Post-Morts
A slang term for people who sold their bodies to their national governments, found themselves sold to Corporations, used as private security, private soldiers as well as battlefield support in Skirmishes among their Corporate Owners. When it becomes too expensive to support their long-dead bodies, they are kicked out onto the street and left with a stipend and fond wishes.
“They don’t use the Z-Word anymore,” Erin observed over her pad. She arched her eyes at the Post-Mort that had walked into the room, the smell of old-deserts and dry leather announcing that a veteran had come on the scene.
The Post-Mort wore the uniform of a field medic from a Corp War so long ago, not even the Corporation that made it existed anymore. The Coat looked like new. Alice didn’t even stare, like Erin was. She took a look, turned back and went intently back to her pad and caf.
“I’m just saying, for most of them, it’d be correct. This one is grey! It’s just the right word!” Erin wasn’t about to let this go. Alice put down her pad and looked into Erin’s face.
“Erin, you’ve got stubble.”
The two of them looked at each other over the low table between them, they were comfortable in the wide facing semi-circles of foam, sitting with their feet curled up next to them, they had held court at this corner of the cafe for weeks; Erin decided that there needed to be a change.
The Veteran ordered a Caf and a pastry and sat next to the window, looking at the people and sights outside. They didn’t pull out a pad or anything, they just savored the caf and pecked at the pastry.
Alice moved over to sit with with the Vet, if only to look out the window over the shoulder of the living history that was staring out into the world. Erin got up and walked over and sat herself carefully next to them, sitting quietly and staring into the same space.
“How old would you say I am?” a voice that came from where he was, more than his mouth.
“Looking at the symbols on your badge here, I’d say pre-Corp. Maybe 70?” Erin wasn’t even put off. “If that was your only tour, I’d put you at about 70-80?”
“It wasn’t, I’m not.” he drained his caf and turned to take in Erin.
“Wow! How much of that was deadhead?” Erin was shameless with strangers, and worse with friends. “Are you a first-gen?”
He pulled back a sleeve on his left arm and showed the blocky black QR code tattoo that all first-gen post-mortem assets got from the reanimation group. Erin traced it with her hands, without hesitation. She tapped her temple to take images of the marks, it was on her socials before she even exhaled. She ran her hands over his arm and hands, snatching it up and saying “I’d like a history lesson, you up for it?”
“I’ve got time for it.” he relaxed and allowed Alice and Erin to rearrange around him.
I was born in the 21st Century, he began. I was already in my 20s when the first big collapse hit the world and the Corps started to buy up chunks of countries. If you found yourself inside the border of one of these new “economic zones” you could be dealing with private cops or government troops on any given day. Kids didn’t go to school anymore, it was all computer learning with pads and screens like you have. I learned to read from a screen and didn’t even own a book until I was 12 years old. It wasn’t poverty or anything, my parents weren’t readers either.
