The Last Words of Brian J. Eldon
By: Cameron White
Mr. Bell nodded graciously, and took a step backward, behind the leather chair, so that Mr. Eldon couldn’t see him. It was 7:30, and, as was custom, he would take his drink and pontificate for a time. Mr. Bell was used to this. It never really had a theme, or a purpose. Mr. Eldon would stare at the multitude of monitors, close his eyes, take a sip, and ramble on for a few minutes. Then, he would open his eyes, look at the monitors, take another sip, close his eyes, then ramble on again. He would continue this until his drink was gone, by which time he would be ready for bed.
It had gone this way for the five years that Mr. Bell had worked as Brian Eldon’s personal assistant. It was monotonous work, to be sure, but it did pay well. And it had its perks; like the free age treatments.
This night, however, Brian Eldon did not say a single word. He simply drank his martini, and rather quickly at that. Mr. Bell was startled. He moved forward slightly, hand out, offering a refill. “Is everything all right, Mr. Eldon?”
Brian J. Eldon handed Mr. Bell the empty glass without looking at him. He then made a slight gesture, signaling that he didn’t want another drink. He sank back into his dark chair, eyes wide, watching the various monitors, each carrying a different program. Some entertainment, some news, some indiscernible.
Mr. Bell felt uncomfortable. He took the empty martini glass back to the mini bar at the end of the room. The room was padded with brown-red leather, very comforting, but sometimes claustrophobic. Especially now for Mr. Bell. His whole duty was based on constant routine, and without it, he was lost. He hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. Call the doctors? But before he could sort anything out, Eldon’s voice rang out from his chair. This calmed Mr. Bell; everything was back to normal.
Or so he thought until he processed what Mr. Eldon had said. “Mr. Bell, how old are you?”
Mr. Eldon had never been asked a personal question before. Never. He hesitated for a moment, and, on autopilot he gave the same answer he gave when women asked him that, “Twenty-eight, sir.”
There was a long silence. Then, mutterings from the chair. “Twenty-eight, twenty-eight, yes. Twenty-eight.”
More Silence.
“Mr. Bell, I want you to tell me how old I look. Not how old I am, since I assume that a man in your position would know that, but how old I look.”
Mr. Bell took several steps, so he could see Brian Eldon instead of that huge chair. “You look to be about fifty or so, sir.”
Again, there was a silence and mutterings. “But how old am I really?”
“Three-hundred and Eleven, sir.”
“Very good,” he paused, then turned his head to look directly at Mr. Bell, “And how old are you, really?”
Mr. Bell looked away from the piercing stare of Mr. Eldon and blushed, partially because he had lied about his age, and partially because he had never before been looked upon directly by Brian Eldon. “Thirty-four,” he said quietly.
Mr. Eldon took a breath, then returned his gaze to the monitors. There was another long, uncomfortable silence. “How many age treatments have you received, Mr. Bell?” he said after a while.
“Three, sir,” Bell said, barely a whisper.
“Do they hurt?”
Bell was taken aback. “Of course not.”
Mr. Eldon exhaled slowly and below his breath, faintly audible, he repeated Mr. Bell’s words. Then he said, “They hurt for me, Mr. Bell. They are ever so painful for me.”
“Aren’t they supposed to be painless?”
Mr. Eldon exhaled another breath with the air of a man who has seen too much of life. “Yes, Mr. Bell, I intended for them to be painless.”
Bell nodded. Of course, he knew the truth: that Eldon had invested in age-treatment technology back when it had first appeared, and that wise move had made him an extremely wealthy man. But, Bell reasoned, let the old man believe that he helped in the development of the Jerhom Method.
That was the last thing Brian J. Eldon said for a long time. He stared at the monitors, and watched pictures play out before him. He tapped a small control in the armrest of his chair, and all the monitors immediately began to show the same program. Men with guns shot at each other. The war on Biliqua, ever on-going. “Mr. Bell, do you know how you are going to die?”
“Of course not,” Bell said quietly.
“Do you think any man has such knowledge?” Eldon asked, watching the monitors blankly.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is impossible to see into the future, Mr. Eldon,” Bell said, worrying now, as this conversation began made less and less sense.
“Of course,” Brian J. Eldon said, smoothly.
Mr. Bell licked his lips, “Begging your pardon, sir, but what is the point of this?”
Eldon turned around in his big chair, fully facing Bell. The flickering light of the monitors highlighted his features. Bell looked into his eyes and saw something. Eldon was truly old. He had seen more than three lifetimes, and though his body didn’t look it, his eyes betrayed the extensive age treatments.
Eldon cracked half a smile. “The point of what? The point of life? Well, Mr. Bell, if I knew, I’d tell you. But the only thing that I do know is that I will be dead in less than five minutes.”
Mr. Bell started. “What do you mean?” he asked in horror.
Eldon’s smile faded. And his face dropped a bit; as if his true age suddenly shone through. “I saw the future, Mr. Bell. I saw the future ever so long ago. They told me it couldn’t be done, then they told me it was dangerous, then they applauded me. But I made a mistake, Mr. Bell. I decided to watch my own life; and I saw the end of it. So very long ago I saw the end of my life. I was not much older than you; and I saw myself, sitting in this chair, talking to you.”
Bell just stared in shock.
“And I saw the televisions. The war, Mr. Bell. What side are you on?”
Bell, eyes still wide, answered out of instinct, “I am an Impral citizen, sir, and will forever remain one.”
Eldon closed his eyes tightly. A single tear seeped from between his eyelids. It ran down his cheek, a transparent pearl, until it fell off his chin and dissolved into his pant leg. “That war, Mr. Bell, the war on Biliqua, how long has it been going?”
Again, Bell answered out of childhood instinct, “213 years, sir.”
Eldon kept his eyes closed. “And it has made me a rich man,” Brian J. Eldon paused for a long time, “and in doing so I have lost my soul. I started that war, Mr. Bell. Titles are meaningless; Impral, Orteu, Yui. I made them up. This war has been going on for two centuries, and it is my brainchild.”
He choked at that. Mr. Bell said nothing. “In a few moments, a young woman will come through that door, point a gun at my head, and blow it off. She will not spare your life. I am sorry, I really am. I can’t change the future. I have spent my whole life, my whole life, trying to prevent this day. I am scared, Mr. Bell. So many lives have been lost. So much blood on my hands, and for nothing; as I am still a dead man.”
And in the first direct statement he had ever made to Brian Jerhom Eldon in his five years of service, Mr. Bell said, “We all are, Mr. Eldon, we all are.”
Eldon smiled and slowly stood from his chair. At that moment, a woman dressed in black came through the door. She raised her gun.