Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  “Mr. Saul’s coma occurred three months prior to your government’s Mandatory Service Act. Unlike the other Jews who emigrated from the United States from 2021 to 2024 to avoid afterdeath service, Mr. Saul never received warning of the law and could not evacuate. It is our belief that an undeath would send a Jewish soul to Gehenna, our religion’s version of your Hell. We will appeal Mr. Liebowitz’s case on the grounds of religious persecution retroactively to the time of the amnesty. We will seek an appeal and request that he be allowed to leave the country and be buried, and stay buried, as per his Hebrew tradition.”

  I felt pity for Saul. Most of his people, likely his whole family, had long fled from the United States since the passage of the MSA in 2024. The legislation granted no safe-harbor, no exemptions, no diplomatic immunity, if you owed money. Upon its ratification, the MSA had decreed that all citizens, tourists, and diplomats, had three years to depart if they disagreed with afterdeath service. Jewish citizens had fled en masse in the single largest religious migration since World War 2, since their orthodox laws required their burial within 48 hours of death.

  “The state of Israel would be willing to fund your retainer for this case,” the ambassador continued. “But I hope you understand if we only v-cast to the court rather than attend in person for our security.”

  “I can offer my services as your co-counsel,” added Eli. “I serve as head of legal for my father’s company, Titan Technologies.” Eli’s words echoed in my head. Any hacker or technologist knew that Titan Tech represented nearly ten percent of all hardware construction. They had made all of the sentient androids before the Promethean ban in 2020. This case held the potential to be the most important of her career.

  “Of course, I’d be honored if you would help,” Vanessa bubbled with enthusiasm. Now she had a paying client. This represented a chance to appeal the Mandatory Service Act before the appellate courts, maybe the Supreme Court. This would be the fuel that skyrocketed her career. She smiled as they delved into strategic discussions about Saul’s legal options. Then she turned to give a quick sideways glance in my direction.

  Catching the hint, I slinked away down the green-tiled hallway and entered my study. The spartan room contained an old-fashioned oak table and a comfortable leather chair. There was also plenty of open floor space to accommodate my habit of opening a dozen floating virtual screens at once. With a flick of my fingers, I summoned Sasha from the wrist-com.

  “Sasha, why don’t you join me?” Whenever possible, I encouraged her to manifest a body. This pushed the capacities of her etiquette engrams when she encountered other people.

  Utilizing the v-cast generator, she materialized with a new form of her choosing. First the proto-matter coalesced and shaped her hazel eyes, two golden discs that twinkled too bright. I made a mental note to check the texture mapping of her irises. At 5’10, she came almost to my height. Only a faint trace of powder blue in her skin betrayed a synthetic origin. Long brown hair spilled over her slender shoulders and flowed over her close-fitting, deep indigo dress. Like an ebbing ocean current, the dark sequins around her torso glittered in and out of view as she moved. The stylish outfit looked new to me, no doubt procured, perhaps hacked, from Milan’s hottest fashion designer. Through her own dynamic programming desires, she had acquired a taste for fashion that already far outstripped my simple and uncultured sensibilities.

  “Thank you, Jonah,” Sasha replied.

  “Do I have any messages?”

  “Your mother,” Sasha replied. Like most home programs, she handled basic receptionist and servant duties. But unlike typical house-bots, Sasha possessed far more sophisticated routines, including a data hound prototype from my military programming days. Since the Promethean Laws prohibited true self-aware computers, most families utilized simple virtual butlers to manage their homes. With Sasha, I utilized a few tricks to keep her cognizance thresholds within legal limits, flying a razor’s width under the sentience detection grid.

  “Play the message, please.” Sasha complied and the v-cast whirred, composing a semi-tangible visage of my mother’s emaciated face in the space before me.

  “Jonah, dear, are you still visiting next week?” she rasped. The voice trembled and sounded weaker than last week’s call. “Thank you, dear, for paying my last bill. But, I--I think those IRS thugs are watching me again. The nurse thinks I’m paranoid, but I saw them across the street. Please, please come soon.” After her message faded, I tapped my wrist-com and connected to my mother’s hospice facility. A basic hack circumvented their security system, allowing me to review the last two days of their security camera footage. Sure enough, I spotted a sedan with two black-suited men wearing dark sunglasses parked outside her window, like vultures perched on a nearby tree.

  “Damn ghouls,” I mumbled. The term ghoul traced back to the Arabic mythology of a creature that fed off the flesh of the dead. While I never liked the term, it seemed to be an apt description for the jackasses parked outside my mother’s window. The IRS had taken my father for his debts, but I vowed that would not happen with my mother.

  “You have two more messages,” Sasha mentioned.

  I walked to the v-cast generator that served the apartment. The machine stood about four feet tall, with three principal components. The tank took up most of the vertical height, holding about ten gallons of reusable proto-matter. Next to it, the disc-shaped reclamation filter stood ready to suck back proto-matter when a virtual form dissolved. Atop the device rested the conical projector element.

  “Sasha, play the next message, please.” With a noisy whine, the v-cast generator formed the tall figure of a smirking man wearing an exquisite dark blue suit. The man’s perfect black hair parted in the middle. Each side featured a symmetrical streak of white hair, like whitecaps crashing atop an ocean wave. I recognized the distinctive hairstyle and the angular cheekbones from the vid-channels before he introduced himself.

  “Greetings, Jonah. My name is Gabriel Charon,” he announced. The name sounded familiar. “Our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Spenner, recommended you. He said you were the second best ghoul around… after him.” I winced, not at the suggested second place ranking, but at the slur itself. Curiosity overcame my minor indignation and the message continued. “I have a business partner, or I should say had a business partner named Mr. Julian Grand. If you’re interested, I have an opportunity that will earn you a sizeable collection bonus.” While he spoke, my fingers danced across the wrist-com to request information. Sasha walked around the virtual recording of Charon, her golden eyes glittering while regarding him. With an outstretched hand, she formed three floating data windows.

  “I’m running a full background check,” she reported. The first screen flickered on and showed public domain knowledge. Weeks before, he had assumed the position of CEO of Goliath Corporation, the second-biggest space mining company. The second window showed a series of news vid-clips detailing the recent passing of his father. Guy Charon, the former CEO of Goliath Corp, had passed away at the ripe old age of ninety-two just two months ago. Another news article showed that the company had acquired Grand Construction six years ago. The third window revealed buried tidbits that Sasha pried from the darknet, the seedier recesses of the connected world where talented hackers dredged hidden secrets. My eyes skimmed over the contents of sealed court records detailing a failed federal investigation against the Charon family. Digging further, Sasha found a never-released news story about three hostile takeovers that Goliath Corporation’s lawyers had managed to stifle. Another negative news article pertained to a recent drug-overdose on Charon’s lunar bar and restaurant, Club Purgatory. Of course, the police had filed no charges. Despite dozens of allegations of improprieties, nothing had stuck to the man, and his record remained clean. My gaze returned to Charon’s message as he completed his proposal to me.

  “The short and quick of it is that Mr. Grand owes me a tremendous amount of money,” Gabriel continued with any icy tone. �
��And I intend to collect.”

  I opened a fourth data window to review information about my target. Mr. Julian Grand once owned Grand Construction, the largest of the interstellar building conglomerates involved in putting condominiums on the moon. For the last fifteen years, the company’s enticing slogan to “Enjoy A Grand New Life On The Lunar Spire” had lured countless people to the moon. He’d made billions of dollars, primarily by exploiting mass shade-labor. Another news article caught my attention. According to public record, he’d purchased more than two hundred thousand shades to build ten thousand settlements on the moon’s Mare Tranquillitatis. More reports streamed in that told the grim tale of his spectacular financial ruin. Like so many robber barons before him, he’d lost his fortune to bold speculation, a risky mining venture that ended in disaster on Pluto. Leaked financial reports flashed on the data window indicating that he’d borrowed a fortune from his partner Gabriel Charon.

  “I believe the adage ‘reap what you sow’ is apt in Mr. Grand’s case,” whispered Sasha into my ear, bringing a smirk to my lips. Satisfied with my research, I resumed listening to the remainder of the message.

  “My sources informed me that Mr. Grand suffered a massive stroke last night,” Gabriel added without an atomic ounce of compassion. “His family has not turned over the body. By law, he is my property until he settles his debts. I’ll be damned if he goes off to hell without making good on what he owes. I need to know, within hours, if you're interested. I'm transmitting the address where my source believes the Grand family will hide the body. Get me my property, Jonah, and I'll cut you in for a percentage.”

  Doubting instincts waged a mental war with the practical part of my mind that knew the balance of my checking account. I needed to send an answer quickly. The competition among collection agents grew fiercer each day. Unlike Vanessa, no line of desperate clients banged on my door.

  The message ended. As Charon’s form melted away, the v-cast generator filters made a sucking sound and recycled all of the floating proto-matter. A tinge of worry gnawed at my stomach about his shadowy past, but I tapped my wrist-com to signal my acceptance of the job.

  “Thank you, Sasha. What’s next?”

  “Revenue Officer Brendan Leary has queried you. He is online,” replied Sasha.

  “Connect us, please.”

  The v-cast generator activated, first materializing the guest’s orange hair, then the rest of his short, thin frame. As an overworked mid-level IRS agent, Brendan sometimes tossed overflow jobs my way.

  “Jonah, I hope you need work, because I’ve got a backlog of cases and everyone is swamped,” Brendan stated. “Honestly, you were not my first choice. I haven’t forgotten about the Mulroney job.” Damn, he had to bring up my first and worst case. I’d showed up at the funeral for my first collection as the family tried to lower the body into the ground. I’d read his family the lien, scared them off with the stun weapons, the whole routine. They’d backed off and let me animate the body, but I’d forgotten to double-check the identity. Sure enough, the family had switched the corpses and I’d animated a debt-free corpse they had stolen from the opposite side of the cemetery. That mistake gave the IRS a black eye and prevented me from getting work for a long, hungry month.

  “I’m interested,” I replied. “Who’s the target?”

  “Arnold Tornuckle, a former Wall Street trader who racked up a pile of debt while peddling faulty equipment to off-world colonists,” Brendan responded. “He’s getting sued all over the galaxy, a real bastard. On his last trip to the Lunar Spire, travelport security scanners detected an undiagnosed heart embolism. He will be returning tomorrow morning and we’re 99.87% certain he’ll suffer a fatal stroke within the next ten hours.”

  Few people outside of secretive government circles knew that most airport scanners possessed more sophisticated technology than the general public realized. Those metal arches that people passed through every day did more than just check for bombs and weapons. The devices acted like the advanced MRI machines at the best hospitals. After the passage of the Mandatory Service Act, the IRS had taken a keen interest in monitoring the wealth and health of citizens, and what better way than to X-ray your insides while you travel? It was all done in the name of national security.

  “Your usual per diem will be paid in addition to the collection bonus,” continued Brendan. “Easy job. Just be there when the stroke occurs so he can repay his debts.”

  “I’ll take the job,” I answered.

  “Oh, I know, I already put your name on the board for this target and I took the liberty of sending his usual addresses, frequented shops and restaurants, and car travel history. Good hunting, Agent Jonah.” Brendan’s freckled face started to disappear with his last words: “Don’t let me down again.” The generator whined to reclaim the glowing embers of proto-matter.

  Having my assignments set up for tomorrow, I returned to the living room to check on Vanessa. Her wine glass was empty, and at some point during the long meeting she’d let her long brown hair down. While her meeting wrapped up, I crept to the kitchen and fetched more white wine from the pantry.

  “I don’t know how else to thank you, Vanessa,” said Saul, as he and the ambassador started to fade out.

  “You have our everlasting gratitude,” added Eli. “We won’t forget your kindness.”

  “I’ll start on the case tonight,” Vanessa responded while shaking Eli’s outstretched hand. Then the ghosts disappeared as I walked through the dying photonic embers of their fading forms.

  “Did you say tonight?” I asked, refilling Vanessa’s glass with a golden buttery 2033 Chardonnay. “I was hoping to have some quality time with the prettiest lawyer in the five boroughs,” I said, taking a seat next to her.

  Vanessa already had returned to her work, her hands darting across the glass table, calling up digital legal briefs, past rulings for afterdeath cases, Supreme Court opinions, and dozens of other complex writings that would take all night to read. I rubbed her shoulders and felt the tension in her knotted muscles.

  “Thanks for the glass, dear, but unfortunately my new client, my new paying client, Saul, will be reaped within days if I don’t intervene.”

  “Since I’ve been gone a week, I was hoping we could spend more time tonight. But I understand if you have an urgent case. How about I keep you company? I’ll make sure your wine glass stays full.” I placed my hand on her leg and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I’ve really missed you, honey,” I whispered without the pretense of subtlety.

  She shot me a glare back and pulled away from my touch.

  “And you’re going to go on missing me, dear,” she said icily. “Tell me, Jonah, how was your day today, hmm? Have a good day lurking about the hospital waiting for people to die? Did you push through any mourners to dig up a fresh corpse?”

  The gray clouds of a stormy argument gathered on the horizon, just waiting for a favorable wind or the wrong word to unleash a tempest. I would almost prefer squaring off against the Devereux clan again. Despite my awareness of the delicate situation, I still found a way to make matters worse.

  “My day was good. I apprehended a felon who was dodging his tax responsibilities illegally.” I immediately regretted getting defensive with her. Why did I always have to try to be right?

  “Oh, really? You're going to use that as an excuse?” Her eyebrows raised, the wrinkles around her nose creasing and highlighting her adorable freckles. I needed to set up an exit strategy to this argument quickly.

  “Honey, it's the law,” I said, trying to soften my voice as much as possible. “I'm just trying to make a living.”

  “Making a living at the expense of those poor souls?” she snapped, red-faced. “Do you know how repulsive that sounds?” Her lips quivered and she grasped her wine glass with such force that I was afraid the glass would shatter in her hands. The situation needed to be defused.

  “Souls? There's no spark, no mind, no soul, you know that.�
�

  “Yes.” She paused on the word, as if chewing on it. “I know that,” she snipped back with sarcasm. She placed her wine down and crossed her arms.

  “Wait, wait, I didn't mean it like that,” I said, placing my hand on her hand. “This is not what I'll be doing for the rest of my life here. Just a few more jobs and we'll be able to pay all of our bills. Only two more jobs and I'll have enough to save my mother. After that, I can take a steady job, a programmer position with the city.” I tried inching closer and putting my arm around her, but she pushed away. “Please, can't we just forget about this conversation, move on, and relax with each other?”

  “This isn't going to work, Jonah,” she said in a tone mixed with sadness and weariness. “I tried to tell you before. Many times...you know what I do and you still made your choices. I can't be with someone who...who does those things. You can sleep on the couch tonight. And tomorrow you can pick up...”

  I felt a sense of panic welling up inside me. I couldn't let her finish that sentence.

  “Stop...please,” I begged, fighting a choking sensation gripping my throat. The air suddenly seemed thinner, my eyes watered. It felt like drowning. “I don't want this. Before you say another word, just listen. After tomorrow, I'll have enough money to pay off my mother's bills. Then I’ll get another job. I promise.”

  “You said that before, Jonah, but there's always another bill, another reason. You like the money and you're good at this. But these dead people, yes, people, have rights. There are others like me that believe they are more than just husks. Alive or dead, we all deserve dignity. I hope one day you can see that, Jonah.”

  “Vanessa, please, just meet me for lunch tomorrow before you say anything more on this. I'll wrap up my work and we can talk about this. I don't want...I don't want us to end.”

  Her eyes locked on mine and she studied my face. As a lawyer, she’d developed the skill to spot truth and fiction in words, to make a judgment about whether words matched intention. I had made her this promise two weeks ago, that I would stop collecting and find another job. She knew the Bronx Credit Union had offered a systems analyst job to me that paid a low but steady wage. Instead, I’d accepted a series of more lucrative collections, culminating in the Devereux mission. Guilt crushed my chest when her eyes watered.