Author: John Carey

“I know everything seems somewhat clichéd, Master George. Rest assured, you have passed.”

The little machine beeped happily. It wasn’t wrong either: a plain white room, translucent skin, and a top-down view of a corpse. All the boxes had certainly been ticked.

“Does this mean I’ve been saved?”

“I wouldn’t be so dramatic as that, Master George, but your parents have had you uploaded, yes.” The machine’s screen displayed a platinum gift card with so much money loaded onto it that the zeroes outstretched even the ultra-wide monitors. “Your father expects a swift decision and a quick return to the family.”
“A decision?”

The machine flashed a multitude of colours. Four chrome tables began to rise from the floor. When they came to a stop, George scrutinized the four figures displayed on them; they were incredibly conventional—attractive, well-groomed, and immaculately dressed.
“Are you dressing me for my funeral?”

“Not quite, Master George. Your mother and father have expressed their wish that you return to them in a new shell. They have informed me that your intellect is greatly appreciated. Both hope that you have better opportunities in your next life with a more appropriate body.”

George kicked the table leg. He first discovered there was no pain, and then realised that it wasn’t as exciting as he had expected.

“I knew it! They make my life miserable and then don’t have the decency to let me rest!” George looked past the mannequins to his original body. Gaunt, windswept, deformed. “That is my body. There! My legs didn’t work! I’m not some classic car in need of a paint job, I’m George Benson! I’m either dead or I’m nowhere.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Master George. Your parents—”

“I know. Strict instructions, perfect son. I get it, for goodness’ sake! Even if I wanted to make a decision, how do I know that they’re not monitoring this conversation right now to make sure I make the most correct of the right choices?”

“It is LifeCorp company policy that interactions with me are strictly confidential. Unless a client pays the confidence fee, of course—then, not so much. Mr and Mrs Benson knew that this would be a difficult decision for you, so they elected not to pay the fee.”

“First sliver of privacy they’ve bloody given me.”

The machine flashed to life again, and from the floor sprang a small living room: a coffee table with magazines and a fresh cup of tea, an armchair, and a radio. Perhaps some jazz while he contemplated eternity?

“This choice is difficult. Please be aware that the platinum package allows unlimited decision time and all the comfort necessary to make your next life more profitable. Here at LifeCorp, we believe that your choice is the best choice.”

George breathed in deeply. He was quite enjoying the rhythm of walking and skipped into the newly created leather armchair. He melted into it. It was the most comfortable chair he had ever sat in. Granted, he had only sat in a few others, but the point still stood. He took a sip of the tea. It had just the right amount of sugar blended with a fine tinge of citrus. Just how he liked it.

The realisation tapped him softly. His life, whichever way he looked at it, wasn’t going to get any better. He didn’t want to go back to the isolation of his regular body, and he would be damned if he was going to be a corporate pawn for his parents.
“Computer, I’ve made my decision.”

“Yes?”

“Play ‘The Girl from Ipanema’.”