The Bereavement Bureau

I find myself in something of a tight spot. Locked, as I am, in this relatively small hotel room with a bullet flying at my head.
Directly at my head. Right now it’s around two metres away.
As I may have mentioned, a tight spot.

But it’s ok. I can absolutely promise you that I am going to walk out of here. This isn’t a trick or some foolish piece of linguistic theatre, this is all real, it’s happening now.
The bullet is in here and its intentions are perfectly clear, my brains are definitely very much on the menu. But I’m not going to let it get to me and I’m definitely not going to let any of my most precious matter end up ruining the table cloth. No matter what Piet Viskasse would have me do!

The hotel is real. A small, slightly boring, commercial lodging decked out with pale walls, clean sheets and algorithmically generated wall art designed to make you feel tired, hungry or horny; depending on which member of staff is the least busy. Everything in here smells of pine. Probably an air freshener, although it could be the real thing. I’m in Switzerland, or maybe Austria. Or was it Sweden?
My memory isn’t what it once was. But the room does smell of pine; zesty, clean and oddly reassuring. You can’t be dead if you can smell pine. This is something to remember.
The room itself startlingly boring, wooden floors, bland music, a cheap TV with a sticky remote control. It’s certainly not a place that I’ll recall fondly in a few days time. Which is odd considering the fact that a bullet is crossing it right now; aimed, as I mentioned, at my head. These things should stick in the mind.

The head? That’s real too. Actual human head, my own. Soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside. Normal, human brain. Grey matter, latticed neutrons, ineffable quality of life. That’s me, the real me. Soft and indescribable, delicate and fleeting. Minds are like snowflakes, please handle with care.

The bullet? Real. Actual bullet. Still no metaphor or wordplay. It’s a bullet. Ballistic ordnance, fired from a gun, and it’s coming towards me now. I can see it now, glinting silver in the sunlight, it is an almost beautiful vision were it not so violent and heartless. Bu there it is, hanging in the air defying both time and gravity and it is moving towards me.
So you’d be forgiven for wondering how I’ve got so much time to tell you you all this?
This bullet (real) is not your typical bullet. Most bullets give you around 1/8th of a second to discuss their finer points between Bang and Splat. This one has been around a little while longer. It was fired just over 3 years ago. (Real years, Earth years, 36 turns of the moon.) Fired by the Bereavement Bureau on behalf of a man called Viskasse something, or something Viskasse, and it’s been following me ever since.

Avoid this.
Here I give good advice.
Avoid being hunted by a bullet. It makes you feel sick, every day, every hour, every moment. Every breath of pine scented air, every drop of sweetened tea, every line of song, each one of these words. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. As your heart works through its precious, beautiful, finite supply of beats, the bullet is looking for you, sniffing the air, searching for your very thoughts.
You! It’s looking for You!
Not your body, not some bag of bones and muscle. You! Your thoughts, your soul, your actual neural pattern. That’s what these monsters lock on to. And they are aware, mobile and able to recharge almost indefinitely. Nobody knows how long they last; or how many of them are out there, hunting some poor fool whose name ended up on the wrong dotted line.
A bullet is a life sentence, with you forever. It is inescapable and inevitable like an exhausting, incurable disease. And like a weak heart, it’ll get you in the end.

And the only reason I’m still able to have this conversation with you, the only reason that I’m going to be able to walk out of here in a few hours, is that I’ve got a heuristic shunt with a built-in limbic suppressor dangling from my left temple. Down at the other end, a PipeDream waste management system is alternating between suck and blow on the nutrient and waste front, keeping me alive in this coma-state as my vital signs drop below the sensor threshold of the bullet.
Meanwhile, I go sub-conscious try to sort out this mess in my long term memory.

You’ll come a cropper one day. That was Karyn, before the divorce. She was right, obviously, tight spots like this count as a great many things – and a cropper is definitely high on the list.
Karyn was right about a lot of things, that’s why the kids went to her and not me. I lack responsibility.
Remind me to look up what the word cropper originally meant.
I’d like to tell you what I did to attract this cropper’s attention but, well, it’s complicated. Not the thing I did, that was simple, but the act of telling, that’s the cropper magnet.

Did I mention the bullet? The mind seeking, soul consuming bullet? It’s tuned to a very particular mental pattern. For those at the Bureau it’s known Decisive Disclosure Compulsion. For you and I, it’s easier to call it a Loose Tongue.

This is how they protect secrets now, oh yeah I steal secrets, I told you that already though, yes?
I stole one from someone, maybe someone important or just very private. Found out he out he was involved in something or other, I think; or at least I thought. The details are slipping away, drops of clear water falling off an ice-cube. But these are the memories you’re glad to be rid of.

I’m sure you know how the world works these days. You know that no secret is safe, that someone, somewhere will sneak through your firewall, figure out your mum’s maiden name and that you had a dog called Munchk1n, your secret will escape, and then the whole world will know, unless you stop the thief from blabbing to everyone.

And that is why they invented the bullet. It doesn’t care about your blood type or finger prints, your gait, your voice pattern or the cut of your jib. No, the fucker locks onto your thoughts, in particular it seeks out the intent to reveal the stolen secret. The worst thing about it all is the bullet actually tells you that it’s coming. Imagine that, imagine getting that little notification in your peripheral vision. You’ve got mail, and it’s a death sentence.
What follows is a period of self reflection and extreme quiet!
Whisper a word to anyone, even half the words and Boom, the Disclosure Detection Matrix triggers.
Full stop.
Cryptic clues, abstracted pictograms, obscure hieroglyphs and subtly delicious metaphors; none of these will protect you. It turns out that bullets don’t really care about puzzles or poetry, they only care about intent. Scream it loudly or infer with subtle elegance, the result is the same. The bullet knows that you are trying to blab and it will finish what the gun started.
Talk about being betrayed by your own thoughts. How would you cope? Imagine a life spent trying to not think about the ocean? Or the pine-scented mountains?
Every time the crash of waves or crunch of alpine snow across flitters your mind you’re left shaking and terrified. Did I think too deeply?
It is impossible to conceive of a weapon more hateful. It’s like inventing death itself, why would anyone do something so cruel?
But this is not my day to die.
I have a plan.

The secret I stole, I took from another man’s memories. Literally stole it. I didn’t copy, or borrow, I stole, leaving that man with just an empty void where that experience should live. It’s called Neural Editing. A clumsy, lumpen description for a task so delicate. I call it Neural Artistry, and I am a master of my craft.

The neural shunt is beginning to work, and I tease the strands of memory apart with exquisite precision. The shunt surfaces the dangerous memory just high enough for the limbic suppressor to encase it within my subconscious where it can be cut free and be left to wither and die. It’s like performing origami in the dark, only the paper is a hundred miles across and the folds as intricate as lace.

But I’m taking responsibility and saving my own life, with each fold and snip I can feel a strand of the bad memory plucked out like a cactus needle from my thumb. It’s almost invisible, but the sudden absence of pain lets me know that I’m doing the right thing. I’m taking an enormous risk, doing this on my own memory without a guide, or map, or candle to steer me home. But my instinct is good, my touch is delicately perfect. I am in good hands.
When the limbic suppressor completes its work, the whole stolen episode will be gone. No more life sentence; I just got time off for good behaviour.
I told you I’d walk out of here. I told you that I would survive.

I know it’s a stupid, dangerous thing I do, but this isn’t for me, this is for Karyn, my rock, my heart. All I can think of now is the feel of her breath on my cheek, her voice, her words.
Sarcasm, most likely. It was the anger that drew me to her. Such ferocity, such strength. She inspired me then and inspires me now. I try to be better for her and I will fix my mistake for her.
I don’t know what I have done to annoy her, probably something small that she’s blown out of all proportion. Karyn’s a bit crazy right now, probably because she’s pregnant again. Our third, she says it’s our last because I lack responsibility.

Not any more. I will be safe, for Karyn and little Cassandra. I’ll change, I’m already changing. I feel refreshed and relaxed. The scent of pine and the evening light peeping through the windows are soothing away my worries. Sleep finds me and I offer no resistance. Everything will be different in the morning.

Light. I didn’t close the curtains properly and now it’s too bright and my eyes are not ready for this sort of assault. Something is dangling from my head and my stomach is cramped, it must have been a heavy night. It’s a long time since I had to pump myself out.
Shit.
I need to go, got so much to do, weddings are busy and expensive and mine is heading this way like a herd of stampeding chickens. I shouldn’t say that, Karyn hates my stupid sayings.
I pull this shit off my head and out of my arse.
Yeah, über hungover, fuck if I can remember the booze, but my mouth feels like something died in it and my guts are churning up like a pig rolling through fresh shit.
Any pills in this place? No, just weird pictures on the wall that want to be clever and artsy but you can tell it’s just tits. Fuck it. I’m gone. Some of the crap on the floor looks familiar, I think it must be mine. Trousers on. Case packed. Quick piss. Door locked. Elevator down. Three minutes flat.
Why wait around? Life is there to be taken by the balls, so don’t waste a single day. Love, be loved, be crazy, be happy, fuck things up and beg forgiveness, never wait for permission!
Life is good and shit is getting better!
Although, right now my head is killing me, and the mirror on the elevator wall is one of those stupid joke ones that they put up in the university toilets just to freak out the hungover students. It’s not a real mirror, just a hacked video feed that makes you look like zombie or a baby – or really old! Yeah, you got me. Thin hair, grey beard and fat arse. Seen it all before a million times, I can code that crap with my eyes closed.
The elevator pings and I spill out into the lobby and cruise on into the parking lot outside. It’s too bright, I want to puke. I think I must have puked a lot last night, my guts are twisting and my head is screaming. But I still see the flicker of something shiny bobbing in the air behind me.
Weird. A tiny little drone, cool little guidance fins and a mean, pointy nose. It’s shaped like a tiny missile, about the size of a short, fat cigar. It bobs in the air a few feet away then slowly draws closer, like it’s looking at me. It’s definitely looking at me, looking real close.
Fuck!
Thing just exploded!
My eyes are blurry from the flash and I can feel hot flecks of metal burn my skin, like needles jagging into my cheeks and scalp.
Enough with the fucking students and their stupid pranks. This place can go to hell, I’m leaving. At least I will if I can work out where the hell I am and where the hell I need to go.
Stomach twisting, head burning inside and out, I stagger to the kerb and sink to the floor, my arms curl around my knees and I feel the first wave of nauseous fear sweep over me.
I don’t know how I got here.
I don’t know where to go.
I can’t remember what I should be doing.
I feel ill. The tears are starting to come, thick hot streams roll down my cheeks accompanied the awful, shuddering gasps of realisation. I wasn’t drunk.
I’ve been hacked.
The sobs are loud and desperate, I can’t think straight, I don’t know what happened last night. I need a memory, something strong and perfect to guide me home. I latch onto Karyn’s face. Her soft and beautiful face; her loving, soothing, heavenly face. She’ll help me, she always helps me. I draw my phone from my jacket – thank god they didn’t steal my phone – and find her in my address book. Hah. I laugh through the sobs, she’s already changed her name to mine, even though we don’t marry for another eight weeks.
She’ll save me.
It’ll all be ok.
We have so many plans. Marriage, children, love, life, the greatest happiness and times of trouble; together through everything.
This is just one bad day, everything is going to be ok.
After all, we have our whole lives ahead of us.