Means Of Production

‘Destroy it all.’
‘All?’
‘The research, the facilities, the personnel. Destroy any means of production.’
‘I…wh…the personnel?’
‘This isn’t the time to grow a conscience, Delaney. I pay you well enough to make sure you don’t have one.’
‘Of course, Sir. It’s just…as a business decision, is it wise? You could make a fort-’
‘Delaney-’
‘And think of yourself Sir, what if you need further treatment?’
‘I’ve made my decision, Delaney. Say another word and it won’t just be your job you lose. I’ve given you an order.’
Hostilian Caracallo watched Delaney’s retreating back, holding himself ramrod straight until the smaller man had left the room. It took an incredible amount of will to do so, but will was something that he had no shortage of. You don’t build an interstellar empire by being weak or easily led.
The moment he was alone, Caracallo gave in to the searing pain that ran through every inch of his flesh and sank to the relative comfort of a couch.
The effectiveness of the technology had been unexpected. With death leering over his shoulder, testing the blade of its scythe, Caracallo had reached out with his wealth and power, seeking out researchers who could keep him alive. He had no wife, no children, but even if he had, Hostilian Caracallo was not about to make way for a lesser man to take over his empire. If he could find a way to live on, he would.
Recruitment wasn’t an issue if you had unlimited money and no morals; if you couldn’t bribe a person then you could always threaten them. Caracallo preferred to have both options available, just in case. He’d assembled a team of the finest minds in the universe, installed them on a station dedicated to research, given them every piece of equipment, ever credit of funding they could ever need. All to one end; to cheat death.
They’d explored any number of approaches before settling on the nanobots. Researchers had been to every major library, seeking out myths and legends on immortality or healing in the hope of finding something useful. It had been modern technology that had saved Hostilian; tiny robots, injected into his blood stream that would constantly repair and regulate, keeping him alive.
At least that was the plan. The truth was somewhat different. The injection had come at the 11th hour; only the constant presence of a MedBot was keeping Caracallo alive. The machine had taken over so many vital roles for his body, replacing liver, kidneys and regulating this heartbeat. If Caracallo had been a poor man, or even less rich, he would not have lived to see the project to completion; even so, nothing could prevent the tremors from his tattered nerves.
What no one had envisaged was that the bots might operate at a higher level than expected. Of course they had been tested in the laboratory, but the cells they had repaired were always new. No one had thought to test them on older tissue, to see what might happen. The scientist should die for that omission alone, Caracallo thought, for what he had endured as a result.
The moment the bots had slid from the needle and into his system, they had begun the painful process of repairing him one cell at a time. There had been no interest in maintenance, only renewal. Eyes bugged out, sweat pouring from his skin, Caracallo had fallen to the floor as he was remade, piece by piece. He remembered how they had all cowered, watching, ignoring his pleas for relief. He remembered the fear in their eyes when he had stood up, sweat soaked and shaking, his gaze a furious accusation.
Hostilian Caracallo had risen again. He would never know the pain or shame of ageing. His frail body would never let down his powerful mind. The nanobots that swam in his blood stream would circulate, renewing, repairing and regulating his body. He would live forever, forever young.
Delaney was right, of course, there was a fortune to be made from this technology. He wasn’t the only man who wanted to live forever, others would pay handsomely for the same privilege. The curative powers of the tech were immense; imagine being able to inject nanobots into a person, remove their sickness, and then take them out again? Oh yes, there was money to be made, most certainly. But Caracallo didn’t seek to add to his fortune; he only wanted power.
Clenching his fists, Caracallo then extended his palms and held them steady, watching for the tremor that had been ever present since his 75th birthday. Gone. Regenerating nerves would be the most difficult part, he was told, even the human body couldn’t manage that; but Caracallo had.
He smiled, rising form the couch and crossing to a computer terminal. He shadowed Delaney, watching as the man began to compile a list of all that must be destroyed to keep Caracallo’s secret.
There was the station of course, although its existence had never been acknowledged, investigators had tried to gain access. They’d died in the process, but it had become an urban legend; something for the conspiracy theorists to get their teeth into.
Delaney was doing the same, thorough and loyal job that he always did. Itemising even the smallest part or piece of technology that could give someone a hint, a way to recreate what Caracallo had done.
A list of files, too. Blueprints, papers, memos, requisitions; a paper trail that could lead an enquiring mind to put two and two together. That could not be allowed.
Personnel was next; Caracallo was pleased to see that Delaney had taken him seriously, even people who had been involved in the project in a minor or peripheral way were listed. Then their names were sent to the company’s exterminators, ensuring silence.
Days passed as the plan was put into action, as Caracallo’s tender flesh healed; the burning slowly fading to bearable, to dull, to nothing. He felt strong; appetites returning that he hadn’t felt in years. A mind like Caracallo’s was never going to go as far as hedonism, but he made good use of his renewed physicality; testing himself with sport and female company. Something ignited in his brain when one of the whores whispered to him that he was a God. Of course he was; what God hadn’t faced death, to be reborn?
With Delaney stood before his desk, Caracallo leaned back comfortably in his seat and asked, ‘All trace of the project is gone?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ Delaney responded. ‘Professor Goulding was terminated today. There is no trace of the project outside of rumour.’
‘Except one.’
‘Sir?’
Caracallo smiled, and inclined his head towards Delaney, ‘You.’
‘Me? I…Sir, you know your secret is safe with me.’
Caracallo nodded, ‘It will be.’
‘Of course, Sir…’ Delaney trailed off as Caracallo pushed a syringe across the desk towards him.
‘It will be painless, Delaney. I’ve done that much for you. Your family will be well looked after, as long as you comply. If you don’t…’
Delaney stared blankly across the table as blood drained from his face, washing him to a pale version of himself. Caracallo saw the internal struggle, the confirmation that he had calculated correctly when Delaney picked up the syringe and jabbed the needle into his thigh.
Caracallo watched, feeling every ounce of his power as the man died by his command. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled. Allowing himself the satisfaction to enjoy the moment; Not only had he cheated death, he had ensured his and only his immortality. All trace of the project was gone, and most of the resources that had put his team on the right track. No one would be able to replicate his success.
He reached to the glass of whisky sitting on the corner of his desk, to toast his future, feeling the warmth of the beverage seep into his flesh. The amber liquid sloshed around the inside of the glass, at first the motion was hypnotic but it soon became troubling. Newly remade heart thudding, Caracallo put the glass down and observed the tremor that had returned to his right hand.