Author: Colin Jeffrey
The first time Elmer Merle realised something was wrong was when his heart stopped beating.
Which surprised him, because he was clearly able to walk and talk, and check the messages on his phone without once falling down dead.
“You’re the eleventh person I’ve seen today with no heartbeat,” said the doctor. “And – like I told the others – I have no adequate explanation. Sorry.”
Merle had left work early that day, along with most of his coworkers. It seemed everyone else’s heart had stopped too. Unlike others, however, he didn’t call in at a place of worship on the way home.
Instead, Merle went to his friend Orson’s house.
He knew Orson Roons had a computer that hadn’t been connected to the internet since 2007, when he claimed to have received an email “from Reality itself.”
Orson wasn’t surprised to see him.
“Your heart’s stopped too?” Orson asked, sipping from a mug that read “Keep calm and carry on coding.”
“It has,” said Merle. “Yours?”
“Yep. Just like everyone else.” He moved a pile of junk from a chair so Merle could sit. “I warned them,” he muttered. “But no one listens to me.”
Orson sat in front of the old computer, turned the crank on a generator, and booted it up. A series of beeps followed.
“What are you doing?” Merle asked.
“Finding the proof,” said Orson, tapping keys. “This isn’t some pandemic – it’s an overdue notice.”
The screen flickered. An inbox appeared, untouched since 2007. At the top:
!!ACTION REQUIRED: Species Subscription Renewal – FINAL NOTICE!!
Merle laughed. “That’s just spam.”
“Open it.”
He did.
> Dear Users,
>
> Your Species Existence Subscription has expired.
>
> As detailed in previous messages, failure to renew within 200 Earth years will result in systematic termination of biological function, followed by gradual pixelation and deletion of your reality.
>
> To renew your subscription, please click on the link below:
>
> [RENEW HERE]
>
> Yours sincerely,
> Universe Management Systems Incorporated
“No heartbeat,” Orson said, “is stage one.”
Merle stared. “A subscription to exist…?”
“Yes. And someone was supposed to handle it centuries ago. There was rumoured to be a Temple of Tech Support somewhere in Mesopotamia, but it was lost.”
Merle clicked the link.
Nothing happened.
“We’re not connected to anything,” Orson shook his head. “Even if we were, the link’s expired. You need the current renewal code. It updates every 78.4 years.”
Merle blinked. “Okay… so how do we get a new code?”
Orson opened a drawer and pulled out a laminated card. He read aloud:
“To contact the Universe Management Systems helpline, please speak into your nearest receiver of cosmic background radiation.”
“Well, that’s helpful,” Merle said.
“It sure is,” Orson replied, oblivious to the sarcasm. “I’ve got an old analog TV in the spare room.”
Bemused, Merle followed.
“When not tuned to any channel,” Orson explained, switching on the TV, “static is displayed – part of that static is actually generated by the universe’s cosmic background radiation.”
The screen hissed with white noise.
“Now,” Orson said, holding up a microphone plugged into the TV “Say: ‘Support Request: Humanity Subscription Renewal Code.'”
Merle raised an eyebrow, but did as he was asked.
“Support Request: Humanity Subscription Renewal Code.”
The screen flickered. A beep sounded.
A synthesized voice came through the TV speaker:
“Your request is being processed. Please stay tuned. Average wait time: 112 to 218 Earth years.”
Merle dropped heavily into the nearest chair, dejected.
“Cheer up,” Orson said, taking a sip from his mug, “at least we’re in the queue.”