Author: Colin Jeffrey
The letter was printed on heavy cream paper, wrinkled to look like parchment. It was edged in gold leaf, sealed with a wax stamp from The Church of the Divine World Government.
Clem Dreckle, who had led a perfectly average life of punctuality and mediocrity, opened the letter with caution. Though he rarely interacted with the church since its merger with the government (other than paying his tax tithes every year), he never liked receiving official letters.
He read aloud:
“Dear Clem Y. Dreckle,
Congratulations! You have been chosen.
Our sacred AI has selected you as one of this week’s Devout Combustible Offerings. Your piety, mediocrity, and slavish obedience have not gone unnoticed.
This Friday at 10:00 a.m., please report to the Temple of Divine Immolation for your ascent to heaven at 10:30 a.m. sharp. Please wear loose, combustible clothing. A light breakfast is recommended.
May you rise straight up.
Yours in God and bureaucracy,
The Department of Divine Ascent”
Clem put the letter down, cleaned his glasses, then reread it. It still made no sense. However, as a faithful Class 7b Algorithmic Experience Curator, he wasn’t one to question official directives.
He booked Friday off with minimal resistance from his employer – they even sent him a cake with his name on it (though they spelled it “Clam”).
By Thursday night, Clem had selected his most flammable trousers and a polyester business shirt the salesman had called “ascension efficient.”
At exactly 10:00 a.m. on Friday, Clem arrived at the Temple. The receptionist greeted him with a smile.
“Oh, Mr. Dreckle! It’s an honor. Please, have a seat in the Waiting Area. Coffee? Alcohol? Morphine?”
He declined, feeling pious. The room was warm, with a strange smell of kerosene and strawberry incense.
At 10:28 a.m., an ethereal voice from a loudspeaker called him in. The chamber looked like a mix between a cathedral and a post office: stained glass windows illuminated by fluorescent lights bathed polished wooden benches in artificial rainbows, while a single spotlight shone on a gleaming titanium dais inside a fireproof glass booth.
A technician in a suit and robes handed Clem a clipboard with a sheath of papers on it.
“These are your departure documents. Just sign here. The AI has already sanctified your name.”
Clem hesitated. “Departure?”
The technician smiled. “In a manner of speaking. You’re leaving this earthly plane as one of the chosen.”
As he signed, the technician took his glasses and folded them into a fireproof pouch. “For your next of kin,” he said.
Clem stepped onto the dais.
—
He opened his eyes. He wasn’t burned, not even singed. He was lying in what looked like a hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown. The room was bright and sterile. A man in a lab coat entered, looking at an electronic device in his hand.
“Hello, Clem,” he said.
Clem stared at the man. “Is this heaven?”
The man smiled, looked at him briefly. “No, sorry to disappoint. You’re very much alive, I’m afraid.”
Clem sat up. “So where am I?”
“Think of it as a place for sorting out inefficiencies. You, Clem, are officially classified as Deadwood.”
“Deadwood?”
“Yes. Useless. Inadequate. Not really contributing to humanity’s betterment. We’re removing Deadwood from circulation. Not with immolation, but with redistribution. We’re not murderers, you know.”
Clem frowned. “Redistribution? To where?”
“Oh, you know – off-world maintenance, planet terraforming, asteroid mining. You’ll live. You’ll be useful. Just never seen on Earth again.”
Clem stared blankly. “Wait… So, I’ve been exiled?”
“Redistributed,” the man corrected. “Efficiently. On a rocket… rising straight up.”