by Jessie Atkin
Once upon a time there was no such thing as reanimation. When a person passed on they were buried beneath the earth and their plot watered by the tears of their loved ones. But Mila had never been to a funeral. In her world dead no longer meant gone, it meant production.
The proper term for the reanimated was “laborer.” This meant that family members could continue to support one another long after what was once known as their “productive” years. All this was made possible by Fabulous Pharmaceuticals and the Department of Individual Industry and Energy (DIIE).
After a human was reanimated, their family was paid the minimum restitution for their services. Before reanimation became popular a family used to be able to survive on the full-time salary of a single household member, but that had been generations ago. Now two reanimated grandparents could scarcely support a family of three.
Mila was seated before the holo-screen considering what difference the Department of Individual Industry and Energy was going to make in her life now that her uncle was dead. He had children of his own of course, but the distribution of his restitution was not up to him, but up to Mila’s great great grandparents who had signed up with the DIIE when it began and checked the box for equality, meaning all restitutions were to be equally distributed amongst all descendants for all time. It sounded good in theory, but it meant that none of Mila’s family was being particularly well taken care of through restitutions. But, she reminded herself, without the DIIE she wouldn’t have a holo-screen, or electricity, or same day delivery.
Beyond the difference the Department of Individual Industry and Energy made to families, it was also the major engine behind the growth of a new economic superpower. But some people didn’t want to support their families at all.
Some of the more devout religious sects had taken to decapitating those who passed away in an attempt to evade reanimation, but that came from a fundamental misunderstanding of how the reanimation process worked. The brain was not necessary. The process was complex, but the results didn’t have to be.
It may have seemed like a pitiful situation, but reanimation meant that the country finally had flying cars, outer space hotels, and anti-aging pills. There were few who could afford these new advanced luxuries, but that was simply because their families weren’t large enough.
“Babies equals business,” the holo-screen recited.
Mila tried to count all her cousins but didn’t have enough fingers. That meant her uncles restitution would have to be divided by more than ten. She wasn’t sure she could do the math that the holo-screen was asking for.
There had been another mass beheading overnight and the holo-screen was reminding everyone that the amount of restitution owed a family decreased if the member was retrieved by the DIIE without a head.
“You’d look better without your head,” Marcus said.
Mila reached to slap her brother but missed.
“I’d offer more if I didn’t have to look at your face every day.”
“It doesn’t matter what anyone looks like,” Mila replied. “They all work the same, with or without a head.”
“Then they should encourage beheadings, the DIIE would get to pay less.”
Mila considered this but hated to admit when her brother was right about anything.
“Your head’s missing already,” she said instead.
“What?”
“It’s just an empty container weighing down your neck.”
Marcus jumped and landed hard on Mila’s lap. The girl brought up a knee and sent her brother rolling off her, coughing hard.
“You’re supposed to be taking care of me until mom gets home from work,” Marcus said, once he’d regained his breath.
Mila motioned at where her brother clutched at his abdomen. “I think I just did take care of you.”
Marcus coughed again. “Not funny.”
“It was not a funny sight when authorities found the cult beneath the abandoned Human Services office late yesterday evening.”
“Are they going to show the heads?” Marcus asked.
“They never show the heads,” Mila replied.
“Then why do we care? Why are we watching this?”
“You’re not watching, I’m watching.”
“Mom would want us to watch something educational. Like The Real Executives of the Empire State.”
“Mom’s not here,” Mila reminded him. “And I’m in charge.”
“Can we at least try The Concealed Crooner or Following up with the Franklins?”
“No.”
Marcus frowned and folded his arms. “When does dad get home?”
“Next week,” Mila said, her eyes still trained on the holo-screen across from them now advertising the newest eLens communicator. Mila’s parents still wore the goggles.
Marcus groaned.
“You want to eat,” Mila said, “He has to work.”
“What I want is to watch Real Executives.”
“There’s nothing real about them,” Mila sighed.
“Just because you don’t believe in the eLens lifestyle doesn’t mean other people don’t.”
The eLens wasn’t the only thing Mila believed she’d never see in her life. But at the moment all she wanted to see was more about the most recent cult beheadings. She wanted to hear about these people who wanted nothing for their families. People who worked against restitutions, as if money wasn’t important. As if there was something that meant more than what you could buy or eat.
They weren’t showing any heads, but they weren’t showing any blood either. There was no splatter, or chattering witnesses, smiling for their moment on the holo. There weren’t any shawls, or dirt, or ritual items strewn across the ground. There were no partially dug holes, no shovels, or sticks. They weren’t even showing scuff marks from a struggle with police.
It was as if there hadn’t been a beheading at all. It was as if there had only been the cult and then nothing. It was as if they’d escaped. But nothing wasn’t a story. That didn’t make any sense. Where was there to escape to? This wasn’t a fairy tale. This was real life.
Jessie Atkin writes fiction, essays, and plays. Her work has appeared in The Rumpus, Writers Resist, Daily Science Fiction, Space and Time Magazine, and elsewhere. She can be found online at jessieatkin.com.
