The IP Division

Raymond S. Thatcher died in his sleep in the early morning of June 2nd, 2078. He was 84 years old, and the cause of death was declared to be natural, though possibly encouraged by his great fondness for deep-fat frying things that were not necessarily meant to be saturated in fat.

He was survived by his lovely wife Brit, their daughter Brell, and their son Raymond Jr., who everyone called Artu. Only Mrs. Thatcher and Artu were present when Mr. Thatcher passed away. Artu, the younger of the two siblings, had been living at home, helping his mother and father live comfortably. Brell was on Mars, closing a minor business deal and would not receive word of her father’s death for several hours after he passed away due to her phone battery dying.

During the course of his life, Mr. Thatcher had devoted forty-two years to working in the field of aerospace engineering, most of it with the international company, AAST. His family was very proud, as his hard work was what made their comfortable life possible. He was also the only person on the block who worked for the government, which was held as a great status symbol as only the very best and brightest were ever hired.

It was rumored that his early work in the field was responsible for the major breakthroughs that allowed the colonization of Mars. He, of course, never discussed his work, as his clearance level did not allow him to. His projects and patents were not allowed to become public knowledge for another eight years at the time of his death, due to company secrecy policies, called statues of silence. However, that had never stopped Mr. Thatcher from looking up at Venus on a summer night and nod knowingly at anyone that happened to be with him.

“Only a matter of time,” he’d say and wink broadly. “We’re already living on Mar. Only a matter of time.”

As in line with tradition, Mr. Thatcher’s family had the body prepared for the funeral and all the friends and family came to pay their respects. Everyone told Mrs. Thatcher how brave she was being, how strong, how loving. Mr. Thatcher was a friendly man and well-loved by the community, so good words flew freely that night.

“He helped take care of my lawn after my husband had his accident with our automated vacuum,” confided one lady tearfully, grasping Mrs. Thatcher’s arm.

“All those times he took the boys to soccer and football practice,” said another.

“He will be sorely missed,” was repeated in every voice until it lost all meaning.

It was a beautiful memorial, and well-spoken of in the months that followed. The Thatchers had spared no expense to show both their love for Mr. Thatcher and to display their wealth and status in the community.

After all the visitors left the funeral home, Mrs. Thatcher and the two children sat alone with the body, standing vigil in the memory of the man who had done so much for them all. It was a family tradition to stay through the night and have the body buried the next morning. The first hour or so was spent in a mix of tired silence and teary memories, which quickly slid into boredom and old childish habits for certain members of the family.

“He was the reason I went to Mars,” sighed Brell. “I was the only girl in nursery school who wanted to be an engineer.”

“Too bad you suck so much at math,” Artu snickered, prompting a sharp cuff to the ear from his mother.

“I do just fine at Deimos Corp. as their broker,” sniffed Brell. “At least I’ve been off the planet, unlike some people.”

“I’m waiting for my trillionaire girlfriend to buy me my own planet first. Got to make the moment special,” Artu assured her, stretching out lazily in his chair and accidentally kicking the edge of his father’s casket in the process.

Mrs. Thatcher ended any more arguments about Artu’s imaginary girlfriend and planetary travel with a long, exasperated sigh. Her children were well trained and took the cue of her waning patience and quickly fell into a slightly more respectful silence, even sitting a little straighter in the hard-backed chairs.

It was not until the very early hours of the morning that the disturbance came. Mrs. Thatcher was leaning penitently against her husband casket, while Brell flicked through her phone, checking to see if anything had changed at Deimos Corp. while she was trapped with her family. Artu slumped in his chair, feigning alertness poorly. A sharp rap at the door snapped all of them out of their different stupors to look at each other with confusion. No one would ever come to a funeral home in the middle of the night. The memorial had been over for hours, and the family had asked to be left alone with the body until dawn.

“Maybe it’s one of the neighbors with food,” suggested Artu hopefully.

Mrs. Thatcher took a few steps to the door, but before her hand could touch the doorknob, the door opened with enough force to bounce against the wall and nearly slam shut again.

A large hand snapped out, keeping the door from closing on the face of a small, round man. He was in a brown, slight rumpled suit and had a briefcase clutched in one pudgy hand. He was flanked by two larger men, both in well-tailored suits, one light-haired and one dark-haired.

“I apologize,” said the smaller. “My name is Dr. Pons. These are my associates, and one of them needs his strength recalibrated.”

He shot an annoyed look at the darker-haired of the two giants and shook his head slightly.

“Not how we wanted to speak to a grieving family. Very rude. Not appropriate at all. My apologies.”

“I’m sorry, I thought we weren’t going to speak to the lawyers until next week,” said Mrs. Thatcher, quickly regaining her composure and slipping back into her hostess demeanor.

“I’m sure you will see the lawyers next week,” assured Dr. Pons.

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and loudly blew his nose.

“However, my dear lady, we are not the lawyers,” he continued thickly, stuffing the soiled cloth back into his jacket pocket. “We are from the IP Division at AAST.”

“Dad never mentioned-,” started Brell, getting over her initial shock and standing by her mother.

“No. no, he wouldn’t have, would he?” nodded Dr. Pons, his tone distracted as he looked around the room. “Wasn’t his place to say. All those clearances. All the paperwork. No, he would have never mentioned us. In fact, you’ll all have to sign some sort of waiver yourselves before we leave.”

He flicked his fingers almost lazily towards the casket. His broad-shouldered minions advanced on the wooden box, the light-haired one taking the briefcase from Dr. Pons.

“So who are the twins then?” asked Artu, refusing to get up from his seat. “Do they have names?”

“That is not particularly important at this junction, young man,” said Dr. Pons. “But if you must know, AAST does not have a habit of naming their drones. Makes if very hard when they must be scrapped.”

“Now,” he coughed, with an odd rattling sound, “we were not expecting for there to still be visitors with the body at this time. Our work is necessary, but I’m afraid some can find it disquieting, especially when their loss is still so fresh. I suggest, Mrs. Thatcher that you and your children exit the room for ten minutes. When you return, we will be gone and you can continue with your mourning process undisturbed.”

“I have been married to this man for more years than I would care to count and have seen him through despicable times,” said Mrs. Thatcher, taking her daughter’s arm for support. “Death will not part us, for I will love him even when we are both dust. Whatever if is you must do, I shall not abandon my husband to face it alone and you shall not take away one moment of the time I have left to see his dear face. If my children wish to leave, they may, but I will not. Carry on Dr. Pons.”

“I would not want this to be your last memory of your husband, Mrs. Thatcher,” said Dr. Pons, rubbing his hands together. “By law, I must do this.”

Mrs. Thatcher sat down in her chair at the head of the casket.

“I am not moving from this seat, sir. You cannot possibly ruin a lifetime of memories.”

Dr. Pons shrugged.

“As you wish. Children?”

Brell and Artu stood on either side of their mother, jaws jutting stubbornly. A hereditary trait in the Thatcher family.

“As you wish,” the doctor sighed, taking off his dingy blazer and rolling up threadbare sleeves. “I did warn you. And I will have you know Mr. Thatcher was very aware that this would happen after his death. He signed the papers when we first hired him at AAST. All in the fine print.”

Mrs. Thatcher nodded tightly, obviously wishing with all her heart this odd little man would simply take care of his business and leave her to her grief. The light-haired drone opened up the briefcase revealing an alarming array of sharp instruments and a jar half-filled with foul-looking liquid, all nestled lovingly into pockets of foam.

“Your husband was a brilliant inventor, as I’m sure you know,” said Dr. Pons, delicately plucking a particularly lethal looking scalpel out of its nest. “Really a national treasure.”

Artu’s grip on his mother’s shoulder tightened, and Brell pressed closer to them both. Oblivious, Dr. Pons gestured for the dark-haired drone to open the casket, which was done with a loud thud, revealing the noble face of Raymond Thatcher. Unfortunately despite the best efforts of the mortician, his face was already taking on the pallor and overall appearance of congealing cream.

“When I think of all this man has done for us,” continued the doctor conversationally, despite the not-overly subtle rotting smell leaking from the open casket. “well I just shudder down to my very toes. So influential. I guarantee that he will be in history books within the next thirty years. Well, as soon as the statutes of silence runs out on some of his ideas anyway.”

He stepped forward with an odd grace and drew the scalpel across the forehead of the corpse. The dark-haired drone then stepped up, saw in hand and began removing the top-most part of Mr. Thatcher’s skull with great meticulousness along the incision line. Brell made the daintiest of retching sounds into the back of her hand.

“What else must have been stored in that brain,” sighed Dr. Pons selecting a new scalpel with a long, flexible blade. “The best of us are always taken too soon. Well I can assure you, all his secrets and intellectual property will be safe with us!”

With great dexterity, which suggested years of practice, Dr. Pons slipped the blade under Mr. Thatcher’s exposed brain. With a quick flick of the wrist and a soft squelching sound, the brain slid out of the skull cavity, only to be caught by the light-haired drone in the jar. Some of the fluid spilled over the brim and onto the carpet underneath the casket, leaving a small stain.

“Now!” exclaimed Dr. Pons, turning to the shocked family, wiping his hands with a disinfectant wipe from a jacket pocket. “I assure you Mrs. Thatcher, for any and all lucrative ideas we harvest from Mr. Thatcher’s brain, you and your family’s future generations will receive royalty payments. Very nice of him to provide for his family for the next few decades, I must say!”

Mrs. Thatcher looked like she might faint as Dr. Pons cauterized the top of the skull back onto Mr. Thatcher’s head, filling the air with the smell of burning hair. The drones very carefully packed away their tools and the brain, sloshing in its jar. The dark-haired one pulled a small packet of papers and a pen emblazoned with AAST’s logo, and handed them to Artu.

“If you could all just sign and date at the bottom,” instructed Dr. Pons. “It’s all the usual things, no telling anyone about this, maintaining your bank account for the next 50 years so that we can deposit any royalties without having to bother you, an agreement to cremate Mr. Thatcher so that if we missed anything, no one can dig him up and steal our property. Nothing out of the usual, I assure you.”

Mutely, the family all signed and dated at the bottom of each page. These were promptly snatched away and tucked into the briefcase next to the jar. The trio from the IP Division left the house as abruptly as they had arrived, carting away their grisly paraphernalia and leaving the bereaved widow and her two children to stand shell shocked around the brainless corpse of what was once a highly acclaimed aerospace engineer.