The doctor rose to go. “Look, Julius, you haven’t got the Whuffie to make it worth anyone’s time to research a solution to this problem, other than the one that we all know about. I can give you mood-suppressants, but that’s not a permanent solution.”
“Why not?”
He boggled. “You can’t just take dope for the rest of your life, son. Eventually, something will happen to this body—I see from your file that you’re stroke-prone—and you’re going to get refreshed from your backup. The longer you wait, the more traumatic it’ll be. You’re robbing from your future self for your selfish present.”
It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed my mind. Every passing day made it harder to take the cure. To lie down and wake up friends with Dan, to wake up and be in love with Lil again. To wake up to a Mansion the way I remembered it, a Hall of Presidents where I could find Lil bent over with her head in a President’s guts of an afternoon. To lie down and wake without disgrace, without knowing that my lover and my best friend would betray me, had betrayed me.
I just couldn’t do it—not yet, anyway.
Dan—Dan was going to kill himself soon, and if I restored myself from my old backup, I’d lose my last year with him. I’d lose his last year.
“Let’s table that, doc. I hear what you’re saying, but there’re complications. I guess I’ll take the mood-suppressants for now.”
He gave me a cold look. “I’ll give you a scrip, then. I could’ve done that without coming out here. Please don’t call me anymore.”
I was shocked by his obvious ire, but I didn’t understand it until he was gone and I told Dan what had happened.
“Us old-timers, we’re used to thinking of doctors as highly trained professionals—all that pre-Bitchun med-school stuff, long internships, anatomy drills... Truth is, the average doc today gets more training in bedside manner than bioscience. ‘Doctor’ Pete is a technician, not an MD, not the way you and I mean it. Anyone with the kind of knowledge you’re looking for is working as a historical researcher, not a doctor.