Life After Life

I heard a sharp crack, and for some inexplicable reason I was in no doubt that the pistol was aimed at me. Maybe it was the garbled mixture of images flashing through my mind, as if I were watching two-hundred-and-eighty-thousand videos simultaneously, each one playing an hour of my thirty-two years of life in a fraction of a second. Maybe it was the acute pinhead of agony illegally accessing my brain, hacking into the operating system of the software and corrupting it beyond hopes of salvation, shortly before unplugging the whole thing and smashing it into an unrecognizable mass with all the inertia of a sledgehammer.

Was that it? Shouldn't it hurt more to be shot in the head?

The pavement did the best it could to cushion my fall, and it was soft and welcoming compared to the burning lump of speeding metal that had burrowed keenly into my head and exited an inch behind my left ear. Hot blood rushed like spilt paint from the ragged crater in my skull, forming on the sidewalk a collage in shades of crimson. My heart was redundant in seconds, able no longer to obtain the fluids it was so used to pumping.

A woman's face floated on the inside of my eyelids, laughing and smiling, long blonde curls bouncing with every movement. Was she laughing at me, or was it just a memory? The name Lisa came to mind and I could only assume it was hers. She was beautiful, though, and I fell in love with her immediately even though I had never met her.

Then the last length of rope tying me to life frayed to a single strand, almost promising to anchor me there until the ambulance arrived. Almost. The solitary fiber snapped under the leaden weight of death and I plunged headlong into . . . nothing.

My eyes opened and the cold concrete slabs were still beneath me. I got up, wondering if I had imagined it all, but the dull ache where the bullet had left reminded me that wasn't the case. The corpse was the worst bit, though.

There was a body at my feet, and a voice in my head told me whose it was. I ignored the overwhelmingly obvious and sternly told my informer that they were somehow mistaken. The man's name was Davies - I remembered that much - though his first name escaped me until I saw his face. An avalanche of knowledge struck me, freezing my self-delusions solid before blasting them apart into tiny fragments of ice that quickly melted. The cadaver's broken face stared back at my vacant brown eyes and if I had not known better I could have sworn it was my identical twin. But I did know better. I knew I was an only child.

The nagging voice suddenly shouted out, "I told you!"

Denial raged in my mind. That wasn't me. How could it be? Wasn't I me? If that were me, then who was I? Neither my anger or my questions kept reality at bay, regardless how much I wished them to.

So I was dead, and the body on the floor was mine. Or at least it used to be. Acceptance calmed me in an instant. I had dropped my favorite mug the other day. It had shattered on the hard kitchen tiles, and the same disappointed yet resigned indifference settling upon me now had flashed through me then. This empty shell was just a useless thing now, to be left behind no matter how much it had meant to me.

My gaze settled upon a man with a small revolver in his hand, erupting from the shadows like he was no longer welcome among them. It came as some small relief that I did not recognize him. I don't think I would have been happy to know one of my friends had killed me. He dashed over to the body, a possession that was no longer mine, and began searching it with the same lack of concern he had given the ending of my life. I didn't wonder why I had been killed. It seemed immaterial now. What could I have done about it anyway? I didn't let it bother me.

I looked around, detached and disinterested in the looting behind my supposedly spiritual back, and noticed my clothes. The jeans, shirt and jacket I had been wearing just a moment ago had changed into a single-piece jumpsuit of light grey, the kind a corporate janitor would wear. There were no pockets for me to slip my inactive hands into. My boots had become slippers of snowy cloth.

My eyes scanned the clouds above me. When there was no bright light I dropped my gaze to the floor, wondering what I had done to deserve eternal damnation, but there was no jagged chasm spewing fire opening below me either. Instead, it was footsteps. They echoed with a special clarity and possessed the militant rhythm of a boring tap dancer. They sounded strangely empty, the way footsteps should never be.

Then he was before me, and I couldn't help but feel a little cheated. He didn't have a scythe, or anything.

Death was my height, but his body was fuller than it had any right to be. In place of the flowing cloak and cowl was a black Armani suit glued to a broad frame by self-importance, and such a fine fit that it looked as though it could have grown over his skin. His blonde hair was cut in the manner of all professional bureaucrats. Dark ovals of glass hid his eyes, and his thin lips made no effort to move in condolence. His whole being made me feel unwelcome, as if I were just another customer and he'd had a busy day at the office. He stopped before me and held out a small computerized clipboard with his right hand. I gingerly took the tablet, not quite knowing what to do with it. There were words on the screen.

TO THE RECENTLY DECEASED: AS YOU MAY BE AWARE, YOUR CURRENT LIFE HAS ENDED. YOU NOW HAVE TWO CHOICES: RETURN/CONTINUE.

I wanted so much to live again, but should I return to it, or continue with it? If one option was for life, what was the other option? How many times had I heard about people cheating Death and returning to life? How many times had I told myself that life was just a game? My fingertip hovered over one of the words, then changed its mind and went to the other. Indecision kept me from touching the keyboard.

The man in the suit looked at his wrist, more an act of impatience than to check the time - I wasn't even sure if time, as I understood it, meant anything here. The message was clear enough: hurry up. In a fit of nervous haste I made my decision, wishing instantly that I had pressed the other button. It was too late to change my mind. The choices vanished, to be replaced by more text on the screen.

THANK YOU. PLEASE FOLLOW THE OFFICIAL. HE WILL LEAD YOU TO THE WAITING ROOM WHERE YOU CAN REST IN COMFORT FOR THE NEXT STEP. PLEASE BE PATIENT.

The suited man held out his hand and I placed the tablet into his waiting fingers. He turned around toward a door that had not been there earlier. When he opened it, I covered my eyes to shield them from the intense brightness behind. I followed him through the doorway, as instructed, to find myself in a passageway stretching away to the left and the right.

Directly opposite me was a white door. There was a monitor on the face of the door with a digital readout: Chair 53. Current Occupant: Davison, Amber. Current location: Chicago. Current Date: Aug 12, 2029. Current Time: 14.21 and 21 seconds. 22 seconds. 23 seconds. Time was passing, as it usually did, seconds ticking by in time to my heartbeat.

I looked behind me at 'my' door. The New York crime scene I had recently vacated had gone. Only a narrow crack remained, beyond which was a small chamber with walls the same clinical white as the rest of the passageway. I craned my neck to see more of the room but the door was remorseless and sealed whatever else was in the room away from sight. There was a monitor on this door, too. Chair 54. Current Occupant: Davies, Danny. Current location: New York. Current Date: Mar 4, 2042. Current Time: 20.54 and 36 seconds. I noticed the seconds did not change just as the screen went black.

The empty footsteps were carrying the official away from me, and I hurried to catch up with him. I asked what was going on, but he did not answer. I had to wonder if he had heard me at all. I considered the bright light I had seen as the door opened, and wondered if he were an angel.

I followed my mute escort down the passageway. Doors went by on each side, all of them with monitors on, every monitor showing the same bright neon information: chair, occupant, location, date. Some of them were blank, but not many. Every occupant had a surname beginning with 'D'. The passage ended at a T-junction. The official turned left. More passage. More doors. Was there a door for everyone, every where, in every year? I didn't want to think how many doors that would be.

Eventually the passage roof fell away, rushing up, up, up to a distant, vaulted ceiling. Air conditioning units clustered in its lofty corners, humming with angelic voices. A calm breeze ran ethereal fingers through my wispy hair, tasting faintly of summer. The hall was spacious and wide, creamy-white with soft, rounded angles. Dozens of pillars sprang from the floor, finger-bone white and impossibly thin given the task they had been charged with. Huge, soft, luxurious chairs made of beige leather filled the space between the columns.

My gaze followed the four ten-strong ranks marching pristinely to the huge arches at the front of the hall and settled upon the great windows spun delicately between them, flooding the area with fabulous illumination and subtle shade. Around the perimeter of the area, hanging from the ceiling, were arrows pointing along corridors parallel to the one where I had started. Each arrow had a letter of the alphabet on it. I had come from the 'D' passage, clearly.

I was suddenly aware of the official's shoes tapping out his exit, but I didn't follow him this time. I remembered the words on the tablet urging me to rest in comfort. So I did. As my weight was absorbed into one of the chairs, all my concerns about where I was and what was happening seemed to melt away. Thoughts of aching feet were replaced with those of swans and clouds. I let myself sink further into its soft embrace, enveloped within a cocoon of bliss.

I began to take notice of who else was here, nameless faces scattered like dice and looking just as detached from reality as I must in their eyes. They all wore the grey jumpsuit that I had on. Officials strutted between them, garbed in brooding authority. Some brought people in from the passages with letters above them, or took people away down them. Each newcomer had on a mask of bewilderment and awe. Other people were guided toward the bright windows at the opposite end of the hall.

The peculiar echo of polished shoes followed the officials around like faithful dogs; the only sound in the room beyond the gentle hum of machinery above. The resounding quiet magnified the vastness of the place, filling it with balloon emptiness my lungs ached to fill with a scream. However, instead of the shattering bellow I imagined, only a flat moan escaped my lips. I tried again, but my call went unheard as if swallowed by a strong wind. I gave up after that, breath expended and throat raw with effort. Was there nothing voice could do to pierce the layers of serenity covering the place? Was sound forbidden here, kept away by the patrolling clicks of the officials' shoes? Or was it that I was just not used to speaking?

I do not know how long I sat there. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours. Yet time must have passed, for spasms of hunger crept sullenly into my belly. Maybe I slept, for I was suddenly aware of the official looming over me.

He looked very much like the first man I had met, but with dark hair. He handed his tablet to me and I accepted it, only mildly surprised to see that the hand taking the item was instead riddled with age. I read the screen, squinting to make out the words.

YOUR NEW LIFE WILL BE PROCESSED UPON ACCEPTANCE OF THE FOLLOWING:

1 I WILL ADHERE TO THE PHYSICAL LAWS MY NEW LIFE DEMANDS OF ME.

2 A MIX OF MY CHOICES AND THE MAINFRAME'S PROGRAMMING GOVERNS EACH OF MY ACTIONS. I WILL NOT HAVE COMPLETE CONTROL OF MY NEW LIFE AT ANY TIME.

3 I ACCEPT FULL RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANY DECISIONS I MAKE THAT LEAD TO THE PREMATURE END OF MY NEW LIFE, WHETHER DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY.

4 SHOULD I RUN OUT OF CREDIT, THE MAINFRAME SHALL AUTOMATICALLY END MY NEW LIFE IMMEDIATELY, AFTER WHICH I SHALL RETURN TO MY TRUE LIFE.

5 I WILL HAVE NO MEMORY OF MY TRUE LIFE OR PAST LIVES DURING MY NEW LIFE, EXCEPT THOSE AGREED UPON WHEN ENTERING THE NEW LIFE.

6. MY NEW LIFE WILL BE RECORDED FOR INSURANCE AND TRAINING PURPOSES.

I ACCEPT THESE TERMS AND CONDITIONS: YES/NO.

I tapped 'YES'. The writing changed.

ON BEHALF OF THE LIFE AFTER LIFE CORPORATION, WE WELCOME YOU TO YOUR NEW LIFE. PLEASE FOLLOW THE OFFICIAL.

And then it all came back to me.

My name was Danny Davies. It was 2079 and I was sixty-four years old. Lisa was my wife, and her dying wish eighteen years ago was that I live life to the fullest, enjoying myself in the time I had left without her. She always did ask the impossible, but somehow I always found a way to do it.

With recent advancements in virtual reality technology, actual reality was made possible. This lead to the development of games using this new technique. There were difficulties with the first releases of course. Private users hooked themselves into their computers and quickly became addicted to the high levels of power they wielded in the universes they created, the worlds in which they could be who they wanted to be. Who would want to leave a game that was better than life itself?

Voluntarily trapped in these realms of imagination made real, many died of starvation. Laws covering the use of the game were imposed, leading to the foundation of businesses in which a controlled environment could be constructed and maintained. The most popular platform was that run by a firm calling itself Life After Life, whose brilliant marketing strategy and affordability ensured the bankruptcy of all their rivals. Nobody had the package LAL offered. nobody else could use memory as a regulatory function of the game.

People faced choices every day, only now they could find out what might have happened if they had gone the other way, taken the other job, married the other person. They could replay the things they regretted doing to create a more acceptable outcome. That's what I was doing, exploring every aspect of possibility and potential my long life had provided, taking advantages of the chances I had missed along the way.

With one exception.

I knew when and where I had met Lisa, and in each game I made sure I was standing behind her at the cinema on September 15th, 2028, with an extra large popcorn ready to refill the one she dropped. I had never loved anyone before meeting Lisa. I would never love anyone again afterwards. Thanks to LAL, we were able to do all the things we had ever wanted to without her illness being a factor.

I eagerly handed the tablet back to the official, who took me back down the 'D' passage toward Chair 54. The monitor was not black this time. It read: Current Occupant: Davies, Danny. Current location: Los Angeles. Current Date: Feb 17, 2015. Current Time: 04.54 and 34 seconds. The seconds were not counting up, and I knew why. I had celebrated my birthday enough to know that date implicitly. It had been imprinted indelibly upon my brain.

The chair beyond the door was very different to the ones in the rest room. It was angles and corners, planes of metal with only slight padding to guard my flesh from its hard edges. Food pipes and hydration cables ran along the arms and backrest, many of them ending with needles. Despite its intimidating appearance I felt no hesitation in occupying the chair. It was not an instrument of torture, after all. There was a mechanical whirr as headgear was clamped to my skull, along with the familiar tingle of something piercing my skin, about an inch behind my left ear.

A wave of debilitation hit me, washing away the tenseness in my muscles and drowning out the excitement I couldn't suppress at meeting her again. All of my emotions were gone as my life began to build itself up again, one second after another.

A lightless cocoon of warmth and safety. Pressure mounting. Tighter and tighter. Again, a push from behind, from beneath, more urgent this time. Moving toward an opening, bright and unknown. Exploding into sight and smell and sound as the midwife said, "Congratulations, Mister and Misses Davies. You have a son."

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