Requiem
The last time I burned somebody I was sixty two years
old. I had worked on the Station for thirteen years after
the funeral home moved up there. I was chief in charge of
Cremations and I loved my work. After all, I was helping
people to fulfil their last wishes and that was truly
satisfying. Nothing else in my life ever meant as much to
me; I had only ever had one true love, and my work was
it.
*
* *
I still remember the day
of the first request. It was a Wednesday morning and the
air-con wasn't working. This happened every so often, and
so we were all rugged up in the big thermal suits they
kept in a closet just for this purpose. They're actually
fuelled on body warmth and kinetic energy, so the longer
you wear them, the warmer they got. They had an
auto-release valve that let a fair amount of the heat out
every two hours, or else you'd end up slowly roasting
yourself.
Anyway, we had just brought the bodies in off the ship
and were stacking them onto the racks when Gerry, my
boss, came up to me and said:
"Elliot, we've got a special request from some Political
bigshot. Can you handle it?"
"What's the guy want?" I asked. Gerry and I went back
twenty seven years and I was his right hand man and
personal friend.
"A jettison. Sculpted into a shape and jettisoned."
"Sculpted?" I replied.
"Sculpted," he said, and catching my look, added, "And
jettisoned."
"What do you mean?"
"Some heroic pose. Him with one arm outstretched and
looking bravely into the distance. Just bullshit, but you
know these Politicians," he said and laughed. I laughed
as well, but that was as far as the laughing went. Tacky
as it may have been, the dead are always afforded the
luxury of dignity where we work. After all, everyone who
worked at the station knew that one day they would end up
in here, just like everyone else.
"Alright, Gerry. No problem," I said, removing my smile
and taking the Death Record before he walked off, leaving
me to my task. I finished helping the guys rack the
bodies and carry them through to Treatment. All the
bodies that went up there had been autopsied and had
their organs removed for donation on Earth, so all we did
was cremate or bury according to the deceased's wishes.
People used to be buried on Earth once, but times and
populations had changed a great deal in the years since
that was common. Even though we sent bodies out into
space, they still got a coffin and we still called it
'burial.'
Twenty five years ago, World War Three finally occurred
after centuries of narrow escapes. As they had banned all
nuclear weapons in the far-flung past, they fought with
Quakers. All they had to do was aim them at an area where
tectonic plates of the Earth's continents met, and fire.
The super large missiles would burrow down kilometres and
detonate when they sensed a certain pressure shift in the
ground, thus causing massive upheaval in the plates.
Instant earthquake. Great regions of land were destroyed
and millions lost their lives. The (surviving) nations of
the world all realised what a grievous error they had
made and met in Australia - a nation mostly unharmed by
the Quakers, and comparatively politically sound - to
sign the now-famous 'Nobel Peace Accord.' It was during
this three week convention that it was decided to begin
shipping the deceased off-world, as the remaining land on
Earth now stood at just a little over one-fifteenth,
compared to the former one-eighth. Everything else was
just dirty ocean. More people survived the war than were
killed, so all land suddenly became one hundred times
more precious; and more crowded. Where to bury the dead?
No room on Earth, so where else? In space of course, and
so our funeral home moved up into orbit.
As Gerry and I were the two foremost surviving employees
of our funeral home, we became funeral directors by
default. Of course there were thousands of other homes
who made the move as well, and soon they were all up
there with around twenty two thousand other funeral
parlours, crematoriums and cemeteries. Some have large
warehouses where the dead are 'buried' in fields of
concrete, and some have large halls that contain endless
rows of urns and ashes. The treatment of the dead is, of
course, up to the deceased's wishes and family, and if
they're willing to pay the large sums to have them
'buried' and in a place they may wish to visit them at
some stage, then that is entirely up to them. Personally,
I wish to be cremated and have my ashes scattered on the
moon. It was the Moon that I remember seeing one night
during the war. I was outside when the radio announced
that the entire West Coast of America had fallen into
the
sea. I remember looking up at the Moon and thinking how
safe and still it
looked, and how calm it made me feel in the midst of all
that turmoil.
Anyhow, that's how Gerry and I - formerly just body
handlers - became manager and TwoIC of Still Life
Funerals Pty Ltd. We had a few teething problems at
first, but that's to be expected with new managers. The
building of the funeral homes was a boost to the
newly-formed Peace Alliance and finally the world had a
real purpose, a definitive goal that could unite
everyone. And it did. Hatred and intolerance finally died
natural deaths, as did racism and terrorism. For the
first time in the history of the world; there was true
and uniform peace.
*
* *
So; after we had stacked
the bodies in Treatment, I looked at the file of this
guy. His name was Pierre le'Strange and he had been a
minor figure in the actions of the Nobel Peace Accord.
His name, I read, was placed ninety-sixth in the list of
signatures on the Accord, well into the small print and
an unrecognised name. Regardless though, he had the right
to be buried as he wished and I would take care of things
for him.
I skimmed through his will until I saw the familiar word:
Interment. Next to this his lawyer had written:
After the
mourning of my death has ceased, I wish to be 'buried'
in
the manner of the Nobel Peace Accord, and have my body
consecrated
to the Stars and God Himself, in a pose befitting my
role in the
development of The Nobel Peace Accord of 64.
There was more like this,
but I'm sure you get the picture. I put down the notes on
le'Strange and pulled back the sheet from Toetag 893046.
It's strange that in death, most people look just like
everyone else. Some truly great people still wear a
strange power on their faces in death, but this was not
the case with le'Strange. He was an average looking,
formerly bald man in his late fifty's. I say 'formerly'
bald, in that he had obviously had very expensive
implants that looked real enough, but when you work
constantly with the deceased you soon pick up the
difference between real and unreal.
I pulled the sheet back over him and looked at my watch.
It was time for lunch and I went to the tall sinks to
wash my hands. Pierre would have to wait another
hour.
*
* *
Two days later,
le'Strange was ready to be interred. His pose was
certainly heroic. I had had one of my assistants pose for
the stance, and I worked with a series of photographs I
had taken of her. Le'Strange now stood on a small
concrete pedestal, one leg slightly higher than the
other, resting on a smaller bump of concrete. His name
had been stencilled in the wet cement as it set. He was
looking vacantly into space and his right arm was bent in
the air, as if he were shading his eyes. I was fairly
happy with the results, and thought it pretty good for
someone who hadn't done it before. In fact, about the
only modelling anyone had ever done was stiffening the
body's joints and attaching the cadaver to the coffin, to
prevent the two coming apart.
We had added an anti-freeze compound to the skin, to save
it freezing in the cold of space (and the air-con was
still broken!). Gerry had told me that before the statue
went outside, there was a small delegation of Politicians
coming up to see him off. This occurs quite often, but
with family. Le'Strange was the only real celebrity we
had had though, and certainly the only Politician with
enough sway to warrant an official send off. Mostly,
people can't afford the tickets to get up here, and
instead opt to view the funeral through our video
service.
So, the Politicians arrived and with them, as usual, were
several members of the press. They filmed the service to
a waiting, (and unexpectedly large) Earthside audience
and after le'Strange was sent gently turning into
Eternity, they stayed and toured our complex before
heading back to Earth. And then I assumed that that was
that and we could all go back to our work in the regular
fashion. And so we did, for the next month or two.
*
* *
"Hey, Elliot! Remember
le'Strange?" asked Gerry, calling loudly across the
delivery dock to be heard over the whine of the
hydro-jack.
"That French Politician we posed? What about him?" I
asked Gerry, as he arrived and stood in front of me.
"Well, it seems that this other Politician saw the whole
thing and had his will amended to include a similar
deal."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah, and now he's dead and the family want to have
him done," said Gerry, "Will you do it?"
"Well, yeah, no problem. Hey," I added, smiling at
Gerry," If this catches on, we're gonna need more
staff."
"If this catches on, we'll build a new wing," he said,
smiling back as he handed me the papers and left. I
briefly flicked through them and put the folder aside,
not even considering the scope of what he had just
said.
*
* *
Soon after the burial of
the second Politician we started getting calls about the
service. This prompted us to construct a price list for
different services in this line. Then, we had two more
cases arrive for the service. A week after this we had
four more people and soon we were getting around sixty to
seventy cases a week. We began construction on a new wing
to cope with this workload, and I noticed in trade news
that other homes were starting to offer the service. This
made little difference to our cases which were now coming
in at the rate of two hundred a week. See, the ships came
in once a week and delivered, on average, four hundred
bodies at a time. That meant that the Poses were equal to
the regular services! But it didn't stop there! Two years
after we had done the first Pose, we were handling over
three hundred a week! We converted most of the old labs
into new Pose labs, and were handling all sorts of
different things.
People wanted to be posed with loved ones, or held in
storage until loved ones died. People wanted to be placed
into glass coffins. People wanted to be posed holding
valuables of their lives; trees, tools, art, clothing,
anything and everything. The one major difficulty we
experienced was reconstructing people who had died
violently...car accidents (rare), fires, murders (crime
never died, unfortunately...some things never change) and
the like.
The trouble began though, when a very rich rockstar had a
very large final request.
*
* *
It was in September,
another Wednesday delivery, when I received the orders of
New Arrivals. There was an extra large crate with the
shipment, and I learned that it was something that one of
the deceased aboard wished to be Posed with. It was a
late model Halcien Streetcar, complete in every detail.
Nothing had been removed to sell beforehand. In other
words, it wasn't just a poseable shell, it was a
fully-functioning motor-car. We hydro-jacked it into the
back docks, as it wouldn't fit through the lab's locks.
This case would have to be posed and jettisoned from the
Main Docking Gate. That wouldn't really be a problem, it
just meant that all on the project would have to wear
oxygen during the jettison.
The Main Docking Gate was quite enormous. It stood about
eight metres tall, by sixteen metres wide and was
designed to accommodate the airlock doors of the delivery
ships. It was quite lovely to look out and see the
awesome view of the Earth that the Gate afforded, but
unfortunately it was rarely opened whenever a ship wasn't
in. As it opened straight on to space and had no airlock
of it's own, it just wasn't practical to open it at any
time. It had small windows set in it to guide the
delivery ships in, but even this was mostly done by
computers. Generally, we had to settle for the view of
space or Earth, seen through the Major Recreation room or
our own tiny bedroom windows.
So, in the days that ensued, I personally worked on the
project with two assistants. The car was unpacked and the
rockstar, named Jok McRock - a stage name, I assume - was
placed in the front seat, behind the wheel. (Although
computers drive the cars on Earth these days, the wheel,
as everyone knows, was kept as a pretence to being in
control.) He had died of a drug overdose (some things
never change) and so we had to employ a little bit of
repair to the sunken face. Nevertheless, in three days he
was ready and in his favourite car, preparing to drive
off at a snail's pace through the Galaxy for all time. As
expected, the press were there to film the end and we
lent them thermal suits and oxygen. It was quite a
beautiful funeral, as all other funerals were on the
other side of our station, facing away from Earth.
Everything went off without a hitch and Jok McRock was
sent into space, staring at an invisible road and driving
straight down it.
*
* *
One thing, though, became
a problem in the days to come. It appeared that McRock's
car was too heavy to escape orbit and he was left
spinning for several days around our world. This wouldn't
pose much of a problem, ordinarily, as there are
thousands of satellites whizzing about up there; but all
those satellites have engines that are designed to hold
orbit, and this satellite didn't. After six days, he was
getting perilously close to the upper atmosphere and
there was a danger that he may even be dragged down to
Earth! This wouldn't do of course, so the world leaders
met via videophone to converse about what could be done.
They were all for shooting him down out of orbit and
letting the smaller parts of the car burn up as they fell
to Earth. A massive public outcry arose from his legions
of fans, who swore that this was a desecration and
mustn't be allowed! Suddenly everyone was talking about
this and formulating opinions, and all the while Jok
McRock got closer to Earth. And, as it turned out, by the
time anyone could agree on a plan, it was too late.
McRock's car was made of a very dense and valuable alloy
that burned only at extremely high temperatures. His car
attained planet fall on October 12th. As it hurtled
through the upper atmosphere it reached the speed of
eighteen hundred kilometres per hour and began to burn,
(McRock himself had burned up, practically the first few
moments the car hit the atmosphere.) As the car sped
toward Earth, catastrophe occurred.
McRock's car collided with a full passenger aircraft,
carrying 1337 passengers and exploded on impact. The
plane was virtually destroyed in the explosion and,
naturally, there were no survivors. In fact, there were
never any body parts recovered from the sparse wreckage
at all, and it was concluded, and not without reason,
that all of the passengers were killed. What was just as
astounding, though, was the fact that this occurred over
land, which amassed just one-fifteenth of the surface of
the Earth.
*
* *
This changed everything
for us at Still Life Pty Ltd. There were investigations
and enquiries. There were interviews and accusations.
But, in the end, Still Life was cleared of any blame, as
there were no laws that could condemn us in this arena.
Soon after this, there were laws created and the
most important of these was that 'Posing in Death', or
'The le'Strange,' was outlawed. From that point on, there
could be no more Poses, save Coffins and ashes and urns.
No more of le'Strange's curious legacy, that had swept
like wildfire through the population of Earth. And, like
most fads, it was soon forgotten in lieu of the next one.
As swiftly as it had begun, it was over. We were left
with too much room in our new Posing wing, and it was
soon closed off. Gerry had been visibly shaken by the
whole ordeal, but still struggled through his work. Me
too.
Still... we survived the aftermath of enquiries, but our
formerly excellent reputation as a home was severely
damaged. In the two remaining years before Still Life Pty
Ltd closed the Main Gate for good, Gerry and I struggled
to keep the place going. We lost lots of money, until it
was hopeless. Thankfully, we had a Retirement Fund (that
barely survived); and at least all of our employees got
54% of what they originally would have received.
It was not only those 1337 passengers that died that day,
I have often reflected, but Still Life Pty Ltd, as well
as my friend Gerry, who killed himself just seven months
into his (early) retirement. His suicide note stated that
he had always felt the burden of guilt for those 1337 and
could not forgive himself. After he died, I personally
made the trip to the region in Africa where the slight
remains of the crash were found and scattered his ashes
there. I hope that helped my friend to find the peace he
lost in life, for I know all too well how he felt. I had
truly loved my career, and now it was all gone. 1337
people had died for nothing more than some punk's vanity
and a grievously thoughtless mistake on my part. I just
hadn't even considered the fact that we were facing the
Earth during McRock's burial. There was no way he could
have escaped orbit, and I blamed myself for not having
thought this through.
Incidentally, Jok McRock's career had never been better.
He sold over four million copies of his last Disk, 1.3
million of those within eight weeks of the Crash.
Some things never change.
The
End
(Transcript
above was found with the body of Elliot Rengradier, who
was found hanging from a heating pipe in his small one
room apartment. His estate paid for his cremation, but
funds did not allow for his ashes to be scattered on the
Moon. Instead, they were scattered over the Crashsite in
Africa with those of his former friend.)
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