 |  A Self-Made Man |
O'Neal Hudson was just about the most successful man on the planet. That is, if success is measured in acquired wealth, power, and influence. His corporate empire was so large and dominant that it would probably be simpler to list the things he didn't own. And even that might only be a temporary state of affairs, given the rate at which his monstrosity swallowed up the competition. What had started out at the turn of the millennium as a national telecommunications business had rapidly spread to encompass a burgeoning entertainments industry; from there, in carefully-managed steps, he garnered for himself controlling interests in everything from consumer electronics - home computers, holo-projectors, sound-systems - through food synthesis to military hardware. With quite a few stops in between.
O'Neal had dedicated his life to building his empire. If there was money to be made from it, he wanted a piece of it. And once he had a piece, it was rarely long before he had the whole pie. It was his dream, and in spite of what you might be thinking it wasn't an entirely selfish one. He had no great desire to rule the world, though in many respects that's exactly what he ended up doing. He was actually an idealist, a utopian even. He just had a very individual way of going about it.
Don't be fooled into believing that O'Neal Hudson was a bad person. Quite the opposite, in fact. As an employer he was fair and generous; over half the world's population worked for him, and he made sure the other half wished they did. In many ways he was what some might call a people person. Sure, it's an awful phrase, but it serves a purpose. He had a famously encyclopaedic knowledge of names, and the even rarer ability to match those names to the right faces. He was as at ease conversing with production-line workers as he was at meeting heads of state. In fact, if you'd known him, you'd realise that he actually preferred talking to the workers. But then, you didn't know him. No-one did, which was the heart of the problem, and what brought about his downfall.
No, O'Neal Hudson did not conform to the stereotype of the corporate high-flyer, in spite of the fact that he flew higher than anyone ever had before or likely ever will. Sure he was ruthless, single-minded, driven. You'd be hard-pushed to find anyone so dedicated, hard-working and determined to fulfil their life's ambition. But he never forgot that his success was built on people, and that if the guy at the top doesn't take care, then the sheer weight of his success will crush the life out of the people who got him there.
I'm sure there was a deep-rooted reason behind his underlying down-to-earthness, but I have no idea what it was. I doubt anyone ever took the trouble to find out, and for our present purposes it doesn't really matter. The important thing for you to understand is that O'Neal Hudson was not the sort of hard-nosed businessman who'd sell his own grandmother to make a quick buck. He cared about people, perhaps more than he cared about himself.
Now, you might be wondering why I'm going out of my way to impress upon you that this corporate giant, the richest and most powerful man in the world, was actually a nice guy. Well, I wanted you to get some idea of the man behind the money before you heard the tale that follows. It's a tale of weakness, of obsessive self-interest, and of the end of a dream. It's about the man who had everything, but wanted more.
Try not to judge him too harshly.
Events were first set in motion on what was a typical day at the office. Having signed off on a handful of new acquisitions and approved a sheaf of pay awards - and rejected a few as well; O'Neal was the sort of guy who reads every document thoroughly before signing it, as you might have guessed by now - he was leaning back in his shiatsu chair, left hand absently rubbing his immaculately-shaven chin as he admired the east coast skyline. Finding his mind wandering, an irritatingly bad habit he had begun to notice he was developing of late, he became aware of a surfeit of flesh around his face and neck. Then his memory flipped back to last week, and the round of virtual golf with the Japanese ambassador, and the aching in his knees returned somewhat alarmingly.
'Hell, I'm getting old,' he muttered to himself.
It was an undeniable fact. The richest and most powerful man in the world he may be, but no amount of wealth could halt the relentless march of time. His hair was thinning and streaked with silver, his once reliable hazel eyes were now adorned with a pair of distinguished crow's feet, and in spite of his sterling efforts at the gym he was still developing an unsightly, not to mention uncomfortable paunch. Even his clothes were staid and outmoded, though unquestionably expensive, he thought as he stood and scrutinised his likeness in the reflective glassteel of his office door.
'Maybe that's what I need,' he murmured quite literally to himself. 'A change of image. Robeson's have had me looking like this for a decade now; it's about time I caught up with the rest of the world.
'And I also need to stop talking to myself, or else get me some friends.'
Subtly altering the pitch of his voice to the tone which activated his Office ServantÔ, he spoke to his secretary. 'Intercom. Mark, could you make an appointment for me with, um … Come to think of it, I don't know …' His voice tailed of uncharacteristically.
'Mr Hudson? Are you alright, sir?'
'Oh, what? Yes. Fine, Mark. Fine. I've been thinking about a change of image, something rather more contemporary than my current look. See if you can find me a designer, would you. Preferably,' he added with a dissatisfied tug at his lapels, 'someone who can work miracles.'
'No, honestly, the clothes are fine, really - ' O'Neal was saying as he stood in front of the mirror, a pained grimace distorting his features. 'I rather think it's the body that's the problem.' He tried to force a laugh, but without much success. What's more, the designer didn't even attempt to laugh along with him, in that irritatingly obsequious way most people felt compelled to behave the first time they met O'Neal Hudson. It was one of the things O'Neal liked most about her.
'I'm afraid, Mr Hudson, that someone of your generation is not really suited to this style.' She spoke perfect English, with an accent he couldn't place and would typically classify as simply "European". 'Perhaps you should consider something rather more traditional.'
Of course there were occasions when a little less frankness was appreciated. But he knew it was true, bruised ego or no. Then again, O'Neal Hudson was not the sort of man to give up on an idea at the first sign of trouble. Besides, there was a whole lot more to this than fashion, as he'd begun to realise earlier as they left La Guardia. The problem was a simple one, and one faced by billions of regular people every day. He was getting old and he didn't like it one bit. The difference in his case was that he was anything but "regular people", and if he didn't like something he was in the habit of removing it.
'I'll take the lot,' he said suddenly, catching the designer off guard. An idea had begun to form in his mind, and though it wasn't yet clear where it would lead, O'Neal Hudson had learned early in his life to trust his instincts.
As his private plane left Milan in its wake, O'Neal put the first stage of his plan in motion. It was deceptively straightforward, at least in theory. So much so that he was amazed and a little annoyed at himself for not thinking of it before. He had thought he could make himself feel younger, and thereby rediscover some of the energy of his youth, by updating his image. But that was too superficial. No, if he wanted to feel younger, he needed to be younger. He flicked on the vid-phone.
'Mark, get me an appointment with Dr. Schreiber at the Gernsback Institute, will you please.'
You thought that no matter how rich you were, you still couldn't halt the flow of time? So did O'Neal Hudson. But not any more.
Dr. Marlon Schreiber was a wizened, unpleasant old man with the demeanour of a hungry lion. He had no friends to speak of, and no life beyond his work. His moral standards were regarded as questionable by those who respected him, and criminal by those who didn't. He was also the world's leading authority on surgical enhancement and replacement.
Most people still thought of what he did as cosmetic surgery, and attitude that might have annoyed Marlon Schreiber if he gave a damn what anyone else thought about anything. People in general were ignorant. It was one of the reasons he disliked them so much. But this man was different.
Of course, he knew all about O'Neal Hudson. The whole world knew O'Neal Hudson, or thought they did, which amounts to the same thing. What he didn't expect was to be so impressed by the man. Everything about him reeked of success. He was handsome, dignified, charismatic, charming, and he had a piercing intelligence that even Schreiber was forced to admire. And envy.
And he certainly knew what he wanted. He'd apparently searched through thousands of old vid-files, hoping to find the perfect look for his perfect life. The face he'd settled on belonged to a late twentieth century movie actor now long-since consigned to obscurity, if he'd ever actually found his way out of it. Schreiber had never heard of the man, which was no surprise. And not just because he abhorred popular entertainments. He didn't even know the name of the woman who lived in the apartment next to his.
It was a rather routine procedure by modern standards, and under normal circumstances Schreiber would have had one of his assistants perform it. He was getting old himself, and his health was not all it might be. It was a rare thing indeed for him to enter the OR in anything but a supervisory capacity. But them, O'Neal Hudson was a rare client.
Initially they concentrated on facial features. Hair replacement, adjustments to eyebrow, nose and cheekbones; a slight realignment of the ears; reshaped lips for that smouldering look; skin stretched and revitalised; even his beard growth would henceforth be subject to severe restrictions, and unsightly blemishes or hair sproutings were a thing of the past. Piece by piece, he was sculpted and moulded into the archetypal Adonis.
And the eyes had to go. The new models, fully organic - Schreiber would never dream of putting machine parts into a client; it was one of the things that made his service unique - were darker, almost mahogany, and afforded him perfect 20-20 vision. By the end of the week he was ready to renew his acquaintance with the world.
'Why Mr. Hudson,' said Miss Fairchild, Schreiber's friendly young receptionist, as he was leaving the Institute. 'I almost didn't recognise you. You look twenty years younger.'
'Thank you Penny. I feel twenty years younger.' She was just being professionally courteous, of course. She knew very well who he was, as he had spent many an afternoon talking to her about his choice of face. Her advice had proved quite significant, come to think of it. And was it his imagination, or was she checking him out?
He was still grinning uncontrollably as he passed through the sliding doors and out into the welcoming sunshine of a perfect summers day.
It didn't last, that feeling of youthfulness. And if he was entirely honest with himself, he had known that right from the start. It was no different from the clothes, really, but with the added inconvenience of having to change his business and personal ID images, and re-introduce himself to everyone he knew.
He'd let work take a back seat for a few weeks, and adopted a much more flamboyant lifestyle of wild parties and even wilder women. It had been a lot of fun, and he'd be the first to admit that the attention his rugged new look attracted from all quarters had been very flattering, even if some of the offers coming his way weren't exactly to his personal tastes. What's more, with no-one recognising him it had been fun simply because it was fun, and not because the people he was with were doing their best just to please him.
But when the laughter died down he still didn't feel right. For one thing, it was plainly obvious to anyone who came to share his bed that beneath the designer shirt was certainly not the body of a fit twentysomething. And was it really so different to substitute adoration from sycophants for the shallow attentions of those only interested in a pretty face?
But it was too late to go back now, and he had no intention of giving up on this particular dream until the transformation was complete.
Dr. Schreiber allowed himself a brief smile when he was informed that O'Neal Hudson would be returning for further treatment. It came as no surprise to him; in fact, he'd been counting on it.
You couldn't just get a new wardrobe, or even a new face, and expect your life to change for the better. No amount of surgery could do that for you, as anyone with a ounce of common sense would readily inform you. But that wouldn't prevent these wealthy discontents from trying, and Schreiber was the last person in the world to attempt to persuade them otherwise.
'Miss Fairchild,' he said stiffly to his receptionist over the intercom, 'make sure you cancel all other appointments for the next three months. I want to concentrate all efforts on our Mr. Hudson, and I get the feeling we're going to be seeing quite a bit of him. At least, what's left of him.'
So, over the course of the following months, a man who had been approaching fifty years of age at a rate too rapid for his liking found himself transformed, to all outward appearances, into a fit, athletic, and classically handsome man in his mid-twenties. Schreiber had to admit, it was some of his very best work. Which was as it should be, given the time and effort he personally had devoted to this most demanding, and rewarding, of clients. In spite of his age and ill health, Schreiber had consulted at every stage of the part selection process, advising Hudson on how best to build the perfect body for the twenty-first century.
After the facial modifications, there had been certain additional inconveniences that were inevitable for a man of O'Neal's recognisable standing and position. But that was just the tip of an administrative iceberg. By the time he completed his final treatment, even his own family would have been unable to recognise him. Almost nothing was left unchanged, which meant not only visual IDs but also his voice-recog systems needed adjustment, he had a new blood type, fingerprints, and heart rate; dental records needed updating, and even his shiatsu chair needed replacing, to accommodate his more ample, and muscular physique.
Muscles had been strengthened and toned, or, where necessary, replaced by specially grown substitutes. A sequence of painful invasive treatments had reinforced virtually every bone in his body, making him stronger than he'd ever been at his actual physical peak. Every inch of his skin was re-invigorated by Dr. Schreiber's unique fluid bath, which involved being submerged in a vat full of a strange, syrup-like substance for five hours a day, for a week.
Its no exaggeration to say that the finished model was just about the most perfect physical specimen the human male was capable of producing, and all built up from the DNA of O'Neal Hudson.
But, as O'Neal soon discovered, it's not only the bodywork that suffers the effects of ageing. Revitalised by his fantastic new physique, he'd found himself drawn inexorably into the high-energy world of dangerous sports. Leaving no stone unturned in his search for the ultimate adrenalin rush, he sampled water-skiing, parachuting, hang-gliding, cliff-diving, base-jumping, white-water rafting, and mountain-biking. Down real mountains. He skied wherever the signs said not to.
It was an incredible month, but inevitably took its toll. He certainly had the strength and speed, and his reflexes were as sharp as a teenagers, but his heart simply couldn't continue working overtime like that. He blacked out when his kayak overturned attempting the melodramatically named 'Devil's Run' in Colorado. He almost died.
When he arrived for the last time on Dr. Schreiber's operating table, the frail old surgeon was already waiting.
New heart and lungs, kidneys, kidneys, intestines, even specially-synthesised designer blood for maximum efficiency. It took almost three days, during which Schreiber insisted on working without human assistance. With only his tireless droids to aid him, he proceeded to remove all that remained of O'Neal Hudson beyond his brain, and replace each and every one with the best spare parts money could buy. And even the brain was not left untreated. Schreiber persuaded his prized client that he'd been hired to make his client not only look younger and feel younger, but think younger as well. Complete customer satisfaction. It was in the contract. And the only way to achieve that was to utilise a highly experimental, and most likely illegal new device he'd recently constructed, which he called his Cerebral Re-Energiser. He'd never been very good with naming things. But when he was finished, O'Neal Hudson would not only feel like a new man, he'd be one. Between them they would have completely reshaped a human life to their own design. It was his masterwork.
It was also the last operation he would perform.
'What … what's going … on?' The voice from across the room was breathless and feeble. It's source was lying curled up on the floor like a bundle of sticks wrapped in a sheet, muttering confusedly. 'I-I feel … I don't … no, it can't …'
Dr. Marlon Schreiber, the greatest surgeon the world had ever known, was dead.
When he finally left the Gernsback Institute after many hours of tiresome interviews with police and journalists, O'Neal still wore the contented smile that he had been unable to shake ever since he'd recovered consciousness in the O.R. And he didn't want to shake it, because he felt fantastic. Better than he'd ever felt in his entire life.
It had been disorienting at first, almost dream-like. A mild headache, and the feeling that he was somehow looking out through someone else's eyes. But the wonder of it all had soon washed away any discomfort. And now it was time to leave the Institute, and set about re-living his life.
'Goodbye Mr. Hudson,' murmured the pleasant receptionist as he crossed the foyer. She was clearly still somewhat shaken by the morning's events, the death of Dr. Schreiber and the presence of so many people asking so many questions. He was almost to the door before he stopped, as if remembering something. He'd heard her words, but it'd taken a moment to register that they were meant for him.
Slowly he turned, still smiling, and looked at the girl's pretty face as if for the first time.
'Yes, goodbye Miss Fairchild.' He paused, before adding: 'Have a nice day.'
With a slight tilt of his head, O'Neal Hudson turned his back on the Gernsback Institute for the last time, and stepped out into a day of grey skies and drizzling rain. And still he smiled.
'It's time to live a little,' he muttered to himself.
