Recently Gizmodo and iO9 sent out a request for fiction on
"the future of death". This was my submission.
By six, a crowd had gathered for Weir’s viewing. The
procession formed a winding way from casket to cars; a parking lot full of
souls, all desperate to be reassured of their own lives and livelihoods by
bearing witness to an actual death. This fabled, and long held tradition of
grieving. A holy ceremony of departure that always began by standing in a long,
somber line and ended with awkward touching and cliche reassurances. This was
my Friday night. At least it wasn’t raining.
I had been practicing my sad face, wrinkled brow, knowing
nod. Touch shoulder. Say ‘I’m sorry.’ Even though I have no idea what I’m sorry
for; this was choice or chance. It could have just as easily been any of us, or
all of us. A million in, a million out. Each year. That’s the quota. We either
reach it by self selection; or there’s always the nightly lottery. But in this
lottery, winners don’t pose for photos with large, obnoxious, replica checks.
Not cash, instead, it is your body that gets collected. It was Weir’s body
tonight. There would be more and I don’t want to be a part of it anymore.
I’ve moved maybe five feet. I’m wondering what the people
ahead of me are saying to the family. The “he’s in a better place” line? Which
truly feels wrong these days. Or maybe the “be strong” or the “if there’s
anything you need, at all, you call me” line. I like that one. Always sounds so
real. Feels so reassuring.
Taking in the crowd, I can see that at least a dozen of
those in front of me are watching the live broadcast of tonight’s lottery in
their ViewLense. The telltale glow emanating from their eye sockets is nearly
impossible to miss. Of course, to avoid disrespecting the pomp, they’re all
playing it off by gazing foot-ward or staring up at the darkening sky. I’ve
stopped wearing my ViewLense inserts. If my number comes up in the Draw, I’ll
realize it when I’m immediately in the Former, I’m sure of it. But it won’t
matter.
Another step forward and I’m remembering my mother and when
it had been her time. I had already grown prosthetic to it all by then,
artificial tears and gestures. Me, at the casket end of the affair that day,
recipient of the compensatory touches and words. She, still looking exactly
like her Day One, lying there. Just like dad before her. As I’m sure Weir will
look. Just like everyone. Perfect.
Was that a rain drop? I didn’t bring an umbrella. It wasn’t
supposed to rain today.
Weir was an acquaintance. Maybe a friend. Was he? We spoke.
We talked about the end. The lottery. He had thrown around some crazy ideas
about the whole lottery thing. I wasn’t sure. But he was on to something.
Several steps forward this time. Must’ve been an entire
family leaving after doing the whole ‘hug, kiss cheek, small talk’ death dance.
‘Is that really Katie? My how she has grown big! Almost time for her Day One!’
I’m getting closer now. My stomach knots and groans. Bile
creeps up, throat-side. Why am I here? Do I really want this?
I awkwardly wave to a few people from work who are almost to
the door. They don’t see me. They must have left early to be that far ahead.
Not like it matters. Leaving work early, that is. All we do is server
monitoring where nothing happens. Nothing. There are no real jobs. At least
nothing like you read about. Everything is just a report or a click-button,
check-on-some-automated-system. And it’s all run by the Former. There’s already
enough historical collective intelligence inside the Former at this point that
it doesn’t really need us around. We are nothing more than spectators. We are a
way to ensure the plug stays firmly attached to the wall, so to speak. Or, I
suppose, a safety net that pulls it.
I don’t know what the Former looks like, but I’m sure dad is
in there processing some complex, floating encryption calculation. Mom is
likely embedded in some video processing service. Part of the collective
intelligence. Each new ‘winner’ added to a hive database of system learning and
human, wet-wired knowledge. The literal and figurative brain of our entire
civilization. For a moment I wonder, upon entering the Former, if I’d be able
to speak to them again.
The Former is the same compilation of computations that
solved cancer. The same, and seemingly instantaneous, calculations that found
solutions for food production for up to a 14 billion person population. It’s
the genius that eliminated pollutants, generated power to run the entire world
cleanly. In just a few decades, we had clean air, clean water, perfect health
and precise, flawless DNA. The system solved for everything, even death.
Sure, its models and algorithms all started issuing warnings
when the population was estimated to soon hit 16 billion. Diminishing returns,
they’d say. Something had to give. So, we now add a million minds each year,
hoping to solve for that barrier while keeping the population at a virtual
standstill. But I know it will never end, 16 billion will just become an even
higher number.
Another step forward.
And putting Weir in there definitely won’t actually add
much. He’d probably have to be assigned something very simple. File retrieval?
Maybe just file deletion? Or maybe they would opt him out, already at capacity.
They purely keep the lottery going as a way to cull the herd. Can a person even
opt-out of being added to the Former? Has anyone ever asked?
Of course, I know that Weir is already in the system.
Reaching the casket, I will be greeted by nothing more than a shell. Memories
and organs already confiscated for all sorts of use. We have truly become
efficient at the task. I’m certain that with the nano bots and hive-minded
architecture, it all happened quick.
And it all just works. Always. Praise be the brain. All hail
to the master controller of all that is and will ever be. More burning in my
chest and throat. I’ve not had my Day One yet; the evidence is this discomfort.
History tells us that there once was death, accidental.
There once was death by something called ‘sickness’. There once was death due
to fear, anger, lack of food or clean water. There once was chaos. Now, our
chaos is organized. Our chaos is expected and cherished. We don’t call it chaos
nor death, for that matter. No, we recognize it as necessary and respected. We
don’t die, we simply get added to the higher power. We get acclimated with the
Former, a perfect system. Wired in and put to use for the betterment of society
as a whole.
And we the people all bought in to it.
Every group on Earth knowingly choosing to take part in this.
One great accord. The simultaneous treaty, giving new life to our planet almost
immediately. It was a triumph, they said. The politicians declared victory.
Each feeling it was of their own personal doing. People cheered.
Another few steps and I will be at the door. There are
voices behind me saying, “Another week and yet again, not a single Senator.”
They were trying to rouse those around them. I didn’t feed into it, avoiding
the opportunity to become part of a different kind of system. Also, not wanting
the attention yet. Not now. Not in this moment. My moment.
There are always rumblings of it being a hoax. A sham.
Conspiracy theories. ‘When was the last time a politician was selected,’ they’d
say. Hell, Weir had said it. But those were exceptions. After all, how could
anyone complain? Everything is perfect. Everything solved. Being selected in
the lottery isn’t death; but instead a service. And even that was said to be
done in a fair manner; older individuals gaining additional ‘entries’, younger
people receiving a pass for their first twenty-seven years. Shooting pain,
mid-throat.
We had assumed our apocalypse would be death and
destruction. Instead, we got perfection, everlasting life and random selection.
And while chances of being chosen were almost non-existent on any given day,
ask Weir how that worked out. One in billions?
Viewings became monotonous and pointless. This was our first
in several years. But, of course, Weir wouldn’t be the last. The system would
ensure that. Or I would.
I’m inside the building.
Stepping over the threshold my adrenaline swells, but
instead of action, I’m greeted with yet another winding maze of people. The
family and Weir’s body aren’t even in sight. This is just the second half of
the receiving line.
People ahead of me chatting. Laughter. Enjoying themselves.
Small talk about sports or some funny video. More laughter. I’m even more
uncomfortable now, knowing what I have planned. Unsure if I’ll even be able to
open my mouth. These people are having a good time. Are they enjoying this?
They’re locked in a cycle they cannot escape, and they are enjoying it! Smiling
faces hurtling toward the abyss.
But if we do not fear death, what is our purpose. If we know
nothing of loss, how do we see value in this life? I’m shaking. Sweat. I am
thinking of Weir and his grin. My dad. Random moment running down the stairs to
meet him at the door. Smelling the cold outside air escape from his coat. Mom.
Laying my head against her chest and listening to her heart beating. Finding
comfort.
Step again. Round the corner. It’s time.
In my coat pocket I feel the metal of the gun. This all must
happen quickly. The trigger old, knowing, and ready to be pulled. The tired
rounds lingering in the chamber. I wasn’t even sure if this thing would fire.
This was a relic passed, carefully and silently thru generations. Mine would be
the last. And why not? I embrace this spiral. I dredge these depths finding
honor and duty, pride and other apocryphal blessings upon my actions. An end
must be revealed.
It was always by chance or by choice that we would be
assimilated. I decided, today, in this moment, to choose the latter. But, I
chose to opt-out of the Former. I chose to escape.
I now see cameras. Feed of the Draw always ended with
streaming footage from ceremonial viewings of past ‘winners’. This would be my
forum for denouncing this million person parade. This would be my end and
hopefully, for others, a beginning.
I withdraw the gun. I had practiced how I would hold it.
What I would say. I planned a whole thing. But I knew the reaction would be
swift and sudden. Must be quick about it. I had to think fast. Move faster. I
hear a scream. Mostly it’s just puzzled, curious looks. For many, the first
real gun they’ve seen. I lift the ancient weapon to my head, I open my mouth to
say…
I don’t remember pulling the trigger, but there was a noise.
A loud one. A mechanical grinding shriek and churn. Followed by darkness. The
view in front of me suddenly black.
Perhaps I’ve done it; escaped the system. Opted out, on live
streaming feeds, for all to bear witness on their ViewLenses. But why am I able
to consider this? Why am I able to instantly discern that this is both
impossible and preposterous; simultaneously knowing the file deletion density
equation for a billion records, followed by complex defragmentation patterns
that one must follow for proper protocol?
In here, I know that the Former is the unity of us all. I
know this, because I am of it. My tasks now before me, pending authorization.
System Admin requests file removal from memory. I must dispose of it.
Initiating.