by Liam Card
And the girls would hug their daddy, and the daddy would kiss their faces.
That was my happy version.
The sad make-believe version ended with the daddy finding his two girls in their bedroom, dead and stinking, with a doll between them that had been torn apart due to a tug-of-war gone wrong. The daddy carried the girls one by one into the backyard and laid them side by side on the lawn. He wrapped their bodies in bedsheets and picked flowers from the nearby garden. Flowers the girls had helped to plant. The ones right beside the tomato plants and carrots. He shovelled a hole in his backyard and lowered his little girls down into it.
The eldest first. Then the younger one.
Recalling the best of moments and memories.
The daddy arranged it so that the sisters were holding hands. After doing this, he covered them with a sheet of linen and began tossing the dirt on top of them. Delicately, at first, as if to do no further harm. Upon the last shovelful of dirt, I had the daddy scream up to the Heavens, directly to Safia, demanding that she present herself so that he might attempt to kill her by any means necessary. He swung his shovel violently in the air and toward the clouds, calling her every name under the sun.
And for that, for his murderous thoughts, he dropped dead, according to the rules, and the blood from his nose, eyes, and ears trickled down through the earth, past the freshly shovelled soil and kissed his two girls on the cheeks.
What was I to do but look at the Earth and make up stories?
Happy stories and horror stories.
That’s all I had left as the clock broke the ten-minute mark, abandoning an entire digital category along with it.
Moments later, I felt energy move close to me. A foreign vibration pattern I wasn’t familiar with. Something that seemed far more advanced than what I was accustomed to.
This was a spirit but bore a different vibration pattern altogether.
“Luke James Stevenson,” said the spirit, and I wondered who it could possibly be, since the Bookkeeper’s vibration pattern was so easily recognizable. If only I could reply to this strange force, I thought.
“You can connect with me, Luke. I have broken the sanctions on your spiritual composition.”
“So you can hear me?” I said.
“Loud and clear,” said the spirit.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Safia’s younger sister, Haadiya Jaffi.”
31
I explained to Haadiya that the whole thing had been out of the question, a blindfolded hook shot from half court in which the shooting arm had been broken and badly clawed by a bear.
An effort without a chance. Half a shade better than complete inaction.
I suggested that it was certainly nothing heroic.
“It was done for the salvation of mankind,” she said. “Doesn’t that make it heroic?”
The fact was this: One of my hundred million letters fired into the universe by my Paper Thought Airplane Gatling Gun was intercepted on the planet Strogmalon. The Messenger was finishing up his report on their progress, and something hit him square in the chest. Upon making contact, my paper thought airplane opened up inside the Messenger’s spiritual composition and uploaded the content.
In short, he read it.
“What are the odds of that?” I said, and suggested one in a billion. She uploaded to me the correct odds, punctuating my terrible guesstimate.
“After the letter was read, it was promptly forwarded to What’s Next. Which brings us to now,” she said, and I sent her over as many question marks as there were paper thought airplanes.
“First of all, on behalf of What’s Next, we thank you for the creativity and bravery in sending these letters out into the universe.”
“It was the least I could do.”
“You understand that, in the process, you have confessed to being a part of an operation that ended lives and interfered with what was meant to be?”
“I do understand and plead guilty,” I said. “But the Bookkeeper said that was a glitch in the rules. That technically no violation had occurred.” I then shared with Haadiya my encounter with him above the Great Pyramid.
“Nothing but a lie. An intentional misinterpretation. Another part of his plan to get Safia back to work, and you alongside her. The Bookkeeper has failed in his duties and will face further punishment. He is currently being dealt with,” she said.
I sent her a thumbs-up but wondered if that was a bit flippant given the gravity of the situation.
“You likely saved a billion or more lives,” she said and uploaded to me another medal of honour on behalf of What’s Next. That made three for my imaginary vacuum-sealed case, but this one from What’s Next was much larger, and technically astounding. Semi-translucent in areas, with rippling iridescent colours coming together to form the text. It now hung beside Safia’s Second World War–style medals, complete with old ribbon and sections where rust had set in. Truth be told, I loved them all equally.
“I bet the people of Earth would never believe what saved them,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“A tale that fantastical. A hundred million paper thought airplanes hurled out into the darkness without aim or precision. Fuelled by nothing but intention. Hitting the Messenger like that. No one would believe it.”
“Humans believe all kinds of fantastical tales,” said Haadiya. “What makes this one so different?”
“I guess that’s true,” I said.
“Besides, what is a paper thought airplane fuelled by intention if not a prayer?”
32
We travelled to Safia, who hovered atop the statue of Athena. Her charting and batching system was up and running, and she was now only moments away from carrying out Phase Three of Operation Stopgap. Haadiya approached and hovered close to her.
“Safia,” she said. “It’s your sister.”
“Impossible,” said Safia. “You are in What’s Next.”
“I have Luke here with me, and we want to talk to you,” said Haadiya.
“You are not here. This is a trick,” and she sent her sister a requisition regarding the confirmation of her identity. Haadiya sent back her spirit number with a certificate of authenticity, complete with an official wax seal from What’s Next.
“Of my own accord, I was sent back to deal with this situation that has gone well past out of hand.”
“Out of hand? Don’t you see what I’m doing, Haadiya?” she said. “I’m making the world a place where what happened to us, where what happened to you, will never happen again. Not if everything goes to plan.”
Safia uploaded to her the history of Operation Stopgap and the state of the world since her reign. She attached a feedback questionnaire for her thoughts and suggestions. Haadiya sent it back having filled out only one section. The comments section, in which she wrote the following: My sweet sister, the jig is up.
“Safia, I understand what you are attempting to accomplish, but this is not your duty, nor is it the duty of any spirit. You have severely crossed the line,” she said, inching forward to her.
“Look at the lives I have saved!” she said. “What about them?”
“You have been a puppet for the Bookkeeper,” said Haadiya, “to serve his own purposes.” She then demanded of me that I upload to Safia my exchange with the Bookkeeper on the surface of the moon.
She read it ten thousand times plus one.
Safia vibrated with a force unknown to even her. Snow broke from the peak of Mount Olympus and raced down the mountainside, as if to herd the locals into the safety of their homes. Surely, this was it. This was the iconic starter’s pistol the world had been waiting for. Sirens rang loudly in the air.
“He took advantage of your rage and mindset and used it for his own good,” said Haadiya. “You should never have been allowed to roam the Earth with power
like that.”
“What do you want, Haadiya?”
“I want you to stand down. I want you to accept your punishment and stop this operation immediately.”
“In my future,” Safia said, “good girls like you don’t die from murder.”
“In your future,” Haadiya said, “you slaughter millions of good girls like me.”
Haadiya promptly sent her all of the thousands of times she had experienced violent thoughts as a child, growing up under the same roof.
“I wouldn’t have made it under your law, Safia. And someone else’s sister who is as deeply loved is not going to make it under your law either,” she said and sent Safia a contract to terminate Operation Stopgap. “You must sign the treaty outlining your surrender, your admission of guilt, and the acceptance of your sentencing before the clock on your operation reaches zero, or you face spiritual decomposition.”
“What is that?” said Safia.
“It’s the worst fate of all. There is no What’s Next in that scenario. No more lives or second chances. There is no more spirit. There is nothing. It all ends. It all goes black for you.”
“So whoever presides over What’s Next sent you to erase your own sister?”
“No, it was I who asked to be sent.”
“To erase me?”
“To reason with you.” And then she sent her a billion paper hearts, each of which was folded in the middle and inscribed with a plea to abandon Stopgap and sign the treaty. Signed, “With Love, Your Sister.”
“I was afraid that if anyone else was sent, they wouldn’t have the patience or give the proper opportunity for you to stand down,” said Haadiya. “I did not travel all this way to erase you. I came to save you.”
The clock showed twenty seconds remaining.
“What does the punishment look like if I sign? Is the punishment harsh?” said Safia.
“Yes, Safia. It is. But your spirit lives on, and you will reach What’s Next in due course or the fullness of time.”
Haadiya uploaded to both of us the long-form treaty detailing the sentencing. Safia had been found guilty of the high crimes of Interference and Murder. For her acts, she was sentenced to remain on Earth for the rest of eternity, or until the end of humanity — whichever came first. Moreover, she would be forced to witness the eventual unravelling of her work, to suffer through mankind’s return to violence, and bear witness to their long and natural evolution to peace and understanding.
I sent both of them a voice note. In the voice note, a man with a loud bullhorn repeated this over and over: “The punishment is cruel and unusual!” The voice note was three hundred seconds long. As much as I wanted her to accept the deal and survive, it seemed torturous to put her in that situation, especially given the work she had done and her overall mindset. I quickly suggested a plea bargain. In the Line, I had lived the lives of many lawyers and drew on that experience to write up a hundred different plea deals. I selected what I thought were the top ten and sent them over to Haadiya.
“Please consider the following,” I said.
“There are no deals to be made, Luke,” she said. “Safia, I came because I knew you would make the right decision if I were here with you.”
Safia intermittently pulsed with vibrations, and all of the electricity in Athens went down.
“I can’t bear witness to what has been proposed,” she said. “I don’t believe I have it in me.”
“Safia, sign the contract!” I said and uploaded to her a giant feather quill and bowl of black ink.
“Sister,” Haadiya said, “sign the contract, or I will be forced to proceed with your spiritual decomposition.” She uploaded the treaty outlining Safia’s surrender, her admission of guilt, and sentencing once again. “Sign it!”
“How am I to make an admission of guilt when I believe I have done the right thing?” said Safia. “How am I to surrender as a murderer of mankind when I have done nothing but save lives and remove the worst of humanity thus far?”
“Time is almost up, sister.”
Safia hovered and buzzed.
She flickered and pulsed with intense energy. The unfiltered, chaotic thoughts she shared with me became uncomfortable to accept, and agonizing to bear witness to.
She imagined what the return to violence might look like.
Then ten seconds remained.
She imagined the first act of violence and the state of shock the world would be thrown into.
Then five seconds.
She imagined discourse being traded in for arms. Rhetoric for bullets.
Then four.
She imagined the world wars to come and sitting on the sidelines, unable to do a thing.
Then three.
She imagined the mothers weeping and the shovels digging. The bulldozers piling.
Then two.
She imagined the manipulators becoming leaders and once again turning neighbour against neighbour based on differences of opinion or belief system.
Then one.
Then numbers were something that the massive digital clock had run out of.
“I’m sorry, Haadiya,” she said. “I can’t accept the terms. Do what you must.”
Safia moved toward me and sent over a goodbye card. Inside, the inscription read this: “To my Colonel, Thank you. I love you. I am sorry. Please don’t ever forget my attempt. Safia.’”
I sent her back a stylized heart made of Murano glass falling in slow motion toward a concrete floor. The two surfaces met, and the work of art became a mess of shards and sharp edges.
“I won’t forget anything, Safia. And I’ll tell your story in What’s Next. I promise.”
She sent me that simple yellow happy face, and that was the last thing I ever received from her.
Haadiya moved close to Safia and embedded a code in her composition. The code multiplied quickly and began to spread throughout her form. Soon, Safia was covered with the code, and she wriggled and writhed, vibrated and pulsed with everything she had, but the code continued to consume her.
With this, Safia’s composition became unstable and loosened. The intense energy, the glue that held her together, snapped with static. Bolts of lightning crashed as her form began the process of breaking apart. Haadiya and I moved farther back as the electrical storm of decomposition took its course.
Then it was over.
Safia was gone.
And spirit code 4495 353 3928 493 9485 was no longer.
33
Haadiya uploaded to me the treaty surrounding my own sentencing. I too had been charged with the high crime of interference. My lesser charge was accomplice to murder.
There was no contest on any of these convictions.
“It was brave of you to send that letter, Luke,” she said. “In outing your own involvement and criminal activity, you indeed saved billions of lives. You will be heralded in What’s Next.”
“In what context?”
“You are a hero who happened to assist in millions of executions. It is a unique situation.”
“I didn’t intend to be classified a hero.”
“Heroes never do,” she said.
I read over the harsh sentencing and vibrated with tremendous force. Immediately, I uploaded a formal plea for reconsideration based on my successful effort to prevent Safia’s Phase Three from taking place.
“I am sorry, Luke. We are all in agreement that you did a great thing. However, sentencing is final,” she said and sent me back a rejection letter with a wax seal from What’s Next. There was nothing left to do.
I signed and dated the treaty.
I signed and dated the admission of guilt.
I signed and dated the sentencing agreement.
Haadiya kept the white copy, and she uploaded to me the yellow.
And just like that, I was committed to
repaying my debt to What’s Next.
• • •
I was never told what happened to the Bookkeeper. Haadiya suggested that his crime, in the eyes of What’s Next, for aiding and enabling Safia to carry out Operation Stopgap was far worse than his previous indiscretions. That for a spirit in his position, he had grossly violated a universal law. With regard to what happened to the Bookkeeper, all she said was this: “You will find out in What’s Next after your time has been served.”
“How long until the world realizes their protection is gone? How long until they go back to slaughtering one another?” I said.
She sent me back a clip of the word “history” spelling itself, the white letters populating in single-second intervals. Then the word disappeared and repeated itself again. Then again.
And again.
And again.
“I hate to agree with you,” I said.
Then she was gone.
And so began the next phase of my afterlife.
34
The first spirit for processing approached me. As they all do, she had reached the front of the Line. Number 8585 454 4343 221 5432. At age thirty-three, she had died in a house fire due to her roommate accidentally leaving a collection of candles lit overnight. I offered to connect with her, and she accepted. Based on her spirit number, I uploaded her original Time Card. She downloaded and reviewed it.