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.
The Vet’s eyes drifted off into the past as he spoke, his voice low and soothing, like a gentle breeze on a summer day. Erin leaned in, her pad forgotten, as Alice scribbled notes on hers. “When I was 15,” he continued, “I was caught up in one of those skirmishes between Corporations. I was just a kid, but the Corp soldiers saw something in me. They must’ve seen potential, or maybe it was just cheaper to keep me alive than to replace me.” He chuckled wryly. “They reanimated me on the spot, with some new tech that’d been developed. It was like being reborn – same memories, same life experiences, but with a whole new set of physical parameters.”
Erin’s eyes widened as she scribbled furious notes on her pad. Alice just looked at her with an expressionless face. The Vet went on, “I spent the next 20 years fighting for whoever would pay me. I saw some things that’ll stay with me till my dying breath… or beyond.” He smiled dryly.
“I was lucky,” he said. “I got ‘retired’ by a Corp, sold to another one as part of a merger. The new owners didn’t want someone like me on their payroll – they wanted shiny, new assets that wouldn’t cost them so much in maintenance and rehab. I ended up here, on the street, getting by.”
Alice finally spoke up, her voice low but with an undertone of curiosity. “That QR code on your arm… it’s a first-gen mark, like you said. What’s the story behind it?”
The Vet smiled again, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the cafe. “Ah, that. That’s what they call me – a ‘first-gen’ or an ‘alpha’. I was one of the lucky ones who got reanimated with some advanced nanotech. It… changed me. Gave me some advantages over the regular post-mortals.”
Erin leaned in closer, her eyes locked on his. “Advantages? Like what?”
The Vet’s smile grew wider, but it seemed to hide something behind it. “Let’s just say I’ve got… skills. And when you’re 80-odd years old, and your body is starting to show its age, those skills become very valuable indeed.”
Alice raised an eyebrow. “You’re not saying you’re involved in some kind of underground business, are you?”
The Vet shrugged, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Let’s just say I’m making ends meet. And besides, what’s the definition of ‘underground’ anymore? The Corporations have their fingers everywhere.”
As they spoke, the cafe grew busier, but the noise level remained low. Erin seemed to be studying every word out of the Vet’s mouth, while Alice listened with a more detached air.
“What about you?” the Vet asked suddenly, turning his attention to Erin. “What’s your story?”
Erin hesitated for a moment before responding, her voice barely above a whisper. “My dad was a Post-Mort too. He was one of the first ones reanimated, back when it was still experimental. They thought they could make him whole again – but they just made him… different.”
Alice scribbled another note on her pad, and the Vet’s eyes flicked towards her before returning to Erin.
“What happened?”
Erin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They kicked him out onto the streets when he was 60-something years old. Said it cost too much to keep him ‘up’ – that they couldn’t afford his maintenance anymore.”
Alice leaned in closer, her eyes locked on Erin’s face. The Vet listened intently as well.
“I’ve been around,” Erin continued, “since I was a kid. My dad taught me how to survive on the streets, but it’s not just about surviving. It’s about living… with what you are.”
As the conversation went deeper into the night, the cafe grew darker and more intimate. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning, and the soft murmur of their voices as they delved into the depths of each other’s stories.
In this dimly lit corner of the city, where Post-Morts like Erin’s father roamed free, and ‘first-gens’ like the Vet walked among them with secrets hidden beneath their skin, it seemed that even in a world without hope, there was still room for connection – and for tales that would be etched forever into the urban landscape.
