According to the algorithm, I died overnight. As far as I can tell, I’m still alive. I pinched myself and I felt it. I saw myself in the mirror and I used the toilet when I first woke up. But when I logged onto EulogyOS to start the workday, mine was the first in the queue of names awaiting post-mortem processing.
When you’re little, you dream about what you’ll be when you grow up. I’m scared to imagine the kid who dreams of being an undertaker. As a data mortician for the Bureau of Post-Mortem Affairs, I’m only a little bit better that the other kind. It certainly wasn’t my dream, but it was one of the paying jobs for a software engineer after the Great Automation. After the series of financial crashes, people got desperate. Death processing emerged as a safeguard to prevent them from collecting extra benefits on behalf of a dead relative.
I voted for the new regulations, thinking people shouldn’t get away with crap like that.
It’s rather ingenious when you think about it: predictive analytics fed by unfettered access to health data, search histories, and consumption habits became the future of actuarial tables, with more impressive accuracy. Nearly everything else relies on algorithms and artificial intelligence, but post-mortem administration still requires a human touch. Every death plan is unique, most involving bespoke code modifications. A data mortician scrubs your history, closes your accounts, and memorializes you for friends and family. Depending on how much you invest in your virtual afterlife, we might also customize your avatar with body modifications or boost your death notification within your social networks.
Hoping my appearance was some sort of glitch, I tried a soft refresh of my EulogyOS, but my name remained on the list. For a moment I thought it might be a fellow “death raker” pulling a prank, but then my file began to populate with documentation and it all looked legit. A system-generated list of all my accounts, followed by my death certificate. Clicking on it, the document was already signed by my sister…and linked to her tearful farewell message.
Cece hadn’t even tried to call me.
Before my death bureaucracy unfolded further, a popup informed me that my EulogyOS access was terminated and the system logged me out. When I tried to get back in, the platform said my account was suspended owing to post-mortem security protocols. My terminal as good as bricked, I switched over to my mobile to check if maybe there was a system outage.
Even after the Great Automation, cell phone carriers continue to operate on the “impossible to break” contract model. You can’t live without online access, and even the lowest quality terminals are fairly expensive. The whole reason the mobile providers get away with the insane terms is because they remain the cheapest option. According to my death certificate, I died on the twelfth meaning I have eighteen days before I am cut off.
The EulogyOS status page showed all systems were operational. I suddenly wished I’d taken advantage of the death planning services offered to Bureau employees. Without one, standard operating procedure dictated everything. After they settled the balance on my rent and other accounts, they’d offer whatever was left to my sister. I may be alive, but I won’t stay that way without food and shelter and once they close my accounts…
Think, Sam, think!
Financial cut-off isn’t until close of business; I have time to make a withdrawal! I jumped up, dressed in protective outdoor gear, and grabbed my bank card. On the streets, my transit pass was already deactivated, so I had to walk halfway across town before I found a working ATM. A little pissed about Cece’s lack of concern, I withdrew exactly half my balance. If I things got sorted out in time, my account wouldn’t go negative, though I considered taking out more just to stick my sister with a bill in case they didn’t.
If things don’t work out, you’ll stay dead, Sam.
The paper money was soft and thin from decades of circulation. If not for the different colors, I wouldn’t know one denomination from another because the ink was so faded. I couldn’t remember the last time I held cash since I always use credit. The news always said cash prices were higher, but I hadn’t shopped in person in I don’t know how long. I wasn’t even sure where to go; my philosophy being if it couldn’t be delivered to my door, why bother?
My pocket bulging with the money, I started back home but stopped to catch my breath. At home, I had a synthetic exerciser to fend off atrophy, but it seems I wasn’t half as fit as the in-app motivational messages led me to believe. Moving more slowly, I was glad to see my building in the distance before I actually died of a coronary. That relief turned to dread when the front door’s bio-lock flashed red instead of green. I wiped my palm on my thigh and tried again with the same result: “Tenant not found.”
As if that weren’t frightening enough, my hand was starting to look blurry, as though the skin wasn’t in high-definition anymore. I blinked, convinced I was just high from the pollutants in the air. But then I caught sight of my reflection in my lobby window and did a double-take. My teeth were changing. My canines weren’t solid anymore. They were smoother, almost transparent shards that eerily resembled the pane-of-glass emoji.
I am losing my marbles, officially.
Trying to remain calm despite having every reason to panic, I ducked into the alley and pulled out my mobile. After EulogyOS terminated my access, my post-mortem processing must have been reassigned to another death raker. I was now locked out of my email and lost access to my entertainment, healthcare, and nutritional apps. The cash in my pocket wasn’t enough assurance to keep the anxious bubble that had been building in my chest from bursting. My heartbeat hammered in my ears and my skin flushed with sweat.
Why hadn’t I grabbed some Serenia tablets? Where would they sell those?
My mobile pinged with what I hoped wasn’t a mindfulness notification reminding me to take a deep breath. My phone didn’t recognize my face, so I unlocked it using my fingerprint. I had a message from EulogyOS: “Our systems indicate you are deceased. If you feel this is an error, please click here to open a dispute.”
A wash of relief spread over me, and, in a matter of milliseconds, I was reading over the form which seemed easy enough. Despite having seen my death certificate briefly, the date and time were etched in my mind, so all I had to add was rationale. Blanking on any sort of argument besides “no, I’m not,” I thought a selfie would be undeniable proof that I was still alive. When I opened the camera app, I didn’t appear on the screen. I flipped the camera around and waved my hand in front of it. I could feel the phone in my hand and I could touch side of the building, but the camera didn’t perceive me between them.
Am I dead?
Forgoing the picture, my blurry thumbs flew over the touchscreen as I made what read more like a plea than a rational argument for my continued existence. The algorithm wasn’t off-base about my social presence: I hadn’t been active in months. It never seemed to matter what I posted, nothing went viral. Other people cranked out junk and their engagement was off the charts, so I just gave up. My last physical had also revealed hypertension, but that’s common from the high sodium concentration in government foodstuffs.
After the completing everything, the submit button at the bottom of the form was still greyed out. I scanned up and down the page looking for a required field I’d missed, but there weren’t any. As much as I hated the thing, I didn’t have any other option but to click the little ghost icon to connect with Obie, the EulogyOS chatbot.
“It looks like you’re trying to submit an afterlife dispute, is that correct?”
After I clicked yes, Obie explained that death appeals are a premium benefit and I needed to upgrade to AfterLife+ in order to complete the process. Ever the helpful little bugger, the ghost naturally offered to assist me with that in exchange for my login credentials.
“I’m sorry, that account holder is deceased. Upgrades to AfterLife+ must be done peri-mortem and cannot be processed posthumously. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
I groaned so loudly, I caught the attention of a passerby. A youngish guy with spiky hair and one of those chins that looks like a butt stuck his head into the alley, “You okay, bro?”
“Yeah, fine,” I said, smiling at the realization that another human could see me, but I remembered my pane-of-glass emoji teeth and clamped my lips closed.
At least he doesn’t think I’m dead.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.”
“Just one of those faces, I guess,” I muttered, suddenly aware of the deterioration of my hands. I nervously shoved them into my pockets. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I wasn’t ready to deal with a stranger’s feelings about it.
“Long as you’re good, man,” he nodded and continued on his way.
Since I didn’t want to attract any more attention, I moved deeper into the alley. The space between the buildings was a relic from before mechanization. Empty except the rubbish and steam rising from maintenance portals leading to utility tunnels, I wondered how long I could stay here. It was quiet and dark from the lack of sunlight and there wouldn’t be any traffic. Infrastructure monitoring is fully automated, and drones deposit parcels into pneumatic sorting tubes on the roof that send them to the right apartment.
Atop a crumbling set of concrete stairs, I took a deep breath before inspecting my hands. Gone were the bumps of the knuckles I habitually cracked, now blurred into strings of flesh-colored pixels. Little squares delineated the crescents of the fingernails I’d bitten as recently as this morning.
Unsure how much longer I had to fix this, I pulled out my mobile again. Despite Obie’s lack of assistance, there was an option to chat with a live agent. I hoped I might get connected to an avatar I’d recognize from one of the virtual Bureau happy hours. Instead, I was redirected to the website for something called the ALO. It was probably one of those scams that seem to offer exactly what you need but take your money and never deliver.
Certain I would regret it, I clicked on their About page.
“The Algorithmic Liberation Organization is an independent anti-government watchdog dedicated to exposing the federal government and social media systems for their exploitative intentions.” Normally, I can’t stand the sanctimonious tone the anti-technology folks take, but the state of my fingers suggested it might not kill me to read a bit further. Without citing facts or providing evidence, the ALO alleged a conspiracy whereby the death algorithms were being manipulated for monetary gain.
And this is why we don’t listen to smugly self-important neo-Luddites, Sam.
I heard cawing from the phone’s speaker and a little crow appeared in the bottom corner of the screen. Doesn’t that just take the cake, an automated chatbot on an anti-technology site? It squawked again, a speech bubble appearing next to its beak. When I clicked, the bird flapped its black wings to take over the screen.
“Greetings, Samuel Evers. I am the Wraith.”
How did they know my—oh, cross-site cookies. Nice trick.
“This is no trick. We have been waiting for you, Sam.”
Let me guess, all you need is a credit account number and you can make my problems go away?
“No, we have no need of conglomerate money. The ALO needs your help.”
Are you hearing my thoughts?
“Yes. Your physical body is digitizing as your consciousness becomes virtual. You don’t have long before the process is complete—meet us at these coordinates.”
The crow flapped its wings again, and my mobile redirected to the navigation app. My location appeared and a blue line directed me deeper down the alley. Realizing I literally had nothing left to lose, I decided to take a chance the Wraith might be able to help. It was further than the ATM, and I had to stop several times. Passing a window, I took a chance and checked my teeth again. Even my molars were emojis now. My nose also seemed more bulbous, in sharp contrast to the pixels spreading across my cheeks.
Damn it, Sam—keep moving!
It was after dark before I reached the Wraith’s location. Instead of an ALO headquarters, they led me to an aging EulogyOS Data Center in a run-down warehouse district. My mobile pinged with instructions for finding a gap in the chain link fence and an access code for opening the side door. I was too tired to care about how weird this all was becoming…and I realized I was trespassing on Bureau property.
Too late now.
Letting myself into the dark vestibule, it looked like a decaying set from an old movie: plexiglass encased guard desks framing a trio of broken-down metal detectors. A flickering form appeared in the opposite doorway. As it came closer, it looked like a man…but also not. He had long grey-black hair, wore a t-shirt and jeans, and was partially see-through. I could see the wall behind him peeking through holes in what should have been his trunk and appendages. Instead of pixels like my hands, snippets of ASCII text hung into and twisted around the hollows in his spectral body.
“I am glad you have come, Sam Evers. I am the Wraith. Follow me, we have precious little time.”
“No way, not so fast. You’ve got some explaining to do. I am having one fuck of a day here. I’m not sure what is happening, but someone has made a huge mistake. Who are you and what the hell are we doing at a EulogyOS facility? The Bureau will be all over this place in a matter of minutes.”
“There is no cause for concern, we have been here for a long time. I promise to answer your questions if you come inside,” The Wraith smiled, revealing a set of glass emoji teeth like mine. “What do you suppose it says that you thought the only option was coming here? Why didn’t you call your sister?”
I sputtered, but realized he had me there. Why hadn’t I considered contacting Cece? At the thought, my hand instinctively plunged into my pocket for my mobile.
“I don’t recommend a video call,” he said, turning to leave. “Come join us once you’ve spoken with her.”
“Who’s us?” I called, but he’d already floated out of the room.
My digits had become so blurry, I couldn’t even use the fingerprint scanner anymore. The pixelated hot dog attached to my hand still registered as skin, so I was able to unlock the device. I fumbled to select the phone app and scroll to her number.
“Sam?”
“Hi, Cece.”
“What the fuck, you’re supposed to be dead!”
“I have anecdotal proof to suggest that’s not the case.”
“That’s not funny. I thought you were gone, you asshole! I even cried on camera for you.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Why the hell didn’t you call me to check if it was legit?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know, Sam, maybe because the notice came from Post-Mortem Bureau? Besides, when was the last time you called me? I haven’t heard from you in months and it isn’t like I would have been able to do anything. You worked there for five years and you were too lazy to set up a death plan?”
“I didn’t expect to be dying so soon.”
“You always said you’d rather disappear than make a long, drawn out exit. As much of a gut punch as it was to find out this morning, I figured it happened the way you wanted. Everything looked to be in order, so I signed the certificate.”
“And posted a testimonial.”
“Yeah, and it’s doing very well! Turns out you’re rather popular now that you’re dead—your new AI avatar is trending.”
“My what?”
“You’re a—“
“Never mind, what matters is that I am not actually dead, Cecilia!”
“That’s more a matter of opinion, Samuel. According to the government and the Bureau of Post-Mortem Affairs, you are. If you had kept in touch, you would know that Marshall lost another job to automation cuts. We can really use the extra monetization on my socials right now. Can’t you think of someone else?”
“But I. Am. Not! Dead! I’m sorry if that’s an inconvenience, but you’ll have to give it all back when I get everything sorted out.”
“How? Who’s going to believe you? You don’t exist anymore—I signed your death certificate myself. I’m not going down for fraud, not for you!”
“You bitch!” I screamed, throwing my phone at the ground so hard it shattered.
Seething, I stalked through into the warehouse proper. The room pulsed with electricity humming through the endless racks of servers, their blinking lights creating an otherworldly glow in the cavernous space. The air was frigid from the air conditioning needed to prevent overheating, but my flesh was too blurry to show the goosepimples I felt as I shivered. Stepping over thick braids of cable, I saw a brighter glow in the middle of the room. The Wraith was surrounded by a half-dozen other digitized specters, clustered around an obsolete four-person desk with old-fashioned computers around it. Some of his comrades were pixelated like me, others were riddled with gaps like him. They pulsed with the current of electricity I could hear flowing through the room.
“Glitches, please welcome Sam Evers,” the Wraith said. The others bowed their heads, smiling to reveal glass emojis where they should have had teeth.
“Uh, hi. Look, I’ve been patient enough, what the hell is going on?”
“Sam, you’re a death raker, I think you know what happens when someone dies,” he sighed.
“Officially, yes. But like I keep having to explain to people, I AM NOT DEAD! I’m standing here, aren’t I? What more proof do I need? This is just a mistake.”
“The algorithm didn’t make a mistake, Sam. It chose you, just like it did me and the others.”
“What are you talking about? You said we could fix it!”
“How well do you remember the terms and conditions of EulogyOS?”
“No one reads all of that crap. You’re telling me there’s some clause in there that says they can declare me dead?”
“Yes. Clause 7.2 in the EulogyOS terms of service gives the Bureau the right to terminate your mortality for any reason, at any time. You agreed to what’s happening.”
“But why me? Why any of you?”
“These are actuarial tables the system uses to predict a person’s social media viability,” the Wraith said as a monitor on the workstation blinked to life. “When it determines someone could get more attention dead, the algorithm begins the process and puts them on a list for post-mortem processing.”
My jaw dropped as I read through the lines of code which had determined that I would get more engagement dead than alive. Another of the monitors illuminated a virtual backdrop that looked familiar. I realized it was my apartment when an AI version of me appeared. It wasn’t a clone exactly, it had a more symmetrical version of my face.
“The new avatar version of you has grown your follower count to several million in a matter of hours. Because of you, the hashtag #restincode is trending on all platforms. You’re famous, Sam. Didn’t you always want to be a viral sensation?”
I couldn’t feel my mouth moving, but I could hear my voice. Looking at the monitor, I recoiled at the AI clone recording a video response to each of the comments on my death notice. Pouring in from thousands of strangers, my avatar rattled off a stream of platitudes about being in a better place and not to cry because I would always be with them. Even though my stomach was empty, I suddenly felt nauseous. Another screen showed my sister’s video testimonial, now part of an advertisement for EulogyOS that surely landed her a fat paycheck. After her tearful farewell, my avatar invited users to upgrade to the new Afterlife Premium where they, too, could live forever as an AI consciousness.
“This cannot be happening!”
My clone looked past the screen to stare directly into my eyes, “I am what they need, Sam. I’m what they want, something you could never be. I’m a better you than you could ever be.”
“Make it stop!” I begged. The Wraith nodded and the screens went blank, the light fading back to the eerie glow of the blinking servers. With the sound of my AI double replaced by the hum of electricity, I realized I was sobbing. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe my tears away but my fingers had fused together. My hands were now solid blocks of color, rough against my cheek. “What is happening to me?”
“When a user dies, their physical body degrades as the virtual consciousness takes over. Your genetic sequence was already in the cloud, and now they’re uploading your body. If you don’t fight it, you’ll soon merge with the AI and live forever as the algorithm’s ideal version of you, but the physical part of your life will be over.”
“And if I resist?”
“You asked why we were here, in a EulogyOS facility. This is one of many where the Bureau holds the partially uploaded. Some of us were system failures, others refused to let go. The only way we’ve managed to stay in this world is by remaining near the servers where they tried to store us.”
“So, now I’m trapped here? Forever?”
“There is still a chance. You’ve written software, you know how much gets added as the system keeps evolving. Somewhere along the way, someone forgot to erase a few lines that we can use as a kill switch.” The monitor powered on again, speeding through the backend of EulogyOS before settling on a custom function for physical reversion. “When this particular function is executed, the digital transition is aborted and the system triggers a full physical reassembly.”
“But the protocol is irrevocable, see there?”
“Yes, that’s why they didn’t ask you before they declared you dead. They can’t have people opting out, so they use the death certificate in lieu of consent. But they never removed the function. You have the skills to make the modifications and stop this madness before it goes any further.”
“You’re saying I have to choose one or the other? This function scrubs my digital presence completely, all the way down to the redundant backups. It would erase all records of my existence. That’s every picture, message, or memory of me gone forever. It would be like I never lived at all.”
“But you would still be alive.”
“Hardly! Without a virtual identity, what am I going to do with a physical body? I can’t get housing or food without a government account. And I can’t get another one of those without online access. As nice as this place is, I will need food and warmer clothes.”
“We all will. We have been waiting for someone capable of modifying that function to set us free. The Bureau has hundreds of other holding centers like this one. Together, we will find a way to survive. We have this one chance to fight back.”
This is an impossible decision.
Could I really live forever as a virtual clone?
Was that better or worse than the uncertainty of trying to stay in this world?
Nothing about it feels real anymore.
“Please, help us Sam,” the other glitches echoed, flickering with bursts of intensity.
“Even if I could find a way to rewrite the code without being detected, I’m not going to be able to do much of anything with these,” I said, waving the congealed blobs of pixelated flesh tones that had once been my hands.
“Your physical body is stored in this building, making you a part of the EulogyOS. You don’t need your hands to make changes to the code.”
I looked at the function again, trying to imagine a third option. The supposed kill switch relied on user intent. Instead of asking me if I approved, they used the death certificate instead. If we could get change that, the system wouldn’t be able to erase me.
What if the function used a merge instead of a purge?
In response to my question, the lines of code on the screen rearranged themselves. In its new form, the function would include my digital consciousness into the upload for physical reversion. Instead of erasing me, the system would issue a death certificate for the AI version of me. All the system modifications and enhancements would be integrated into my rematerialized body, making me into an organic digital intelligence.
The specters’ humming grew louder, pulsing and crackling with excitement when I did a dry run of the modified function with a test user. The flag worked as expected, adding the AI to the queue for physical upload but it triggered a system warning. The test profile was now simultaneously alive and dead.
Snot began to run down my nostril from the cold air in the room. When I tried to wipe it, my nose dislodged from my face and bounced across the workstation, a perfect emoji. Still delivering nervous inputs to my brain, I could feel the mucus drip onto the surface which reeked of scorched silicon.
“We are running out of time,” the Wraith said.
Huge swaths of EulogyOS code flashed before my eyes to show me what happened in case of a Schrödinger’s cat scenario. I groaned to learn it triggered an audit. Far worse than an income tax review, this meant brute force algorithms would swarm on the offending code. The audit would find the extraneous function and remove it entirely. Even so, the result of the function I modified was irreversible.
“I need to know where the other facilities are. Do we have a list of impacted users? We will only get one shot at this.”
The Wraith and the other glitches joined hands, pulsing as lists of IP addresses, user IDs, and death certificate tokens populated on the monitors. Imagining them in neat batches ready to be run iteratively through the function, the data responded and the code adapted. I couldn’t tell how long the process would be allowed to run before the audit began, but I hoped we’d have a chance to free more than just the handful of us here.
“Here goes nothing,” I held my breath as the function began to process the first batch.
As easily as it had fallen off, my nose jumped off the workstation and attached itself back onto my face. My hands itched as my fingers split apart, the detail reappearing all the way to my worried cuticles.
The ASCII text on the Wraith shimmered, knitting itself together as he solidified next to me. Around the workstation, a half dozen men and women materialized, their smiles confirming they now had regular teeth instead of emojis. The pixels shrank until they were so small as to be imperceptible again. The power of our new virtual intelligence surging through our brains, a cheer erupted and we connected in a celebratory embrace.
Even focused on the others, I could still see the function iterating in my mind’s eye. It managed to process eight batches from a host of nearby facilities before the audit began. More lines of code flew by and my heart raced when I saw the sequence of events about to unfold. They weren’t simply removing the function, they were going to destroy the facilities as additional insurance.
Overhead, an alarm rang out and red lights began to flash: “Security breach detected.” Over the gasps of fear, I pointed for the exit.
Run!
Propelled by adrenaline, we barreled through the side door and scrambled for cover ahead of the whirring drones. I hadn’t realized it, but I was wordlessly communicating with the others. Whatever had been added to our brains connected us, and I could sense those we had liberated escaping their own facilities thanks to my warning. From the safety of a nearby alley, we watched a fleet of drones deposit small bricks across the roof of the warehouse before disappearing into the orange of a rising sun. When they detonated, the force of the explosion drove us further into the alley as circuitry began to fall around us like hail.
The Bureau destroyed the facilities, certain it was eliminating the glitches along with all evidence of their wrongdoing. Trying not to dwell on those we hadn’t managed to liberate, our collective hive mind buzzed with a rapidly-evolving plan. The AI infusion gave us superhuman knowledge of the terrain and infrastructure, including the sudden utility of the subterranean tunnels. Lifting the battered iron cover from a nearby maintenance portal, we descended away from the breaking dawn and into the darkness of an unknown future.
Glad to still be alive, the irony wasn’t lost on me that the only place it felt we’d be safe was six feet underground.
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About
Using a pen name gifted by a cherished mentor, Gillian is an innovative voice in dystopian science fiction, offering radical perspectives on futuristic narratives shaped by artificial intelligence and digital defiance.
For years, they doubted their abilities as a writer—until a guard at the Tower of London pushed them to finally write the book they’d long dreamed of. That moment unlocked a newfound passion, propelling them into a journey where every written word explores possibility, defiance, and the immigrant experience in a modern, interconnected world.
Gillian’s creative output spans high-concept novels, flash fiction, immersive storytelling, and digital art. As a diarist, playwright, coder, and data scientist, they bridge narrative and technology with insight and depth. From the cozy mystery serial The Lost & Foundry to selections from the Algorithm of Life novels exploring corporate-controlled dystopias, their work blends the pragmatic with the whimsical—infusing each piece with a distinctive Dutch immigrant flair (or “hagelslag”). Their writing is an ode to transparency, creativity, and the courage to pursue a dream—even when it seems impossible.
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