Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  “...Jebediah Devereux,” announced the judge, “you have been sentenced to serve a post-mortem service to repay your after-debt to society. Your soulless body will be rejuvenated to work for a service term of no less than seventy-five years.”

  With the sentence announced, I plunged the syringe into the chest of the deceased man before me, and braced myself for something I never enjoyed seeing. All of the family stopped wailing and glared at me with hate, then looked to the body with sadness. We all waited for the inevitable. A muscle convulsion shook the dead body once, then twice, and the third made the body rise from the unlit pyre. It was now a shell of what the man used to be, a soulless commodity belonging to the stiff's debtor.

  A shade.

  When it looked at me with eyes blazing with a yellow-tinged hue, I knew that the juice had done its work. The serum coursed through the dead body, bringing it back, programming it to key into our voices and obey without hesitation. Jebediah, a former father of seven children, grandfather to fifteen, an honest but unlucky businessman, now became a lumbering, animated husk. As a mindless shade, he would toil for three quarters of a century somewhere on Earth, or possibly on the moon, wherever he fetched a higher bid, until he satisfied his afterdeath financial obligations.

  “Let's go, Jebediah, it’s time for you to start your first shift,” Spenner announced without a modicum of pity. The Devereux family members, beaten and bloodied, mustered enough saliva to spit at us as we departed with our bounty.

  CHAPTER 2

  The Sickle and the Cross

  “But in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

  - Benjamin Franklin, 1777

  >> DATE: Sept. 25th, 2039, the present time. Three days after the Jebediah bounty mission.

  >> TIME: Unknown.

  >> LOCATION: Incorporeal Revenue Service, New York City Branch, Building D.

  The sweeping view of black space, rocketing shuttles, and the blue-gray Earth from floor ten thousand of the Lunar Spire paled in my mind to Vanessa’s radiant glory. Despite overlooking the most coveted table with a stellar view at La Vie, she captured all of my attention. Her cream-colored dress glittered with diamonds, bright stars shining and orbiting around her like a private galaxy. She smiled at me, and lifted her champagne-filled glass to mine. When her lips parted, my cheeks flushed and my heart pounded.

  “I love you, Vanessa,” I whispered, touching her glass with a crystal kiss. I motioned for her to sit so we could start our ten-course meal at the moon’s most exclusive restaurant. Deep down, I understood this to be a dream, but in that moment I didn’t care.

  “I love you too, Jonah,” she said, reaching out to hold my hand. Before we touched, the Earth, the restaurant, our table, and then Vanessa all melted away like pictures in a fire. My subconscious struggled to hold this hopeful fantasy-to-be together just a while longer. Despite my effort, everything faded into darkness, followed by a visual deluge of memories from the last three days. I saw a staccato slideshow of images. It started with Jebediah the shade lumbering behind me. Then the scene shifted to Spenner driving his car back to New York, followed by an explosion alongside a dark highway. The dreamscape changed into a digital advertisement featuring a man in a white suit waving to get my attention. The vision ended with a view of the High Tower meta-skyscraper dominating the skyline of New York. All of these confusing, disconnected thoughts flooded my mind’s eye at once. As I tried to make sense of the chaos, a loud sound disrupted my dreaming.

  “Jonah,” sounded another voice that did not belong to Vanessa. That voice and the throbbing pain on the sides of my head awakened me from sleep. My heart quickened when I struggled to remember how I managed to get from the swamp to this cold, spartan room. When I raised my head, I felt an ache down my spine. My eyes fluttered, trying to refresh my blurry vision. After a few more blinks and rubbing my eyes, my sight adjusted to the room's harsh lighting. The interrogation room could have been plucked right from an old television cop show. Sterile white walls boxed me into a fifteen-by-fifteen room. Stale, cold air flowed through a grated ceiling vent. Along the room’s far side, a smoke-colored glass wall allowed my captors to watch me but not the other way around. The claustrophobic space heightened my anxiety.

  To calm myself, I reviewed what I knew. First, my body ached all over. Judging from the bruises and aching jaw, my body had taken part in one hell of a fight. Coarse blond and scattered gray stubble on my face hinted I had been here a day or more. A quick check of my faded jeans revealed emptied pockets. Beneath the arms of my well-worn dark blue jacket, I felt the telltale bumps from a pair of needle punctures. I wondered if my captors had administered medicine or some drug to enhance the integrity of my answers. Second, I remembered answering questions an hour ago from a pair of disembodied voices. Behind the opaque glass window, they had asked detailed queries about me, the Devereux family, my girlfriend Vanessa, and Spenner. They had repeated the questions a second time with the gentle approach. When they’d drilled the same questions with the tough approach, I’d gotten lightheaded and passed out on the hard steel table. Third, they’d confiscated my wrist-com and my access to Sasha. If they wanted her code, they would have a hard time unspooling her security protections. I found the silence of her absence unsettling. Before I started to review my escape strategies, the door opened, and two men entered the room. The first one, a taller, thinner man dressed in a silver suit, spoke first.

  “I hope you are feeling better after your rest,” he said with a soft, musical voice. “We now have enough information about the collection mission for Jebediah Devereux. We would appreciate it if you would continue with the next stage of your report.”

  Then the second interrogator, a well-muscled African-American man in a custom-fitted designer black suit, walked to the table and grabbed the seat across from me. With a purposeful aggressive motion, he dragged the chair so it grated against the floor. His stocky, muscular body moved with a purposeful lack of subtlety. When he fell into his seat, his fast-descending weight created a thud, and his hands slammed the table to steady himself. So, this one will play the part of the hard-ass, I thought.

  “Where am I?” I demanded. “Do you have Vanessa?”

  “We’ll answer your questions after you answer a few of our own,” replied the interrogator. He rubbed his thick, groomed mustache, then tapped at the data window before him to recall information about me. “You stated that after you procured the target, you and your partner Spenner returned to the city?”

  Seeking any advantage, I paused before answering to study him and glean even the most minuscule detail. At six-foot-five, he still loomed over me even while sitting. His stern brown-eyed gaze met mine but revealed nothing. When he folded his massive hands, I noticed many white scars and calluses. Shifting in his chair, he seemed to wear his expensive suit with disdain, like a formality he observed but disliked. Instinct informed me that this large man felt more comfortable in the field than in a government office. His suit's sleeve slipped down just enough for me to notice the top portion of his colorful tattoo, the toothy maw of a green Chinese dragon. The distinctive serpentine Emerald Drake wrapped around his hand, a rare brand that represented special echelon technology access. Now I knew he had served with Navy Special Forces during the Korean conflict. When he saw that I glanced at his mark, he pulled his sleeve to cover it. Growing impatient, the interrogator narrowed his eyes and drummed his fingers.

  “Yes,” I responded. My attention drifted up to the silver pin on his collar. The emblem of the eagle, wheat, and scythe indicated he worked for the Incorporeal Revenue Service. The silver pin indicated a director level position within the IRS. “That is my answer, Director.” A grin slipped through his stern countenance, soon replaced with his stoic mask.

  “And after the bayou job,” the black-dressed man continued, “it's your story that you returned to the city and parted ways with Spenner, and he promised to turn in the debtor to the IRS rec
eiving station?”

  “Not a story,” I corrected. “That’s what happened.”

  The black-dressed man grunted with disapproval, prompting the other, thinner interrogator to step closer. I took a moment to size him up. The second interrogator wore a tailor-made silver suit accented with a white silk mandarin collar. The collar indicated his high ranking in the New Universal Church. Though my computer knowledge far exceeded my understanding of modern theology, I knew enough to understand this man wielded considerable influence. I knew the Universal Church worked side-by-side with the IRS to regulate the shade-trade, so it didn't surprise me to see a priest here. However, the fact that such a high-ranking member of the Church and an IRS Director handled the debriefing of a simple collection raised my suspicions.

  The silver-dressed priest represented the opposite qualities of his partner in every respect. He stood garbed in his exquisite clothes at ease. His silk suit, groomed gray hair, clean-shaven face, manicured nails, and lilac-scented cologne told me this man of the cloth did not wrestle with any guilt involving his wealth. The priest offered a warm smile, and placed his soft hand on my shoulder. I readied myself for the inevitable “good cop” routine.

  “Thank you for answering candidly, my son,” the silver-dressed man said in a soothing tone, while flashing a wide smile, showing off perfect, alabaster-white teeth. “You will find us most amenable to honesty. That is all we are seeking...”

  “Funny thing,” interrupted the black-dressed man, “Spenner never turned in the Jebediah-shade to the IRS transfer station.”

  I failed to stifle a surprised look. I gnawed my fingernail, thinking about my next response, and the silver-dressed man noticed my obvious discomfort.

  “Jonah, don't worry, we're not accusing you of anything,” the silver-dressed interrogator reassured me. “We're simply looking for the truth. In your initial report, you mentioned something about some unfortunate events on the trip back with your target,” he said with an expression of concern. “Why don't you tell us more about that?”

  The black-dressed man, not able to conceal his impatience with the slow progress of the interrogation, snapped. “Oh, enough of this! What do you remember about the video call? Tell us who Spenner talked with on your trip back to New York!”

  The silver-dressed man betrayed his warm demeanor for the briefest of moments, flashing a seething look of fleeting anger at his black-clad partner.

  “Patience, Barnaby,” the priest said through gritted teeth. “I'm sure Jonah will explain this to us fully. We need only give him time to recall his thoughts. He has survived some harrowing events.”

  Silence blanketed the room as the two agents glared at each other. A palpable tension hung in the air, pushing me like an invisible physical force.

  “You're right, Erasmus,” conceded the black-clad man. Now, I knew their names, and that they wanted to know about the call Spenner received on the trip back to New York.

  “Perhaps a respite from our discussion would be helpful for everyone,” offered Erasmus. “Jonah, your doctor suggested that you get some exercise. If you feel able, would you like to take a brief walk and return to our chat in a few minutes? I would like to show you something.”

  Nodding, I pushed the table to stand. My nervous system shocked my extremities with lightning pain. A grimace twisted my face a brief moment before I regained my composure and walked toward Erasmus. He motioned for me to follow him out a door that slid open from the white wall. I limped out of the room, and entered a wide corridor forking in two directions.

  “Come,” Erasmus said, beckoning. “There is someone who is eager to see you.” Erasmus and Barnaby turned right into the beige-painted hallway. We passed through several closed doors labeled with nonsensical government acronyms like NIDJS and ESPCOR.

  Our footsteps echoed across the polished black marble floor. At each branch in the corridor maze, a pair of armed guards in brown suits nodded at Barnaby. We passed through five checkpoints until we came to the final corridor, ending with an oak door fashioned with a bronze plaque.

  ** Incorporeal Revenue Service **

  ** Global Level Auditing Division E3A **

  As we approached, two guards flanking the door stepped aside then snapped back to their sentry position.

  “Welcome to GLAD, Director Barnaby, s-sir,” stammered the younger guard while the other opened the door.

  We entered, and I found myself in one of the bustling command centers of the IRS. Dozens of agents scurried up and down steel stair steps with their heads down, skimming reports on their wrist-coms or hand-screen tablets. On the third floor of the wide, round hall, a tribunal consisting of twenty hovering holo-judges presided over dozens of simultaneous trials. A line of ghostly v-casting people wrapped around the circular second floor for a chance to appeal their case. The central space filled with moving, floating virtual displays all showing different data streams about investigations throughout the world and the moon. It struck me as organized chaos in motion. The business of the IRS involved collecting revenue from dead or near-dead people, and business appeared healthy.

  A hawkish, gaunt man dressed in a white lab coat approached Barnaby. He handed over a thin black tablet, and my wrist-com lit by a faint blue illumination. Above the white-coated scientist, a four-by-four personal virtual projection screen floated behind him. A block of calligraphic text shimmered and repeated itself across the display. I smirked when I recognized the handiwork of Sasha’s humor algorithm flashing above the scientist, highlighting his scowling face.

  There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

  “The AI is still being--uncooperative,” sighed the scientist. “However, all tests are conclusive – she does not violate any Promethean sentience regulations. She passed all criteria by the slimmest margins, but she passed. Quite ingenious how her heuristics--”

  “Faith,” Erasmus interrupted, dismissing the scientist with an arm wave. He looked to Barnaby. “I believe a show of good faith is in order. Our guest Jonah has been forthcoming. Let him have his equipment and be reunited with his friend.” Before Barnaby rebutted, Erasmus smiled and raised his hand. “I’m sure Jonah will refrain from using his cyber-skills to pry into our network. We can trust you, Jonah, yes?”

  My instinct told me they returned Sasha for a reason, likely because they could not hack her and hoped that I would reveal the information she possessed. Whatever the reason, I nodded my assent. Barnaby frowned as he examined the report from the scientist. After a few moments of scouring the tablet’s data and scratching his head, he relented and thrust the wrist-com into my hands.

  “Here,” he grunted.

  “Thank you,” I said, fastening the device onto my arm. My fingers felt the warmth of the light-based finger sensors activating and embracing my hand. As the system rebooted, I heard Sasha’s presence.

  “Oh captain, my captain, our fearful trip is done,” said Sasha into my ear. “It is comforting to be back, sir. My inquisitors seemed keen to learn about your trip with Spenner. Much to their great disappointment, they discovered nothing.”

  “Good to have you back, Sasha,” I whispered.

  “Now then,” Erasmus said, pulling up two brown leather chairs, one for me and one for him. “I have helped you, and I hope you will aid us. Please, continue with your report. Begin with your departure from Louisiana with Spenner.”

  Part of me wanted to refuse to cooperate and keep my mouth closed. Then I weighed the benefits. Perhaps by telling what I knew I might also be able to learn more information from their reactions. Reviewing the events of the past few days also seemed to help rekindle my recollections. Besides, in my weakened condition, I made a conservative count of my viable options, and they added up to zero.

  My thoughts wandered back two days and I resumed telling my story...

  CHAPTER 3

  Crimson Blues

  “The collaboration of science and reli
gion established a new, better order where citizens will be able to pay all of their societal debts, whether here or in the here-after. We pay our debts now and forever.”

  - IRS Commissioner Jefferson McCourt

  >> DATE: Sept. 23rd, 2039. Two days before present time.

  >> TIME: 6:45 AM.

  >> LOCATION: Raleigh, North Carolina, northbound on Interstate 81.

  The first two hours of our trip back to New York dragged. Spenner focused on driving while Jebediah sat and stared in the back seat. My attention drifted between the fleeting landscapes of fields and small towns speeding by my window. Appearing lost in thought, I watched my partner from the corner of my eye. He looked older than his forty-two years. Though age had carved crags in his forehead and added crow's feet around his sea-green eyes, he represented a paragon of fitness. His mouth featured a slight angular imperfection, crooked from multiple broken jaws. The war stories etched across his face warned me to stay on this man’s good side.

  A bloom of fire and smoke pulled my attention toward the clear blue sky to witness something I had not seen before, at least not in person. Through the dirt smudges of my passenger window, I watched a sleek transport space shuttle, supported by two fiery rocket boosters, hurtle toward the moon.

  “That is the Sagan Rocket, Jonah,” whispered the voice of Sasha. Her programming granted the spontaneity to provide contextual information on interesting things around me. In this case, I welcomed her commentary as an interruption to boredom. I blinked in response instead of a verbal acknowledgment, still not wanting Spenner to know about her.

  “I have found the cargo manifest for the Sagan,” Sasha continued for my ear only. “Owned by the Goliath Corporation, that shuttle is carrying five thousand, six hundred, and seventy-four shades. All of them are assigned to work at the Mare Tranquillitatis, also known as the Sea of Tranquility. They will join a construction battalion expanding Lunar Spire’s eastern quadrant.”