with that, Bill. Now why don't you take a little nap while I fix things up?" suggested the technician. He was already increasing the soporific in the electrolytes as he spoke. Not wanting to waste more of Bill's time than absolutely necess ary, the technician looked up a few codes in the handbook signed out to him. He began to enter the commands into his console which would allow him to carry out Bill's wishes.
(Primetime)
Bill drifted off to sleep before he even had a chance to thank the young man. He awoke shortly feeling fitter than he could remember--nearly 500 years has a way of fogging parts of the memory. It had never crossed his mind to ask the technician where h e was or how he got there. The technician on his part had been glad to fix Bill's concerns and not be asked any questions. By law he would have to answer them--he would just as soon not.
Bill opened the door and stepped out of the cabin. Below the cabin, he saw a path leading down to a sturdy dock. Tied to the dock was the most beautiful frigate he had ever seen. Even at this distance, he could hear the officers bawling orders to the hands busily loading supplies. He checked to see if he was dressed right. After a couple of adjustments, including a brace of pistols in the gold sash about his waist, Bill strode purposefully toward his ship. He could hardly wait to get underway on a new adventure.
(Real Time)
A few final adjustments, a few entries in a log, and a final check of the readouts on sixty-two, and the technician stood and stretched.
"You get him taken care of okay? Make him happy again?" asked the Chief Technician.
"He's fine. The new data tapes were implanted and his hormone level adjusted so that he can take it a little easier. Seems a little funny though that he is feeling old. When he entered Primetime, he was just 24. According to his records, he is not yet 29. I know, of course, time is different for him but it still seems strange."
"Yeah, I know what you mean. He didn't ask you much, did he?"
"No, and I was damned glad. I didn't want to tell him his five year contract was nearly up. What do you think will happen to him? Will he get an extension? Or....."
The Chief Technician stopped his work for a minute and gave the matter some thought. He resumed removing the connectors as he began to speak again.
"He just might. Swashbucklers are getting popular again and he doesn't have to be a real star so long as the people around him are interesting enough and the adventures are exciting enough. If his ratings go up, he could be good for another couple of h undred years of Primetime, maybe more. The longest I have ever heard of anyone making it was about nine years. And that girl was going great but she just one day quit. Just gave it up and died. I guess she just got tired."
He went on as he disconnected the last tubes and wires. "There was one hell of a stink over that. When Primetime started and asked for volunteers to trade five years of real time for 500 years of Primetime, the civil rights lawyers soon discovered they couldn't shut us down. So they did what they had to do to make themselves sleep at night. If it had been determined that the lady in question had died of neglect or from some deliberate act, I would have been tried for murder. Thank God I was as caref ul then as you are now. I was completely cleared of any negligence or wrongful act."
"Did you ever think about volunteering. I mean, I have used the arcades and, of course, the training machines. It was alright and the idea of living at least 500 years subjectively has its appeal. What about you?"
"Me? No way!" the Chief Technician said as he lifted the sealed glass bottle. He was holding what was now only a dead brain pickling in the electrolytes.
"Look at this guy. He has been a drain on the system for the last two years. He just didn't have the imagination it took to be a Primetime star. When his 500 years were up, and his ratings were still down, the law said we had to put him to sleep--fore ver. Hell, boy. Five hundred years ain't really all that long when you think about it."
Copyright ©1994 1995 David F. Norman